Damn, I’m hungry…
Today marks the 11th year anniversary of my Unko Junior’s passing. Unko cared for us with a depth that I struggle to fully comprehend, but when I was a young child, we fought often– what seemed like daily to my little brain. We had arguments about leaving my shoes on, bad attitudes, cowboy movies being too loud, and many other things but they always ended with the same result: a hard palm followed by a silent tantrum in the corner of Aunty Tasi’s or Grandma’s room. I remember a growing resentment towards him that peaked when I saw him chastising my mother for our impending move to Portland (Tigard, actually), over 100 miles away from the family. As my mother’s tears rolled down her cheeks, I could feel heat building within me that was parallel to Unko’s rising voice. My heart shouted for me to defend her, but the rest of me knew that being quiet was smarter. It wasn’t until years later that I would understand his words and longer still to understand his anger.
As an unpopular child, the move to a new place was exciting. I daydreamed about all of the new possibilities I could have with a “fresh start” (which I desperately felt I needed at eight, almost nine, years old). I hadn’t even considered what I was losing. The four of us (my mom and two siblings) were isolated in 2-bedrooms at the edge of a suburb of the Whitest Major City. There wasn’t anyone playing cards at the table, no napkins covering cold chicken and tea for someone to come back to. No one there to say, “come here, go eat”. There was just us and this fresh start.
The highlight of our little lives was visiting Tacoma. Aunty Pio and Aunty Tasi would come down almost twice a month to rescue us from our suburban island. Whenever we came back home, we felt the extent of what we’d been missing. I knew that I would miss holding Grandma’s hand and walking around the park, but I didn’t know how much I would miss Unko Junior. Right when he spotted me I’d hear “Aye! Make sure you go eat.”. The hardness we shared in heart and head moved to our bellies before softening into conversation. Unko’s life was an endless collection of stories, jokes, adventures. There’s a Samoan saying that (roughly) translates to, “you have two mouths: one for speaking and one for eating”. I don’t think that my family ever prescribed to this proverb, least of all Unko and myself. We built a foundation of care between bites. But no matter how much we ate and talked, I always left Unko feeling a little emptier, remembering that conversation before we moved– he didn’t want us to miss these moments.
The last time I spoke with Unko, we sat in his kitchen to share some rice and dollar store jerky. We had grown sentimental and jovial through my teens, but I could see a shimmer in his eye that told me today was not for joking– just listening. Unko told me of his responsibility and service to the family throughout his life. He told me that I was next to inherit this responsibility and that he could see within me so much potential. Unko said, “you smart. You can do so much, grow up, get a good job. Maybe one day you can be a prison guard– those guys make a lotta money.” I’ve never again felt that level of simultaneous closeness and distance with someone. All of the hardships he had endured brought him to the point where the greatest dream he held for the next generation was being a prison guard. I still feel the weight of this inheritance.
Unko passed away a few months later. Two years later, Grandma Aipopo passed away and two years after that, Aunty Kuka passed away. Shortly after their passings, I began to develop a passion for cooking. Maybe it was a means of pulling myself closer to their memory or maybe I just got a big back. Regardless of my ambiguous culinary origins, I really do love to craft meals, especially for those that I love. This past weekend, my wife and mother and aunties and sister and cousins and Goddaughters came together to share space. I spent most of the weekend cooking, with my only hope being that everyone could ignore responsibility for a moment so that they could instead enjoy eating good and talking story. I’m usually critical of my dishes but this Chicken & Sausage Gumbo was perfect. Well, almost perfect. It was missing three things: Unko, Aunty, & Grandma.
I’ll always wish that I could cook something for them. Something long and difficult that cost me hundreds of dollars and dozens of hours. I dream of rushing from sink, to fridge, to counter, to stove, to counter, to stove, to outside, to sink, to counter, to oven with finger cuts, aching knees, beading sweet, bulging eyes, and a dirty apron just so that they could taste a fraction of how much I love them.
I wrote this piece as a tribute mostly to Grandma. Her passing has left familial fissures in wake and I see all of us (and the space between us) fracturing in ways not dissimilar to the film Soul Food. We had a language barrier, but through food I always knew her love. This is the best way that I can say, “I love you too", now.
Sunday To’ona’i
Grandma, come back
I forgot how to peel the green banana
To hold my flesh in my hands
Waiting for it to be placed into my empty mouth
Fa'alifu Fa’i
I always hated how they spoke English to you like a child but
As a child
I always hated more that I could not Speak
My empty mouth
Longing for a tongue
That was a hardened shell and not
tender flesh
Our name
Aipopo—
Coconut-eaters
Children starving through
a mute palette with
Jealous hunger pangs as I
Fawned over the feast you shared with grandpa and uncles and aunties and mom
A conversation I couldn’t taste
I still search for crumbs beneath the dinner table
Stewing scraps of poker cards, palm fronds, and curse words to make a meal out of myself
I never said the words aloud when you could hear me
But I remembered to boil them until the flesh was tender but tough,
Never letting it soften enough that it would fall apart before it reaches my spoon—
It must withstand the pressure
Grandma, come back
So that this time you can rest
While I make the
Fa’alifu Fa’i
And we can laugh
And smile
And when you say love you,
I’ll say alofa tele atu
