Skip to main content

Say what?

If you hail from New York, you are a New Yorker. In my life I've been an Oregonian, a Coloradoan and a Californian. That's because I've lived in those states. I live in Hawaii now, but I can never be Hawaiian. To be Hawaiian, you must have Hawaiian blood. A Hawaiian can be a Californian or a Nevadan, a Washingtonian or a Vermonter, but a haole mainlander of European descent can never be a Hawaiian. Here in Hawaii, I am a Hawaii resident. No less, but no more. According to my state I.D., I am kama'aina, insofar as my ability to receive an occasional local discount on stuffs l'dat. Technically, however, kama'aina means native born. Hawaiians born in the islands are both Hawaiian and kama'aina. A Hawaiian born in California is still Hawaiian, though not kama'aina. Third, fourth or fifth generation descendants of missionaries or plantation workers who were born in Hawaii are kama'aina, but not Hawaiian. I am officially a malihini, or newcomer, and will be until I've been here for a very long time. Maybe forever. Of course, some of this confusion comes from the fact that this state bears the same name as the people who first inhabited the islands. Of course, so do several other states - Iowa and the Dakotas come to mind - along with hundreds of towns, cities and counties. So, what does all this mean? I guess these are just things that make me go, "hmmmmmmm...."
One thing I notice here is the plethora of placards and other postings declaring Hawaiian-ness. It's not unlike the "native" bumper stickers that became popular in Colorado and Oregon as people began moving to those states in droves back in the 80s. Here, bumper stickers say, "Proud Hawaiian," or "Kau Inoa" which is the Hawaiian ethnic registry. I saw a guy sporting a t-shirt ala Dr. Seuss the other day that read, "Hawaiian I am." Mahalo, mahalo, Sam I am. I think it's great, this resurgence in Hawaiian ethnic identity and pride. A little pride is a good thing for a people who have been oppressed and feel disenfranchised. But it also feels a bit exclusionary. If you're not Hawaiian, you're not in the club. I suppose that excluded is just how Hawaiians have felt in their own land for more than two hundred hears now; ever since that crazy Captain Cook happened upon these islands. What goes around comes around.
I've thought about getting my own bumper sticker to announce my Heinz 57 origins. Maybe something like, "Norwegian, Scottish, Irish, German, Cherokee Pride." My heritage would make me a herring eatin', spud gummin', whiskey swillin', bratworst-gnashin' buffalo pemmican chewer. No poi, but plenty to be proud of, for sure. (Also quite a lot to be ashamed of, but we won't go there just now...) Technically, I guess you could add African to the list, since we are all descendants of the first homosapiens to walk upright on that continent. Admittedly, that would be going way back. Now, the Cherokee part is something my grandmother swore to, despite no actual, researched family tree to prove it. That said, if you ever saw my great uncle Bill or my great aunt May, you'd believe it. Of course, if I'm Native American, then I might have descendants who crossed the ice sheet spanning the Bering straight tens of thousands of years ago, which also makes me Asian. Despite the Native American blood, which admittedly is just a smidgen, I'm thinking my multi-ethnic pronouncement would not be appreciated here. This, despite the fact that Hawaii may be the most diversely populated, multi-ethnic state in the union. If, that is, you believe it to actually be a state.
And so go the musings of a strange mind.
Abner wants some petting now, so I've gotta go. Cat's rule, dogs drool and people are all just here for their comfort.
A hui hou. Aloha!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Born and bred

The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud

Fruity booty

It was a long drive from Glenwood to the northern tip of the island -- three hours -- so for sustenance, we stopped at Baker Tom's for malasadas on the way. My pal Kathy and I were headed to Kapa'au for a hike, one we'd read about in the local newspaper. The couple who run Baker Tom's (not sure if the husband is actually Tom or not) are delightful, with enduring stamina. They're as old as radio, yet they're always on duty, ready to serve behind the counter, as they have for many years, frying, baking, brewing and smiling, there in Papaikou , gateway to the Hamakua Coast. The malasadas are enormous, cheap and delicious, the coffee OK, the tourists all happy to have discovered this place, buzzing with sugar and caffeine. They make a killer pumpkin cheesecake at Baker Tom's, too. It's always a pleasant stop. Ahapua'a . It's a Hawaiian land division, usually a strip or wedge, stretching from mountain to sea. Hawaiians lived in villages wit

Small town observations

Every day at noon, a siren blares from atop the city government building in Gunnison. Each time I hear it, I want to shout, “Yabba dabba doo!” even though it’s nowhere near happy hour. I’ve blurted this once or twice, only to elicit blank stares in response. Am I that old? Doesn’t anyone remember the The Flintstones? I hear that horn and imagine Fred sliding down the long neck of his gravel-quarry dino-dozer (which, thanks to Jurassic Park and the miracle of Google we all recognize now as riojasaurus). Quitting time! Fred flees, his fleet feet slapping toward a rack o’ ribs and a night of good times with Wilma, Barney, Betty and Dino. That’s Dino the dino, pronounced Deeno the dyno. Think that’s delusional? Another day, walking downtown near the source of the noontime wale, it struck me, a revelation it was, that the ramp up to full blast sounds just like the introduction to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, only this is a mega-air-raid, civil-defense siren solo rather than a clarinet, whic