The Ohana (29 page)

Honolulu: 1968-1969

Susan received a confused, tear-stained letter with a graphic recounting of the horrors Steve experienced in a place called My Lai. After that, Susan stopped hearing from him. She wrote to him once a week but never heard back.

“Wars are created by old men and fought by young men,” her Freudian Psychology professor said before he left on sabbatical to India. He had curly brown shoulder-length hair and a full beard. He lectured wearing Indian bedspread shirts, jeans, and sandals. Susan thought he looked stoned half the time. Like most of her professors, he was anti-war.

Susan was convinced the uncertainty of the war combined with the inevitability of the draft pushed many of her college students over the edge and into the blissful forgetfulness of drugs, sex, rock n' roll. Sororities and fraternities were considered superfluous fluff. It was the Age of Aquarius and the time of stoners and protestors.

When President Johnson activated the National Guard on May of 1968, Susan joined the surging anti-war movement in Hawaii. According to the newspapers, studies showed more boys from the Islands had been killed or wounded percentage to population than any other state in the Union. Now the President, with the blessing of Hawaiian Senator and World War II war hero, Dan Inouye, decided to send troops comprised mostly of island boys to Vietnam.

Susan attended a rally on campus.

“It’s happening again!” The militant factions of the anti-war movement shouted. “The brown people are being forced to fight America’s war.”

People all around Susan roared.

“Senator Inouye called us cowards!” A skinny Japanese student with granny glasses and hair down past his shoulders grabbed the microphone. Susan recognized him as the head of the radical left-wing SDS—Students for a Democratic Society. “What do you say, people?” He put his fist in the air.

Susan joined the crowd in pumping her fist up and down above her head and screaming, “Hell no, we won’t go!”

Stirred up by the atrocities of My Lai portrayed in the press and in Steve’s letter, Susan did an about-face on the issue of Vietnam.

“Hey, hey, LBJ, how many boys did you kill today?” She yelled at draft card burning rallies and held up signs that read “Make love not war.” She participated in classroom strikes protesting the ongoing war and attended Third World Liberation Front meetings where the only requirement not being white.

On June 6th, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in California. It was the second assassination in 1968. On April 11th, Martin Luther King, the black preacher who fought for equality for people of every color, was murdered. Although she didn't know any black people, she felt their pain. It wasn't too long ago her family slaved in plantations for whites who considered them inferior.

 All the good people were dying—King, the Kennedy's, and all the young men of her generation who were forced to go to war. In a way, her entire generation was dying. They were dying of disappointment. Her changing world view made her fire blaze even brighter until she sat in on a Third World meeting that doused her flame.

 “The only thing this government understands is force!” The speaker was a heavyset Chinese girl wearing the typical uniform of radicals—long hair, granny glasses, no make-up, and a shapeless Indian bedspread caftan. She held a big cloth bag with a large appliqué of the peace sign. Love beads and a puka shell necklace encircled her thick neck.

The speaker leaned forward in the small, crowded room. “Let’s burn the ROTC buildings.”

The idea was so shocking it was met with silence at first. Then a dark-skinned brother of uncertain parentage spoke up. “It’s about time someone in this movement took a stand.”

A Japanese girl Susan recognized from her ethnic studies class jumped up. “That’s illegal.”

Some of the crowd hooted.

The leader of the Third World Liberation Front, a slim, good-looking Filipino boy wearing a headband stood up and shouted, “America is fighting an illegal war!” He raised his fist in the air.

About a dozen people jumped up, punching the air with their fists, yelling their agreement.

The Chinese girl held up her hand. The room quieted. “We need to send them a strong message.” She looked around the room. “America is killing the brown people. Most of the activated National Guardsmen on their way to ‘Nam came from Hawaii.”

“That’s right,” a girl wearing embroidered jeans and a muslin shirt stood. “I met a guy from Arizona who told me only three people from his state were activated.”

“And how many came from Hawaii?” the Chinese girl asked.

“Hundreds,” someone called out.

“More like thousands,” an Asian man with his hair tied back in a ponytail suggested.

The Chinese girl rose from her seat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m taking power back to the people.”

As people leaped from their chairs, Susan slipped out of the room.

When Susan read the ROTC buildings at the University were burned down, realizing she didn’t have what it took to be a revolutionary, she retired her radical hat forever. Violence and breaking the law, even if it could be called civil disobedience, wasn’t in her nature.

Without a cause to fight for and having lost a part of her family when Jimmy and Steve left, she was aimless. She missed Jimmy’s zest for living and his appreciation of life. Although they drifted apart after Steve left, they remained friends. Just before he left Hawaii following his graduation, she saw him one last time.

Jimmy had put on his uniform and paraded before her.

“Everyone is so serious and anti-war these days. I was born too late. Women don’t swoon at the sight of a man in uniform.”

Susan laughed. “You look very handsome. Just don’t let spit get on your pretty face.”

Jimmy made a face at her reference to anti-war demonstrators spitting on soldiers.

They made love one last time, for old time’s sake. Jimmy nibbled her ear. “You know I love you, Sue.”

Susan stroked his cheek. “And I’ll always love you both. We’re the Three Musketeers.”

Jimmy kissed her. “Promise you’ll write your best friend.”

“Of course.”

Honolulu, 1970

The letter came in the mail one rainy afternoon when she least expected anything of importance. Set to graduate in June, she concentrated on her studies during her last semester. Later, she would look at it as a sign of things to come in what turned out to be a watershed year for the entire nation.

January 19, 1970

Dear Miss Han,

I got your name and address from Jimmy’s address book. I wasn’t sure what kind of relationship you had with Jimmy, but I decided to write everyone whose name was written in his book.

Jimmy was shot down over Vietnam on December 28th. He was officially listed as Missing In Action. However, the military is pretty sure he’s dead as his plane went down in flames. There isn’t much more I can say. 

Sincerely,

Janet (Jimmy’s mom)

Susan threw herself on her bed and sobbed. She remembered what Steve had written. No matter what the recruiters said, everyone who enlisted was on a fast track to Vietnam.

Then on April 30, 1970, Susan watched President Nixon announce on TV the United States had invaded Cambodia. On May 4th, during a demonstration against the invasion at Kent State University, four students were killed and nine wounded by the Ohio National Guard who opened fire on the protestors. One student was permanently paralyzed.

Susan put down the paper in horror when she read about the Kent State debacle in the Honolulu Star Bulletin. On the front page was a picture of a female student on her knees next to a fallen comrade. The crumpled face of terror on the girl’s face sent shock waves around the world. Rattled to the core, she left the house to score pot.

Susan went to her first and only Diamond Head Crater festival with her girlfriend Cynthia and Cynthia’s new boyfriend, Tommy. A naked, pregnant woman writhed to the music of Sonny and Cher’s catchy hit song, “The Beat Goes On”. Acid freaks flipped out; people rushed to restrain them. Love beads,
puka
shells, and long hair flowed above Indian bedspread dresses. Smoothies, organic vegetarian fare, and nothing else were for sale in makeshift booths.
Pakalolo
filled the air.

Finding an open spot near the stage, the trio dropped down in the grass. Cynthia began making out with Tommy. All around Susan, people were hugging and kissing each other. Love was in the air, but Susan felt like an alien.

Suddenly she spied Cynthia’s ex-husband, Craig, plowing through the crowd, heading toward them. She nudged Cynthia and pointed.

Cynthia shot up, saw her ex, and tried to pull Tommy up by his hand. “It’s my ex, run.”

Tommy remained sitting. “Easy. We’ll just talk to him. Calm him down.”

Craig raised his arm. Silver metal glinted from his hand.

“He's got a gun. You talk to him.” Cynthia shouted and sprinted away.

Tommy and Susan weren’t staying around to find out whether or not Craig really had a gun. They took off in opposite directions. So much for the love generation; even pot couldn’t mellow out a jealous ex.

Susan’s last year at college was an orgy of
pakalolo
. She and her friends smoked dope in the HIC arena where famous rock stars jammed. They smoked on the beach. Nobody cared, not even the cops.

Once she got caught in a sudden cloud burst over Nuuanu on the way to a party in Kailua. Her guy friend forgot the top of his banged up MG back home and the rain made puddles on the floor of the car. Stoned out of their minds, they laughed and waved at the people staring at them at the stoplights. Before driving off, one young couple gave them the ‘way to go’
shaka
sign, their thumb and little finger sticking up with the rest of their fingers curled into their palms.

They arrived soaking wet at their party in Kailua. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Boxes of Chinese food, plate lunches, and bakery goods were strewn on the floor in the middle of a circle of people smoking pot, drinking, and eating.

 When a girl in their crowd, Marianne, walked in with a cop in uniform, silence greeted them. Her friends tried to hide the weed.

“Hey, don’t worry, Norm’s cool.” Marianne and Norm flopped down next to Susan. The cop picked up a roach in an ashtray and sucked on it. Within minutes, everything was back to normal.

Later, a beautiful groupie named Tina dropped by with a well-known rock star who had a concert at the HIC Arena. The cop shook his hand. It was a party to remember.

Susan tried mescaline for the first time on her graduation night. The rush was unbelievable. She mellowed the high out with cheap wine and grass. Suddenly, she found herself giggling uncontrollably as she sprawled on a cushion in the corner of a dark, empty living room.

A tall blonde stood over her. His faint Southern drawl floated down to her. “Can I get you a wine cooler?”

“No thanks,” Susan said as she sat up. “You never know if the punchbowl is spiked with acid.

“In that case …” He pulled out a joint and lit it. “What about some Kona gold?” He eased himself down next to her.

He was bearded, rather good-looking, and haole.  With perverse satisfaction, she thought of how pissed her dad would be. Not that she cared what he thought. She fumbled with the joint before putting it to her mouth then took in deep hits. Although the harsh weed burned her throat, she held the smoke in, coughing as she passed the joint back to him.

She exhaled. “I’m Susan.”

“Andy.” He took a big hit and held his breath. He tried to pass it to her but she declined. She was too loaded already.

“Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Alabama,” he smiled and she noticed a gap between his top front teeth.

Susan barely paid attention as Andy rattled on about Alabama. She only cared about getting loaded to smoke out thoughts of Jimmy, Steve, and her meaningless existence.

“My best friend is dead and my other best friend might as well be,” Susan said as she buried her face in her knees before turning her face to the side to look at him. “Jim Morrison’s dead, Janis Joplin’s dead, and so is Jimi Hendrix. I saw Jimi at HIC just before he died. He was so high, he almost fell over his guitar.” Dabbing at her tears, she asked. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bartender,” he replied.

 “So did you graduate in Travel Industry Management?” Susan leaned back on her elbows.

“Marketing. And you?”

“Psychology. Doesn’t matter, all my college friends are stewardesses, waitresses, bellhops, or bartenders.” Susan stared at the disco ball hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room throwing off fragments of light.

“I only stayed in college to stay out of ‘Nam.”

“You and every other guy in this room. What happened?”

 “This is my 4F deferment, my ticket to safety.” Andy showed her two disfigured fingers on his right hand. “I messed up my hand in a motorcycle accident.”

 “It’s messed up all right,” she sucked on the joint again. “Well it’s better than drinking a bottle of soy sauce, dropping acid, or pretending to be gay.”

“What?”

“The soy sauce hikes up your blood pressure. The rest speaks for itself.”

“Maybe you can tell me more about it,” he said. “I live near here.”

 Susan checked him out. He was kind of sexy in his embroidered muslin shirt and blue jeans. He wore a puka shell necklace around his neck and a blue kerchief was tied around his blonde hair, Indian style. He looked good to her.

“I need to tell my ride I’m leaving,” she replied.

“Have you ever been on a waterbed?” he asked.

Susan’s heart raced. She couldn’t believe she was doing something so bad. “No,” she answered. “But I’d like to try.”

Much later, Susan wondered where everyone was going at 4:30 on a Saturday morning. From outside the studio window came the sound of cars roaring down the highway. Occasionally a truck or a motorcycle went by. It was too early for heavy traffic. A dog barked.

Susan rolled off the waterbed slowly so as not to rouse Andy. She found a beanbag chair and snuggled in, her knees tucked under her chin.

Daylight crept into the room, giving it a sad and tawdry look. Wooden planks were placed on cinder blocks for tables. A silent stereo’s green power light blinked. Dozens of albums were strewn nearby. Cushions lay on the matted, shag carpet. The psychedelic posters tacked on the walls reflected images of bad acid trips. Bare bulbs of blue, red, and green hung from the ceiling. Ashtrays, matches, rolling paper, roach clips, rolled up match covers, and homemade water pipes were strewn around the floor and on top a dirty, makeshift plywood board coffee table. A sleazy zodiac poster with various sex positions had been shellacked onto the tabletop.

Last night she was stoned out of her mind. This morning, she felt horrible. Her surroundings disgusted her. Still, she wasn’t going to make excuses for her behavior. She wanted to get laid and did. Her pick-up lover made Jimmy look like a fumbling schoolboy.

The very thought of Jimmy made her feel instantly disloyal. This hippie was the only other man she had ever been with in bed. What a stupid mistake.

She vaguely remembered crying while they got it on. He was so wrapped up in his own pleasure he didn’t notice.

Her eyes darted around the room and came to rest on a poster with the street sign, Haight Ashbury, dominating the picture.

"What a bummer," her friend Donna said of the famous street corner in San Francisco, "just a bunch of pathetic panhandlers and runaways. Some of them living on the streets."

Meanwhile, the war machine kept cranking and her generation became increasingly more disillusioned and disgusted with lying politicians.

People used to be proud to be an American. JFK stirred up national patriotism when he said, “Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.” The Peace Corps started. America was respected.

She wondered what happened.

The Third World Liberation Front she once thought she wanted to be a part of advocated seceding from the union.

"There's too many
haoles
moving into Hawaii," one of the leaders pronounced.

"Yeah," a radical local girl Susan knew spat out. "Big mainland corporations are buying out local companies and replacing management with mainlanders. We're losing our islands to mainland
haoles
."

“Where are you going?” a sleepy drawl cut into her reverie.

“Home,” Susan said.

Andy rose up on one elbow. “Man, it’s still dark out there. Stay for breakfast.”

“No.”

“How can I get a hold of you?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” He sat up.

A lone tear trickled down Susan’s face. She thought of what Thoreau said. “Most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with their song still in them.” She was tired of living her life that way. She hated her life and what she had become. Being a stoned-out hippie and sleeping with strangers in a frenzy of free love wasn’t who she was.

She wanted a slice of American pie. She wanted a man who loved her more than anyone else—a house, two cars in the family, and kids. She yearned for a boring, capitalistic life. This hippie existence was not for her. Suddenly, all her angst and disgust over her lifestyle erupted and she spat out, “Just because I balled you doesn’t mean I want to see you again.”

She grabbed her purse and went out the door. She felt like the morning trash left outside on the curb for the garbage men to take away. Even so, she knew there was a song still in her waiting to be sung. And if it took her to the end of her days, she would sing it.