DEAR HAWAII: IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU.
Six months ago, I planned on listening to "Honolulu City Lights" on repeat while crying into my complimentary issue of Hana Hou. I imagined the Beamer Brothers' warm-milk voices swirling in my ears while I watched the picturesque Waikiki night skyline slowly disappear into darkness.
My exit from Hawai'i would be like the climatic montage in an indie movie in which images of the main character's epiphany are played over an obscure instrumental version of "Far Too Wide for Me" with that strings section that perfectly captures Peter Moon's yearning for home. My life would be neatly summarized in the span of three and a half minutes, easy to digest for the coming plane ride to Los Angeles.
While in the security checkpoint line, I imagined, I'd receive an emotional sendoff from everyone I knew in Hawai'i: family, friends, ex-girlfriends, old teachers, and maybe even the bank teller who knew me by name. There would be leis and tearful hugs. The TSA employee standing guard nearby would be so touched that he'd throw his hands up and shout, "Screw protocol," signaling everyone through security so they could wave goodbye at the gate. While boarding the plane, there would be one of those slideshows I frequently see at family weddings, except my memories would play on the offwhite walls of the jetway and only for me. Images of riding bikes in the neighborhood with my sister, last-minute Christmas shopping at Ala Moana, making strawberry slushies for my Grandma and aunties at their delicatessen on those miserable summer days, the driveway of my ex's house where I told her "I love you" for the first time by tracing it in the palm of her hand.
The reality, however, was much more pedestrian. Since my flight was scheduled for mid-afternoon, the airport was crowded, sweaty. The security checkpoint line overflowed with irate passengers with rolling suitcases in tow, spilling over into the area where I was saying goodbye to my sister and best friend. People crowded around us, listening in on our inside jokes, staring at us without looking away until reaching the TSA agent checking boarding passes and IDs. We had to talk over the sound of plastic bins dropping on the floor, quietly crying in the terminal together. I sobbed as if I were the one being left, as if I had forgotten that it had been my decision to move. And in the end, my cat, Chompers, and I went through security alone.
It was hard to believe that, only the week before, I had driven to see my childhood house, the one my father designed for his growing family, for one last time before I moved. The drive into the Pacific Palisades valley curved wide like it did when I was a kid riding in the backseat of my parents' old minivan. Even though I got my driver's license long after my parents were divorced and the house was sold, I was able to find my way without a map. Three houses down from the weeded-over lot, past the old baseball field, on the right, there it stood. It was still what I called "sky blue" as a child, with a dirty white trim and a sandpaper brown roof. The gardenia bushes in front had been replaced with tall, unruly plants, and the red stains on the driveway from New Year's firecrackers had been scrubbed away. In the months before my pa rents' separation, to avoid hearing them arguing, I spent my weekends exploring the neighborhood. With my walkman tucked in the front pocket of my backpack, I wore out my mix tapes from constant use, and soon many of my favorite songs started to sound like drunken versions of the originals. I pretended to be the star of my own movie, exploring the world (which really meant the half-mile stretch of Akepa Street) with a musical soundtrack that offered distraction and comfort from my chaotic home life.
I rarely found reason to drive to Pacific Palisades, but I liked the idea that the house still existed there, as a physical reminder of my childhood. I remember once taking this drive to the old house with my girlfriend years ago and how I stared at the kitchen window, almost hoping to see my mother spreading the thin metal blinds with her fingers to get a better look outside. My girlfriend had cautioned against parking in front of the house for too long, apparently afraid that two Asian girls in a rusted Honda Civic would be mistaken for burglars. We blocked the entire driveway, humming quietly in neutral, and I searched for the familiar bend in the kitchen window blinds. I told her a bout how my father used to cut gardenias for me every morning to bring for my teachers, wrapped in paper towel and sometimes still covered in black ants. His Thunderbird always smelled like flowers, even on the weekends. We sat for a long time in silence, and I leaned over the steering wheel like a child searching for their mother in a crowded department store. My eyes strained, fixated on the kitchen window, but the blinds remained sloped downwards.
The flight to Los Angeles was far from movie-like. It felt more like holding my breath through the Wilson Tunnel-but doing so for five and a half hours, desperate to taste the air again. Champers was agitated for most of the flight, using all her strength to pull apart the locked zippers that secured the front of her carrier. At one point, she even escaped (using super-cat abilities like those of panicked children flailing in a pool, fighting their way to the shallow end where they can reach bottom again), only to freeze in the row in front of me. A startled passenger nearby pointed at the otherwise empty row, and I jumped up to see Champers sitting there, her eyes wide with fear. I scooped her up and pushed her back into her carrier, leaning over in my seat for the next four hours, holding together the zippers and coughing over the sound of her cries. In her tiny growls, I heard, "I hate you." She didn't care that my new apartment was much closer to the office than my place in Hawai'i had been, which would mean that I would be home earlier to spend time with her as well as to write in the evenings. She didn't care that my moving expenses were covered by my company or that my new place was pet friendly and could house more cat toys than she could ever imagine. She didn't care that, for me, Hawai'i was an equally suffocating cage, where I spent most of my time slouching to avoid hitting the ceiling. While she had been feeling claustrophobic for the last few hours, I had been clawing at the walls for years. She cried all the way across the ocean, like a child who hopes she'll get her way if she's loud enough, and kept crying until the plane finally taxied in to LAX.
For my first week in Los Angeles, I slept on my living room floor in a sleeping bag. My car wasn't scheduled to arrive for at least ten to fourteen business days according to Matson, so with the remainder of my paycheck I opted for cheap food and a rental car instead of a proper bed. I felt like a squatter in my empty apartment, using my luggage as a makeshift desk and dresser. One night I was awakened by the sound of my high-heeled neighbor and her date stumbling down the open hallway. She was laughing much too loud to be sober, clunking past my apartment, at one point even banging into my front door with a muffled thud. Pieces of their conversation filled my apartment, bouncing off my living room walls. I found myself pressing my face against my pillow, trying to lie as flat as possible, as if their words traveled toward the ceiling like smoke.
Now, months later, I still wake up feeling as if I haven't heard my voice in a longtime. My throatfeels raw, as if someone has burned a hole through my windpipe, and when I make small talk with people, I almost don't recognize myself. Although I wake using the same clock radio I've had since childhood, nothing about the apartment feels familiar. Even the water comes out of the faucets smelling like chlorine and lead.
Sometimes I forget why I moved here. The Hollywood sign loses its novelty and I hide under the covers until mid-afternoon. I am now a short flight away from my mom and stepdad in Seattle, but it sometimes feels like rain in the middle of July. The skies are dark, crowded with bloated gray clouds, and it's just pouring down. I see the heat rising from the concrete, and the rain somehow smells moldy, humid, jerking me back to reality. Missing Hawai'i and missing home are different types of heaviness, although for most of my life they were the same.
My decision to leave was ultimately tipped by the opportunity to experience my life without being weighed down by my baggage. Back home, my head was cluttering with decades worth of mental Polaroids. I felt suffocated, running out of room for new memories, as my experiences overlapped, piled, and spilled all over the floor. Memories of love and self-destruction were tangled together; a simple trip to Ala Moana Shopping Center frequently turned into an exhausting venture through my past relationships. I desperately needed to get out of Hawai'i, if just for the opportunity to breathe without thinking about anyone else. It was too exhausting organizing all the clutter inside my head.
I hadn't evaluated my relationship with Hawai'i in years, but without even realizing it, we had become strangers living in the same house. Like two exes pushing through a painfully uncomfortable meal together, I realized the only thing connecting us anymore was our baggage. The idea of getting swept up in Los Angeles rush-hour traffic felt like a welcome break from my life.
A few weekends ago, with no real destination in mind, I turned off my GPS and followed a passing tour bus through the San Fernando Valley onto winding Mulholland Drive. We passed rows of beautiful multi-level houses and waif-like joggers who looked like they were about to topple over from a small gust of wind.
The tour bus snagged the last free stall at the lookout point, so I parked in the dirt nearby behind a long line of cars. The tourists huddled around their guide, and I was relieved that I didn't recognize anyone in the group. A few looked at me briefly, a quick acknowledgment while I walked past them but with no recognition or weight behind their polite smiles. While their guide briefed everyone on the history of Los Angeles, I was reminded of Pali lookout, except L.A. stretched much wider than my peripheral vision. No matter which direction I turned, the city was always in front of me, full of possibility and longing. I found an empty spot next to an unoccupied telescope and thought about throwing pennies into the wind to see if they would whip back at me. Lush Ka neohe was replaced with long stretches of steel and concrete. The freeway traffic below was a whisper in my ears, like the quiet hum of a shy "I love you." I drove home that day feeling like I had just gotten my first kiss.
I never felt connected to Hawai'i while growing up. In high school, girls wore clay flowers in their hair and made regular plans to go longboarding in Waikiki. I scoffed at bright aloha print and lamented over how summer always lasted through October. As a teenager, I daydreamed of living in an apartment in an unspecified metropolitan city. I realize now I didn't feel displaced in Hawai'i but in my own life.
In L.A., I cherish the few reminders of Hawai'i scattered in this city. Like sunlight catching on fishing line, an invisible tug illuminates something real. One day I trailed an SUV up the 405, following the familiar white outline of turtles with plumeria patterned backs swimming across the dark tint of the vehicle's rear window. I followed the driver until he forked right at the 101 merge and disappeared into traffic. A seemingly trivial coincidence pulls us together; we are hooked.
Here, I listen to Hawai'i radio online at work. Kathy with a K's smooth voice reports the traffic, and for a second, I worry if the School Street exit is closed or if there's heavy traffic at the Hl/H2 merge. Then I remember where I am. Now I am surrounded by freeways, wide roads that reach around and through Los Angeles with their strong concrete arms. If I drive for an hour in any direction, I won't reach the ocean or loop back to where I started. For the first time, there are endless possibilities to where an hour can take me.
On some days, I still feel like I could be swept up in a strong gust of wind, disappearing into the smoggy gray clouds of the San Fernando Valley. The air pushes up against the soles of my shoes, and my stomach drops as I fear I'm about to be carried away. I almost fall, my legs scissoring to maintain balance, but then I feel the invisible, loving pulls at the front of my shirt. The dirty Los Angeles sun reveals hundreds of thin, translucent lines anchoring me like a balloon flailing in the wind from all the way across the deep, blue ocean.
Note: this piece was originally published by the Hawaii Women’s Journal.