Eng. 311 (Autobiographical Writing) I Am Born Essay
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Several months ago, mom had some friends over. They drank wine, ate poke and miso butterfish and eventually became well and truly hammered. Riding high on chardonnay, mom decided to describe in detail her struggle to drag dad away from his halau long enough to conceive me. In the seventies, dad was heavily into hula, and the halau was his second family. In any case, I left the room when I saw the direction the conversation was taking. Do you blame me? I believe that my parents deserve good sex as much as the next couple, but for crying out loud–I don’t need to hear the details. And believe me, when mom gets a couple glasses in her system she will tell you the nitty gritty. This enters territories that I don’t want to explore. But I can talk about the birth. Not that there was a tape of it or anything, thank god. Dad told me about that night.

Now from what he said, it was pretty straightforward. Mom went into labor, and so they called the doctor. Well doc said that it would be hours until the main event and that she didn’t have to come down to the hospital just yet. Lucky for me they didn’t listen, because as soon as they arrived mom popped me out. It would probably have made a more exciting story if they had listened and mom gave birth to me in the car or something, but tough luck. I’d much rather be born in the sterilized comfort of a maternity ward, thank you very much.

Mom said the labor was really easy. She even said that she loved being pregnant and never suffered from the aches and pains that are common in pregnant woman. I believe her, I really do. But some part of me suspects that she may be trying to soften me up for the dreaded “when am I going to get some grandchildren” conversation. At any rate, she had no trouble with me.

Since my dad danced hula, I guess that it was inevitable that it would be one of his hula sisters who suggested the name they chose for me. If you look it up in the Hawaiian dictionary, the literal translation is “greet.” So my name is the English equivalent of hello. This name was a torment to me in elementary school. Let me explain: Every week, a kapuna would come to our class and teach us Hawaiian games, crafts, and songs. The song that the kapuna would sing the most often had my name something like ten times in the chorus. At the very end of the song, the kapuna would draw out my name really long while strumming the ukulele. “Weliiiiiiiiiinaaaaaaaa.” All through recess the kids would strum imaginary ukuleles and wail my name. Thanks, kapuna.

I’ve tried to remember as far back as I could into my childhood, and I only have flashes and fragments to describe. I remember an orange shag carpet that I would walk my fingers through like tall grass. I remember the lawn chairs that we had instead of real furniture. I don’t remember my family as being poor, although that is what we were. I guess that when you are very young, it really doesn’t matter. I remember mom holding my hand as we stood in line for government cheese, and yes, I remember that cheese as being pretty damn good. I can barely remember the little ramshackle house we lived in on Hakimo road, but I will never forget the ghost I saw in that house. I blame that early experience on my current fascination with accounts of haunted houses and supernatural activity. I vaguely remember jumping off of the back porch when I was three. Dad says he remembers me beating up my older brother with my cast on the drive home from the doctor. I wish I could remember that.

Really, how far back can a person remember? But in any case, I was born. Even if I don’t remember it.