Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
I am passionate about creating digital graphics and writing compelling stories. My unique perspective comes from a blend of American-Filipino and Kama'aina-Hawaiian cultures, which I incorporate into my work. If you're interested in joining me on a creative growth and exploration journey, I welcome you. I am always open to new ideas and feedback, so don't hesitate to reach out to me. Let's create something unique together.
Sheila believes this must be heaven floating on a cloud, a luxuriously warm breeze rushing around her body, and the warmth of the sun softly kissing her face. She’s in euphoria, gliding and twisting in the clear blue sky, escaping the darkness at the edge of the horizon, ever coming closer to surrounding her. Unfortunately, the darkness engulfs her quickly as she comes down hard for a crash landing, only to awaken in a cold sweat, shivering uncontrollably with only one thing on her mind, how to get her next fix.
Dimly lit was the park she awakened to as she scanned the area looking for anyone familiar. She sees the usual park folks with their makeshift tent homes tied against the steel wire fences. Friendly the folks were to those in need of shelter and comfort. She was not scared of the people here; she was more concerned with the cops. With needle marks on her arms, she was a dead giveaway as a junkie. She has a large Hawaiian tattoo wrapped around her forearm that somewhat camouflages the needle marks, but if you look closely, you will see the needle tracks. .
Her one small pleasure in this world was a tomato plant garden she was growing in the corner of the park that can’t be seen behind the trees and bushes but had a good amount of sunshine in the back. She waters the plants often when she can, and they are now just beginning to bear fruit. She shares the tomatoes with the people in the park, who also help her tend to the mini garden from time to time.
She’s been watching this giant tomato worm grow bigger and doesn’t dare try to get rid of it. Instead, she treats it like a pet. Picking it off the tomatoes and carefully placing it back on the vines. She imagines her burly green friend as the king of the tomato plant for all to beware of and to be left alone. She closes her eyes, pretending to be the mighty green caterpillar, thinking nobody can hurt her.
Although it dwells in the darkness of the tomato leaves, it fears no one as it climbs the vines to reach the fruit. Aphids bow down in awe of its massive green muscular body while other insects and caterpillars escape in fear at first sight of it. As it climbs the largest red fruit, it looks down on its surroundings as it reigns supreme over the entire tomato plant, but alas, something inside its little mind calls to it to encapsulate its body. A peculiar obsession it must proclaim as it hastens to encase itself for a long slumber sleep and look forward to a new dream.
A kaleidoscope of colors crosses through the threshold of its mind into a dream as its slumber deepens further into the no-return stage of transformation. Curious, it is to see its body begin to reshape as it feels its outer skin start to fall off into an adhesive gel reinforcing the strength of its outer shell from within, giving way to its newfound legs beginning to take shape. And what is this? What is this sprouting from alongside its back, running down to its lower backside? New muscles have formed around the base of this strange new sprout from the backside. They’re not legs; they’re very thin and light but strong. It can’t wait to see this new growth when it finally escapes this shell.
Sheila wakens from her daydream of her mighty little friend to a hurting pain in her stomach. She’s sick again, going through withdrawals, and she knew she had to get another fix soon or end up convulsing all over again.
The next day she went to her bank and withdrew all the money she had left, but she needed a little more cash. So, she went home, cleaned herself up, and dressed nicely, ready to walk the streets again. She took her usual spot on Hotel Street and turned a couple of tricks. It was a good night. She had more than enough money to satisfy her craving for a while.
Sheila convinced herself to get some extra, so she could stay feeling good longer than before. She tracked down her local pusher friend Big-O, who told her to go easy; that’s a lot of China White for just one high, girl. She told him, “Don’t worry baby, I’m a big girl; I can hang.” Big-O warned her, “I’m telling ya, you break that shit up, girl!” concerned if she was listening to him. She wasn’t.
So, she took her stuff to the one place that gave her peace, that small tomato garden in the corner of the park. She hadn’t been there in a few days and was looking around for her little green friend but couldn’t find him. Then she noticed a sizeable reddish-brown cocoon under the tomato leaves, touching the ground. Could that be him? It must be because he is the only king of this tomato plant.
After admiring her little friend’s new body armor, she took her drug kit out of her pocket and set it up to heat and liquefy her drugs on the tin foil. As soon as it was ready, she pulled out her syringe and filled the needle with the drug. Wow, there was a lot this time. She had never seen the syringe so filled. This should last a while, she thought.
Sheila took the rubber strap and wrapped it around her arm to bulge out the vein. She then took the syringe and shot the drug up her arm. Ahhh, she felt so relieved as she hunched over with a smile looking at her little buddy’s cocoon as she fell into a slumber of brilliant colors exploding in the sky.
She’s flying again, twisting in and out of the colorful clouds. There was no dark horizon chasing her this time; she made sure of that with the extra dose she shot up. She’s feeling ecstatic again, and nothing can get in her way.
As Sheila’s flying high, her friend that sold her the drug is looking for her in the park. He finally found her in that little hidden place with the tomato plants. She was way out on cloud nine. He looked at her arm with the Hawaiian tattoo and found the fresh needle marks. He cursed himself, “Shit, girl, what the fuck did I tell ya? God dammit!” He was pissed at himself for not keeping an eye on her. He called for an ambulance to pick her up and rush her to the hospital. She was oblivious to what was going on.
The paramedics arrived and started pumping her stomach as her pulse was weaker. They administered CPR with little effect. They knew they had to rush her to the hospital to save her life.
As the ambulance started speeding away, all she could feel was the motion of the speed as it added to her dream of flying high. Brilliant colors filled the images in her mind as her pulse weakened. A vortex was starting to form high above her in the sky, ever getting closer. Colors swirled around and enlarged the opening of the whirlwind. She could feel the warm, luxurious wind whipping around her body like a tornado. She let go and went with the gust of the wind as it pulled her into an unknown portal with no vision of the other side.
.The life support system flatlined at the hospital bed. The doctor administered an AED blast to her chest, trying to revive her. She was too far gone.
At the same time, back at the tomato plant garden in the park, her little friend was starting to break through the cocoon. Little by little, breaking out of the weakening outer skin. Finally emerging was this great and powerful hawk moth with wings twice the size of its body. It finally saw the growth of the wings it was anticipating in its slumber. Excited, it took flight to test its newfound wings in the sky. It was twisting and gliding in and out through the air fearlessly and carefree, as it lavished through the warm air.
Curiously there was a unique pattern on the wings of the moth, which looked like Hawaiian tattoo patterns, as it flew high and far away.
THE END
There she goes again, Noelani talking to herself; she was a homeless person wandering the streets of the Honolulu Arts District, walking and talking out loud. She’s a regular in Chinatown, never bothering anybody and keeping to herself. Sometimes folks would buy her something to eat like a manapua, and she’s always graceful and thankful.
Then there are these teenage skateboarder kids in the neighborhood who are always causing trouble and bullying people. Real, local neighborhood punks. Mischievous kids out for a good time hanging around the skateboard park.
Noelani was making her rounds around Chinatown, down River Street, and across to the park, talking out loud like there were people next to her. She rattled on without a care, not paying attention to where she was going. Then she stumbled upon the skateboard park where the skateboarders hang out.
Randall, one of the older kids and a big troublemaker, spotted Noelani walking by and whistled to the other kids to check her out. Noelani wasn’t that big, a little on the skinny side, and never asked for trouble, but she could handle herself to some extent, but not against a gang of kids.
The boys came closer to Noelani and started heckling her, calling her crazy lady. Noelani stood fast and said, “what do you want?” “Leave me alone.” Then the boys circled her and started pushing her back and forth, and she began to scream. She grabbed a necklace around Randall’s neck and yanked it off. Then, she made her way out, ran up the street into Chinatown, and disappeared. The boys ran after her but couldn’t find her anywhere. It was getting late and dark outside, so the boys went home. Randall told the others to meet him again tomorrow so they could find this crazy lady.
The next day the boys scanned the streets of Chinatown looking for Noelani. Randall wanted his fishing hook bone necklace back. Randall told the other boys, “When I see her, I gonna break her face.” The other boys laughed; “you mean break-face.” “You still a mainlander.”
The boys asked around town, and some folks say she stays in the park at Smith and Beretania streets. So, the boys skate-boarded to Smith-Beretania Park. They waited until it got dark—still no sign of the talking lady.
Then, late at night, a mist began to gather on the surface of the grass, and Noelani appeared from the gate and sat in the middle of the lawn. The boys were behind the fence, out of sight, and sprang up, jumping over the fence to surprise her. She sees them, then nervously starts talking out loud again. Randall runs in front of her and sees her wearing the bone fishing hook necklace she took from him.
He yells at her, saying he will rip that off her neck. She started talking faster to herself, looking from side to side. Her eyes begin to flutter upwards as she gets into a hula trance, moving with sensual enchantment. She starts chanting in Hawaiian as the mist thickens beside her and surrounds the kids. She fills the park with a thick fog you can’t see from the streets.
All of a sudden, sounds of warriors chanting a haka as the mists begins to take form into figures of men. Soon, the mists solidify into ancient Hawaiian warriors, and the kids cower, huddling together in a circle, yelling, “Don’t look at them! Turn your eyes down to the ground!”
Randall, scared out of his wits, not knowing what to do, couldn’t help but look at them as one of them picked him up by the neck and threw him down to the ground. Randall, even though he was a big kid for his age, was knocked unconscious as the other kids cried and cowered together, pleading that they were sorry over and over again.
Noelani also pleaded not to hurt them further, and they stopped; then, she told the boys to leave and take Randall with them. Without hesitation, the boys carried Randall out of the park as fast as they could. Never to come back to this park and bother Noelani again.
It turns out Noelani is never talking to herself; she’s talking to her ancestors, who walk beside her. We can’t see them until she calls for their help. She wanders these streets because these are the streets that covered up the land that her ancestors lived on. She is the last descendant of her clan. She is stuck between worlds, searching for the homes of her ancestors that all the buildings in Chinatown have long since covered up.
She will keep wandering these streets, talking to her ancestors, until she can find the location of their homes. Until then, her ancestor will be in a state of unrest.
If you happen to come across her, be nice and know that she is the power of the ancestral mist and can call her ancestors when she needs them. Her name is Noelani, which means heavenly mist.
THE END
Best friends Xiang from China and Kenji from Japan were plantation workers that opened this little food bar in town after their working contracts with the plantations were over. Xiang brought his love of cooking from Guangzhou, Northern China, where his grandmother passed down her special wonton recipe to the family. Thanks to Xiang, he brought this recipe from Guangzhou to Hong Kong, where the style and ingredients also gained popularity. Then Xiang left Hong Kong to work in the plantations of Hawaii.
Kenji is from Fukuoka, Japan, and loves to cook. Back in Japan, he specialized in ramen noodle soup. Xiang and Kenji met in the soup kitchen on the plantation they were working on. Kenji’s job was to take over cooking responsibilities from Xiang, who was ending his contract soon and expressing interest in traveling to California. However, his plans were thwarted when the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was passed, and Xiang feared he would be deported if he couldn’t prove his place of residency, so he asked to stay on and help out with the cooking where the plantation owners were more than happy to keep Xiang on board. They kept Kenji on board because the new migrant workers were coming from Japan to replace the Chinese, and they reckoned Kenji would cater to the Japanese taste in food. Soon these two operated the kitchen together and became good friends, exchanging new ideas in cooking.
Xiang had saved up some money for his travels to California but switched plans to open a food bar restaurant in Chinatown. With his help from Kai and Jones, who supplied him with leftover wood scraps and free labor for food, and what little money Kenji could scrape up, they opened a small food bar in front of one of the hotels being built by Kai and Jones.
People gathered patiently on the other side of the counter for Xiang and Kenji to open the food bar. All of them were ex-plantation workers that knew Xiang’s cooking back at the plantation.
As they both came to open up, one guy yelled out in a pidgin accent, “Eh! Why you guys open up late morning all time?”
Xiang answers in pidgin, “We get ingredients and vegetables at the farmers’ market first, you like best kind soup, yeah? So be patient; we here.” Replied Xiang.
“Oh, back at the plantation, you have food already, den.” Replied the plantation worker.
“Yeah, but we no back at the plantation, so quit complaining.” Chuckled Xiang.
Kenji set the stools for the guest to sit at the food bar. Seven of them sat around the bar waiting for their soup bowls. There was no menu, just soup of whatever Xiang and Kenji had for that day. All seven seats were filled with two guys playing a ukelele on the wooden sidewalk, waiting their turn. As Xiang prepared the food, Kenji set out the bowls and scooped the wontons into the bowls. He placed them all in a row and asked each of the patrons what ingredients they wanted in their soup.
The first customer told Kenji, “I want dat, dat, and dat.” Kenji obliged and moved on to the next customer; he pointed to what he wanted and asked for a medium-boiled egg. Kenji said it’s going to cost a little extra. The customer said, “Dats okay.” Then Kenji came to the next customer, a new plantation worker who didn’t speak English well. “Okay, my friend, what you like?” Kenji asked. With a lost look on his face, he shook his head. Then Kenji pointed to the bowl with noodles in the broth and pointed to the seafood and veggies in the separate bowls back and forth. Then the new guy said, “De Quan,’” pointing to the bowls. Kenji replied, “Dis one, dat one, which one?” The man looked slightly embarrassed at his lack of English, pointed to the bowls again, and said, “Deeee Quan.” Knowing he struggled to speak English, Kenji smiled because he knew how it was when he first came to the island. “Okay, braddah, which kind you want, dis kine, dat kine, which kine?” Kenji pointed to the bowls again. “Dee kine,” pointing to a bowl with fish in it. Kenji added it to the bowl. “Okay, what next?” The customer pointed to another bowl with veggies in it and blurted out, “Dat Kine!” “Okay,” replied Kenji, “What else?” With more confidence, the customer said, “Da Kine, da kine, da kine,” pointing to each bowl. Kenji started chuckling, “Yeah, brah, I like da kine too.” Another one of the customers said, “Hey, I want some more of das kine too,” pointing to the same bowl and laughing, which made the newcomer feel welcome. Before you know it, all the customers would refer to the bowls saying, “Da kine!” It turned out to be a new pidgin slang word.
It turns out that the newcomer is from the northern part of the Philippines, from a province called Ilocos Norte. The phrase “Dee Quan, literally means referring to an inanimate object, like that thing, that object, that fish, those veggies, etc. So in the event that the plantation workers congregated for work, they did the best they could to communicate with each other forming a unique pidgin language amongst themselves. Each culture contributes in its own way.
Soon Xiang and Kenji’s soup became popular in Chinatown and around the island, and soon every customer, when ordering the add-ons to their soup, would say, “Da kine!” when pointing to the bowls. Eventually, thereafter Xiang named his unique soup, Saimin, meaning thin noodles. The locals called the soup Hawai’i’s noodle soup as it grew in popularity.
THE END
I was here when the people arrived to make a home of this place, and only a few grass huts were scattered around this island. I’ve seen generations of their families thrive and grow. I watched them flourish and develop their unique agricultural and aquacultural systems and fishing engineering technology.
They are loving people that made love in more ways than you could imagine. The art of love in its most innocent blissful way. A natural course of love without boundaries or guilt. Just pure love in its blameless origin outside of rules, laws, or any inhibiting taboos. Love in its purest intimate form.
Spiritually, I admire how these people love and respect the land and how they bathe in nature’s natural nourishments—excavating the ground carefully, just enough to consume what is needed for life—respectfully loving nature, knowing that nature and their ancestors are spiritually one with the Aina.
The balance of nature is dependent on the natural selection of evolution, and like any living organism, the will to expand and multiply comes with growing pains. Soon families become tribes, tribes become clans, and friction between neighboring clans eventually turns into war. Maybe it’s nature’s way of keeping the balance within a species. For whatever reason, the situation is a natural occurrence of evolution.
So, life goes on, and generations flourish throughout the land. They evolved into established people with a complex sociopolitical structure in place. They create a unique system of artistic expression in music and dancing called hula and in recreational activities called heʻenalu, which means surfing. Nowhere else has anyone cultivated such unique characteristics in their culture. These people are well on their way to achieving a higher level of civilization.
What is this? A new strange traveler with fair skin has entered from the sea. They come in a very large canoe. They arrive at a time when there is conflict amongst the natives of the islands, and the people are divided. A strange people are bearing gifts never seen from the people of the land. Who are these strangers? Are they friends or foes? What do they want? I want to tell them to be careful, but all I can do is observe.
They have powerful weapons, and their canoe harnesses the power of the wind. They must have powerful gods on their side. They seem friendly, offering new knowledge to improve our way of life. New knowledge is the true treasure.
The people welcome these strangers with Aloha. The strangers seek out the most powerful chief of the land and help him in his quest to untie the islands. I’m amazed at how these strangers have come to infiltrate the tribes—cunning manipulation with the introduction of these new objects forged of metal. The knowledge that will change the course of the native people, and I fear, will bring about my demise.
I see how the newcomers return with more to offer in trade and convince the locals to let them occupy some land and cultivate their new crops. They bring their new knowledge of construction to build their homes and talk stories of a new god to replace their gods. My native people learn fast with their thirst for more knowledge. I fear that they’re being manipulated too fast.
Suddenly, many of the natives have drawn ill—sickness from a disease they have never encountered before. This once virgin land has given way to contamination spread by the newcomers. As more of the haoles come, more of my Kama’aina die. I fear my end is near as well.
Less than half of my Kama’aina survive, and the haoles keep on coming. More from different lands, of different nationalities and languages. Soon, they are too powerful to confront with force as my native people dwindled and the remaining became dependent on the haole way of life. The royal native monarchy succumbed by force, and their lands were taken away from them. The Kama’aina are now subject to foreign rule. They have now felt the sting of Imperialism.
The spirit of Aloha is too strong to break the will of the people. The foreigners may try to impose their ways, even try to take away the native language, but my native people are too strong. They will never give up their ways and identity. Their mana is their backbone, and the spirit of Aloha is the guiding light.
Not all is lost; the newcomers from other lands have learned to love the natives’ way of life. They come not to destroy the culture, but to contribute to it. That is the true spirit of Aloha. They love the native dance and the sport of surfing. They adopt the wisdom of Aloha into their hearts to be a part of the Kama’aina and uphold the ways of the indigenous people and the love of the Aina. A beautiful culture built on the foundation of love.
The so-called powers-to-be tried to erase the natives’ cultural practices and beliefs but failed, even trying to take away their native tongue. Nevertheless, the Mana of the people was too strong to be broken; the Aloha is too powerful to overcome. Even the newcomers who came to work the land adopted the native culture into their own.
I’m so lucky to see each culture's contributions to the development of these islands. A mixed plate of love from those who want to call this paradise their home. It is fun for me to witness the blend of cultures, especially in the food. Each newcomer brings their cuisine style to contribute to the Hawaiian mix-plate palate. That’s aloha in action, but alas, my time has come.
I am the great banyan tree, and my time is up. At least I was here to see my beloved native people overcome the sting of Imperialism and fight back with the power of love. The world loves these islands and the indigenous native culture. You can see many countries practicing the native dance of Hula and the sport of heʻenalu, surfing, is now an Olympic competition. Their character is their Mana and Aloha, their sword. So, who really colonized who now? And just like me, the banyan tree, the natives are extending their branches to the newcomers to plant their roots into the land and become branch-rooted as part of the native Hawaiian banyan tree, and the honor of becoming Kama’aina.
THE END.
Ted recently moved to Vallejo to start anew following his divorce. Unexpectedly, he becomes the object of a ghost's attraction, lured in by his tormented heart.
Hotel Street was Honolulu's red-light district and center hub of activities. Power transfer from Monarchy to Provisional Government was corrupt, reminiscent of the lawless Wild West. Plantation owners sought annexation to save the economy. King Kalakaua's health declined, fueling speculations of his death.
This scrapbook is a collection of creative, humorous, and informative stories inspired by following my parents' footsteps in America. This isn't a research book but rather a collection of unique stories centered around being Filipino American.
We use cookies to analyze website traffic and optimize your website experience. By accepting our use of cookies, your data will be aggregated with all other user data.