Maui, Mafia, and the Girl Before Her Inner Critic Got a Megaphone
- Jun 27
- 5 min read
Maui was our first big family reunion, which sounds like the kind of trip that should be remembered mostly for beaches, sunsets, and palm trees. And yes, Maui was beautiful. Obviously. It is Maui, not the parking lot behind a grocery store.
We saw the black sand beach and other places so pretty they looked like they were showing off, which, in fairness, they had every right to do.
There was also a red convertible involved, because when my family rented cars to drive around the island, apparently someone decided we needed to lean fully into the vacation fantasy. If you are going to be sunburned, mildly carsick, and surrounded by relatives, you might as well do it in a red convertible.
But when I think about that trip, the beach is not the first thing I remember.
I remember Mafia.
Not the criminal organization. The game. Although, honestly, some of my cousins’ acting that week could probably have gotten them interrogated by federal agents.
We played Mafia as cousins, and it became my favorite memory of the whole trip. There is something about sitting around with relatives, accusing one another of murder, lying straight-faced, and dramatically defending your innocence that really brings a family together. Some people have heartfelt bonding conversations. We had villagers, murderers, and suspicious eye contact.
At one point during the game, when the Mafia were silently picking their victim, I remember shaking my head and putting my arm up like, “Pick me.”
No hesitation. No embarrassment. No internal committee meeting of every insecurity I had ever owned. Just full-body participation from a girl who had not yet learned to edit herself into something quieter.
That version of me showed up in pictures too.
My favorite picture from the whole trip is one where my family is standing on the beach, and some passerby took the photo for us. Everyone is arranged and smiling like a normal family trying to document a vacation. And then there is me, restless and done, holding my hand out to the side in a very clear “come on now” gesture.
It is such a small thing, but I love it because it feels like evidence.
Evidence that there was a time when I was not yet so careful about how I took up space. Evidence that I still had a little bit of unfiltered kid left in me. Evidence that before teenage brain fully moved in, rearranged the furniture, and started charging rent, I could still be openly impatient on a beach in Maui.
I think that trip may have been the last one where I fully showed my personality in that way. At least for my teenage years.
That sounds sad, but I do not really mean it that way.
Do I miss that girl?
Not exactly.
I could probably learn from her. I could stand to be a tad less rigid in public. A little less worried about being watched. A little more willing to throw my arm up in a game and announce, silently and dramatically, that if someone needed to be murdered for the sake of family entertainment, I was available.
But I do not miss her like she was some lost, perfect version of me. She was finding herself. I am still finding myself. She just had fewer mental tabs open.
I also came down with a cold near the beginning of the trip, because apparently my immune system saw Maui and said, “This seems like a great time to become a problem.” But I did not let it stop me from doing most things. I kept going, except for one night when everyone made an impromptu run down to the beach to catch the sunset.
I stayed in the room.
For years, I have wondered what they did that evening.
Maybe they found a secret tunnel to Narnia. Maybe they joined a beachside drum circle. Maybe they witnessed something magical and agreed never to speak of it again. They all came back suspiciously normal, which naturally made me assume scandal.
But the funny thing is, I do not remember feeling left out. I had no FOMO. I was blissfully unaware that FOMO would one day become a personality setting for the modern world. I was just sick, tired, and perfectly content to rest while everyone else chased the sunset.
The week had plenty happening anyway.
Grandpa Lund brought a bag of caramels and handed them out, because that was the kind of move a grandpa makes when he understands both family reunions and blood sugar. He had also been a bridge champion, which made playing cards with him slightly dangerous. We played Hearts as a group all week, and Grandpa could tell almost immediately if someone was cheating.
Naturally, I tested those waters.
Not in a criminal way. More in a “what if I gently poke the bear and see if the bear has memorized every card in everyone’s hand” way.
The bear had.
My cousin Karina and her new husband were acting like lovebirds that week, all sweet and newly married and making the rest of us look emotionally underdeveloped. My cousin Candace was, I imagine, keeping her eyes peeled for the coconut bra her friend had requested, because nothing says “Hawaii souvenir” like making another person explain themselves at airport security.
And then there was Derek, a cousin who has always had the good sense to encourage my writing, and the questionable judgment to give me material.
On the last night, the cousins did a program for my grandparents, and Derek performed some sketch he had apparently done at a Scout camp out. It involved the moon. And by “the moon,” I mean his actual moon.
He pulled his pants down and mooned everyone.
His mom, my Aunt Pat, was mortified.
Which, in fairness, is probably the only correct maternal response when your child turns a family reunion tribute into an unsanctioned full-moon ceremony.
My cousins from Garland were probably somewhere nearby trying to look like they did not know this family. And honestly, I could not blame them. Every family has moments where you want to quietly step three feet to the left and pretend you are just another tourist.
Looking back at photos from that trip, I also feel the need to say that young me was in desperate need of an intervention.
A wardrobe intervention.
Baggy shirts. Tacky sunglasses. Non-trendy sandals. A haircut that was allergic to ball caps. The whole look said, “I have packed for comfort, confusion, and possibly a youth conference from another decade.”
That girl needed help. Immediately. Preferably from someone with access to a mall, a curling iron, and the courage to say, “Sweetie, no.”
But I also kind of love her.
Not because she was stylish. She was not. Let the record show she was not.
I love her because she was still showing up as herself. Playing Mafia too loudly. Testing Grandpa at Hearts. Gesturing impatiently in family photos. Missing sunsets without turning it into a wound. Being sick on vacation but still wanting to be part of things. Wearing the wrong sunglasses with the confidence of someone who had not yet been emotionally harmed by a teen magazine.
Maui was beautiful. I know it was. There were beaches and palm trees and convertible drives and ocean views that deserved more appreciation than my adolescent brain probably gave them.
But what I remember most is not the scenery.
I remember the cousins.
I remember the games.
I remember Grandpa’s caramels.
I remember the red convertible.
I remember a family gathered in one place before everyone’s lives kept branching off in their own directions.
And I remember that girl on the beach, hand out to the side, ready to move things along.
She was not polished. She was not trendy. She was not remotely prepared for the responsibility of sunglasses.
But she was there.
And for one last trip, before fear got louder and teenage self-consciousness started taking over, she let everybody see her.
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