A View From a Broad Read Online Free Page B

did not perform in the middle of a steam room but in the poolside cafeteria next to the steam room. And I always performed en costume. It’s true that occasionally I did wear a towel. But on my head, with some bananas and cashews hanging from it, as part of my tribute to Carmen Miranda and all the fruits and nuts of the world. The audience there treated me with more respect than I deserved, considering I was brand-new at entertaining that many people, clothed or naked, for more than ten minutes at a time. My act, if you could call it that, was more like a mishmash of possibilities than the cogent, noble work I am offering nowadays. I was able to take chances on that stage I could not have taken anywhere else. Ironically, I was freed from fear by people who, at the time, were ruled by fear. And for that I will always be grateful.
    And by the way, just for the record, I never laid my eyes on a single penis, even though I was looking real hard.
    And this:
    Q: What was it like growing up in Hawaii?
    I must confess that the undying popularity of this question is entirely my fault, because I encouraged the asking of it in the first place. I thought it would amuse, and I was right. But I have lived to regret it. Lately I have begun to embroider the tale something fearful, with cockfights, Tong Wars, furious Fire Goddesses, volcanic eruptions, and escapades with all branches of the Armed Forces. This is not to say that all this embellishment is untrue, because I HARDLY EVER LIE. I do, however, forget, so here’s the naked truth as well as I can recall it.
    My first memories of Hawaii are of the oleander bushes that surrounded our apartment house. Their flowers gave off a sweet —almost too sweet—smell, and the white milk that spilled all over your clothes if you picked them was impossible to remove. My mother tried everything. Banana stains were rough too. But my mom wanted us to look great, and we did. We were four, three girls and one boy. My two sisters, Judy and Susan, were older than I, and my brother, Danny, is younger.
    As children we were all dressed alike. My mother loved to sew, and she was terrific at it. She made all the clothes we wore, and I grew up listening to the sound of sewing machines. It was comforting to hear her go at it. In the beginning she sewed, and in the end she only mended.
    The house was always littered, in the early days, with swatches of fabric and other things my mother meant to get to eventually. In one corner of the room were boxes and boxes of patterns that friends had given her, as well as cartons of rickrack, piping, laces and buttons, and a magical thread box with its rows and rows of brightly colored silk threads.
    Throughout my childhood I wore the clothes she made, but I never realized what an artist she was until the day we opened the Crate. For years and years the huge wooden box stood in the living room right by the front door. My mother would never open it or tell us what was in it. Finally, when we moved to our own house and she did open it, she cried. It was her trousseau, and everything in it was made by hand, made by her. Beautiful quilts, embroidered with tiny stitches, sheets, dish towels, antimacassars, doilies, nighties, undies—everything. She never used any of it. It was her finest work. Her Testament to Hope.
    When I turned twelve, Mom decided it was time for me to learn to sew. Both my sisters had had to undergo this ritual, and now it was my turn. What an ordeal! But it was worth it. Finally, I could make the clothes of my dreams, ensembles inspired by the revolutionary Mr. Frederick of Frederick’s of Hollywood. It wasn’t long before I was the only eighth-grader in Honolulu to come to class wearing a flawless copy of Freddie’s Satin Surrender. Of course, Freddie’s version was black. Mine was crimson and lilac. And how could it be otherwise?
    You see, one of the most important differences between a Mainland-born American and your true Island-born wahine, such as