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Smell
bad girls?
That's a new one. I didn't know aswangs could smell my
naughty musk.

I
said nothing. I didn't even look at her. I'm sure she sensed that
something was different about me. She told me to go downstairs and
shower and eat. I guess she didn't smell the urine that colored my
legs, because if she did, she would have whacked me on the behind. If
she did, I just would've jumped a little, but that's it. I wouldn't
have made a peep. Wouldn't wanna give her the satisfaction.

As
I showered, I began to daydream of ways to kill my mum. What was the
best way? Cops were smart. I felt like I was trying to scrub and
shower off all this guilt. How dare I think of such vile, evil things
toward my mother? It was folly. Hell was waiting. I knew Satan could
hear me. He was saying, “Good, goood,” as he rubbed his
hands together. “I can smell her naughty musk. Mmmmm!”

I
sat down in the tub, hugged my knees, and wept a real good one.

A
few minutes later, I started thinking about having a
new
mum,
a loving mum, a mum that would
talk
instead of
hit
...treat
me like someone special. I wanted respect. This idea gave me hope –
lifted me, sent my heart racing, soaring. I was inspired. I shampooed
my hair and smiled.

Fine.

The
scorpion woman can live.

I
had a new goal in life. I wanted a new mother – Mandy's mother.
Each day at her house was Heaven – free cupcakes, free soda,
free cartoons, on and on. Her name was Sherry, and I loved her more
than anyone, even more than my own friends; even more than Mandy. So
whenever Mum came a'knocking, I wept. Hard. I let it all come out in
Sherry's arms. I left that house kicking and screaming, wanting
Sherry to say to my mum, “Hey! Devil! Leave that kid alone!”

She
just kept silent, though. I didn't blame her. My mum was spooky.
Beefy. Manly. She had these wide eyes surrounded by all this meat. In
all those years she was my mother, how many did I spend looking into
those beef-eyes? Not much, I can tell you. I remember her feet a lot,
though. She always wore these old sandals. They looked out of place
in these modern times. They were like things someone that lived in a
village would wear (of course). I always wondered: If I somehow got
Mum to wear more modern – hipper – clothing, would that
change her personality? Would it exorcise those old beliefs out of
her brain? Of being afraid to sleep right after taking a shower
because it
could
make you blind? Of whistling at night because
it
could
call demons to you? Of being pregnant because it
could bring an aswang to her home?

She
tried to kill me, you know – when she found out I was inside of
her. Mum told me this many times, right after hitting me, said it
right to my face, nose-to-my-damn-nose. She tried to kill me because
aswangs can smell the baby inside pregnant people. “Can smell
the shite.” FLASHBACK: Mum considers me a threat. I have to
come out before the monster comes, so she falls down the stairs a few
times. When that doesn't work, she runs into a busy street...and a
car hits her square in the stomach. Then I am born. “True
story,” Mum said. “Now off to bed with you. Momma has to
watch her stories on the magic box with all those people inside.”

Magic
box?

God.
What a drunk.

I'd
always hear these interesting, yet depressing tales on Mum's less
sober mornings, right before she made me breakfast and sent me off to
school. When I came home at around three, I'd always find her in the
closet, weeping in Filipino about things I didn't care any more to
understand.

“Just
rush upstairs and do your homework,” I always told myself. “Get
good grades so you can move out – live in your own nice (and
sane) place with wonderful, cute cats. It'll be great, but it'll take
work. Don't stop believing. Oh, and you're talking to yourself again.
Stop that. Guys find that unladylike.”

Honolulu,
Hawaii. We lived in a bad part of the island. The projects. In
Kalihi. Every night I'd hear gunshots out my window (maybe
fireworks?), including screaming, babies begging, glass shattering
(meaning fists flying through windshields), cars halting, mopeds
being stolen, cats being stepped on, and, worst of all, my neighbors
beating the Holy Hell out of their kids with these bamboo brooms.
Gadzooks. And these are grown-ass men being beaten – pleading
for their parents to stop. Samoans aren’t soft on discipline.
And there was a reason for it, too. For the family next door, at
least, it was all in the name of God. A lot of these kids/adults that
were beaten would join gangs, and...well, like I said earlier...rinse
& repeat.

There
were many,
many
gang beatings, too, back in those early 90's.
The news would be filled with reports. 80% of the time it would
involve a high school. As a young girl growing up in a place like
that, how do you survive? Two options here: Join a gang and get
protection, or keep your mouth shut and your eyes to the grass. So I
took the last choice. For years I did that – never looking up
when I walked ANYWHERE. Down, down, just always look down. And walk
fast
.

There
was one gang member who comes to mind. He was a member of the Samoan
gang SOS (Sons of Samoa). He was what I considered to be one of the
good guys. One day, I was walking to Fern Elementary school, and all
these guys – and some girls – surrounded me, getting
ready to mess up my day. Not because they wanted anything; they were
just bored. One of them grabbed at my backpack. Then this guy comes
jumping out from the bushes and starts throwing people left and
right. We were right next to a busy street, and I was afraid he'd
fling a few over. I didn't want this gentle giant charged for murder.

He
took my hand and dragged me away. We ran to St. John's church and sat
on the stairs. The doors were bolted shut by this huge metal rod. It
was yellow for some reason. I opened my bag and gave him some juice.
Turns out he didn't want to be in a gang any more. He wanted out. He
wanted to be a priest, just like his grandpa. That's why he dragged
me to the church, see? He liked it there...said it soothed him...kept
him from murdering people.

“I
want to be a priest so bad, man. My bones want it,” he said. “I
can feel it in my bones.”

But
first, he had to change his name. He always felt guilty about his
name. I sipped my juice and looked at him in an odd way.

“If
I may ask, what
is
your name?”

He
stood up and put his fat hand on the church doors. He closed his
eyes, as if sucking in some invisible power.

“Vee.”

I
shrugged.

“That's
not so bad. What's your last name?”

“Negar.”

“I'm
sorry, did you say...”

He
spun around fast. Juice came out my nose, I was so scared. Vee pumped
his fist at me.

“YES,
MY NAME IS VEE NEGAR. LIKE VINEGAR. Do you have a problem with my
name? Do you want to laugh?”

“Jesus,
no,” I said, ready to bolt if this dude got nuts. “At
least you have a cute name.”

His
eyebrows came together, eyes getting beady.

“Yeah.
Guess that's true. Listen, I didn't mean to get all scary on you.
Sometimes my temper blows up, is all.”

A
truck drove by. A small dog was in the back, barking. Vee calmed
down.

“Damn
my life. As if my last name wasn't bad enough. Most teachers hate me
just because of my last name...but it doesn't help that I look scary.
Because I have muscles.” Only he pronounced the C, so it came
out like “mus'kles”.

“I
don't think it's a bad name. I think it's unique.”

“Who's
that?”

“It's
not a person. It means special. YOU'RE special.”

He
was quiet for a long time. I got scared. Was he losing his mind
again? Was he going to hit me?

“You
think I'm
special
?”

“Are
you mad again?”

“I
think I'm going to cry.”

“Oh,”
I exhaled in relief. “Good?”

He
pressed his face against the church doors and spread his arms out,
like he was trying to hug the whole building. He wept.

“I
didn't mean to scare you. I don't want to scare anyone any more. I
don't want to hurt anyone any more. I don't want to rob anyone any
more. I don't want to throw backpacks up telephone lines any more. I
don't want to throw kids up rooftops any more. I want to be
good
.
I want to be a motherlovin'
priest
and go to Heaven. It's the
only guarantee I know.”

“
Go
to Heaven? I thought we G
rew
to Heaven.”

“I
don't understand anything you're saying to me right now.”

I
explained to him that he JUST had to get out of the gang he was in,
that he JUST had to stop stealing mopeds and all that jazz. He
nodded. It was true. He would have to change who he was to become the
man he wanted to be, and it wasn't going to be easy. Killing old
habits and developing new ones was rough. Could he do it? I hoped so.

A
few days later I was watching the news, and a large black and white
photo of Vee popped up. The rice I was eating flew out from my nose,
I was so shocked.

Vee
was
dead
.

It
was gang related (le sigh). He and some friends were attacked inside
Tony's Toy Shop. They were just in there, shopping and not causing
any trouble, when a rival gang, wearing black shades, crashed their
mopeds through the glass entrance and shot up the place. I cried with
my hands over my mouth while the news woman yacked. Poor Vee had his
head beaten in by a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. Before
fleeing the scene, the rival gang poured whiskey all over the scene
for some reason. The police said it was out of respect. I was
confused.

Tony
himself was on TV, interviewed by an unseen man with the lowest and
manliest voice in the world. Tony appeared to be a high strung Korean
fellow. His speech was fierce.

“They
come here! Junk up my store!”

“I
see,” said the reporter with the manly voice, “and where
were
you
when they did this inconvenient act?”

Tony
paused, as if too embarrassed to say.

“I...I
jumped into a pile of dolls. I was so scared. Oh, sweet Jesus,
forgive and forget!”

(Man
cries.)

“Shh,
sir. It's okay.
You're
okay.... For now.”

“No!
It's not my fault! If he wasn't in a gang, this never would have
happened! Stupid kids and their ways. This would never have happened
back home, in Yuma.”

My
mum turned off the television and looked at me like she was looking
down the barrel of a shotgun.

“See
that?
That's what happens when you're a bad little girl and
join a gang, sneaking into crypts and looking for blood or whatever
these hoodlums do.” She went into the kitchen to wash dishes
and complain to herself some more. “If you're bad, yup, God
kills you,” she said. “There's the proof in the pudding,
mmm-hmm.”

Proof
in pudding? What does that even mean?

I
wanted to punch her lights out. How dare she say that God wanted Vee
dead? He was a fine kid! I wanted to tell her how I was almost
hijacked, how Vee saved me...how he wanted to quit the bad life to be
a priest.

I
stood right up, straightened my back, and pointed an accusing finger
in my mum's general direction.

“I
wish
YOU
were dead!”

I
heard a dish drop, shattering.

Mum
walked out from the kitchen, dazed. She looked like a zombie. The
eyes were wide...dead...HYP-no-tized.

My
legs wanted to run. I didn't move. This was a life-changing event. I
had
to stand my ground. I
had
to be heard. This was
important, but believe me when I say my heart was pounding in my
ears.

Mum
had a glass cup in her hand. Her face exploded with rage, reminding
me of a snarling dog that once chased me all the way to school a few
years back. Mum shut her eyes and screamed and THREW the glass at me,
hitting me in the cheek with a
Thunk!

I
was knocked out real good.

No
dreams that night.

Before
we go any further, I want to share a letter with you that I found
when my mum was out getting drunk and fooling around with dudes from
Pearl Harbor. Yes, I looked through her stuff, but what else does a
bored kid do when they're home alone? Anyway, I remember finding it
in her closet, under a stack of “educational” magazines.
The letter kinda just fell out from between some sticky pages. I
don't have the thing on me. I didn't save it. But it's in my memory
in bits and pieces. I think you'll find it interesting. Enjoy.

I
gathered the gang and went to that weird church again. Something
truly strange is going on up there. Everyone wanted to drink under
the bridge, but I said NO. They listened. They always do. And that's
why I love my friends. They always do as I say. All these cars headed
for the church. We followed on foot. Some of us said forget it and
stayed behind. Guess who? Right. Jim and Lisa. Said they were too
spooked by the church and preferred to go back and get drunk under
the bridge. It was just the two of them there, and I'd bet dollar to
donuts drinking wasn't the only thing they were doing.

To
hell with him. I always knew he was scum. People telling me he liked
me – LIES. Him calling me all the time, saying how he's there
for me, how he hated you-know-who for leaving me. All LIES.
Everything out of his mouth. But that night I said screw it. Let him
gets AIDS. Oh, you didn't know? Yup. Lisa's got the HIV. I could tell
Jim all about it. Save his life. But...nahhh.

We
reach the church. Me,
Ca'leen, and Mr. Skinny-ass
Fernando. See? Now here's a guy I could see myself getting it on
with. Disgustingly skinny, yes, but at least he's nice. Respectful.
And he's getting his degree in accounting. So I think that's a good
thing. Whenever I think of accountants, I think of lots of money. So
that's covered, yeah, but it would be nice if I could maybe put some
meat on his bones. I don't wanna be humping no skeleton. His hips
must be like daggers. Whatever. It's all right. I can change him.