Archive for April, 2009
‘Iokepa And His Homeland.
‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani has often instructed me.
“European and American sugar cane barons laid claim, almost two hundred years ago now, to the land that my people stewarded for thirteen thousand years. They claimed ownership of a land that, we knew, only the Creator could own.
“In those years these malihini (our guests) burdened our fertile soil with the most destructive chemical pesticides and herbicides known to man. And when they left this land, just a few years ago (because it was no longer profitable to grow sugar cane), they left our soil so desecrated that it will grow nothing safely for another twenty years.
“They left another reminder of their ownership. They excavated deep pits across our land, and dumped their no-longer-useful tractors, bulldozers and thousands of used rubber tires into them–buried in our ‘aina (land) for eternity.
“And then they went home.”
But they continue to hold fast to their claim on the land. They continue, still, to plow the stone walls of the ancient Hawaiian temples–sacred sites of ritual, prayer and gratitude–into piles of rubble; and to unearth the ancestors bones.
In their place, they build their more profitable temples to tourism: Hotels, condominiums, pizza parlors, and t-shirt shops. They erect, still, their fences and gates–and allow the indigenous population passage, only to make beds, serve meals, and cut grass.
“When the sugar cane barons came, they had to teach the kanaka maoli (original people) to speak English,” ‘Iokepa said. “So that we could read the, ‘No Trespassing’ signs.”
This man, who is my husband, now travels the left, right, and middle of America, to raise consciousness of the wrongs that have been perpetrated on his ancient land and his aboriginal people–and to awaken within all of us the wisdom and gifts that his ancestors and his culture offer us–just for the asking.
When he travels, he is sometimes asked: “What gives you the right to claim the Islands.”
He answers: “In America, when your parents die, you inherit the farm. Well, these are my ancestors. This is my farm. The Islands are my inheritance.
“And that does not mean you are not welcome to live with us,” he says. “But you must recognize that the stewardship is our inheritance.”
It doesn’t seem too much to ask.
Courtship, Memory, and Beyond.
‘Iokepa and I have spent the last week in the Florida home of a bright, sweet, and talented young man. (”Young,” now defined, as somewhere between the ages of our four children.)
He was a stranger, and he opened his home to us.
He was, we discovered, in those intense, blazing, first moments of a romantic relationship with his counterpart–a lovely young (to us) woman.
Watching them; overhearing them (the house was not that big); witnessing: The rush of affection, the insistent phone calls, the all-night giggles, the mid-day rendezvous, the crammed work and play schedules–how could we not remember?
We were not young when we were swept by the universe off our respective feet. But we were swept nonetheless. We remember well, the intensity, the uncertainty, the passion, the sleepless nights. We remember those feared impossibilities: “Do you know how unlikely we are?” And the antithetical certainty that they could be overcome. “Do you intimidate a lot of men?” We remember.
It has been more than eleven years since a brief Christmas vacation to Hawai’i tipped my carefully organized and orchestrated life back on its heels.
He was a the strangest of strangers, this ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani: Hawaiian to my Jewish; physical to my life of the mind; a man who, for goodness sake, talked to his long-dead Grandmothers.
But the attraction was immediate–undeniable. And we recognized the symptoms in the couple we shared the house with this week.
I spoke. “Ahh, the courting dance….
‘Iokepa spoke. “Courting rituals–like the whales and the birds–are only that. Just because you court, does not mean that you mate. Obviously–there were three other men lined up for you.”
I had forgotten. The night before our destined, sunrise meeting at an ancient Hawaiian temple, the woman I’d shared the B&B with on that long ago vacation, had lined up a bevy of eligible bachelors. ‘Iokepa upended her unspoken plans.
“For us at that time,” ‘Iokepa remembered, “It was a pure emotional process. We didn’t know if it was going to stick. We had no commitment. We were just absorbing the feelings.
“But now,” he said, “I have down what you like and what you don’t like; what is pleasing to your eyes and your ears; what fills your soul.
“And, yes, the road here can be pretty lumpy.”
I sighed, and looked at the courting couple.
“I wouldn’t return to those weeks for anything! And I don’t just mean all that came after that I couldn’t forsee: The ten years sleeping in tents and car seats–going hungry.”
“No,” ‘Iokepa answered quickly. “But I wouldn’t trade them for anything either.”