House of Many Gods by Kiana Davenport Page B

last birthing. This is my last request for the placenta.”
    A year hence, there would be a celebration to commemorate the child’s first year.
But
because this was the firstborn, on this day the family gathered for a quiet, solemn meal. This was the
‘aha ‘āina māwaewae
, “clearing away feast” which, through ritual and prayer, and shared food, would keep the child’s pathway into the future safe and unobstructed. It dedicated Makali’i to the family
‘aumākua
, and started her on the road of honor and responsibility.
    During the preparation of the meal, Ana observed how elders assumed importance in their duties. Tito leaned forward in his wheelchair, carefully pouring cups of
‘awa
to be passed around. Noah held down a slippery
ulua
while Ben delicately sliced into it, tracing the flashing knife along the soft white belly. Aunties cut pork butt into luscious hunks for
laulau
. A cousin washed taro leaves. Another spread Hawaiian salt, rich with the memory of seaweed. Rosie was also given food which, by word meanings or sound, conveyed the idea of “clearing and freeing”
—mahiki
, shrimp, for “peeling off,” Limu
kala
, seaweed for “release,”
‘a‘ama
, crab, for “setting loose.” All symbols of freeing the child from forces of misfortune, illness, harm.
    And as they prayed for the mother and child, Ana saw how her family honored the holiness of things—the food, and the tools that served the food. Before he filled the cups, Tito poured a bit of
‘awa
onto the ground, thanking
Lono
for this year’s batch. Ben stroked the belly of the
ulua
and bowed his head, thanking
Kanaloa
for what the sea had yielded, and honoring the fish’s soul still spiraling in waves. Her aunties gave thanks over bowls of
poi
and
poke
, and even asked blessings for the cooking pots and the fires that heated those pots.
    Reflecting on the long, exhausting hours of that day—the birthing, and praying, the taking and sharing of pain, and love—in that momentAna saw how rich they were, how thick their blood coursing the generations. It was a family that did not keep up with time, but rather allowed time to pause, stand still, and catch its breath. A family conjoined and condemned to each other for now, for good, forever. In those moments she understood that these people, and this house, would always be her solace. Her language. And her place. Though she would try to overcome it.

‘ŌULI

Portent
    N IGHT UNDRESSES HER, REMOVING THE WEIGHTS AND EPHEMERA OF memory, so that, unencumbered, she is no longer sure if what is remembered is what actually occurred. In her youth had there really been a young man who had loved her? Had they really been wild and reckless? And, had he lived, would she have married him, giving his child a proper name? Or, would she still have abandoned everything, and run?
    Now, each morning, Anahola irons her hair straight and wedges herself into high heels and somber-colored suits that do not quite fit the shape of her body. She is almost fastidious in how she looks; even her handwriting has changed. Yet she suspects that the city will always read something in her as foreign, a woman to be taught the socially acceptable way
.
    She still feels the terror of revealing her class, her lack of culture. The dissonance between appearance and voice, opinions and vowel sounds. Proper English has become like a delicacy to her. She takes each word into her mouth carefully, her tongue attaching itself to every syllable. English redeems her, gives her worth. With each mouthful her past is further silenced
.
    Yet in conversation sometimes she hesitates, glancing at Max the way children look at parents for guidance in their reactions. Her gestures are fraught with flourishes she has adopted, her speech with fragments of phrases she does not quite understand. Sometimes she mimics Max, his opinions hers, even his expressions, so that altogether she is looked upon with mild curiosity
.
    There is her dark beauty,