The Life of Riley - 1 - In The Beginning ...

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.

Comments

Baby.... benign neglect is one of the worst kinds. I would love to have swooped in and spoiled you with love. That's my thing, you know :)

I am so proud of you and this blog entry. Do not stop!
 
Hapa Haole. Part Native American. Navy tradition. Farming tradition. Hawaiian tradition. Dutch tradition. I hope that you have had, or have in the future, a chance to integrate those traditions into your life. They are enlightening, and not available to all who inhabit this country. They are gifts.

I'm very sorry to hear about the sense of neglect, of there being no interest. My sense is that kids chafe more from being ignored than from being actively abused. From your posts here you've clearly become a well balanced man. Your story will be fascinating. I'm looking forward to what you may share.
 
Gee, and I haven't even gotten to the good parts yet!

Ms. LaFemme, thank you baby, for everything.

lgtrmusr, thanks man I really appreciate the words. Damn, maybe we are brothers??? Wouldn't that be ... weird. Actually it's not a Hawaiian tradition or connection, it is a Guamanian one.

For those who may wonder, Tamuning is the village in which my parents lived, oh so briefly, when I was born. The hospital in which I was born is also in that village on Guam, where America's Day Begins! Hafa adai to any Guamanian / Chammoran readers.
 
Thank you for sharing this with us. You have conveyed your emotions with an enviable and skillful economy of words.

Having once spent a few days on Guam, I had already assumed you have some connection to that island and its "capital".

I can all too easily relate to what you have described. I have always thought of it as indifference and, as lgtrmusr suggests, it is in some ways better to be beaten or abused than it is to cope with indifference from those we hope might love us.

To have been complicit in such indifference, I feel your mother must have been powerfully impacted upon by her husband, in-laws and neighbours in a strange land.

In every Pacific island nation I have visited - eg Guam, Raratonga, Tonga, Fiji and Tahiti - though it is immediately obvious that British, American and French culture and "improvements" have been introduced, it is no less apparent how greatly the children are loved, encouraged, nurtured and embraced by all the adults around them. I saw happy children who are allowed to enjoy childhood and innocence in a fiercely protective yet loving environment.

I am so sorry this did not happen for you. Maybe you can take heart from knowing that those of us at this site who know and care about you hold those fiercely loving and protective feelings towards you today. OK, so it's happening around thirty years too late perhaps, but who says you can't enjoy the wonder of feeling cosseted and protected beyond a certain age? Not me, that's for sure.

So here's a big *hug* from me and please, for your sake as much as ours, go on writing!
 
thanks for sharing. that was great to read, yet i suspect it is the tip of the iceburg and hope you continue to write and share.
i can't imagine the ambiguity of the different familial cultures and trying to figure out where you fit in, while you were trying to process the dynamics of your parents' relationship and your family's relationship (or lack thereof) to your mother and how this effected you growing up and ultimately how you were able to make sense of it all, and hopefully arrive at a peaceful conclusion for yourself.
 

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tamuning
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