I was a kid in the 40’s and 50’s, a time when it still was not cool to be Hawaiian. Kamehameha, my school from seventh through twelfth grade, even though instituted for Hawaiian children, sought to make us thoroughly American. Which I was. Except for those “aboriginal twinges” and a gaping hole in my heart. I consciously—and self-consciously—pursued article assignments to learn about being Hawaiian as well as to write about specific topics. I learned about hula, heiau, the Hawaiian diet. I spent three days on Kaho‘olawe during January Makahiki ceremonies, addressed a personal health problem through lomilomi, sailed for an afternoon on the voyaging canoe Hōkūle‘a. Eventually I came to know dozens of people in the Hawaiian community. They all welcomed me, especially after I learned to approach any Hawaiian by placing myself in my family, school, and community. I think it is today’s version of what some have told me was the ancient recitation of genealogy between strangers until they came to a point of commonality. Never mind the journalism degrees and writing achievements. I am the younger Pierre Bowman’s older sister, Uncle Wright’s niece, Scotty’s cousin. I am KS ’58. I am Kailua, O‘ahu. Now we can talk.
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