In the US in the 60’s you still didn't see many mixed race couples, maybe that is the reason for the move to Hawaii. Maybe a dark skinned child would not raise so many eyebrows.
Since when was the solution to a pregnant black hooker in 1960, for the white john to take the baby and pawn it off as his daughter’s offspring from a black husband?
That sure doesn’t fit my memory of the times.
Or she could have been a long time mistress, one who threatened to black mail him if something wasn't done about the baby. Not that I believe this BS but that is a more reasonable explanation than if he got some one time hooker pregnant.
Dreams From My Father- Page 76-77..............
He would read us poetry whenever we stopped by his house, sharing whiskey with Gramps out of an emptied jelly jar. As the night wore on, the two of them would solicit my help in composing dirty limericks. Eventually the conversation
would turn to laments about women.
I was intrigued by old Frank, with his books and whiskey breath and the hint of hard-earned knowledge behind the hooded eyes. The visits to his house always left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable, though, as if I were witnessing some complicated, unspoken, transaction between the two men, a transaction I couldn’t fully understand. The same thing I felt when Gramps took me downtown to one of his favorite bars in Honolulu’s red-light district.
“Don’t tell your grandmother,” he would say with a wink, and we’d walk past hard-faced, soft-bodied streetwakers into a small, dark bar with a jukebox and a couple of pool tables. Nobody seemed to mind that Gramps was the only white man in the place, or that I was the only eleven- or twelve-year old. Some of the men leaning across the bar would wave at us, and the bartender, a big light-skinned woman with bare, fleshy arms, would bring a Scotch for Gramps and a Coke for me. If nobody else was playing at the tables Gramps would spot me a few balls and teach me the game, but usually I would sit at the bar, dangling my legs from the high stool, blowing bubbles into my drink and looking at the pornographic art on the walls, the phosphorescent women on animal skins, the Disney characters in compromising positions.