Hau'oli Makahiki Hou (And HAPA New Year)!

That's Hawai'ian, literally, for "happy, year, new".

Speaking of the islands, I always get a chuckle out of reading news stories about Hawai'i. Mostly written by mainlanders, the articles usually reflect the writers' unfamiliarity with things Hawai'ian. I have to admit that I, too, was surprised when I first moved to Honolulu over a decade ago. I guess I was expecting to see Native Hawai'ians running around in grass skirts and speaking their beautiful language that sounds of sea waves. Instead, what I found was Asians...lots of Asians. The Asian influence in Hawai'i is strong, yet they've also embraced Hawai'ian culture and managed to meld it with their own traditions; creating a unique blend of both--much like us multiracial folks.

It tickles me that AP contributors reporting about Obama vacationing in Kailua Oahu identified the city as being "close to downtown" when it's way over on windward side. They also wrote things like "SHAVED ICE" when everyone in Hawai'i says "SHAVE ICE". There's a loose national language operating over there--a blend of Hawai'ian, Japanese, Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, Tagalog, Portuguese, English, etc. "all mix up" and spit out in a special way. I find it very similar to speaking to my mother who didn't arrive in the U.S. until she was 33, lived in segregated Richmond Texas for two years, then Germany for three. By the time, she had any opportunity to learn standard English, she was too busy working and raising two daughters. When I talk to my mom, it's like she has her own language.

Mom: "We go store now? I go buy green onion for natto."

Me: "Well...I was watching Atsuhime..."

Mom: "You not want to?"

Me: "Oh, all right."

Mom: "You no have to go."

Me: "I'll go. I'll go."

When I was a lot younger and living in our all white neighborhood devoid of immigrants, other kids upon meeting my mother would rudely state in front of her, "I can't understand what she's saying." While living in Hawai'i, I often thought how much easier it would've been for her had my father been stationed there instead of Ft. Lewis. But at Ft. Lewis, she had all her Japanese warbride girlfriends and they spoke rapid Japanese whenever they gathered for a lively game of hanafuda. I remember hanging around the table hoping to pick up on what they were saying until my mom would shoo me away.

But I digress. In case you aren't aware, biracial actress/singer/dancer Earth Kitt died last week. You may be too young to remember, but Ms. Kitt was banished from the White House when she told Lady Bird Johnson that the U.S. should not be in Vietnam. For years afterwards, Kitt was forced to eke out a career overseas as she was blacklisted and investigated by the FBI and CIA. Still, she persevered and enjoyed many successes throughout her life. Even though she started out working in the cotton fields of South Carolina, Kitt became an entertainer after she moved in with an aunt and attended the High School of Performing Arts in New York. The child of a black/Cherokee mother and white father, Kitt was a victim of One Drop Rule--unable to proclaim her multiracial heritages in a mono-racial world. She was 81.

On to something sunnier. It appears that the film Watermelon Sushi is making some progress lately. Besides the addition of Associate Producer Derrick Holmes of Tokyo, we've recently welcomed playwright Jaz Dorsey of Nashville into the circle also as an Associate Producer. Both men are aggressively clearing a path to production dollars, so stay tuned in '09 to see how far we travel. And, we're still selling Hapa*Teez t-shirts to help fund the film. If you haven't bought one yet, check out the newly added designs at: http://www.cafepress.com/hapateez

Remember, if you've made a purchase, contact us to make sure we have your name for the rear crawl credits: hiphapa@comcast.net

That's Chinese/Korean/American Scott Lee in the photo above toasting with tea at our favorite restaurant in Hawai'i. And, that's me in the photo here celebrating a new year in Germany. I wish I could remember who our family friends are in the pix with me, but it's been awhile. I think the African American sistah's name was Betty.

In closing, I wish you and yours omedetto gozaimasu, hau'oli makahiki hou and a HAPA new year!

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi

Remembering Racial Moments

I call them Racial Moments because, like most mixed-race folks, I don't tend to think about race all day long. Of course, I do right now because of my film, chapbook, upcoming musical, t-shirts, and comic strip all involving biracial issues. But, under normal circumstances, much like the average mono-racial person, I'm just me. Having made that clear, I do confess to experiencing, now and then, a Racial Moment--a memory of something significant that's steeped in race.

At a meeting this evening, conducted by an arts organization promising to fund worthy projects, I was casually taking notes on how to apply for artists' grants when one of the speakers walked in. I recognized him as a local filmmaker who, upon being introduced to me in the past, had promptly turned his face. Although he is one of my mother's people, I felt that he may have been showing his disapproval of her choice in a mate by ignoring me, the result of that union. I'll never know because I never asked him.

But if that is the case, this man would be shocked to learn that not only did my mother, a first-generation Japanese woman, marry a black American soldier, but later, when he divorced her, paired up with a Caucasian air force retiree. Clearly, my mother holds no animosity towards any racial group. But neither is she unique among so-called Japanese war brides. In fact, I remember growing up on military bases after World War II when many of our neighbors were Japanese and German women married to both black and white American soldiers. Additionally, many of the folks in our 'hood were Filipinos, Puerto Ricans and Mexicans--all who joined the U.S. military in a move towards American citizenship. It was an idyllic, multicultural time when no one ever asked, "What are you?"

But, back to my mother. I remember the times when she and her Japanese girlfriends would stay up all night while their men were "in the field". The soldiers were sometimes away for days, training outdoors somewhere. Meanwhile, these seemingly delicate women would gather at one lady's house and, while sipping whiskey or green tea, smoke cigarettes and play hanafuda--a Japanese game using tiny, colorful cards. If Emiko was there with her front gold tooth and permed hair, we'd eventually hear her raspy voice yelling at her two half-black boys, "Stee-bee! Lay-mon!" Although their names were Stevie and Raymond, it was the best she could muster. Her pre-teen boys were always fighting and forcing poor Emiko to shout at regular intervals, "Lee-bee lone, I say!" It was her attempt at telling them, "Leave him alone, I'm telling you." Like his father, Stevie was tall and large-boned while his younger brother, Raymond, was frail and light-skinned. I always liked Emiko. For some unknown reason, she often wore a Chinese dress (if you know anything about China, Japan and WWII, you'd be puzzled, too). Even though Emiko gave off a vibe that said she could take down a sumo wrestler, her heart was tender. I felt sorry for her because of her bad boys. Sometimes I think she wished she had two gentle girls like my mother's, but I don't think she was ever sorry that her children were half-black.

But that's how it was with my mother's friends. Those Japanese ladies were so blase about their mixed-race children. They might've fussed over their nappy heads, but they were never derogatory or demeaning in their speech or actions towards them. They loved their children no matter how much their skin or facial features differed from their own. My mother didn't look at me or my sister with repulsion and think, "Yuk! What's up with their hair?" Of course, she had some difficulty in managing our locks, and I do recall her being distressed whenever we wanted to leave it loose in what she referred to as "making hair so bushy". But her remarks were never directed towards us with any sense of racial superiority.

Which brings me back to that filmmaker. Some would venture that when Asian American men see mixed-race Asian children that aren't theirs, it may remind them that their women are mating with men of other races in droves. The last time I checked, out-marriage rates among Japanese American women were at 80%. And, if the Asian man is not an American, there may be some residue of resentment--a reminder that their side lost the war and their women became the spoils. As horrible as it sounds, the reality is that women often become brides of their enemies because their own homes are so devastated, leaving them with no choice but to start all over in the winner's country.

But memories can never be destroyed. And, I will always cherish mine of sneaking into the dining room to watch my mother and her Japanese girlfriends play hanafuda. While billows of cigarette smoke hovered over them, they'd munch crunchy osenbe and speak in rapid-fire Japanese, all the while loudly laughing and slapping those cards down on the towel-covered table. Every once in awhile, a mixed kid with dark brown skin or straight, blondish hair would enter the room whining about something, and the mother would casually reach out to comfort her child.

Your Hip Hapa,

Yayoi