Take care of our wāhine. - Photo: Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

Surviving the enemy

Taking care of our wāhine

By Jimmy F. "Jeno" Enocencio

I'm not sure who does it better: Quincy Jones or James Ingram, one has soul and the other passion, both have a combined talent of mesmerizing words that make women melt just by the depth of their voice when courting "One Hundred Ways"… "love her today." This kul' song trebled as I unloaded to max sound in my Spirit of '76 Camaro, pitching "Compliment what she does, Send her roses just because," but no sooner had I got to "If it's violins she loves, Let them play" – Caroline cut me off with a rebounding shot, "When did you eva' send me roses!?" I found that I was caught in a trap that I had set myself in, as I lowered the volume and whimpered my voice to "Love her today, Find one hundred ways."

Time stopped, though traveling the speed of sound, I remembered carnations, croton leaves and plumeria lei; all leftovers from a graduation party or Memorial Day ceremony – but never roses jus' becuz. I never sunk so deep as I did in the Spirit of '76 that day as I was reminded of my stinginess to a devoted "best friend." And though married with children, going steady was our theme song.

Our women are special, so special that God agreed to allow them the special gift of bringing life to a dreary and disheartening world – becuz they said they could make it a happier and brighter place for families to live in. Our women base their being on nurturing and raising good seed, while we men tend to destroy the very decency that they create – how shame that we allow ourselves to soil purity; that they soon become as dreary and disheartening as the world they promised God that they could enlighten and heal.

Why are we so cruel and often painful in our words? Why do we stoop so low as to express this harshness and disregard for them in front of our kids – often clutching mommy's dress, crying for us to stop the senseless bickering and accusations, and the yelling. Why do we often go drinking with our buddies and seek forbidden pleasures when questions from tender voices ask, "Mommy, where's daddy?" A tear runs from glazed and distant eyes onto the forehead of the little child, "Daddy stay working; he goin' come home soon. … Let mommy finish cooking, OK?" I often wonder how many times I was responsible for Caroline's world to be stepped upon. How many times was I responsible for her becoming lost in this shadowy world when her intentions were light-giving?

'K guys, no get static on me, OK? I'm talking about me too – I'm jus' as much to blame as you. Share the guilt and accept it – we're Jerks. We've forgotten what it took to win their affection. And let's be serious, OK? Some of us guys are not much to look at – let alone consider a "prize catch." But there's gotta be a reason why we fell in love with that one wahine – what spark that ignited an inferno of molten lava casting a vessel for epicurean wine? It must've been that I made her laugh, 'cause I wuz no match for the hunks with chiseled mugs and concrete bricks that went after her.

But it appears that long after the fascination stopped – so had the laughter; and the hurting began, festering a sore. This sore, when not treated with deep affection and concern, musters a congregation of hate, blame, deceit, empty promises, shame, guilt, vengeance and inevitable death – of a friendship, a marriage, even of a spouse.

What sort of man could imagine a horrendous act of violence upon the very gift that he once loved? Worse, how would a papa explain to his kids that he hurt their mommy?

What sort of man would physically and mentally hurt or even take the very life that bore his children, that helped to make a house a home, that also worked hard to help make ends meet? Even after pau work, wāhine still have the family to tend to, the cooking, the baths and the homework and evening prayers – while we tend to our sports, hobbies, friends, TV and PCs. And still with what little energy they have left she tends to her needs – and we wonder why she's snoring when we attempt to emphatically "dump our load" of dominance over them; screwed full circle.

A thoughtless insinuation of the way her hair is thinning, the bags she carries under her eyes, and her waist, the roughness of her hands and cold feet causes the same hurt as the slap across the face, the punches to the body – the black and blues that don't show on the surface, but are hidden deep beneath her breasts, piercing her heart. It's been said that a cracking whip will tear the flesh, but it's the whip of the tongue that will shred the soul.

How many of us men are guilty of this? How shame that we've forgotten all that our "forever partners" had done, all the sacrifices made; that we stoop so low to comment on their departure from youth. We men need to lighten up, become less critical and treat women as ladies – and with respect as to their partnership with God. An encompassing and sensitive "Buy Me a Rose," by Luther Vandross can only imagine the elaborate designs of a woman's thought – ever mind-boggling for her counterpart male species; totally alienated with disconnect.

Read these words as they echo your mind and you will have a glimpse of what women gaze upon in their lives. "If he could only read her mind she'd say, Buy Me a Rose, call me from work, open the door for me, what would it hurt? Show me you love me with the look in your eyes. ... These are the little things, I need the most in my life …"

To answer her prayer, to reconnect the depleted charge. "And the more that she gives, the more that he sees, this is the story of you and me. … So I bought you a rose, on the way home from work, to open the door to a heart that I hurt, and I hoped you noticed this look in my eyes, 'cause I'm gonna make things right, for the rest of your life …"

And when you retire to bed whisper, "And I'm gonna hold you tonight … tonight, do all those little things … for the rest of your life."

If you're serious and say it with real intent and meaning, you'll have a great Father's Day – jus' becuz you put her first. Do all the little things that matters most in her life – let every day be Mommy's Day. Take care of your Babes, quit searching; there's no one else that will love you more. Happy Father's Day.

Jeno Enocencio writes about the many hats he wears.
This is the third in the Surviving the Enemy series about overcoming adversity.
Contact him at pointman_jeno@msn.com