Hi. My name is Joel. And I’m an alcoholic. No, I’m kidding. I am not really an alcoholic, though I do play one in real life. Again, I kid. Not really an alcoholic. Or at least I don’t think I am. I don’t know. Apparently, beer kills the memory cells, so I can never remember whether or not I really have a drinking problem, but, you know what I’m definitely not? Hawaiian. So, please, for the love of all that is good and green on this rotating planet of ours, quit freaking asking me! I’ve been living here in Folly Beach for about ten years now. And every single day of those ten years it’s been; “Are you Hawaiian? Are You Samoan? Are you a well fed Filipino?” And every single time I have to reply: “No, I’m not. No I’m not. Damnit Mom! I’m not Hawaiian!” Just a few nights ago, as I was crossing the street, some woman I never met in my life stopped me in the middle of the intersection and was just about to ask me: “Hey! Are you…” But, I never let her finish. Knowing what she was about to ask, I just turned around and took off running. I ran and I ran because that’s what you’re suppose to do after you’ve just pushed someone into oncoming traffic. I know, I know and I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry that it was only a Miata that ran over her bony ass and not a convoy of tourist buses from Ohio.
But c’mon! After ten years you’d think people on this island would have gotten that memo by now. Of course, in all fairness I can see how people in this part of the country aren’t use to seeing too many of my “kind” around. Exactly what is my kind, you might ask. Well, some people have kindly referred to me as an “Hispanic Hippie” which simply means that, yes! I will steal your hubcaps but then, turn around and have them recycled. And yes! I will reside in a small one bedroom studio apartment with 15-20 people in it, however, those fifteen to twenty people would mostly consist of musicians, surfers and food and beverage workers who don’t believe in working “for da’ man” and are getting tired of being drug tested every two to three weeks. I can also see how some people find it difficult to relate to me as coming from the southwest region of our country regardless of my strong Hispanic/Native American linage. For instance, my dislike for spicy foods, I don’t speak Spanish and I actually have both a valid drivers license AND full-coverage auto insurance. I prefer a good Irish stout over Mexican beer, I think bouncing cars are stupid and my favorite “Desperate Housewife” was actually the red-head and not the Latina one.
Another thing that throws people off about me is that I come from a small Hispanic family; just me and my Mom. And… my three brothers. See? Small. I mean, even after you throw in my five sisters, by Hispanic Family standards That’s still a small family. And I gotta tell ya’….that was more than enough! Are you kidding me? A single mom and nine kids?! Yeah. I’d say so. Hey! I have an idea! Let’s have fun with MATH, shall we? Let’s see…..One single Mom plus four boys plus five girls equals what? That’s right! Ten! Ten people all crammed into a three bedroom apartment in the projects of East Austin with only ONE BATHROOM (okay! In all honesty, there were two, but one was ALWAYS broken!)!! Allow me to elaborate for you, if I may, the genuine experience of having to live with nine other people and only one functioning….bathroom.
Remember that sinking-boat-movie? They hit the iceberg and the ship sinks with Leonardo Dicrapio and that chubby English chick? And, yes. Yes, I know the name of the freaking movie; it’s just that I HATE this fucking movie so damn much, that I refuse to acknowledge it by its real name, SO, to me...it will always be referred to as the sinking-boat-movie-with-Leonardo Decrapio-and-that-chubby-English-chick. So! Remember when everyone was fighting and killing themselves to get to the lifeboats? Remember the mayhem and chaos that went on? People shooting each other? Men, pushing women and children outta the way? Every person for themselves trying to get to the lifeboats?…yeah well, that was our place every single day about thirty minutes after every meal. We’d all be laying there on the floor, or propped up against each other like a bunch of Mexican red-necks, watching TV, our guts busting, filled with baloney sandwiches and grape Kool-Aid because, let’s face it; breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And then… it would happen; like the soft cry of an injured, baby gazelle setting off a pack of, crazed hungry hyena’s... someone….would fart. And the Running of the Poopers would commence! “Get the HELL out of my way! F#ck you b#tch I’m getting in the bathroom first! No! You’re not, I am!!Screw YOU!!” We’re kicking the crap out of each other, grabbing and tossing each other away from the bathroom door. Biting each other, yelling. Hair-pulling, teeth gnashing, groin-kicking …climbing all over each other just to get to that flippin’ bathroom first! Screams! Tears! Complete freakin' bedlam! Meanwhile, inside the bathroom, with the door locked behind her, sitting on her porcelain throne like one of those rich old ladies who did make it to the lifeboat… is my worn out mother. Sitting there; yelling at us from inside: "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THE DOOR! CAN'T A WOMAN SIT DOWN FOR TWO @$#$#!! MINUTES WITHOUT YOU PEOPLE BOTHERING HER!!"
Do you really think there’s any family from Hawaii that ever had to go through such a traumatic experience? They’re from Hawaii for crying out loud. Paradise! It can’t be paradise if you got families dismembering loved ones just to get to the bathroom first. For f*cks sake! Let’s think about this! When you check into a hotel room, do you really think all those short people pushing cleaning carts around are all Hawaiian? Of course they are because that’s exactly what Hawaii is known for; pineapples, surfing and world-class housekeepers. When driving by a construction sight, is that ukulele music you hear blaring from the boom-box? Of course not! It’s a freakin’ Spanish station, man! More oompah-oompah music than Oktoberfest in Berlin. I don’t even think they have Spanish stations in Hawaii! Work with me people!! NOT HAWAIIAN, here!!
Please, tell your friends. Email your friends. Facebook the sh*t! Write it on the chalk board oustside of Bert’s Market and write it all over the sands of Folly Beach: JOEL FLORES = NOT SAMOAN!!
Gracias and Aloha!
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