Interview with my mother 2
My mother used to clean houses for haoles [white people]. There was an English minister, a bachelor, and she used to clean his house and do laundry for him. Once she put starch in his underwear and asked him, "Agates skin hemmuka?" ["Did it scrape the skin off your balls?"] She was quite old then. He went back to England to get married, and when they came back, he brought his wife to my mother's house to introduce her.
My time was innocent; my contemporaries were like me, at least the girls were. I don't know if it was different for my brothers. We used to make our own dolls, Japanese style, with kimonos. We had boxes with pieces of fabric on them and we'd play house. We'd carry our boxes between each other's houses.
We used to bathe together in the ofuro. Everyone in the village went to the same bathhouse. The baths weren't segregated. The water was heated by steam from the sugar mill. You'd wash before you got in, then you'd soak. Eventually we had our own bathhouse. My father brought home wood from the mill to heat it.
It must have been a hard life for the laborers, but the kids were happy. The plantation gave us kerosene for free. It was like a southern plantation for the slaves -- the plantation furnished us with necessities. Everyone had a kerosene stove in those days. Everyone would bring their big 10 gallon cans on kerosene day. We lived in the plantation houses for free. Every time a new baby was born, they added a room.
There was a warmth about our family, probably because we were so crowded. We slept on the floor on futons, which our mother made. In our teens, we had beds. There were lots of children in our family, so we were always in each other's hair. My oldest brother had his own room, and my two sisters who still lived at home shared a room. My brother Tom was the baby of the family, so he slept with our mother, and after he was born, I slept with our father.
Celebrations were communal affairs. When someone got married, the plantation put up a pavilion. It was only a temporary building, so the walls were made from palm fronds. There was a platform. The mothers would all help cook. They'd each take a knife and an apron and gather at the family's house to cook. They'd bring platters from home with their names on the bottom. One man who was a bachelor would assign tasks to the women. There were no tables and chairs. We sat on zabuton [cushions] at low tables. The women served the food; teenage girls would be asked to pour the sake. At parties, my father drank and danced. He was very graceful; he'd learned dancing as a child.
New Year's Eve was a real big deal; Christmas wasn't celebrated. Our mothers stayed up practically all night to fix the next day's food, which was prepared once a year. There were lots of firecrackers. My mother would get me a small packet, and my brothers got bigger ones. The next day, there'd be red and green all over the ground from all the firecrackers. The first thing you did when you got up the next day was take a bath for the new year. My mother had to heat the water. Then we'd meet at the school and go to the Buddhist temple, all dressed up. The young men's association donated oranges and candy. The priest would conduct the ceremony. In the afternoon, the ladies would take the school bus and go to the movies while the men partied in the community hall. When everybody had cars, we'd take a couple of them instead of the bus.
Sometimes Mrs. Otoke, the woman who owned the school bus, would call around and invite everyone to a picnic on the beach. We'd cook chicken hekka (which is what they now call sukiyaki) over charcoal. Mothers made onigiri [rice balls]. When the sun started going down, we'd all go home. All the major pleasures were communal. We didn't have fancy entertainment, but I looked forward to those picnic lunches.
At family affairs, your uncle Charles Koga was the head chef. He loved to cook. he and your uncle Noboru Igawa became good friends. They'd talk about retiring together. Their wives would sit and read magazines and Charles would cook for all of them. But he died on the way to his retirement party when he was 65.
Immigrants used to help each other. Our neighbor in Kohala was Chinese. When she had babies, my mother would go bathe them. They were surprised that she didn't put her feet in the tub; she bathed them from outside. Once in Honolulu, the Chinese woman who had been our neighor in Kohala invited us to dinner. She made shark fin soup and a lot of really fancy food. Then she lined up the kids. She wanted my mother to see all the babies that she had bathed.
Ethnic groups didn't usually intermingle. On New Year's, the Portuguese and the Puerto Ricans would play music, going from house to house. They wouldn't come inside; they'd play out in the yard and we'd sit out on the porch listening to them. Then my mother would bring them sushi. During wartime, rice was rationed because it had to be transported to Hawaii. The Portuguese staple was bread, and they would give bread to the Japanese. It was real good bread, baked outdoors in brick ovens. But different ethnic groups didn't socialize except on special occasions.
Mrs. Otoke's school bus used to pick up the Portuguese kids. You had to pay monthly. The Filipinos didn't ride the bus; they'd walk. It was three miles to the elementary school. I couldn't wait to get to 3rd grade, when our parents allowed us to walk. You felt so grown up!
I was sad when I went back to visit. My house was gone. As soon as people moved out, they bulldozed the houses. By that time, people were renting them.
We didn't think we were poor. Everybody was the same. One girl told me her father and my father made the most money. Things like that were never talked about in our house. Everyone had a garden and a chicken run. My mother used to kill them, and my father cooked them at the table over charcoal. You kept adding to the pot. We'd eat the chicken and rice, then at the very end, my mother put noodles in the sauce and they'd call us back. My brother Tom brought a friend from Honolulu who loved it. Tom said he couldn't stop raving about our father's chicken hekka.
Outhouses had one big hole and one small hole for the kids. It was stinky if it was someone else's! Then they graduated to outhouses over a ditch and they'd flush them out from time to time. In my time, it was just a deep hole. When I was a teenager, new houses had flush toilets, but my parents had outhouses the whole time they lived on Kauai.
When I came to the mainland, my mother was afraid because I was going so far away. I told her, "You came farther. This is my own country. I speak the language. You were braver."
My time was innocent; my contemporaries were like me, at least the girls were. I don't know if it was different for my brothers. We used to make our own dolls, Japanese style, with kimonos. We had boxes with pieces of fabric on them and we'd play house. We'd carry our boxes between each other's houses.
We used to bathe together in the ofuro. Everyone in the village went to the same bathhouse. The baths weren't segregated. The water was heated by steam from the sugar mill. You'd wash before you got in, then you'd soak. Eventually we had our own bathhouse. My father brought home wood from the mill to heat it.
It must have been a hard life for the laborers, but the kids were happy. The plantation gave us kerosene for free. It was like a southern plantation for the slaves -- the plantation furnished us with necessities. Everyone had a kerosene stove in those days. Everyone would bring their big 10 gallon cans on kerosene day. We lived in the plantation houses for free. Every time a new baby was born, they added a room.
There was a warmth about our family, probably because we were so crowded. We slept on the floor on futons, which our mother made. In our teens, we had beds. There were lots of children in our family, so we were always in each other's hair. My oldest brother had his own room, and my two sisters who still lived at home shared a room. My brother Tom was the baby of the family, so he slept with our mother, and after he was born, I slept with our father.
Celebrations were communal affairs. When someone got married, the plantation put up a pavilion. It was only a temporary building, so the walls were made from palm fronds. There was a platform. The mothers would all help cook. They'd each take a knife and an apron and gather at the family's house to cook. They'd bring platters from home with their names on the bottom. One man who was a bachelor would assign tasks to the women. There were no tables and chairs. We sat on zabuton [cushions] at low tables. The women served the food; teenage girls would be asked to pour the sake. At parties, my father drank and danced. He was very graceful; he'd learned dancing as a child.
New Year's Eve was a real big deal; Christmas wasn't celebrated. Our mothers stayed up practically all night to fix the next day's food, which was prepared once a year. There were lots of firecrackers. My mother would get me a small packet, and my brothers got bigger ones. The next day, there'd be red and green all over the ground from all the firecrackers. The first thing you did when you got up the next day was take a bath for the new year. My mother had to heat the water. Then we'd meet at the school and go to the Buddhist temple, all dressed up. The young men's association donated oranges and candy. The priest would conduct the ceremony. In the afternoon, the ladies would take the school bus and go to the movies while the men partied in the community hall. When everybody had cars, we'd take a couple of them instead of the bus.
Sometimes Mrs. Otoke, the woman who owned the school bus, would call around and invite everyone to a picnic on the beach. We'd cook chicken hekka (which is what they now call sukiyaki) over charcoal. Mothers made onigiri [rice balls]. When the sun started going down, we'd all go home. All the major pleasures were communal. We didn't have fancy entertainment, but I looked forward to those picnic lunches.
At family affairs, your uncle Charles Koga was the head chef. He loved to cook. he and your uncle Noboru Igawa became good friends. They'd talk about retiring together. Their wives would sit and read magazines and Charles would cook for all of them. But he died on the way to his retirement party when he was 65.
Immigrants used to help each other. Our neighbor in Kohala was Chinese. When she had babies, my mother would go bathe them. They were surprised that she didn't put her feet in the tub; she bathed them from outside. Once in Honolulu, the Chinese woman who had been our neighor in Kohala invited us to dinner. She made shark fin soup and a lot of really fancy food. Then she lined up the kids. She wanted my mother to see all the babies that she had bathed.
Ethnic groups didn't usually intermingle. On New Year's, the Portuguese and the Puerto Ricans would play music, going from house to house. They wouldn't come inside; they'd play out in the yard and we'd sit out on the porch listening to them. Then my mother would bring them sushi. During wartime, rice was rationed because it had to be transported to Hawaii. The Portuguese staple was bread, and they would give bread to the Japanese. It was real good bread, baked outdoors in brick ovens. But different ethnic groups didn't socialize except on special occasions.
Mrs. Otoke's school bus used to pick up the Portuguese kids. You had to pay monthly. The Filipinos didn't ride the bus; they'd walk. It was three miles to the elementary school. I couldn't wait to get to 3rd grade, when our parents allowed us to walk. You felt so grown up!
I was sad when I went back to visit. My house was gone. As soon as people moved out, they bulldozed the houses. By that time, people were renting them.
We didn't think we were poor. Everybody was the same. One girl told me her father and my father made the most money. Things like that were never talked about in our house. Everyone had a garden and a chicken run. My mother used to kill them, and my father cooked them at the table over charcoal. You kept adding to the pot. We'd eat the chicken and rice, then at the very end, my mother put noodles in the sauce and they'd call us back. My brother Tom brought a friend from Honolulu who loved it. Tom said he couldn't stop raving about our father's chicken hekka.
Outhouses had one big hole and one small hole for the kids. It was stinky if it was someone else's! Then they graduated to outhouses over a ditch and they'd flush them out from time to time. In my time, it was just a deep hole. When I was a teenager, new houses had flush toilets, but my parents had outhouses the whole time they lived on Kauai.
When I came to the mainland, my mother was afraid because I was going so far away. I told her, "You came farther. This is my own country. I speak the language. You were braver."
posted by stashdauber at 8:38 PM
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