One of the peculiar things about being a haole here in Hawai`i is that I am a foreigner. Frankly, most people here are, but it's only a few generations ago this island really did belong to the Hawai`ian people who arrived thousands of years ago. They had their own language and culture, and it was wonderful, unique, beautiful, and even cruel.
But of course, the white men took it. We take a lot of things. Like North America, or South Africa, or Hong Kong. We're conquerors. It's nothing personal, it's just how we are. Everybody else does it too, we've just historically been the best at it. And besides, if the Polynesian people who live here now didn't speak English, they'd be speaking Japanese, right?
You know what? None of that makes it OK. Really, it doesn't. Saying "Oh, well, somebody else would have done it if we hadn't" doesn't make the Trail of Tears OK, and it doesn't make the overthrow of Lili`u`okalani all better, either.
Head Chef and I and a cadre of other haole friends had the (oddly) rare occasion to hang out with a man the other night who is half Samoan and half Hawai`ian, and he was a beautiful, gentle person who embodied Aloha. He blessed us in the ocean, and told us not to worry about the Hawai`ian people, as they'd be just fine.
And of course, he's right. Hawai`ian blood may be diluted now, and the culture may have gone through astonishingly rapid change over the past one hundred years, but the people are still here. Still here, in the form of men like him, gently or even sometimes not-so-gently reminding us that we're blessed to be here, but that they were here first. And letting us feel welcome anyway.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Thursday, February 03, 2005
No Votes For Renters
It's an interesting experience being the target of the President’s Hate Of The Union Address. It gives me a sick feeling and makes me angry - it makes me doubt the greatness of this country, and drapes everything else the USA does in shades of selfishness and harm. I don’t feel like a threat to the nation, and I don’t see how my would-be-husband is a threat, either. And so I can’t understand how our successful, loving relationship is worthy of changing the Constitution to discriminate against us, unless that action is based solely on hate, greed, and, fear.
I guess I shouldn’t feel too singled out or shocked about it – arguably less despotic men than George Bush still engage in genocidal binges from time to time, and black men are still lynched in the South. But it still hurts, knowing that I am so hated by so much of America that while the rest of the world acknowledges my human rights, this country’s President can get away with pedaling discrimination in front of Congress. I can’t imagine another scenario in which Bush could advocate for blatant hate-based discrimination without facing immediate impeachment.
I mean, really, can you imagine if he’d said that the nation needs to revoke inheritance rights for widows, or voting rights for people who don’t own land? Or that Latinos should be denied access to public education? He’d be immediately censured by Congress and demanded to resign. He would go down in history as a horrible embarrassment and an example of what to never, ever do. But stand up in front of television cameras and say that my partner and I don’t deserve the same rights as widows, renters, and Latinos, and that’s just fine. That’s just public discourse.
I realize it’s a rallying cry and something that the Republicans are using to “energize their base,” but if it is successful, it also heralds the end of the great American experiment. The President’s Amendment, not two men building a stable home and a loving family together, is the single greatest threat to what it means to be the United States of America, and what it means to say “I am an American.” Because if he is successful, it will mean that America is no longer the beacon of freedom.
And you’d think someone who invokes freedom so much would realize that.
I guess I shouldn’t feel too singled out or shocked about it – arguably less despotic men than George Bush still engage in genocidal binges from time to time, and black men are still lynched in the South. But it still hurts, knowing that I am so hated by so much of America that while the rest of the world acknowledges my human rights, this country’s President can get away with pedaling discrimination in front of Congress. I can’t imagine another scenario in which Bush could advocate for blatant hate-based discrimination without facing immediate impeachment.
I mean, really, can you imagine if he’d said that the nation needs to revoke inheritance rights for widows, or voting rights for people who don’t own land? Or that Latinos should be denied access to public education? He’d be immediately censured by Congress and demanded to resign. He would go down in history as a horrible embarrassment and an example of what to never, ever do. But stand up in front of television cameras and say that my partner and I don’t deserve the same rights as widows, renters, and Latinos, and that’s just fine. That’s just public discourse.
I realize it’s a rallying cry and something that the Republicans are using to “energize their base,” but if it is successful, it also heralds the end of the great American experiment. The President’s Amendment, not two men building a stable home and a loving family together, is the single greatest threat to what it means to be the United States of America, and what it means to say “I am an American.” Because if he is successful, it will mean that America is no longer the beacon of freedom.
And you’d think someone who invokes freedom so much would realize that.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Signs
If you like, you may choose to accept some events in your life as a sort of foreshadow – a real-world prediction of things to come. I think most of us probably do at some level once in a while. I know I do, although sometimes I’m not sure that I believe in omens as much as I entertain the idea as a form of amusement.
Sometimes, a phone call might come just at the moment I needed it most, or an unseasonably warm day appears and I think to myself, “wow, now that’s a good sign.” And maybe it is, I don’t know. But I think that a life can be full of these signs if we like, or virtually devoid of them. And I don’t know which is better, or if there is such a thing as better, really. In the big picture, I’m not sure better exists or if it is even relevant.
I should tell you that I am the protector of some things. Some things such as my home, my career, my reputation. I protect my wonderful little bear in the ways I can. My sister. And other things, like my childhood memory of lying on the floor in my parent’s home, watching particles of dust stand almost-still in a brilliant beam of sunlight.
I have accepted the responsibility for protecting these things from this dirty and dangerous world, and sometimes I have an opportunity to enhance them – to relive that instant of tranquility I captured so vividly that afternoon when I was eight. To promote my loved ones, to advance my career.
And once in a while, I fail. My sister once entrusted me with a handful of precious items, and I let her down. An orchid died. A box full of her lost son’s belongings became mildewed in my basement.
I have, however, managed to keep that promise to her in one respect. Quinn’s orchid – the other plant she left with me, the one with the dancing yellow butterfly blossoms – lives on. Like Quinn did, it has suffered terribly, and recovered, and suffered again. The move to Hawai`i was hard on all of us, including the plants. Many died outright. But Quinn’s orchid survived, and even bloomed. It’s now come with us to the funky new house in green little Pauoa valley.
But only recently have I actually taken conscious note of an important thing at the new house. Sitting to one side of the rock and concrete retaining walls in my back yard is a patch of Quinn’s orchid growing wild in a rocky crevice. Growing there, three feet long and a foot wide, wild and free for years now, going through its seasonal cycles without regard of people in the house below.
The wild patch of Quinn’s orchid is getting ready to flower. Just now, as we’re settling in, long, still-unbranched spikes two and three feet long arc out of the bush. In a few weeks, we’ll have dancing yellow butterflies. It’s been a wet year, and I expect a good show.
Many things about this house tell me that it will be a home to me, and that I will love it. Its funky “fix me” look, the quiet and friendly neighborhood, the sizeable yard. But I haven’t taken any of that as a sign.
I have chosen, however, to be honored by the welcome of Quinn’s orchid growing wild on an inhospitable rock. And I can't help but think there's an omen in there, that the metaphor for the delicate yet persistant orchid growing on a rock portends of good, good things.
After all, what could be a better sign than dancing yellow butterflies.
Sometimes, a phone call might come just at the moment I needed it most, or an unseasonably warm day appears and I think to myself, “wow, now that’s a good sign.” And maybe it is, I don’t know. But I think that a life can be full of these signs if we like, or virtually devoid of them. And I don’t know which is better, or if there is such a thing as better, really. In the big picture, I’m not sure better exists or if it is even relevant.
I should tell you that I am the protector of some things. Some things such as my home, my career, my reputation. I protect my wonderful little bear in the ways I can. My sister. And other things, like my childhood memory of lying on the floor in my parent’s home, watching particles of dust stand almost-still in a brilliant beam of sunlight.
I have accepted the responsibility for protecting these things from this dirty and dangerous world, and sometimes I have an opportunity to enhance them – to relive that instant of tranquility I captured so vividly that afternoon when I was eight. To promote my loved ones, to advance my career.
And once in a while, I fail. My sister once entrusted me with a handful of precious items, and I let her down. An orchid died. A box full of her lost son’s belongings became mildewed in my basement.
I have, however, managed to keep that promise to her in one respect. Quinn’s orchid – the other plant she left with me, the one with the dancing yellow butterfly blossoms – lives on. Like Quinn did, it has suffered terribly, and recovered, and suffered again. The move to Hawai`i was hard on all of us, including the plants. Many died outright. But Quinn’s orchid survived, and even bloomed. It’s now come with us to the funky new house in green little Pauoa valley.
But only recently have I actually taken conscious note of an important thing at the new house. Sitting to one side of the rock and concrete retaining walls in my back yard is a patch of Quinn’s orchid growing wild in a rocky crevice. Growing there, three feet long and a foot wide, wild and free for years now, going through its seasonal cycles without regard of people in the house below.
The wild patch of Quinn’s orchid is getting ready to flower. Just now, as we’re settling in, long, still-unbranched spikes two and three feet long arc out of the bush. In a few weeks, we’ll have dancing yellow butterflies. It’s been a wet year, and I expect a good show.
Many things about this house tell me that it will be a home to me, and that I will love it. Its funky “fix me” look, the quiet and friendly neighborhood, the sizeable yard. But I haven’t taken any of that as a sign.
I have chosen, however, to be honored by the welcome of Quinn’s orchid growing wild on an inhospitable rock. And I can't help but think there's an omen in there, that the metaphor for the delicate yet persistant orchid growing on a rock portends of good, good things.
After all, what could be a better sign than dancing yellow butterflies.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
The Bad With The Good
I've been wrestling with what bothers me about missing the good ole days. And it's been a real challenge to me to try to figure out why the necessarily regressive politics of "the way it used to be" bother me so extensively.
Today, though, I had an epiphany.
The good ole days weren't just good, actually. They were great. You could leave your door unlocked, you didn't have to worry about the artificial ingredients in your food, and the commute - if there was one - was almost certainly short unless you were a traveling salesman. Your wife could cook, and she did almost every single night.
These days, though, everything's bad for you. Name it, right? You can't eat it 'cause it's bad for you. Under no circumstances would you leave your home unlocked while you're away. And if you're walking alone at night, you've got your hand clenched around your keys just in case you need to jab some attacker in the ribs. Even if you're a man. Right guys?
Seriously, the good old days were great. Who wouldn't want the kind of security that justified leaving the door unlocked just in case the neighbor needed to borrow your shotgun?
My problem, however, is polio. White breeder males seem to have forgotten about polio. My father and mother and many people just a handful of years my senior bear those distinctive polio vaccination scars. It looks like it was probably a doozy of a wound. But white men seem to have forgotten about polio. Must be like childbirth, I guess.
See, polio struck white men. Plenty of them. And although they got to perform the lynchings while they kept their wives at home, they contracted polio just like everyone who wasn't a Caucasian male. So you'd think they might not be quite so nostalgic for the way things were. Because polio was a royal bitch. And that's just for starters.
So, I say give the old white heterosexual men what they want. They want the good old days back, and are willing to sell everything and anyone to get them. And why shouldn't they? The days they long for were kind to them.
We can segregate the schools and busses, bring back prayer in schools, prosecute gays for congregating, and forbid women from voting, just for good measure. 'Cause you know how uppity they can get.
But the dirty sons of bitches better take back polio, too. Cause there ain't nothing in this world that's free, boys.
Today, though, I had an epiphany.
The good ole days weren't just good, actually. They were great. You could leave your door unlocked, you didn't have to worry about the artificial ingredients in your food, and the commute - if there was one - was almost certainly short unless you were a traveling salesman. Your wife could cook, and she did almost every single night.
These days, though, everything's bad for you. Name it, right? You can't eat it 'cause it's bad for you. Under no circumstances would you leave your home unlocked while you're away. And if you're walking alone at night, you've got your hand clenched around your keys just in case you need to jab some attacker in the ribs. Even if you're a man. Right guys?
Seriously, the good old days were great. Who wouldn't want the kind of security that justified leaving the door unlocked just in case the neighbor needed to borrow your shotgun?
My problem, however, is polio. White breeder males seem to have forgotten about polio. My father and mother and many people just a handful of years my senior bear those distinctive polio vaccination scars. It looks like it was probably a doozy of a wound. But white men seem to have forgotten about polio. Must be like childbirth, I guess.
See, polio struck white men. Plenty of them. And although they got to perform the lynchings while they kept their wives at home, they contracted polio just like everyone who wasn't a Caucasian male. So you'd think they might not be quite so nostalgic for the way things were. Because polio was a royal bitch. And that's just for starters.
So, I say give the old white heterosexual men what they want. They want the good old days back, and are willing to sell everything and anyone to get them. And why shouldn't they? The days they long for were kind to them.
We can segregate the schools and busses, bring back prayer in schools, prosecute gays for congregating, and forbid women from voting, just for good measure. 'Cause you know how uppity they can get.
But the dirty sons of bitches better take back polio, too. Cause there ain't nothing in this world that's free, boys.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Ka Makani
Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the significance of being here.
This place embodies so much of what is beautiful about humanity and the planet Earth. And as such things go, it also carries with it a burden of sadness and excruciating loss. Amazingly, these two aspects are inextricably linked.
To avoid being completely overcome, I have to tell myself that Hawai`i’s land, people, and culture are beautiful right now, in so many ways. That these things are unique and wonderful in their own right. And that what will come will come, and that I am lucky to be here in this moment.
If you have a broadband connection, I highly recommend listening to what I've come to think of as the only standard for Hawai`ian radio. Listen to Ka Makani at http://breezeofhawaii.com and click on their “Listen Now” link.
Admittedly, some of it is cheesy. But some of it makes me write things like this. I have never in my life been exposed to so much celebration of place like I have here. The music of the kama`aina is unabashed in its love for these islands, and it is remarkably affirming. So much so that I find Hawai`ian is suddenly my favorite musical genre.
This place embodies so much of what is beautiful about humanity and the planet Earth. And as such things go, it also carries with it a burden of sadness and excruciating loss. Amazingly, these two aspects are inextricably linked.
To avoid being completely overcome, I have to tell myself that Hawai`i’s land, people, and culture are beautiful right now, in so many ways. That these things are unique and wonderful in their own right. And that what will come will come, and that I am lucky to be here in this moment.
If you have a broadband connection, I highly recommend listening to what I've come to think of as the only standard for Hawai`ian radio. Listen to Ka Makani at http://breezeofhawaii.com and click on their “Listen Now” link.
Admittedly, some of it is cheesy. But some of it makes me write things like this. I have never in my life been exposed to so much celebration of place like I have here. The music of the kama`aina is unabashed in its love for these islands, and it is remarkably affirming. So much so that I find Hawai`ian is suddenly my favorite musical genre.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Why Gays Don’t Like Christmas.
Over the phone on Christmas morning, I can hear the stifled laughter in my sister’s voice. She knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway and she can’t wait for me to hear the punch line. She is high. Why, she asks, don’t gays like Christmas?
Well, obviously plenty of us like it, even a little too much. All the decoration and shopping are a ready draw to the stereotypical homo. The opportunity to be fabulous is too good to resist, and the season of sparkly lights, fur coats, and musical numbers is a perfect excuse. I mean, really. What could be more glorious than to wear nothing but a pair of red velvet hotpants, a Santa hat, and white fur handcuffs on the holiest day of the entire Christian year? It’s definitely something to be Merry about.
Still, my sister says, contemporary gays aren’t as stereotypical as they once were, and come Christmas, we’re just not very merry.
Admittedly, she may have a point. Excuses aside, Head Chef and I did nothing for ourselves for Christmas, save for the handful of obligatory parties. We neither exchanged gifts nor made a feast. We mocked the Frat House when a tree, beautiful though it was, showed up one day. A friend even sat home with his boyfriend and watched movies and ate – get this – Burritos. Seriously. So it’s easy to see how the next great stereotype of the homosexual is that we hate Christmas. And honestly, many do.
But my sister’s theory as to why is wonderful. Gays are generally happy, she says. We party a lot, we have close groups of friends, and our careers go through the roof. We enjoy life to it’s fullest, goes her reasoning, and we even describe ourselves with a word that is synonymous with merry.
And that little semantic bit is the crux of her argument. How can someone be more merry if essential happiness is an integral part of his identity? It can’t be done, because we’re already so damned happy and gay that additional gaiety would simply be overload. Thus we cannot love Christmas.
Obviously, there are ample opportunities to shoot holes in her amusing theory. But there may also be a shred of truth to it. If so, I think I just might choose to believe.
Well, obviously plenty of us like it, even a little too much. All the decoration and shopping are a ready draw to the stereotypical homo. The opportunity to be fabulous is too good to resist, and the season of sparkly lights, fur coats, and musical numbers is a perfect excuse. I mean, really. What could be more glorious than to wear nothing but a pair of red velvet hotpants, a Santa hat, and white fur handcuffs on the holiest day of the entire Christian year? It’s definitely something to be Merry about.
Still, my sister says, contemporary gays aren’t as stereotypical as they once were, and come Christmas, we’re just not very merry.
Admittedly, she may have a point. Excuses aside, Head Chef and I did nothing for ourselves for Christmas, save for the handful of obligatory parties. We neither exchanged gifts nor made a feast. We mocked the Frat House when a tree, beautiful though it was, showed up one day. A friend even sat home with his boyfriend and watched movies and ate – get this – Burritos. Seriously. So it’s easy to see how the next great stereotype of the homosexual is that we hate Christmas. And honestly, many do.
But my sister’s theory as to why is wonderful. Gays are generally happy, she says. We party a lot, we have close groups of friends, and our careers go through the roof. We enjoy life to it’s fullest, goes her reasoning, and we even describe ourselves with a word that is synonymous with merry.
And that little semantic bit is the crux of her argument. How can someone be more merry if essential happiness is an integral part of his identity? It can’t be done, because we’re already so damned happy and gay that additional gaiety would simply be overload. Thus we cannot love Christmas.
Obviously, there are ample opportunities to shoot holes in her amusing theory. But there may also be a shred of truth to it. If so, I think I just might choose to believe.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Why Homophobia Will Kill Straight People
I read a couple of articles recently that put me in this frame of mind.
Men who have sex with men have been in the news lately. They’re MSMs, called this because they engage in sex with other men but don’t think of themselves as gay or even bisexual. Turns out that people who aren’t “out” tend to have more unprotected sex than those who can comfortably talk about their activities. So then, homophobia and other forces that keep MSMs in their closets act to encourage the spread of HIV.
And this is reason number one why homophobia will kill straight people.
Picture yourself as John Nobody, a guy who’s been brought up in an atmosphere where gays are bad. Suppose (just for argument’s sake) that regardless of how you feel for women, John, you also have an interest in other men. But gays are bad. What do you do? Do you lie to your family, friends, and co-workers and tell them you’re straight? Yes, you do. Do follow tradition and marry a woman? Yes. Yes you do. And do you stop having sex with men?
Well, see, that’s a point of debate. But if you asked a straight man to give up women, you might encounter resistance. So some men, regardless of whether or not they date women, date men too. These closeted men have sex with other men and keep it on the down-low, or L.D., meaning they keep it quiet. This suits a lot of people just fine.
But let’s keep in mind that in keeping their relationships with men on the L.D, they’re also staying in the closet. Statistically, this means that they’re more likely to engage in riskier sexual behaviors than the stereotypical party boy or the nice gay couple that lives down the street. And if they contract HIV, they’re likely to pass it to the women they have sex with. Not just other MSMs, but wives, girlfriends, etc.
Scary. But why would they take those chances? Lots of reasons. Low self-esteem, lack of information. Because Mom and Dad, FOX News, and President Bush are very happy to talk about what’s wrong with gays. These guys end up in so much denial they don’t even think of themselves as anything but straight. In turn, because it’s associated with the gay stigma, these men strategically avoid the very information that could keep them safe.
Reason number two why homophobia will kill straight people. Oh, but see, it doesn’t even end there. Don’t you wish it did? But it doesn’t.
Recently, Gareth Thomas, U.K. Minister for Development, linked anti-gay lyrics in songs with a heightened public dislike for gay people. Further, he says, since everybody knows AIDS is a gay disease, heterosexuals and others give HIV testing a wide berth, refusing to test for something that carries the stigma of homosexuality.
Reason number three.
The circle, as you see, is complete. Focus On The Family teaches people that gays are aberrant, and so closet cases are born. Closet non-heterosexuals engage in risky behavior because they don’t have the information they need to avoid disease and/or because of low self esteem, and become infected. The infected persons continue to play the heterosexual role because they are expected to, but tell no one of their activities and infect their opposite-sex partners. And no one gets tested because of the stigma of homosexuality and belief that AIDS is a gay disease. They, in turn, spread HIV to their other heterosexual partners, and so forth. And voila! AIDS is not a gay disease any more, but instead a heterosexual disease that is spread because the social environment vilifies gays.
I hate to invoke the word justice, but when the fruits of your own misdeeds hurt you, I do think that’s what it’s called.
What’s the lesson for straight people? Encourage gays to come out, support them for who they are, and show no tolerance whatsoever for your peers who don’t. Because perpetuating the current cycle will only make victims of you, your friends, or your children regardless of whether they’re gay or not.
Men who have sex with men have been in the news lately. They’re MSMs, called this because they engage in sex with other men but don’t think of themselves as gay or even bisexual. Turns out that people who aren’t “out” tend to have more unprotected sex than those who can comfortably talk about their activities. So then, homophobia and other forces that keep MSMs in their closets act to encourage the spread of HIV.
And this is reason number one why homophobia will kill straight people.
Picture yourself as John Nobody, a guy who’s been brought up in an atmosphere where gays are bad. Suppose (just for argument’s sake) that regardless of how you feel for women, John, you also have an interest in other men. But gays are bad. What do you do? Do you lie to your family, friends, and co-workers and tell them you’re straight? Yes, you do. Do follow tradition and marry a woman? Yes. Yes you do. And do you stop having sex with men?
Well, see, that’s a point of debate. But if you asked a straight man to give up women, you might encounter resistance. So some men, regardless of whether or not they date women, date men too. These closeted men have sex with other men and keep it on the down-low, or L.D., meaning they keep it quiet. This suits a lot of people just fine.
But let’s keep in mind that in keeping their relationships with men on the L.D, they’re also staying in the closet. Statistically, this means that they’re more likely to engage in riskier sexual behaviors than the stereotypical party boy or the nice gay couple that lives down the street. And if they contract HIV, they’re likely to pass it to the women they have sex with. Not just other MSMs, but wives, girlfriends, etc.
Scary. But why would they take those chances? Lots of reasons. Low self-esteem, lack of information. Because Mom and Dad, FOX News, and President Bush are very happy to talk about what’s wrong with gays. These guys end up in so much denial they don’t even think of themselves as anything but straight. In turn, because it’s associated with the gay stigma, these men strategically avoid the very information that could keep them safe.
Reason number two why homophobia will kill straight people. Oh, but see, it doesn’t even end there. Don’t you wish it did? But it doesn’t.
Recently, Gareth Thomas, U.K. Minister for Development, linked anti-gay lyrics in songs with a heightened public dislike for gay people. Further, he says, since everybody knows AIDS is a gay disease, heterosexuals and others give HIV testing a wide berth, refusing to test for something that carries the stigma of homosexuality.
Reason number three.
The circle, as you see, is complete. Focus On The Family teaches people that gays are aberrant, and so closet cases are born. Closet non-heterosexuals engage in risky behavior because they don’t have the information they need to avoid disease and/or because of low self esteem, and become infected. The infected persons continue to play the heterosexual role because they are expected to, but tell no one of their activities and infect their opposite-sex partners. And no one gets tested because of the stigma of homosexuality and belief that AIDS is a gay disease. They, in turn, spread HIV to their other heterosexual partners, and so forth. And voila! AIDS is not a gay disease any more, but instead a heterosexual disease that is spread because the social environment vilifies gays.
I hate to invoke the word justice, but when the fruits of your own misdeeds hurt you, I do think that’s what it’s called.
What’s the lesson for straight people? Encourage gays to come out, support them for who they are, and show no tolerance whatsoever for your peers who don’t. Because perpetuating the current cycle will only make victims of you, your friends, or your children regardless of whether they’re gay or not.
Monday, December 27, 2004
House!
Head Chef and I have developed a code word for our mutual excitement over the pending acquisition of Our Very Own Hawai’ian House 1.0. Well, it’s more commonly a code phrase, but it’s simple enough to be just one word, or a whole sentence. It started by me gently ribbing his excitement, but ultimately it’s become just another exclamation and we’re both using it to describe our enthusiasm.
It’s sortof like the sentence one can say in Mandarin using only the word "ma." Really, I’m not kidding, I looked it up. It’s "mama ma ma ma man," and it means, "Mom curses the hemp horse for being slow."
Admittedly, Chinese is a more fully realized language. Head Chef and I have only been speaking in code about our house acquisition for a couple of weeks to a month, give or take. I’m not arrogant enough to think that he and I, formidable though our combined intellect may be, are capable of besting the efforts of millions Mandarin speakers over the course of thousands of generations. Our code simply isn’t up to the task of describing mother’s ire over the speed of the pakalolo pony.
Although, let's be honest. If it were sluggish, Mother's frustration would be warranted.
Still, our code is quite adequate for describing the sense of satisfaction of finding the perfect cabinets for the kitchen. Nothing says it better than "house house house." Nor is anything more well-suited to expressing the elation of realizing that we will finally be able to garden again than a simple "house house house house house." But most frequently, "house house house house house house house" is simply the easiest, most efficient way to put into words the eager anticipation we both feel for having our own home again, making something beautiful together, and for being proud of our home and our accomplishments.
Aged though their culture may be, I don’t think even the Chinese could describe it more eloquently.
House house house house house house house house house!
It’s sortof like the sentence one can say in Mandarin using only the word "ma." Really, I’m not kidding, I looked it up. It’s "mama ma ma ma man," and it means, "Mom curses the hemp horse for being slow."
Admittedly, Chinese is a more fully realized language. Head Chef and I have only been speaking in code about our house acquisition for a couple of weeks to a month, give or take. I’m not arrogant enough to think that he and I, formidable though our combined intellect may be, are capable of besting the efforts of millions Mandarin speakers over the course of thousands of generations. Our code simply isn’t up to the task of describing mother’s ire over the speed of the pakalolo pony.
Although, let's be honest. If it were sluggish, Mother's frustration would be warranted.
Still, our code is quite adequate for describing the sense of satisfaction of finding the perfect cabinets for the kitchen. Nothing says it better than "house house house." Nor is anything more well-suited to expressing the elation of realizing that we will finally be able to garden again than a simple "house house house house house." But most frequently, "house house house house house house house" is simply the easiest, most efficient way to put into words the eager anticipation we both feel for having our own home again, making something beautiful together, and for being proud of our home and our accomplishments.
Aged though their culture may be, I don’t think even the Chinese could describe it more eloquently.
House house house house house house house house house!
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Observations
After having worked here for several weeks, I have come to the conclusion that there are extraterrestrials among us. Or even that, more precisely, I am among aliens.
At first, this idea was based only on an amusing little observation. I noticed that although I work in a large cubicle farm where they raise a hundred auditors and tax associates at a time, the bathroom was nearly always empty. Empty in an unused sort of way, almost as though I were the only person who actually had to do the things one does in there.
And so I wondered to myself how it was the other 99 people avoided going to the restroom. I witnessed them eating, so I knew that if their bodies obeyed the same laws of physics that mine does, they had to eliminate waste, too. And yet the bathroom is always empty. How or when were they performing this biological function? How could they avoid the inevitable urge after a venti triple-shot eggnog latte?
Then I began to notice that although these waste-retentive organisms work long days five and six days a week, they all look phenomenal. Although they clearly have no time in their lives for the luxury of exercise or a day spa, their skin is flawless and their bodies are trim.
But not only are their bodies slender, they also look remarkably young. Yes, it’s true many among them claim to be only twenty-plus earth years old, but even the more seasoned members of their species retain a youthfulness that defies the aging effects of years of
stressful working conditions. Just look at how a typical president ages during the course of his tenure to see what I mean. In only four years, a sprightly man emerges aged and tired, exhausted from his ordeal.
But these beings do not show the wear of decades of twelve-hour days under terrible pressure to perform. They look youthful and vigorous. And yet they seem so human, full of the same quirks and many, if not all, of the frailties of humanity.
They may return to their dens in the darkness of night to excrete their purified wastes from wide pores lining their spines. The may watch our solitary moon throughout their sleepless nights, reading audit work papers or communicating with their home world through
exotic miniaturized instruments implanted inside their deeply-folding brains.
But I wonder if they were always this way, and why they would hire a human like me.
At first, this idea was based only on an amusing little observation. I noticed that although I work in a large cubicle farm where they raise a hundred auditors and tax associates at a time, the bathroom was nearly always empty. Empty in an unused sort of way, almost as though I were the only person who actually had to do the things one does in there.
And so I wondered to myself how it was the other 99 people avoided going to the restroom. I witnessed them eating, so I knew that if their bodies obeyed the same laws of physics that mine does, they had to eliminate waste, too. And yet the bathroom is always empty. How or when were they performing this biological function? How could they avoid the inevitable urge after a venti triple-shot eggnog latte?
Then I began to notice that although these waste-retentive organisms work long days five and six days a week, they all look phenomenal. Although they clearly have no time in their lives for the luxury of exercise or a day spa, their skin is flawless and their bodies are trim.
But not only are their bodies slender, they also look remarkably young. Yes, it’s true many among them claim to be only twenty-plus earth years old, but even the more seasoned members of their species retain a youthfulness that defies the aging effects of years of
stressful working conditions. Just look at how a typical president ages during the course of his tenure to see what I mean. In only four years, a sprightly man emerges aged and tired, exhausted from his ordeal.
But these beings do not show the wear of decades of twelve-hour days under terrible pressure to perform. They look youthful and vigorous. And yet they seem so human, full of the same quirks and many, if not all, of the frailties of humanity.
They may return to their dens in the darkness of night to excrete their purified wastes from wide pores lining their spines. The may watch our solitary moon throughout their sleepless nights, reading audit work papers or communicating with their home world through
exotic miniaturized instruments implanted inside their deeply-folding brains.
But I wonder if they were always this way, and why they would hire a human like me.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Living Here
I was reminded sometime last week of how important it is to live here. Not just domicile here, mind you, but really live.
And so that night on my way home from my ten or eleven hour day, I decided that Head Chef and I would go to the beach that very night. I wouldn't hear any protest, and I would assert myself aggressively. We'd change out of our work clothes and get into board shorts. We'd go down to Waikiki and have sushi. And then, like reckless fools with no regard for convention, we'd get in the god damned ocean in the middle of the fucking night! Because we live here, god dammit, we've worked damned hard to get here, and we're going to take the time to reap the reward.
And we did, too. Not for long, but enough. And as always, I felt better.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I periodically have pangs of longing for some friend or other, but today a San Franciscan friend sent me an electronic invitation to his Thanksgiving dinner. On the invitation was a photo of a long table covered in red cloth and bowl after platter of food. All these smiling men were sitting around it, leaning in so as to be seen around the man next to him. So many of them were familiar faces and most were friends. Bearded, high, and rosy-cheeked, they look so content frozen in that moment. Like a group of youthful jolly Santas, and I missed them.
And although I had to decline the invitation because of this Pacific thing between us, I'll call. I hope they're high, too, because it's how they are in my mind's eye.
But if my guess is right, tomorrow I'll be going to look at potential homes. Maybe just a cursory look, even, before Head Chef and I don our sunglasses, our lotions, and head for a beach. Maybe Lanikai, perhaps something more solitary like Waimanalo or even Mokule'ia. We'll lay out on a sheet and soak up sunlight in between bobbing in the waves and splashing the bathwater ocean at one another. This is what we'll do on Thanksgiving day. And although it's incongruent with my lifelong expectations of what happens on Thanksgiving, it's plenty good enough for me.
We'll have dinner later with friends at a restaurant. Good friends. The kind you're excited to find. The kind that, when you look back at a picture of them, you miss them.
Sadly, with the time demands of this new job, I haven't seen much of these friends lately, and they could be gone soon. The partner in my office just set out a new fifty chargeable hour minimum work week, which means more like sixty in the real world. And soon my friends will be gone, and will I have even had the chance to say goodbye, or even take them to the airport?
Today I saw a newspaper article about men who make career compromises so they can have time with their families. It was as though someone at the Honolulu Advertiser wanted to send me a message. But rather than yelling "Get out of my head!!" in the middle of the restaurant, I just nodded to myself. And I sent them a thought.... "don't worry, I'm gonna live here."
And so that night on my way home from my ten or eleven hour day, I decided that Head Chef and I would go to the beach that very night. I wouldn't hear any protest, and I would assert myself aggressively. We'd change out of our work clothes and get into board shorts. We'd go down to Waikiki and have sushi. And then, like reckless fools with no regard for convention, we'd get in the god damned ocean in the middle of the fucking night! Because we live here, god dammit, we've worked damned hard to get here, and we're going to take the time to reap the reward.
And we did, too. Not for long, but enough. And as always, I felt better.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I periodically have pangs of longing for some friend or other, but today a San Franciscan friend sent me an electronic invitation to his Thanksgiving dinner. On the invitation was a photo of a long table covered in red cloth and bowl after platter of food. All these smiling men were sitting around it, leaning in so as to be seen around the man next to him. So many of them were familiar faces and most were friends. Bearded, high, and rosy-cheeked, they look so content frozen in that moment. Like a group of youthful jolly Santas, and I missed them.
And although I had to decline the invitation because of this Pacific thing between us, I'll call. I hope they're high, too, because it's how they are in my mind's eye.
But if my guess is right, tomorrow I'll be going to look at potential homes. Maybe just a cursory look, even, before Head Chef and I don our sunglasses, our lotions, and head for a beach. Maybe Lanikai, perhaps something more solitary like Waimanalo or even Mokule'ia. We'll lay out on a sheet and soak up sunlight in between bobbing in the waves and splashing the bathwater ocean at one another. This is what we'll do on Thanksgiving day. And although it's incongruent with my lifelong expectations of what happens on Thanksgiving, it's plenty good enough for me.
We'll have dinner later with friends at a restaurant. Good friends. The kind you're excited to find. The kind that, when you look back at a picture of them, you miss them.
Sadly, with the time demands of this new job, I haven't seen much of these friends lately, and they could be gone soon. The partner in my office just set out a new fifty chargeable hour minimum work week, which means more like sixty in the real world. And soon my friends will be gone, and will I have even had the chance to say goodbye, or even take them to the airport?
Today I saw a newspaper article about men who make career compromises so they can have time with their families. It was as though someone at the Honolulu Advertiser wanted to send me a message. But rather than yelling "Get out of my head!!" in the middle of the restaurant, I just nodded to myself. And I sent them a thought.... "don't worry, I'm gonna live here."
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