We caught each other up on our lives, and Wise Pearl proudly announced that she and her husband were leaving Waipahu Plantation. "We've purchased a carnation farm just outside Honolulu, in an area called Wilhelmina Rise."
"That's wonderful," Beauty said. "I love carnations."
"What are they good for?" Jade Moon asked skeptically.
"Oh, many things. They can be used in leis, and they are in great demand as a funeral flower."
Jade Moon nodded. "Death is always a good investment."
I told Wise Pearl that I had been under the impression that Asians were prohibited from owning property-as we were prohibited from becoming American citizens.
"Yes, but there are ways around that. The deed was entered into in the name of our eldest son who, having been born here, is a citizen. Even so, no bank would give us a loan; we had to save enough money to buy the land outright. It will be hard work, but no harder than working on the plantation, and at least now we will be laboring for ourselves."
Jade Moon's polite smile was more akin to a grimace. I could hardly blame her for being envious, spending her days as she did washing other people's laundry. I said, "Success will come to each of us, in turn, we sisters of Kyongsang." Then I added, "Though perhaps we might help one another to achieve this success."
My friends looked puzzled.
"We could form a kye," I suggested.
A kye is a kind of rotating credit cooperative, common in Korea. The members each contribute a fixed amount each month to a fund of cash that becomes available to each member in turn. In rural areas the money is often used to pay for things like road repairs, which are beyond the means of any one person, or to aid in marriage or funeral expenses. But many kye are formed purely for purposes of investment.
"Wise Pearl has noted the difficulty of obtaining bank loans without the necessary credit," I went on. "If we each contributed a certain sum at the outset, then more on a monthly basis, we could create enough capital to use in establishing a business, or expanding an existing business."
"That is an excellent idea," Wise Pearl agreed.
"How much would we have to contribute?" Jade Moon inquired warily.
"As much as we could afford, no more. Could you manage, say, ten dollars at the start, then five dollars a month thereafter?" I addressed jade Moon specifically, for she was the one I hoped would benefit first from the fund.
"That sounds reasonable," she said after a moment's thought.
Wise Pearl thought so too, but said she would have to consult with her husband-as would I, though I did not imagine he would object. Beauty, however, said that ten dollars was well within her household budget and wrote a check for her share on the spot, which impressed us all.
"So the kye will have an initial balance of forty dollars," I said. "And after six months, if we are diligent, it will hold four times that much."
Jade Moon asked, "How would we determine in what order each of us would draw from it?"
"I believe it's usually done by bidding," Wise Pearl said. "Each bid represents a sum that will be paid to the other members as interest on the loan. The highest bidder takes home the money."
What she did not say was that those who need the money most will bid the highest. The only one among us who truly needed the money at the moment was jade Moon, and thus I hoped that she would be the first beneficiary of the kye.
"Speak to Mr. Ha about it," I told jade Moon, "and if he agrees, we will meet again and open a bank account."
Jade Moon laughed and opened her purse. "Mr. Ha," she said, taking out two wrinkled five-dollar bills, "thinks it is a splendid idea."
She added her cash to the fund, then looked around the table as if daring the rest of us to do the same.
Not to be outdone, Wise Pearl opened her own purse and deposited ten dollars in bills and coins onto the table.
I smiled and "anted up" my ten dollars, then raised my cup of rice water in a toast. "To success."
"Happiness, at least," Beauty added.
"Happiness be damned," Jade Moon said. "I will settle for success."
e agreed to meet for lunch on the first day of each month to administer the kye, though at first we chose not to bid on it since the fund was still amassing enough capital to be useful. At the end of six months' time our fund held a hundred and sixty dollars-a considerable amount by the standards of the day. Jade Moon and her husband began to consider the possibility of purchasing a small rooming house, against the day the kye would have enough money in it.
But this was much more than just a business connection: the four of us were bound together not merely by finances but by affection and kinship. Our common roots were in Kyongsang-do, but we had all been transplanted to the strange soil of Hawai'i, where we were growing in ways we could never have dreamed of in Korea.
Wise Pearl's carnation farm bloomed financially, and soon she and Mr. Kam were considering expanding it. "We have an opportunity to purchase another ten acres," she told us at a meeting, "but it would mean spending the modest profit we are now making, and then some."
"Do it!" Jade Moon advised her. "You will never be sorry to own land. How much is `then some'?"
"We need another seventy-five dollars for the purchase."
"Is there enough in the kye?" Jade Moon asked me.
"Yes, more than double that," I confirmed.
"Let us bid, then."
In short order Wise Pearl had her money, and when the transaction was complete we all looked at each other with a kind of giggly wonderment. Four girls who a short time ago could not even leave home without an escort, now were starting businesses and buying property on an almost equal footing with men. It was exhilarating and, at times, a little frightening-nothing our mothers ever taught us could have prepared us for our lives here. We understood this, understood one another, as no one else could. Each meeting was an opportunity to exchange confidences as well as commerce; to seek coun sel, to offer advice, or simply to trade gossip, swap recipes, or assist one another with babysitting.
Yes, Korea seemed very far away-but news from home, disseminated at church services, brought a few encouraging signs. In the wake of the March First Movement, the Japanese authorities had adopted a new approach to governing Korea, one of "cultural accommodation." They were allowing more freedom of education and expression, and undertaking many public works projects-such as the building of roads, bridges, and damsdesigned to demonstrate that they were the friend of the Korean people and not their enemy.
A letter from my elder brother confirmed this, though he remained profoundly skeptical of the government's good intentions. He also delivered the dismaying news that Blossom-now fourteen years old, on the brink of marriageable age-had attempted to run away in an effort to find her birth family. Walking for miles on foot, she reached the next village before my father and brothers found her and brought her home. I winced to hear that Father beat her for her presumption. I remembered the frightened little girl who had climbed atop the inner wall, searching for some sign that her father was coming back for her, and I ached to think of her so unhappy. But I was helpless to do anything about it, until I could somehow convince my clan to allow her to emigrate to Hawai'i.
I now had to wonder: If Blossom was so intent on finding her own family, would she even desire to come to Hawai'i any longer? This was hardly a question I could ask my brother to put to her, however, and since Blossom could neither read nor write, she was mute to me, only a haunting silence between us. All I could do was try and put away-in addition to our monthly contributions to the kye and the Korean Independence Fund-an extra dollar or two for Blossom, and hope that when the time came, she would want to make the journey.
ortunately, the receipts of the Liliha Cafe continued to grow as word of mouth drew customers from surrounding neighborhoods like Kalihi, Chinatown, 'A'ala, and even Kaka'ako. We were also popular with local police officers walking their beat, whose meals were often given to them on the house in the interest of building goodwi
ll. Chang Apana dropped by now and then, either with police colleagues or with his family, but would never let us pay for his meals. He seemed pleased that I had done well for myself, and I wondered how much of a hand he had taken in popularizing the cafe among his fellow officers.
We were soon able to hire a kitchen boy named Liho to assist Jae-sun with such things as peeling potatoes, deboning fish, and other odious tasks, and a part-time waitress, Rose, to help ease the burden on me.
On one particularly hot evening that summer, I had just taken a short break from my hostess duties to look in on our keiki, who were asleep in the apartment upstairs. I came down to find a man with his head bowed, standing by the door, who I assumed to be a customer waiting for a table. I had crossed half the length of the restaurant before I recognized him-and I came to an abrupt stop.
It was Mr. Noh.
I was shocked not just by his presence but by his appearance. He seemed much older than the five years that had passed since I had last seen him-not counting the glimpse I thought I'd gotten of him months before. He had dark bags under his eyes, he was unshaven, and he wore a rumpled palaka shirt and a pair of faded dungarees. He looked like a ghost of himself.
Even so, I felt a rush of fear. I glanced in the direction of the kitchen, comforted by the knowledge that Jae-sun was not far away-and slowly I found the nerve to walk up to my former husband, my heart racing the whole time. I stopped about three feet away from him and managed to ask, as calmly as I could, "What is it you want here?"
But there was none of his usual bravado in his reply. "I am hungry," he said in an equally low tone, "and I have no money for food. I know I do not merit your charity, but even so ... could you grant me the favor of a meal?"
This was the last thing I had expected him to say, and I did not believe him.
"Get out of here. You're drunk."
He let out an unhappy laugh.
"No, this is a rare moment that I am not. You may smell my breath if you wish." He took a step toward me.
I shrank back. It was true, he did not reek of alcohol, but neither was his smell pleasant: I doubted that he had taken a bath in at least a week. "What has happened to you?" I asked, despite myself. "Are you not working at Waialua?"
"That was a long time ago," he said ruefully, "or so it seems."
A part of me, I admit, was not distraught to see my nemesis in this pathetic state, and relished the opportunity to scorn him and send him back, still hungry, onto the street. But then I felt ashamed for the thought, and I told myself that if I truly considered myself an individual capable of kampana, it should apply not just to those I had wronged, like Tamiko, but to those who had wronged me as well.
He saw my hesitation and said, "But I understand-I ask too much of you," and turned to go.
I found myself saying, "Wait. All you want from me is something to eat?"
He nodded.
"And then you will go and not come back?"
"If that is what you wish."
I should have been terrified to have him here, just one floor below my home, where my children lay sleeping even now. But despite all he had done in the past, I did not feel-surrounded as I was by customers, and on seeing the spent shell he had become-as though I or my family were in any imminent danger.
"All right," I told him. "One meal. Come with me."
He bowed his head in gratitude.
I picked up a menu from the pile up front and, as if I were welcoming any random customer who had entered, took him to a small table in a corner of the cafe. I tried to hand him the menu, but he shook his head and told me, "I will take whatever you choose to offer me. Beggars cannot be choosers."
All at once I recalled the first time I had heard that phrase: also from Mr. Noh's mouth, on our wedding day, referring to his unlucky choice of bride.
And later: "She is lucky that anyone chose her at all. "
My anger roiled again inside me, but I did not show it. I merely nodded and told him I would be back with something for him to eat.
I went into the kitchen, where Jae-sun was contentedly juggling at least ten different dinner orders-completely in his element, whistling as he went from basting bulgogi to stirring a pot of Portuguese bean soup to filleting a three-pound tuna. I smiled as I watched him. I was lucky, though not in the way Mr. Noh had meant that day in court.
"What have you made too much of tonight?" I asked. It was inevitable that we would prepare a certain number of dishes in advance, in anticipation of a demand that did not materialize that evening. Usually we wound up eating these ourselves as a late-night supper.
"Um, probably the bulgogi," he said.
"Then give me an order of that, with rice and kimchi."
I decided not to tell Jae-sun of my former husband's presence unless I absolutely needed to. I took the food to Mr. Noh's table and placed it in front of him. He thanked me, picked up his chopsticks, and quickly took a big bite of kimchi, then an even bigger bite of fire beef. He barely chewed before he swallowed. Truly, he ate like a starving man, and I wondered what could have brought him so low.
"Ah," he said around a mouthful of beef, "your bulgogi is as delicious as ever.
"It is not mine. It is my husband's," I said pointedly.
If he was stung by that he did not show it.
"So you are ... no longer employed at Waialua?" I asked him.
He shook his head as he ate. "I returned there after our-divorce. But then I began drinking too much-missing too much work-and they let me go. I went back to 'Ewa, but got into a fight with the head luna ... broke his jaw." Each sentence was punctuated by a swallow of food. "After that, no plantation on O'ahu would hire me, so I went again to Maui, but ... that did not end well, either.
"Finally I came to Honolulu, where I have been doing odd jobs here and there-enough to pay for a room, at least." He shrugged. "What did I tell you? I'm just poho."
"I think we make our own luck," I said impulsively.
He only nodded. "Perhaps so. You and your-husband-have certainly made your luck." His slight hesitation in saying "husband" did not escape my notice, and I admit I took some slight pleasure in it.
I excused myself to show some arriving customers to a table, and when I returned to Mr. Noh's table he had wolfed down almost all of his dinner. "You have shown me great kindness tonight," he said. "Certainly I do not warrant it. I behaved abominably to you. But when the drink is in me, it poisons everything. It's poisoned everything I might have been."
I could not let that pass without comment. "You were not drunk when you threatened me at the courthouse, or when you beat me for working in the fields."
His eyes clouded at this, but once again he merely nodded. "No, you are right, I was not," he allowed. "I was angry. Anger is its own poison, I suppose." He wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, `Mianhamnida the word that means both "Thank you" and "I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you."
I found myself unexpectedly moved by his use of this term.
"This was delicious; I shall not go to bed hungry tonight." He stood.
Softening, I asked, "Wouldn't you like some dessert?"
"No, you've been generous enough." He looked at me again, and this time he did not seem to be gazing into the past, but actually looking at me. "I did not mean what I said in court," he said. "I did it to hurt you and to keep you, if that makes any sense. You were a far better wife than I deserved."
He bowed, turned, and left with as proud a bearing as he could muster.
I never dreamed I would ever feel sorry for this man, but I did that night.
could even, in my own way, understand the disappointment he felt from life. Though I was grateful beyond words for Jae-sun, our family, and our success, I still longed for one thing which I knew could never be mine: the dream of education that brought me to America, and which I had been forced to forfeit. But almost as satisfying to me was that September day in 1923 when I brought Grace Eun-now five years old-for her first day of kindergarten at Kau
luwela Grammar School. She was terrified to enter the school, stubbornly holding on to my hand as we stood on the threshold. Plaintively she asked me why she had to go, why she couldn't stay at home with me. I stooped down beside her and said, "You know, when I was your age, I would have given anything to be able to go to school. I still would." "Why can't you?"
"Because I'm too old. But you can go in my place, and learn all the things I cannot. And then you can tell me all about what you've learned, and that would be almost as good as if I went myself. Would you do that for me?"
She glanced uncertainly up at the imposing brick building-weighing the apprehension it caused her against her desire to help me-then turned back and, trying to be brave, said, "Okay, Mama, I will."
"Good girl," I said. "Who knows? You might even enjoy it." She gave me a look that suggested there was as much chance of this as there was of icecream pies falling from the sky, and then I led her up the front steps and into the school.
The corridors were filled with children of all ages, as well as parents like me searching for their children's classrooms. At the door to Grace's room I gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed her a lunch bag: "Learn something for me today, Grace." I watched her go in and nervously take a seat. The classroom smelled of chalk and ink and books; it smelled of learning. I never wanted to leave, but I did. My longing to trade places with Grace was equaled only by my joy and pride in knowing that my daughter-that all my children-would have the education I had been denied. That would have to be enough.
hat September saw an academic achievement for someone else as well, and I was almost as proud of him as I was of Grace. Joe Kahahawai, now grown into a tall, strapping fourteen-year-old, had secured through his father's efforts an athletic scholarship to a very reputable parochial school called St. Louis College, which despite its name was really a secondary school. There he quickly excelled in sports, especially football, and my family and I were pleased to attend our first Sunday game in which Joe-now standing nearly six feet in a blue-and-red uniform emblazoned with the number 38-functioned as something called a "lineman," and a good one, too, judging by the cheers of the crowd. I gathered that the object of the game was to kick, throw, or carry the oddly shaped ball from one end of the playing field to the other, but the rules mystified me and I soon ceased to wonder why everyone would stop when whistles were blown, then wander about and reassemble like actors in a play who had forgotten their lines and decided to start all over again. I could appreciate how Joe seemed to literally explode out of his Kabuki-like stance-squatting with one hand ritualistically touching the ground-as if shot out of a cannon, but I was a bit taken aback the first time he tackled an opposing player to the ground.