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I found this article interesting and informative.
On at least one point my experience is different than Mr. Theroux's: he writes about a Kumu Hula's reluctance to share the translation of a chant he heard, reinforcing the point that local Hawaii culture is closed to outsiders (and yes indeed, locals can be quite clannish, a common cultural tendency of small towns and island cultures). And yet, I know two Kumu Hulas who absolutely love to teach and share knowledge about chants, Hawaiian culture, language, etc. Never have I felt any reluctance from them, and I'm about as haole as you're gonna get.
Anyone else agree/disagree with Theroux's perspective?
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/Pau...awaii.html
Tim
A superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions--Confucius
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Mr. Theroux gets several pages in Smithsonian, which seems appropriate as it is a magazine about a museum, all because he couldn't check out some library books in a Hawaiian library where his books were on the shelves. The irony must have been sharp. But irony, much prized on the mainland, is regarded somewhat as a puzzlement here, where the tendency is toward an evenness of spirit. Irony just seems jarring. Dorothy Parker would languish here.
Mr. Theroux: Hawaii is no mystery even if one wishes to make a mystery of her. She is beautiful and beguiling. She is hard to get to. The journey just intensifies the longing. Do you wish to observe her from afar and ask her clinical questions. Or do you just plain want her? She knows the difference. She knows when you love her, and not as an object of clinical curiosity, but as a woman.
She doesn't respond well to "HEY! I gave you the damned honey you asked for! Now let me ride on your fantastical, historical boat. I just want to do that for a day because anything beyond that would be uncomfortable and I am just gathering experience maniacally for a book or article."
I know the feeling of being there, but floating above it and saying "This is good stuff." But resist it. Live first. Write about it later. Did you read your Hemingway? He said you have to live it and feel it first. He never wrote a book of fiction. Ever. You can't sit in an apothecary and have people supply you with interesting facts. I'm trying to imagine Hemingway checking out a book to write a book. More likely, he'd check out the librarian and then go hang out with some lesbians with great taste in art.
Hawaii knows when you love her. Do you? Does it pain you to leave her as it does me? When the moon shines on her skin and it is all you can do to keep from taking her in your arms, do you hesitate...because you know she doesn't belong to you? Can you set her free and let your heart soar? Can you express the ultimate longing -- for that which is within your grasp, but out of reach? Do you want to dance to her, sing to her, play Peter Townsend-style ukulele for her?
Her arm sweeps out gracefully, to show you the moon up on the water, hula mahina --- a moon dance. You start to feel not that you are rolling in the deep, but that you are walking a moonlight mile on the waves.
Can you let her go? Or must you know everything? Must you wring every last canto out of her? Must you know the meaning to every chant ever not-written? Or will you go into the forest, cut down and craft your own ihe (it's a spear, Mr. Theroux -- the last word in Hawaii's state song.)? Will you go through the struggle of learning the chant, as so many have before, or will you have it written out for you on a piece of paper and handed to you, with you having done nothing more than ask for it?
Do you love her? She knows if you do. That is because you will have made no bones about it. You will have told the world. You respect that she is beloved by others, including those as moody, troubled, creative and artistic as yourself. Respect it. Hate it. Respect it. Hate it. Did you think you could just walk up to the most beautiful woman in the world and say "I shall have her!"?
If you really love her and love her well, maybe when you die, the waterfalls will stop. The birds will stop singing. The volcano will cease flowing. And they will gather in boats and take your ashes out into the moana. They will release them there, and the wind will blow them back into their nostrils and they will breathe you in and be grateful. And then, out of respect, they will try not to sneeze.
I love her. And I think she loves me. She has grabbed me and smushed my head into her bosom. She has dared and taunted me with a wagging finger in my face. Through her gestures, she has shown me the sun, the moon, the greens that nourish us, the waves that rock us and sometimes bring us down, humbled by their power. She has shown me a dark, bone-littered cave and said "Come on in".
I'm very sorry you didn't get your library book, Mr. Theroux. I got mine. My first library books where "'Olelo 'Oiwi (Hawaiian Language Fundamentals)" and "The Unwritten Literature of Hawaii: The Sacred Songs of Hula", by gay-but-he-didn't-know-it missionary Nathaniel B. Emerson (The Hawaiian women's ankles were ugly and thick, he said, but oh,the men!).
The librarian did everything but take these books to my house, on foot, flashing a genuine smile that was all the more beautiful for a missing tooth or two. It was love for both of us at first checkout. I had no books on her shelf and she didn't think of me as a dispassionate observer. She may have thought of me as a passionate observer. Passion? Remember that? As in passionfruit? Both sweet and sour. At the same time. And as with the lilikoi, you cannot have the one without the other, my boy. Without the sweetness, you just have the sour, as in "They didn't let me on their boat" or "They wouldn't let me check out a library book" or "They wouldn't do the translation for me!".
For me, the sweet part is she knows I love her (no, not the librarian!). She knows I wasn't trying to make an object of her, to grab her beautiful native white hibiscus in my fist, extract its seeds and make it mine. The sour part is that she does not belong to me.
And she is not yours either and, I can tell by the cut of your jib, never will be. That's because you are not in love. You view her as a butterfly and you have your stick pins already. You are not content to see her fly. You must capture her or, worse, have others capture her for you and deliver her to you, in exchange for a few jars of prized local honey.
You ain't never gonna be local, honey, if you think that you are entitled to something in return for your "gift" of honey. When are we entitled to something in return for a "gift"? I guess when our "gift" is to a whore. If she is not a whore, she will take your gift, thank you, and sail without you.
In my case, she knows I love her. She knows. And why should I hide it? And I have been taught a chant or two. And I have been invited to make music for the King and Queen --not after living 22 years on the island, but after living 4 MONTHS on the island. And I have been invited to Kalapana and taught how to do a slack-key turnaround by musical ali'i. Why? Not because I am special, but because I love her (and, uh, because I signed up for the class). My kumu hammered this into me: Gratitude, the ability to humbly receive gifts, openness to those gifts, and hard work.
Oh, by the way, based on what I have heard, your translation of "haole" is woefully and wildly incorrect. You say it means "Of another breath". No. It means "without breath". Haole's don't breathe. They are in too much of a hurry to inhale and exhale deeply. I know. I was one of them and got by on one single breath for 25 years. If you put your nose next a haole, you would sense no inhale or exhale on their part. The breath is too shallow.
I smashed my face into the breast of Hawaii and I breathed deep and long. What is that? Sandalwood? Mmmmm.......And I have been allowed to exhale and inhale slowly, as with the tide. And I am no longer without breath. I breathe again.
Hawaii is a wonder. But no mystery. You cannot have her. But you can love her. And if you don't love her, it doesn't matter how many jars of honey you throw at her. She will know. That's at the heart of it. She will know. If you don't love her, she will regard you as a clinician --an information gatherer.
She will find someone who loves her to chronicle her. She will insist on it.
Stop by if you're in the neighborhood. But leave your sense of entitlement at home. She hates that. She will make you earn it and you haven't done that yet, as improbable as that may seem to you.
P.S. Nice article -- for a museum.
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As always, love your posts Kelena. 
Tim
A superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions--Confucius
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I thought the article was extremely interesting, and more a window into Mr. Theroux's persona than an understanding of Hawaiian culture. The reader's comments following the article were as enlightening as the piece itself;
I agree with one reader who suggested that Theroux was perhaps shunned because he gave with the expectation of being rewarded, instead of just giving for the sake of giving; and that he questioned (interviewed) Kupuna as a writer instead of an interested friend or visitor.
To any Haole who has trouble integrating with the locals; I would suggest that the effort is proportionate to the reward.
mahalo, Tim
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We should get together and talk story one of these days, pahoated. Japan is my thing as well. Every point you made about parallels between Japan and Hawaii is spot on, exactly what I cover in my consulting work here in Hawaii (with polytheism and animism being two other significant parallels). It's very easy for the locals here (not just local Japanese) to "get" the Japanese and vice versa. The fact that over 400,000 people are currently studying hula in Japan is strong evidence of deep, compatible cultural connecting points. On a side note, it also makes sense that island cultures, with limited natural resources, would cherish and assign sacredness to "inanimate" objects by "animating" them (ex: rocks, rivers, trees, mountains, waterfalls, the sun, etc.) with spirits or "essence" or "Quality."
In retrospect, living in Japan for 10 years made it very easy for me to adapt here. When confronted with a clannish culture, you have to be patient, earnest, and earn your way in.
Tim
A superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions--Confucius
It is an interesting essay, one where he has a very specific thesis. I think he makes the common error of pushing his evidence/examples in order to find support, while not including anything that runs counter to his thesis.
He might be on to something interesting with the idea of islander psychology. An island is a vulnerable system that cannot be closed by its very nature of being exposed by coastline, while at the same time it may like to see itself as isolated by its separation from larger land masses.
Those who do come, often come to conquer, invade, dominate, intrude, and change and probably those contacts outnumber the welcomed arrivals in many cases.
I could see how people might be reluctant to talk to a globally published author. It is not like talking story. Your words will be recorded and scrutinized, lot of pressure. I think the people here have more awareness of the pitfalls of that than the third world country examples he gives where people love to talk to him.
I agree with him that people here are noticeably disinterested in asking what is like where you came from. They really don't have any curiosity about it. I have been to other islands where people like to pump visitors for information, perhaps just to hear something new. But not here. Burnout maybe.
Enjoying the discussion on Japan, guys. I only spent a month there, did read a number of books on the culture and culture gap before I went. Amazing place. I would love to have spent more time there. I was there while my husband was working on a Direct TV project, and staying in a small town not far from Fukushima (Mito). I only had nine days to travel around, but I stayed in hostels and a ryokan, not in Western hotels. Memorable indeed.
One point where I have to disagree is that the "western mind" is always linear. If you look at the Book of Kells
http://www.art-imagery.com/images/kells_241v1_B.jpg
Celtic Knots (so many variations)
or shamrock
http://static.neatoshop.com/images/produ...jpg?v=9215
or Newgrange
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kqNivpUEXLU/TR...reland.jpg
the symbolism is not linear at all. Of course Celtic culture also developed on islands. Ireland was divided into a central province where the high seat stood, with four provinces to the compass points. The circle at the center. The feminine or Goddess element is key to Irish mythology.
As for a creation goddess, Pele creates with rivers of lava but the queen/goddess Medb created a lake with her shi shi. ;-)
I certainly agree with your comparison of Japan and Hawai'i, just not entirely with the east-west circular-linear contrast as that clear cut.
Note for Obie: Before you get a "google" stress moment, I have been to Newgrange and seen the Book of Kells with my own eyes, and stood at the High seat of Tara! My own photos aren't uploaded though.
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quote:
Originally posted by Kelena
Mr. Theroux gets several pages in Smithsonian, which seems appropriate as it is a magazine about a museum, all because he couldn't check out some library books in a Hawaiian library where his books were on the shelves. The irony must have been sharp. But irony, much prized on the mainland, is regarded somewhat as a puzzlement here, where the tendency is toward an evenness of spirit. Irony just seems jarring. Dorothy Parker would languish here.
Mr. Theroux: Hawaii is no mystery even if one wishes to make a mystery of her. She is beautiful and beguiling. She is hard to get to. The journey just intensifies the longing. Do you wish to observe her from afar and ask her clinical questions. Or do you just plain want her? She knows the difference. She knows when you love her, and not as an object of clinical curiosity, but as a woman.
She doesn't respond well to "HEY! I gave you the damned honey you asked for! Now let me ride on your fantastical, historical boat. I just want to do that for a day because anything beyond that would be uncomfortable and I am just gathering experience maniacally for a book or article."
I know the feeling of being there, but floating above it and saying "This is good stuff." But resist it. Live first. Write about it later. Did you read your Hemingway? He said you have to live it and feel it first. He never wrote a book of fiction. Ever. You can't sit in an apothecary and have people supply you with interesting facts. I'm trying to imagine Hemingway checking out a book to write a book. More likely, he'd check out the librarian and then go hang out with some lesbians with great taste in art.
Hawaii knows when you love her. Do you? Does it pain you to leave her as it does me? When the moon shines on her skin and it is all you can do to keep from taking her in your arms, do you hesitate...because you know she doesn't belong to you? Can you set her free and let your heart soar? Can you express the ultimate longing -- for that which is within your grasp, but out of reach? Do you want to dance to her, sing to her, play Peter Townsend-style ukulele for her?
Her arm sweeps out gracefully, to show you the moon up on the water, hula mahina --- a moon dance. You start to feel not that you are rolling in the deep, but that you are walking a moonlight mile on the waves.
Can you let her go? Or must you know everything? Must you wring every last canto out of her? Must you know the meaning to every chant ever not-written? Or will you go into the forest, cut down and craft your own ihe (it's a spear, Mr. Theroux -- the last word in Hawaii's state song.)? Will you go through the struggle of learning the chant, as so many have before, or will you have it written out for you on a piece of paper and handed to you, with you having done nothing more than ask for it?
Do you love her? She knows if you do. That is because you will have made no bones about it. You will have told the world. You respect that she is beloved by others, including those as moody, troubled, creative and artistic as yourself. Respect it. Hate it. Respect it. Hate it. Did you think you could just walk up to the most beautiful woman in the world and say "I shall have her!"?
If you really love her and love her well, maybe when you die, the waterfalls will stop. The birds will stop singing. The volcano will cease flowing. And they will gather in boats and take your ashes out into the moana. They will release them there, and the wind will blow them back into their nostrils and they will breathe you in and be grateful. And then, out of respect, they will try not to sneeze.
I love her. And I think she loves me. She has grabbed me and smushed my head into her bosom. She has dared and taunted me with a wagging finger in my face. Through her gestures, she has shown me the sun, the moon, the greens that nourish us, the waves that rock us and sometimes bring us down, humbled by their power. She has shown me a dark, bone-littered cave and said "Come on in".
I'm very sorry you didn't get your library book, Mr. Theroux. I got mine. My first library books where "'Olelo 'Oiwi (Hawaiian Language Fundamentals)" and "The Unwritten Literature of Hawaii: The Sacred Songs of Hula", by gay-but-he-didn't-know-it missionary Nathaniel B. Emerson (The Hawaiian women's ankles were ugly and thick, he said, but oh,the men!).
The librarian did everything but take these books to my house, on foot, flashing a genuine smile that was all the more beautiful for a missing tooth or two. It was love for both of us at first checkout. I had no books on her shelf and she didn't think of me as a dispassionate observer. She may have thought of me as a passionate observer. Passion? Remember that? As in passionfruit? Both sweet and sour. At the same time. And as with the lilikoi, you cannot have the one without the other, my boy. Without the sweetness, you just have the sour, as in "They didn't let me on their boat" or "They wouldn't let me check out a library book" or "They wouldn't do the translation for me!".
For me, the sweet part is she knows I love her (no, not the librarian!). She knows I wasn't trying to make an object of her, to grab her beautiful native white hibiscus in my fist, extract its seeds and make it mine. The sour part is that she does not belong to me.
And she is not yours either and, I can tell by the cut of your jib, never will be. That's because you are not in love. You view her as a butterfly and you have your stick pins already. You are not content to see her fly. You must capture her or, worse, have others capture her for you and deliver her to you, in exchange for a few jars of prized local honey.
You ain't never gonna be local, honey, if you think that you are entitled to something in return for your "gift" of honey. When are we entitled to something in return for a "gift"? I guess when our "gift" is to a whore. If she is not a whore, she will take your gift, thank you, and sail without you.
In my case, she knows I love her. She knows. And why should I hide it? And I have been taught a chant or two. And I have been invited to make music for the King and Queen --not after living 22 years on the island, but after living 4 MONTHS on the island. And I have been invited to Kalapana and taught how to do a slack-key turnaround by musical ali'i. Why? Not because I am special, but because I love her (and, uh, because I signed up for the class). My kumu hammered this into me: Gratitude, the ability to humbly receive gifts, openness to those gifts, and hard work.
Oh, by the way, based on what I have heard, your translation of "haole" is woefully and wildly incorrect. You say it means "Of another breath". No. It means "without breath". Haole's don't breathe. They are in too much of a hurry to inhale and exhale deeply. I know. I was one of them and got by on one single breath for 25 years. If you put your nose next a haole, you would sense no inhale or exhale on their part. The breath is too shallow.
I smashed my face into the breast of Hawaii and I breathed deep and long. What is that? Sandalwood? Mmmmm.......And I have been allowed to exhale and inhale slowly, as with the tide. And I am no longer without breath. I breathe again.
Hawaii is a wonder. But no mystery. You cannot have her. But you can love her. And if you don't love her, it doesn't matter how many jars of honey you throw at her. She will know. That's at the heart of it. She will know. If you don't love her, she will regard you as a clinician --an information gatherer.
She will find someone who loves her to chronicle her. She will insist on it.
Stop by if you're in the neighborhood. But leave your sense of entitlement at home. She hates that. She will make you earn it and you haven't done that yet, as improbable as that may seem to you.
P.S. Nice article -- for a museum.
Ah,the mystery and draw of the Island - so wonderfully and metaphysically stated. And so familiar. Thank you, as always, for your musings.
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