I Wasn’t Supposed to Be Born (But I Showed Up Anyway)

I Wasn’t Supposed to Be Born (But I Showed Up Anyway)

At one of our family reunions in Mahukona about 20 years ago, my dad and I had a conversation where he disclosed, “You know, you weren’t supposed to be born.”

It was a story I had never heard before. I’m one of twelve siblings (yes, you read that right—twelve), but there’s one brother we didn’t talk about much growing up: Thomas. He was the seventh child, born and gone within 24 hours. His brief life left a big ache in my mom’s heart—and a hard line in the sand. She told my dad, “No more kids.”

Who could blame her? Six spirited young kanaka were already running wild around the house while Dad was off trying to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. My older siblings say they have few memories of engaging with our dad from those early years. 

To understand why I was “not supposed to be,” you have to know a bit about my dads history. He was an only child, born in 1922 in a tight-knit Irish Catholic family in Worcester, Massachusetts. His mom died young, and his dad—a man of his word—promised not to remarry so he could dedicate himself to raising his son James Dominick Evans. 

Dad grew up with no siblings, just a mess of cousins and extended family in a row house on Lee Street. That experience left a big impression on him. He knew that if he ever had a family, he’d fill it to the brim. And he did.

Dad was an intrepid adventurer, a doer, a lady's man and a bit of a rascal. By the time he was six, he was riding trains solo. Before long, he was one of the first passengers to cross the country by plane. He saw Babe Ruth play at Yankee Stadium. He served in World War II as a Chinese-language translator for General MacArthur. He wrote a memoir called Tutuman’s Memoirs, and it’s full of stories about adventure, war, falling in love with my mom, and raising a passel of wild children in paradise.

So, after Thomas passed and Mom said, “That’s it,” Dad took a deep breath, made a solemn promise to be more present, and said, “How about just one more?”

That’s when I showed up. This began the unexpected bonus round where four more followed my birth. 

And you know what? He kept that promise.

He was there. Morning swim practices. School drop-offs. Afternoon workouts. Homework. Dinner. Laughs. Prayers kneeling beside the bed. He gave me a front-row seat to a father who showed up, listened, prayed, volunteered, and gave deeply of himself.

My dad—Tutuman to us—was a Bank of Hawaii executive, a proud Rotarian, a Meals on Wheels volunteer, a Holy Cross alumnus, and a man who made mass a morning ritual. But more than any of that, he was a steady, humble giver. He taught us to serve others, treat people fairly, and always find a way to give back.

That’s why I give. Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. But because I was raised in the long shadow of a man who believed we are here to leave things better than we found them. I belong to a lineage of generosity, and I carry it forward—gratefully, humbly, and with a smile.

Because, well, I wasn’t supposed to be here. But I am. So I might as well make every breath count!

-Blossom