I don’t know if the family members I only see on occasion know how much I appreciate them. My parents told me so much about the siblings and cousins they grew up with and how those people carve out their hometown. They are the ones my mom and dad clung to in the small part of O’ahu they call home.
My extended family are also the people who help keep us connected—as much as we can be on the mainland—to our culture. It’s them who send us care packages of Hawaiian snacks, and they are the ones who video call during the May Day celebrations and family luaus we miss out on. Every time my parents gush over how badly they miss their homes, an aunt or uncle or grandparent soothes them with promises of “next time.”
It’s more than I can say I’ve done as their daughter.
“Who you talking to?” My uncle’s voice drifts through the phone’s speaker, slurring with an accent native to most of my family.
“Liliana. She just when get home from class.” The same accent starts to slip into my mom’s tone. It only comes out when she’s around people she knows will understand her, and not side-eye her for the unfamiliar way she speaks.
There’s a sound of shuffling, and I picture my uncle swiping the phone from my mom’s hand. “Howzit, girl!”
“Hi, uncle. I’m good. I heard the birthday girl was screaming over a toy just now.”
He huffs into the speaker. “Nuts, that one. She always acking lidat, pretending like she tough. She get that from her madda.”
A chortle of laughter leaves my mouth, water splashing out of the pot in the sink. “Don’t say that so loud. Aunty is going to hear you and she’ll get upset.”
“I not sked of her.” My uncle talks about his wife with so much conviction, but he quickly drops his volume, whispering, “I lying. Your aunty is crazy. That’s why I when marry her.”
It’s easy to fall into this sort of joking with my family. They’ve never treated me any different, despite my parents moving to the mainland so many years ago. There are a few cousins from my generation who have grown up away from the islands, but we’re never outcast by our relatives who stayed in Makakilo.
I smile at the phone like someone on the other side can see it.
“I hope everyone is having fun. I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too girl. How come you never come home with your parents?”
My hands stall mid-rinse. Whenever my parents visit Hawai’i without me, there’s always a question ofwhy didn’t I go home with them?
It’s not the question that bothers me. It’s the fact that my home is Boston, and O’ahu is theirs.
“I told you she get school.” My mom is quick to defend me. I’ve never said how awkward the subject is, but I think her intuition can pick up on it. She seems to know everything about me, including the parts I’m too afraid to share with her.
“So what? You guys teach school online, she no can learn on the computer too?”
“She likes Boston.” I busy myself with draining the rice and try to ignore the guilt building in my chest. “If she no like come, she doesn’t have to.”
My mother shifts the conversation, asking my uncle why he’s in her business when he’s supposed to be setting up the cake, and I busy myself with the rice cooker.
The counter is already tidied up and cleared before my uncle says his goodbyes, letting my mom talk.
“I’m sorry about that, sweetie.”
She code switches. Her native Hawaiian pidgin accent disappears when it’s just me she’s talking to, with no uncles or grandparents or my dad present. I press the buttons on the rice cooker harder than I needed.
“It’s fine.”
But it’s not. I’m the one that should apologize.
“You know how your uncle is.” I hum. It’s not just him, though. Everything reminds me how deep our culture runs, and how strongly it pulses in my parents’ veins.
“If you wanted me to go with you guys, I would’ve.”
“I know. But you just got into your writing program and you don’t like coming to O’ahu.”
“Of course I do.” There’s a sour taste in my mouth. A jarring sensation from the excitement I felt when I dropped everything to tell my mom about my assignment.
The high I was on less than an hour ago is dulling. As if it wasn’t there to begin with, replaced with the sinking guilt whenever I think of my parents and grades andhome.
