Prints in the Sand: My Journey with Nanea

When I tell Nanea I want to watch the hula, I secretly cross my fingers and toes, hoping she won’t drag me up to dance beside her. But Nanea’s whole face brightens, and she promises to help me find a seat. She asks Lily to tell her mom, who is running the cookie giveaway, that we won’t be at the meeting. Lily’s face falls, but she nods and slips back inside.

Nanea leads me down the hallway and asks, glancing back as though she expects Mom to be trailing behind me, whether she came along, too. I explain that it’s really just my babysitter watching me and my little brothers on the beach today. I add that Mom works constantly and even though Dad moved out here with us, he’s stationed overseas now. Everything tumbles out of me at once, like a faucet someone forgot to shut off, and I wonder why I told her so much.

Nanea’s expression darkens. Her brother, David, enlisted in the army recently, too. He hasn’t shipped overseas yet, but it won’t be long. These days, it feels like the whole island is enlisting, ever since Pearl Harbor was bombed.

Bombed. Something clicks into place in my head. Back when we first arrived on Oahu, Mom brought us to see a memorial built where Japanese planes had sunk a ship right there at Pearl Harbor. Hearing Nanea talk about it now, it hits me—this isn’t just some trip into the past. I’ve landed in the thick of World War II.

My knees wobble, and my hand drifts up to my necklace. I can leave for home whenever I choose, I remind myself, but I only just met Nanea, and I’m nowhere near ready to go. Steadying myself with a breath, I fall back into step beside her.

Nanea asks me if I’ll eventually have to leave the island, the way her friend Donna and her mother left to go to San Francisco since they weren’t originally from Hawaii. I admit that yes, I’ll probably move again. Once Dad gets home, I think to myself. When she asks where I’m actually from, all I can manage is a shrug. After so many moves, I’ve lost track of how to even answer that.

Nanea tells me Oahu is the only home she’s ever known, and she doubts she’d ever want to leave it. She admits the war has changed how the island feels, but it’s still home, and just saying the word makes her grin. Before I can respond, a sharp bark bounces down the hallway, and a small dog wrestles free from a teenage girl’s grip to dash toward us.

Laughing, Nanea scoops the dog into her arms and introduces her as Mele. The teenager, her older sister Mary Lou, calls out for Nanea to hurry up and change. We don’t want to keep Tutu waiting.

As soon as Mary Lou’s back is turned, Nanea shoots me an eye roll, teasing that they’re usually the ones stuck waiting on Mary Lou to finish her hair. Then she tucks Mele under her arm and steers me toward the stage, insisting we can’t keep Mary Lou, or the audience, waiting.

Nanea settles me into a front-row seat squeezed between two soldiers, which feels odd until I realize it feels like sitting next to Dad. Once the curtains part, an older woman with silvery hair, not unlike Auntie Oli’s, steps up to introduce the opening act. A cluster of small girls, hardly older than my brothers, pad out barefoot in bright skirts and dance with far more energy than skill. When one veers sideways and knocks into the others, I have to swallow a laugh. They’re so adorable!

Mary Lou takes the stage next, swaying beside a line of older girls, her hands weaving a story I can’t follow but wish I could. Then the announcer calls Nanea’s name, and she steps into the spotlight in a skirt woven from ti leaves, a flower lei, and more flowers pinned in her hair. She flashes me a secret smile just before the music starts.

And then, Mele comes onstage, too, decked out in her own tiny skirt, popping up onto her hind legs beside Nanea while the soldiers around me hoot and holler. By the time the song finishes, I’m cheering right along with everyone else, baffled at how Nanea ever trained Mele to do that. Once Mary Lou and the older dancers file back onstage, Nanea turns to the crowd and asks if anyone wants to try learning the kaholo.

My hands go clammy, and I fix my eyes on my shoes, praying Nanea won’t call on me. Thankfully, the soldier next to me volunteers instead. He climbs up and fumbles his way through the steps, awkward just like I know I would be, and relief floods through me when the crowd laughs at his missteps instead of mine.

Once the show wraps up, Nanea finds me and eagerly asks if I enjoyed it. I tell her, and mean it, that she and Mele stole the whole performance. When I ask her about training Mele, she says they drilled the tricks over and over, just like her grandmother teaches her. Grinning, she grabs my hand and pulls me backstage to introduce me to her tutu, her grandmother, who’s currently untangling a young dancer from her costume.

Before I can get a word in, Nanea’s eyes light up with an idea. She invites me to dinner at her house that evening, saying her tutu kane, her grandfather, will be there, too. Maybe I could even sleep over. I agree instantly. When she offers to tag along while I check with my babysitter, I insist on going alone instead, saying it’ll be quicker. Rather than head outside, though, I slip around a corner to catch my breath. I think I just made my first real friend on Oahu. Mom would be thrilled.