The Journey to Oahu and Maui

So, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to write about my trip to Hawaii now. 

People have been asking me about my experiences in the short week I was there. What’s interesting is that I feel like people are expecting the word “fun” to pop out of my mouth. This is partly because people who know me know that I highly value fun. Furthermore, “vacations” are usually fun, right?

But the thing about this trip, though, was that it wasn’t exactly a vacation. It was a journey into the past–into my father’s childhood, and surprisingly my childhood as well. 

We went to the beautiful beaches. We saw exotic plants and smashingly gorgeous mountains. We touched the sand and reveled in the smell of the ocean. We ate all the foods that we could only get there–foods that reminded me of my grandmother and foods that reminded my dad of his parents and grandparents. We devoured guavas and passion fruit, ate rice covered in soy sauce and didn’t think about calories or anything like that. We nourished our five senses in ways that they hadn’t been nourished in years. We behaved as if we had been deprived. 

And it was all so lovely…so lovely to be close to my dad and my daughter. Yes, we had disagreements. We bickered over bedtimes and whether or not we should eat at the expensive restaurant or the cheap one–you know–we disagreed about things that families disagree about. But none of that matters, and actually I had completely forgotten about the bickering until I wrote those sentences just now. None of it matters because we were creating memories while simultaneously soaking up the past.



We spent time with my dad’s friends and family. I couldn’t believe how familiar the pidgin English sounded in my ears. I learned more about the Portuguese influence in the Hawaiian culture. I learned that my dad thought he was his grandpa’s “favorite grandchild,” but it turns out all of his cousins felt that way–because that was the kind of person that Antoine Amorin was–a person who loved his grandchildren dearly and wanted them to each feel special. 


Is it possible to love someone without knowing them? Because that’s how I feel about this man, my great grandpa, Antoine Amorin, in the photo above. He is smoking a cigarette while his grandson, Macky-boy, eats fresh mango. 

Although Macky-boy isn’t my dad, that picture encapsulates my father’s memories of his grandfather. He wanted his grandchildren next to him. He wanted them to feel special, even if he was getting all stern with them for accidentally dropping one of his prized hen’s eggs. 

When we were with friends and family, we received love–love in the form of time, listening, sharing, hugging, kissing, teaching, and gift giving. I felt so much love from family I hadn’t seen in years–or in some cases–never even met. I soaked it all up and convinced my heart that I could pay them back some day for all the memories and love they gave to me.

So, “fun” would not be the word I use to summarize this trip, because it’s simply not deep enough to describe my feelings.  If love were an adjective, I would use the word, “love,” but since it’s not, I will say that I left the islands feeling beloved, cherished, expectant, and enamored with my family and the Hawaiian culture. 


I am revived and planning my next trip back.

My Gift that my Dad Gave Me

My dad witnessed the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

He was only ten months old, a little babe, clutched in my grandpa’s arms. But my grandma used to tell the fateful story of that day when my grandpa innocently walked out of their small, simple home in Wahiawa, Hawaii, in the Schofield Barracks to go outside and show his baby son “the airplanes in the sky.” 

Grandma astutely realized this was no “air show,” and shouted at her husband to get the heck inside. She quickly crawled under a table and continued to beckon my grandpa to get in the house by screaming at the tops of her lungs.

My Grandma Whitehead was born and raised in Paia, Maui. She was the second oldest of seven children, and was the daughter of a Portuguese sailor who retired from sailing to work in the sugar cane fields. She was born in 1912 in Paia, Maui. After graduating from high school, she moved to Oahu and started working in a pineapple factory.

The pineapple factory wasn’t exactly her dream job. In fact, it sucked– long hours, low pay, and not the best working conditions. Since my grandma was clever, though, and not afraid to break some rules, she found a loop hole in the system to get more frequent “breaks.” The pineapple factory required that she wear gloves. However, if a hole formed in an employee’s gloves, the employee was required to obtain a new pair of hole-free gloves. Fortunately, the gloves were stored in a separate warehouse that was quite a walking distance from the factory. While Grandma worked, she would begin to slowly poke holes in her gloves, thereby giving herself the opportunity to go for a long walk to get new gloves, and simultaneously giving herself a break from the monotony of the pineapple factory. Pretty baller, right? 

That was her way of saying, “Take that, you freaking pineapple plutocracy!”

In her late twenties, Grandma met a man and was swept off her feet. He was smooth and charming and they got engaged.

Turns out he was an a$$hat. An alcoholic a$$hat at that. 

Grandma was smart enough to kick his butt to the curb and move on. When she was in rebound mode, she met my Grandpa Whitehead on a blind date. She lucked out on this one, and ended up marrying one of the most kind and gentle souls on earth.  But this blog isn’t about him, so back to Grandma.

Grandma and Grandpa got married and had two children–my dad, Robert Earl, and his younger brother, Rudolph Russell Roy. They affectionately called them Bobby and Roy. 

They lived on an island–a freaking paradise for crying out loud. But my Grandpa, who was originally from Indiana, landed a job working at Stellite–a factory in Kokomo, Indiana. For a man who only had an eighth grade education and was an orphan–this was a great opportunity to move up the pay scale. 

My dad claims his entire family was ecstatic to move to Indiana. It was my grandma’s first time coming to the U.S., or the mainland, as she called it. Hawaii was not yet a state.  My dad said he remembers with excitement, his mother showing him a book with pictures of the Midwest flatlands. To them, it was so different and surreal, and they couldn’t wait to start a new life in such a foreign, flat, miraculous place. 

My dad was eleven years old at the time that they boarded a boat with all of their things and embarked on a new life in the U.S. in a what turns out was a very unexotic place–Kokomo, Indiana.

And that is where the story of my family’s Hawaiian life ends. 

Except for not really. Because now that my dad is aging, he’s becoming quite sentimental. He thinks about his childhood and the everyday beauty that he experienced both with his grandparents in Maui and family and friends in Oahu. Perhaps it was one of the few times in his life where he really felt like he was in a community. Neighbors, extended family, and friends worked together to raise him. They were part of something small that really ended up being something big–because your childhood takes up this humongous part of your soul and just eats up your heart. It paves your way with sounds, smells, and scents that you connect with your entire life and long to experience even when you’re as old as the hills and you have dementia. You may not remember what day it is, but gosh darn it, every time you smell the scent of rose water, it takes you right back to your grandma’s perfume. 

That’s the kind of jacked up tricks your childhood memories play on your brain.  

My dad is now seventy-four years old. He told me a few weeks ago that he wanted–or actually that he needed–to go see Hawaii again one last time. And guess what? This time he’s taking me and Aliana with him. 

And I’m in shock because good crap like this never happens to me. You know how you go to events and people give you tickets with numbers on them, and then they call out numbers on tickets and people win sh** if the  number on their ticket gets called?

Well I’m that kid whose TICKET NEVER GOT CALLED. I’ve never won any thing in my whole damn life, but now I feel like I just won the lottery. I’ve been given this experience by my dad that I can’t even put into words. I haven’t even gotten on the plane yet, but I’m already crying. 

I’m going to get to experience his childhood memories with him.  Three generations will be together, in a place that I could not normally afford to take my child, but my dad is giving us the GIFT of reliving this part of his life with HIM AT OUR SIDE. 

I asked my dad to write down some childhood  memories for me:

“I enjoyed my time in school when I could go to school without shoes and ride down the slanted hill on my bike. I enjoyed playing in the forest area near my house that we were able to walk downhill in some type of woods and swing from tree to tree. I enjoyed visiting my grandmother and grandfather in Maui. My grandfather played cards with me.  I enjoyed going to the movies with my grandfather.  My cousins and I on both Islands had a great deal of fun together. Going to the beaches and seeing how far I could go  riding the waves.  I also enjoyed playing bingo and feeling older being in Schofield Barracks with my parents. Probably my most memorable time was when I left the islands on the boat with everyone coming down to the boat, giving us leis, and watching us leave the island in a beautiful sunset with Hawaiian  music being played.”

On March 24th, I’m taking my dad home. 

A picture of my baller Grandma (Alice Amorin) and Grandpa (Russell) Whitehead, on their wedding day 🙌