Nonfiction by Linda Petrucelli
I spot my friend Malia among a squadron of women wearing flowery muumuus, shooing flies off a table laden with breadfruit. She’s invited me to the groundbreaking for a Marshallese community center and my husband Gary and I have just arrived at their out-of-the-way patch of volcanic real estate. I had helped Malia find support to take over the property and I anticipate being welcomed as a VIP, Pacific Islander style.
When she sees me, she waves.
“Yokwe, Leenda!” She is small-boned, with hair to her waist, a Polynesian Munchkin.
Malia is part of an exodus from the Marshall Islands who have migrated to Hawaii, refugees of rising sea levels and the health impacts of US nuclear testing. “Yokwe, Malia!” I repeat, recognizing the greeting, but not exactly sure what it means. We meet under a popup canopy flying turquoise, white and orange balloons, the colors of the Marshallese flag.
Gary, who has accompanied me for moral support and chauffeur services, is quickly dispatched to the crowd of men setting up folding chairs. Then Malia shows me a bolt of cloth which she cradles like a baby.
“Put this on now.”
“Excuse me?” I take a step back.
“You put this on now.” She presents the folded fabric with two hands. “Marshallese dress. Beautiful.”
Even after twenty years, I’ve never felt comfortable wearing the flamboyant frocks of my adopted home. My standard dress code is a black tee and jeans. But there is no escaping my plight. To refuse this gift would be insulting, so I relinquish the last shred of my autonomy, step inside a makeshift lean-to where the bathroom is located, and lock the door behind me.
Wild panic surges and my tee sticks to my skin like damp carbon paper. I unfold the dress and hold it up against my body. The Mother Hubbard, hand-stitched in the vibrant colors of their flag, appears to be an XS, suitable for a woman my size twenty-five pounds ago.
I strip down to my sports bra and briefs, then poke my head into the neck opening, sans hook and eye, snap, or even a button, and pull down as hard as I can. The seam stretches a little and my skull pops through, turning my hair into a fright wig and scraping my prominent, non-Marshallese nose.
Right around this time, Gary has graduated from folding chairs and is now in charge of grilling the ribs which, for a vegetarian, is a challenge.
With the dress bunched around my neck, I bend over to locate the sleeves. I squeeze my limbs into the tight pathways, two freighters navigating the Suez Canal, and immediately cut off the blood supply to my arms. If I was reasonably assured that I could get my perspiring body out of the dress, I would have called it quits and returned the gift with profuse apologies. But the patriotic straitjacket leaves me no choice, and I begin tugging the fabric hipwards.
When I strain the cloth over my haole butt, the material is so taut, I have to cross one thigh over the other to inch it down. What should be a flowing shift, on me, has become a slightly obscene, skin-tight shroud. I look like a Beluga whale wearing teal and tangerine.
Gary, now concerned by my absence, texts me: They want me to sing with them. Where R U? But the message never arrives. No cell service.
When I finally emerge, I mince my way into the daylight, hoping I will be able to breathe soon. Applause greets me and a cadre of Marshallese women appear to salute the flag I’m wearing. Malia whispers, beautiful, and adorns my forehead with a cowrie shell head lei that, due to my cramped posture, drunkenly tilts toward my nose.
I wish I was able to get into the spirit of things and enjoy myself. But I nearly fell over when I posed for photographs shoveling ceremonial soil, the garment interfering with my balance. And then there was the problem of sitting down and attempting to consume any quantity of food or drink, especially liquids. I’m sorry not to have fully appreciated the Marshallese haunting, acapella voices, their massive hospitality and joy. But I find joviality difficult when I wear a tourniquet from the neck down.
I sit next to Malia under the shade of a monkeypod tree and lean against her shoulder. “Remind me what Yokwe means.”
“You are a rainbow.”
Later, as we’re about to drive home my husband tells me, “Hey—nice dress!” I lower my rear end onto the car seat, swing my hobbled legs inside, and reach for the seatbelt. A rip sounds from under my right armpit. He asks me, “Don’t you want to change first?”
Finally, Gary puts the key in the ignition and the motor roars to life. He looks over at me, grins, and says, “Yokwe!”
“Shut up and drive,” I tell him. “I’m so over the rainbow.”
Linda Petrucelli’s essays have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her work has appeared in Parhelion, Barren, and Permafrost, among others. She’s lived in Hawaii for the last twenty years. Read more at: https://lindapetrucelli.com
