WHAT most Americans know about Hawaii is kitsch -- grass skirts and ukuleles, pupu platters and Don Ho -- culminating in James Michener's fitfully factual potboiler and finally degenerating into some tacky prime-time cop shows. The islands never had a native bard to explain them to the rest of the world, as the American frontier had Mark Twain and the South had William Faulkner. Hawaii has always been a place to be discovered -- beginning with the indigenous Hawaiians themselves, who first migrated to the archipelago from Polynesia some 1,500 years ago. Their graceful culture, without a written language, has been all but obliterated by waves of missionaries, planters, and military personnel, and finally, most devastatingly, by the tsunami of mass tourism.
Through most of Hawaii's history its literature has been written by outsiders, who have been enchanted by the islands' scenic beauty and have depicted them as an idyllic paradise populated by childlike, innocent savages borrowed from Rousseau. Twain was the first literary artist of stature to write at length about Hawaii, in a novel that was never published. (Melville had passed through earlier, and based his novel Typee in part on his experiences there, devoting some acerbic pages to the arrogant hypocrisy of the Christian missionaries.) In 1866 Twain sailed on the first commercial steamship voyage from the mainland to the Sandwich Islands (as they were then known), and eighteen years later he wrote the first draft of a novel that he quickly abandoned. Only fragments survive, but the book's opening lines engage in the picturesque hyperbole that colored the world's view of Hawaii for the next century.
The date is 1840. Scene, the true Isles of the Blest; that is to say, the Sandwich Islands -- to this day the peacfulest, restfulest, sunniest, balmiest, dreamiest haven of refuge for a worn and weary spirit the surface of the earth can offer. Away out there in the mid-solitudes of the vast Pacific, and far down in the edge of the tropics, they lie asleep on the waves, perpetually green and beautiful, remote from the work-day world and its frets and worries, a bloomy, fragrant paradise.
NOW Hawaii has found a bard of sorts, the novelist Lois-Ann Yamanaka, but the world she sings of is anything but a paradise. In a series of remarkable narratives she describes with disturbing realism and peppery black humor the hard life of the islands' Asian-immigrant underclass. Her Hawaii is green but cruel, and the "work-day world" grinds her characters down with squalor and violence. In her previous books Yamanaka revealed in sometimes sensationalistic ways the racism that divides the islands' inhabitants; in her new novel, Heads by Harry, she explores the outer frontiers of sexual politics and the complex power struggles of a modern island family.
The novel takes its title from the Yagyuu family's taxidermy shop in Hilo, on the island of Hawaii. Harry, the father, is bullying in his affection, and continually disappointed by his children: his son, Sheldon, who aspires to be a hairdresser and prefers to be called Shelly (after Shelley Fabares, the cute daughter on The Donna Reed Show, and Shelley Hack, his favorite model); Bunny, a beauty who dreams of marrying a haole (a Caucasian, the word being the Hawaiian equivalent of "gringo"); and Toni, the narrator, her daddy's favorite and a perennial underachiever. The family's mother, like most of Yamanaka's adult women characters, is a benign but somewhat shadowy presence.