Changing Hawaii
By Diane Yukihiro Chang
Monday, April 15, 1996
"You look much younger in person than in the newspaper," The Inquisitor says with steely eyes. "Do you color your hair?"
Yes, I answer, because I want people to listen intently during conversation. When I don't color my hair, they keep looking up at the top of my head - distracted by the tufts of white among the jet-black waves - instead of in my eyes, like you are now.
"And you wear make-up," The Inquisitor continues, scrutinizing my face. "Why bother putting on lipstick and eyeliner if you consider yourself liberated?"
Because I want people to listen to what I have to say, without first discounting it for any fallacious reasoning. For example, if I didn't groom at all and then said that women shouldn't be judged on their outward appearance but on their inward qualities, skeptics might think I'm some sort of frustrated beauty queen, wouldn't they?
"Well, then, why are you eating a salad? Are you like all women who inevitably are on diets because they think they are too fat?"
Women only think they're too fat because men overtly or covertly tell them that they are too fat. When men idolize the thin-but-busty cheerleader babe or Playboy pin-up, it's obvious what traits are deemed important to them. If this world were run by women, believe me, girth would not be a major measurement of success. And, by the way, I happen to like salad.
"Now I've got you! Why are you wearing pantyhose? Why not shun that uncomfortable binding inflicted on women by fashion?"
Because women have to try harder in the corporate world. Men in Hawaii have got it made. They can wear aloha shirts or pullover Polos to work every day of the week, because of the alleged tropical weather. Some don't even own a suit. But women are still trying to make it onto the list of highest paid corporate chieftains. And they are not going to do it by dressing casually. That means skirts and blouses, dresses, leather shoes and pantyhose - unless of course you want to get blisters.
"You are one strange lady," The Inquisitor says. "You shouldn't even be sitting here with a stranger like me. You should have left when I started asking questions. Why didn't you?"
Because I was here first. Because crime has cut out too many options for women in Hawaii. Because when we are the victims of crime, we are made to feel like it's somehow our fault, that we should have been at home cowering under the covers.
Because the vast majority of people in these islands are actually kind, decent and friendly. And we keep forgetting that because we read about the exceptions in the newspaper or see them carted off to jail in handcuffs on the TV newscast. But in actuality, we are all neighbors on this cozy volcanic rock called home.
APPARENTLY out of questions and looking somewhat more enlightened about the struggle of the emancipated woman, The Inquisitor shakes my hand and waves aloha before walking briskly away.
Phew, that was close, I say to myself as I gather up my opala. Thank goodness The Inquisitor didn't ask why I chew with my mouth closed. It's embarrassing to admit that my mom told me to.