Hawaiʻi Review

Founded in 1973, Hawaiʻi Review is a bold student run bi-annual literary journal featuring national and international writing, as well as regional literature of Hawaiʻi and the Pacific.

[hawaiireview]

Kia‘i supporters around the world

Over the past few week’s we’ve been seeing demonstrations and posts in support of kia‘i Mauna from around the world. Below is a map of what we’ve found and some publicly shared photos of each. Please note that we have tried as much as possible to credit original photographers. When they could not be identified we deferred to crediting the people or entities whom publicly shared them. As usual, we always seek clarification. If there is any way that you can help us to identify names and/or additional locations of kia‘i support, please contact us.

[hawaiireview]

Pu‘uhuluhulu University Bibliography

Here is a bibliography of the presentations and workshops held at the Pu‘uhuluhulu University.

All citations are in MLA format and are assumed first to be presentations unless otherwise indicated. We are also interested in annotating this biography for future reference. If you are a presenter listed here and would like to provide brief course descriptions and biographical information, please contact us.

We will update this list periodically as classes are announced.

Pō‘ahiku, 21 Iulai 2019

Brown, Marie Alohalani. “Mo‘o Akua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Camara, Kūali‘i. “Trail Walk & ‘A‘ali‘i Seed Gathering.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Cleghorn, Kaleinohea. “Pa‘a Ke Kahua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Fujikane, Candace. “Mo‘olelo & Huaka‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hind, Mehana. “Papa Oli.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hulleman, Malia. “Stories from the Front Line.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Johnson, Kahala and Kalaniopua Young. “Mana Māhū.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kaeo, Ho‘oleia and Sesame Shim. “‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i Pili ‘Āina.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kaeo, Kaleikoa. “Aloha ‘Āina ‘Oia‘i‘o.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kaeo, Wahinehula. “‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i for Keiki.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kane-Kuahiwi, Makana. “Waimaka Lehua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kanuha, Kaho‘okahi. “‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i, He mana ko ka ‘ōlelo.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapuni-Reynolds, Halena. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Moore, Kalawaia. “Hawaiian Kingdom.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Perreira-Keawekane, Ku‘ulei. “Mauli Ola.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Revilla, No‘u. “Poetry Workshop.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Workshop.

Rios, Hāwane. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Sai-Dudoit, Kau‘i. “Timoteo Ha‘alilio.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Sang, Presley Ke‘alaanuhea Ah Mook. “‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i Basics.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Trask, Lākea. “Ho‘opulapula ‘Āina Mauna.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 21 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘alua, 23 Iulai 2019

Ahia, Māhealani. “Writing Workshop.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Kaliko and Kaiu Baker. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Brown, Marie Alohalani. “Kinolau.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Dacayanan, Keolamau. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Dukelow, Kahele. “Hānai Keiki.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Elution, Rebecca. “Hei.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Fujikane, Candace. “Mauna Mo‘olelo.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kaeo, Ho‘oleia. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kane-Kuahiwinui, Makana, et al. “Whakapapa: A Genealogical Connection to Land.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kanoa-Wong, Laiana. “Hawaiian National Holidays.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapuni-Reynolds, Halena. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Peralto, No‘eau. “Ka Mo‘olelo o ‘Umi.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Perreira-Keawekane, Ku‘ulei. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Portillo, Leilani and Pōmaika‘i Gushiken. “Poetry Workshop.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Workshop.

Rios, Hawane. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Roldan, Keanuenue. “Kālai, Lā‘au.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Sang, Presley Ke‘alaanuhea Ah Mook. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Santos, Ku‘ulei. “Mālama Pa‘akai.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Tong, ‘Iwakeli‘i. “Pono Science.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Trask, Lākea. “Ho‘opulapula ‘Āina Mauna.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 23 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘akolu, 24 Iulai 2019

Casco, Hi‘ilei. “Legislative Advocacy.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

[Presenter missing] “Decolonizing for White Folks About Face Veterans Against the War.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Duque, Lakela. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hoshino, Nameaaea. “E kalo ‘ai a ko‘u makua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Iaukea, Sydnee. “Seized Lands.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kanahele, Ku‘ulei. “Papakū Papahulihonua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kane-Kuahiwi, Makana. “Hale Pe‘a.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kaniaupio-Crozier, Kaleialoha. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kanuha, Kaho‘okahi. “E Lanakila kākou!” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapuni-Reynolds, Halena. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kauahakui, Lauren. “Ola Kino.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ke‘alaanuhea, Presley. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Laimana, Kalei. “Hawaiian Governance.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Leopoldino, Kaipo. “Organizing Your Thoughts.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Maile, Uahikea. “Mo‘olelo: E Ho‘ololi.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Manning, Raukawa and Roger Thompson. “Te Wehenga o Rangi rāua ko Papa.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Perreira-Keawekane, Ku‘ulei. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Puniwai, Noelani. “Climate Change.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Walker, Isaiah Helekunihi. “Waves of Resistance.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Williams-Solomon,, Haalilio. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 24 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘ahā, 25 Iulai 2019

Baker, Hailiopua. “Hana Keaka ma ka ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Kaipu. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Kaliko. “Hui Kama‘ilo ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i—Hawaiian Conversation.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Tuti. “Kīpuka Aloha.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Beamer, Kamanaikalani. “No Mākou ka Mana: Liberating the Nation.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Casumbal-Salazar, Iokepa. “Ka Piko Kaulana.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hamilton, Hope Palai. “Kia‘i Wai.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hirahara, Auli‘i, et al. “Spiritual Grounding & Release.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ing, Kaniela and Mikey Inouye. “Hawai‘i Politics.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kahiapo, Shauna. “Native Hawaiian Law.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapp, Drew. “Hei.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Koko, Kanaloa. “Royal Protocal.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Lucas, Peter. “Maori Media & Language Revitalization.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Managuila, Lanakila. “Akua Mauna.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Nu‘uhiwa, Kalei. “Papahulilani.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Osorio, Jamaica Heolimeleikalani. “Hi‘iakaikapoliopele & Loving Like ‘Āina.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Rios, Hawane. “Papa Oli/Mele at the Ahu” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Runnels, Ka‘iana. “Kalo Identification.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Sai-Dudoit, Kaui. “Hae Hawaii.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 25 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘alima, 26 Iulai 2019

Baker, Kaipu. Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baldauf, Natasha. “Iwi Kupuna & Law.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Bardwell-Jones, Celia. “Ethics & Civil Disobedience.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Brown, Marie Alohalani. “Hawaiian Religion.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Flores, Kalani. “Sacred Mauna Kea.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hoshino, Nameaaea. “E kalo ‘ai a ko‘u makua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Inouye, Mikey. “How to be a better haole.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapu, Ke‘eaumoku. “Inherent Rights.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Laimana, Kalei. “Systems of Hawaiian Governance.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Lawrence, Tiare. “Community Organizing.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Leinoa and Kahulu. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Mahelona, Keoni. “Data Sovereignty.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Neves, Paul. “Mo‘olelo of the Ahu at Pu‘uhuluhulu.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Phillips, Kawena. “Revolution Evolution.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Rios, Hawane. “Papa Oli/Mele.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Savio, Krista. “Lā‘au Lapa‘au for Mauna Life.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Trask, Lākea. “Ho‘opulapula ‘Āina Mauna.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Walk, Ka‘ano‘i. “He kauwā ke kanaka.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Young, Kalaniopua. “Mana Māhū.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 26 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘aono, 27 Iulai 2019

Awo-Chun, Anuhea and Kaleilehua Maioho-Carillo. “Facilitating ‘Āina-Based Education.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Kaipu. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baumhofer, Kau‘i. “Historical Trauma & Health.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Benjamin, Katy. “Settler Kuleana.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Bishop, Kanaloa. “He‘eia Fishpond Restoration.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Flores, Kalani. “Why is Mauna Kea Sacred?” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Hirahara, Auli‘i, et al. “Spiritual Grounding and Release.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ishibashi, Pua. “Aloha ‘Āina Party.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ishibashi, Pua. “Ha‘a.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kane, Haunane. “Mālama Kanaloa.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ka‘uhane, ‘Iolani. “‘Āina Mauna Cultural Resources.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Nani‘ole, Jimmy. “Ka mana‘o o ka wā ma mua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Napaepae-Kunewa, Naleialoha. “Pu‘uhonua & Ho‘oponopono.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Niheu, Kalama. “Mauna Medics.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Puniwai, Noelani. “Climate Change.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Santos, Ku‘ulei. “Pa‘akai.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Waialae, Chantrelle. “Pu‘uhonua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Walker, Isaiah Helekunihi. “Waves of Resistance.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Wallace, Kahiau. “Mele Kamali‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 27 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘ahiku, 28 Iulai 2019

Aikau, Hōkūlani and Vernadette Gonzales. “Decolonizing Tourism.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Aikau, Hōkūlani. “Iosepa.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Ayau, Halealoha. “Ola Nā Iwi: Iwi Kūpuna, Moepū, & Mea Kapu.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Baker, Kaipu. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Brown, Marie Alohalani. “Religion & Spirituality.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Frank, Kiana. “‘Āina Microbiology.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

hoomanawanui, kuualoha. “Mana Wahine: Hiiaka.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kalama, Camille. “Natie Hawaiian Access Rights.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kanahele, Ku‘ulei. “Papahulihonua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kapp, Drew. “Hō‘ike Honua.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Lawson, Ken. “Know your rights under the 4th amendment.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Makepa-Wong, Emma. “Lā‘au Lapa‘au.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Matsuura, Aubrey and Kanoe Steward. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

McDougall, Nalani and Craig Santos Perez. “Aloha ‘Āina Poetry Reading.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

McDougall, Nalani. “Mana Wahine & Hawaiian Feminism.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Osorio, Jon and Jamaica Heolimeleikalani Osorio. “Ea & the Mo‘olelo That Raise Us.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Punahele 695. “Ho‘omau Ke Ola: Celebrating Hawaiian Culture Through Rap.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Puniwai, Noelani. “Ka Wai a Kāne.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Runnels, Ka‘iana and Hayden Konanui. “Ku‘i Kalo Demonstration.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Trask, Lākea. “Ho‘opulapula ‘Āina Mauna.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 28 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Pō‘akahi, 29 Iulai 2019

Ching, Kū. “Pōhakuloa in Court.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Cleghorn, Kaleinohea. “Hale o Papa.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Gutierrez, ‘Ihilani. “Hawaiian Kingdown History through Rap & Curriculum.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kajihiro, Kyle. “Will Hawai‘i be a Pivot of Empire or Piko of Peace?” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Kuwada, Bryan Kamaoli. “Hawaiian-Language Newspapers & Hawaiian Political Struggle.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Lee, Keoni and Mahina Paishon. “Social Entrepreneurship.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Makepa-Wong, Emma. “Lā‘au Lapa‘au.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

Okamura, Paige. “Papa ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i.” Pu‘uhonua o Pu‘uhuluhulu University, 29 July 2019, Pu‘uhuluhulu, HI. Presentation.

[hawaiireview]

Check out our latest project - an archive related to the events on the Mauna.

[hawaiireview]

The Mauna Archive

This project began on the afternoon of 15 July, 2019; a week after the state of Hawai‘i authorized the University of Hawai‘i to begin construction of its proposed Thirty-Meter Telescope (TMT). With our thoughts on colleagues, friends, and family whom have gone to Mauna Kea, we discussed the affair back here at Mānoa campus. We lamented the fact that the state’s actions compelled our community to stand bravely in solidarity against desecrators of sacred land and the grave injustices done to Hawai‘i and the university. If there was any bright spot in all of this, we decided, it was the outpouring of protest from Hawai‘i residents and beyond. It reminded us of the wave of anti-annexation petitions that swept through Hawai‘i over a century ago, among other moments in history when Hawai‘i stood for its protection.

The support that arose especially over the last week from our community to support kia‘i, educate the public, and provide resources for one another was as inspiring as it was overwhelming, and came in manifold forms: written social media posts, hashtags, infographics, song and dance, videos, etc. What a shame, we thought, if all of this were eventually lost and drowned out in the minutiae of mainstream news, in uninformed opinion, and even in hateful comments that belittle our community and our treasured allies.

It was decided then that the Hawai‘i Review, being in a good position to do so, would collect as much as possible this formidable and vociferous protest. Thus was born this forthcoming archive.

Two days later police began arresting kūpuna kia‘i on Mauna Kea. A protest demonstration was held that morning on the great lawn of the Mānoa campus. Kumu and kūpuna spoke passionately and directly to UH President David Lassner, the latter of whose soft-spoken response did nothing but to brush aside hundreds of Native Hawaiians and university community members before leaving us again without a significant gesture. Hours later, 33 other kia‘i were arrested at Mauna Kea.

Later that day, Governor David Ige issued an emergency proclamation citing an unfounded concern for public safety that gave the state sweeping powers—and free from impunity—to deploy a militarized mass against an unarmed, peaceful assembly. As many have pointed out, this mirrors the reasoning and method used in 1897 by the teacherous Citizen’s Committee of Public Safety to overthrow the sovereign government of Hawai‘i in preparation for annexation by the United States.

Within days of the July 15 standoff at Mauna Kea, protests swelled first on O‘ahu at the Mānoa campus and eventually to include the state capital, the islands of Maui, Moloka‘i, and Kaua‘i, elsewhere in the Pacific including Tahiti, the Marshall Islands, Palau, and Aotearoa; on the US continent in Las Vegas, New York City, California, Colorado, and Alaska. Kia‘i were cheered on as well from German and Japanese supporters. Politicians, celebrities, as well as supporters from also spoke up for the movement and even visited the Mauna to clear up the inaccuracies reported by the state. The protests attracted international attention with news outlets reporting from Europe and South America. Ka leo nui o nā kia‘i o ka Mauna verily shook the earth.

Over the past week, this compilation effort grew from hundreds to thousands of items which we intend to sort, annotate, and archive for future research and recollection. And though it is centered around what is an undoubted hewa on the righteousness and integrity of our ‘āina, aloha foregrounds and exemplifies this collection. Whatever the outcome, it is our sincerest hope that this document serves to remind us of the mana and potential that binds our community to stand steadfast against forces which seek to take and silence.

The breadth and depth of this archive is expansive, but it is by no means complete at any time. This is meant to be an ongoing and living archive and corrections or clarifications are encouraged and welcome. This compilation is also limited to the network and resources available to our current editorial board and contributing collaborators, and we welcome new additions.

Owing to our concern for the privacy and safety of those involved in this compilation, we are doing as much as we can to seek the permission of prospective contributors to include their work as well as to offer anonymity for reasons which we will not question. Nonetheless, we, the editors, affirm and guarantee that all of the material presented here is original and authentic. If any editing has been made to written content, they are indicated by brackets and are done mainly for clarification. This project is also non-profit, and we are not currently planning a saleable version of this archive unless all of its proceeds may equitably benefit the community.

We are continuing to collect and are currently sorting through over a thousand social media posts, beautiful photographs and infographics, dozens of videos and audio recordings, and are compiling an annotated bibliography of hundreds of local and international news reports that have covered this event. We have also compiled a list of supporting organizations, locations of supporting protests around the world, and just about any other aspect of this event that we are trying to keep from disappearing. Our intent is to credit all original producers of the words and works we seek to compile here. This would speak highly of the monumental and collaborative phenomenon that kia‘i have inspired over the past few years.

Please contact us if you have any thoughts or contributions to this project, otherwise we will be reaching out to the community in the coming days.

Kū Kia‘i Mauna!

[hawaiireview]

TERIN WEINBERG: Neap Tidings | Smoke Screens

[hawaiireview]

MICHELLE DeLOUISE-ASHMORE: Where You Will Find Her

Leaning out of the open window to feel the chill of night air breathing on your skin.   Your chest is heavy, & the stars are being buried under cover of cloud as we speak. The distant sky is humming with oncoming rain. How soon this sky will break open with light, leaving you breathless once again. Hold onto this feeling as you remember the field of hibiscus flowers at the edge of Tutu’s corner of this island.   Can you see them? & among them, can you see her?   Tutu, sitting in the company of these flowers,  her long greying hair floating down her back gently. Tutu,  dancing around the small green kitchen as she boiled taro root,  & when Kupuna came home from the sugar cane fields do you remember how they would dance together?   Kupuna's hands resting smoothly on the small of her back,  Tutu’s face bright & shiny & laughing, always laughing.   & can you still hear her? Humming those old songs whose words you used to know so well, as she moved about that old house,  falling apart; as she braided those blossoms of yellow & pink & orange into your hair on special occasions & Tuesdays. She is waiting there    in the night sky for you, in between Orion’s belt & the Na-hiku. 

  Michelle DeLouise-Ashmore | is a Native Hawaiian poet living in Arkansas, where she is working on her degree in Creative Writing at Hendrix College. Her work has been published in Rookie Mag, Rising Phoenix Review, The Olive Press, and Clementine Unbound. She is the Nonfiction Editor for Hendrix College's literary magazine, The Aonian. She can often be found tripping over her own feet and spilling coffee on everything she loves.

[hawaiireview]

DWAYNE MARTINE | Naʹnízhoozhi: A Report from the Bordertown of the Mind

I left Naʹnízhoozhi (Gallup, New Mexico), my hometown, eight months after I graduated from high school. The train tracks, the fields of scattered broken glass, the summer ditches filled with sunflowers and thistles, and all the people there.

            I moved to Albuquerque for school at the University of New Mexico. Like 6 a.m. light in my eyes, the next two years were all reading, studying and part time work. I didn’t have close friends, but was visited constantly by my lesbian friend from high school, Mia and every other weekend by my family.

            I was twenty the first time I got drunk, which for growing up in Gallup was considerably late. There was me, three lesbians (including Mia), and one woman of questionable sexuality in the Howard Johnson’s off of I-25. I had 12 shots of tequila. The next day I went to class at 9:30 a.m. and took judicious notes, perfectly sober.

            Two years later, May of 1995, I received a big envelope with the word “congratulations” on the back flap. It was just a week earlier I had been accepted as a transfer student to Cornell University. This envelope was my transfer acceptance into Stanford University. I was un-phased and immediately thought of months of blowing snow, as I mailed the acceptance postcard back to Stanford admissions.

            Four months later, September of 1995, my mother prayed over me in Jicarilla Apache, as she, crying, left me and my few belongings in my dorm room. Save for a one-month high school writing program, I hadn’t lived away from Gallup for any significant time before. And even though I was poor, brown, Native, and backward, I felt proud, I felt I belonged.

            In my first English class, “17th Century Lyric Poetry,” I was the only person of color. This one girl made a joke in French to which the rest of the class chuckled, as I sat there completely unaware. Then a few moments later, this other girl was asked to read a poem aloud. Even though on the page it was written in English, she started reciting it in Latin, which the rest of the class followed perfectly. I felt like I was back at Jefferson Elementary in Gallup, when these white kids were calling this poor girl from Smith Lake dirty and stupid. I had sat there, hoping they wouldn’t look at me next.

            At this time I had many white and Asian friends in my dorm. I felt like I didn’t need to make Native friends, because my few interactions with the Natives on campus weren’t very impressive. I felt like the theme song for the Native program should’ve been 70’s Cher in a black wig with lots of turquoise singing “Half-breed.”

            Growing up in Gallup, most of the children of interracial parentage didn’t appreciate us “fullbloods” and mostly hung out with the white kids. They were usually the children of Navajo women who married “out,” or as everyone said in town, married “up,” which generally socio-economically was the case.

            Then there were the Navajo orphans adopted by non-Navajos. Many changed their last names because they sounded too Navajo. From Blackgoat to Black, from Manychildren to Mitchell. And then there were those special cases.

            One girl denied having a Native parent. Being one of the popular, wealthy,  “dumb” girls in school I never suspected she was Navajo. It wasn’t until years after high school that I met her parents and realized she wasn’t Hispanic like she told us. Her father was Navajo. I never saw her hang out with any Navajos. Even though we had the same classes for four years, I think she talked to me once. My views on racially mixed people have been colored by my experiences in Gallup.

            So I didn’t have any Native friends my first quarter at Stanford and I thought I was just a regular student, making friends with people in my dorm. Those few white and Asian friends I had made me feel welcome. So within the pseudo-liberal safety of Stanford and with my new friends support, I called my family, my parents and four primary siblings, chatted briefly with them before I told them I was gay. I was 20 years old.

            I had waited until I was away from home and had a place to go to if my family rejected me. I waited until I felt safe on my own to come out because I had heard the stories.

            I had a Hopi friend who told his family he was gay and they threw him out. He was 17 at the time. I had another friend whose father beat her when she told him she was a lesbian. I had another friend who tried to commit suicide when her mother rejected her when she came out. There are so many stories. They gather like reeds in a stream, damming any progress until the water bursts forth and flows, like truth. My Native people have been the only ones to make me feel most ashamed of being different.

            In Gallup, I have many Navajo “queen” friends, who haven’t officially come out to white gay standards. They’re flamboyant, perverse and unrepentant at the bars and with each other. At home, they’re the perfect sons to overbearing mothers or grandmothers. I don’t know if they’re lonely but sometimes when they drink and think no one is looking, they cry to themselves.

            They don’t sleep with each other, other “girlfriends,” but rather have sex with the other Navajos in Gallup who are either closeted and married or looking for an easy, equal “trade.” My one friend who was raised “traditional” as she says, informed us one night that this situation is how it had always been, even before the onslaught of the Europeans. Her grandmother told her it was like this way back when and nobody objected or beat them for it.

They were called Nádleehi, Navajo for “one who changes.” It’s the alternative gender for Navajo persons who otherwise present as male but perform the Navajo women’s historical gender role, including weaving, household work, land ownership and child rearing.

            Several years before the death of Matthew Shepard—in the parking lot of a drag bar in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a Navajo drag queen was stabbed to death. A month later another Native drag queen was stabbed to death. And then another. Three Native drag queens killed in the course of a two month period. The police attributed it to a “domestic violence” situation where each girl was killed by a close friend or relative. There was no in depth investigation and there is still no arrest for all three murders.

            I know if I was found dead in a Gallup field, the white (now even Navajo or Zuni Pueblo) officers who would find me would not give a second thought as to how I would have died. They would presume I died from an alcohol related death or a drug overdose or from a murder committed by one of my drinking friends over money.

And if they found out I was gay, there would be no investigation about a “hate crime.” Just like the numerous “fag bashings” that happen all the time in Gallup, the police would show up and settle the “domestic” dispute but not arrest anyone unless it’s the gay person who is being disruptive or drunk.

            So I waited until I was 20 years of age and in the San Francisco Bay Area. Presumably not the most liberal place in the world but certainly one of the more open cities in the US and I felt relieved.

My family didn’t reject me. My mother cried. My sister Cindy told me, “No matter what I will always love you.”

And if I was white that would be the end of the story. But I’m not. I know when I walk down the streets in Gallup, no matter what I’m wearing, where I’ve been, what I know or do not know, all my complexity can be reduced down to my hair, my color and my profile. White tourists speak slowly to me when they ask for directions or make the extra effort to be even more considerate but just short of being truly condescending. But it just isn’t white tourists.

            I come home and go to the flea market or the Indian Health Service clinic and folk always begin speaking Navajo to me before I interrupt and correct them. They always seem disappointed I don’t speak Navajo fluently. Even though, if they press the issue I tell them my mother’s Jicarilla Apache, they still insist I should know. On the one hand, it’s good to have the expectation, on the other, it’s a burden that I’m not sure is mine.

            My parents made the choice for me about whether I was to speak their languages or not. Both of my parents primary languages were Navajo and Jicarilla Apache. My father was taken away to boarding school at the age of 6, my mother at the age of 5. They were both abused and subjected to humiliating efforts to burn English into them.

            My mother remembers—when she lets herself—as a young girl being in her nightgown at 3 a.m. cleaning the cement steps to the Santa Fe Indian School with her only toothbrush. Her crime was speaking Jicarilla Apache to the other Apache girls. My dad doesn’t speak of his boarding school years.

            It was this history my parents remembered when the decision came of whether or not to teach their children their first languages. It was this and the racism they faced away from their respective communities that shaped their views. I blame them for nothing.

            We can’t undo history. What’s done is done. If I choose to learn the languages now, it should be my privilege to do so, but not my burden. Which doesn’t mean I’m not glad other people grow up bilingual (and with more and more bilingual programs, this will surely increase), but I’m not going to feel bad either because I’ve had the history I’ve had. It’s maddening what we put ourselves through in order to feel we belong somewhere. I cannot help but belong where I was born and to whom I am related.

            Yet even in my primary language, I am not completely welcome.  In my senior year at Stanford, I went to ask for help from the Director of Undergraduate Studies in the English Department. I told him my English advisor, who was going through tenure review at the time, was too busy to offer me sufficient help to finish my senior thesis (which was no fault of my advisor’s, I felt). I told him my thesis, about American Indian women’s poetry and American  Indian gay and lesbian poetry, needed the academic leadership that the department wasn’t otherwise providing. I told him my concerns as a Native person weren’t being met.

            He, without any pause or long consideration, told me my concerns as a Native person did not matter. “I don’t think your concerns as a Native person are significant.” I said nothing for a while and then thanked him for his help and left his office. Later that quarter I didn’t finish the school session but “walked” at graduation nonetheless. I left Stanford without a degree in 1999 and didn’t return until 2002 to finish.

            So three years later when I returned to Stanford to finish my English degree, I tried harder to fit in as an urban gay Native in San Francisco.

            I would walk down the Castro and go into A Different Light bookstore and never feel more brown. Like an anthropologist or a hobbyist, I knew exactly where the gay “Native” section was and made a beeline to it. The few books they had were mostly by lesbians and the couple of gay Native book’s authors were whiter than the blonde man who kept eyeing me the whole time I was there.

            To most gay men I am Asian or Latino, at the very best, exotic. Even knowing this, with this attractive white man staring at me, I had felt cute. I walked up to him and said “Hi.” He said, “I’m not into Asians.” I didn’t correct him. I said nothing. Gay white men have been the only other ones to make me feel most ashamed of being different.

            That June, I went to the 2002 Gay Pride potluck for the Bay Area Native community. Again Cher’s “Half-breed” played in the background. Besides me there were two other Navajo men, (one of whom was afflicted with AIDS) and a dark brown women of indeterminate Nation. She kept looking across the table at me, lost, like she knew me but had forgotten my name. Most everyone was nice but otherwise blond and blue-eyed.

            Yet it still didn’t feel like home. Except for one moment when the Navajo guy with AIDS, who had his white partner with him, who was also afflicted, started to eat. The white guy got up and got a plate of food for his light brown partner, kissed him on the forehead, put a fork in the guy’s hand and helped him to eat.

            That one kiss denied a history of me not existing, it denied the idea that I do not love. It told me I exist, not in spite of everyone, but because of everyone. It told me that home for some of our people is wherever they make it.

            ****

A lot of the rhetoric in the literature on Native peoples is all culture-speak about what’s supposedly going on with us: traditional or modern, loss of culture or return of culture. It seems like everyone thinks we’re supposed to be only one or another, rather than just being who we are, living the history we’re dealt. They say we live in “two worlds.”

            I’ve learned in school that “culture” is a concept with historical roots primarily in anthropology, which from what I’ve read, isn’t about Native lives so much as it is concerned with making up “truths” about them. The term “culture” does not exhaust the Native experience in any significant way.

            I for one, do not live in two worlds. I live in one world, granted, one that at times, has a lot of white people in it, but one world nonetheless. And even though I have no clear idea who I am at every moment, I think I should have some leeway as far as finding out who I am. To read some of the academic or creative literature on Native people, you’d think we’d all have to be perfectly “Indian” by 25. I certainly believe my ancestors didn’t die so their progenitors would have to fit some untenable model of what a Native should be to fulfill white fantasies about our history.

            But the one-history report of who Native people are will continue because there aren’t other voices published and disseminated. And there are a whole lot of Native identified writers who don’t come from Native communities that need to make ends meet so this story will continue.

We all have culture, whether we like aspects of it or not is up to ourselves to decide. Whether or not that culture is “Native” or not is up to the community of people from which we claim association to decide.

            We’re constantly told what is supposed to be “traditional.” But I know stories about “traditional” medicine men who beat their wives, and in one horrible case, have molested their children. There was a story in the Gallup Independent about a medicine man raping a woman who went to him for help.

            I know Gallup fills up at the first of the month with grandchildren and children who wait for their parents’ or grandparents’ social security checks to buy new TVs or stereos, to go out to eat, or to drink their entire checks away. I know persons who’ve stolen their grandmother’s Pendleton blankets and jewelry and pawned them for alcohol. These same people would say I act too white or need to become fluent in Navajo.

            I also know good Christians, good Native American Church-goers and several good urban Navajo, who don’t have any religion. These people would not be considered “traditional” but do not hurt themselves or others.

            I also know many good people, including my grandparents, who cannot help but live how their parents, their grandparents and their great-grandparents have lived.

We all have culture, whether we are good people or not is informed by that culture but not determined by it. There is no one “culture” that automatically makes you a good person. It is how you live your life. There are many paths to beauty, as the saying goes.

            Our experience is more and less complicated than the literature attests. This needs to change. I, myself, have four fingers on the edge of a rainbow and I am leaning into the cool mist of an ever expanding present, getting less and less afraid every day to say what I mean.

            ****

            I know what it is like to be among the mountains and in the ceremonies of my mother’s people. I know what it is like to be walking into Bloomingdale’s at Stanford Shopping Center and buying the Salvatore Ferragamo half boot, and then into Kenneth Cole’s, and buying the 50’s inspired black polyurethane jacket all the sporty gays were then wearing to the clubs without a second thought and without any spending money for the rest of the term. I do not live in two worlds. I live in one world, where I make both good and bad choices, one in which I know there are other Natives with less and more power to choose than I have. 

            My ancestors made a choice, the same one all Native people do at some point, whether it is a quick thought or a long drawn out deliberation, we have all made the choice. When we’re young for some, when we’re old for others, and then there are those who make it for years at a time: the choice of whether to live or die.

            For many it is as if there is almost no thought to the choice they make. For others there is the seven years’ time, or fourteen years, or a life time of living to choose. My ancestors made the choice to go on living, through a tuberculosis plague, the onslaught of white people, Comanches to the east and Cheyenne to the north. I’m not sure if it was a simple choice for them or a hard won one but I know they made it because I am here now. I am the exponential sum of my ancestors’ prayers, dreams, and love for one another.

            And at the end of all the drama is me and even if I’m brown, Native, dirty, stupid, poor, gay, backward and crazy—it doesn’t matter. Because just like my ancestors, I’ll go on as well.

Sometime within the past seven years, I made the choice to keep going, to not stop until I can walk no more and I lay my life down and rest. Like my parents, my grandparents, my clansmen and clanswomen, my people—I will go on.

            I live between white people and Native people, and choose the one by denying the other. I live between male and female. I live between my ancestors and my own uncertain future, trying to remember the prayers that kept them going. I live between Jicarilla Apache and Navajo. I live between the reservation and the city. I used to live between the living and the dead. I used to live between my dreams and reality, destroying my successful future so I could have an anguish-free present of poverty. I choose a life of non-contradiction. I choose to not have to choose either one or the other. I choose to live indeterminate, ambiguous, in-between and always changing.

  Dwayne Martine | is a poet and writer living in Scottsdale, Arizona. He has been published in national and regional print and online journals, including Kweli, Malpais Review, Yellow Medicine Review and others. He has an undergraduate degree in English from Stanford University. He works as a professional technical writer in the financial services industry.

[hawaiireview]

Vamonos | [Images of Pele]

Hawaiʻi Review is thinking of Hawaiʻi Island. Images by the artist Vamonos paired with links and donation information for local organizations that offer services to those displaced or impacted by the eruptions. 

Image: Vamonos9

Community Organization: Pu‘uhonua o Puna Info & Supply Hub

Pu‘uhonua o Puna Info & Supply Hub is 100% community-driven and funded, and was founded as a place of refuge and comfort for those displaced and impacted by the lava eruptions in Puna in May 2018. The Hub is operated by a hui of volunteers, and is located on the corner of Highway 130 and Pāhoa-Kapoho Road, across Pāhoa High School. We are focused on supporting short-term needs of the displaced as well as planning for long-term rebuild and recovery of our community. Follow our journey at facebook.com/puuhonuaopuna

 Give to Recovery: gofundme.com/puuhonuaopuna | 

Support Hub Operations via PayPal, send donation to [email protected] 

[hawaiireview]

Stephen M. Reaugh: "Pectus excavatum" and Other Poems

Pectus excavatum

I found my self this morning, deep sea diving

               near the seafloor: coral-conquered, shipwrecked,

                                covered in barnacles, sea cucumber oil, writhing

 around the neck of the merman on the prow: a locket?

                I took it into my whale-mouth, swam to the surface.

                                On shore, huge human again, I took it out, looked

 inside: myself, kindergartenized, non-Adonis

                in miniature. The locket hung on golden chain,

                               the clasp cold and tough on blubberbutt hands.

                       I washed it off with seawater, watched it line

                my fingernails with rust. I put it on anyway. But then,

                                beach-combing, exposed by the weight of real men's eyes,

 I tripped over the long chain—

                 how did it grow so long?—and watched the lifelines

                                 the chain had traced in the sand dance like paper shriveling

 in the fire. Mesmerized, I sat until the wind blew the sand soft,

                  then swam for horizon. For home. The chain, of course,

                                 tugged to shore. And at that slightest resistance,

                                                        I ducked my whale-head free from the chain

                  and watched my small self sway. The sun fell.

I glinted once, a stuttering candle,

 and

we

sunk.

The Wreck

Wrenched open oyster, broken

cherimoya seeds dark as coffee

splattered inside the shell like ink:

 this is what you offer me,

stretching with threadthin feelers

out from the terrifying chasm

 and since I never dove this deep

except in silver-tinged dreams,

I trip off my sun-filled schooner

 and into you, the wreck.

It hurt.

I misjudged the distance,

 thinking how serene it would be

to slide into some quotidian rhythm,

undulating breathless with no regard

 for what the current does to you,

stuck there. I have no lamp or armor

to bring to you, just a ladder

 half-nailed into my boat,

dangling like a bulky tapestry

dumbly flossing the sea.

 I came to save you,

but now of course I need saving

from myself: the oxygen lines like

 Medusan seaweed in the dark

your shell shows white it is blinding

it is awe it is real-lie, really small

 and in this hypoxic second

(wind/coming) in

my hands fall stiff and cold

 but sure: I take the nail

freed from the ladder when I fell

and hack that pearl in two.

 The halves swim out,

pool into your familiar eyes,

and in a too-easy whirl

 the wreck becomes you:

seaweed strangles itself

in knots, slipping in like sinew;

 splintering coral, your bones;

white-hot streams bending

the water for skin.

 And the dark, filling in the gaps,

shapes it all into your body,

no longer broken for me, or you.

 When we ascend, panting,

and pull up the ladder,

 the shell you left hesitates

on the end.

 We bundle what was broken, and hope

it sells for a quarter.

Days of 1998

Our grins wild, we only knew

what we wanted:

 The crooks of our teeth

cinching air. Ditch dirt mudsliding.

 August heat in May.

But we each found the barn alone.

 Sunset-struck,

we saw time like someone drowned.

 Then the hay twisting like braids

we all would fall sighing, staring.

 Rafters. Hours—hours.

Calls for dinner dangling

 until we found ourselves

ourselves, again.

In the hospital, after my father's funeral

So don’t tell me I don’t see him right now.

Father! His sharp fingers choking

the thread around and around

 that dead oak tree, the one

with only one branch, pointing

at my old bedroom window;

 the blinds, slitted open, dull knife, strips

of an I, tattered, of course they fall.

You know, I used to eat fall

 oak leaves, extra crispy,

given like flowers

by a mooning boy.

 When his pecs plummed, he unwound miles

of red string from round his finger and proposed,

feeling proud, economical.

 But when I got home,

Father strangled

with a look.

 They say when I came to,

I kept pulling at my spine,

as if it could come out

 one long stretch mark

running scalp to sternum,

stem to stern.

Stephen Reaugh | grew up in western Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of the Allegheny National Forest. In 2016, he obtained an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Alabama. his creative work has appeared in Pomona Valley Review, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review. Currently, he is an M.A. student in English Literature at Villanova University.

[hawaiireview]

MÓNICA LAVÍN | PATRICIA DUBRAVA | | | | El Árbol | The Tree

 El Árbol | The Tree

by Mónica Lavín | Translated by Patricia Dubrava | Art by María Perujo

As it happens, sleep is interrupted in various ways. Sometimes by dreams, sometimes by noises that penetrate consciousness enough to open our eyelids. Lola woke because she thought she heard something unusual. Finding herself sitting up in bed, she stayed still, as if the rustle of her own movements would overshadow the sound that had startled her awake. She stared attentively into the darkness of the room, but the noise didn’t repeat. She lookedLooking at her husband’s head on the pillow, she envied his soft, deep-sleep breathing. Lola did not want to share this oddity with him.

[hawaiireview]

Birthright - by George Abraham

Birthright

there is a voice behind

each morning prayer that

wakes Jerusalem before the

rooster’s shrill cry -

 and before

it was a boisterous thing,

it was small; tiny itch

nestled between vocal chords,

brief settler - barely a home

at all -

 much like the heart

whose swelling cries & floods

& tears membranes with its

wanting & maybe wanting

is its own home -

    not the holy

vessel who begs its own rupture;

makes Jericho of its vast

chambers, tense with longing -

intersection of rivulet & fallow

empty - biological, in its

contradiction -

 i mean to say:

the body is holy

war enough for these

nations, swelling.

Brooding.

 ***

 & here i am - halfway across the world

from everything i know, and yet i find it easiest

to fall in love with an unfamiliar land; this

architecture of olive grove; diaspora of gravel

& stone migration - aftermath of the colonizers’

explosions, land giving itself to the wind -

the most forgiving god of faithless scatter,

 & for once, i begin to understand the way

my grandfather holds his olive-wood prayer beads

like something holy, in their invisibility; the way

Teta makes nostalgia of Her Jerusalem before

the settlers & their talk of walls made apartheid

of our God

& perhaps this is too

familiar, and my longing is just the weight of my

ancestors’ grief carrying me home, or here & isn’t

that all we ever wanted: a place to die

whole, not holy, not martyr; somewhere

my every breath doesn’t have to be a revolution;

somewhere stone can be a home’s foundation & not

war crime; somewhere the sea doesn’t gentrify us, or

swallow our limbs; somewhere it holds & carries

the weight of us          back Home –

George Abraham (they/he) is a Palestinian-American Poet, Activist, and Engineering PhD Candidate at Harvard University. His chapbook, al youm: for yesterday & her inherited traumas, was a winner of the Atlas Review’s 2016 chapbook contest. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Vinyl, Apogee, Thrush, Kweli, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Winter Tangerine, and anthologies such as Bettering American Poetry 2016, Nepantla, and the Ghassan Kanafani Palestinian Literature Anthology.

[hawaiireview]

Hawaiʻi Review Submission Manager

HAWAIʻI REVIEW IS OPEN FOR SUBMISSIONS! Fall 2017 – HR 87 – Calls for Submissions ------------------------------------------------------------------------- HR General Calls – Open May 15 – August 1 HR Specific Calls – Open May 15 – August 1 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- HR CALLS – SPECIFIC CALLS Open to all themes. Work accepted will be considered for our website, e-chapbooks, and print issues. •HR Translation, Creative Translation & Multilingual Work •HR Queer Hawaiian, Pacific Islander & Indigenous Writers and Artists Call – Writers, Artists, Arts Practitioners, Performers & Educators - Māhū, Aikāne, Takatāpui, Two-Spirit, Akavaʻine, Fakaleiti, Faʻafafine, Fa'afatama, LGBTQQIAHR •Native Hawaiian Student Organizations - Call for Student Submissions ------------------------ •HR Call for Educational Materials - Lesson plans and teaching guidesOpen to all educators, K-20, themes listed below: *Hawaiian, Pacific Islands, and Indigenous languages, literatures, performance, and other art forms *Pidgin (Hawaiʻi Creole English) language, literature, performance, and other art forms ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- HR GENERAL CALL - THEME: KUMU & KUPUNA Open to all writers and artists. We encourage submissions from students, locals, and Hawaiian & Pacific Islander writers and artists. Work accepted for this call will be considered for our webpage, e-chapbooks, and print issues. "The kūpuna are all around us now, / caressing the grasses, the leaves / on each branch – they won’t let go, / just yet. Their dance makes the wind / brush the clouds across the sky – " – Brandy Nālani McDougall, “Memory” "The poi is danced in all its many aspects... And new shapes and forms and patterns continue to emerge. For as long as there are kuia ... training their daughters and granddaughters, and I know there are, all is not lost." – Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, Mana Wahine Maori Our theme for this issue is Kumu & Kupuna. Kupuna (plural kūpuna) brings up concepts of grandparents, grandparents’ relatives and friends of the same generation, ancestors, starting points, sources, and growing. Kumu can relate to ideas of teachers, tutors, mentors, and role models, as well as beginnings, sources, and foundations. For this first part of our Kumu & Kupuna series (HR #87, to be published in late Fall 2017), the Hawai‘i Review asks you to consider the connections between generations, between students and teachers, and between leaders, mentors, and those they mentor. Who facilitates your work and your leadership, and whose leadership and work do you facilitate? We are seeking new work on these themes in all genres and media – prose – fiction and creative non-fiction, poetry, theater & drama, visual & performing arts, lyric essays, and hybrid works that bend genre categories. Other Genres: We are looking for educators in arts and writing to pair up one of their works with student work. We seek interviews between emerging artists and writers and their mentors / teachers / influences. As the chilling impact of this American presidency unfolds, as the oppressions of Empire continually dispossess and exile Native and othered peoples and people of color, we remember that even now “kūpuna are all around us,” and “as long as there are kuia ... all is not lost.” This year, celebrate your ancestors, leaders, mentors, children, grandchildren, and students with us.

[hawaiireview]

INTERVIEW: Stephanie Han

Navigating Place and Identity in Swimming in Hong Kong

Though your language, your passport, your husband, your education and everything about you says you should feel at ease in this room, you don’t. You take no pleasure in Hong Kong trailblazing. You were not an American trailblazer. You did not invent the nectarine, win an Olympic gold medal, star in a TV show, or lead Japanese American troops into battle. You hate the phrases ‘overcoming odds’, ‘defying stereotypes’ and ‘getting ahead.’ You don’t like the words ‘assimilation’, ‘model minority’ and ‘well-adjusted.’ This is why you left the U.S..

      (from "Invisible")

Stephanie Han, whose collection of short stories Swimming in Hong Kong came out early this year, gestures with her hands as she explains that while some writers save rejection letters, hers could fill filing cabinets.  The gestures convey the cabinets would be the large ones, probably four-drawer and tall. 

She began writing the stories for this collection twenty years ago, yet if it weren’t for the years “1982,” “1985,” and “1977” given in some chapter titles, it would be easy to assume the stories are set in present-day.  And this was one of the hurdles to publishing that Han faced.  “A lot of the things in the collection now are current – that’s why it’s published now,” she assessed during our talk.  “Although these relationships have occurred throughout time.”

Swimming in Hong Kong is centered on female protagonists, most of Korean descent or from Korea, and is set in Hong Kong, Korea, and the United States.  The book speaks with a multiplicity of voices: a Korean-American girl spending the summer with relatives in Seoul; a Korean-American college student navigating identity, feminism, and consent in New York; a little girl, who is Chinese, observing how her father is treated by white expatriates in Hong Kong during the World Cup…  The stories take the complicated issues of hyphenated identities, diaspora, power, colonialism, visibility versus invisibility, race, class, gender relations, and make them personal.  Swimming in Hong Kong was a finalist for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs’ Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction as well as the Spokane Prize.  The stories’ voices speak with immediacy, and the narratives pursue social issues that are layered and complex. 

Han was born in St. Louis, Missouri, and has lived in the United States, Hong Kong, and Korea.  Her father, who was born in Seoul, was drafted as a U.S. military doctor, and her family moved every year until she was eight or nine, when they settled in Iowa.  She spent the summers of her childhood staying in a cottage at the Korean Care Home on Liliha Street in Hawai‘i, where her grandmother was the nursing home director.  Most of her adult life has been in California.  Han earned her MA from San Francisco State University, MFA from the University of Arizona, and was the first to earn a Ph.D. in English literature from the City University of Hong Kong.  She and her husband were part of the dotcom boom and bust – and when it busted, they moved to Hong Kong for better opportunities.  After years of living and working in Hong Kong, she and her husband have moved to Hawai‘i; she says that now, she would like to be in the West.  

We met in a little coffee shop in Waikiki, around the corner from the apartment where she and her family live.  As we sit across from each other drinking coffee and talking, I switch from typing her responses to writing because I think maybe I can write faster.  I don’t.  Stephanie talks quickly during our conversation, strings thoughts together between brief silences.

Brooke Jones:  Why do you want to be in the United States now?

Stephanie Han:  I want my son to have an American identity.  My husband is British, and expat, and because I’ve moved so much, I’m constantly in the position of being an outsider.  And in 2047, mainland China is taking over in Hong Kong.  The rule of law will not be in Hong Kong then, and it’s slowly being infringed on now; Hong Kong is not doing well with the Beijing government. So I wanted to leave Hong Kong.  

Despite what is happening in the United States, there is a way to remake an American identity.  There is potential here, and an energy here.  We are still a young nation, if you look at the trajectory of history – it is always four steps forward, three steps back.  We are now in a backward stage.  But it doesn’t make me think it is hopeless here forever.  Americans can be very open people; I’m talking in very broad terms about Americans, but we are a young nation.  We are also a nation that claims genocide, slavery, and massive inequality as part of its history.  The American project has a lot of problems, and there are also a lot of good things that have come from this national project.  It is easy for people to condemn, but I think that the very concept of nation also offers us some interesting possibilities, a way of restructuring and choosing who we want to be.  That said, there are 320 million people here, so it is difficult for all of us to be on the same page at any given time.  And too, why should we be beyond the basics – which I suppose is really the question. What are the minimal requirements that we expect as citizens?  I wanted my son to be a part of it.  And I think I can make a greater contribution as a citizen, or negotiate better from my in-between context, here.

BJ:  The stories in Swimming in Hong Kong include themes of identity and development of identity, insider vs. outsider, visibility and invisibility, and place and belonging.  How did these themes develop?

SH:  I wrote the book from 1997 to 2004 or 2005.  I did live in Korea for a year as a child.  My dad was a naturalized U.S. citizen.  My question had a lot to do with place – what does it mean to have a home? Asians don’t have a binding narrative.  If you’re Native American you have a narrative with genocide, Hispanic with language… Asians are not like that – they do not share a language, culture, anything.  As a result, we come into this Asian-American identity.  And it’s very problematic. It’s an artificial construct.  I think while I was writing during that time, I was trying to figure out what it meant to be an outsider and insider.  I don’t write like that anymore; I’m okay hovering, not in any place.  I’ve finally resolved that, more or less, Hawai‘i is both a physical place and memory to me, and the closest I have to a home. 

My peripatetic existence was amplified by marrying an expat.  I feel, however, it’s important to have a home and place to feel rooted – especially for our child.  It would be nice to stay in one place.  I’m sick and tired of buying the same thing from IKEA – you’re not going to take a knife block between countries.  You can look at moving as exciting or dynamic, or even as an incredible waste of money and time. It all depends on how you prioritize movement and place.  I’d be fine being in one place for a while, but I’m never going to say I’m going to be in a place permanently. It’s like a jinx.  Now it’s normal for me to be outside the conversation of where I am, on the borders or periphery.  

The big theme in the story collection is place.  My father was a medical doctor.  After he got his U.S. green card, he got drafted.  Because they were drafting medical doctors up to age thirty-five, we moved a lot when I was a kid because he was in active duty.  I was a military brat.  We lived on the base in San Francisco and in Korea.  I asked my mom, “Mom, where am I from?” and she answered, “Well, why don’t you list the places you’re from and ask people to pick a place?”  That’s why I read.  Reading offered me a world.  My 70s mom was not big on the touchy-feely sort of discussions of how one tries to belong and was quite casual. It was a different way of parenting.  She said, if you like to read – yeah, you can have a friend in a book.

BJ:  Did you have any siblings?  Sometimes that can help, give you someone to play with, sometimes not…

SH:  I have two younger sisters. We were close as a family because we had to move around a lot.  Then we lived in Iowa for a period of time, seven years.  I was thirteen years old when I went to boarding school; I didn’t want to live in Iowa.  The summer when I was twelve, I went to Korea, like the short story [from Swimming in Hong Kong, “My Friend Faith, 1977”].  My grandfather sent a plane ticket, like the story.  That really changed my life, going there.  After I came back, I decided I wanted to leave Iowa.  I didn’t want to be the only Asian.  There was one black kid in school, one other Asian kid.  Then they moved.  

While I was visiting Korea,  I spent two weeks in a bizarre camp.  You’d wake up every morning to the national anthem.  Brain-washing.  You had to promise to visit the Motherland, to build up resources.  They took us to the border to see North Korea – to see that we were under threat.  We had to get lectures on the military capacity of Korea, on the agricultural industry.  We had to wear these badges and sit in these steel chairs and watch.  Eventually they had to stop the camp – I think it became hard to control because there was a conflict between the Western teenage Koreans and the conservative Korean camp leaders.  But this was a very early government attempt to engage overseas Koreans with education to come back and return to the motherland.  

Seeing other Asian faces was a revolution for me, that’s what led me to leave Iowa.  

BJ:  Why did your parents or relatives decide to send you to that camp?

SH:  My uncle heard about this great Korean overseas camp, and I went for a couple weeks. I loved it.  I had pen pals after that.  I met Koreans from Queens, New York , and they’d tell me, yes there are other Koreans here.  But obviously the experience was so significant to me because I was culturally and socially isolated.

BJ:  Often, fiction is autobiographically inspired…

SH:  It can be, but it’s not [autobiographically inspired] for me.  I use it as a jumping-off point.  When I was in Korea and Hong Kong, I had African-American friends and heard about their negotiation of the place.  I’m not one of those people yearning for my homeland.  Korea has a lot of problems.  It’s very racist.  I’m not happy in a society where people are racist against black people or anyone who is non-Korean, for that matter.  That thinking deeply bothers me.  So I can’t get caught up in the “my homeland’ stuff and feel sentimental about Korea in that way as I am too critical and disturbed by this type of thinking.  I’m glad I went back to Korea; it resolved issues.  A part of me belongs there, and a big part doesn’t.  It’s too intolerant.  I can’t negotiate out of it completely because I am Asian, so when I am there, I am subject to a different level of scrutiny and ideology.  A lot of people who aren’t Asian are never accepted anyway, so they can negotiate out of it.  I can’t.  It’s hard. I don’t have legal standing in Hong Kong or Korea, so it’s hard for me to advocate for other people’s civil liberties as I have no voting rights there.  That’s part of the reason I came back, too – I want to participate as a citizen. I want to raise my voice.  There’s a lot of people who don’t care about that.  I can understand that, too.  But I’m too invested in the potential of what can be.  I want things to get better.

BJ:  The first story you wrote in the collection was “The Body Politic, 1982.” Did you begin with the idea that you were writing a collection of short stories?  How did the collection develop?  What was the process?

SH:  It was hell.  Each story was rejected one hundred times easily.  I was picked up by agents and dropped.  No Asian-Americans would publish me.  I quit taking it personally - what’s another rejection?  Who cares?  People save rejection letters; mine would be in the pounds.  But I get enough encouragement to keep writing, but I’m probably a masochist.  You see narratives like what I was writing now, but not fifteen years ago. 

 “The Body Politic” developed, shifted, was workshopped many times.  It was the last story to be published.  I think because it was the nature of that narrative: what is consent; feminism.  It’s not that it didn’t exist, but it’s far more mainstream now.  The people who didn’t like it and reacted poorly were Asian women.  Because people want to read literature with heroes and heroines that are lovable, defy all odds.  You want the Amy Tan character.  Americans want to read about winners.  One woman told me, I want her to stand up and punch him.  It makes people feel uncomfortable when a character isn’t lovable or heroic.

I’m more interested in imparting the narratives of women because our stories aren’t told as frequently as male POVs.  We’re not represented at the same level in literature.  We don’t appear in publishing, government, business, areas across the board – we are still under-represented.  I see narratives of women as more urgent.

BJ:  How did you find motivation to continue to write and submit in the face of so many rejections? 

SH:  I taught quite a bit and students have a way of inspiring you and encouraging you to keep going. I also had enough encouragement to keep plodding along. Writing is also how I express myself, so it isn't as if I could simply stop as I needed to communicate and obviously felt that there was someone on the other end who might want to read what I wrote, or share my outlook or perspective.

BJ:  All the stories feel very current.  If the dates weren’t in some of the titles, I would have thought they were set today.  

SH:  That’s actually why I put the dates on them.  I wanted to show that the questions are questions that have always been there, that some of these ideas we think are new are really not new, but we are now more comfortable discussing them.

In the class I teach at Hawai‘i Pacific University, the students are about eighteen.  Some female students said razors don’t get a luxury tax, but tampons, etc., do.  I’ve been teaching long enough that I know teenagers in freshman composition wouldn’t raise this question fifteen years ago.  We’re talking about it now.  It’s great.

After one hundred and fifty tries, it [“The Body Politic, 1982”] finally got published.  It got published after the book was released.  I am so glad.  It was the story that people felt hostile about.  

BJ:  What were your goals for the collection?

SH:  I just wanted it to be published.

I think about experimentation with different kinds of voices.  There are quite a few coming-of-age stories.  There’s an arc to that – moments of awakening, of urgency.  

BJ:  There are many voices in the stories, including child POVs.

SH:  I didn’t set out deliberately to write from the point of view of a young girl [in the story “Hong Kong Rebound”].  It was for a contest.  In 2002, I was in Hong Kong during the world cup.  Half the games were in Korea and half were in Japan.  It was an exciting time to be in Hong Kong.  People would stop in the middle of the street to watch; it was just a time of a lot of energy.  The South China Morning Post had a call for a story, and the prompt was “Rebound.” 

My father was staying with me.  I thought a lot about father-daughter relationships.  He was a very devoted father when I was a young child; he’d often take me to the zoo, spend time with me.  I was very lucky.

The story Hong Kong Rebound was written in 2002 and this was only five years after the Handover.  Mostly there were expats in the Central bars.  Locals were looking in at the bars but couldn’t afford beers that cost eight dollars.  People in the bars would put up black paper in the windows.  I witnessed this several times.  I remember an old man peeking in one corner, where there was a little scrap of window that wasn’t covered.  

So these were the three things that prompted the story.  And I thought, I’m going to write something.  The story won the award.  Sometimes, giving yourself parameters and boundaries is good, versus if everything is open and without any rules.  It had to be under 2500 words.

The swimming pool that Ruth and Froggy swim in [from the story “Swimming in Hong Kong,” also the book title] is covered now.  I used to swim there.  The roof was open, so you could see the sky.  They decided to cover it years later.  I got so mad, I wrote into the newspaper and cited facts about heated swimming pools and what have you.  I got really irate about it.  But they covered the pool, which is really too bad.  Hong Kong doesn’t have good urban planning and has a limited understanding of design in terms of allowing people to interact with nature.  On the other hand, everyone has health insurance.  No place is perfect.  

So the Hong Kong stories I wrote – I think they cover different aspects of Hong Kong life.  

BJ:  Could you tell us more about setting boundaries and parameters in writing?  For instance, do you generally find parameters and boundaries helpful when you write?  Do you set them for yourself?  What does that process look like?

SH:  Sometimes I find that having little rules can work in terms of helping you reign in your ideas.  If you say to yourself I want to write a 2000-word story, you can then easily eliminate the excess, and try to think of situations that will be well told in 2000 words.  Sometimes journals have requirements.  Often this is a way to force yourself into flexing your writing muscles.  I sometimes set artificial deadlines for myself too – I must finish X by Y date.  Really, no one is asking for it by Y, but setting up that date provides you with some sort of endpoint.

BJ:  You’ve written about writing into conflict and paradox.  What’s your process?  Do you experience any surprises while writing?

SH:  It works better for me to write into conflict and paradox.  We think we are one thing, but we are this other thing.  Humanity by its very nature is paradoxical and contrary.  I always tell my students to write into the conflict.  Start right before the problem explodes, because you can always backtrack a little.

Usually, I have an idea – that there’s a problem and a moment of grace about the problem.  And I thicken the story as I go along.  As you’re writing, things become more serendipitous.  

BJ:  Could you share a bit about teaching writing…

SH:  I teach at HPU, and I started a workshop series this fall.  I used to teach creative writing workshops in Hong Kong.  I like this idea of people feeling they can control their narrative.  People have a narrative; we all have stories inside of us.  The art of autobiography, it’s very much an American phenomenon.  Autobiography opens our nation – there’s more texture, we have a more porous surface, hearing these voices.  I feel it’s important for people to write their own story.  

These people who wax poetic about the writing life – I’m not one of those people.  Sometimes I think, I should do something else.  But I can’t think what else I would do.  Writing is a compulsion.  I’m a really terrible advocate for the writing life.  It’s not the only way to have a meaningful creative life.  I think what is important is understanding the power of your own narrative and your community’s narrative, and having or acquiring the skill to act as a citizen in terms of being able to write to communicate about a particular problem or idea. But I don’t think writing is the only means to a creative life. You must think of how you would like to communicate with the world—some do it through music, others through design, still others through physical gestures. Creativity takes many forms.

[hawaiireview]

Part II - MIA reading at the Manifest in Honolulu, with works from the recently released Bamboo Ridge 108. Hosted by MIA coordinator Joseph Han and Bamboo Ridge Editors Juliet S. Kono-Lee and Christine Passion. Readers included Wing Tek Lum, Eric Paul Shaffer, and Frances K. Won.

[hawaiireview]

Part I - MIA reading at the Manifest in Honolulu, with works from the recently released Bamboo Ridge 108. Hosted by MIA coordinator Joseph Han and Bamboo Ridge Editors Juliet S. Kono-Lee and Christine Passion. Readers included Wing Tek Lum, Eric Paul Shaffer, and Frances K. Won. 

[hawaiireview]

A Review of Big Sur by Jack Kerouac

If you've ever wondered how the handsome, thick-necked, up-for-anything Jack Kerouac became the soggy drunk from the William F. Buckley programs of the late Sixties, you need only read Big Sur. Published in 1962, after all the trips--geographical, mental, spiritual and physical--had been taken, Big Sur is the definitive kiss-off to the exploration (exterior and interior), the partying, and, perhaps most tragically, the characteristic openness that withheld judgment during Kerouac's well-documented youth. The road he so celebrated in previous work is in Big Sur treacherous, the destination an incessant nightmare, the people that formerly fueled his inspiration and life force now parasites, sucking away even the energy that allows Kerouac to suffer.

In Big Sur, the false antidote to all this disillusionment is alcohol, specifically a sweet wine that burns in the blood stream all day. More than dread, more than the impossibility of an unconditional love or friendship, more than the fear of death, Big Sur is a novel about the effects alcohol has on the body and soul. Kerouac's description of the paranoia and existential disconnectedness he feels during his marathon binges is as terrifying as anything from Charles Jackson's The Lost Weekend. Though liquor at first buoys him and electrifies the fading friendships with others in the Beat scene, it eventually buries him in a despair that's both monumental and microscopically personal, a despair that no one else in the novel can even begin to comprehend.

Big Sur eschews the almost Transcendentalist hopefulness of On the Road for the most negative kind of existentialism. There is no majesty in the waves against the rocks as Kerouac looks out at the ocean, only a horror at his life and all of its meaning cut off as abruptly as the coast of California disappears into the water. Not only does the landscape fill him with a sense of impending doom--friends also reach out, pulling from him things he can no longer provide. In this kind of indifferent or hostile universe one might expect the person with his or her shit together to imbue his or her life with its own meaning, to take responsibility for or change the surrounding conditions. But what of the man who can't help himself? To whom does he justify the futility of his existence?

The answer to these questions arrives at the end of the novel, and is probably not what you expect. But it does partially explain how a bright-eyed Sal Paradise living on the on the road became a dulled, incoherent Jack Kerouac living with his mother.

But let's not talk about the end of Big Sur until we've gone on about the beginning and the middle. Before reading the novel, you should take into account that the context for Big Sur is Jack Kerouac's life, not a series of previous released books that features his surrogate/narrator, Jack Duluoz. For instance, when he describes getting drunk and buying a new sports coat for an appearance on television talk show, Kerouac is talking about Kerouac, not something that happened to the fictional Duluoz. Jack Duluoz is a grown-up Sal Paradise (as he is Kerouac), just as Cody Pomeray is Dean Moriarty is Neal Cassady. Reading Big Sur as biography is a far more harrowing experience than reading it as fiction--in his most ghastly portrayals of events, Kerouac reaches the grim elevation of Edgar Allan Poe.

Other aspects of the writing are not so strong. I had a sense that Kerouac unsuccessfully reaches, at times, for the bopping, rolling, ever-sure rhythms of his past work. The kind of wordplay that seemed poetry in On the Road in Big Sur appears as posturing--Kerouac keeps trying to burn a nugget that has long since been cashed. One might say, by the naked way he attempts at and fails the language and prosody of his former voice, that the novel ultimately achieves the depiction of the dissolution of a worldview via an inability to sustain that worldview through language. Here, the words are not concerned with hope and possibility--here, the words evoke the gradations of fear.

Early on, the plot of Big Sur suggests a forthcoming redemption. Duluoz returns to California after some time away, following up on a proposition from Lorenz Monsanto (Lawrence Ferlinghetti). Monsanto offers an opportunity for Duluoz to dry out and maybe find some inspiration at Monsanto's isolated cabin at Big Sur. But Duluoz blows it right away--instead of setting out for the cabin posthaste, he wakes up in a cheap motel after an all night drunk in San Francisco, having missed his ride. Duluoz takes the bus north, arriving wherever the driver drops him deep into the night. He can't navigate the narrow cliff paths from the road to the cabin in the darkness, so he sets up his backpack as a pillow and sleeps on the edge of the world, the unseen ocean raging below.

When he awakes, he comprehends the imminent danger of the path he's been walking, the terrifying drop to the rocks (the skeleton of a car is wrecked upside down just above the water). He continues toward the cabin, built in the middle of a pasture on the mountain.

Duluoz soon establishes a routine in his solitary home--trips for water, mouse and donkey feeding, ocean transcribing into a long poem at the end of the book. Just as quickly, though, he grows bored and lonely (as always seems to happen when this guy tries to be alone to write). The waters from which he draws new poetic imagery becomes to him a dramatic and undeniable symbol of his mortality. Solitude gets to Duluoz, and the rest of the novel he's looking for excuses to plug up all the solitude, no matter how much of a toll it takes on him.

The primary excuse is alcohol. In one brief scene he smokes a joint with Cody, admitting that weed does nothing for him but make him paranoid. Naturally, this leads to other excuses, the men and women in whom he can find no sustainable joy. At first, these relationships are healthy and productive (word games, visits to old friends in the TB ward, log chopping contests), but they, like the cabin and its immediate environs, become malignant and oppressive. Some friends he lets down just by his general drunkenness, others (specifically, Cody/Neal, the person most responsible for the esteem Kerouac has as a writer) turn on him because in many cases he's a total bastard.

The novel vacillates between Duluoz inebriated and terrified at Big Sur to Duluoz inebriated and terrified in the city, culminating in an especially horrific scene at the Big Sur cabin. Having invited to the cabin a couple and a ladyfriend (with annoying child) for whom he has no great affection and much distrust, Duluoz regrets his decision as soon as the party lands. He wants to escape, but he's asked these "friends" to drop everything for a week-long getaway.

First Duluoz is merely uncomfortable, but his mental health deteriorates rapidly to desperation. At a ceremonial fried fish dinner to which everyone is asked to eat of the body, Duluoz is certain he's been drugged and will forthwith have no control over his actions nor his state of mind. Not only does he alienate everyone within the confines of the cabin with his sickness, fear and disgust, he effectively motivates his supposed girlfriend to hate him (she's no angel, but she's stuck with him thus far). After a final breakdown, Duluoz tries unsuccessfully to sleep, thinking whatever curse has been placed on him will be broken with just a little rest. The alcohol coursing through his veins, Duluoz hallucinates a giant cross before him, floating in nature.

Duluoz's witnessing of the cross is where the greater part of Kerouac's mythos, and his attempts to continue this mythos, ends. Though he may have intended the symbolic cross to signify a kind of peace, an inner acceptance and release, the author eventually forswore the values and excesses of his Beat contemporaries (by then old men, either lionized or dead), becoming something of a conservative clown. Neal Cassady, to great physical harm, carried on the quest for drug-fuelled transcendence with the later generation Merry Pranksters, while Kerouac killed himself in private.

If anything, Big Sur is an important biographical touchstone in the life of an artist possessed by all the archetypal artistic dispositions--ultra-sensitivity, insecurity, recklessness, low self-esteem, a need for solitude, a hatred of solitude, and a deep depression that chemical indulgence only exacerbates. This is a portrait of the artist throwing in the towel. Duluoz realizes the lifestyle upon which much of his greatest work has been based is unhealthy and peculiar. There's no use in going down that road again.

Could Kerouac have carried on one without the other? Alas, the great man could not. When Kerouac chose the Cross over the Horror, life and art converged into one weak stream, and then his life was no more.

Review by Jeffery Ryan Long

Jeffery Ryan Long is Chief Editor of Hawaiʻi Review.

[hawaiireview]

A Review of Invisible Republic: Bob Dylanʻs Basement Tapes by Greil Marcus

The United States of America is a curious place. Its citizens are taught a common history punctuated by wars, but the intentions that built this history are are contested a million different ways in a thousand different places. Unlike the temples of Thailand, the English rain, the long winters of Iceland, the steppes of Russia, the mangrove coasts of Pohnpei, or the ramshackle recording studios of 1970ʻs Nigeria, there is no singular, dominant feature of the United States--it is a big, broad space of death elevation deserts, tropical islands, mountains that caress those big blue cheeks of sky, low-income housing, buildings full of computers on desks, forests so deep the sunlight doesnʻt quite come through, and suburbs so dull they must be what heaven is like. And Americans themselves are furiously disagreeable about what happened when and why, and will wade through the sewage of daytime talk shows and internet comment threads so that they can speak their piece. Americans are a race of beings who have been conned and hustled since the words “that all men are created equal” were posited in a letter to a failing king; and instead of transcending the con, Americans perpetuate it, reinforce it, believing that through inelegant rhetoric they can hustle their fellows into the philosophical holes they think theyʻve dug for themselves, but which have been dug for them a long time ago.

There are times, though, when concordance is achieved in this great nation, when pilgrims and artists unite in like-minded sentiment, a shared dream in which neuroses, fetishes, and unconscious Freudian drives are reproduced through one anotherʻs imagination and misshapen characters--Americans, all of them--from unfinished stories ooze from the the deep pits of collective memory. Where these freaks live, where these fatalistic hopes and discarded masks engage and make love, is in the interstitial America of murders and gossip, a landscape of banjo-playing miners, electric guitarists and extraordinary alcoholics. The arcs of these American lives, as fragile as they are, may only be recalled in fragments. Where these freaks live is Greil Marcusʻs Invisible Republic, also known as The Old, Weird America, and sometimes called Smithville, sometimes Kill Devil Hills. The truth in the Invisible Republic is not the ever-present con, the current American sophistry of political stances-- the only thing worth mentioning is that everybody will die, either by murder or something more awful. The rest is all sublime nonsense.

Greil Marcusʻs argument, in Invisible Republic, is that Bob Dylan weirdly, with a group of Canadians who paid their dues through endless tours behind an Arkansas rockabilly singer, was able to summon this great American spirit of inevitable death and the perpetual churn of nonsense that surrounds it in the summer of 1967, in a basement in West Saugerties, New York. All of them beautiful singers with terrible voices, Dylan and the Band gave testimony of the Invisible Republic on tape, their minds and tongues all twisted in the same way by what theyʻd witnessed through the summoning.

“Iʻm hittinʻ it too hard / My stones wonʻt take / I get up in the morning / But itʻs too early to wake,” they sang--then, together, “Nothing is better / Nothing is best / Take care of yourself / And get plenty of rest.” Also “They say everything can be replaced / But every distance is not near.” It was the weird, old America of nonsense, of cowboys riding cyclones, a steel driver in a fight to the death with a machine. Dylan and compatriots espoused riddles, koans, sometimes little bits of helpful advice Blues singers might flick off at the end of a 12th bar, what hobos might imprint on the fence of an unfriendly residence. Itʻs this death and nonsense, Marcus proposes, that perpetuates the ineffable mysteries of a place both tall and wide, where everything canʻt simply be explained away through dissenting opinion. There ainʻt no use in speculating, even--only letting be.

As a text where one might become acquainted with Dylan and his influences, Invisible Republic isnʻt the place to start. A working knowledge of The Basement Tapes is required, even those not released on the bastardized official album from 1975. But the lyrics of these songs are only half the story--the music that elevates them should be learned, absorbed, their melodies evident in the line breakdowns into text. Between these lines Marcus evokes the ghosts of the Old, Weird America: Dock Boggs, Bobbie Gentry, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and, essentially, Harry Smith, that last great seer of American truth and hypocrisy.

Invisible Republic is not a bible, an encyclopedia, or a piece of creative non-fiction. It is a glimpse into the cosmic machinery that produces the voices of great artists, a view of the invisible under the visible, a vista both dark and brilliantly mad. It is a keyhole. The reader, with all the buried failings and imaginative power to see through the con laid upon the land by the hustlers of reality, is the key.                  

Review by Jeffery Ryan Long

Jeffery Ryan Long is Chief Editor of Hawaiʻi Review.