It was a cliché, the confluence of lives on a distant isle. The Navy man off the farm and in a faraway slice of paradise, the local girl, not so innocent but certainly not worldly, culturally a world apart, exotic and alluring.
The when and where of it all has been lost in time, but out of this unexpected and unlikely and unmarried coupling I was conceived – part American Indian, part Micronesian, mostly Heinz-57. Oh the shame of it all, the shame that my mother’s circumstances brought to her family! A “white-shotgun” wedding ensued to create the illusion of propriety, and ultimately this half-haole child was born.
My father was soon processed out of the Navy and he moved us back to the poor excuse for a farm where he grew up. I was oblivious of course, but my mother was ripped from her family and moved 8 time zones east to a land she did not know, to relatives that looked at her, treated her, as some sort of cultural oddity with darker skin, an odd way of speaking, and by far the worst characteristic – she was a Catholic -- gasp! Since love was apparently not part of the equation for my parents, what familial love she did know was also left behind and what remained were chronic unhappiness and a lack of acceptance. And me.
Time passes. The child grows into an environment that, upon reflection, can best be described as benign neglect. Memories are few from these early years, and the usual normal reminders of family life are few and far between – the odd photo in which none of the subjects seems pleased to be alive, that sort of thing. One strong and pleasant memory is of my paternal grandmother at whose house I was routinely deposited. She lived nearby, and what I most remember is her eyes, tired but with a spark of life. She would spend hours with me, telling me about all the “dead people” in our family, explaining how we were part American Indian and part Holland Dutch, not Pennsylvania Dutch, but Holland Dutch. She conveniently left out the other 80% of our heritage, but I didn’t know the difference. She made me feel proud to be part Native American, a term that had not yet come into the common vernacular, and I remain so today.
The physical reminders also are blurred, of having one’s tonsils removed, the stench of the ether, the nightmares, the pain; the six-inch ragged scar on my left arm that is permanent evidence of an ill-advised run through a plate glass window. The odd feelings generated from seeking approval and acceptance like all young children do, and discovering mostly a lack of interest. Growing to think that our life was just that … normal life in the country … and not really thinking too much more about it. Assuming, to the extent that any young boy thinks about such things, that you are happy – there are cats and dogs to play with, lots of open countryside to wander, dirt to dig in, trees to climb, what more could a boy want?
I was often told how lucky I was, luckier than most kids, lucky that there was food on the table and a roof over our heads. It was a regular Norman Rockwell painting.
The when and where of it all has been lost in time, but out of this unexpected and unlikely and unmarried coupling I was conceived – part American Indian, part Micronesian, mostly Heinz-57. Oh the shame of it all, the shame that my mother’s circumstances brought to her family! A “white-shotgun” wedding ensued to create the illusion of propriety, and ultimately this half-haole child was born.
My father was soon processed out of the Navy and he moved us back to the poor excuse for a farm where he grew up. I was oblivious of course, but my mother was ripped from her family and moved 8 time zones east to a land she did not know, to relatives that looked at her, treated her, as some sort of cultural oddity with darker skin, an odd way of speaking, and by far the worst characteristic – she was a Catholic -- gasp! Since love was apparently not part of the equation for my parents, what familial love she did know was also left behind and what remained were chronic unhappiness and a lack of acceptance. And me.
Time passes. The child grows into an environment that, upon reflection, can best be described as benign neglect. Memories are few from these early years, and the usual normal reminders of family life are few and far between – the odd photo in which none of the subjects seems pleased to be alive, that sort of thing. One strong and pleasant memory is of my paternal grandmother at whose house I was routinely deposited. She lived nearby, and what I most remember is her eyes, tired but with a spark of life. She would spend hours with me, telling me about all the “dead people” in our family, explaining how we were part American Indian and part Holland Dutch, not Pennsylvania Dutch, but Holland Dutch. She conveniently left out the other 80% of our heritage, but I didn’t know the difference. She made me feel proud to be part Native American, a term that had not yet come into the common vernacular, and I remain so today.
The physical reminders also are blurred, of having one’s tonsils removed, the stench of the ether, the nightmares, the pain; the six-inch ragged scar on my left arm that is permanent evidence of an ill-advised run through a plate glass window. The odd feelings generated from seeking approval and acceptance like all young children do, and discovering mostly a lack of interest. Growing to think that our life was just that … normal life in the country … and not really thinking too much more about it. Assuming, to the extent that any young boy thinks about such things, that you are happy – there are cats and dogs to play with, lots of open countryside to wander, dirt to dig in, trees to climb, what more could a boy want?
I was often told how lucky I was, luckier than most kids, lucky that there was food on the table and a roof over our heads. It was a regular Norman Rockwell painting.