Rani Patel In Full Effect Page 17

  Is Mom trying to show me her true colors?

  LOVE AND WAR

  Mo’omomi’s packed. The number of hip hop enthusiasts that have surfaced at the dunes tonight is way more than last month. And there are a handful of girls.

  I skip up the side stairs onto the stage and grab the mic from Mark. “Yo, yo, yo! How’s everyone feelin’ tonight?” I bellow. They thunder in approval. I strut to the center of the stage. Leaning slightly back. Swaying side to side. The crowd open fires on me with their spirit and vigor. It’s hard not to vibe off their energy. It forces me to amp up my swag walk. And the crowd responds with hoots and hollers.

  I’m about to drop one of the best raps I’ve ever written. Tonight’s about the women in my family. My mom. Lalita ba. Agneya ba. And so many others. I inhale the crisp, salty air. It’s like smelling salts. I nod at Skittles and he launches the haunting voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in Mustt Mustt (Massive Attack Remix). Slowly he fades the vocals and lays out my beat. And it brims with robust Bally Sagoo bhangra samples. My Indian soul is aflame. I watch the crowd get enchanted by the first ever Indo-Pakistani influenced beats at Mo’omomi. Then like a satguru, I bust out my rhyming sutras.

  You’re finally free of his chains—invisible.

  Emotional abuse, unseen—permissible.

  Statue like, enslaved soul—survivin’.

  Isolated wife, his alone—he’s deprivin’.

  He got no love for her—cuz his ego lackin’.

  Wife a commodity—mirror crackin’.

  Had a kid to appease the masses—curry culture.

  Raise her as your boo—perverse nurture…

  I enunciate each word of my rhyme clearly, deliberately. Almost by syllable. Because I want the delivery to be striking. As I’m spitting the first verse, all I can think about is my mom and her life. I wish she was here tonight.

  The setting sun covers the crowd in a film of orange and yellow. The colorful, urban-fashioned hip hoppers remind me of a polychrome Lite-Brite. I get to the second verse and tell the story of how bad Agneya ba had it back in the day.

  …and three generations back it’s worse.

  Unfaithful man—her curse.

  Her solution—leave the situation.

  His solution was her live cremation

  Fire burning in his Indian eyes.

  Demise covered up in his lies…

  Then something amazing happens. I start to feel part of something big. Something universally feminine. Like all my women ancestors enter my consciousness. They root for me as I lay out the truth about their oppression. The next two verses come out with more gusto. Nearing the end of the fourth verse, I throw a lyrical grenade on the crowd.

  …descended from this slaughter,

  me and a thousand other daughters.

  Navigating ancient rivers—muddy waters.

  Taboo subject they hope we forget,

  but it makes us hate ourselves—playin’ Russian roulette.

  How can we expect more

  when we refuse to explore

  our—own—war?

  And the crowd reels from the impact. I close it out.

  Kama sutra ain’t all I’m good for.

  Kids I bore, but there’s so much more.

  What you don’t know

  is that I’m settlin’ the score.

  It ain’t all fair in love and war.

  It’s pau and the applause is ardent. I lift my head to the sky and offer a peace sign. My props to my mom and all my Gujju women ancestors. The moment is emotionally heavy. I feel drained. I wipe the sweat from my brow and let things settle for a couple of seconds before exiting the stage.

  Instinctively, I look for Pono and Omar. Pono is nowhere in sight. Regrettably things still aren’t back to normal with Pono and me. He’s standoffish. He’ll acknowledge me with a chin-up if we pass each other in the hall. But he won’t stop to talk. He’ll discuss class work. But nothing more. He isn’t hanging out with me at lunch. He’s acting like Lance did in one of my mom’s romance novels. All distant with Julia because she broke his heart.

  But I didn’t break his heart. It’s not like he’s in love with me or anything. I know I frustrated him big time. Hurt his feelings. I wish he’d give me a chance to make peace with him.

  I spock Omar in the throng. But he’s surrounded by three girls. I think he’s getting his flirt on! It looks like he’s running off at the mouth and the girls are all giggly. Oh! He just put his hand on one of the girl’s shoulders. Definitely don’t want to cramp his style.

  Especially since Omar and me are good. A couple of days after he and Pono gave me an extra large piece of their mind, Omar and I made peace. It happened at school. Omar was walking towards the cafeteria. We exchanged glances. Mine uneasy. His aloof. He did an about face and headed towards the library in a hurry. Avoiding lunch to avoid me. That felt like a sucka punch. Because the blindsiding force of it made this sucka realize that I had to step up my truce-making game.

  Imagining a white flag in hand, I quickened my pace. “Omar!” When I was almost behind him I said, “Omar, wait up.”

  He kept walking with his hands deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans and his head down. The closer I got, the faster his blue and white Adidas high tops seemed to haul him away.

  “Come on, Omar. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He stopped without turning around. “What, Rani?” There was indifference in his tone. His head was up now and I was in awe of his higher than usual hi-top fade. I imagined snapping a photo. A truly artistic first rap album cover for him.

  “I’m sorry for being such a dumbass.”

  He turned around and crossed his arms over images of Posdnuos, Trugoy, and Maseo on his oversized black t-shirt. He and De La Soul stared at me without talking.

  “Omar, can we make peace? I miss you. And your clowning.”

  He inspected my face. I think he was trying to see if I was for real. The loud clock in my mind went tick, tick, tick. It seemed like five minutes passed without either of us saying anything. I couldn’t stand the silence any longer so I conceded.

  “I’ll be careful with Mark,” I said.

  But inside I knew I couldn’t really do it.

  The truth is that despite all the undeniable reasons the boys had given me about why I should break up with Mark, I’m hooked. So hooked that I’m willing to overlook the glaring signs of his player status. Besides no one’s perfect and he hasn’t hurt me since the boob girl drama.

  “Please, Omar. Can you forgive me? I’m sorry.”

  I was about to get down on my knees and beg when he said, “It’s ok. You’re still my homie.” He smiled and that felt better than any amount of applause. “You know what this means, right?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Game on for Rani ridicule.”

  “Bring it!”

  “Oh, it’s brung,” he said, laughing. Then he switched into full on pidgin. “We go grind.” We headed back to the cafeteria and he poked at my head. “You was plenny akamai before but now you stay one blonde.”

  “What? You think I stay lolo jus cuz I one blonde?”

  Omar chuckled at my ridiculous attempt to speak pidgin. Even I cringed at its horribleness. I really wanted to fling my arm around his shoulder like we were bros. But I resisted and slapped his arm instead. Things were back to normal.

  Mark’s voice on the mic brings me back to the present. He’s announcing the next MC. As much as I want to be his shadow, I know he’s busy. Things are better with us too. He’s not distraught about the Kaluakoi night anymore. And I’m over boob girl. I really want to get my hands on him after the show. Then I remember I won’t get to hang with him tonight. Something about him being busy with errands because he’s leaving tomorrow to visit his mom on Maui. An acrid taste fills my mouth like I swallowed a bitter pill.

  So I have no one to chill with for the rest of the show. I find a place at the edge of the crowd. The next performance starts and I try to get los
t in the MC’s flow. But it’s no use. I can’t shake the apprehension that’s descending on me like a vulture descending on a carcass. I decide to leave early. By the time I reach the path it’s after dark. I stumble over a couple of small rocks on the shadowy trek to the parking lot.

  Stan Lee emerges on the path. We’re face-to-face. It’s like a showdown.

  He breaks the silence. “There’s only one reason you made it onto the crew. You know that, right?” I can’t really see his expression but his voice is menacing.

  “Yeah. Because I can flow.”

  “Wrong. It’s because Mark wants to hit that,” he says. “He’s playing you, Sutra. Making you think you’re such a good MC, when in fact…” His voice trails off. In the dim starry light, I see him make a lewd thrusting motion with his pelvis.

  My face burns. My lacrimal glands go on overdrive.

  Don’t cry!

  Too late, the tears pour.

  “Face it, Sutra. You aren’t cut out for all this. You’re just a little girl in a big man’s world.” He scoffs. “Run home to Daddy. Oh wait…” He pauses. I feel his icy stare. And then he goes for the jugular. “That’s right. Your daddy left you. Yeah, Mark told me.”

  This isn’t Stan Lee rejection. It’s Stan Lee aggression. All out war.

  It ain’t all fair in love and war.

  SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS SEXINESS

  I thump my fist on my forehead, hoping to knock some sense into my head. I squeeze my temples with my palms. But no matter what brain manipulation methods I try, I can’t get anything done on this essay about deforestation in the Amazon. It’s Wednesday, the last day of school before Thanksgiving break. I resign myself to the fact that I won’t accomplish any work today. I haven’t even finished the agenda for our class council meeting later today. Mr. Silvo, our class advisor, will be totally disappointed.

  Ugh.

  Forget it. I pack up my papers and books and head out of the library. I grasp my stomach because it feels like I’m committing educational seppuku.

  This on top of the homie harakiri that’s already happened with Pono. It’s worse today. Because today is his eighteenth birthday. I’ve tried extra hard to reach out to him. Of course I wished him a happy birthday as soon as I saw him. I slipped a birthday card between his books in Nihongo. I wanted him to know that I was thinking about him on his big day. After all, you only become an official adult once.

  Besides a fake smile, he didn’t respond to my goodwill birthday gestures.

  It’s recess now so I head to the banyan. When I get to the end of the hall, I see Pono already there, sitting on the shady side. He’s reading my card! And smiling! My knees feel a little wobbly as I stand here wondering what to do. That’s when I think of Queen Latifah’s rap A King and Queen Creation. Hearing the words and feeling the beat in my mind, I know what I have to do. Because Pono and I are homies that fit together like dope rhymes and a sick beat. Just like A King and Queen Creation.

  Backed by the Queen’s lyrical wind in my sails, I walk towards Pono. He looks up and shoves the card real quick between his books when he sees me coming. I put on my biggest smile. When I get close, I call out, “Hey, Pono!”

  “Hey.” He keeps a straight face.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good. What’s up with you?”

  I sit down opposite of him. I stretch my legs and lean back on my hands. “Not much. Looking forward to the break.” He doesn’t say anything. So I ask, “What are you gonna do over break?” I’m hoping he’ll open up a little more if we discuss our mutual disdain of Thanksgiving. It being a one-sided holiday and all. Well, that’s how we see it.

  Last year Pono and I spoke up in class about the way the holiday is typically portrayed. The rape and pillage of the nation’s indigenous peoples is usually left out. And after class that day, Pono and I continued our discussion. He drew parallels to the destruction of the Native Hawaiians.

  It dawns on me that my initial crush on Pono grew by leaps and bounds that day last year because—and I distinctly remember thinking this—ain’t nothing more sexy than a socially conscious guy who knows his stuff. Remembering that now, my mouth tries to let a giggle escape. But I force my lips to stay shut. Instead I wait for Pono’s answer.

  He offers a half smile and says, “Not joyously celebrating the slaughter of indigenous people.”

  I nod. “Me neither.”

  Then we sit in silence. I stare at the grass. He tinkers with his pen. Neither of us looks at each other.

  A minute or so passes like this. Finally he opens his mouth. Without making eye contact he says, “Actually I’m having a birthday party at Papohaku on Saturday. You should come.”

  YES! Oh happy, happy day!

  The euphoria I feel with his invitation is extreme. I know this because Motownphilly starts blaring from my mind’s boombox. This Boyz II Men song is my ultimate feel-good song. I have to press down on my hands with all my might and focus. Focus on not springing up and doing a Milli Vanilli-Snake-Cabbage Patch-RoboCop-Roger Rabbit-Running Man dance. Doing my best to not put Pono through this because we’re not totally G yet, I grit my teeth and say, “Shoots.”

  LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

  The bell rings. School’s out for four days! And I’m going to Pono’s birthday party! I want to prance to my car and do a little raise the roof dance along the way.

  I cross the street to the parking lot. Omar comes running up and grabs my shoulder. “Did you hear about Stan Lee?” His eyes are wide.

  “That he hates me? Yes.”

  He looks around to make sure no one’s in range. “No, I mean about his mom?”

  “No, what’s going on?”

  He leans in. “His mom was at Queen’s Hospital. In the ICU. They flew her back to Moloka’i General yesterday. She’s doing ok now, but it was touch and go for awhile. I just told Pono about it too.”

  “That’s awful! What happened to her?”

  “I heard that her junkie boyfriend got crazy high on batu and tried to choke her to death.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Yeah. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Did they put that perp in jail?”

  “The word is that Stan beat the crap out of him first. Then the cops arrested the guy, all bloody and battered.”

  “Good for Stan.”

  Then Omar’s face changes. It’s as if he’s staring through me. He smashes his fist into his open palm and says, “Yeah. I’d do the same thing if someone hurt my mom. Guarenz.” He pauses, then looks more somber. Taking a deep breath, his lips in a slight pout, he softly says, “My mom is all I got.”

  Omar’s scared of losing his mom. I get it. I mean the poor guy already lost his dad to prison. “You ok, Omar?”

  “People do some fucked up shit when they’re high. Blondie, now do you get why Pono and I don’t want you to hang out alone with Mark?”

  I nod. My good mood is gone. I hang my head as guilt and shame swirl around me. Mark’s been visiting his mom on Maui since Sunday so I’ve had a chance to think. Not only about Pono and Omar’s warnings, but also about Stan Lee’s crude words. I was hoping that this distance from Mark would help me build up my courage to do the right thing when he gets back. Break up with him.

  Nope. Not gonna happen.

  And there’s no way I’m telling Pono or Omar that I have two secrets about Mark. First, I’m not breaking up with him. Second, I’m planning on going all the way with him. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s ok not to tell them. In fact, it’s not even straight-up lying.

  But inside I know lying by omission is still lying.

  I’ve sunk way, way down. Lying to my homies so they’ll stay friends with me.

  Am I turning into my dad?

  BRIGHT FLOWER

  It’s strange to think that inside these walls people might be battling for their lives. Because from the outside, Moloka’i General Hospital looks like an oasis sitting on top of a Kaunakakai hill. Ocean view and all. Its s
erene atmosphere and lush manicured greenery is more reminiscent of a small resort than a hospital.

  I park my truck in the parking lot and lift the pot with a bright purple orchid out of the old cardboard box on the floor.

  There’s an important backstory to the orchid. Yesterday was Thanksgiving and Mom prepared our favorite South Indian food. Masala dosa and sambar. With my right hand I tore off a piece of the crispy rice and lentil crepe-like wrap and dipped it in Mom’s homemade coconut chutney. I was thinking about what Omar told me about Stan Lee’s mom. By then I’d reached the dosa’s curried potato filling and Mom noticed me deep in thought.

  “You ok, betta?” Her voice and expression matched—both concerned and welcoming. And there hadn’t been any drama.

  So different than before. Maybe it’s who she really is. I remembered the freight day drive to Maunaloa with her on Saturday morning. And maybe like that morning, she’s showing me her true colors now. Who she could only get back to being once she escaped Dad. I felt warm inside because I realized that her kindness and sincerity on Saturday might have been why I connected so deeply with my performance of “Love and War” later that night.

  Something clicked in me and I accepted her concern without my usual questioning. I decided to take a chance. It was a relief to tell her the whole story about Stan Lee’s mom. As my mom listened, she brought her hand to her mouth and pressed it against her lips. Her eyebrows rose and her eyes expanded.

  “Khaarob, khaarob, khaarob,” she said, shaking her head. She pushed her half-finished plate away. In Gujarati she whispered, “Women suffer at the hands of men in so many ways. Sometimes you don’t realize how bad things are until it’s too late.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. But I hustled to find my words because I didn’t want to miss any opportunity to have a real conversation with my mom. I thought about her and Dad. I said, “You’ve suffered because of Dad. You must have felt so alone all these years.”

  She lifted her eyes and they connected with mine. Without speaking, our eyes communicated something that should’ve been obvious all along.