Excerpt of Freelove, 2016
Freelove, Excerpt, 2016
Mr. Viliamu had already opened the door before I came around to the passenger side of the pick-up which surprised me.
Thanks! I said, as I smiled at him with appreciation. After all, it’s not everyday that a teacher opened a door for a student, I thought, as I hopped onto the seat, closing the door behind me.
You look nice, said Mr. Viliamu, who was wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt that said
E=MC S.P.I.S.A.
South Pacific Islanders Science Association
University of Papua New Guinea
Port Moresby
1981
This time, I didn’t say anything. Firstly, I noticed almost immediately that the square was missing from Einstein’s theory of relativity, which I had remembered from watching NOVA the other day after school, when we were at Q’s house and she told me to go turn the TV on and that I could watch if I wanted (which was a luxury of course) since we did not own a TV of our own and were in no financial position to get one any time soon. For one, my mother was technically the head of our household since it was her sewing machine that brought in the money and we relied on for a living. However, my mother always deferred to our Uncle Fa‘avevesi who was older than her but hadn’t worked since he lost his left hand in an accident two years ago while working on live electric wires. But that’s a story to continue at another time.
Mr. Viliamu’s missing square on his t-shirt made me wonder whether the South Pacific Islanders Science Association even noticed it themselves or whether it was some deliberate twist that only they knew and laughed at in their own time. And perhaps that’s how things are at university. People are so smart there that they may not notice small things anymore. The small things that matter so much in relation to the big things. Small things make big things whole and complete. And I’m sure Einstein would have thought the same. But who am I but a Form 6 moepi/bedwetter trying to gather as much vocabulary as possible so that I could do what Mr. Viliamu told us to do on that first day of class when he told us to astound ourselves so that we might astound those around us.
But that’s not really why I didn’t say anything to Mr. Viliamu. Why did he think I looked nice? I mean, what was so nice about the way I was dressed in? I asked myself. Was it my hair? Which was in a sloppy fa‘apaku/bun? Or was it my tight jeans? Instinctively, I touched my zippers to see if they were done properly. Just in case that’s what he was referring to. You know how men are, Aunty Pisa, my mother’s sister’s voice flashed through my mind. They want only one thing and they will say and do anything to get it. Was that perhaps what he was responding to? Or was it the picture of Madonna on Litia’s The Virgin Tour t-shirt that I was wearing? After all, I didn’t wear make-up or fancy jewelry or anything that would deliberately draw attention to me. I had been told too many horror stories by girls who had been molested or raped or beaten or abused by strangers and worst by their own family members to ever galavant around drawing attention to myself. I was terrified of boys and men! Terrified!
And since I had this fear of boys and men, I was always on my guard. I read every action and reaction with great care. I didn’t laugh too loudly or too cheery. And when I did, I never showed my gums which is the sign of a Woman of the Night and a slut and a whore said the womanly whispers at my house which meant that I smiled only when it was culturally and socially required and kept my mind firmly on our aiga, family, our lotu, church and on le a‘oga, school. Which is why I thought it odd that Mr. Viliamu would comment on my appearance like that, something he never did at school.
I also found it odd that he kept repeating ‘if you want’ as if I would have any objections to a ride from a teacher who happens to be Nu‘uolemanusa’s oldest pastor’s son, and oddest of all is when he kept referring to me as keige, girl, and not by my name which made me question whether he even remembered me.
How can he not? I asked myself, indignantly.
After all, didn’t he know or have a clue that he was my favorite teacher?
I respected Mr. Viliamu and looked forward to his Science class more than any other class in school.
His class was the reason I woke up daily, to see what fabulous new adventures he was going to introduce us to that day.
I smiled lightly and brushed this oversight aside and looked out the window instead, watching seagulls glide above the waves.
You know what that means, don’t you? said Mr. Viliamu.
Excuse me, Mr. Viliamu? I asked. Not knowing what he was referring to.
You’re looking at the birds, aren’t you?
Yes, I am, Mr. Viliamu. I’m looking at the birds.
And what is your Samoan scientific instinct telling you about those birds?
That they’re hungry? I said, impulsively laughing out loud, which I regretted almost as soon as I had heard the sound as it escaped my tongue.
Is that a good guess, Mr. Viliamu? I asked, wiping the smile off of my face.
That’s a brilliant guess! Yes, they are hungry. It appears they are hungry indeed. The birds are looking for fish. Look! Do you see those other ones to the east?
I quickly scanned the ocean. Embarrassed that I did not know which direction east was, until suddenly I spied on a school of seagulls hovering over a particular spot that I supposed Mr. Viliamu referred to as east.
Yes, I see them, I said. Now they must be really hungry, a ‘ea?
That’s how fishermen know where to direct their canoes, said Mr. Viliamu, with the same authority he used at school, only he was unusually over smiling, as if he was hiding something that had happened to him or something that was about to happen.
I guess that makes sense, I said, excited to learn something new on my way to town.
Yeah, it does make sense, aye? said Mr. Viliamu.
Our people were not only very scientific and mathematical, they had a spiritual connection to their surroundings and read nature’s signs with striking precision. Like those birds out there, for instance. When you look closer at our Samoan language, you will find that it is intricately connected to nature. Do you know where the word manuia comes from?
I shook my head, acknowledging my ignorance. Preferring him to be the one telling me instead.
Of course you do!
We’ve just been talking about it, girl!
We have? I asked.
Ua kai fa‘apea Mr. Viliamu po‘o fea le lalolagi o feoa‘i ai kaliga o lea. Mr Viliamu’s probably thinking where my ears are galavanting about.
Manu and I‘a of course mean bird and fish. The two words when combined forms the word manuia and means good fortune, which is why we say it whenever we wish someone well or after matai drink ava in a circle.
I listened intently to Mr. Viliamu as the breeze caressed both our faces.
He was a walking encyclopedia who knew just about everything there was to know and yet, he always made whatever knowledge he was passing on seem like it was a gift from God and that he was merely the medium with which such a gift was exchanged with those of us who needed to receive it.
Momentarily, I felt lucky and special that he stopped to pick me up. To share this knowledge with my ever curious and hungry mind that seemed to absorb everything he said.
A penny for your thoughts, girl, said Mr. Viliamu, drawing me back into the conversation.
I didn’t know what he meant.
English I’m afraid to say, was not my best subject in school, which meant I paid more attention to it than any of the other classes I loved, like Science, Mathematics, Samoan, Social Studies and Health. I kept vocabulary notebooks and studied them and studied them and studied them until I knew meanings of words but found that there were not too many people in Gu‘usa who spoke it. Perhaps I secretly loved English. Perhaps I didn’t. Perhaps I did and I didn’t. That’s how I felt about English. It was a moody language. At times void of meaning. Empty. Perhaps this feeling of the emptiness of English comes from the blatant fact that I really had no relation to it just as much as it had no relation to me. It wasn’t like my geneaology could be traced through it. Or that the veins in my blood were to be found in its alphabet, the way it is found on my mother’s tattooed thighs. Besides, I did not want to appear fiapoko, like I knew everything, especially before my classmates who struggled with it as it was a language I too found hard to swallow and got stuck always in the middle of my throat, especially when I pronounced words like beach, peach, pig, big, and porridge.
And before I could respond, Mr. Viliamu asked me again.
Why are you so quiet? What are you thinking about? I’d like to know.
Does he really want to know what I’m thinking about or is he just being polite? Besides, why would the thoughts of a 17½ year old girl be of interest to an old man? He’s at least 10, 12 years older than me! Not to mention the fact that he’s a walking encyclopedia who just happens to be our pastor’s oldest son which technically makes him my brother!
Nothing, Mr. Viliamu, I said, not wanting to disappoint him with my lack of enthusiasm.
I’m not thinking about anything. Besides, it’s what you’re thinking of that I’d like to know. Boldly smiling at him, supposing I had said something that he might find intelligent and would be proud of because it originated from him.
But instead he responded quite differently, as if he hadn’t heard what I had said which disappointed me and I showed my disappointment by avoiding eye contact with him and stared instead into the ocean, watching her give birth to waves, listening to them splash onto the lava rocks below the cliffs of Si‘unu‘u which meant we were halfway to Apia.
Mr. Viliamu’s voice echoed suddenly from a far away place, only he was no less than six inches away from me.
You might be embarrassed if I tell you what I’m thinking, he said, rubbing his stomach with one hand as if he hadn’t eaten breakfast as he steered the pick-up truck with his other hand.
What is he saying?
Embarrassed?
Why would I be embarrassed?
Is he going to correct my English?
Should I have said a cluster or a crowd instead of a school of birds?
They’re birds all the same, aren’t they?
But then Mr. Viliamu said something else. Something he spoke through the language of his body movements. He started scratching his knee and my eyes followed his hand as it moved from his knee to his inner thigh so that his shorts shrunk upwards and I caught a glimpse of his pubic hair.
Immediately, my eyes darted out the window.
Not only was I embarrassed, frankly, I became offended not to mention deeply ashamed.
A nervousness entered my body and I thought for a moment that I was going to cry. After all, I had never seen that part of a grown man’s anatomy, and I suddenly found myself thinking about all the males in my family, my Uncle Afatasi Fa‘avevesi, who is my mother’s brother and our aiga’s main matai, lives with his wife Stella behind the fale where my mother Alofafua and her sister Aima‘a, Gu‘usa’s traditional healer, and my grandmother Taeao (short for Taeao‘oleaigalulusa) and Ala (short for Alailepuleoletautua), my grand-aunt who was deaf, lived with all the girls of our family and boys under 13, which included my 12 year old brothers Aukilani (Au) and Ueligitone (Ue), identical twins who loved to play identity tricks on people. The older boys, which included our Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s sons Chris and Emau, as well as our adopted brothers and other taule‘ale‘a or untitled male relatives from either Savai‘i, Manono or Apolima, who are all technically considered my brothers, lived in a house behind Uncle Fa‘avevesi’s house, closer to where the umukuka or kitchen was located.
With all these males around, you’d think I would have seen a full grown man’s penis by now. And yet, the taboos that governed the movements of our brothers in relation to us, their sisters known as the feagaiga or the brother/sister covenant were so strictly observed and highly scrutinized that it meant I’d only witnessed a penis once.
Well, twice actually. But they belonged to my twin brothers Ue and Au who had been circumcised along with their friends and were waddling out of the ocean after one of them was stung by a jellyfish.
It was the funniest sight.
Q and Cha and I teased them so badly that their only form of retaliation were in empty threats that further paralyzed them by the state of affairs they were caught in.
Imagine the fastest boys of Gu‘usa reduced to waddling turtles, calling out that they’re going to ‘get us’ once their penises were healed. Because that’s going to ever happen, ha! It was utterly hilarious and became a family and village joke recounted over and over by the women at suipi whenever they needed light entertainment to break the monotony of someone’s winning streak.
I clung to the image of my brothers and their friends for safety as I was beginning to feel uneasy with Mr. Viliamu.
I didn’t know how I was to ever look into his eyes again with the same confidence he had originally instilled in me at school, now that I had seen something so intimate as his pubic hair.
Perhaps it was an accident, I told myself.
He didn’t mean to expose himself to me deliberately.
But then again, wasn’t he the very same person who told our class that there were no accidents or coincidences? That every action we make creates a ripple in the universe which means that all actions are interconnected?
How then could I possibly unsee what I had just seen?
Instantaneously, I told myself that this was a bad idea.
I never should have accepted Mr. Viliamu’s offer in the first place.
I would have wholeheartedly given up the six tala my mother had given me for bus-fare to sit next to an old man who hadn’t showered in a week in a crowded bus with babies crying and old women smoking Samoan tobacco, and Cyndi Lauper’s Time after Time played over and over and over, not to see what I had just seen.
But it was too late I suppose.
As my Aunty Aima‘a always says, Once a cup of water is spilled, it can never be retrieved.