Video Podcast Episode 8: Foot Binding and the Measure of Beauty

VIDEO: What is the Measure of Beauty
Naina Marie Makevp YouTube Channel (my niece)

I enjoyed reading two books by Lisa See. Lisa See looks Caucasian, which she is, but she is very proud of her Chinese heritage that has all been washed from her physical features. I stumbled upon her writing when I borrowed Shanghai Girls from the Kahuku Public Library several years ago.

SHAMELESS PLUG for public libraries. I cannot imagine a world without access to the mountains of information that are in the public libraries. In the State of Hawaii, there are public libraries everywhere. Thanks to the internet, you can search the state's library database from home, request material from other libraries to be sent to whatever library in the State that you'd like to pick it up at, and also reserve material or computer time. All of this can be done without leaving home. Trust me, I put it to very good use! You can also download ebooks and audio books to an app that allows you to read or listen to your book. Awesome!!

ShangHai Girls forced me to observe Chinese culture from the present day. In recent years, I try not to attach a judgement to my observation. For instance, an ancient practice in China is foot binding. I look down at my extremely wide, almost flat feet, and try to imagine these 11W's being only 3 inches long. Out of curiosity I just measured my left foot. The results: 4 inches at its widest and just over 10 inches long. My foot is wider than the length of what was considered a beautiful foot in China. Is it right? Wrong? Good? Bad? I am just an observer. Foot binding might sound strange to the present day observer but is it any stranger than women paying to have their face injected with botulin (poision) to remove wrinkles temporarily? Is foot binding more strange than implanting saline pouches to make body parts larger or more prominent? Is foot binding more strange than cutting a portion of the stomach out so that a patient is forced to eat less? Beauty certainly is dictated by society.

I traveled to Malta in 2006 and went on a tour of Gozo. On our way to the ferry that would take us across the harbor to the island of Gozo, the tour guide talked about the history of Gozo. She informed us that the island was filled with monolithic depictions of large women. Apparently, the measure of beauty for people of Malta and Gozo in centuries-past was a large woman. She represented fertility and beauty and ultimate femininity. As soon as we returned from Gozo, I went to a Maltese bookstore and purchased a book on the large female statues of Gozo. I still have that book and it looks fairly new because I have only thumbed through it once. I must preserve the book! It was the only one I could find that was in English.

ShangHai Girls mentions foot binding in passing but the second Lisa See book that I read, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, goes into detail. If you have never seen what bound feet look like, please google it. I can barely stomach the sight of them. I imagine the significance of food binding, from a man's perspective, being symbolic of the loyalty of a woman to her husband. It must be very comfortable for a man to know that no matter how abusive or misogynistic he may be, his wife will never leave his side. Even if he were to take on concubines, in Chinese culture as I understand it, a woman's worth is intrinsically tied to her value to her husband.

Both books deserve a proper review of their own but who has the time? ShangHai Girls explores the life of two Chinese women and their experience of being forced to leave Shang Hai for America in an age of war. Cultural protocol is emphasized throughout; from behavioral expectations to the memory of the ancestors. Some of the practices may seem burdensome but not more than what some of us practice in our own cultures today. In Snow Flower, the book emphasizes class distinction and marriage as the tool to boost a woman's value. However, the true significance of the book is its presentation of a language created by women and only for women; a secret language! This is not pig-latin but an actual living language steeped in poetry and symbolism called nu shu.

The overwhelming feeling in both novels is very heavy and burdensome. I'm not sure if that is what the author means to portray. I assume that the measure for Chinese-American literature would be Amy Tan, author of The Joy Luck Club (made into a movie) and The Hundred Secret Senses. If you recall from Amy Tan's work, the relationship and protocol between male and female, mother and daughter, mother and son, are all very distinct and carefully tended to. The same is true in Lisa See's books. One gets the sense that this must be a token of Chinese culture - the heavy gloom and sadness associated with being a woman, forced to do hard things and make hard choices. The mood of female Chinese-American literature is one of eventual triumph over the hard facts of life. ShangHai Girls and Snow Flower do not disappoint. If anything, Lisa See's work is a definite reminder for women to be grateful that they can choose not to bind their feet (high heels). **giggles** A woman in modern America can choose her spouse, choose where she will live, choose the destiny of her life in open attempt (not in secrecy). And so today - today I am grateful to be me.

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Video Podcast Episode 3 : Celebrate Yourself : : Leo Season

I enjoy celebrating my birthday. I am not one to wait for other people to plan stuff for me. When I turned 16, I spent the entire day by myself at the mall. My parents gave me birthday money and the keys to my mom's orange Ford Aerostar van. EVERYBODY in high school knew my mom's van because I was always driving it and all of my friends were piled in it, even on our weekend cruising adventures.

The celebration of my birthday, like many people, is usually a day spent partying and having a good time. I used to celebrate 'the day' then it turned into celebrating birthday week and now has extended to the entire Leo Season. This means that I celebrate from July 23rd to August 22nd even though my birthday is August 4th. I make it a point to be a little selfish and do whatever I feel like doing. Celebrating for an entire month takes some planning but for the most part, I wing most of it. I don't worry about the money I spend on myself because I deserve it. I deserve to spoil myself. I worry about the money part later. You can always make more money but you can never go back and make more memories.

When people would ask me what I want for my birthday, I say the same thing. I like homemade stuff like chocolate chip cookies or banana bread. I also like earrings and ANYTHING with hearts on it or LOVE on it. I like smell good stuff like Scentsy stuff or Bath & Body Works home fragrances and candles. But my favorite thing? My favorite thing to get are handwritten cards and if they're accompanied with flowers -- even better! But if you are just itching to gift me something from Amazon, here is my current WISH LIST.

Best Video Card I ever received. The ONLY video card I ever received.

In a previous post, I touched on how I was raised to not value my physical beauty, that it was somehow bad to honor the reflection in the mirror. Also, kids are mean and can really mess with how a person views him or herself. I had to consciously overcome those feelings of insecurity in relation to my looks.

In similar fashion, I have to overcome the "training" I received from my mother to SERVE everybody before myself. I watched her put everyone's needs above her own, which ultimately stole her health from her. I have had to find the balance between the wonderful values I was raised with and the ME that says that I need "ME" time. So celebrating myself during the month of my birth, Leo Season, is about me making time to do ME. It's my most favorite time of the year.

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You Think You Pretty?

My friends and family say that I am "feeling myself" a little too much lately. According to them, my excessive selfies on my social media is the manifestation of me "feeling myself" a little too much. People text me or message me about it. Honestly, I don't really care what people think anymore. Does it hurt when my closest friends say I just want attention? Sure. But what they think of me is really none of my business and it has taken me all of my life to get to this point. I am no longer in the business of having to explain myself to anyone or to somehow feel bad for "feeling myself" a little too much. And honestly, I want to surround myself with people who are positive. I'm not saying NOT to tell me your honest true feelings but let it be constructive and not meant to tear me down. Certainly as I move toward living the dream, I will need people to help ground me and keep me authentic but as I said, let it be positive and constructive.

I was raised in a culture that demanded humility and absolutely NO outward expressions of vanity. I am 42 years old and I am still desperately trying to overcome the idea that honoring my beauty is bad. I am sure that many Samoan girls and women can identify with this. I grew up getting berated for trying to be "beautiful". My mother, her mother, her sisters would call me "cheeky" if I spent too much time in the mirror. The result was me being very uncomfortable with my femininity. It was easier to be a "tom boy" and mimic the actions of my older brother because he was almost honored for his brawn and his physical attributes. If he played flag football, I wanted to play flag football. He wanted Jordans, I wanted Jordans. Even my selection in clothing looked like his - very boyish and masculine. If he got a duffel bag for his football stuff, I wanted one instead of a purse. Eventually I embraced my femininity in my late teen years but the transformation was very awkward.

It was the day of my senior prom the first time I let my mother take a tweezer to my eyebrows. She had wanted to do it several times before but I absolutely would not let her because she had discouraged it so much in my childhood. And now that I was turning into a woman, at least physically, I just didn't trust that she wanted me to be beautiful because she didn't want that for me when I was a child. Well, that's not entirely true. It's not that she didn't want me to be beautiful. It's like she didn't want me to know that I was beautiful?!

My mother actually graduated from beauty school. She loved doing hair. I have pictures of me as a child with beautifully coiffed hair styles that were far too grown up for me. It's funny how these coming-of-age experiences stand out in my memory. When I think of the tweezing experience, I am immediately transported back to that moment in time. I about died from the pain of it and only allowed her to do one side. This is why you will NEVER see me post pictures from my senior prom because I only had one eyebrow shaped and plucked. The other side was my normal. I think I destroyed most of the pictures from that night anyway. Several months after the prom, after I had graduated from high school, I was sitting in a friend's home in Carson, California. She was my bestie at the time. We were talking while she plucked her eyebrows. It was at that very  moment that I decided to finish what my mother had started.

I have spent a good portion of my life trying to understand why I was discouraged from honoring my beauty. Even now, it feels funny to refer to myself as beautiful. My mother's insistence on modesty in the way I dressed and how I behaved is probably a reflection on her upbringing. Thus, it was the only way she knew how to mother me. As a grown woman now, I can understand some of her reasoning but I wish she would have fostered my self-esteem and help me to appreciate my reflection and my body. Instead, I was shamed into behaving a certain way. I will never understand the use of shame as a tool for control. It has such terrible side-effects that lasts long into adulthood. I know it sounds like I blame my mother entirely for the way I interpreted her mothering. That is not entirely true. She did the best she could with the tools she had.

Being teased by other kids had a large impact on my self esteem also. On so many occasions I remember getting dressed for school, feeling pretty as I walked out the door. As soon as I got to school, one particular boy would ALWAYS tease me about something and most times it had to do with the way I looked. And in typical bully fashion, he was the instigator in his group of friends. His friends would giggle and laugh at his remarks at my expense. I had no words to defend myself. Even now, my eyes well-up with tears thinking of how he made me feel. I think if I had the confidence to know that his words didn't matter, I would not have tried to disappear into the wall whenever he was around. Surely, I tried desperately to stay out of his way. I didn't have thick enough skin to deal with his put downs. Maybe things would have been different if the women in my family helped build me up instead of tear me down. Maybe I would have been stronger to not take to heart what the bully was saying about me. We will never know.

The old me would turn into a shrinking violet if someone was to tell me, "You think you pretty?" Really, the person asking the question is insinuating that I think I'm better than everyone else and that I am really not that pretty, else why would he or she ask the question. "Do you think you're pretty? Cuz you're not," that is the real meaning of the question. I know it sounds strange but in my 'hood, where I'm from, this is a typical reaction to a beautiful person. It reeks of insecurity and a touch of jealousy. I know very attractive people that have asked that question, "You think you pretty?"

The new me has no patience for anyone that wants to stifle my enthusiasm for my reflection. And if you ask me that question today, "You think you pretty?" My answer is emphatically, "Hell yeah! I do think I'm pretty. I'm gorgeous. I am beautiful." Really? That is so shallow. My physical appearance is not even the best part of me. And as I step out from behind the shadow of my childhood where being beautiful was somehow dirty, I refuse to let anyone tell me different. Hell Yeah, I think I'm pretty!!

Scientific Racism: The Eugenics of Social Darwinism

I absolutely love this documentary! I am writing my final paper in pursuit of my Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy. The topic I have selected is Eugenics. I have done a decent amount of reading on the topic and just started perusing YouTube for videos on the subject.

This documentary sounds like it came out of my journals. The decimation of race based on the British empire and the emerging American empire of the modern era is mind boggling.

I will post portions of the paper. It turned out to be 11 pages so I will post each section as a post. Maybe you'll read it. Maybe you won't. All I want is to put the information out there.

Peace and Love...

Infused With Fear or Brand New Eyes

My previous post was about doing a "media fast" as suggested by one of my favorite websites -- Daily OM. That means that you skip watching TV, movies, skip the daily newspaper, turn off the cell phone, step away from the internet, etc. for a period time. It could be one day then maybe the following week would be two days, the next week would be three days, until you can successfully move about life without NEEDING the internet. I am totally guilty of needing the internet. I stepped away from browsing Facebook significantly. I just don't feel the draw to it anymore however I am still quite attached to my blog, this blog. I also have a fondness for my World of Warcraft game. I am amazed at how much time I spend on WoW. I have also walked away from my Blackberry. I'm tired of being totally accessible to everyone at anytime. Irritating. Misplacing the phone contributed to our gentle break-up.

Anyway, the point of this post is to tie my last two posts together and why stepping away from the media is important to how I formed my opinion about TSA as a whole. Of course this post is entirely philosophical in nature.

Let us imagine a child that grows up in a bubble. Let us call him Emile. (Bonus points if you recognize who or what Emile is.) Emile, having grown up in a bubble with two instructors -- his own curiosity and a tutor -- is given an airplane ticket to Hawai'i. Let's pretend that the bubble is located in Seattle, Washington (site of my recent TSA incident).

Emile is not aware of the existence of television, the internet, newspapers, or any other media outlet. He is fed a healthy dose of religious texts, from the Upanishads, the Holy Bible, to the K'oran, and the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and is allowed to interpret the information as he sees fit. Emile is allowed to explore every avenue that his natural curiosity leads him to. If, for instance, he reads about Jesus Christ in the Bible and would like further texts that mention him, he may request from the tutor any text that is similar to or mentions Jesus Christ. He has lived his entire life in this manner having access to any topic that piques his interest.

Let us imagine he approaches the Seattle-Tacoma airport. He is in awe of the highways and the automobiles that, up until this point, were non-existent to him. Perhaps he had read about highway systems in books about the Roman Empire or the Silk Road throughout Asia but actually seeing the road system exceeded his imagination.

Upon Emile's arrival at the Sea-Tac Airport, he checks his bag along with the tutor and makes haste to the security checkpoint, the TSA. This is a critical juncture. This, for me, is the most important part to this mini-parable. TSA screening is something that Emile has not experienced before. If you and I looked at the situation with new eyes, having no clue what the screening is about, what would it appear to be?

• Emile's possessions are inspected and sent through a machine for further investigation.

• Emile is required to remove his shoes, his belt, and all metal objects on his person.

• Emile must empty his pockets.

Emile is reminded of the United State Constitution -- Amendment #4 -- the one about illegal search and seizure. Sure, he had emerged from a bubble but in the bubble, he had studied the Constitution in depth and was well-versed of the philosophical beliefs that influenced the Constitution; people like John Locke, Hume, of course Rousseau, and Imanuel Kant, amongst others. Emile thought, "Are we still in the United States?"

As Emile makes his way through the security check point, the tutor explains to him the reasoning for the invasion of privacy.

"Emile, the United States government implemented this security check point because they fear that terrorists will climb aboard a plane with explosives."

It is this exact piece of information/ story that Emile (all of us) must accept to justify the "search and seizure".

So I ask you, the general public:
Who is telling the story? Who tells us the story that would make us accept any information under the guise of public safety?

Though none of us live in a bubble, who creates your reality?

If I tell you that people in Hawai'i are cannibals, would that change your behavior or desire to come to Hawai'i?

If the government implements a National Threat Advisory, does that make you feel safer? Or does one have to accept the "story" that is told about terrorism. Remember the movie by M. Night Shyamalan, The Village? If you have not seen the movie and would like to see it, fair warning, SPOILER ALERT. A group of psychologists get together and create this 19th century village in the middle of nowhere. They are known as The Council of Elders. The Villagers and the creatures in the forest maintain a pact that keeps the villagers away from the forest and the creatures away from the village. All the young people tell stories about a world beyond the village. Whenever the young people begin to get riled up about going beyond the borders of the village, some kind of omen shows up in the village and the Council of Elders change the flags around the village from red to yellow or vice versa to signify that an attack from the woods is imminent. Very, very similar to our National Threat Advisory. In one explosive scene, the creatures actually do emerge from the forest and frightens the entire town into their cellars. Eventually, the story unravels and what is discovered is that the Council of Elders (the Village's government) is also the creatures from the forest.

Why would the government be the solution and the problem?
What benefits are associated with being both?
For me, there can only be one reason and that is:

CONTROL!

I don't know where this quote is from but I think of it often whenever I feel like my God-given rights are being stripped from me.

Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor, for patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It both emboldens the blood, just as it narrows the mind. And when the drums of war have reached a fever pitch and the blood boils with hate and the mind has closed, the leader will have no need in seizing the rights of the citizenry. Rather, the citizenry, infused with fear and blinded by patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the leader and gladly so.

This is all food for thought. The media and the government tell us a story. We accept it because of some terrible tragedy. But what if, just as The Village, the government is the problem and the solution? What if we looked at the TSA with new eyes like Emile and reject the "story" the media tells us?

Who manufactures your reality? <---Click the link and read the article. Trust me, if they're doing it in China then it has already successfully been done in the U.S. For some, fear is a great motivator. For me, fear is the absence of love. In the New Testament of the Holy Bible, one of my most favorite scriptures reads:

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power and of love, and of a sound mind.
~2 Timothy 1:7

Just remember we choose to either be "infused with fear" or seeing the world as Emile, with "brand new eyes".

Of Mangos and Belly Aches

Seated beneath a mango tree on a bench built by my uncle is the first time I recall ever being sick to my stomach. Above me the mango tree’s large limbs branched out and extended high into the air. Many weeks before, the leaves were several shades of bright pinks with tiny blossoms. In a relatively dry season, the flowers would result in mangos so numerous that the branches would droop to the earth, heavy with fruit. If the spring and summer were particularly wet, there would be no fruit to enjoy, just a cool, shady spot to rest from the humidity of a Hawaiian summer. That summer, the first time I recall every being sick to my stomach, the mango tree was heavy with fruit. It was the summer that I turned six.

The mango tree sat at the edge of one of my grandmothers many gardens. Its large trunk supported the foliage that sat atop it and shook when the trade winds blew in from off the Pacific Ocean. Surrounding the mango tree were several different types of tropical plants and flowers and different fruit trees. Red ginger marked the border on the mauka end of the garden, along with Birds of Paradise and other types of ginger. Banana trees bordered the makai end. At the opposite border, across the mango tree, were several Tahitian Gardenia bushes. Their distinct, white flowers were a stark contrast to the vibrant shades of green upon its leaves. The delicate flowers are the size of the palm of my hand and its scent is so intoxicating.

In the center of the garden were more tropical flowers. The vision of plumeria trees laden with yellow and pink hues of blossoms clustered together was always a site to behold. It’s blossoming marked the beginning of summer. The fragrance, so captivating, always took my breath away. There were also rows and rows of ‘ilima plants. The ‘ilima flower is a shade of yellow-orange and is paper-thin and very delicate. At its fullest height, the shrub may reach four feet. Because it required hundreds of flowers to string together one lei, the ‘ilima lei even today, is a prized gift.

Summer break was often spent at “Gramma’s” house. She lived thirty minutes from where we lived. My father would drop off my brother and I at Gramma’s, early in the morning, as he made his way to work. It was almost always dark when we arrived. We would hurry in and sleep until the suns rays gently woke us. Before we could eat breakfast, my cousins that lived next door to Gramma would pick us up and we would head to the gardens on the property. Our main chore for the day was to pick all the flowers from the trees so that Aunty Iwa , my father’s sister, could string lei’s to be sold at the local florist. The older cousins picked the delicate ‘ilima and the flowers at the tops of the plumeria tree, while I was relegated to picking the good plumeria’s that had fallen to the ground. By 7 a.m. the flowers were picked, washed, and prepared for Aunty Iwa. We’d cover her living room floor with old newspapers and separate the flowers by type and color. By 9 a.m. Aunty Iwa would have several lei’s ready for market. More cousins would show up by mid-morning. Gramma and Aunty Iwa were the babysitters for all of us. I had not known then how difficult it must have been to keep eleven of us busy and fed everyday, all throughout the summer.

**Aunty Iwa and I in one of the gardens**
The typical Hawaiian summer was almost always full of blue skies, puffy white clouds, and moist, humid air. Sometimes the humidity was so heavy, so thick, that relief could only be found in the ocean. On those days, we’d walk to the beach with my Gramma leading the pack and the older cousins at the back, making sure that no one would get lost along the way. Rainy days we’d spend playing board games in the carport or playing hopscotch. We rarely ever spent any time in front of the television. There always seemed to be more important things to do like playing hide and seek in the gardens or touch football in Gramma’s large, dirt and gravel driveway. Sometimes my older girl cousins would take me to play school or bank or store. I was always stuck being the student or the customer, never the teacher, teller, or cashier. I remember once, we set up chairs to look like an airplane and we pretended we were stewardesses.

**Me, running down gramma's dirt and gravel driveway**
On the sunniest days, when all you could see for miles was the blue sky, and there was no respite from the blazing sun, we’d climb the giant mango tree to keep cool. The gentle breeze drowned out the sound of the mynah birds squawking. I imagine they were complaining about the humidity. On one particular day, the first time I ever felt sick to my stomach, I climbed midway up the tree. From my vantage point, I peeked into the adjacent garden and could see the large guava tree. Along the fence behind the guava tree were several passion fruit vines and along side the fence was a row of papaya trees. The mango tree was heavy with fruit that season and the limbs were beginning to bow. Certainly we didn’t want the limbs to break so it was necessary for us to relieve the tree of some of its fruit, even though they were green and unripe. I began picking the largest of the mangos and threw them to the ground. Whoever was on the ground collected the mangos and stowed them in buckets. By the end of the day, the mangos would be peeled, sliced, pickled, jarred then given away to the neighbors. There was always extra for the neighbors and any of Gramma’s visitors.

That day, my cousin had brought along a glass jar full of a dark liquid. He sat on the bench beneath the tree, pulled out his pocketknife and began paring the green mango. I watched him, from where I was perched in the mango tree, open the glass jar and slice the green mango into it. My other cousins gathered around him and watched him pare and slice two more mangos. He replaced the lid and they all took turns shaking the jar. After everyone had a turn, they opened the jar and began to eat the mango. It looked so delicious and refreshing and as my cousins ate, they made these noises indicating how much they were enjoying it. I climbed down and had my first taste of shoyu-mango. The dark liquid was made of soy sauce and brown sugar. It was so scrumptious. I imagine that the combination of salt, sweet, and the tartness of the unripe mango pleased every taste bud on my tongue. Also, the obvious delight on everyone’s face added to my enjoyment. When the mango in the jar had run out, my cousin pared and sliced more as we ate and repeated the process until not a drop of sauce was left in the jar.

As soon as the sauce was gone, the excitement of the new experience wore off, and my six-year old belly was left with the biggest ache I had ever known. I don’t remember how long it ached but I do remember that wonderful taste. If there had been more sauce, I’d have drank it up like a tall, glass of water. My brother and my cousins continued with the chores associated with pickling the mangos and I was left, seated on a bench built by my uncle, under a mango tree having the time of my life.

Establishing....

I was sitting in an interview with a scholarship counselor for Kamehameha Schools. The counselor asked me what direction I'd be going in with my education. Up until that point, I had never thought about it in depth. I just thought that I'd go back to school, apply for the scholarship and make full use of the resources that are available. There is so much funding out there for people of Native Hawaiian ancestry through the Bishop Estate. Bernice Pauahi Bishop, a member of the royal family before the overthrow, established a trust for the children of Hawai'i to provide for their educational welfare. The Bishop Estate is one of the largest, most wealthy estates in the world.

There I was sitting in the interview, scanning my mind for an answer, really wondering what I'd do with my education. Of all the infinite number of answers I could have given, I blurted out that I'd like to establish a Leadership Academy to educate kanaka maoli (aboriginal people of Hawai'i). I hadn't expected that the interview with the scholarship counselor would be so intense. However it forced me to formulate in my mind, within seconds, the driving force behind my desire to return to school. I've kicked around the idea of going to law school. I've experienced a certain amount of satisfaction and have displayed proficiency in reading and analyzing legal documents and figured that might be an avenue to pursue. I've thought about majoring in English due to my love of the written word. I've also thought of taking up History, so as to be able to influence future generations with real history, objective history. Even though I had thought about a major, the real application of it manifested itself in a simple blurb: I'D LIKE TO ESTABLISH A LEADERSHIP ACADEMY TO EDUCATE KANAKA MAOLI!

My mother is Samoan. Her language and culture are still intact in a way that never was for my Hawaiian father. I think of my father's generation as the "assimilated Hawaiian's". The language was effectively colonized out of Hawaiian society until the renaissance of Hawaiian culture in the 1970's. This renewed interest came on the heels of the successful voyage of the Hokule'a, a traditional Polynesian double-hulled canoe. The crew of the Hokule'a successfully navigated their way, in traditional Polynesian fashion, without the use of modern seafaring instruments. It would be many years after that maiden voyage before we would see a resurgence of the Hawaiian language.

The development of "immersion" schools began to take shape in the years following Hokule'a's historic feat. They were modeled after Aotearoa's (New Zealand) Maori Immersion program where Maori children would be totally immersed in the language of their ancestors. Hawai'i followed suit and developed a successful program that still exists today. Hawaiian used to be the official language of the State of Hawaii. I'm not sure if that is still the case. To hear it spoken in leisure today is an enormous feat, considering it was on the brink of extinction just 25 years ago.

I have to give the Department of Education in the State of Hawaii some credit for requiring the study of Hawaiian history in the public school system. You can expect to review the Hawaiian monarchy at the 4th grade level, the 7th grade, and the 11th grade. (I wonder if the Oklahoma school system requires the study of Native American history. Does anybody know?)

There are several immersion programs in Hawai'i beginning in pre-school and continuing all the way through high school and beyond. There is a highly developed Hawaiian Studies program at the University of Hawaii as well as BYU-Hawaii. Even with all these things in place, I felt there was a few components missing in influencing a generation of kanaka maoli. I would like to see LEADERS. Real leaders with the ability to reason within the context of their culture and moral human behavior. Philosophical leaders that esteemed themselves highly and would take full responsibility for teaching and perpetuating their values.

I have not fully developed the idea of the LEADERSHIP ACADEMY but I find that it might be something worth looking into. First, because it instantly sprang from my mouth when I was asked what I'd like to do with my education. Second, I think it is a worthy goal to pursue in contributing to the preservation of my ancestral heritage. I love Hawai'i!

I believe we are each placed on this earth for specific reasons, to serve humanity with our unique talents and abilities. I feel privileged to be made up of the DNA that connects me to Polynesia. I feel such great pride to have a degree of melanin in my skin that makes me not-white. May the Creator find purpose in me to do HIS work and not mine.


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**Bernice Pauahi Bishop Photo Credit
**Canoe Photo Credit

The Secret Life of Bee's and the Ramblings That Were In My Head

The Secret Life of Bees... I just got through watching the movie. I attempted reading the book several years ago but was thoroughly uninterested in the way the story was moving. I wonder if the movie is how the author intended the story to be portrayed.

In the media, there is an archetype and/or stereotype given to American Black women, pre-civil rights era. It is termed the "mammy" archetype. (FYI: According to wikipedia, "mammy" is now a slur.) The characters in the movie that portray these archetypes are Queen Latifah as well as Jennifer Hudson. They both mother a little Caucasian girl who is in search of someone to love her.

I don't necessarily object to the implied relationship between the little white girl, played by Dakota Fanning, and the "mammy's" because the story is probably a product of the time period. It astonishes me though that the same story is perpetuated throughout American Culture, in several American-made movies. White "savior" saves the brown people from themselves, as though we are helpless without them. I think of movies like The Last of the Dogmen starring Tom Berenger. He saves an ancient tribe from the outside world. Dances With Wolves - Kevin Costner gets absorbed by a native american tribe. The absence of multi-ethnic characters in the media of yester-year is staggering.

How a society views themself is shaped by the stories that are told. A hundred years from now, maybe two or three hundred years from now, what will our posterity say about us? That "grasshopper", from the Kung-Fu dramatic series of the 1970's, could only be played by a white male (David Carradine)? The role was written for Bruce Lee but he was too Chinese. Is that the story America will leave for it's posterity? That the founding fathers of the United States purported to believe that "All men were created equal", yet every single one of the people involved with the American Revolution owned slaves. Are these the only stories that can be told to America?

In traditional Polynesian cultures, we enjoy oral history. Western philosophy requires things to be written before it is considered a valid entry into it's history. However, Polynesians didn't need the documentation for proof. Our proof is in the stories that are handed down from generation to generation, in our genealogy that is carefully, painstakingly preserved in chant.

Children of Hawai'i grew up with stories of Maui, the demi-God who pulled the islands from the ocean so that we could live and flourish; who stopped the sun from progressing too quickly across the sky. My favorite, above all, are the tales of Pele the Fire Goddess. Though her lava flows destroy everything in its path, the lava creates more land and brings balance to the landscape. Her beauty, her shape-shifting, her jealousy, her love; they make her utterly human. Yet, her ability to create land make her a goddess. These are the stories I want to tell my children one day; that they are part of a beautiful, ancient heritage. That they must have strong, self-assured knowledge of who they are because of where they come from. That they will define themselves and identify wholely with the richness of their birthright.

Stories like the Secret Life of Bees will never fall on the ears of my children. And if they did, I will tell them more of the heritage from which they came. Even if the world would call Polynesians savages, my children will know the stories of our ancestors through me and they can determine who the real savages are. Me and my house will never bend to the whims of popular media. I decide my identity, not based on what "they" think of me but of what I think of myself.

NeenaLove drops the mic

**...Bees Photo Credit
**Grasshopper Photo Credit
**Maui Photo Credit
**Pele Photo Credit

Polynesian Flavor

Beautiful pipes!!!