Caroline Sinavaiana, associate professor of English at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, was born in 1946 on Tutuila island in eastern Sāmoa. Her scholarly research has been supported by the Ford and Fulbright Foundations, and her international work in community-based theatre arts has been supported by the Rockefeller Foundation. She has published two collections of poetry and her scholarship and creative writing appear in international journals. Her book on satirical Sāmoan theatre is forthcoming in 2010/11.
Ia manuia lau faigāmalaga
Pako ‘Uli: safe journey
To the daughter of Amoa
Where women woo the men.
To the bird from the mountain ridge
That fishes in two seas.
To a great nest on the high ridge.
Daughter of the sacred thunder
May her lightning blaze your
Brave path across the night.
Daughter of le ava o i‘a eva
Reef channel of the wandering fish
Daughter of le anae oso o fiti
The jumping mullet of Fiji
Daughter of Atua, of Falealili
Of Poutasi, of Nu‘u-sa-fe‘e
May the sacred octopus jump
Awake in rosy dawn to sweep clear
Your ocean pass.
Daughter of Seinafolava
Daughter of Tuātagaloa
Afio mai lau afioga a Tuatagaloa
‘O le to‘o savili, ‘o le sa‘o fetalai.
To the one who guides the boat
Against the wind and gives the first speech:
May Tagaloaalagi of the nine heavens
May Sina and Nafanua
May Iesu Keriso ma lona tinā
Guide your boat against the wind
Into quiet waters of shimmering
Nets & the smoke of cookfires
Rising on the shores of afternoon.
Now I hear your voice in this
small house by the creek
from that last visit
when you slept on the couch
& prayed the rosary morning
& night, & drank hot water
that last time when I was resting
up between chemo & radiation
when I drove you and Barbara
to the airport but was too sick
to go inside. When a week later
I listened to a phone machine
telling me you were dead.
Now I remember that other house
way back, the one on Willard Road
the first house you ever owned.
Even at 13, I knew the big deal
it was for you. And for me
after the shame of Plew Heights
mine not yours. Where I pretended not
to live when friends’ parents dropped
me off after school. Where you worked
nights as a waitress at the NCO Club
to make ends meet. Where Dad worked
nights at Theater No. 1 to make ends meet.
I remember it was 1959, and
there was no grass at the new house.
I remember you planting sprigs of grass,
perfectly straight rows in the front yard.
Now it’s 45 years later, & you’ve been
gone 22 and a ½ months. Now
I think you are somewhere else,
Sāmoa maybe, or the Himalaya.
In your new incarnation
you’ll be almost two
the child of parents who prayed
for you to come to them
I think you are the apple of their eyes.
An unusual child, the smartest baby anyone
can remember. I think you will be in
the kitchen, bustling on short legs
or in the cookhouse, organising things
planning dinners for the sandbox
crowd, or village feasts.
I think you will be in the garden
decorating wedding cakes made of mud
teaching the one year olds how
to fashion mud roses for frosting.
I think you will be out front
in the dirt, planting sprigs of grass
in perfectly straight rows.
OK, so Father Sebastian &
the Sacred Heart ladies
beg to differ. They see you
in heaven, wearing white tapa
just so.
They see you seated at a small
table next to Jesus, at the ear
of any number of almighties
fund-raising for their next trip
to the Holy Land. They see
you drafting celestial memos
communiqués to Sāmoa, to Bishop X
for example, urging his excellency’s
sorry white self to return their
money pronto, while he still has
the chance, while he still has
that difficult-to-obtain precious
human body / while he still has
time to show some respect
for a change / or else /
face the consequences
at the pearly gates where you
his nemesis, now hold sway.
On the other hand, the 50-plus
Birthday Club ladies see you
up there, fund-raising for their
pilgrimage to Las Vegas.
They see you up there
rounding up the 80-plus
gals for a birthday luncheon
catered by Auntie Lu’s Fish
Grotto, Paradise Branch.
The first in a series of soirées
holding up a glass of merlot.
You’re toasting Reina’s mom,
Ida. & your mom, Palepa,
& your sisters, Mary and Lika,
& your cousin Odilla
& Dad’s mom, Caroline,
& our Auntie Lu, who stayed
behind just long enough
to make sure we sent you off
in proper style. And so we did.
And so we did.
Auntie Lu. After you left
us, she became you for us.
Organising things. Planning
the lavish feast. Up from her
sickbed to instruct us
your wayward offspring.
Which talking chief gets which
fine mats? of what quality? &
how many? & how many
cases of pisupo? & pilikaki?
& which roast pig? & when?
The gifts flowing back & forth
all night. Speeches flowing back
& forth all night. Lauga. Delegations
of āiga from Savai‘i. From ‘Upolu.
From Manu‘a. From Tutuila.
Pago, Fagatogo, Faga‘itua,
Tāfuna, Leone, Malae‘imi.
Alo‘au, Alofau, Se‘etaga
Nua, Afono, Fāgasā, Tula
Faga‘itua. From ‘Upolu
Falealili, Poutasi, Apia. From
Savai‘i. Lano & Pu‘apu‘a.
From Hawai‘i nei. From
Massachusetts, South Carolina
& DC. Speeches flowing
back & forth all night. Lauga.
Words to accompany
you across the sky
words to make a boat
words to make your va‘a
Sā Tuatagaloa
Sā Seigafo
Sā Falenaoti
Sā Nafanua
Ua pala le ma‘a, ua
pala le upu. Stones
pass away, but words
last forever. Carry you
to Pulotu. Carry you to
heaven. Carry you across
the sky.