These are my personal reflections about Charlene and the stories I heard from her over the years. I hope her family and friends will forgive any errors or inaccuracies.
I am surprised to find how often I think about Charlene. When I take my morning walk there is always at least a moment when I see something in the mountains, fields, skyscape, wildlife or ranched life around me that reminds me of Charlene. I take a photo and remember how Charlene liked or loved every shot posted on Facebook, at least during her good periods.
We got to know each other in the 1970’s, the heady, hopeful and admittedly naïve days of our formative youth. We grew alongside each other through careers, political activism, marriages, children, and grandchildren. While both of us earned public health degrees, married and had children within 5 years of each other, we did so in a different order: Charlene became a Mom first, and I got the Masters degree first. When one is young, a few years can feel like an eternity, and the demands of young motherhood can take a scalpel to the social sphere, dividing initiates from their still-single peers – so during those years it sometimes seemed we inhabited different universes, periodically orbiting the same potlucks. Fortunately, as happens with some of the best friendships, over the years our paths diverged and converged, diverged and converged again.
In the almost 50 years we knew each other, Charlene has always been a storyteller of enormous talent –and she had tales to tell like no other. Most were stories about trials and triumphs from her remarkable childhood, delivered in her finest Waipahu pidgin: The hilarious account of how scared she, her siblings and cousins were of natural and supernatural creepy crawlers encountered at night in the backyard outhouse, aka “da puka “; the indelible image of a studious Charlene doing her homework at the kitchen table late at night after everyone was asleep – since the kitchen table doubled as her grandmother’s bed, Charlene did her assignments literally at her lola’s feet; The tragedy of her mother’s death at age 11, leaving her alone to cope with sexual assault by an uncle within the same year; the adult-sized burden she endured of caring for younger siblings plus the added indignity of being told to cook for and wait on her father’s succession of girlfriends. And yet, the woman I first met was a fount of energy, humor, courage and hope for the future. An A-student at Waipahu High School, first in her family to attend college who then went on to earn a Masters degree, Charlene personified resilience in the face of adversity . By the time I met Charlene she was proud of where she came from, understood that the personal is political. She was irrepressibly HERSELF. She never missed an opportunity to bring her middle class white and multi-cultural college friends together with her working class Filipino relatives in Waipahu for a party or potluck. Her recipe was throw together, stir, let everyone squirm a little bit until voila! an unforgettable experience was had by all. I attended several family gatherings in the carport of Charlene’s auntie who ran a care home. No one ever explained, but we soon figured out that (most of) the cognitively disabled and elderly folks lining the carport were residents of the care home – and they were always in attendance at family gatherings.
Charlene told her sometimes shocking “small kid time” stories as though they could not be kept secret or contained a moment longer, as though they flew of their own volition from her heart to the world. All the stories were filled with pathos and humor and courage. Telling these stories was part of her healing, her therapy, and in the telling she healed the listener and the world.
However, Charlene went beyond words. A woman of action and a natural community organizer, her work and life’s mission focused on righting the wrongs of injustice and inequality by organizing the less powerful to fight for their rights and protesting the actions of those who abused political power.
Charlene skillfully and enthusiastically employed the tools of digital democracy and social media to amplify her community organizing, and she was a devoted documenter at social, community and political gatherings. It was always Charlene who got us together for a group photo at the potluck or after the protest. Later as hand held digital tech advanced she moved into video production. She produced scores of videos, each one complete with a dramatic sound track and film-like credits. The topics ranged from a grandchild’s birthday, to a protest, to her own cancer diagnosis — which is how many of us learned she had been diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer.
In our grandma/lola phase of life, Charlene and I were geographically distant, yet I felt as though Charlene understood more than anyone what these years meant, even more than I did myself. In 2019, Charlene took Gene by the hand, pulled up stakes, and moved body, soul and belongings far from Hawaii, investing her huge heart and Gene’s money into extended family life in Vegas. Only 6 months later she was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. Not long after that, the whole family packed up their wagon train and migrated West to Alameda following the trail of economic opportunity for the younger generations.
As we began our own migration to Hawaii Island and transition to extended family living, Charlene was my comrade-in-arms. She understood the commitment and complexity of such a life, all you leave behind and how much you gain. I felt her silent support, like a woman who has given birth watches a pregnant friend about to enter that life-altering tunnel for the first time.
As the coronavirus pandemic began and virtual communication became necessary, cheap and widely adopted, a group of our longtime girlfriends began a monthly call. All of us had spent our formative young adult years in Hawaii and were now scattered across the Continental US and two Hawaiian islands. We have kept up a monthly “Wahine Zoom” gathering for 3½ years now. But this year, we lost one of our own. Charlene had plans to attend my daughter’s June wedding. The day before Kelly and James were married, I received a text: Charlene had passed. During the ceremony, as a warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the shade of impossibly tall redwoods, the young couple’s officiant asked for a minute of silence for “those who could not be here with us today”. Tears of grief mingled for a moment with those of joy – as we pondered how fleeting and precious is the nature of life and love.
Charlene, my friend, I miss you so much. I wish I could ask you more about your small kid time stories. I wish we could talk politics – ay sus, you wouldn’t believe what’s happening now! I wish we could swap recipes for living close to our sons, their wives and our grandchildren. I feel so very fortunate to have known you, Charlene, and shared some time on this earth with you. And on my walk, as I look at the winter snow crowning Mauna Kea, or the misty clouds forming over the green Kohala Mountains, I will think of you, I will sing to you, l will celebrate the beauty of each moment with you. Love you 4 ewa, my sistah, Charlene.
Story as written by Charlene Cuaresma: From a group text sent by Charlene to the Wahine Zoom group January 13, 2021: (written in pidgin English)
Good read, Joan! So much to know in order to live at one with nature. YY’s bear story and this article made me reflect on how outhouses and critters can be teachers for children of all ages to confront life’s unthinkables.
Growing up with outhouses in the sugar plantation camps, us kids (bradahs, sistas, cousins) used to get one long stick. Ja li’ Zorro, making the stick cross cross, we poke the stick halfway inside da puka and whack whack plenty times, real fast, around da sides of da puka that was cut out in the wooden box seat. No matter how badly you had to go, it was wise to wait and give chance for any centipedes, cockaroaches, geckos, daddy long leg cane spiders or red-biting ants to run away first. Of course, us kids not only stay screaming our tonsils out, while whack whacking da puka, but also so so sked for try look inside da puka at da same time. I wish I had rubbah arm and hand like Gumby, so can stretch far away just in case something jump out of da puka on top my feet. But even still, when pau whack whacking with da stick, instead of just sitting right on top da puka, we no trust nothing! So with each foot protected in its proper rubbah slippah (too bad if da slippah no match), we gingerly step up on the wooden seat, front ways, then make one turn around without falling in da puka. Then squat. We plant our toes firm kine, especially between da big toe, da rubbah slippah divider, and da second toe. Squeeze (your toes)! You dorono if get emergency kine situation if gotta jump off da puka fast. But remember! First hemo your panty or babydeez first, because hard to turn around and straddle da puka without falling inside, and you no like your panty or babydeez dangle inside da puka. I know, because I warned my small bradah Lau Lau, but he nevah listen to me, when I was watching him his turn on top da puka. As why no good be hard head like him. We was screaming so loud again when his babydeez fell inside da puka. I still had to wipe his okole with the crumpled up newspepa after he jumped from the puka and lassoed my neck with his small arms like one choke rope over one unsuspecting cow head. Wiping him up was oojie. “How come you when jump my neck?” I asked him. “I saw the Green Lady face inside da puka.” he whispered. After I threw the last crumpled up newspepa inside da puka from wiping up bradah Lau Lau, we when try look inside da puka, but no mo da Green Lady face already. So we look each adda with big eyes long neck bubble eyes and run back to da house, screaming our tonsils out. “As why hard.” our parents said, when we told them what happened. “Bambai come soft.” Until now, their words are still true.
…So today, I going tell any kine children da same true words told to me by my parents.🤣
Moana Marie Crab 