Paradise Projects
TOTAL READ TIME: About 15 minutes
Sometimes I tell people I grew up in Hawaii. Sometimes I tell them I grew up in the hood. Both things are true.
When I say I’m from Hawaii, I can expect one of several responses. The most frequent response is people insisting on sharing THEIR experience with Hawaii, uninterested in hearing from me, the person who actually grew up there.
Whether it was that one time they went for their cousin's wedding, the semester they spent at The University of Hawaii back in the 80’s, or how their (White) niece got the name “Waikiki” -- once they are done telling their story, they look at me with some sort of longing, expecting me validate their experience by saying, "yes, it was like that all the time." They feel like sharing their one magical memory makes us connected, and now I'll be welcoming and accepting when they say something really fucking stupid or racist, like "Oh, I just wish I could move there one day!" or, "I'd love to die there." In actuality, this pulls me even further away from them. It just reminds me of how I could never afford to live in the house I grew up in. It reminds me of my traumatic upbringing, and the horrific side of Hawaii that these people will never, ever see.
On the rare occasion when people ask me what it’s like to be from Hawaii and ACTUALLY want to know, I don’t know what to say. I know they’re expecting to hear a story of privilege and paradise. They imagine a life of luxury, where people are happy all the time and everyone gets along. They’ve been sold an image of white sand beaches, beautiful mountains and lush coral reefs with wildlife not seen anywhere else on the planet. That’s PART of the story, but it’s a small part. I didn’t live in any of the places shown on the tourist pamphlets. No, I lived in the place the tour guides told you to avoid.
So where to begin? Should I start with the lockdowns that happened regularly at school and how I’ve seen pregnant teenagers kicking each another in the stomach, trying to force a miscarriage (because they had the same baby daddy) when I was trying to walk to 3rd period? Should I tell them about all the times I was awoken in the middle of the night by meth heads screaming outside of my bedroom window? Would it be oversharing to mention the amount of times I’ve had to run as fast as I could to get away from an angry mob so I wouldn't be maced by the police? People DIED at my school, while I was there.
But that isn't what people want to hear.
While I'm trying to figure out how to be honest without being terrifying, people usually save me the trouble with the followup question: "Are you Hawaiian??" I am not, and I definitely was not considered to be so growing up. I always stuck out because of how different I was and got bullied relentlessly for it. In response to this question I usually say, “I was born and raised there, but I’m actually 1/2 Black and 1/2 Italian.” I say this because it’s easier than breaking down everything listed on my birth certificate (which I’m also not convinced is the full truth). My mother is a white lady with green eyes and freckles and my father is a black man who could not be mistaken as anything else.
Being mixed in America can be confusing, but where I grew up there were a lot of mixed kids. Unfortunately for me I couldn’t relate because most of them were descendants of indigenous people who were brought over to work in the sugar cane plantations long before Hawaii became a state (but after the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian government by the US). My classmates were Hawaiian-Filipino, Samoan-Tongan, Japanese-Chinese, etc., and if they WERE White they were usually mixed with some Hawaiian and called “Hapa” or “Hapa Haole”. I was none of these things. What I was was evidence of the oppressors' success. I was proof that yet another sovereign nation had been colonized and gentrified by The United States.
In America the worst thing you could be is Black; in Hawaii the worst thing you could be is White. I was both -- in both.
My elementary school was nestled at the bottom of a valley that shared a parking lot with a low income housing project. I was never allowed on that side of the street. Sometimes after class in middle school I’d walk through a fence and go to my friend's house who lived in the same type of place. My high school football field had a backdrop of the Pacific Ocean, which was where my graduation ceremony was held. As I accepted my diploma the sun was setting behind me. To my left was a man-made lagoon and high-priced condos. To my right was undeveloped land with Kiawe Trees (Prosopis Pallida) that separated the high school from the local boat harbor, where a number of people who couldn't afford to live in high-priced condos lived in tents and makeshift structures. Some of their kids were standing with me in their caps and gowns.
Growing up, it was important to know how to fight. I was never in one outside of a gym, but everyone I grew up with knew how to throw a punch. It was a prerequisite for survival -- if you didn't know how, they could sense it, and you would become a target.
I feel some guilt writing this because I'm proud of where I come from. I've spent a lot of time defending all the positives. My community has some of the most amazing people in it. I was raised with a love that I’ve never felt outside of Oahu. I dedicated years of my life creating media that showcased the good that my people and my home had to offer. For the first 24 years of my life, I DID feel like I lived in a unique and beautiful paradise. I also felt like I was stuck in a dangerous and isolated prison. It has always been both for me and I'm learning to accept that. I would not be the person I am today if it were not for that place.
This blog is going to include my journey into investigating, learning from, and healing my past. It is also an opportunity to present my perspective on what it was like living in Hawaii from 1990 - 2014. The good, the bad, and everything in between. It's my way of finally being able to answer the question, "What's it like being from Hawaii?!"