Magnolia Gardens and Plantation: From Slavery to Freedom | Photo Blog

The South (United States) has always drawn me. Outside of Hawai'i, I can't imagine living anywhere else but The South. The laid back vibe and the history of slavery draws me to this area. I have always felt, in some way, connected to the struggle associated with oppressed cultures. Every culture on the planet can identify with being oppressed in some shape or form but I am particularly captivated by the history of slavery in North America as well as the Native American struggle against European colonization. My own Pacific Island heritage continues to struggle against European colonization so I am no stranger to the struggle to overcome White privilege. 

My visit to Magnolia Gardens and Plantation in Charleston, South Carolina, included an eight dollar tour called From Slavery to Freedom. A young Caucasian man conducted the tour. I would say he is in his mid-20's.We boarded a small tram and headed toward a clearing with four white structures and it was surrounded by foliage and oak trees. We exited the tram and sat at picnic tables while the young tour guide did a 20 to 25 minute presentation, which in my opinion was very flat. It was full of information but void of real emotion. I will charge that to his age and lack of life experience but it is probably more about his disconnection to the practice of slavery. He was not disrespectful but his sympathy was a little manufactured but at least it was civil.   

In contrast, I can't help but think of my father who conducted tours for 25 years. The amount of insight and his deep connection to the content of his tours is unparalleled. He used humor, knowledge, emotion, and his God-given charm to regale his audience. I also think of a tour I took of St. John's Co-Cathedral in Valletta, Malta. Our tour guide was an older gentleman dressed in a three-piece, gray suit. He was small in stature with dark gray hair. His face was lightly wrinkled and wore a set of very thick glasses. Atop his head was a red cap; not a baseball cap or a fedora but almost like a skull cap and he walked with a cane. He had a deep, gentle voice. It was very soft. When we came across the Caravaggio painting called, The Beheading of St John the Baptist, it was like I was transformed by his monologue. I can't even recall all the details of what he said except that I knew he loved every word that came out of his mouth; that he was proud of his Maltese roots and that he was so excited to share the story of the painting and its importance to Malta. Ahhhh... If only every tour guide could have that depth and emotion.

There were some very interesting facts that the young man shared about the Magnolia Plantation. Specifically, the plantation was primarily a rice farm. The Drayton family that owned, continues to own the plantation attempted all sorts of crops but none were successful until they came across rice farming. And the rice farming was imported with the slave labor from West Africa. The tour guide shared that the West African slaves were very skilled at every aspect of rice cropping and it was their success that allowed the plantation to flourish.

The entire property is so beautiful. It's quiet and peaceful. In some areas you can hear the gurgling of a nearby brook or the wind in the trees. The birds are chirping and the peacocks cawing. The heat and humidity was nearly stifling but the gentle breeze gave some relief to the heat. The open fields surrounded by centuries-old Oak trees with Spanish Moss hanging from its limbs transported me to another time. The skies were so blue. It was a beautiful day spent there. 

The tour of the current mansion was very informative. Leslie was the tour guide and she was very knowledgable about the Drayton family. I was disappointed that the mansion was so modern. The home is not a centuries-old southern mansion at all. It is nothing that you would think of from the antebellum era. I was really hoping that it would be. I skipped posting a picture because it's just not a grand mansion. There was one piece of tapestry in one of the bedrooms that I really liked however we were not allowed to snap photos. Previous Drayton mansions on the property had burned to the ground during the Civil War. According to Leslie, that mansion was over 22,000 square feet because it included a grand ballroom on the 2nd floor. How festive. That is the type of mansion I was hoping I would be able to tour. Enjoy the photos. 

PhotoBlog | Playing Tourist in South Carolina

My lil-cousin-bestie made her way to visit me in South Carolina. I am so tickled that she came out. We played tourist while she was here She set my mind right and kicked me in the arse to make sure I do the things I said I would do. She gave me a timeline and everything. I love that about her. She is such a task master!

Magnolia Plantation and Gardens

LOCATION: Magnolia Plantation and Gardens

ADMISSION: Adults $20 | Kids $10 | Additional tours are available at $8 per tour | HINT: Groupon has discounted admission. Check there first.

I am happy to have visited Magnolia Plantation and Gardens recently. It is located in Charleston, South Carolina. 

The Sea Calls Me | Photo Blog : Myrtle Beach Edition

LOCATION: Myrtle Beach State Park

COST TO ENTER THE PARK: $5 for 16 and above | $3.25 for 65 and older | $3 per child ages 6-15

I went to Myrtle Beach State Park on May 9th. This is typically NOT tourist season so the beach and the pier was nice and empty. There were a few people along the beach and a few people fishing from the pier but nothing like you'd expect during tourist season (June through August). 

I was born and raised in Hawai'i so I have a very high expectation of what a beach should look like. I have to say that Myrtle Beach was everything I needed to see and feel and be a part of in the moment. It is not similar to the Hawai'i beaches that I grew up on but it is still beautiful nonetheless. I will always have a love affair with the ocean and Myrtle Beach did not disappoint. Perhaps I will move closer to the shore soon. I have missed the ocean so much. I look forward to when I will be able to be in it again.

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I cannot remember the first time I went into the ocean and yet I cannot remember my childhood without mentioning the ocean. I would bet that my folks took me into the Pacific waters before I could even roll over on my own because we have always lived by the shore. All of my summers were spent at the beach, in the water. My folks never slathered sunscreen on my melanin-rich skin so my skin would turn purple under the steady glare of the sun. 

Hot summer days, when the ocean was glassy, my father would go skin diving with a simple pole spear and a T-Bar to hold his catch. The pole spear was always yellow and it was made of fiberglass. One end was equipped with three steel prongs and the other end was a rubber loop that allowed the holder to use the spear as a sling shot. He used goggles and a snorkel and donned tabis and fins. Tabis? What are those? Well a google search returns a wikipedia entry that states it is a Japanese sock, ankle high with a separation between the big toe and the other toes. He would put his swim fins over the tabis. 

When he entered the ocean, I never once thought that he would not return. I always knew that he was safe in the ocean and so was I. Even now, when I set foot into the sea, any sea, I am fluid and become a part of the great wide expanse of water. There is no fear; only joy, which is larger than happiness. I will always feel this way, I'm sure, even beyond this life. The freedom and weightlessness of being in the ocean and the gentle rocking of the tide is the most transcendent feeling. In sadness, the ocean masks my tears. When I am joyous, it amplifies my laughter. And when I submerge my ears just under the surface of the water, with my face toward the sun, and I am floating in bliss, the Goddess within speaks and I hear her. 

After hours at sea, my father would walk out of the ocean. I cannot recall a time when he arrived empty-handed. Dried Octopus was my favorite gift from the sea when I was little. When my father emerged from the ocean, there would be several octopus writhing along his T-Bar and maybe some fish, usually manini (convict tang) and sometimes kala (unicornfish). I was always terrified of the tentacles along the legs of the octopus. I feared that it would suction my father to sickness or maybe even me. After rinsing the octopus, my father would pound it in a pot for several minutes. This tenderized the meat. After he completed that step, he would spread the octopus out on a line, attach it to the line with clothespins where it would hang in the sun to dry. The octopus would turn a deep purple color and the interior was a grayish white. I could eat this all day. The meat was chewy and was flavored by the natural salt of the ocean. I think back on those days with great fondness and realize how blessed I am because of my father's skills and because I grew up along the ocean shore. The ocean gives and we gratefully receive. 

I never realized the magic of my father's "water-eyes" until I was learning to find the octopuses and their hiding places on my own. I was a teenager when my father would allow me to accompany him on his day dives. I had no desire to go night diving with him. The darkness of the ocean was far too mysterious for me and he would only go when the moon was hidden. But the day dives were magnificent. The way the light of the sun would shimmer in the water and cast its light on the sand still makes me smile to think of it. I always stayed within fifteen feet of my father. I know he swam slow just so that I could keep up. The excitement inside me was palpable when I would see him spot an octopus. Octopus' are very stealth. They can camouflage themselves anywhere. I would never see the octopus. My father would place the spear in a hole in the rocks and the legs of the octopus would wrap itself around the spear and that is how I would spot them. I never did get good at spotting the octopus. He said it's the way the rocks look that gives away where the octopus could be hiding. I understand the concept, I just never got really good at seeing it. My "water-eyes" are not as magical as my dads. 

Of all the places I could be in the world at this very moment, I find myself living in a city that is land locked. The ocean is a two-and-a-half hour drive to Myrtle Beach. And of all the things I have given up to move to this city, it is the ocean that ever calls to me. Truly, I have risen from the ocean with my mother being from Samoa and my father being of Hawaiian decent. Their lives and those that came before them rose from the ocean as well. It is the ocean that binds me to them and to all of my ancestors all through my familial lines. Even the Swedish blood that runs through my veins required an ancestor to board an ocean liner that eventually landed him in Samoa in the South Pacific. And my pure Chinese great-grandfather also had to board a ship to make his way for new fortune and new experiences in the tiny Kingdom of Hawai'i in the middle of the Pacific. And even if I'm in this wide world, seemingly, making my way all alone, I know that my mother and those who have birthed into their next life watch over me. They guide and protect me and I will always find their spirits when I am joyously drifting upon the ocean water.

I've been staring at the edge of the water

'Long as I can remember, never really knowing why

I wish I could be the perfect daughter

But I come back to the water, no matter how hard I try

Every turn I take, every trail I track

Every path I make, every road leads back

To the place I know, where I can not go, where I long to be

See the line where the sky meets the sea?

It calls me

And no one knows, how far it goes

If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me

One day I'll know

If I go there's just no telling how far I'll go

-Performed by Auli'i Cravalho (How Far I'll Go)

Humility and Tender Mercy

A dear friend of mine sent a song to me over the web. I don't know if it's because I had posted on Facebook that I visited my mom's grave that he decided to send me the song. For whatever reason he did, I am grateful for the message I received from hearing it. It has been on repeat all day. Well Done by Deitrick Haddon is the song. The lyrics are quite simple and the music is beautiful but the pleading in Deitrick's voice is so compelling. I embedded the video at the bottom of the post. Maybe you can let it play as you read this post.

These past few months have been difficult for me. The divorce from my husband of thirteen years really did a number on me. An unexpected event like this has really humbled me and brought me to my knees. I find myself so hungry for spiritual enlightenment; to feel the spirit of the Creator around me. I hunger for it above any search for love and companionship. I don't quite know how it all works but a few experiences in recent months have forced me to recognize God's tender mercies in my life and I am grateful.

Both my mother and father are staunch Christians. Though I was raised with such a strong foundation, I find that my curiosity for other spiritual practices is so much stronger than my Christian background. And yet, I have a soft spot for the teachings I was raised to believe. Above all, Love is paramount. Compassion. Forgiveness. Service.

The first couple of weeks after my ex said he wanted a divorce were extremely difficult. Extremely! I found myself crying myself to sleep all throughout the day and all through the night. Part of me was so upset and disappointed with my husband's decision to walk away from our relationship. I thought of how I would now be alone in the world and that I would grow old without a companion to journey through life with. I thought of my parents who were married to each other until my mother passed. That's forty-plus years of commitment. Coming up, I didn't know very many marriages that ended in divorce. My parent's generation was true ride-or-die relationships, so to see my second marriage come to an end just about tore me apart. My loyalty is so fierce and so powerful. Why wouldn't a man want that kind of woman in his corner? I know my value and I cannot understand why a man would trade me in.

In those first days, I leaned heavy upon my popps and my older brother for comfort. I am fiercely independent and rarely ever ask anyone for help. But the pain of this broken heart could not be soothed without help from above. My popps and my older brother laid their hands upon my head and put a blessing on me so strong and so powerful that I was sobbing.  I have never seen my father cry, in all of my 41 years, not even at my mother's funeral service. But that day, as he prayed over me, he choked up and I could hear him cry and felt his tears drop on me. We felt so strongly the spirit of my mother all around us. I felt her holding me up, and drying my tears, and telling me that everything would be fine. God's tender mercy was upon me that day because I rarely feel my mother's presence. That day, in those moments with my father and older brother, we felt her all around us and I knew that I would be just fine. I knew that I was not alone.

On a recent trip to "the South." I was driving on a lonely road. It was late at night and most of the roads in Georgia and South Carolina are not equipped with street lights. My drive from Atlanta through Georgia and South Carolina was a great time for me to clear my head. The long monotonous drive gave me plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts. My life since splitting from my ex-husband has been a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, of decisions and indecision, and full of so much change. I really needed that distance from all things familiar to think through the pressing issue of where I want to take my life.

My drive that evening should have happened much earlier than it had, meaning I should have been driving while it was still daylight. My arrival in Atlanta was four hours delayed. I should have made it to my destination by 7p but with the delay, it was now estimated to be 11p. As I made my way along the roads, I was just about 70 miles from the coast. That's where I wanted to be - the Coast. I wanted to look out on a different ocean than the beautiful Pacific. Perhaps, I could make a life along the banks of a new body of water; far away from the Pacific. I love the Pacific but I feel a wave of change surging inside of me and I am going to ride it to wherever it takes me.

The GPS had taken me along a very lonely road. I had not seen a car for miles. I felt like I was in an episode of Scooby Doo. Every town I had ventured through was dark and void of life. Spooky. Creepy. I felt like I had stepped back in time and I felt very alone, like the whole world had turned their back on me. I almost shed tears thinking I had made a big mistake for getting on the road all alone, in a place that was completely unfamiliar to me. I approached a fork in the road and went right instead of left. I had to back track, turn around and go back to the fork and take the left. I distinctly remember uttering out loud, "God, please watch over me. Please get me where I need to be safely." Inside, I was slightly terrified and feeling like I had made so many mistakes in my life and it was manifesting on this road trip. The delay with the airplane, the long and lonely drive through the darkness, taking the wrong road; these were all little events that were heavy on my mind as I made my way toward the coast.

Imagine pitch blackness, not a single street light, just the stars to light my way and the solitary light beams from my rental car. From the right side of my periphery, I see a deer shoot out into the lonely road. The animal was taller than my car and it's antlers were large and well-developed. The excitement of nearly reaching my destination had suddenly turned to panic as the large animal collided with my vehicle. It happened so quickly. As I think through the collision and slow it down in my mind, I am humbled and in awe of my experience and the tender mercy of God's hand in those moments.

Upon impact, all of the airbags in the vehicle deploy and there is a strong burning odor. I was so stunned and in a state of shock that I don't realize that I may have been in danger by remaining in the middle of the road or that possibly the burning odor could mean that the car was on fire. I was just in utter disbelief. I have heard horror stories of people getting knocked out and bruised by the airbags. Every single airbag had been spent. There was one at my feet, one that came out of the steering wheel and a curtain alongside the sides of the car and from the top of the windshield. I have also heard stories about the severe bruising that comes from the seat belt holding you in place. I had not lost consciousness but I was definitely dazed.

God's tender mercy was upon me because I did not have a single scratch on my body. I was not bruised. I did not suffer any whiplash. My back was fine. When Highway Patrol arrived, the Officer told me that the deer was back several yards away and was indeed dead. I felt a tinge of guilt for having taken the life of the deer without doing something useful with it's sacrifice, like maybe feeding a family. And yet, all I could feel was gratitude for being fully alive and not a single scratch on my body. I was definitely shaken up but feeling nothing but God's love upon me for watching over me so closely even when it seemed as if I did not deserve his/her watchful care.

Both events, feeling my mother around me in late September on up to the trip that found me on the side of a lonely road with a wrecked car in January, were eye-openers to how closely I am loved and cared about from on high. Even in my most sinful pursuits and dark behavior, my mother is reaching out to me from beyond the grave and God is watching me, ever caring for my safety and well-being. Thank you dear friend for sending me this song. It prompted this post. The song had me reflecting on God's hand in my life. I kneel in humility and am strengthened by the thought of seeing my mother again.


I just wanna make it to heaven
I just wanna make it in
I just wanna cross that river
I wanna be free from sin
Ooh I just want my name written (Oh Lord)
Written in the lamb's Book of Life
When this life is over

Epiphanies.

Has it really been a week since my last post? Wow! Time flies. It's funny how I don't work, haven't been really busy doing much but didn't find time to get on my blog.... and blogging is something I really enjoy. Well, we're getting ready to move back west and I'm super duper excited. Everything is set and ready to go. Life is amazing and I'm ready to get out of this place. As soon as husband decided that Alabama wasn't for him (I already knew that it wasn't for me), it was as if God's entire universe was in on the decision. Money "fell from the sky" in support of this move. Serious. That always humbles me... the way things that I need and want manifests in my life. I am extremely grateful!

The most compelling reason why we're moving is because we just don't fit here. The level of consciousness of the people here is not exactly on our level. Not that we're extremely advanced or anything but we have moved beyond what we've found here in Alabama. I attribute this "change" in us to our commitment to living a healthy lifestyle, from regular exercise everyday, minimal meat in our diet, weekly worship, and an enduring humility, respect, and love for GOD. This has truly separated us from the average person in Alabama and I am truly grateful. Grateful in the sense that I'm no longer lost, without a direction because I'm no better than any Alabama-an. I am, however, different and I just don't "fit" here. My commitment to pursuing a life full of love, light, and truth has been so very fulfilling.

I miss my parents and my family immensely. Especially my nieces and nephew. However, I realize now that they have infused so much of their goodness in me. And for right now, in this moment, I know that I experience all of this because I come from good stock and I am strong enough to perpetuate that. It is as if I have an increased appreciation for my heritage, for the neighborhood that I come from, for the people that I have been surrounded by in the community, for the high school I went to, for my religious affiliation... well, you get the picture. I am very grateful for all the people who have ever contributed to my life. I am humbled when I look back at my pride and ignorance of yesterday. Hopefully that will never be a problem again. **sigh**

Life is such a beautiful process, especially if you're open to possibilities. The most difficult time in our lives are truly the proving grounds; it is the process by which the 'dross' or the impurities in our lives are pushed out. The best thing to do is to hold on tight and move through it. I'm moving through it and I know you can too.



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Photo Credit

Alabama: Autumn Impressions

Temporary photo blog... my amateur photo's of Fall in Harvest, Alabama.

Alabama: Cotton Impressions

In previous visits to Alabama, I had never laid eyes on a cotton field. I suppose my visits were not in sync with cotton "season". The sight is one to behold. These pictures hardly do it justice. Yet, even as beautiful as the scene may appear, as intricate and perfect the plant is, as mezmerizing the field of white may be, I only associate it with one thing: The Euro-American slave trade. Of course, the closest thing to my body is cotton. The same is probably true about you. Our clothes, the sheets and blankets that we wrap around us, the towel we dry ourselves with, the swab that you clean your ears with, the gauze you attend wounds with; all these items and more are made of cotton. I'm not ignoring all the fantastic uses humans have found for cotton. I'm not even ignoring the miracle that the plant really is. I'm simply stating that when I see this cotton field, I immediately think of the United States most illustrious infatuation with it and capitalism.

Some scholars and historians believe that the America's had its own species of cotton before the British imported cotton from Smyrna. There are accounts that point to the Aztec people being experts in the art of processing and dying cotton for clothing. The Chinese were said to use it in limited quantities. (Why would they want to use cotton when they had a monopoly on silk for quite awhile?) Also, the Persians were quite successful in cultivating cotton as well.[1] When the British brought it to the "New World" is when cotton's ugly history began.

Let me just quote from a book by George McHenry, The Cotton Trade[2]:

It is fortunate for the blacks as well as the whites, that the cotton business sprang up, for the sons of Africa do not flourish in a state of freedom, and without the cultivation of the leading staple of commerce there would not have been sufficient occupation for them.

A poet by the name of Preach appeared on Def Poetry Jam. He presented the poem, Cotton (Explicit). I was moved by the issues he covered in such a short period of time, in so creative a manner. A particular line that I was drawn to says, "Still we cotton-pick. Oh yes! From store racks now instead of fields..." Preach expresses his dissatisfaction with capitalism, materialism, and consumerism. He connects the literal cotton fields of 150 years ago with the metaphorical cotton fields of today found in the chase for materialistic things. He asserts that we, as consumers of the latest trends, are making someone else richer and once again become the builders of someone else's wealth.

Cotton! So simple a plant yet so miraculous in how it provides for humankind. Though I negatively associate it with the subjugation of the African family of yesteryear, I know it is a gift from God.

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Sources:
[1] William Rhind. A History of the Vegetable Kingdom [electronic resource]. Blackie and Son. London. 1857. (Pg 406)

[2] George McHenry. The Cotton Trade [electronic resource]. Saunders, Otley, & Co. London. 1863. (Pg 12)

In Search Of My Piko: Alabama

In a previous post, I gave a brief definition of piko. The piko is, literally, the navel in the language of Hawai'i. Figuratively and symbolically it can be referred to as the center, as the umbilical cord, as the thing that connects you to your surroundings. I bring that up only to say that I have always been umbilically connected to the islands of my birth. Hawai'i! I miss it immensely and have only been gone from it's beautiful shores for 10 days now. When you marry someone that is not from the islands and does not ever connect to the land (as is the case with myself and my husband), you may be forced to leave the 'aina; the land. It pained me to leave, as was evident in my previous posts. Yet here I am, surrounded by land, without an ocean or large body of water in sight.

While I am here, I must find my piko. I must find the thing, the place, the 'something' that is here on this continent that will wholly and umbilically connect me to this land. This is the land of my husbands ancestors. The slave blood in his veins, the same blood that soaked this earth several decades ago is what draws me nearest. The struggle, the heartache, the need to overcome insurmountable odds beckons to me and I am intrigued. The "strange fruit" that once hung from the tree's in these parts baffles my mind. How could one group of people condemn another based on the color of their skin and the circumstances through which they are born? I find myself drawn to the struggle that once was, drawn to know the woeful slave narratives of yesterday. In this, I connect to my own human experience.

I am in search of my piko! Will you come along on my journey?