Huliau - The Return Voyage

Darlene is one of only several hundred Ni’ihau Hawaiians, who grew up on this privately owned Hawaiian Island. The Hawaiians on Ni’ihau live simple lives, close to our ancestral values. This tiny Island is the last remaining place on earth where our native tongue is spoken exclusively.

We were camped next to Darlene at a county beach park. She told us her story:

“Of course, our children from Ni’ihau speak only

Hawaiian. But when my children enrolled in public school on Kaua’i (where many of us come to work), they were all automatically placed in ‘Learning Disabled’ classes— just because they didn’t speak English.

“Once they were labelled, they were kept in “Special Ed classes” throughout their school years.

“This is why,” she told us, brimming with frustration. “We fight so hard now for our Hawaiian Language Immersion schools. It’s also why I returned to school and became a teacher–to keep this from ever happening to our children again.”

We met Mai at the Front Desk of a Honolulu Hotel, where she was checking us in for a one night stay. She was warm, welcoming, and more—she was honest.

“Why is it” she asked ‘Iokepa, “That other native Hawaiians are harder on me than tourists?”

When she realized that she had a sympathetic ear, she continued.

“My name is Chinese, and I look Chinese. So all my life, other Hawaiians have discredited my claim to my Hawaiian ancestry. Over and over they’ve excluded me.

“For our entire lives, people like me, who are very proud of our Hawaiian heritage, have been discouraged by our own people. It gets to the point where we just give up.”

Early in our friendship, Pana‘ewa–then a sixty-five year old kupuna (elder) and a retired engineer–shared this story.

“I was proud and privileged to be selected from this remote Westside village—at age twelve–to attend The Kamehameha School.

“You had to be Hawaiian—and you had to be smart to be selected,” he said. “I spoke our language at home and I felt certain that an all-Hawaiian school would deepen my understanding of our culture and our history.”

At that time, the cream of Hawaiian youth had been skimmed–for over a hundred years–from the native population and fed into this select, tuition free, boarding school in Honolulu.  The school was the missionary ideal of civilized education.

“But when I got there,” Pana’ewa said, “There were no Hawaiian history, or language, or culture classes.  I was shocked! You were not allowed to eat if you didn’t speak English.”

“After five years, I graduated.  I could no longer speak our language.  I was ashamed of being Hawaiian.  I could sing, ‘Oklahoma’–and I just wanted to be American.”

We met Eddie, a handsome young man, in a shopping center food court, on Maui. ‘Iokepa complimented him on his authentic and beautiful puka shell lei. Eddie returned the compliment: ‘Iokepa, too, was wearing a lei he’d strung himself.

They spoke about culture: The necessary prayer before they took a single seashell from the beach or fish from the sea—the asking, “Is this the day?”

Before we parted, Eddie told us this cautionary tale.

“I was sailing on a Hawaiian fishing canoe leaving the Island of Ni‘ihau, and we encountered very rough seas. Our canoe rocked deeply, and it took on water.

“The kupuna (elder) demanded of the crew: ‘Who has extra?’

“I emptied the seashells from my pockets, and threw them overboard. The sea calmed immediately; the boat stayed its course, unharmed.”

At the core of the culture, Eddie and ‘Iokepa agreed: Never take more than you need.