What did the Haole say to the Podagee?

          My father used to say Portuguese like it mattered, like it wasn’t just a synonym for Haole. He’d talk about the ukulele, but not a single Portuguese player. Sweetbread, but only talk about “Hawaiian” brands. Maybe if you caught a tan, you could pass for hapa, but even then, you knew.
          Even the Japanese have more clout. So what if the Portuguese were picking pineapple beside them. The Chinese, the Filipino, all of them outside the hall like Morales wrote, watching the Portuguese and Puerto-Ricans kachi-kachi, listening to the rhythm of the guiro; the smell of vinadalhos soaking into the street.
          Watchu gon do, move mainland? Worse yet, dey gon tink you one Mexican. Gotta learn Spanish fo get by, propah English fo survive wen you go break yo back fo feed your kids. Get two jobs fo dat one-bedroom wit da view of da freeway and da beautiful grey sky.
          Den wen you come back fo visit your folks, talk story wit your friends. All da guys sitten around drinken beers and eaten poi, you standen there nursen your ninty-tchree cabernet. Dey gon tink dey was right all along, and you, you gon tink bout wat your faddah said, and keep asken yourself wat da fuck one podagee anyway? Drinken wine from one plastic cup, wishen you had sugah fo sweeten da poi, wonderen why you wen leave da mosquito repellant back in your hotel room.

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