To use absolutes is often too exaggerate, but in this case there is no exaggeration. Everyone knew Murphy Lipai and Murphy Lipai knew everyone. At least on Pohnpei, an island of 30,000 in the Western Pacific in a country known as The Federated States of Micronesia. He was my Mwoakillese host father, Pahpa. This afternoon, I learned that he had a heart attack and passed away. I cried and felt so far away from my family. Memories rush over me as I wept for a man a few years older than me, but nevertheless my father. The care he and his wife, Marianna, gave me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer was no less than what any parent would give their own child. Mom once told me that she believed if any of her kids came to America they would be treated the same way.
Some memories were poignant, others ordinary, but each special. In January 2004, Murphy came to the Peace Corps office, looking for me. My first family could no longer host me and I wanted to stay in the Mwoakillese community on Sokehs. After a couple of weeks trying to find another family without much success, I thought I would have to move to another village. Murphy asked if I would stay with his family. I forever became part of the Lipai family.
Murphy Lipai was a patriarch in every sense of the word. He gave respect and rightly earned it in return. A community leader he was involved in the local government on Pohnpei, in his community and on his native island of Mwoakil. He spoke often of his concern for the future of the large youth population that were at risk of losing their traditions and language, and had limited educational and employment opportunities. He envisioned a future, but saw the youth without focus, lost and bored. He expressed a concern for the corruption of traditional, elected and business leaders, yet he worked with all parties, believing it would yield a better life for all Micronesians. He was a minister. He delivered sermons in the local language I could never understand, but like a little kid I was so proud of my father standing behind the pulpit. Unlike many Micronesians he had a job and went to work, yet he gathered food from his land. He’d carry home papaya and bananas in one hand and a machete in the other. In the back yard he grew yams. But unlike many, he didn’t raise pigs.
Each morning he would wipe the dust and grime off the hood of his new Ford pickup. The meticulous care for the car was unusual, in a country that couldn’t seem to sustain anything on its own. But Murphy was like that—different than most. Murphy drove me to work most mornings and we talked about politics, religion, his family and his plans.
A tall skinny man (the whole family was skinny), he realized the importance of education even in a country where subsistence living was the way of life. His sons and daughters went to college or joined the US Army. At his passing only he and his wife remained in Micronesia, the rest had come to America.
He planned to retire in a couple of years, build a new house and start his own business. He and his wife would visit America, but he was a man of the land that sits in the middle of the ocean, a Micronesian who gave tomorrow to his family while he stayed on his land and kept the traditions.
There is a forty day funeral in Micronesia I wish I could attend.
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