The really cool teenagers who hang out at the library (oh yeah, they're such rebels) elbowed each other and sniggered while I rummaged through the graphic novel racks for my next YA assignment. Because, as we all know, graphic novels are written and illustrated by acne-pocked 14 year olds, not grody old losers in their 20s who still live with their mom. Not at all.
I have been reading Lois Ann Yamanaka's Heads by Harry, and it has been making me think a lot about growing up on Molokai (the novel takes place on the Big Island, but it's about the same). I thought about my giggly Japanese friend who's father had two walls full of rifles and stuffed heads. About the cute boy she was in love with who came to hunt with her dad, the boy who shot our cats, and who drowned and died in her arms while spearfishing one night. I remembered standing with her in our underwear in her backyard at 3am while our friends played poker around the foil-covered pans of food in the garage. The book hit home, and I haven't decided if that is a fact in its favor yet. Probably. I should take a day trip to Molokai and walk through town, I haven't been there in 7 years.
Soft, 'eh me?
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