North Star

03 | kuleana

2008

"Hokulani! If you don't get your okole out here right now, you gon' get lickins."

There were a lot of things I understood about my father and a lot of things I didn't, but I tried not to dwell on either one too much because I also understood that was the nature of having a father. He moved through life with a level of caution I didn't have enough life experience to heed on my own, and I lived by the reckless abandon he had already grown away from. Most of the things I would learn from my parents wouldn't make sense until I was much older, maybe his age now, or the little nuggets of wisdom he'd planted as seeds wouldn't sprout until after I no longer had him around. But as much as he frustrated me sometimes, I didn't want to think about when that time would come around.

I operated under the belief that life was a current that flowed of its own free will and I was willing to let it take me whichever way it felt I should go. But luckily, my dad was always there to give me a nudge in the right direction.

When I forgot to take out the trash, his nudges weren't so subtle.

Dragging my feet like they were tied to weights, I thumped my way down the stairs to see him sitting at the kitchen table with his feet resting on a chair that had been pulled out. The bottoms of his feet were nearly blackened with dirt from cleaning out the garage after Leimomi had accidentally knocked over a bag of charcoal. (She had a thing for hanging around the hibachi that no one understood.)

Three giant bags of luau leaves were placed on the table in front of him, with one pile of prepared leaves off to the side.

Even before I'd jumped off the final step, my eyes had widened at the sight. Papa was making luau stew, my favorite comfort food.

"Is that—" I started, inching toward him. Before my fingers could land on the prized possession, my father's hand snaked out and smacked them away, and I winched at the sharp sting, narrowing my eyes in his direction. "I was just looking, Papa."

"How many times I gotta tell you for take out the trash, Hokulani?" he asks before darting his eyes to the side. We both look at the trash can whose lid can't even close. "You get one job in this house. And it's the easy one. You like put away the dishes like we make Kanani do 'em or what?"

I shook my head, casting my eyes down at my feet. I hated being scolded, especially for something I knew I could have easily done in two minutes when he first asked me to.

"Eh, look at me," he said. Gentler this time. "We no give you chores just 'cause. This is your kuleana to keep the house standing. It's important you learn this. Alright?"

"Yeah." He waited. "Yes."

With one final flick of his chin toward the trash, he went back to work. "Take 'em outside. Come help Papa after."

Despite being called out for my mistakes, my dad was never intentionally mean-spirited in the way he scolded us. I knew that wasn't the case for a lot of people, even some of my friends, so I appreciated it and tried not to take advantage of it, though I slipped every once in a while.

It was trash day tomorrow, so someone else had already taken out the bin to the front of our driveway. (Probably Mama.) (It was always Mama.) Which meant I had to drag the heavy bag all the way across the driveway and up to the street which almost tore a hole in the bottom. As soon as I slammed the lid shut and dusted my hands off, a group of guys started riding down the street in my direction.

Naturally, I turned on my heel and started walking quickly back to the house, but someone called out to me and I turned around at the sound of the familiar voice.