Korean in Hawai`i

 Part I

I walk to the beach before the sun rises. As soon as the darkness has lifted enough for me to see the numbers on the combination gate lock, I am off. I am fortunate to live a few steps from the beach, in a house owned by a nonprofit, where I am the resident caretaker.

I survey the flowers and fruit underfoot. They reveal how long it’s been since I came here, on mornings when I don’t have to rush off. If it’s been more than 1-2 days, I see a lot of dried, crushed orange pua kou, and bruised white fruit. If I came the day before, just a handful of new flowers have fallen.

I face northeast, where the sun will soon rise. Beyond the horizon, 4000 miles away, lies Japan, and further east, Korea, where my family came from, and where I was born. The waters touch all the coasts, and the tradewinds come from the northeast. Recently, an earthquake off the coast of Russia, near the Aleutian Islands archipelago, set off a tsunami warning here in Hawai`i. It sent waves from the epicenter across the Pacific Ocean, to Japan, Korea, and onward to the Midway atoll and the Hawaiian islands, reminding us that we are all connected. Below the sea, the tectonic plates grind, slide, and collide, creating disruptions big and small on the surface of the earth, and in the oceans.

I stood on a friend’s rooftop after the tsunami warning sirens went off, looking through binoculars in the direction of Russia, to see if a wave could be spotted. Fortunately for us in Hawai`i, the god Kanaloa absorbed much of the strength of the waves deep into the ocean, and besides one hotel with a minor flood in Hilo, we were once again spared. Our frail and foolish species got yet another chance to survive.

The next day I went to the beach by my house to kilo, observe any effects and changes. I noticed much more sticks and rocks on the shore than usual, and the sand felt heavier and denser underfoot. The ocean was more tumultuous than usual, the tide a bit higher, and the waves more chaotic and rough. I dove in, and the water seemed more cloudy, with more sticks and other “stuff” than usual. 

What had the 8.8 earthquake shaken up? What came loose to float to the shore in Waimānalo? What messages, what wisdom, what stories? What was stirred up from the depths of the cold water of the Aleutians, that was sent in successive waves to my shore?

Even further west, as the waves keep traveling, lies Mexico, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, and Southwest Asia. The waters are universal, and eternal. What began as a cloud transforms into rain, which falls onto land and water, then evaporates back into the atmosphere. If only I could travel, like the seas, like plastic bottles filled with rice and lentils, to the other side of the world. If only I could float into Gaza, like the food aid the Egyptians have sent via the waves of the Mediterranean. 

Here in Hawai`i, I pray to all the ancestors. Preparing for sunrise, I chant Aloha e to akua, aumakua, ali`i, kupuna, makua, and lehulehu. God, the ancestors, the chiefs, elders, family, and everyone else. I chant the sun up, e ala e. I ask for guidance from above, e ho mai. I sing several verses of Arirang, in tribute to my homeland across the ocean.

I bring flowers and fruit to the ocean. Just as humans weep tears, trees weep flowers. When they can no longer support the blossoms, when they have served their functions to attract pollinators, it is time for them to move on, and the mother trees loosen them such that the wind floats them to the ground. In a day or two they will dry out, turn papery frail, and get crumbled into the sand. Before they dry out, I gather them in the pocket of my hoodie, to offer one more day of life, of beauty, of service.

A large log has settled on the shoreline and I squat on top of it as I chant and pray. I release blossoms and pray to the Most High, to Universal Spirit, Ultimate Consciousness, and to all the gods and goddesses who will hear me. I pray for Gaza, I pray for my children and grandchildren, I pray for loved ones far and near, and anyone who needs prayers. I pray for wisdom, protection, guidance, and healing. I weep salty tears into the ocean, and toss the tears of the trees into the waves. We all weep for the earth, for all our relations. We weep as a form of release, in grief and praise and gratitude. We weep to let go, to hold space and make more space.

At the HTMC clubhouse where I live, we have frequent visitors, public events, and overnight guests, but I’m the sole resident. A friend asks me, “Do you ever feel scared or lonely at the house?” She’s always lived in cities, and semi-rural life on the remote windward side of the island seems risky to her.

“No,” I answer without hesitation. I wonder why I feel so safe here? The reasons come to me right away. I’m not alone. I am surrounded by so much life, all my relations.

To my northwest, lies the mountain I regard as my Grandmother. Her Hawaiian name is Pu`uokona, part of the Kuli`ou`ou range of the Ko`olau Mountains. She is broad and green, with strong sharp ridges. To my east is the mountain I regard as my Grandfather. He is more stony and steep. They surround me, from the west to the east, wrapping me like an embrace. More immediately, three mature Hau trees provide shade, rising above the arbor, and dropping blossoms for me everyday. I pick them up and place them in a saucer of water on the table. Multiple palms and coconut trees surround the house, along with la`i, pua melia, pua kalaunu, naupaka, and so much more.

Multigenerations of mynah birds live in the coconut tree by the kitchen door. Occasionally I find an eggshell or an old nest on the nearby steps. A grand old mango tree abides in the mauka ewa corner. I devote myself to her, and leave offerings, and fertilize her with my own body, via buckets of diluted urine. She blesses me with gorgeous, unbelievably sweet Hayden mangos, more than I can eat, which I share with neighbors, friends, and family.

As an act of devotion to the abundance of the `āina, I’ve become a lei-maker, and all proceeds go to distribute water and food in Gaza, through Wai Nau Aloha Water Project. As a lei-maker I’ve become even more intimate with the `āina, learning the names, rhythms, textures, and qualities of the plants that surround me.

Multiple generations of chickens come by here. I call the hens Lulu, and the roosters Pepe. I tell them I will not force them to leave, but they have to fend for themselves, I will not feed them, and I cannot protect them. Pepe comes around occasionally, but makes the rounds to all the houses around here. This morning, way too early, I had to yell, “Pepe, scat!” out the window when he was crowing too close to my bedroom. He quickly scurried over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

The mynahs are Mimi, the geckos are Gigi, and the pigeons are Dudu. The two feral cats who visit are trying to ingratiate themselves to me but I give them the cold shoulder. 

This is just a sliver of all the living beings I share this land with, the beings that allow me to be part of their world.

 

[Upcoming: Part II, Becoming Kama`āina]