Akela in the Park

Akela in the Park

by | Jun 15, 2023 | AAPI Books, Lauele Universe Stories, Middle Grade Books, Pacific Literature

   

Akela in the Park is a seven minute, one act play that I wrote for The Honolulu Theatre for Youth for their Children’s Literature Hawai’i showcase in 2021. It was recorded and webcast on June 4, 2021. It’s now available for free in ebook form.

Akela began as an idea that sprang from something my sister Soozy said about parents in Hawai’i telling kids that they were going camping when they lost their housing. (You have to understand that dark humor is how my family rolls.) Soozy said that she knew a few families in Hawai’i that were able to keep things semi-normal for the kids despite the very real struggles of living in makeshift shelters in beaches, parks, and open areas. It reminded me of the movie Life is Beautiful where a father keeps the horror of living in a concentration camp from his son by telling him they’re playing a game.

My original idea was pretty much dead on arrival. It treated the seriousness of houselessness too lightly and just wouldn’t land the way I wanted. I did  some research, talked with folks, and realized I was in waaaaay over my head.

In the beginning of 2021, I was teaching writing workshops through PEAU Lit over Zoom. We’d meet once a week to talk about creative writing, using your own voice, and how to self-edit. I’d give them a random set of three words to use in a story before each meeting, and we’d share what we came up with. I decided I would write little vignettes about people from my Lauele Universe and share the first draft vs. the “final” and talk about all the hows and whys of the edits.

One character that kept showing up in my vignettes was a kid named Jon. As Jon told me his story, I began weaving some of the ideas I had about houselessness into his experiences. Akela is a combination of  two vignettes. The first was called Sandwich, and the prompts were a sandwhich, a pencil, and broken glass. The second was called Coconut with a coconut, sunscreen, and a comb as prompts.

In 2021, I had the honor of being one of two featured authors at the Children’s Literature Hawai’i Conference, which led to The Honolulu Theatre for Youth reaching out to put together a video performace based on my work. I sent them a bunch of the Peau Lit vignettes and then met with some of their amazing cast and director while I just happened to be on ‘Oahu. Sandwich and  Coconut intrigued them the most, and we workshopped some ideas. The timeline was super short, but working with the actors inspired me, and I begged them to give me the night to send them a new play based on the vignettes. I went back to our rental in Hau’ula and banged out Akela in the Park in three or so hours.

I had to figure out a way to get the characters’ thoughts out to an audience who were watching instead of reading–easy to to in print, much harder in a play or video. Pops suddenly appeared to solve that challenge. As I worked through the play, I also realized that Jon wasn’t the houseless kid–that was a girl named Akela. Akela’s tough, self-reliant, and proud.

Most of all, Akela wants to be seen.

The roots of homelessness / houselessness in Hawai’i are very complex. It’s unlike any other place I’ve experienced. In Hawai’i, two parents can work full time and still not make enough to cover rent for their family. It’s a far deeper problem than can be explored in any play–or series of novels, I think.

But the conversation has to start with someone willing to see, to engage, to share. We need more people like Jon who reach out in genuine friendship.

Akela in the Park is currently free to download. 

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#RealRep : Keeping the Focus on Authentic Representation

#RealRep : Keeping the Focus on Authentic Representation

by | Nov 12, 2021 | AAPI Books, Am Writing, Mana'o (Thoughts), The Business of Writing

It was maybe eight years ago that I noticed a lot more awareness, more buzz, about the startling lack of diversity in middle grade and young adult literature. In the USA, it started with recognizing we were a multicultural nation that woefully underrepresented the crazy quilt reality of our society. The lack of diverse representation was being talked about in ways and in circles that I hadn’t heard before.

It was the very existence of the conversations that was new, not the concepts. Growing up, I was surrounded by misrepresentation, appropriation, and outright fabrication of my Native Hawaiian—kanaka maoli—culture in media. All islanders were hula dancers, bartenders, or crooks, with the occasional beach bum thrown in. Books, television, and films never reflected my reality of doctors, lawyers, businesspeople, teachers, musicians, comedians, philanthropists, homemakers, and yeah, houseless people struggling in makeshift camps.

With awareness and conversation came movements like #weneeddiversebooks and #ownvoices. Traditional publishers created new imprints and solicited manuscripts from writers of all backgrounds, experiences, and frames of reference. There was a lot of hope.

Then reality set in and things started to get weird.

One of the biggest challenges is that with new perspectives, the stake holders and kingmakers—the acquisition editors and marketing teams—generally do not have the background to accurately assess whether or not a manuscript authentically represents what it purports to. In today’s cancel culture, few are willing to risk being wrong.

Authors are also eyeing the swing of public opinion’s guillotine. Over the last few years, I’ve talked with many established authors who want to write stories about characters who aren’t like themselves—ethnically, neurotypically, sexually orientated, physically abled, faith-believing or disbelieving, from different socioeconomic communities—the whole spectrum of humanity. These authors’ genres and target audiences range widely, from picture books to adult high fantasy, romance, and horror. These are exactly the kinds of stories that will reach under severed readers and bring more threads to our literary tapestry. But they’re scared. They’re convinced writing outside of their perceived and approved wheelhouse is career suicide.

And these stories aren’t being written.

Some authors have pivoted to writing about animals instead of children. Some write fantasy, where it’s easier to blend cultures into something familiar, but new. Others have doubled down and do not describe the physical characteristics of their characters at all. I was part of a panel of authors at an event where a White college student called out a well-known (and really wonderful) White male author of middle grade books. She publicly chastised him for only writing White characters in his series. He gently asked her where that was in the text—and of course, it wasn’t. He had been very careful to only use generic physical descriptions like tall, athletic, old, young, or wearing a blue shirt. The college student had brought her own biases with her.

We all do.

The pendulum’s backlash is twice as harsh as its front swing.

I believe it’s important to recognize that not all stories are ours to tell. But rather than #ownvoices, I think we should be focusing on authentic representation, what I’ve coined as #RealRep (because ain’t nobody got time to spell #AuthenticRepresentation).

#RealRep allows authors the freedom to write all kinds of stories. Writers can easily imagine how it feels to be different or alone or special or even ordinary. Most stories have underlying themes like love, family, courage, perseverance, or adventure and are told through emotions and experiences that are universal to the human condition. Where we are vary is in the specifics, constraints, opportunities, and pressures.

My advice to authors who want to tell stories about people, places, and experiences out of their own wheelhouse is to pause for a second to consider what’s sparking the story. What draws to you this story; why do you want to tell it; what are you hoping your audience will take away from it; how will you do your best to avoid harmful stereotypes, characterizations, and tokenisms; and how would you feel if you were portrayed this way?

If you’re comfortable with your answers, then research, research, research. Google, YouTube, and the library are your friends. Most importantly, connect with this community. Find people who have first-hand knowledge and experience with the cultures, issues, locations, and worldviews you want to explore. Get the nuances and details right before publication, but don’t let fear of getting them wrong stop you from starting. Refinement often comes after the first drafts when you engage beta and sensitivity readers. And it is readers. There is no “authority” that blesses any one point of view or lived experience. You’ll need a variety of responses to see the middle.

Remember, the goal is authenticity, not wide-eyed Pollyanna optimism. It’s okay if some readers are uncomfortable. Just make sure the discomfort is calculated and coming from the things you intend.

To publishers, remember that none of us are fully aware of our biases. We always think we know more than we do. Recognize you don’t always have the staff or experience to identify authenticity in manuscripts, particularly ones that defy expectations. If the story is compelling, engage your own experts to assess if it rings true–and it will take experts because no human experience is a monolith.

If we want to create a more inclusive world, we must teach compassion to children. One of the best ways to do this is to provide them books that allow them to walk in others’ shoes. To teachers and librarians, you are the frontline. Use your budgets to curate collections that serve your entire community.

To those in the corps calling for diversity in literature, keep beating those drums and encouraging people to write their own stories in their own voices.

Writing is an art, but publishing is a business, and like all businesses, it’s profit driven.  Buy books you like and want to see more of and leave positive reviews. Create grassroots buzz. It’s that simple.

Authentic representation. #RealRep. Spread the word.