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HE SAYS: Chatting it up with Marky
Posted August 10, 2006 |
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By Lisa J. Fehoko
LaieBoyz.com |
 PROVO, UTAH--It’s early evening and the silent shifting of the darkening sky moves like drone tapestry; clouds merging, then breaking into misshapen chunks of fluff. I’m feeling melancholy—maybe because it’s been so long since I’ve last had contact with him, but whatever it is, it’s got me riled.
I’m playing phone tag with Mark, whom calls me back promptly, thus digging my sin of omission deeper into my spiked conscience—I’m a lousy call back, which relegates my phone friendly status to super zero. I can think of a few more descriptive words to extrapolate on my public relations skills, but I’ll leave the self-deprecation for another time.
He’s still got it. Even through the phone, I can feel that swagger and the ready smile. What I don’t expect, but am pleasantly surprised to feel is the honed confidence of a humbled man; married life has definitely boosted his mass appeal. Mark Atuaia has always been a maverick—I guess that’s what makes him so magnetic.
My first memory of him is in the fourth grade. It’s 1983—the formative years of childhood, where elegiac memories begin and hover. It’s second recess and there he is on the playground, amidst all the cool kids—flexing his abs. There’s no self conscious embarrassment, or apologetic reasoning for his actions—just sheer delight.
For some reason, that memory continues to linger languidly in the recesses of my mind, and whenever the subject of our childhood comes up, up pops the flex memory, sometimes in color, other times in flashes.
We’re adults now; a byproduct of Laie’s little utopian existence. Adulthood hasn’t changed him much, except his game—which runneth over.
He speaks about his childhood and upbringing. Mom came from American Samoa, and dad from Western Samoa. They met at the Church College of Hawaii (BYU-Hawaii), married, had children, and reared their little family in Laie.
We broach the subject of adjusting as transplants from the islands.
“It was hard for my parents, as you know with your parents, and anyone who has English as a second language. They had to overcome their fears, and I guess that’s what drives me, what motivates me. Seeing what they had to go through, it pushes me. My dad had this mantra—‘We do this so that you can be better than us, and your kids better than you, (and so forth, and so on).’
My dad graduated from BYU (Hawaii) in 1980, and at the time, there were five kids to take care of and a house mortgage to pay. (Adding to that), he brought his parents, sisters and their families down from Samoa and they all (lived) with (us); he took care of everyone.”
He switches gears and starts to laugh, more to himself, than to me.
“My dad, he, (laughs again) he fobs out, but you know he always says, ‘Until you get your paper (college diploma), you can correct me.”
We start talking about what life at home was like.
“I’m so thankful to be a product of Laie. It wasn’t until I left, that I knew how special this place really was. In Laie, it was never a race thing, it was just ‘Boys’—but when I went to Utah in the early 90’s, the question wasn’t ‘What’s your name?’, but rather, ‘Are you Samoan or Tongan?’”
How do you balance that?
“I just don’t care.”
Now I’m laughing out loud—that one caught me off guard.
“Look at me—I’m Samoan, and my wife is Tongan, and my kids are mixed; that’s the last thing I’m going to worry about. My own view is to see how silly it is to feel that way. I mean, with Polynesians, we’re so minute, so miniscule (numerically) that we have to stick together. We’re nothing compared to hauolis—so my motivation is law school.”
On that note, is it—or do you feel like it’s racial profiling?
“Yes. Look, I work at BYU’s (Provo) football office, and the stereotypes about us are, ‘They’re great at being brutal and violent, especially in a sport that condones this sort of behavior.’ It’s like this—my home teachers, when they’re at my home, they’re totally cool, but when I see them at the store, they don’t even say hi, so I just don’t look at them.”
(Exhales).
“That’s why, in Laie, if you say something, you better darn well mean it—because there’ll be repercussions.”
(Another round of exhales).
“Here…it’s just a fight with words.”
Now that we’re on that route, I ask him about whether or not sports was pushed in the home. His answer surprises me.
“No. My dad never pushed us that way. The only words of advice he gave us were, ‘If you’re gonna do something, don’t do it half (censored expletive).’”—(Laughter).
Okay—what did you want to be when you grew up?
“Oh, you remember that show called ‘Blue Angels?’”
Now I’m perplexed. No.
“Well anyway, they were pilots, and they got to fly and do all this cool stuff (his voice trails…) I wanted to be a naval pilot.”
Oh, okay.
“Yeah, I wanted to do that until I saw that…that it wasn’t the thing to be in Laie.”
(Convulsive giggles away from the mouthpiece). He can hear me, so he just laughs along with me, his voice trailing into the open air.
Since we’re opening up the door to his past, I ask him to tell me about a milestone in his young life—something memorable.
He starts laughing and the exuberance in his voice is obvious.
“Okay, you’re gonna laugh at this one. One night, Kanoa, Clint and I decided to go to the movies. I think it was either eighth or ninth grade. It was a school night, so the rule at my house was, on school nights, you couldn’t go out; you were supposed to stay home, and sleep.
As I was getting ready, my dad asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was going to the movies. He said, ‘Son, you know that you can’t go to the movies on a school night.’
I gave my dad that look; you know that look that white kids give their parents—the stink eye. And before I knew it, my dad smacked me across the face and said, ‘Don’t ever look at me like that again.’ I was so shocked because my dad never laid a hand on me.”
Ever?
“Yeah. So when he did that, I was shocked. Later, he must’ve felt sorry for me, so he said, ‘Go to the movies, I feel bad.’ At that point, I didn’t want to go anymore, even though Kanoa and Clint were waiting outside my house for me—they had been waiting. My dad told me to go, but I didn’t want to go anymore. Finally, (after some forceful cajoling) I went into the bathroom to wash up, and when I looked in the mirror, my dad’s handprint was on my face and it was so red.”
(I’m in tears from laughing so hard)—Did it come off?
“No. And I tried to make it come off.”
Did you go to the movies?
“Yeah, and when I went outside…”
Did Kanoa and Clint see it?
“Yeah—it was dark, and they could still see it, so you can imagine how bright that handprint was. And when I told them what happened, they were cracking up. It goes to show you that in Laie, nobody gets sympathy when they try to act up like that.”
(Still giggling). Moving on to football, Itula mentioned that you met during the pop warner years. From there through high school, did you want to make that a career?
“You know, my parents motivated us. I felt so sorry for my dad. He taught at Radford and Waianae, so he had to get up early every morning and go. I know he hated his job, but he did it because he had to.
I was having lunch with Itula the other day, and he asked me if I still remember the promise we made when we were younger; the reason we do what we do—I guess when you interviewed him, you got him thinking about this. Anyway, I told him yes—it was because of our parents.
He told me something he remembers about his dad. There were some heavy rains, around the time the floods happened (early 80’s), and his dad was working for Zion Security at the time (currently HRI). That bridge next to Hukilau beach had a drainage problem; the rains pushed the (debris) into the canal, blocking the water. Itula remembers looking for his dad that day and from far away, he saw his dad diving into that water to clean the drains—he never forgot that.”
It gets very quiet.
“That’s why we want to make it—to take care of our parents.”
The first time he laid eyes on his wife was in 1987, when The Jets came through Kahuku high school to shoot a video for an upcoming song. Because interaction was so accessible with the group, a lot of students were asking for autographs and talking with the band members one on one. Mark, who is usually animated and loquacious by nature, stood to the side, subdued and observant.
Three years later in 1990, they were officially introduced when Tia (Muti) got a few of the young men in town to chaperone Liz and her sister around Laie. The Jets were doing a concert at the CAC (Cannon Activity Center), and as Liz puts it, “It was the first time in our lives that our parents allowed us to interact with people outside the immediate family in that setting.”
That’s where the magic begins, and Liz says, “There was just something about him that I was immediately drawn to. I remember cruising with Mark, and being so blown away by the Kahuku band and cheerleaders. Laie was just such a special place.”
He remembers meeting her (again) in 1994, “While she was doing a church album.” It’s post mission for Mark, and they are both in Utah. They’re at ‘The Edge’ (a now defunct club scene that was popular in Provo), when Liz’s sisters tell her that Mark is there.
“I remember being so nervous to see him because it had been so long. It was then that I knew that if I didn’t do something about it, he wouldn’t—because he probably thought that with my family, there was no chance of anything happening. So I got his number and called his house. He picked up the phone, and I (casually) asked the first thing that came to my mind, which was something like, ‘Do you know where any movie theatres are around here?’ He was quiet for a long time.”
They were engaged at the beginning of Mark’s junior year at BYU-Provo, and by the end of it, they were married; the nuptials were sped up by a developing tumor in Liz’s breast. Complicating matters more were Liz’s parent’s disapproval of Mark. Torn between helping her family, or following her own heart, Liz walked away during a crucial period in the Wolfgramm household.
Mark is getting anxious.
“When we got married, the gospel became real to me; death became real to me. I wondered to myself, ‘Will I have my wife next week?’ It was a time that was most trying, yet also when I was closest to Heavenly Father. Of all the things that I’ve learned, it’s the Atonement that became the most real to me. I really experienced the gospel for the first time.”
“My wife never went through chemotherapy.”
Really?
“Yes. Her grandfather (Iohani Wolfgramm) gave her a blessing and she was healed.”
The cancer went into remission for a while. In the meantime, his football career slowly fell apart.
In the beginning it was all so easy. The high school years were a red carpet affair for him. With moves that were gravity defying, Mark had talent to burn. The local media couldn’t get enough of him, and launched his growing career to a national level. Colleges jockeyed for a chance to court the ‘Golden Boy’ from Laie, and his fan base quickly grew. His contemporaries paled in comparison to him; it was his abilities, as much as it was his over the top personality and engaging wit that left everyone transfixed. Football was merely an extension of him, defining one of his many faceted talents.
But somewhere in college, that balance shifted off kilter and he found himself playing without the passion.
“Football drove me; motivated me, but it became really small. The first two (upcoming) seasons, I was able to play on talent alone, but it wasn’t the same (anymore).”
This isn’t an easy confession for him to make. Statewide in Hawaii, he’s still recognized for shattering Mosi Tatupu’s rushing record in a single season—but BYU-Provo didn’t harness this agility and prowess, and as a result, his game suffered for it.
Just when things couldn’t get any worse for him personally, he’s ousted from BYU-Provo because of poor academic performance. With the probability of his NFL stardom fusing out fast, he’s left with a little family to support and the gnawing fear of his wife’s cancer coming back out of remission.
I ask the inevitable question—Would it have been hard to do both football, and deal with Liz’s ailments?
“(During football), every sprint I ran was for that purpose. (Later on after BYU-Provo), I was working at a golf course and doing odd jobs. That’s when my dad’s mantra came back to me—about why we do what we do; it started to make sense. I did valet—parking cars, cleaning carts and doing menial labor. It was hard because the same people that brought their kids to my games and asked for my autograph were now at the golf course asking me, ‘What are you doing here?’”
(Pause)—“I had (a) friend tell me, ‘Mark, I want to help you out and give you a job, but I can’t do it because you don’t have a degree.”
Were you bitter?
“Yeah. I was bitter, asking, ‘Why me?’ Then I saw that my wife had this illness, and never once did she question it. It showed her integrity, her character. My wife is a woman that has no guile and no ill feelings towards anyone. If there’s anything that I’ve gained at BYU (Provo), it’s growing closer to my wife.”
When his dad came up and saw the direction his life was heading in, he immediately packed them all up and brought them home to Laie.
“I worked full time at Turtle Bay and went to school full time (at BYU-Hawaii).”
How did you do it?
“I don’t know. I wanted to live in Hawaii, but it’s a parody between classes—you almost have to be a CEO to survive.”
Yes, I’ve been thinking about drug dealing to make ends me.
“I took the LSAT (Law School Admittance Test), and it must’ve been divine intervention because at first, it didn’t seem too hard, but it’s getting difficult. I mean, if I can do this, anyone can. It took me seven (tries) to pass the SAT to get into college. And I give you permission to put this up.”
Now I’m laughing again.
Wow, you’re just multi-talented Mark; you’ve done music, law and football.
“I have this mantra of, ‘Not giving up, and doing my very best.’ And I’ll tell you what—no one is gonna outwork me in anything!”
We both are laughing.
Has your character changed?
“(What happened to me) humbled me. I understand my parent’s situation that much better. The Lord blessed me with so much.
(Pause)—“And here I am doing this (law school).”
We switch gears.
“The Boys—there’s such a bad connotation associated with ‘Laie Boys.’ With people, it’s either one of approval or disgust. They (the Boys) have been such a help to me (he’s naming numerous people that have influenced him, and I can’t write it fast enough). That’s why I remember that place—because it radiates through with one love.
Now we’re chatting about his entrepreneurial skills.
“I had to pay tuition (at BYU-Hawaii) somehow. It was time to hustle, so Liz’s brother helped me produce a song called, ‘Island Love.’ At that time, Peni Latu (Kavaman) was working at KCCN (local radio station), so he got me airplay. I told him, ‘Whatever you do, don’t use my name. Make up whatever name you have to, just don’t use my name.’ So the song was put out as, ‘Here’s a song by M.A.’—and it got a good response. People were calling in and asking, ‘Who was that?’ There were lots of requests for it. Ha ha ha.”
We’re both cracking up now. I’m shaking my head in wonderment—and my cell phone is dying. So much for new fangled contraptions. I quickly plug in and continue our conversation.
With four years of BYU-Provo under his belt, he still wasn’t a junior.
“I didn’t care much about academics at Provo because I figured I was going to play professionally, but when I came back to Hawaii and got back into school, I had to find a way to fund (my education).
For distribution purposes, “Itula funded two thousand dollars (and) I did the (whole gamut of) shows.”
Touring?
(Laughs). “Yes, the touring. And the day I had enough money for school, I quit.”
(Incredulous)—What?
“I had no passion for it. I did it because I had to, but music—I’ll leave that stuff for my wife.”
We both are having a good laugh. As it tapers off, I ask him a serious question.
With all you’ve been through, how do you manage to stay so upbeat and positive?
“Ahhh, I don’t know. It’s just in my nature.”
What would you ultimately like to do with your law degree?
“I don’t know. I have to concentrate and put all my efforts into it now, because the first year is crucial—it determines your career.”
Things have taken a different turn for Mark, the once NFL hopeful that turned to ‘Law’ for solace. He recalls his fathers’ words, the day he graduated from BYU-Hawaii with a degree in Political Science—“Now you can correct me.”
These days, it’s his growing family that monopolizes his time.
Congratulations on the recent addition to your family. Will you expound on that little miracle?
“We wanted five kids, which symbolizes the five months my wife was originally given to live. The doctors diagnosed her with five months to live and (that’s when) Iohani (her grandfather) blessed her.”
Thoughtful pause.
“I’m just happy. My oldest, Anessa (who is nine) was baptized there at Hukilau beach.”
What are your kids names and ages?
“There’s Anessa, then Alema, who is seven, and is named after my brother. Then there’s Tai who is five and Teanekuma (Teancum), who turns two in July; we share the same birthday and he was born at Kahuku Hospital.”
Like you—you were born at Kahuku Hospital too.
(Laughter)—“Yes, I was.”
I have a sneaking suspicion that daddy has a favorite.
“Then there’s Abby, my little baby.”
How has being a father changed you?
(Laughs)—“It’s changed me a lot, because now I’m Mark Atuaia, the father of five—it’s humbling. For me, the worse thing that I can think of ever doing is breaking any of my kids’ hearts. They have so much trust in me, that if they didn’t look at me the same way, it would kill me.”
What has been the greatest life lesson you’ve learned?
He’s laughing now, and I laugh along with him. When he starts his quote—I realize why he’s laughing.
“It was something Jack Damuni said—‘Don’t ever grow up. Be youthful and remember your hannah-baddah days.’”
Describe your happiest memory.
“(It was) when I became a father. I wasn’t there (during the birth); I was playing (football) in Dallas. It was New Years eve, in 1996—and when I looked at my first born, I was happy…and scared. All these emotions were going through me.”
Any regrets?
“None. I’ve lived life the way I do to have no regrets.”
When you’re in bed at night with the lights turned off and the world tuned out, what are the last thoughts that go through your mind?
(Laughter)—“It depends. Sometimes when I come back from the mix, I ask myself, ‘Why did I even go there with those eeedeeoots?’ But man, when you mix with the Laie Boys, it is hilarious! We talk about what it was like when we were kids.”
Laughter trailing off.
Any last words?
“Yes…my last words to everybody are, ‘There’s nothing we can’t accomplish, even with everything stacked against us, if you put your shoulder to the wheel. You can do whatever you want to do in this life—if you’re willing to pay the price.”
He could’ve been a bitter soul, full of angst and despair, railing against all the vices that fell upon him—but he didn’t give in. Regardless of the lot he was dealt, he plodded ahead and hoped for the best.
Thank you for your indomitable spirit Mark—it’s people like you that help us to see the upside, and recognize trials as a growing pain, and not a plateau to rest on. ‘What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil? (…) Till I die, I will not remove mine integrity from me.’ (Job 2:10; 27:5).
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| Reach Lisa J. Fehoko at LJFehoko@hotmail.com |
| This article property of LaieBoyz.com. Copyright 2010 Laie Boyz Incorporated. All rights reserved. |
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| ©2010 Laie Boyz Incorporated. All rights reserved. |
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