"I hear she has the recording company in her name," Mrs. Rodriques probed.
"She does," Malama admitted. "But I suggested it. I didn't want Kelly free to shuffle out of his arrangements."
"Then if he wants to get his fair share of the company, he'll have to marry her, won't he?"
"Nothing could please me more," Makma said frankly. Then,
looking sadly out over the swamp where the alii of a past age had boated, she said softly, "By ourselves, we Hawaiians cannot maintain our position in the new world that surrounds us. I was staggering under frightful burdens till Hong Kong came along. He has such a peasant, earthy power that the boards of the porch seem a little firmer when he passes."
Mrs. Mendonca said, "I never thought to witness the day when you would approve the marriage of your son to a Chinese."
Malama continued looking out the window and said gravely, "You forget, Liliha, that she is not just a Chinese girl. She is the great-granddaughter of the Pake Kokua. When nobody else on this earth dared to help the Hawaiian lepers, that woman did. Any member of her family merits our special affection." Then she looked back into the room and asked, "Where would Kelly be today if it were not for the Pake girl? Do you think I was happy, the way he used to live? One divorced woman after another? I wish the world could somehow maintain just a little corner where Hawaiians could live as they liked and prosper, but since that is not the way of the world, the next best thing is to have a Chinese helping us. They can't hurt us any worse than the haoles did."
"Do you think they'll get married?" Mrs. Mendonca asked.
Malama evaded this question by volunteering a short speech: "I remember, Carry-the-Mail, when you married Leon Choy, and all the alii wept because a fine Hawaiian girl was marrying a Chinese, and I wept too, but as I recall, my father assured your father that it was all right, and that sometimes the Chinese were good people. How different things are now, because it is no longer a question, of what we five elderly Hawaiian ladies think of such a marriage. The problem is: 'Will a leading Chinese family like Hong Kong Kee's allow their daughter to marry a Hawaiian?' We have fallen so swiftly on the slide of history." She strummed idly on her ukulele while her guests picked up an old song that had come down from better days.
The other older person who watched Kelly's new position with meticulous care was Hong Kong Kee, and one night he waited up till three in the morning to greet his beautiful, competent daughter. "Were you out there kissing him in the car?" he stormed.
"Yes."
"This is what the haoles call necking?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't let me catch you again."
"Then don't peek!" And she flounced up the stairs, but he trailed after her, protesting that the entire Chinese community was worried about her. Singing in a hotel was bad enough, but now it began to look as if ...
"As if what?" she asked sternly, whirling about to face her anguished father.
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"It begins to look as if you were thinking of marrying him," Hong Kong stammered.
"I am," Judy said.
"Oh, Judy!" her father gasped, and to her surprise the tough old warrior burst into tears. "You mustn't do this!" he pleaded. "You're a fine Chinese girl. You've got to think of your position in the community."
"Father!" Judy cried, pulling his hands down from his red eyes. "Kelly's a good boy. I love him and I think I'm going to marry him."
"Judy!" her. father wept. "Don't do it." The noise awakened the rest of the family, and soon the hallway was filled with Kees, and when they heard Hong Kong's ominous warning that "Judy insists she's going to marry the Hawaiian," her brothers began to weep, too, and one said, "Judy, you can't bring this disgrace upon us."
For some time Judy had been aware of her family's apprehension about her growing friendship with Kelly, but she had considered it merely a normal expression of family concern. Now, as the weeping male members of her family stood about her, she realized that it was something much deeper. "You're a Chinese girl!" Brother Eddie stammered. "Don't you think that when I was at Harvard Law I met a lot of attractive haole girls? Even some I wanted to marry? But I didn't do it because I thought of the family here in Hawaii. And you can't do it, either."
"But Kelly's a settled-down citizen," Judy stubbornly repeated. "He makes more money than any of you, and if Dad can get the trust straightened out . . ."
"He's a Hawaiian," Mike said.
"You think I want my lovely daughter to marry a man with a vocabulary of seven hundred words, most of them seestah and Walah?" Hong Kong demanded.
"Kelly is an educated young man," Judy insisted.
"Very well," Hong Kong snapped. "If you marry him . . ."
"Don't say it, Father," Judy begged.
"If you insist upon bringing disgrace upon, the whole Chinese community," Hong Kong said ominously, 'we want nothing more to do with you. You're a lost girl."
The Kees went officially to bed, but through the night one after another crept to Judy's room to explain how deeply they opposed such a marriage. "It isn't that Kelly has a vocabulary of seven hundred words," one sister whispered. "It's that you're a fine Chinese girl, and he's a Hawaiian."
"Many Chinese married Hawaiians," Judy argued. "Look at Leon Choy."
"And whenever one did," the sister explained, "we all felt sorrowful. You're a Chinese, Judy. You can't do this."
"Would you feel the same way if Kelly were a haole?" Judy asked.
"Identically," the sister assured her. "You're a Chinese. Many a Chinese."
HAWAII
But Judy Kee was a very tough-minded girl, and in spite of constantly renewed pressures from her entire family she came home one night at four and announced loudly: "Now hear thisl Now hear thisl Everybody wake up. The most precious flower of the Celestial Kingdom is going to marry Kelly Kanakoa. And what are you going to do about it?" She stomped off to bed and waited as one by one the family came to see if she were sober and in her right mind.
At first Hong Kong flatly refused to attend the wedding, as did many of the leading Chinese and some of the remaining Hawaiian alii, but Judy said bravely, "Tonight at the Lagoon, Kelly, we'll announce our engagement, and then we'll sing 'The Wedding Song' in our own honor." And they did, and among the tourists it was a very popular wedding, but among the affected citizens of Hawaii it was a catastrophe. At the last moment Hong Kong thought of his obligations to Malama Kanakoa, and out of respect for her, he attended the ceremony, but he would not walk down the aisle with his daughter.
But at The Fort, Hong Kong found that the disgrace he was suffering through his daughter's headstrong marriage brought him closer to his colleagues. Hewlett Janders, whose son Whip was still living with the air force man in San Francisco, said simply, "You can never tell about kids, Hong Kong." And Hoxworth Hale, whose daughter Noelani was still brooding about the house and trying to sneak in a divorce without publicity, clapped his Chinese friend on the shoulder and confided: "We all go through it, but by God I wish we didn't have to."
"You think I did right?" Hong Kong asked in a sudden longing to talk.
"I'd attend my daughter's wedding, no matter whom she married," Hoxworth said flatly.
"I'm glad I did," Hong Kong confessed. "But I can't bring myself to visit them."
"Wait till the first baby's bom," Hoxworth wisely counseled. "It'll give you an excuse to retreat gracefully." And Hong Kong agreed, but he felt that he might not want to look at a grandchild that was only half Chinese.
To THE SAKAGAWA FAMILY 1954 was a year that brought lislocation and frustrationi. It started in January when iron-willed Kamejiro, whose threats about leaving America no one had taken seriously, announced unexpectedly that he was sailing on Friday to spend the rest of his life in Hiroshima-ken. Consequently, on Friday he and his bent wife boarded a Japanese freighter and without even a round of farewell dinners departed for Japan. He told the boys, "The store will pay enough to feed me in Hiroshima. I worked hard in America, and Japan can be proud of the manner in which I conducted myself. I hope that when you're old you'll be able to say the same." Never a particularly sentimental man, he did not
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linger on deck gawking at the mountains he had pierced nor at the fields he had helped create. He led his wife below decks, where they had a sturdy meal of cold rice and fish, which they enjoyed.
It was usually overlooked in both Hawaii and the mainknd that of the many Orientals brought to America, a substantial number preferred returning to their homelands, and in the years after World War II there was a heavy flow from America to Japan, of which the Sakagawas formed only an inconspicuous part. With their dollar savings such emigrants were able to buy, in the forgotten rural areas of Japan, fairly substantial positions in a poverty-stricken economy, and this Kamejiro intended doing. He would buy his Japanese relatives a little more land beside the Inland Sea and there it would wait, the family homestead in Hiroshima-ken, in case his boys Goro and Shigeo ever decided to return to their homeland.
The old folks' departure grieved Shigeo, because the more solidly American he became, with a seat in the senate and a canny man like Black Jim McLafferty as his partner, the more he appreciated the virtues old Kamejiro had inculcated in his sons; but Goro felt otherwise, for although he too treasured his father's moral teachings, he was gkd to see his stern, unyielding mother go back to Japan, for he felt that this would give him a chance to keep his own wife, Akemi-san, in America. Accordingly, he and Shigeo gave Akemi a comfortable allowance, command of the Sakagawa house, and freedom from the old woman's tyranny. The brothers never laughed at Akemi's precise speech, and they showed her that they wanted her to stay.
But it was too late. One morning, as they were breakfasting, she said, "I am going back to Japan."
"Why?" Goro gasped.
"Where will you get the money?" Shigeo said.
"I've saved it. For a year I've bought nothing for myself and eaten mainly rice. I haven't cheated you," she insisted.
"No one's speaking of cheating, Akemi dear," Goro assured her. "But why are you leaving?"
"Because Hawaii is too dreadfully dull to live in," she replied.
"Akemi!" Goro pleaded.
She pushed back from the table and looked at the hard-working brothers. "In Hawaii I'm intellectually dead . . . decomposing."
"How can you say that?" Shig interrupted.
"Because it's true . . . and pitifully obvious to anyone from Japan."
"But don't you sense the excitement here?" Shig pleaded. "We Japanese are just breaking through to power."
"Do you know what real excitement is?" she asked sorrowfully. "The excitement of ideas? Quests? I'm afraid Hawaii will never begin to understand true intellectual excitement, and I refuse to waste my life here."
"But don't you find our arrival as a group of people exciting?" Shig pressed.
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"Yes," she granted, "if you were going to arrive some place important it would be exciting. But do you know what your goal is? A big shiny black automobile. You'll never arrive at music or plays or reading books. You have a cheap scale of values, and I refuse to abide them any longer."
"Akemil" Goro pleaded in real anguish. "Don't leave. Please."
"What will you do?" Shig asked.
"I'll get a job in a Nishi-Ginza bar where people talk about ideas," she said flatly, and that day she started to pack.
When it became obvious that she was determined to leave Hawaii, Goro disappeared from his labor office for several days, and Shigeo found him sitting dully at home, waiting for Akemi-san to return from the market, where she was informing her envious war-bride friends that she was sailing back to Japan. Goro's eyes were red, and his hands trembled. "Do you think that all we've been working at is useless, Shig?" he pleaded.
"Don't believe what this girl says," Shig replied, sitting with his brother.
"But I love her. I can't let her go!"
"Goro," Shigeo said quietly, "I love Akemi-san almost as much as you do, and if she walks out, I'm broken up, too. But I'm sure of one thing. You and I are working on something so big that she can't even dimly understand it. Give us another twenty years and we'll build here in Hawaii a wonderland."
Goro knew what his brother was speaking of, but he asked, "In the meantime, do you think we're as dull as she says?"
Shig thought several minutes, recalling Boston, on a Friday night, and Harvard Law with its vital discussions, and Sundays at the great museums. "Hawaii's pretty bad," he confessed.
"Then you think Akemwihan's justified?" GOTO asked with a dull ache in his voice.
"She's not big enough to overlook the fact that we're essentially peasants," Shig replied.
"What do you mean?" Goro argued contentiously. "We got good educations."
"But fundamentally we're peasants," Shig reasoned. "Everybody who came to these islands came as illiterate peasants. The Chinese, the Portuguese, the Koreans, and now the Filipinos. We were all honest and hard-working, but, by God, we were a bunch of Hiroshima yokels."
Goro, lacerated by his wife's threatened desertion, would not accept this further castigation and cried, "Yokels or not, our people now get a decent wage in the sugar fields and our lawyers get elected to the legislature. I call that something."
"It's everything," Shig agreed, pressing his arm about his brother's shoulder. "The other things that Akemi-chan misses . , . they'll come later. It's our children who'll read books and listen to music. They won't be peasants."
Goro now changed from misery to belligerency and cried, "Hell,
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fifty years from now they'll put up statues to guys like you and me!" And he thought of many things he was going to tell his wife when she returned, but when he saw her come into the room, after carefully removing her gata at the door and walking pin-toed like a delicate Japanese gentlewoman, his courage collapsed and he pleaded, "Akemi-chan, please, please don't go."