Pidgin & Pele

An older Hawaiian man with two pugs was walking downhill on Hui Kelu; his teeshirt read "BUMBAI / Laters, Brah." He used to say it all the time, but his kids didn't get it. I said I learned pidgin by reading, used to listen to the Kahalu`u baseball dads talk da kine but noticed that their kids did not.

"Oh, Cardinals," he said, on seeing my shirt. His grandson played for the Kailua Cardinals. They went to that town in New York and came in fifth in the tournament. But yours are the REAL Cardinals, right?

He'd been to Williamsburg, Virginia as a kid, late 50s. Strange place. I told him they've discovered that there was slavery there and added some exhibits. (Come to think of it, that's been since I lived there in 1988-90).

I used to coach Pony League, I said, because I was the only one willing to do it, but then the men wouldn't let me because I'm a woman. "Too many regulations," he replied, non sequitur like. Back when there was more freedom, you could walk up to Kilauea (he saw the last real eruption there, fountains and all!) and you could peer down over the edge. You went upwind so you didn't get dizzy, and you looked down and all around Pele's hair was falling on you. You could just walk up there, didn't need to go between the yellow tape. Now it's all "wear your uniform and march."

Two Tales

1.

At the corner of Hui Iwa and Hui Kelu streets, Lilith and I run into a small one-eyed dog named Rosie and her 72-year old walker, sunglasses wrapped around his eyes. He calls the police three times a week about vehicles that run the stop sign at high speed. I chime in with the story of a guy who leapt out of his car and broke my husband's coffee mug after we yelled at him for flying through the crosswalk where kids walk to get to school. He adds that he yelled at a woman who roars down the road at 50 mph right through the stop sign and a guy got out of her car and yelled, "I'm going to stuff that little dog up your ass!" "You'd better start now," said the dog walker, "because I've done martial arts for decades. I don't start fights, but I don't back away, either."  "They're not interested in us," he says, "they're only interested in themselves."

Then the conversation turns. He says, "like the Democrats, so entitled" . . . "But . . . " I respond." And those damn Millennials or whatever you call them," he continues, "they have no sense of responsibility, but they're always working too hard for two little; I got 28 of them working for me." I tell him I teach at UH and really like this generation of kids. "You fit right in at UH! You're just one of those people who won't listen to anyone else. Here I am in the center, sitting on the fence while both sides sharpen it. You know what happens then? CIVIL WAR is what happens." No, the problem isn't Trump, he tells me, the problem is his MOUTH; he talks like a pre-teen--the candidate who ran against him was the corrupt one. Totally.

2.

The man with the southern accent walks his dog every day; both man and dog swing their legs freely, and sometimes the man sings. He listens to Biblical lessons on his walks, needs to unplug his earbuds to greet Lilith and give her one of the healthy treats from North Carolina (where he visited his dad) that his own dog won't touch. "Lily!" he calls out.

One day I ask if he lives in court 17. I'd called the police on two men screaming at each other, one the father of the other, someone told me. "It could have been me!" he said. I replied that no, it could not have been him, because the one man was hitting his dog, and I know he loves his. "Oh, no, I don't hit my dog. But my son. Twenty-four, living with me again. He got a full ride to Dartmouth and came back to UH, changed friends, and then I found he was into drugs. I've been going to Hina Mauka for years to learn about this. Have to work on my anger. Just has no will. My daughter is all will, but he doesn't have it."

"You just never know what's going on," he adds, as he turns to walk his dog up the hill.