 She is the author of Seasonal Velocities, Himeli Aihilu Hilo Song, and the forthcoming Why Does She'll Never Settle Upon This Soul. Please welcome with us. I love Los Angeles, so I grew up there, but you can never get a reading like this in LA. People like this. So thank you so much for coming and supporting. So I want to read a little bit from my novel. Before I get into the nuts and bolts of this thing, it was actually a really problematic journey, and I just thought I would just mention a little bit about that quickly. This is not a trans novel specifically, I'm trans, but it's not specifically about trans. Actually it answers the question, can a trans woman of color write just as a woman of color? So this is much more about my family in Hawaii, and much less about the stuff I've got to deal with every day being trans. It's the stuff I've got to deal with being Asian and being local in a place with junk kind of local food. Anyway, so I'm just going to dive in, and just like anything else, when you dive into a family dinner or something, just catch up, you'll catch up, okay. So all of us, only 12, visiting his family on the big island, Honolulu Boya, used to hang out at Alamoana or Pearl Ridge, eating at Likeliki Drive-In. His older brother and sister would complain about the Kaikou Mall and the lack of night life in Hilo. Back then, they never had Prince Kuhio Center, not even a Walmart, yeah. So they took off to Kona, along leaving him with his parents and auntie and uncle. Now, people who look at Hawaii on the map, they see everything so close together and think, you know, Hawaii is only one place, but every island is different. Saul, Saul noticed the differences. Even the Saimian and Malasada was different. He noticed the smell on the big island was a lot clearer than the smells on Oahu. He could smell the orchids. He could smell the fish. He could smell the ocean at high tide, and someone's to cooking rice. It all mixed up, hustle and bustle, like Honolulu. He never smelled car exhaust at all. Then he smelled something so faint, he couldn't ignore it. It's the wind blowing off the volcano, his auntie said. The volcano, can we see? His uncle and auntie shrugged, and so they went to Sipele. Now, the color of big island dirt is different from Oahu. I mean, Oahu dirt looks like dirt, you know, umber and brown, which may be some plants dying, dried out in the sun, maybe get some kukai like that, but you know, the stuff is dirt. But on the big island, what covers the ground, it's alive. It's red and fertile, like the stuff on upcountry Maui, except more deep even, or rainforest black, full of beetles and mulch, or crunchy with cinders and lava, because the island is still young. Some of its, even now, waiting under the earth will be born. And as they went up the volcano, Saul saw the landscape come even more different. He smelled another smell, sulfur, from the vents that stay steamed from the earth, and he looked inside. He thought he wouldn't see moss, but wasn't moss, was crystals. And the smell was like frozen rotten eggs, and uncle went, pull him back, say, stupid, no get close. That steamboat gon' kill you. And he listened, but he still never could turn away. Was getting late, and there was getting hungry, and so they would stop at the visitor center for goshishi, and then the grown-ups would start talking about places for eat. Saul was usually a good kid and did what he was told, but he had never seen vents like that before. And when he got back to them, was already a little darker, and he had to lean a little for see the crystals. Suddenly, there was one pop, and one plume of steam erupt from below. And just then someone yank his hair, and jerk his head, jerk his head from the fumes. Watch out! Saul turned, and saw one girl about his age. And what's your name this time? Saul, Saul, Saul Malani, he said. And he wondered why she had said this time, and why her voice made him feel ancient and like a baby, all at the same time. Well, Saul Malani, this stuff's de peliquea. She laughed, and was just like one local girl, except her eyes was green. I know, but I wanted to look around, and he looked at her, and for the first time, he knew what beauty was. Oh my God, you're so pretty. He said this before he could even think. She laughed. You always say that. You like some old hello berries. They good. Of course. Saul nodded, tasted a berry, and fell in love. Cannot take all, otherwise Pele going to notice. I was only going to take one more. I know, I know. And she gave him two. I only have about a few, I think I'm over, about halfway done, but so if you, and this is from my book of poetry coming up. This is dedicated to, how many people are we losing? So this is like, I mean, my book seems out of date right now because I dedicated to friends I lost this year, and I've lost so many other friends the book actually seems outdated. But anyway, this is for Alexis and Donna. A philosopher asked, once asked if I believed in God. My friends lost two friends, and one of them was my friend. And so was another. And in the morning, I could kiss you, not to wake you, but to linger a little, resting a bit, where the nose still brushed your neck. And yes, I was crying, because you stirred and smiled. And we were going shopping. It was still not even May. A philosopher once asked if I believed in God, and I said no, I had experience. And so even now, I can disbelieve all I want. But I shall always know that I would want another night next to you, breathing, dancing on byways, no matter how afraid. And up overhead, we peered at what snuggled up the side of a Griffith Park ravine. We identified it with an app you downloaded from a cloud, then snipped a sprig of showy evening primrose to a dream of planting in our someday backyard, or at least until the allergy set in. I'm writing a speech to tell a group of earnest undergrads, something hopeful and life-affirming. How does one say, trim just a bit of flesh? The glass slipper will fit. You'll get to the ball. You'll dance with the prince. Feets blister, mouths breed, bleed, rubber, and come. The backbeat fades to cross reference, cross gender, forgotten graves. Jesus fucking Christ, she was only 22. You shmay, say it's 4 AM, and you'll be awake when you are. And in the common goal of neutrinos and house cats and a sweetheart's note in a schoolyard beating, there is not enough courage in my hand, but for the courage I hold in yours. What be out of fives left over low mains? Styrofoam, chopsticks, plastic forks, two napkins, three packs of crappy ass soy sauce, neither of us are ever going to use? You slug home drenched and empty. From work, you swear you do only for the money, though we both know otherwise. Rents increasing 4.5%, LA wants $61.42, and taxes we do not owe. What trip to Paris? We're hoping to be able to visit the supermarket between paychecks. Leftovers for the walk, the stockpot, leftover rice, leftover bok choy. Yesterday, I yearned for when I could buy a bag of salad without caring how quickly even the freshest greens spoil. Yesterday, I yearned for clean dishes, a clean refrigerator. But yesterday, I could tell you how someone waited a little longer to hold the elevator door, and how the Walgreens clerk heard me sniffle and say, I hope you feel better. The helpful woman at the post office saying, oh, people forget the postal rates all the time. And today, as I entered the liquor store, an actor rushed past me to buy lemon drops, then dashed towards the theater next door. I bought a two liter of Diet Coke, three cans of sardines and tomato sauce, and stammered, thank you to the shop owner who knew I said it wrong, yet smiled and nodded completely and simply to me. One can forge documents, reinvent identities, concatenate the acronym, be lost in our flags, in our labels, our unfulfilled prescriptions, in our lists of the dead, and though the cure for cancer may never cure cancer or suicide or a trip to the doctor, who will whisper, I'll go with you, be scared with you, trust what you say, and always be there. When two spirits peer into moonless native sky, when transsexuals primp for conjugal visits with surgeon and syringe, when I'm writing how, even as she ended, someone made sure her nails were absolutely perfect, who turns off my phone, closes my laptop, gets me a popsicle for my sore throat. Who are we? What is that? But in all I give, I am yours. I am yours, and I am yours. Build with me, walk with me, grow old and tired, and share supper with me. And with you I light the candle, and with you I reheat the noodles, or so we hope, we hope. When we are weak, we can say we know what it feels like to truly love. Today, a sparrow was perched on a banana tree, so the hummingbirds were probably too frightened to land. And near the galaxy's core, a black hole stripped, a pearl blue star into ribbons of fire and poetry is all one has strength to hear. When we don't have enough daylight to waste even a little food, leftovers go to stir fry, stir fry becomes soup. And soup is what a lover needs after a lifetime of saving the world. Thank you.