Blessed Smudging (And not setting off the fire alarm)

The last half of 2023 was a shit show. Ending a twenty-nine year marriage isn't easy. Picking up pieces of shrapnel-like feelings left behind by a spouse, also not easy. Helping your children (grown or not) try to puzzle things back together, once again, not easy. In this case it all fell on one person. Me. That's not entirely true. There were a few others who were there for us. Our ride or dies. Believe me. Divorce and the process of getting a divorce really brings out the best or worst in people We discover who the real ones are and who needs to be let go. It was a long, hard four months that led to the final point of who gets what. Is that what marriage boils down to? Who gets the big screen tv? Does he keep all of his (gajillion) musical instruments so I can keep the house? Who gets custody of the youngest? Does it matter since she turned 18? Scanning photos of our life together and putting them into a Google photo folder. Taking down photos off the family room wall and rearranging new ones. Some people stayed up there, and some didn't make the cut. So petty. So heartbreaking. A word I keep using is "rearranging." That's what our lives have been since this started in August. Rearranging. Resetting. Restructuring. So much for happily ever after. I've been reading a lot of self help books. Things get better. Give it time. Keep working on myself. Meditate. Have some me-time. Oh, and smudge. Bless the house, manifest what you want and what needs to go. Good thing my youngest likes crystals and aligning her chakra. She led me through the process, one smoky room at a time. She told me I had to do the manifesting since the sage was sent to me personally. Mmkay. So I talked to the spirits in the house and told them what I wanted. For each room I asked for things I felt people needed. Peace, love, and sssooouuuulll! Kidding but not kidding. How do you erase twenty-nine plus years with the same person who was supposed to be your person for your whole life? Well, for one thing, you can't erase anything. Why would you? I would never erase my four incredible daughters. I would never erase the experiences, good and bad. These made me who I am today. They enhanced what I tried to hide within myself. Come on, now. Who doesn't love the snarky whit that is me? Those zingers that come out at the right, sometimes wrong, moments in life. I've always told my girls to be so many things; brave, strong, loving, emotional, kind, gentle, fierce, go getters... I said it, but I didn't live it. Until now. With each milestone of change, people ask how I feel. My answer is always, I feel sad and relieved. This is a new chapter. Fitting for an author, yes? I'm glad my sage roll is fairly large. This doesn't have to be the first smudging in our home. Anytime we feel a blessing needs to happen, we can light up that sucker and try not to set off the fire alarm. I wish you all peace, healing, inner quiet, strength, and a ton of love. Deuces until the next episode!

My Moon in Red (Utopia Science Fiction Magazine)

 

https://www.utopiasciencefiction.com/

Check out my short story, My Moon in Red, in Utopia Science Fiction Magazine. It's a Samoan Sci-Fi about a dual universe, one is thriving and the other is dying. Taking this one home to Nu'uuli, American Samoa! It makes you think about the environmental issues we're facing with global warming, our reliance on things that are tearing our earth apart, and what could happen in the future. I'm very excited and proud of this piece, especially since it's my very first published (not self published) work.

Comments about Comments: The Poet X (by Elizabeth Acevedo)

I was talking to my oldest daughter today about starting a book club for high school students, especially our Pasifika kids here in Utah. Now that we're all zoom experts, maybe even have kids from other states involved, too. I know the kids are working hard with classes, so I thought of a short book they could finish quickly, but had so much meaning behind it. The Poet X, by Elizabeth Acevedo, came to mind. I reread my review from December and looked on Amazon for pricing. For some reason I decided to also read some of the reviews, starting with the 1 & 2 star ratings. Oh. My. Goodness.

First of all, Karen, your religion is showing and it doesn't look pretty. One person wrote about the sacrilege of throwing away the sacrament wafer. Is it right? No. Is it a teenage girl who is questioning so many things in life? Yes. How many of us have done stupid things as a teen, and an adult, where we look back and cringe? It's a fictional story! Did you read Dan Brown's DaVinci Code? I'm sure your panties were in a bundle on that one, too. If you really want to get religious, God gave us choices. You do not get to choose for us. Or judge for that matter.

Reviewers had issues with the fact the book was written in poetic, spoken word style. And... what's wrong with a different way of story telling? Just because it's not your usual writing style, why is that wrong? I feel like the reviewers are coming from a privileged lens where they are stuck in their own ways of thinking without keeping an open mind. Hell, it took me forever to get through Jane Eyre and I was just reading it for the sake of reading a so-called "classic." Did I complain about it? No. Once I got used to the style and language, I found a great story within.

To the pearl clutchers who are so offended by the language, content and overall theme with a girl who fights and a brother who is struggling with being gay, please step into the twenty-first century. You may think your child is innocent, but in the age of the internet, social media, Tik Tok, I'm sure your child knows a lot more than you think. Once again, your entitled life has blinded you to realities that many communities face, especially communities of color. Drive by or park by a middle or high school when the kids are leaving and listen closely. I can guarantee your string of pearls will be broken by the time you leave when you hear what kids say.

Finally, the comments about abuse. I do not ever, ever, ever excuse abuse or abusive behaviors. But how many of us grew up with a brown or black mama? I grew up with a white, southern mama who did not spare the rod! Seriously, though, when I read the story, I could relate. Do I think I was abused? Not at all. I was disciplined as were my siblings and cousins. I've disciplined my own children. Have you seen Facebook posts about how you can identify things that were used for spanking? Or how we were taught respect? Fa'aaloalo. Communities of color, especially those who have parents who did not grow up in the U.S. can understand the dynamics of discipline, sometimes going too far to become abuse. There are struggles in families between religious beliefs, sexuality, cultural practices, and coming of age. Would these same readers turn away from a story about an Afghan woman who grows up in extreme abuse? These are real issues.

I'll review another author later, but I just needed to get this off my chest. When reviewers are offended or appalled that their children are required to read books like this, what I read is that they don't want authors of color to be introduced. They don't want books that show real life struggles, especially those of communities of color. They want to keep things the same, with white dominated history and watered down stories of people of color, because that makes them feel safe. From a lens of entitlement and privilege. Guess what? The world isn't all butterflies and roses. There are thorns, mosquitos, and flying cockroaches. But also guess what? We get through it all. And we continue to share our stories. Real life, raw, in your face, cultural stories. Let us continue to fight to get our stories into the school curriculum and into the hands of our kids. They need them. We need them.

Author Review: Elizabeth Acevedo

Back in late spring, after covid hit and I had more time on my hands, I decided to look up books written by authors of color. And READ! Thank goodness for the Kindle app and the local library. So far, I have found nothing but amazing writers and stories from around the world. Some uplifting. Some a bit depressing. Some humorous. Some adventurous with an ending that left my mouth hanging open, not sure how to process what I just read. I'll get to that series in another blog. This one, however, is dedicated to an author who was introduced to me during a writing/book club zoom meeting. I had just read Pachinko by Min Jin Lee and shared my thoughts on the tumultuous relationships between the Japanese and Koreans before and during World War II. I compared it to Samoans and Tongans, and the many times I was told we don't get along. Funny, I'm Samoan married to a Tongan. Hm...

When I was first introduced to Elizabeth Acevedo, an absolute GENIUS, it was with her book "With the Fire on High." She talks about being a boricua, someone of Puerto Rican descent, combined with her African roots. An Afro-Latina. Her way of blending the American side using the New York streets as her background and the rich cultural nuances of family members create a story for all ages. I can relate to the older folks in the story who grew up in the islands and migrated to the United States. I know my children can relate to the story of someone who has ties to the islands through her family, but is still trying to navigate a system on her own. Of course, the details about food and family traditions made this book all the more relatable. Then, to my pleasant surprise, I found more books by Ms. Acevedo! "Poet X" and "Clap When You Land" are written in poetry form to tell the story. And oh what stories they behold! She continues to blend the Latina and African roots into stories of freedom, self advocacy, reflection, and understanding. If I had to choose a favorite, I would have to say it's "Poet X." It's a reminder of my youngest daughter, who loves poetry and spoken word, and how we are trying to bridge that gap between the old and the new. How we, as people of color, want our stories to be a part of the narrative, the Poetry Out Loud choices, the school curriculum, the classroom conversations. If this is the future of what will be taught in schools, I am in full support. 

You can find more information about Elizabeth Acevedo on her website: http://www.acevedowrites.com/

A Samoan Greeting

"Talofa, o a'u o..."

Standing in front of the class, I struggle to still my shaking hands. I remind myself that I know this language. It is the language of home. I've pronounced these words all my life, maybe not as confidently as I would like, but this is who I am. Breathe, I tell myself. Let the words flow through you, like calm ocean water.

"O o'u matua o..."

I think back to my days growing up in American Samoa. We still carry our Nu'uuli pride everywhere we go, my siblings and I. My own daughters have that pride instilled in them, even growing up in Utah. We connect with people based on land. Oh, you're from North Carolina, what part? My mom is from Fuquay Varina. That's how you know a REAL North Carolinian. If they know Fuquay, they are for real. What do you know about Nu'uuli? We are full of pride, strength, and love. Let the words flow through you, like a cooling breeze coming off the mountain.

"Ou te sau mai..."

I've lived in Utah for almost 26 years, and yet my answer is always Nu'uuli, Amerika Samoa. It reaches into the depths of my being and can never be replaced. I am the red 'ie with the three white stripes. I am the fautasi Satani, okay, fine, Manulele Tausala. I am Vaitele born and raised. The land calls to me. Like the Disney movie Moana. Sometimes I dream I'm home. I see pictures and feel a pull to return. One day. Let the words flow through me, like a thundering waterfall after a hard rain.

"Malo lava le soifua. Ia manuia."

The words continue to flow until my simple lauga is complete. I can see Dad smiling, proud of my enunciation. Always speak clearly, even if you aren't sure of the words. Keep practicing. Don't ever stop learning. When I hear others speaking Samoan, my eyes close and I breathe in deeply, as if to inhale the essence of the language. It's beauty. It's smoothness. It's comfort. I yearn for home.

Half A Century... and Beyond

I can officially apply for AARP benefits. 😆

The country and the world are still battling the coronavirus. 😨

I'll probably be working from home until August. 😎

I was voted into a temporary position as the Precinct 1 rep for the Salt Lake City School District Board of Education. 😲

My birthday celebration was exactly what I wanted. Quality time with my girls, food from Myung Ga (sooooo yummy), seeing my family and dropping off Mother's Day gifts. 😍

Extra bonuses included presents I wasn't expecting from loved ones and a drive-by birthday celebration from my mom, siblings, in-laws, niece, and nephews. We really miss each other. 😢

Times are different now. Different doesn't always mean bad. We appreciate our loved ones more. We have time to work on home projects. We are learning and growing. Even though the future is still fuzzy with no timeline of when things will go back to "normal," we're taking advantage of being together. 💚

People around the world are stepping up and speaking out about the inequality marginalized communities have been facing for so many years, especially our black communities. In the United States, folks are voting to have their voices heard in people who can take that voice all the way to Washington D.C. Folks are tired of having their narratives dictated to them and are now pushing back. It is the hope that not only will conversations and educating ourselves continue, but true action and policy change will take place. ❤

I wonder what my guardian angel is doing. I'm pretty sure she's laughing her butt off, drunk most of the time, and saying to the other guardian angels, "Dude, watch this," before sprinkling some more craziness into my life. 😇🍷

I am halfway through my 50th year and so far it's been mostly 💩 storms. I've watched more tv and netflix than I have the past few years. Not sure how I feel about that. How is it possible to need a vacation when you already work from home? And you can't go anywhere? Cuz coronavirus and all. Heavy sigh... stay safe, ya'll. 😩

A Sister and Her Brothers

The bond between a sister and her brothers is strong. And sacred. Whether that brother shares the same parents or the same extended bloodline, the connection is all the same. The brothers are the ones who look out for her, protect her, guide her, support her, cherish her. When her parents have left this world leaving her alone, the brothers carry the responsibility to make sure she's okay for the rest of their lives. It is a burden the brothers should never take lightly. Nor should they ever forget. 

Her mother already gone

She then lost her father

Unexpectedly

Crying, she said she was all alone

But she's not

And we told her she's not

All alone

Look around you

Her brothers declared

You are not alone

We are here

Always

Whatever you need

Whenever you need

Call

We are here

You are not alone.

What I Meant Was

On March 2nd, I wrote about how my 50th year was beginning to fizzle. Things were just blah and nothing exciting was going on. When I said the calm before the party storm, I was thinking something WAY different than what happened after I wrote those words. My 50th year is off to a literally shaky start. Let's review some moments since my last blog entry, shall we? And if my words brought on the craziness, my bad.

The world has been shut down by the COVID-19 pandemic. Today begins week two of working from home as we have been told to shelter in place and self quarantine, I was thinking how awesome it has been to spend more time with my girls. We're all stuck at home, working and getting back to schoolwork. When the weather is nice, we've been going out for lunch time walks with the doggos. We've been cooking dinner and don't have to worry about commuting. We worked out adding an extra routine thinking we're coming out of this with our bikini bods ready! Weeknights we eat dinner together then played boardgames. Some games I haven't played in years! It reminds me of growing up in Nu'uuli and on stormy days we would play board games or read. I feel as if the world is slowing us down. Making us see what we've been missing.

Then, that same world gave us a rude awakening last Tuesday morning in Utah with a 5.7 magnitude earthquake. It was truly a wake up call as we were all sleeping. For folks in California and other places in the world where earthquakes are common, you can laugh all you want. It really freaked us out. I haven't felt anything that strong for as long as I can remember. We've been experiencing after shocks every day, the heavier ones always seem to happen when I'm trying to take a nap. It's nerve wracking. All you can do is prepare and have a plan. And pray. Oh yes. That's what I've been doing all week. Cuz I'm scared. I have to stay strong for my girls, but I'm struggling with that. All I want to do is find a corner and cry.

This is definitely a 50th year to remember! I thought being quarantined at home, I could maybe get some writing done. Right now that's not happening. My brain is too rattled and sleep deprived to even think about anything else except taking a nap. Here's to everyone staying safe and healthy! Please don't hoard toilet paper, wash your hands, air and virtually hug your people. Those useless physical things you're worried about? Those are nothing compared to the safety and well-being of your family. Reset your priorities. What can be accomplished during this time of lock down? The plan is to organize our home, our thoughts, our mindset. When we come out of this craziness, we'll know what is important and what's not. Take this time to enjoy each other's company. Get to know your family and friends. As an introvert, I prefer contact like commenting on social media or messaging people or sending texts. I'm not much of a talker. Anyway you feel is comfortable for you to say hello and have contact, do it. Within the confines of social distancing, of course. Be safe, ya'll. Stay healthy. Be kind. It's not that difficult. And for goodness sake, stop hoarding, especially toilet paper. Cheers to almost 50 years! One and a half months and counting!

Painting using fancy watercolors. Time well spent.

Over 200 aftershocks since the 5.7 earthquake on March 17, 2020

It's a Fizzle Time of the Year

Do you ever have those days where you completely lack focus and motivation? I'm having more than just one day of it. Unfortunately. I'm burnt out. I'm tired. I have a few other things I wish I could be doing instead of what I'm supposed to do.

I wish I was on a warm, tropical beach with my toes in the sand, just staring out into the ocean. Listening to the sounds of the waves washing up against the shore. Birds talking to each other in the sky. The wind blowing. Tasting and smelling the salt in the air. Feeling utterly relaxed and content. It's in my blood. It's who I am. Warmth. Peace.

I wish I was working on my personal passion project for my Westside Leadership Institute class. I still need to catch up and write out my plans. And create something I can present to a school to start a literacy project. Because that sounds WAY more fun that what I'm supposed to be doing at work. Encouraging young minds to read? Yes, please!

I wish my anxiety would calm the hell down. My heart flutters have gotten worse these last few months. No bueno! I seriously need to get the heck out of Dodge! And get the heck somewhere warmer. I think I mentioned warmer before. Because I'm tired of being cold. And running my heater at work. And dressing in layers.

My 50-year celebration is starting to fizzle a little. Or maybe it's the calm before the party storm. Yeah, let's look at it that way. I'm just tired of people with higher degrees who have zero common sense. People who give impressionable young minds wrong information so these young college folks stress out about nothing, simply because the professor likes to talk out of his ass. Sorry, left field rant, coming right up!

Maybe I shouldn't be working right now. You know, back home people take a long break in between breakfast and lunch because it's too hot to work outside. As the aunties would say, "Le la!" Or in South American countries, it's called Siesta. I'm assuming my blog writing will now count as my siesta from work. Back at it, I must go.

Just an image of where I should be right now...

Heading into 50

As of January 1, 2020, I will be in the year of my 50th birthday. I decided to document this year. It's a milestone. Half a century old. The big 5-0. Approaching a new stage in life. I've also decided I'm celebrating all year long. Not just on the day I was born. This is MY year!

You know when people ask you where you see yourself at certain ages? Especially when you're in high school? There were people who knew or had goals. I had nothing. My future vision was completely blank. I thought I had no direction and was genuinely worried. In hindsight, it has been quite a ride. I could equate it to being an author. A blank sheet of paper, so to speak. Instead of the words already written down for me, I wrote them myself. I chose what my story would look like and I'm still writing, filling those pages with adventures.

I've started my community leadership class and even though we've only had two class sessions, I am hooked! I come home excited and I have a hard time falling asleep because I'm thinking of what we talked about, the projects we've discussed, and everything in between. We have a dynamic group of people, an large age span that works well together, and so many amazing ideas. And all focused on our Pasifika community here in Utah.

My goal of eating healthier is going well. I have to eat a fresh serving of veggies (on rare occasions fruits) for lunch and dinner every day. So far so good. My exercise regiment is consistent, even when my back went out on me this week. And I've cut down on social media. Not bad. A great start to the great year of 50!

What about my stories? The one goal I'm struggling with in week three of January. When I sit down to write, I draw a blank. I have a few stories I've started but no motivation to move forward with them, even though deep down inside I really want to get writing again. Not sure where the blockage is coming from. I've been reading a lot more lately, hoping it will help and maybe inspire me. Or at least it's been a great distraction from the frustration of not writing.

I've been doing some genealogy work, looking back on some things my mom researched, reading through the fa'alupega of Samoa written by Kramer, and discovering interesting facts about my family. This is all leading up to something wonderful that I can't wait to share with you in March/April.

Speaking of genealogy, when I was pregnant with my youngest daughter, the ultrasound showed a sack of fluids on the back of her neck. The diagnosis was scary. She could come out and possibly be down syndrome, have growth issues and have to take hormone medication for the rest of her life, or come out normal. When meeting with a specialist, one of the questions she asked was whether my husband and I were related. Ew. No, I answered emphatically. Then I backed up and said, "Well, not that we know of." Good news, my daughter came out just fine. She's a diva but I don't think that's from the diagnosis, just her namesake. The genealogy, on the other hand, could have found the connection. It's from a very long time ago but there is a possibility my husband and I are related. It comes from the Tu'itonga line before Queen Salamasina. My husband thinks it's hilarious. Cue my huge eye roll. My comeback is that I outrank him and that's more important on the Tongan side. Boo ya! It's amazing the stories you can find when digging a little deeper into the past. I was hoping to find something to help me write some stories but instead, I found an understanding and love of familial lines.

Wish me luck with my investigating! I should have been a lawyer...

Musings from the Last Decade

At this point in my life, I can barely remember what I did last week let alone ten years ago. So, to Facebook I went to review my timeline from 2010 until now. I noticed a few things. I posted A LOT back then. Maybe I felt I had to update everyone, several times a week, about what was going on in my life. Like what I was cooking that day, people who got on my nerves, hints about things happening to me. The last few years, I have chosen to embrace the quiet. Does this mean I've become more of a social media stalker? Probably. But many of my thoughts I have saved for myself, or I've added them to my stories. Wow. Ten years has flown by and so many things have happened. There were definitely some very difficult times that tested my patience, my marriage, my sanity. We had three high school graduations that resulted in three daughters currently in college. One daughter going on a church mission for eighteen months in New York City. Watching my dad fight ALS and losing him in 2017. Beginning a new career in higher education towards the end of 2010 and still going strong. One of the best decisions of my life. Self publishing five books, three available on Amazon. This year I turn 50 years old. And I've decided to celebrate the entire year. Because I can. I will be half a century old. And I'm okay with it. There are plans for physical improvement, including more exercising and better eating choices. Communication is slowly improving with my husband and I'm excited to see how this will flourish. We are not the same people we were when we got married, but we're becoming better. That's how marriages work. I'm taking a community leadership course starting in January. Now that my girls are older, and help out a lot more around the house, I have time to participate in community work. I want to start and end the year with a bang with a whole lot of fireworks in between! So, get ready folks! I'll be updating everyone throughout this year, taking you on this journey of mine. Be prepared for more blog posts and some big things happening in 2020! Happy New Year, ya'll!

Emerging Pasifika Writers (and crushed future dreams)

Emerging Pasifika Writer's Residency 2020

Apply now!

A fellow author posted this position on Facebook and I thought, "You know, I could totally do this. Maybe not this year, but in a few years. When my youngest finishes high school. Five years to be exact." Excitedly, I started to think about the possibilities, how I would take a leave of absence from work, how my three oldest would already have their Bachelor's degrees (at least) and on their own, how I could leave the house in their capable hands while I flit off to New Zealand to write my heart out for three months AND get paid for it. Then reality slapped me in the face with its ugly, ring-laden hand. Right square in the eyepolos. I read the fine print. Where it says you have to be a New Zealand citizen or hold permanent residency. Um, yeah. Strike one and only. Of course all of my justifications for NOT applying came back as, "Yeah, I couldn't make it work anyway. Well, who knows if they will offer this in five years when I could MAYBE try to apply. Eh, just write on your own and keep self publishing." I applaud New Zealand and its ever forward-moving thinking and initiatives that support Pasifika peoples. How do we start something like this here in the USA?

Green Eggs and Pancakes

The waitress set our plates on the table

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day!”

Her voice feigning cheer

While her face contradicted the jolly message

She had difficulty masking the hostility

The green eggs looked like plastic barf

And the matching green pancakes?

Too light for St. Patty’s Day

Too green for a decent breakfast

At least the ham was normal

It was possible I had fallen into a Dr. Seuss nightmare

The glares we were getting from patrons

Were anything BUT welcoming

As we ate, I tried to quiet my eyeballs

They tend to roll really loud

Like outside voice loud

We were surrounded by rural, white farmers

In rural, white Utah

Celebrating a white holiday with green eggs and green pancakes

That we didn't order
We ordered pancakes, ham, and eggs
But not in green
We weren't even given a choice
Or a head's up
Nothing
My daughter walked back from the restroom
Took one look at the food
I shook my head, still in disbelief
Willing her to stay quiet
Looking across the room
Kitty corner to our booth
An older gentlemen sat staring at us
Not even hiding the fact
That his eyes were glued to the two brown women
Who stared in turn at their green food
Snapping out of our shock
We prepared our food as we usually do
Meticulously cutting our pancakes
Before pouring the syrup over the pieces
The more syrup the better
You want pancakes with your syrup?
Yes, please
Taking a bite, while giggling at the madness
It wasn't half bad
The eggs? Those were not half good
Ham, you are my saving grace
Minutes later, the waitress returns
"Do you need anything else?"
Even if we did, I wouldn't say anything
Just the check, please
So I can get away from this horror movie
I wasn't about to die in Nowhere, Utah
The cashier is a young Latina
"How was everything?"
Finally, a question with genuine concern
That's good customer service, my friends
Relieved to see another brown person
I wondered how she fared
Working, possibly living, in this surly environment
Driving home, surviving breakfast doused in food coloring,
We had two hours to dissect
Being put under a white microscope
Making us appreciate our neighborhood
With its rich diversity
And strong familial ties
Feeling sad for those who lack that beauty
Who can't see past someone's complexion
The only color they seem to appreciate
Are in green eggs and pancakes
We're well into the twenty-first century
And yet...

Hair Color and Potty Mouths

The beginning of each month has signified a very important milestone in my life for the past year. It's hair coloring day. I've tried paying for hair coloring with highlights to cover those stubborn white hairs that seem to be multiplying like rabbits, but it was too expensive and time consuming. So I found myself a box and color that I could afford and enjoyed. It's almost the same as my natural hair color. Well, before the white started taking over. Before I go any further, yes, I am vain. At least in that department. My sister said I was just like my dad, who colored his hair for many, many years. I take that as a compliment since my dad was a very good looking man. I'm just not ready to let my hair change color. And texture. I embrace my curls. They make me feel strong and sassy. And they are a natural part of me.

I mentioned to my daughters it was time to go color my hair and my youngest, who is thirteen, says, "Mom, you should just let your hair go white, like that guy in the movie Glass." That guy being Samuel L. Jackson. She didn't say, "Let your hair go white so you can look like Storm from X-Men. Or T'Challa's mom in Black Panther." She could have named any other female with beautiful white hair but she chose Samuel L. Jackson. My sister got a kick out of that. She texted: "It's prob cuz of that mother effing potty mouth u mother effing use every mother effing day." Sigh... I give up.

 
 

From Dance Clubbin' to Book Clubbin'

"Girl, that's my jam!" Thursday nights at the Wildcat house with their $2 long island iced tea pitchers, hip hop music blasting through the speakers, picnic tables all along the edges surrounding a large square dance floor, in a building that was most likely a barn once upon a time. Going to the club was a rite of passage. Being able to flash my ID knowing I was legally allowed to enter and partake, gave me a sense of freedom. That was clubbin'. What outfit should I wear? What's the latest Janet Jackson style I can copy? All of this on a broke ass college student budget. Meaning, I ate boxed mashed potatoes, pasta, and pasta sauce for the week. No ramen noodles for this gal. Breakfast was peanut M&M's and a one liter Pepsi. Lunch was whatever cost less than $5. Dinner, see list above. Going to the club on the weekend, or close enough to the weekend, helped release tensions. Especially after a really difficult test or turning in a fifty page report on a short story about a man who turns into a cockroach. I'm pretty sure I took that story in a totally different direction considering I grew up with ginormous cockroaches, some who even had wings and flew around. It's all about perspective, right? That was many years ago, about 27 to be exact.

Fast forward. Clubbin' equals book clubbin'. The music we listen to are shared stories, laughing, and crying. The partaking of choice? Sugary sweets, little cucumber sandwiches, water, and hot chocolate. Your ID? The book of the month. You don't even have to live off of ramen, pasta, and boxed mashed potatoes. You can check out the book at the library. For FREE! Gasp! This is the new stress relief from a week or month of work, wherever that might be. A chance to be surrounded by folks who can connect, agree, disagree, and really get into culture, upbringing, the good, the bad, and the ugly. All in a safe space. A one hour session that turns into two hours as we shut down the library (poor ladies needed to close and go home) and continue our chatting out in the parking lot. In the cold. But not wanting the night and conversation to end.

I'll be honest. I choose the book clubbin. The dance clubbin always left me with a sense of loneliness and a constant wondering about why I was doing this to myself. The book clubbin had me going home feeling utterly fulfilled, a new sisterhood forged, and looking forward to the next month. As I read our March book, I'm driven to continue this writing experience. Past, present, and future, books have always filled any void in my life. It's the perfect kind of clubbin!

Join us in March as we discuss the first book of LaniWendt Young's Telesa trilogy, The Covenant Keeper, available at the Salt Lake City Public Library or on www.amazon.com.

CLICK HERE FOR BOOK CLUB SCHEDULE FOR 2019

Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?  A common question that has surfaced in the last few months about my stories.

I write because I was born and raised in American Samoa, surrounded and immersed in a rich culture. I write because my children were born and raised in Utah, listening to sporadic stories from their parents and grandparents about growing up in the islands. I write because my children, along with many Pasifika children, hold ancestry in one or more of our Pacific Islander groups, but rarely, if ever, set foot on ancestral lands. I write because these children may not hear or learn of their stories. They may be more familiar with Harry Potter, or anime, or Disney, but they may not know the story of Sina and the eel, Pele and Kamapua'a, Tu'i Tonga's bloodline leading to the gods, or the meaning behind the well-known Maori haka, Ka Mate. I write so our Pasifika children can see themselves in stories, so they, along with others, can have a better understanding of Pacific Islanders, and above all, inspire them to start learning their own stories. Hopefully, they will pick up where I leave off, and continue telling our stories, bridging the gap between their heritage and the new space in which they live.

I was asked to speak about myself at the KUED pre-launch event for PBS's The Great American Read program that officially begins next Tuesday, September 11, 2018.  Since I don't do well with impromptu, I wrote this as my introduction.  I was then asked how I learned the stories.  It's been an ongoing process.  I learned some when I was growing up, but I feel like I've learned even more recently, as I research for my books, and because I want to know more.  

Lesson of the day:  Never stop learning or telling your stories.

 

A Work In Progress

My writing is a work in progress.  In the last five months, I self published two books, one middle school reader and one picture counting book that is in English and Samoan.  I've been interviewed by KUED (the local PBS station) and will have a 5-minute episode on my writing that will air on PBS throughout the year during The Great American Read (TGAR) series.  In a couple of weeks, there will be a prelaunch for TGAR and I will be there to discuss my book and view the episode before it airs on the nationwide launch date of September 11th.  I'm slowly working on the next book which is based in American Samoa.  The writing is always a work in progress.  But I love it.

My career is a work in progress.  I love working with students.  My current position has been extremely rewarding.  I have been encouraged to do more outreach, I have been supported when coming up with new ideas, and I have been taught new things that excite me.  I have been encouraged to write, not only for the department, but for myself.  I have been introduced to a fellow writer and publisher so I can "pick" her brain.  I continue to learn and grow in my position.

My life is a work in progress.  I have two, almost three, adult children and an almost teenager.  I am trying to adjust to their independence and sometime in the near future, the empty nest syndrome.  Many parents are elated to have their children out of the house.  Some even open the door and fling their childrens' bags to them as they dance on the porch waiting for those quiet times.  I am not one of those parents.  The thought of being home without my kids makes me sad.  So I am trying to take advantage of some extra time to write more, I signed up for a Samoan language class, and I'm doing more in-person events to promote my books.  I look at pictures of when my kids were young and wonder where the time went.

My faith is a work in progress.  I have always believed in God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost.  I have always turned to him and the scriptures in times of need and in times of joy.  I continue to struggle to know what is true, though.  The ideals and actions of man cloud the goodness of worshipping and fellowshipping.  Which one is true?  How do I know?  I keep going and receive bits and pieces of confirmation that what I'm doing is working and will continue to help me grow spiritually.

My thoughts are a work in progress.  There are days where I get lost in the daily tasks that are ever present as a full time working mom.  I have an idea pop into my head as I'm washing dishes, or cleaning the shower, or walking the dog.  Sometimes I can write them down to ponder later.  Sometimes I forget what I was thinking about since I'm bombarded once I walk in the door of my home.  Maybe a machine that can record the thoughts might be helpful?  Or maybe that's dangerous because some thoughts are not so nice.  Cancel that machine order. 

We are all a work in progress.  It's a neverending process that we should enjoy on this journey through life.  I've been learning about my ancestry, trying to gather stories from aunts and uncles about their days growing up.  I didn't get to write down my Dad's stories before he passed away.  So many memories gone.  I'm hoping my Mom will start writing her stories.  She used to write.  When I was a teenager.  We would drive up to the tram and I would sit quietly as my mom wrote.  She was writing children's stories about a tram and its adventures.  Sort of like a Thomas the Train.  I don't know where the stories are, if they're tucked safely away or if they are completely gone.  We will continue working on ourselves, gathering our family stories, and strive to be better people.

Excerpt from my next book...

“Come on, Junior.  Don’t be scared,” Tai giggled and grabbed his hand.  It was dark, and they were surrounded by a jungle.  He could hear the toads croaking and the breeze moving the leaves in the trees.  He felt nervous.  He felt scared. 

            We shouldn’t be here, he thought.  It didn’t feel right.  He felt like they were intruding on a sacred space and they were not welcome.  The hair on his arms stood up and he felt a chill slide down his back.

            Tai’s hand felt soft and warm.  He could smell her ginger perfume.  She was pulling him deeper into the darkness.

            We shouldn’t be here, he thought again.  He tried to pull her back, but a force was dragging him forward.

            Tai turned to look at him, frowning, her pale blue eyes glowing in the dark.  His knees felt weak and his body began to shake as shadowy figures rose in the darkness behind her.

*****

            His eyes were burning behind his closed eyelids.  He could feel a cool, wet touch to his forehead.  Gentle hands were massaging his head which was pounding.  His body felt like it was on fire.  He kicked off the sheets then began shaking uncontrollably from the chills.  Someone put his covers back on and added a heavy blanket that pinned him to his bed.  His head was being lifted.  Cool water touched his lips and he drank thirstily.  With his head back on his damp pillow, he moaned.  He heard his mom’s voice as she stroked his hair, singing softly.

*****

            Fiti stood at the edge of the cliff.  The water below was crashing against the rocks.  Blow holes shot ocean water high in the air sending droplets to fall on them like rain.  The wind was whipping through the coconut branches nearby.  Junior was nervous.  He didn’t want them to get hit by flying debris.  He also felt a deep fear.  Fiti was standing too close to the edge.  A gust of wind in the right direction could send him over the cliffs into the swirling mass and jagged rocks below.

            “Fiti, come away from there,” Junior pleaded.  “Let’s talk about this.”

            Fiti turned and glared at his friend.  Or the person he thought was his friend.

            “You know, Junior, no one wanted to be around you.  None of the guys.  They used to tease me because I wanted to be your friend.  They told me I was crazy.  They said you were cursed.  I never believed them or those stupid stories.  You were a nice person.  Quiet, yes.  But that was okay.  I never thought you would betray me like this,” Fiti’s eyes filled with tears.  His face twisted into a scowl, fists tight at his sides.

            Junior’s shoulders slumped, and he reached his hands out, stretching toward his buddy.

            “No, Fiti.  I didn’t betray you.  You’ve always been my best friend.  Always,” Junior said sadly.  He didn’t know what else to do.  He felt powerless.

            “Give her up,” Fiti challenged.

            Junior whispered, “I can’t.”

*****

            Junior woke up in sweat covered sheets.  His mouth felt dry, his voice hoarse as he tried to call someone.  He felt movement on his right side.  Strong hands lifted his head and put a cup to his lips.  He drank deeply.  Eyes still closed, his whole body burning, he heard heavy rain pattering against the tin roof above.  Gusts of wind blew in cool air.  He heard footsteps and the closing of louvres to keep out the wind and rain.  A clap of thunder and a flash of lightening made him jump.  A hand touched his forehead.  A cool cloth took the place of the hand.  He focused on the storm outside that lulled him back into a fevered sleep.

*****

            “Junior.”

            He turned as he heard a voice he didn’t recognize.  Frozen, he stared in the direction of the sound.

            “Junior,” the voice said again.

            Mama was standing behind him.  She smiled and reached out her hand.  Silently, he took it.  Her fingers were straight, long and graceful, and her grip was strong.  Tears streamed down his face.  When did she start talking?  And how was she able to use her hands again?

            “There are many things you need to know,” she began.  She guided him to the door.  They walked out into the sunlight toward the family graves.  Junior brushed off some leaves and sat with his grandmother near his father’s headstone.

            “Talofa e, isi ‘ou tei,” his grandmother said holding his hands.  “My sweet grandson, there is so much I need to tell you.  But time is short.  You are almost sixteen.  Have you noticed there are no men still alive in this family?  Only fafine.  Women.  Why do you think that is?”

            Junior shook his head.  He had wondered the same thing.  The idea nagged at him as he looked expectantly at Mama.

            “There is a family curse,” she began.

            Suddenly he felt an agonizing pain in his chest.  He bent over and wailed.

*****

“Every time I try to take the ula off his neck, he screams in pain.  I don’t know what to do,” his mother cried.

            Junior lay on the bed clutching his chest with both hands, protecting the boar’s tusk necklace.  He moaned.  His eyes, still closed, produced a trail of tears down the side of his face.  He could hear crying on both sides of him.  A cold piece of metal touched his chest near the tusk, so he clutched tighter making sure no one tried to move it again.

            “Junior,” a female voice said softly.  “It’s Doctor Koria.  I’m just checking your vital signs.  That’s the cold metal you’re feeling on your chest.  It’s my stethoscope.  You’ve had a very high fever for a week.”

            As the metal touched more of his fevered skin, it warmed up.  He could feel the doctors soft but strong hands checking his glands and feeling his limbs.  He tried to open his eyes.  They felt so heavy.

            “We need to get him to the hospital for some x-rays,” the doctor said.  “I’ll call the ambulance to transport him.”

            About twenty minutes later the sound of a siren broke through the normally quiet, peaceful Sunday afternoon.  Strong hands lifted Junior onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance.  He could hear Dr. Koria’s voice as she called orders to the attendants.  Mama and one of his sisters were going to follow in their car.  His other sister would stay at the house to watch over Mama.

            The ride was short since there was no traffic.  Everyone was doing what they would normally do on a Sunday.  They would be sleeping, reading, or watching television.  No children would be out playing, and no one would be working outside.  It was a day of rest.

            He felt himself being wheeled into an air-conditioned room and he began to shiver again.  A blanket was put on him as he was lifted onto a hard surface.

            “Junior, it’s Doctor Koria again,” he heard a woman’s voice say calmly.  “I know you’re cold, but we need to take off the blanket to take some x-rays.  We’ll make sure it’s quick, so we can get you covered up again.  If you understand what I’m saying to you, can you squeeze my hand?”

            Junior felt a hand holding his and he concentrated on using his muscles to do as she asked.

            “Good boy,” she said.  “Your mom is watching through the window.  We’ll get you into a room as soon as we’re finished.”

            “Doctor, are we going to take off the ula?” a male voice asked.

            “No,” the doctor answered.  “He screams in pain any time someone tries to get it off.”

            “Oka,” the male voice said.  “I hope it’s not some ‘aitu thing.”

            He felt a rush of cold air as the doctor removed his blanket.  He lay as still as possible despite the waves of chills.  As the doctor promised, the x-rays were completed quickly, and the blanket was placed on him.  As the warmth enveloped him, he fell back asleep.

(This story takes place in American Samoa during the 1980's.  I'm excited to write it as this is home to me.  Person of Shadows, my book based in Kauai using Hawaiian legends, is available on Amazon)

Black-ish Hits Home

SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!

If you are not caught up with the show, Black-ish, do not continue reading.  You have been warned.

A couple of weeks ago I was catching up on some shows I've missed this spring season.  I don't watch a lot of television due to a busy schedule that includes work, children, and trying to write/publish.  But every once in a while, there is a lull in the craziness.  I take advantage of those less busy moments to just sit and enjoy the down time.

If any of you have watched the show Black-ish, you'll know it's a sitcom that combines comedy with some serious takes on real world issues facing people of color.  Although I don't always agree with the parenting styles of Andre and Rainbow Johnson, I love the content.  Ruby and Pops remind me of the old school parenting where we graduated from the school of hard knocks and still came out okay. 

I also identify a lot with Rainbow because I'm biracial (afakasi in Samoan).  It probably doesn't help that my husband and a former supervisor say I remind them of Bow with my facial expressions, tone, and sarcasm.  I remember the episode where they cover the issue of Rainbow identifying as a black woman and dealing with the feeling that she was neglecting her white (dad's) side.  I've had this same conversation with people in the past because I identify as a Samoan.  This does not discount my caucasian side one bit.  Rainbow's talk with her dad revealed him seeing her as a black woman because that's how the world saw her.  But not once did he feel as if that took away from him being her father or being a part of her life.

There have been bits and pieces of each show where I can say I've experienced some of what was going on with the characters, but these last few episodes really struck a chord on a deeply personal level for me.  It started off with the marital strife between Rainbow and Andre.  I cried at some point during every single one of these episodes because not only did I feel their pain, I lived it.  After one episode, my third daughter commented, "I thought this was supposed to be a comedy?" Every marriage takes work. Many marriages go through difficult times and sometimes, unfortunately, end in separation.  I'm happy to say, like Bow and Dre, my own marriage has suffered but we were blessed to have found our way back to each other. 

The final episode has been on my mind since I watched it last night.  This is what prompted me to write this blog entry.  The middle of the night phone call with Bow sobbing and Dre asking her what's wrong.  Her dad had passed away.  It transported me back to this past August with a 4am phone call.  Dad.  Hospital.  Not going to make it.  Nothing they can do.  I remember sobbing by myself, completely lost.  I called my husband in Kauai.  Like Bow, I cried uncontrollably.  My dad.  My rock.  I got on the earliest flight I could.  As I was getting my rental car, the agent asked what brought me to the Bay Area.  I told her I was visiting my dad.  She said, "Oh, you're his angel to come and see him."  I told her, "He will actually be our angel soon."  And the tears started to fall.  When I looked up at the agent, she shared my sorrow.  She shared my tears.  She asked if she could pray for me and my family.  I said yes.  And I thanked her.  Then she thanked me.  Not for my business.  But for sharing such a personal and painful thing with her. 

Thank you, Black-ish writers, for not sugar coating anything.  For showing us the real stuff. The good, the bad, the ugly. For showing us the pains that families go through.  For showing us the absolute love that only families can share. Thank you.