mother would pry out of them that they had voted for Nixon, the law-and-order candidate, in 1968. We didn’t go to the
beach or on hikes together anymore; at night, Gramps watched television while Toot sat in her room reading murder
mysteries. Their principal excitement now came from new drapes or a stand-alone freezer. It was as if they had
bypassed the satisfactions that should come with the middle years, the convergence of maturity with time left, energy
with means, a recognition of accomplishment that frees the spirit. At some point in my absence, they had decided to cut
their losses and settle for hanging on. They saw no more destinations to hope for.
As the summer drew to a close, I became increasingly restless to start school. My main concern was finding
companions my own age; but for my grandparents, my admission into Punahou Academy heralded the start of
something grand, an elevation in the family status that they took great pains to let everyone know. Started by
missionaries in 1841, Punahou had grown into a prestigious prep school, an incubator for island elites. Its reputation
had helped sway my mother in her decision to send me back to the States: It hadn’t been easy to get me in, my
grandparents told her; there was a long waiting list, and I was considered only because of the intervention of Gramps’s
boss, who was an alumnus (my first experience with affirmative action, it seems, had little to do with race).
I had gone for several interviews with Punahou’s admissions officer the previous summer. She was a brisk, efficient-
looking woman who didn’t seem fazed that my feet barely reached the floor as she grilled me on my career goals. After
the interview, the woman had sent Gramps and me on a tour of the campus, a complex that spread over several acres of
lush green fields and shady trees, old masonry schoolhouses and modern structures of glass and steel. There were tennis
courts, swimming pools, and photography studios. At one point, we fell behind the guide, and Gramps grabbed me by
the arm.
“Hell, Bar,” he whispered, “this isn’t a school. This is heaven. You might just get me to go back to school with you.”
With my admission notice had come a thick packet of information that Toot set aside to pore over one Saturday
afternoon. “Welcome to the Punahou family,” the letter announced. A locker had been assigned to me; I was enrolled in
a meal plan unless a box was checked; there was a list of things to buy-a uniform for physical education, scissors, a
ruler, number two pencils, a calculator (optional). Gramps spent the evening reading the entire school catalog, a thick
book that listed my expected progression through the next seven years-the college prep courses, the extracurricular
activities, the traditions of well-rounded excellence. With each new item, Gramps grew more and more animated;
several times he got up, with his thumb saving his place, and headed toward the room where Toot was reading, his
voice full of amazement: “Madelyn, get a load of this!”
So it was with a great rush of excitement that Gramps accompanied me on my first day of school. He had insisted that
we arrive early, and Castle Hall, the building for the fifth and sixth graders, was not yet opened. A handful of children
had already arrived, busy catching up on the summer’s news. We sat beside a slender Chinese boy who had a large
dental retainer strapped around his neck.
“Hi there,” Gramps said to the boy. “This here’s Barry. I’m Barry’s grandfather. You can call me Gramps.” He shook
hands with the boy, whose name was Frederick. “Barry’s new.”
“Me too,” Frederick said, and the two of them launched into a lively conversation. I sat, embarrassed, until the doors
finally opened and we went up the stairs to our classroom. At the door, Gramps slapped both of us on the back.