Scene from "October 24th, 1928"

            She remembers her name.  She remembers the war.  She remembers her birthday.  She remembers the recipe for her famous egg drop soup.  She remembers the house she grew up in.  The one in the back of Palolo valley next to the 76 gas station.  She remembers the orchids and cherry tomatoes she used to tend with her brother in the backyard.  She remembers the sausage dog that lived with them who rolled on a skateboard, too fat to walk.  She remembers her niece, two years young and her mother had just passed away—but she does not remember that niece’s name.  She remembers the name of the man she did not marry—Gregory Peck—and how he was such a handsome looker.

            The hallways smell of processed turkey and old linens.  Wheelchairs full of missing limbs and sad eyes line the walls.  I know none of their stories, but I know they are all waiting; waiting for either more time or less.  We reach room 224 on the second floor, Lewalani Wing.  She is sitting on her bed, fussing with a wrinkled paper napkin, brittle from being folded and unfolded hundreds of times.  Her prepared meal waits on the side, untouched as always.  We each hug her frail outline and kiss the sunken cheeks of her thinning face.  I smooth back her now white frazzled hair and Katie wipes the dried soup drizzle off her shirt.  “Hi Aunty Sue! How have you been?” mom asks.  Aunty looks up at her and her eyes widen and she shoots us a light, pleasant smile.  Mom always starts tearing up at this point, and so do my sister and I.  Only we know her well enough to recognize that look on her face; the look that she only gives to strangers.  

Walmart

I walked in to Walmart not needing anything in particular.  I figured I would walk around and grab some lunch before I headed back home.  I wandered through the many aisles aimlessly strolling past the beer cubes on sale, the baby clothes, cheap makeup and the bicycles.  It then came to mind that it was June. The start of summer was upon me and I didn't have a planner to remind me of my work shifts, family dinners, date nights and birthdays. Ah, well Walmart has everything doesn't it? Careening down the home and office aisle I spot numerous little pocket sized monthly planners. Perfect. I reached for my wallet to count my cash. A measly few crinkled dollar bills reluctantly peeled themselves out of the dark corners of my wallet. This was probably enough for a McChicken sandwich and a small root beer off the dollar menu. I stood, puzzled in the middle of the aisle, crumpled dollar bills in one hand and the cutest miniature green planner with wispy flowers printed on it in the other. Oh the debates of life. I was almost sweating from being so hungry. I needed a trip to McDonald's.Walking around these aisles must have worked up my appetite. But I really needed this planner. Plus it's green, only the greatest color in the world. I put the planner in my purse just to make sure it would fit. The little devil in my head appeared on my shoulder and made me think what if I just left it in my purse? No one would know, right? I quickly went down the next aisle, thinking somehow this was going to distract from the fact that the planner from the other aisle was in my purse. I pretended to be extremely interested in the Revlon blush and the Maybelline mascara. The eye on the label behind the unnaturally lengthy eyelashes was staring at me whispering thief in a seductive tone. I looked all around at the ceilings for security cameras that may be reporting me to the FBI like in Eagle Eye. But no one was running after me. I walked toward the exit and a Walmart employee stopped me. Receipt? she asked. Sorry I didn't get anything, I said as I felt heat rising in my face, veins pinching like I was on the verge of having a heart attack.  OK have a great day! she said and placed a yellow smiley face sticker on my shirt. I skittered to my car and stared at myself in the window reflection. Bombs of sweat were rolling down my face, the yellow face smiling at me whispered liar as I hopped in the car, slammed the door, and drove off to the nearest McDonalds drive-thru.

My First Hula Practice

My mom wanted me to try and get into some form of dance. She had always told me I was naturally graceful, so she figured hula would be good to try. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and I was about 6 years old. This is back when my mom used to make my sister and I these ridiculous matching sun dresses. My mom brought us over to the halau (hula school) and we sat in the back and watch the beginning girls class. It was the most awkward feeling of my life. It was a complete culture shock. All the girls there went to public schools, talked thick pidgin english, and were very "moke". I was just this little Japanese girl who had only went to private schools in a sun dress. I watched these girls dance and they were all so good! I thought to myself, "Is this seriously the beginning class?!?!" The most horrifying moment came at the end of the practice. The kumu (teacher) told me to put on a skirt and try and dance along in the back. I felt like a newborn kitten trying to do the steps and move my hips. It was a combination of clumsiness and embarrassment. Although this was a terrifying experience, I couldn't stay away from the dancing. The hula girls have become some of my closest and oldest friends.

This taught me that just because there are people who aren't necessarily anything like you doesn't mean you can't find ways to be friends. As long as you're willing to put yourself out there and go through experiences that take you way outside of your normal comfort zone will you ever find anything worthwhile or meaningful and life changing. Hula has changed my life and I am so glad I kept going back. It would have been so easy to tell my mom I never want to go back there again, those girls aren't anything like me and they are way too advanced for me. But because I stuck with it I found my true passion and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not sure if people can understand the slang words, but there really aren't many other ways to describe these terms.

The Red Suitcase

The earliest memory I have is when I was about 3 or 4.  My family was taking me to Disneyland for the first time ever.  It was my first time in an airport (that I could remember) and everything around me was so big! The people were big, the bathrooms, the hallways, the windows, everything! I had a floppy felt hat with bright flowers on it and my favorite velcro shoes on and I was all ready to go.  I was walking to the gate with my mom, dad, aunty, and grandma, and it was like a marathon to me.  It was the longest walk to the furthest gate and my energy quickly vanished.  I saw that my grandma had a small red rolling suitcase she was toting behind her, and I jumped on and clung tightly to it.  Everyone laughed and my grandma pulled me along all the way to the gate.

The parts that are hazy are that I don't know what the weather was like or exactly how old I was. I don't remember what else I was wearing, just the hat and the shoes specifically. I don't know what anyone else was wearing or what time it was. I don't know the number or letter of the gate we had to walk to or even if it was THAT far away. I just know it seemed far to me at the time. I don't even remember if she pulled me all the way. She might have pulled me for a little while then told me to get off and walk myself (since that seems like something she would tell me) but I really can't remember.

I would have problems calling it nonfiction because I would have to make up details that I don't remember. I could call it creative nonfiction because of the creative details added to enhance the story and fill in the blanks I don't exactly remember. But really, how much can you be expected to remember from when you're 3 or 4 years old?

I do not agree with the statement, "if you remember it, then it's true" because different people remember different things about the same event.  Memory is a very unreliable source of information because memories change over time. My memories are different from my sisters memories which are different from my mom's memories about the same events. All in all memory changes and cannot be a definite source of information.