It’s 1994 and Continental Airlines has been going down the shitter, They are in Chapter XI bankruptcy, furloughing hundreds of employees, and I’ve been knocked off the 747’s ‘cause they’ve reduced the fleet from nine to five planes.
Flying the DC-10’s has been fun, big plane, same International routes, same Honolulu base, but now, to save money, Continental moves the DC-10 base to Guam. Geri doesn’t want to live on Guam. I want to move to Bali and commute to Guam (only a five hour ride), Geri doesn’t want to live in Bali. “It’s too far from her family ( in Indiana ).”
“But Honey, we are Airline people, we travel free,” I respond.
Truth is, she’s right anyway. I’m going to be traveling a few weeks every month. She’s the one, she and Kiley, now four-years-old, who actually have to live wherever we live, they are the ones who have to be happy, and safe.
Bali’s great, but the health care system sucks. If you become really sick, or get really hurt, you have to get out of Indonesia for any decent medical treatment. Guam’s Guam, people either love it or hate it, I love it, Geri hates it. Living in Hawaii is no longer an option. The commute to Guam, eight hours or more during the winter, would be impossible with so many more senior people than me trying to jump seat. Further, Kiley’s going to be starting school next year, and the public school system in Hawaii is the pits.
A Hawaiian Professor named Trask, a local a Kamaiina Heroine, has guaranteed mediocrity or worse for her people, by championing the cause of teaching and accepting “Pigeon” as a language acceptable in the public school systems…. this was Ebonics years ahead of it’s time. The Honolulu public school system is the bottom of the barrel, grade-wise in all comparative standardized testing. The “Haole” hate factor is also unacceptable to me. White kids (Haoles) are not just discriminated against, they are in physical danger from the local kids in the Honolulu Public School system, I think so, anyway. The fruit of Hawaiian and Haole mixed marriages are called Happas, half Hawaiian, half Haole. We call Kiley a Happa Hebrew, half Catholic, half Jew.
We never had any trouble with the locals, always accepted, ‘cause we’re wild, crazy, genuine and great…. but kids, they’re kids… I just can’t trust the deal for Kiley. Without Kiley it was different, Geri and I were more adventurous, it’s been completely different since our daughter’s birth, in Queen Kaolani Hospital.
We’re getting ready to check out of the Hospital room. Geri’s nursing the baby, I’m packing, and in walks a Candy-Striper with a clip-board. She starts asking questions: “Mother’s name?" I answer.
“Father’s name?” I answer.
“Mother is?”
“Mother is 100% Hawaiian,” I answer, looking over at my green-eyed, freckled, Irish-Catholic wife, who is now staring back at me.
“Father is?” the girl asks, unflinching. “The father is Alaskan Eskimo Indian,” I say.”
Now Geri is staring at me hard, still unable to say anything to me with the girl there. Finally, the Candy-Striper and her clip-board leave. Geri asks, “What was that all about?”
“Honey, that’s for Kiley’s Birth Certificate, for the Bureau of Vital Statistics, they’re gonna have her down as fifty percent Hawaiian and fifty percent Eskimo, she’s gonna get free land, free college….”
Geri explodes at me “You’re not starting my daughter’s life out on a FUCKING LIE… You’re not starting my daughter’s life out on a FUCKING LIE, I don’t care what you do with yourself, but
Five minutes later I’ve kinda got the message that my straight wife from Indiana is serious, Geri definitely doesn’t want me to start Kiley’s life out on a fucking lie. Now I have to find the Candy-Striper with the thirty-caliber pencil. She is three rooms down by now.
“Excuse me, there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, … Mother’s Caucasian, Father’s Caucasian.”
Bent as I am, I still regret having changed the Birth Certificate back to the truth.
We are going to have to leave Hawaii, Kiley’s birthplace, after eight great years, and head back to “the Mainland.”
I’m in a hotel room in Houston, training (going through JOE, Initial Operating Experience) on the MD-80, and we are moving to Florida. The phone rings and it’s Stigo, he’s not drunk… strange, and he’s got a message to impart.
“Stevo, Tower Air is hiring.”
“What’s a Tower Air?” I ask.
“They’re the highest paid American Carrier, average two years into the left seat, a fleet of only 747’s…”