1.18.99

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.' … I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character."
--Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (1963)

well, so much for a clean desk. I'm back to living in virtual squalour again. Maybe I should say still. It kind of stays that way most of the time. Oh well, at least it is my mess, I take full responsibility for it at all times.

Yesterday, I attacked the back yard, and went so far as to even go down to the stream and re-arrange the rocks. It's a nice zen-like thing to do, I think. Maybe it's the untapped Hawaiian in me coming out with this untamed desire and need to stack rocks on top of each other. Whatever was the desire, I did it, and now I am paying the price for it in sore muscles. It was worth it, though. I cut back a lot of the ginger that grows along the house, and also did some general housekeeping. I say, there is something about swinging a machete that makes me feel sooo butch. That and the fact that I was not wearing any underwear. WooHoo!

I'm going to round out my handwritten story that I started with the previous entry with a thingie on why I like to ride the bus. Yup. I do.

Every morning, I board the #7 and roll down the hill to work, which is a mere 3 or so miles away, so my actual bussing experience is less than 15 minutes in actuality. There are mostly old Filipino people of various abilities on my bus, so I am usually the only caucasian present most days. That's okay, though. I've become such a fixture, I'm sort of an honorary Filipino. At least they don't babble on in Ilocano and point at me anymore. A couple of them will even be brave enough to say "Good Morning, Sir" and sit next to me. They are all quite nice.

There is a really bizarre group of ladies that I oft times encounter walking the streets of Kalihi. They always walk in a very deliberate, slow fashion, as if to preserve the air in front of them and not create a wake. I think of them as the "three sisters," after the old greek (I think) mythological story.

Individually, one would probably pass them over, but in their formation of three, they are hard to miss. All are fairly well, if not tastefully dressed. Each of them today wears those stretchy velour capri pants, two of them in black one in a really pretty dark green. They wear various sparkly tops, and each carries one or two large bags, one of which is a Louis Vuitton rip-off. I see them all the time around my workplace, and frequently at the 7-11 I practically live at.

They live under the freeway. Nimitz highway, to be exact.

It's funny. When you associate homeless people, what comes to mind? Ill groomed? Smelly? Mentally dysfunctional? Syphilitic? Lepo (dirty)? I'll admit it, for the majority of them are what we in normal parlance would call "bums." These three are vastly different, though. Their hygiene is near perfect; grooming exquisite thanks to a bath house at the Keehi Lagoon boathouse which has showers, and they dress as well as any Korean bar hostess, despite their obvious limited resources.

The thing that concerns me is the fact that I believe that they subsist entirely on Slurpees. In that light, I've made a little deal with the gang at 7-11 to occasionally pass them a hot dog or two at my expense. It's not a lot, but it is something that I can handle, and it makes a difference in their lives, and entitles them to all the free catsup packets they can handle. After all, the Department of Agriculture calls catsup a vegetable under the School Lunch program.

And what the government sez is good, right? Riiiight.

People just don't understand the reasons that I have for riding the bus. Aside from the obvious ecological reasons, I have an entirely different group of nice, down to earth people that I see at least weekly, and say hello to. You can't do that in your car with the windows rolled up and the stereo blasting.

Take for instance, my very attractive autistic friend, Blaine. I think he's pretty cool, even if all of the pegs don't line up. The poor guy gets frustrated by the fact that his brain doesn't line up, and most people are disturbed by that, but I'm not. He asked me something odd the other day, while we were waiting for the bus home. He said he needed to use the bathroom. we were standing at a bus stop, unfortunately, with nary a facility for miles. He repeated his desire, so I had the feeling that it was urgent. I told him to go over by the dumpster in front of the school, which he did, returning moments later with a smile on his face. He came back, asked what I was writing in my notebook (which was this) and informed me that my handwriting ws horrid. that's not a big surprise. It is.

A final thought. Had he not been blasted out of the water in 1968, MLK Jr. would be 70. I still think his dream has a way to go, but I also think he'd be happy with the progress that has been made. Others would disagree, and maybe even argue that as a Caucasian, I have no right to comment on the struggle of African Americans, but that attitude is exactly what is keeping the movement from moving forward.