The Goddess Speaks
The Goddess Speaks
Bachi renders me
clueless in SeattleCALL IT bachi. I'm getting payback for all the years I spent laughing at tourists posing for snapshots in front of the statue of "Kammy-hammy-hay" before heading to "Ay-la Mo-ay-nah" Center to pick up souvenirs, or making sport of malihini driving from "Nanny-cooh-lee" to "Kay-knee-oh-hee" to get on "Licky-licky" Highway.
After 51 blissful years of letting such names as Waianae, Nuuanu, Kaimuki and even Kamakawiwo'ole fall liltingly off my tongue, I have been transported to the Seattle area, where I have no idea if it's "Scag-it" or "Skay-jit," for Skagit, and where confusion over "Less-shee," "Lee-shy" or "Less-shy" for Leschi has me feeling shy.
I've been calling the town of Poulsbo "Pools-bo," like a complete fool, and nobody bothered to tell me it's "Pauls-bow." I dropped big bucks over four months at the furniture store IKEA before I learned that it's "Eye-key-ah" instead of "Eye-kay-ah." Now I see-a that money does talk, and nobody cares if it mangles its vowels.
Of some comfort, the locals here have difficulty with the area known as Pullyap. All are agreed that despite the spelling it would be very wrong to call the place "Pull-ee-up," but no one seems to know whether it would be very right to go with "Pew-al-up" over "Pwee-al-up," and both versions are used.
Being of Asian ethnicity, I am seriously considering cultivating an accent. Then no one will look askance if I mangle another area name. It's come to that. I have no shame. A fake accent, however, will not prevent me from getting lost.
As a longtime Honolulan, I wrestle with directions given in terms of north and south. I long for something like Diamond Head and Ewa to tell me where I am. Alas, all I have is the sure knowledge that if I end up in Canada, I've gone north.
Despite the proximity in the west of the body of water known as Puget Sound, too often east and west confound me as well.
See, this is hilly country, and sometimes, lost in a downward dip, you can't tell which way that darn sound is. Compounding the confusion is Lake Washington, on the east side of Seattle. After spending panicky minutes driving around in circles -- easy once you're out of sight of the Space Needle -- it's amazing how much alike the sound and lake are. Both are good-size, with land on the other side and mountains as well: Cascades across the lake, Olympics above the sound, meaning makai is also mauka!
Because Seattle was planned by two different, disagreeing men, the streets don't quite meet up. That is to say, Fourth Street will take a jag where you leave one planner's work and enter the other's, and between the two ends is the Seattle Center. So you search for a way to meet up with the rest of Fourth and discover that Seattle sure has a lot of one-way signs, necessitating a lot of unplanned turns.
As you continue to wander, you find yourself at uncommonly many steep stops. Remember those hills? Some intersections are so hairy that you quickly see the benefit of trading the five-on-the-floor for an automatic transmission paired with good brakes.
Then it starts to rain. Wet, cold and lost, you're clueless in Seattle. You remember, with longing, the sun and warmth of Hawaii; your grasp of who, what, when, where and even why in Hawaii. You let yourself wallow in self-pity.
Bachi. Big time. Then, you remember that eventually, malihini reached a point where they could not only say but even became keiki o ka aina. It just took time.
Hawaii will always be home, but Seattle is the home of your future. And your future beckons brightly, and you finally figure it out. From now on, let your husband and child do the driving, and you can blame them for getting lost.
Marilyn Ige is a former Star-Bulletin copy editor.
The Goddess Speaks runs every Tuesday
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