From Publishers Weekly
First-time memoirist Smith has spent most of her adult life on the East Coast, swapping the palm trees and leis of her Hawaiian childhood for subways and argyle sweaters. Not that she can be blamed for trying to distance herself from her roots. A descendant of an upper-class, white family, Smith's drug-addicted mother abandoned Smith when she was seven. Their family's saga resembles "a Faulkner sketch that had stumbled off to Honolulu. Plumeria instead of magnolia, but the setpieces were the same...." Although geographically separated from her wandering mother, Smith maintains a fierce attachment to her that ultimately brings her back to Hawaii. She draws on memories to tell of the search for her mother, who, homeless and using, disappears in 2002. The narrative dips back into turning points of Smith's upbringing to illustrate the experience of adoring a mother who often abandons her child, sometimes willfully, and sometimes because she's simply become distracted by a new lover or an old drug habit. Smith masterfully recounts Hawaii's history; the rise and fall of her family's fortunes parallel Hawaii's development. And Smith's Hawaiian experience differs from that of most nonwhite Hawaiians, resulting in an intriguing read.
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From The New Yorker
When Smith was a child in Honolulu, her drug-prone mother, Karen, would vanish for hours at a time; when Smith was thirty-two, Karen, now homeless and a hopeless addict, went missing for several months. In this memoir, Smith combs the parks, rehab clinics, and red-light district of Honolulu for her mother, examining not only Karen's descent into prostitution and heroin but also her family's genteel past on Hawaii's sugarcane plantations. Her sense of place and of history amplifies the narrative, though at times she relies too heavily on the well-worn trope of corrupted paradise. She has a sharp descriptive eye—a housing subdivision consists of "concrete-block ranch houses xeroxed onto freshly paved streets"—and a strong voice, which, though it occasionally shades into portentousness, honestly plumbs the guilt, rage, love, and pity that she feels toward her mother.
Copyright © 2005
The New Yorker
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