Kapiolani Community College
Spectrum 2000

I lived in a simple, ivory building. The windows were identical; they were small and boxed in, arranged in rows evenly spaced. Some were lit up, some were not. At night, the birds would nestle on top of the branches of the kukui nut trees that surrounded our apartment. An abundance of these trees lined Kukui Street, concealing my window from which I peered out on many lonely nights.

The four elevators in the building never seemed to work. They squeaked and shook as they slowly scaled up to each floor. I questioned the authenticity of the license that was placed on top of the wall in the elevator. At times the elevator wouldn't stop on my floor; instead, it continued to go up despite all the buttons I pushed. A telephone inside the elevator bore a sign that read "In Case Of An Emergency" in bold red letters. I would call for help, but it just rang and rang at who knows where; no one was ever there to pick up my cries. When the doors opened, I ran. The only way home was to go down thirty flights of stairs, to the fifth floor where I lived. Without hesitating, I ran through the narrow hallway to the heavy metal door, pushed my way out into the darkness where the gloomy staircase was located, and ran down the box-like trail, making sure I did not look back to see if anyone was behind me. The number five was imprinted on the door, for the paint on it had chipped off and rays of light escaping from the hallway on my floor shone through the small window. I pulled my way into the lit hall where my door stood waiting for me. As I opened the door, once again, darkness fell upon me.

When I was younger, my sister Jean, who is only two years older than I am, always protected me from danger. Once she yelled at a girl in my school and threatened to beat her up if she bothered me again. She was independent, while I was dependent on her. When she moved on to intermediate school, she would take the bus back into MaĆnoa Valley where my elementary school stood and meet me at the library where we finished our homework. We took the bus back home late in the afternoon, and the hour-long ride downtown brought darkness upon the streets. The bus stop was four blocks away from our home, though it felt like a mile away. The streetlights shone down to reveal the hideous male hookers who dressed like women, the drug deals that took place, and the homeless people scrounging for money. They always frightened me, but my sister never feared them; she just took my hand and walked as if we were untouchable.

One night, we spotted two grubby old men down the dark and vacant street. Their overgrown, ashy beards shadowed their mysterious faces. Their clothes were dingy and dark from the dirt they had accumulated since they hardly ever bathed. Their mumbling grew clearer as they staggered towards us, and the rancid stench emanating from them made me want to gag. The men were twice our size, perhaps four times as old as we were, and ten times as revolting as the homeless people I had seen. They asked us where we were going, and I knew that they could see in my eyes that I was horrified. My sister grabbed my hand and yelled, "Leave us alone!" As they surrounded us, the stench of liquor traveled up my nose; it was a familiar odor, an odor that sent chills through my body. At that moment, I thought we were going to die. So we just ran, as we always did.

Our home was lonely. We left the television on so that it wouldn't feel so quiet and empty. Our mother worked late shifts, coming home close to midnight. I would wait anxiously in front of my small window in the bedroom, looking out for her small blue automobile. To kill time I would watch the kukui nut trees that stood still in the night, as if they were frozen. Not one branch or leaf moved and all the birds hovered together in a ball like a family. It was hard to spot my mom's car; the long branches and maple-shaped leaves hampered my view of the street, so my ears were conditioned to identify the sound of her car motor. They had also adapted to the sound of disputes from outside that echoed into my window. Swearing, crying, and screaming broke the silence of the still night, and the poor birds would awaken. Any sort of abrupt noise startled and disturbed the birds, and they would let everyone know by squawking noisily, drowning out the sound of profanity in the air. Then they would fly to another kukui nut tree and the screaming resurfaced. I blocked out the disturbing noise by covering my ears and running to my bed for comfort.

The sound of my mother's puttering motor delighted me. It was loud and annoying for others, but I found it pleasant and familiar. I was always happy to see her and relieved that she was all right. My dad usually came home from work at around seven o'clock, depending on how busy it was that day. It was when the clock struck nine. Then ten. Then eleven. I hid in my bedroom, lay on my bed, in a ball, shaking uncontrollably. The quick clank of the door unlocking sent electric shocks up my body. I would hide under my sheets since I had nowhere else to go.

Ever since I was young, I thought that alcohol was a gateway for the devil to take control of my father's body. My dad would come home drunk, his face flaming red and beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. His breath was potent, for you could smell the alcohol a mile away. His eyes were glassy and sinister. I could feel the heat from the anger burning up inside of him. My dad was not the same person he was in the morning: driving me to school, giving me money to eat, and telling me that he loved me. At night when he usually drank, he looked different; he was different; he was cold and hateful. He hated my sister and me. Although he never struck us, he hit us with ugly words and left us with broken hearts. He threw practically everything on the ground, making sure that it was broken: phones, fans, televisions, pans, keys, glass. Nothing really lasted too long in our household. I would cry, but that made him angrier. My sister would talk back to him, and that fed more fuel to his open flames. My mother would come back from home after a long day's work only to have to clean up.

The trees covered up what happened in our house, but did it hide the cries? Did we waken the birds? Nights like these were frequent and all too common in my childhood. Sometimes I would sleep in the comfort of my best friend's house in MaĆnoa. I loved her house. It was tranquil and safe. Her house was warm, and her parents were like the ones I saw on TV. They cooked warm dinners and ate together. They had big windows all over the house and a big dog to keep them safe. I was happy to get away from my home, the trees, and the mocking birds.

One day, after staying at my friend's house, I found out from my sister that he did it again while I was gone. I felt bad for her, and I promised her I would not sleep over at my friend's house again. The next day was always different from the night before. He would feel guilty for the pain he had caused, then apologize and promise us that he would never do it again. The only people I trusted were my mom and my sister because another month would fly by and another broken promise awaited us.

My relatives had a get-together as they always did on special occasions. It was on a holiday and all my uncles and aunties were together. I hated them, for they would influence my dad to drink more. They didn't know what we would have to deal with later behind closed doors. The men drank and gambled while the women sat together conversing. An argument between my uncles erupted and everyone went home. My father insisted that my sister and me ride in his car while he drove home, perhaps so he would have a chance to mention how worthless we were and how much he had wanted a boy. I watched as he turned down a one-way street, the wrong way. I could not say anything or else he would get angry; just my talking would upset him. I shut my eyes like the sleeping birds outside my window. Somehow we got home in one piece although our hearts were shattered. And that was just the beginning of the night.

My sister and I were scared, more scared than the other nights. His hands were fisted tightly. His face replicated the suspicious faces of the men that had bothered us on the streets of downtown. I thought he wanted to kill us. Trapped in my room, I stood in front of the window and prayed that we would still be alive tomorrow. I looked at the cold dark street and wished that I were out there instead of being stuck in here. I wished that I could transform myself into a bird, fly away, and mock as I pleased. Oh how I wished I could be a bird. I thought of my friend in Manoa in her bed sleeping like a baby. I couldn't wait to go to school; it was safe there and only five hours away. Finally, my dad left the house and the door was shut. My sister ran to the door to lock him out. Or was she locking us in? She grabbed a kitchen knife to protect us. We hid it between our mattresses just in case. Then she started packing our clothes in our school backpacks. The door, only a few steps away, intimidated us. What might be waiting on the other side of it shook our hearts. I tiptoed to the door, leveling my eye to the peephole, making sure that the coast was clear. I opened it, and as we ran out of the house I could hear a flock of birds flying away from the kukui nut tree.

 

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