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Inette and Her People
Okay, so this is what I remember of the story I’m about to tell: absolutely nothing. It’s a black hole of a story, but it is quite a story nevertheless, as ‘Iokepa slowly reveals it to my still erratic (but getting sharper every day) Swiss cheese of a memory bank. The “Before”
It's a very funny thing about being a writer. I complete a book. I've said everything that I have to say about the matter. Then the book tour begins, and I am expected to say more - much more. And when the questions begin, silence is just not an option: not on radio, not on TV, not in print. Writing the book Grandmothers Whisper was completely in my hands. But my control stopped there. I cannot - will not - pretend to know how any single human heart and mind will respond to their reading of Grandmothers Whisper. I do know that each of us brings our own story to bear on the one we read on the page.
…Every last one us is the son or daughter of a couple of them. So choose your perspective here. I can tell my story from the only perspective I have: the singular daughter of two very specific people; the mother of two very specific sons. But like all writing, the micro or anecdotal only has meaning if it sheds light on the universal.
'Iokepa Hanalei 'Imaikalani and I live a life that is at odds with the person that I am - and yet it is not. This life addresses just one half of me - the half that communicates meaningfully with other humans. My very destiny is caught up with the skill, the need, the substance of words - speaking them aloud, writing them within the hearing of other ears. Both fulfill me amply; it is my nature. I grew up in a family that encouraged exactly that.
I first met Merrell Fort Gregory in 1969 sitting at a desk across a tiny newsroom. It was my first newspaper job out of college. The Maryland Gazette - calling itself "the oldest continuously published paper in America" - was a weekly. We were two of a staff of six. I was twenty-two; Merrell was a year older with twelve months experience. On the strength of that experience, I thought she was the epitome of a seasoned reporter.
Like all good stories, this one has a beginning, middle, and an end. After thirteen years writing and rewriting, drafting and re-drafting, Grandmothers Whisper found its miraculous way to a bound book that could actually be held in your hands (or alternatively downloaded onto your Kindle) just last Thanksgiving.
I was born on Mothers’ Day, the much valued daughter after two sons. Mothers’ Day has always had a resonance to my little family. It is a terribly long distance from the Hawaiian Island that ‘Iokepa and I call home to the places where my sons and mother call home – six thousand miles to be exact. But this year, by happenstance, we landed in Baltimore (between a book signing in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware and a scheduled speech in New York City). I was able to share Mothers’ Day across three generations with my ninety-nine-year-old mother and my thirty-year-old, first-born son.
I’ll admit it upfront. Last week, I had no idea whether a 'podcast' was: animal, vegetable, or mineral? This week, ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Imaikalani and I were participants (?) subjects (?) occupants (?) of one.
It is just a few days before Christmas 2010. And it is also exactly thirteen years since this remarkable convoluted journey began for me. The first words of the firstparagraph of thefirst chapter of the newly released book, Grandmothers Whisper read.
For the past two weeks I’ve been blaming the heat. And yes, it’s been a record-setting 100 degrees in inner-city Baltimore, with an unconscionable level of humidity. But yesterday I realized, that is not it – not my problem at all. Allow me to explain. My oldest brother is a professional man. He was the apple of my father’s eye. My next brother, the self-proclaimed “middle child,” tried harder. He took over the family business and cared for our aging father every day of his life.
For every memorable year of my adult lifetime, I have had just one recurring and terrifying nightmare. In that dream, I am running for my life from a rapidly approaching, formidable wall of water that I cannot outrun. I am absolutely certain that it will overtake me. Ironically, for every memorable year of my adult lifetime, in all of my many domestic and foreign homes, I have never lived anywhere near that possibility. I never once lived on the edge of an ocean – until I met ‘Iokepa, and moved my life to these Hawaiian Islands.
This is the insistent (seldom kindly spoken) challenge that ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Īmaikalani hears whenever he dares to speak of the future of the Native Hawaiian people – or of their nation. The implied conclusion is: these people would not know what to do with their sovereignty. The implied assertion: deny them that choice. ‘Iokepa answers the question in a larger way.
We live in a noisy world. We have coming at us in any given moment: telephones that no longer sit quietly next to our bed or on our office desks (they now follow our every step into movie theaters, churches, and romantic dinners with our lover); mail that no longer comes once a day on the eagerly awaited footsteps of our postman (now it beeps its electronic announcement night, day, and every moment between); news that no longer slaps at our doorstep at dawn or arrives from Walter Cronkite’s lips at dusk (it comes at us 24/7 from so many contrary and irritating voices that it’s hard to know whom to trust).
I've been a writer my entire life, a professional writer since I left college at twenty-two, and an author since I was forty. In that time, I have naturally watched my writing evolve: from eighteen years of salaried newspaper and magazine journalism to the less financially predictable, but ultimately more emotionally satisfying occupation of writing books. Sometimes those books have been well-published, turned into feature films, sold around the globe in translation; sometimes not. Writing for myself on occasion meant writing only for myself. But that was the nature of the beast.
Don’t get me wrong. We are grateful for the loud, echoing voices of genuine friendship and loving support we’re hearing from across that big continent. They say: “I can imagine the joy you’re feeling, home on your beloved Islands.” And from those from within our tiny Island: “I’ve missed you. Welcome home!” I fear my response might be too ambivalent for their loving expectations.
Within the next week, 'Iokepa and I are heading to Nashville, Tennessee - with a purpose. That purpose is the celebration of the marriage of our son, Sam and our new daughter, Elizabeth. In many ways, this takes me into new territory - breaks new ground. This is my first-born son taking on the responsibility and commitment of a new family - or rather extending the tentacles of several existing ones. It is happening in the home of Country Music, another unfamiliar cultural venue. We are enormously enthusiastic on all counts.
I realized, when Yiddish words began to creep unconsciously onto our website, that the time has come to declare myself front and center. To answer the implicit (and often explicit) question: Why is a decidedly Jewish woman speaking on behalf of the Native Hawaiian people? Let me be very clear on this one. I met ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Īmaikalani on a vacation. I knew nothing about his aboriginal culture – I didn’t know that there was one. I went to Hawai’i, as many do, for a respite from the stresses of a modern life. I went to Hawai’i to lie on the beach, get a tan, swim, and do almost nothing else.
It was a beautiful, crisp day on the North Shore of Minnesota. Our Swedish hosts led us up one hill and down again. We hiked through the thick white stuff on the ground, and through the flimsy flakes in the air. Because these were exemplary hosts, they had warned us well: “Watch your step; there are ice patches under the snow.” We heeded them well: up the hill, then down it again. But within twenty feet of their front door, clutching a few Lake Superior stones in my left hand, I carelessly placed my booted foot – and the solid Earth slid out from under me. I fell hard on the open palm of my straight right arm.
The place: Cleveland Heights, Ohio. The setting: a huge table topped with clams casino, prosciutto, Grandma Antoinette’s incredible pasta sauce, a beautiful feta-topped salad, and champagne. The gathering: one old friend, and many strangers. They are scientists, medical researchers, writers, and accomplished artists. The time: one night after the Iowa presidential caucus. In sum: this was a group of serious intellectuals of a decidedly Democratic Party bent. Wiry, intense Sally began the conversation with: “Is Return Voyage political?”
