ONE BOY, NO WATER is FREE on Kindle through Dec. 25th.
It’s a 2017 Nene Award Nominee.
Set in Hawaii, it tells the story of 13 year old Zader and his brother Jay. Lua, kite flying, surfing, and shave ice. The easiest way to take a trip to Hawaii without leaving your couch. It’s book one in The Niuhi Shark Saga.
Download it from Amazon.
Mele Kalikimaka!
It’s Disney’s Moana. That’s really what it comes down to.
A couple of years ago, when Disney announced that in the tradition of Aladdin, Mulan, Pocahontas, and Frozen, they were bringing to the screen Moana, a Polynesian princess tale, I was excited. When I learned that the story involved the demi-god Maui and ocean voyaging, I thought here was a movie I could take my kids to where we could talk about ancestral knowledge and what it means to be a literal descendant of the historical Maui and his sons.
And then I saw the trailers. Maui didn’t look anything like what I imagined the real Maui looked like—frankly, he didn’t even look human. And he was kind of an egotistical jerk. And a buffoon. And what was up with the nonsensical bits of crap around his neck and the random leaves for a malo? None of the sets and costumes seemed to belong to any particular island culture. I saw elements of Maori, Samoan, Tongan, and Fijian cultures—and precious little that was clearly Hawaiian. It was like someone had taken Pasifika and mashed it into a blender and—
Oh.
Moana is no more an authentic reflection of Polynesian culture than Mulan reflects China, Aladdin reflects Arabia, Pocahontas reflects Powhatans, or Frozen reflects Scandinavia. All of these stories are set in an alternate world—let’s call it Disneyland—that borrows heavily from real-world cultures to tell very classically western stories in the archetypical hero’s journey or mono-myth form. These stories follow specific patterns that start with a call to adventure, followed by an ordeal, a transformation, and an eventual return.
Harry Potter, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, The Lion King, and Disney Princess movies like Moana and Frozen all follow the same basic hero’s journey storyline. Like most mono-myth stories, they are set in a world that is similar to, but slightly askew from the real world. Sometimes this new world has magic or talking animals or objects that are cursed. Most of the time the audience simply goes along with the fantastical elements because they are part of this kind of story tradition. Do we really know how the Force works or if House Elves exist? No. And when the goal is entertainment, it doesn’t really matter.
That’s another key: entertainment. As much as we’d like to believe otherwise, children and adults go to these kinds of movies to be entertained, not educated. Disney knows this.
The unfortunate disconnect was that so many people with deep Oceania roots wanted something different, something that was an authentic reflection of indigenous island culture and storytelling. What we got instead was a western pop-culture mono-myth story set in Disneyland’s Polynesia. It’s like going to a luau and being served rice and teriyaki chicken instead of kalua pork and poi—really disappointing, I know.
I still took my kids to see Moana.
I thought the story was amazing, even though it’s not Polynesian in form or content. I liked that Moana’s gender wasn’t a limiting factor when it came to being a leader, solving problems, or persevering when it was easier to quit. I liked the ideas about the importance of self-sacrifice for a greater good, the love and influence of family that stretches beyond this mortal plane, and the conflict between following your heart and fulfilling what you think is your destiny.
Above all, I liked the way the ocean was animated. The colors, shadows, currents—all beautifully articulated. And while the voyaging canoes didn’t look very much like the great wa‘a I knew, my heart did leap to see them soar across the ocean. I loved the brief moments about wayfinding by stars, currents, water temperature, and marine life.
Moana did start conversations with my kids.
We talked about the elements in the architecture, traditions, clothing, etc., and which island’s cultures probably sparked the designs. We talked about the great trade routes, ocean currents, social and political factors, and migration patterns that settled Polynesia from Asia and the Americas and back again, and how new genetic evidence is proving that ancient people traveled farther and more frequently than we realized.
Well, than western scholars realized. In Pasifika we have our own stories, genealogies, and histories. More on this in another article.
But the most important things my kids and I discussed were the concept of stories. It’s very simple.
Our stories define us. Moana is not my story; it’s Disney’s. It doesn’t define my Hawaiian heritage any more than Frozen defined my Scandinavian ancestors. Nothing Disney does defines me or changes one iota of who I am.
Despite all the uproar over cultural appropriation, I think the average person knows Moana is set in Disneyland—not living, breathing Oceania. Cultural appropriation is not a western thing; it’s a human thing. I’ve experienced it all over the world. Every culture in contact with another borrows what appeals. Like Tamatoa the crab says in Moana, it’s glam, it’s shiny, so I’m going to stick it on my shell and make it a part of me.
The big take away is this: If we do not write our own stories, we cannot be surprised when outsiders attempt to write them. With no other voices in popular culture, these stories become the truth for the majority, and we soon find ourselves living in a world enamored with Bobby Brady’s tiki curse, hip-hop hula, and coconut bras.
If we want to change the popular cultural narrative about what it means to be Hawaiian, Samoan, Maori—we need to tell our own stories in our own voices. It means supporting our Pasifika artists, musicians, dancers, and writers with more than our applause and appreciation.
Otherwise only those with Disneyland resources will fill the void—and the narrative—with what appeals to the masses.
Shiny.
Poho, that.
So humbled and honored that One Truth, No Lie, book three in the Niuhi Shark Saga, is a 2016 Whitney Award Nominee. Mahalo nui loa to all the readers who nominated it.
When it comes to electing the President of The United States, your vote doesn’t matter.
Really.
Growing up in Hawaii, this point was hammered home every election year when the new president thanked his supporters hours before our polls closed.
Just think about that for a second. In Hawaii, you heard both the concession and victory speeches in your car on the way to the polls. It’s tough to get fired up about choosing a president when you know your candidate will win or lose regardless of your support.
Americans tend to think our federal government is a simple democracy; it’s not. It’s a constitutional republic with an electoral college. Not all votes have the same weight. Statistically, your single vote does nothing to elect a president. Maybe the reason American voter turnout is so low has less to do with apathy and more with a growing sense of futility.
But here’s how your vote does matter.
In a Presidential election, you fulfill your civic duty by voting. It’s a responsibility you accept as a US Citizen. When it comes to civic duty, for whom you vote isn’t nearly as important as the act itself.
For this reason, I believe voting in a presidential election is less about electing a president than it is a statement of character—our votes define what we value. Even the decision not to vote is an act that speaks to an individual’s character.
To vote (or not vote) is to act, and just like any other deed, we’re accountable for our actions. First, to ourselves, then to our families, our neighbors, and our country. In my faith tradition, I’m also accountable to God. Regardless of your personal beliefs, imagine a moment where you are asked to explain your vote others. Now imagine those future people are living with the consequences of your actions.
For me, that’s sobering.
In the 2016 US Presidential Election, I’m not advocating a particular party or candidate. That’s not the point of this article. I’m just trying to provide a little perspective.
If you set aside the idea that your vote actually elects the president and instead consider your vote as an conscious act of aligning yourself—your character—with the person you most believe is fit to lead our country, you’ll care more about issues and less about party lines. It becomes less about shouting down others—whose votes also matter just as little as yours—and more about defining what you stand for.
Can you imagine a country where every citizen ignored the fear mongers, spin doctors, salacious reports, and voter polls? What if people focused instead on truly understanding who they were choosing to align themselves with?
That was the intent of our nation’s founders, by the way. They believed in the power of the aggregate, that whatever a majority of good people believed to be best would really be the best.
Let’s validate the faith they had in us. Let’s think of the future. On Election Day, let’s make sure our votes matter.
The following is a true ghost story I wrote for Sick Pilgrim, a blog on Patheos.com. Happy October!
Alone in our girls’ dorm rooms in the 1980s, high school summer band camp at Kamehameha was nothing like a slasher-teen movie. Lights went out at 10:30 pm and stayed out until 6 am reveille. Worn out, and with the axe of immediate expulsion looming over our heads, in our practical cotton t-shirts and jogging shorts, we were more interested in sleep than high jinx.
I know that slays a lot of male sleep-away camp fantasies, but it’s the truth.
When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the light.
The moon was full or nearly so; it flooded my second story window and dripped down the walls. No wonder I couldn’t sleep.
As the upperclassman on duty, I’d gone to bed with my door cracked just enough to hear if a girl on my floor needed help in the middle of the night. The second night of camp was always the worst. The excitement of being away has worn off, and the real work of marching and music’s begun. It’s the night freshmen start counting the days and wonder if they can make it through the week.
Drenched in moonlight, I lay there for a moment, breathing in jasmine and hibiscus from the hedge outside. Hot and humid as only Hawaii can get, I kicked off the bed sheet, wishing for my ceiling fan at home. A glance at my watch told me it was 1:23 am.
I sighed.
I’m never going back to sleep.
But then I heard the unmistakable sounds of a door opening and the slap, slap, slap of rubber slippahs flip-flopping down the hall.
Wonderful. Sunburn, heat stroke, or homesick? My money was on a dehydration headache. Tylenol and Gatorade to the rescue.
I grabbed my glasses, rolled out of bed, and pulled my door wide.
Through windows set above each dorm room door, moonlight fell like water, cascading through the inky darkness to puddle on polished cement like God’s own spotlight. From the far end of the hall to my right, someone approached.
Slap, slap, slap.
The door on my left swung open; a senior rubbed her eyes and scowled. “Somebody sick?”
I shrugged. “Headed this way. Not fast. Probably not a puker.”
We glanced toward the communal bathroom door across the hall from us.
Slap, slap, slap.
The steps grew heavier, closer, and we could see a dark shadow breaking the beams of light as it traveled down the hallway.
Slap, slap, slap.
“Stupid freshmen. They never drink enough.” She craned around me. “Hey,” she hiss-whispered. “Are you sick or do you just have to pee?”
Slap, slap, slap.
It was only one doorway, one beam of light away.
All of the hair, fine and downy-soft, rose along my arms. My scalp prickled.
“Eh, who’s there?” I called.
Slap, slap, slap.
Right in front of us.
But no one was there.
Unwavering, the footsteps passed, stomping down the stairs to the main floor. We heard the crash bar on the main door collapse, the door swish open, and felt the night rush in, running like fingertips through our hair, caressing our bare legs as the building breathed. We didn’t hear the footsteps continue down the sidewalk, just the sound of the heavy metal door resettling in its frame. Once again, the building held its breath.
In the stillness, the taste of fresh coconut burned in the back of my throat.
She and I exchanged just one look, then turned back into our rooms. This time I shut my door tight and said a little prayer for those who walk the night.
Later, I heard stories from boarders who called that dorm home all school year long. It’s the ghost of a pregnant student who hung herself; it’s an ‘aumakua of a girl from Hilo, from Lihue, from Kahului; it’s a prank; it’s a dream; it’s the haunting of an ancient kahu priest bound to stones stolen from his heiau altar—everyone knows unscrupulous foreigners reused finished stones after the Hawaiian gods fell.
None of those stories feels right.
I once dared to ask our kahu, the resident campus chaplain. He smiled and fiddled with his rosary as he told me that over the years, many people had seen unusual things in that dorm. When called, he’d come to them in the middle of the night with prayers and ti leaves, saltwater and aloha. He believed whatever walks these halls is harmless, and like all souls deserves our kindness. E ho‘okikaha me ka maluhia, he said. Let it wander in peace.