A FEW MONTHS AFTER MY twenty-first birthday, a stranger called to give me the news. I was living in New York
at the time, on Ninety-fourth between Second and First, part of that unnamed, shifting border between East Harlem and
the rest of Manhattan.
The line was thick with static.
"Barry? Barry, is this you?"
"Yes.... Who's this?"
"Yes, Barry...this is your Aunt Jane. In Nairobi. Can you hear me?"
"I'm sorry-who did you say you were?"
"Aunt Jane. Listen, Barry, your father is dead. He is killed in a car accident. Hello? Can you hear me? I say, your
father is dead. Barry, please call your uncle in Boston and tell him. I can't talk now, okay, Barry. I will try to call you
again...." That was all.
At the time of his death, my father remained a myth to me, both more and less than a man. He had left Hawaii back in
1963, when I was only two years old, so that as a child I knew him only through the stories that my mother and
grandparents told. They all had their favorites, each one seamless, burnished smooth from repeated use. I can still
picture Gramps leaning back in his old stuffed chair after dinner, sipping whiskey and cleaning his teeth with the
cellophane from his cigarette pack, recounting the time that my father almost threw a man off the Pali Lookout because
of a pipe....
"See, your mom and dad decided to take this friend of his sightseeing around the island. So they drove up to the
Lookout, and Barack was probably on the wrong side of the road the whole way over there-"
"Your father was a terrible driver," my mother explains to me. "He'd end up on the left-hand side, the way the British
drive, and if you said something he'd just huff about silly American rules-"
"Well, this particular time they arrived in one piece, and they got out and stood at the railing to admire the view. And
Barack, he was puffing away on this pipe that I'd given him for his birthday, pointing out all the sights with the stem,
like a sea captain-"
"Your father was really proud of this pipe," my mother interrupts again. "He'd smoke it all night while he studied, and
sometimes-"
"Look, Ann, do you want to tell the story or are you going to let me finish?"
"Sorry, Dad. Go ahead."
"Anyway, this poor fella-he was another African student, wasn't he? Fresh off the boat. This poor kid must've been
impressed with the way Barack was holding forth with this pipe, 'cause he asked if he could give it a try. Your dad
thought about it for a minute, and finally agreed, and as soon as the fella took his first puff, he started coughing up a fit.
Coughed so hard that the pipe slipped out of his hand and dropped over the railing, a hundred feet down the face of the
cliff."
Gramps stops to take another nip from his flask before continuing. "Well, now, your dad was gracious enough to wait
until his friend stopped coughing before he told him to climb over the railing and bring the pipe back. The man took
one peek down this ninety-degree incline and told Barack that he'd buy him a replacement-"
"Quite sensibly," Toot says from the kitchen. (We call my grandmother Tutu, Toot for short; it means "grandparent"
in Hawaiian, for she decided on the day I was born that she was still too young to be called Granny.) Gramps scowls
but decides to ignore her.
"-but Barack was adamant about getting his pipe back, because it was a gift and couldn't be replaced. So the fella took
another look, and shook his head again, and that's when your dad picked him clear off the ground and started dangling
him over the railing!"
Gramps lets out a hoot and gives his knee a jovial slap. As he laughs, I imagine myself looking up at my father, dark
against the brilliant sun, the transgressor's arms flailing about as he's held aloft. A fearsome vision of justice.
"He wasn't really holding him over the railing, Dad," my mother says, looking to me with concern, but Gramps takes
another sip of whiskey and plows forward."At this point, other people were starting to stare, and your mother was begging Barack to stop. I guess Barack's
friend was just holding his breath and saying his prayers. Anyway, after a couple of minutes, your dad set the man back
down on his feet, patted him on the back, and suggested, calm as you please, that they all go find themselves a beer.
And don't you know, that's how your dad acted for the rest of the tour-like nothing happened. Of course, your mother
was still pretty upset when they got home. In fact, she was barely talking to your dad. Barack wasn't helping matters
any, either, 'cause when your mother tried to tell us what had happened he just shook his head and started to laugh.
'Relax, Anna,' he said to her-your dad had this deep baritone, see, and this British accent." My grandfather tucks his
chin into his neck at this point, to capture the full effect. " 'Relax, Anna,' he said. 'I only wanted to teach the chap a
lesson about the proper care of other people's property!' "
Gramps would start to laugh again until he started to cough, and Toot would mutter under her breath that she
supposed it was a good thing that my father had realized that dropping the pipe had just been an accident because who
knows what might have happened otherwise, and my mother would roll her eyes at me and say they were exaggerating.
"Your father can be a bit domineering," my mother would admit with a hint of a smile. "But it's just that he is
basically a very honest person. That makes him uncompromising sometimes."
at the time, on Ninety-fourth between Second and First, part of that unnamed, shifting border between East Harlem and
the rest of Manhattan.
The line was thick with static.
"Barry? Barry, is this you?"
"Yes.... Who's this?"
"Yes, Barry...this is your Aunt Jane. In Nairobi. Can you hear me?"
"I'm sorry-who did you say you were?"
"Aunt Jane. Listen, Barry, your father is dead. He is killed in a car accident. Hello? Can you hear me? I say, your
father is dead. Barry, please call your uncle in Boston and tell him. I can't talk now, okay, Barry. I will try to call you
again...." That was all.
At the time of his death, my father remained a myth to me, both more and less than a man. He had left Hawaii back in
1963, when I was only two years old, so that as a child I knew him only through the stories that my mother and
grandparents told. They all had their favorites, each one seamless, burnished smooth from repeated use. I can still
picture Gramps leaning back in his old stuffed chair after dinner, sipping whiskey and cleaning his teeth with the
cellophane from his cigarette pack, recounting the time that my father almost threw a man off the Pali Lookout because
of a pipe....
"See, your mom and dad decided to take this friend of his sightseeing around the island. So they drove up to the
Lookout, and Barack was probably on the wrong side of the road the whole way over there-"
"Your father was a terrible driver," my mother explains to me. "He'd end up on the left-hand side, the way the British
drive, and if you said something he'd just huff about silly American rules-"
"Well, this particular time they arrived in one piece, and they got out and stood at the railing to admire the view. And
Barack, he was puffing away on this pipe that I'd given him for his birthday, pointing out all the sights with the stem,
like a sea captain-"
"Your father was really proud of this pipe," my mother interrupts again. "He'd smoke it all night while he studied, and
sometimes-"
"Look, Ann, do you want to tell the story or are you going to let me finish?"
"Sorry, Dad. Go ahead."
"Anyway, this poor fella-he was another African student, wasn't he? Fresh off the boat. This poor kid must've been
impressed with the way Barack was holding forth with this pipe, 'cause he asked if he could give it a try. Your dad
thought about it for a minute, and finally agreed, and as soon as the fella took his first puff, he started coughing up a fit.
Coughed so hard that the pipe slipped out of his hand and dropped over the railing, a hundred feet down the face of the
cliff."
Gramps stops to take another nip from his flask before continuing. "Well, now, your dad was gracious enough to wait
until his friend stopped coughing before he told him to climb over the railing and bring the pipe back. The man took
one peek down this ninety-degree incline and told Barack that he'd buy him a replacement-"
"Quite sensibly," Toot says from the kitchen. (We call my grandmother Tutu, Toot for short; it means "grandparent"
in Hawaiian, for she decided on the day I was born that she was still too young to be called Granny.) Gramps scowls
but decides to ignore her.
"-but Barack was adamant about getting his pipe back, because it was a gift and couldn't be replaced. So the fella took
another look, and shook his head again, and that's when your dad picked him clear off the ground and started dangling
him over the railing!"
Gramps lets out a hoot and gives his knee a jovial slap. As he laughs, I imagine myself looking up at my father, dark
against the brilliant sun, the transgressor's arms flailing about as he's held aloft. A fearsome vision of justice.
"He wasn't really holding him over the railing, Dad," my mother says, looking to me with concern, but Gramps takes
another sip of whiskey and plows forward."At this point, other people were starting to stare, and your mother was begging Barack to stop. I guess Barack's
friend was just holding his breath and saying his prayers. Anyway, after a couple of minutes, your dad set the man back
down on his feet, patted him on the back, and suggested, calm as you please, that they all go find themselves a beer.
And don't you know, that's how your dad acted for the rest of the tour-like nothing happened. Of course, your mother
was still pretty upset when they got home. In fact, she was barely talking to your dad. Barack wasn't helping matters
any, either, 'cause when your mother tried to tell us what had happened he just shook his head and started to laugh.
'Relax, Anna,' he said to her-your dad had this deep baritone, see, and this British accent." My grandfather tucks his
chin into his neck at this point, to capture the full effect. " 'Relax, Anna,' he said. 'I only wanted to teach the chap a
lesson about the proper care of other people's property!' "
Gramps would start to laugh again until he started to cough, and Toot would mutter under her breath that she
supposed it was a good thing that my father had realized that dropping the pipe had just been an accident because who
knows what might have happened otherwise, and my mother would roll her eyes at me and say they were exaggerating.
"Your father can be a bit domineering," my mother would admit with a hint of a smile. "But it's just that he is
basically a very honest person. That makes him uncompromising sometimes."