for attention when we were kids, and that rivalry still continued. Each wanted to make more money than the other, have a nicer house, smarter children, prettier wife. Neither ever scored a particular advantage in this game of one-upmanship; every time one did something, the other aped him or tried to top him. Last summer Lui sent his son Jeffrey to Japan for a summer exchange program; this summer Haoa sent his daughter Ashley to England. Lui put a pool in at his house; Haoa a pool and a hot tub. It’s an accelerating spiral I refused to get sucked into.
Of course they were much closer to each other than they were to me, or than I was to them. There were only two years between them, while there were eight years between me and Lui, six between me and Haoa. In childhood, the only thing they joined forces on was picking on me. As an adult, though, I was reconciled to them, and loved them as much as any brother could. I would always be the “kid brother,” the baby of the family, and just as my relations with my father had improved as I’d matured, my friendships with my brothers had grown and deepened as well.
It was scary to think that I might lose that closeness to them if I told them I was gay. Haoa was the more macho of the two, big, heavyset and blustering, looking more Hawaiian than anyone else in the family. He often made fag jokes, in fact, jokes about almost every ethnic group, even Japanese, and I had often seen our mother wince at those jokes, since she was half Japanese and knew the prejudices her parents went through during the Second World War.
Lui’s eyes were more oval, and he was the shortest of the three of us, barely topping six feet. He was shrewd, with our father’s business sense, but doubled. He was also fiercely competitive, not just with Haoa and me but with the world at large, always seeking to assert his primacy as first boy.
I pulled up outside Haoa’s house and parked at the curb. Already I could hear my nieces and nephews in the backyard, and a stereo playing Keola Beamer’s Wooden Boat CD. “Mama going fishing, Papa going fishing, rocking in a wooden boat,” he sang as I walked up the path. “We’re rocking in a wooden boat, several generations old, we’ll be going on forever, rocking in a wooden boat.”
Everybody wanted hugging and kissing. Haoa wrapped me in a big hug, his breath already a little beery. “Welcome, little brother,” he said. He stepped back from me. “What, no pretty wahine with you? You must be getting old, slowing down.”
“Must be,” I said. Another big hug from Lui, and little kids stampeding around wanting hugs from Uncle Kimo. We took lots of pictures out in the backyard, under the pink tecoma tree, where its fallen petals had produced a pink carpet laid over the lush green lawn. My favorite was a picture of me reclining on the lawn with all my nieces and nephews crawling over me, from Jeffrey and Ashley, who were twelve, down to the little babies barely out of diapers.
We played the Makaha Sons on the stereo, along with Hapa, Keali‘i Reichel, and Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole. The day before Haoa and his landscaping crew had dug the imu in one corner of the yard, and the luscious scent of roasting pig floated out into the surrounding hills.
When I was a kid we had luaus at our house now and then, usually to celebrate something. The best one was for Haoa’s graduation from Punahou. He had been a big football star there, and all his friends came for the luau. My father and brothers and I were up early in the morning, digging the imu. My mother kept saying, “Make it bigger. Lots of mouths to feed today.” We had every kind of food imaginable. Chicken long rice, poi, shark-fin soup, sweet and sour spareribs, Portuguese sausage and beans. And desserts, pineapple like crazy, ten different types of crack seed, malasadas, mango ice cream. I thought we would have leftovers for days but those football players ate everything in sight. At the end of the night,
Of course they were much closer to each other than they were to me, or than I was to them. There were only two years between them, while there were eight years between me and Lui, six between me and Haoa. In childhood, the only thing they joined forces on was picking on me. As an adult, though, I was reconciled to them, and loved them as much as any brother could. I would always be the “kid brother,” the baby of the family, and just as my relations with my father had improved as I’d matured, my friendships with my brothers had grown and deepened as well.
It was scary to think that I might lose that closeness to them if I told them I was gay. Haoa was the more macho of the two, big, heavyset and blustering, looking more Hawaiian than anyone else in the family. He often made fag jokes, in fact, jokes about almost every ethnic group, even Japanese, and I had often seen our mother wince at those jokes, since she was half Japanese and knew the prejudices her parents went through during the Second World War.
Lui’s eyes were more oval, and he was the shortest of the three of us, barely topping six feet. He was shrewd, with our father’s business sense, but doubled. He was also fiercely competitive, not just with Haoa and me but with the world at large, always seeking to assert his primacy as first boy.
I pulled up outside Haoa’s house and parked at the curb. Already I could hear my nieces and nephews in the backyard, and a stereo playing Keola Beamer’s Wooden Boat CD. “Mama going fishing, Papa going fishing, rocking in a wooden boat,” he sang as I walked up the path. “We’re rocking in a wooden boat, several generations old, we’ll be going on forever, rocking in a wooden boat.”
Everybody wanted hugging and kissing. Haoa wrapped me in a big hug, his breath already a little beery. “Welcome, little brother,” he said. He stepped back from me. “What, no pretty wahine with you? You must be getting old, slowing down.”
“Must be,” I said. Another big hug from Lui, and little kids stampeding around wanting hugs from Uncle Kimo. We took lots of pictures out in the backyard, under the pink tecoma tree, where its fallen petals had produced a pink carpet laid over the lush green lawn. My favorite was a picture of me reclining on the lawn with all my nieces and nephews crawling over me, from Jeffrey and Ashley, who were twelve, down to the little babies barely out of diapers.
We played the Makaha Sons on the stereo, along with Hapa, Keali‘i Reichel, and Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole. The day before Haoa and his landscaping crew had dug the imu in one corner of the yard, and the luscious scent of roasting pig floated out into the surrounding hills.
When I was a kid we had luaus at our house now and then, usually to celebrate something. The best one was for Haoa’s graduation from Punahou. He had been a big football star there, and all his friends came for the luau. My father and brothers and I were up early in the morning, digging the imu. My mother kept saying, “Make it bigger. Lots of mouths to feed today.” We had every kind of food imaginable. Chicken long rice, poi, shark-fin soup, sweet and sour spareribs, Portuguese sausage and beans. And desserts, pineapple like crazy, ten different types of crack seed, malasadas, mango ice cream. I thought we would have leftovers for days but those football players ate everything in sight. At the end of the night,
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