I made a practice of watching the few other Caucasians at Honokaa High School. I felt embarrassed to see their struggles to fit in. Perhaps I was actually looking at a mirror of my own. Without exception, all of them raised their hands too eagerly to give answers in class. When someone offered them food, they said, "Yes, please" right away. They didn't respond with local politeness by saying, "No thank you" at first and then finally giving in after much encouragement by the host. They didn't seem to realize that they were making large social errors. They spoke and laughed too loudly. They acted as if they were knowledgeable and had information to share. All of these excesses were quietly frowned upon by my Japanese, Okinawan, and Philippino friends.
Hawaii is a land of diversity. In one afternoon a person can visit a tropical rainforest, a snow-capped mountain peak, and a desert boasting cactus and recent lava flows. In that same period of time one can meet people who have ancestors from Polynesia, Japan, Scotland, China, The Philippines, and other far-off places. This diversity brings rich variety to food, music, and every-day life. However, Hawaii is not the melting pot it's made out to be. As a Caucasian I was invisible when I wanted to be visible. I was glaringly visible when I wanted to be invisible. I needed to prove myself before anyone would like me.
I remember the first dance I went to in high school. It was the main event during the slumber party my girlfriends and I were attending. We were staying at Joy's and Gay's house, just up the hill from the school. We all sat in a circle on the living room floor to get ready. Make-up, barrettes, eyelash curlers, and fingernail polish were spread out between us. We took turns applying eye shadow to each other's eyes and adding barrettes to each other's hair. One of my friends spent 20 minutes straightening my wavy hair with a brush and a blow drier.
Finally we were dressed and ready for the dance. I looked around at my girlfriends, beautiful every one. They all had shiny black hair and golden skin, but inside, at that wistful and idealistic age, I felt we were much the same. We all played tennis. We were in the band and 4-H. We loved The Commodores, The Bay City Rollers, and Robbie Benson.
These similarities were no help to me at the dance. Many boys came over to our group. They couldn't see how much the same we were. They only saw my girlfriends' shiny black hair and golden skin. In fact, none of them even looked at me at all. Needless to say, I stood there the entire night. I remember the warmth and sympathy in my friends' eyes, but at that time and place it was not okay for girls to dance with girls. There was not much they could do.
In Hawaii, the discrimination I felt was rarely overt. I had lots of friends and was involved in many activities. By the time I was a junior, more and more people had decided I was okay, despite my fair skin. That year I decided to join the Junior Young Buddhists Association because quite a few friends were members. Perhaps doing more of the same activities as my friends would make me more similar to them. We attended services at the Hongwanji, danced traditional Japanese dances around taiko drummers during the O'Bon Festival every August, and went to JYBA dances in other Big Island towns. The culminating event that year was a trip to Kauai.
By the time we left on our trip, some of my hopes of becoming similar by doing the same activities as my friends had begun to wear off. When we arrived on the island, we marveled at the stretches of beach dyed pink by the volcanic red dirt that washed off the hillsides. In the morning we packed our bento lunches in coolers. Each one was a delectable treasure of steamed white rice with tiny portions of chicken katsu or teriyaki beef, yellow daikon radish, and hot pink fish cake called kamaboku. A pair of break-apart wooden chopsticks went with every lunch. We boarded the bus and headed out to see all of the Hongwanjis on the island.
At each temple, we gazed at the golden altar of Buddha surrounded by a tapestry in sculpture of leaves, flowers, temples, and people. Then we each took a turn to light a stick of incense, bow to Buddha, and place our incense into an urn filled with ashes of the prayers that came before us. Reverently, we walked out and got back on the bus.
My friends didn't point me out as being different during the Hongwanji visits. Of course, they didn't need to because my differences were evident despite the fact that we all loved The Bay City Rollers. During every bow to Buddha I remember wondering what I should be thinking about. I saw and appreciated the same beauty that my friends were seeing, but I really didn't know the context behind it. I was an outsider even when my "not being like other haoles" allowed me to fit in.
My friend Jeff waited until lunch to tease me about my differences. On this day, I happened to get a teriyaki beef bento. The beef was cut paper-thin and was riddled with fat. At that age I was moderately proficient at squeezing chopsticks together to pick up all sorts of morsels. Unfortunately, eating meat requires a very different approach. With one hand, a polite person gracefully touches the meat with chopsticks together and then pries them away from each other to break the meat apart. Never once should fingers come into contact with the meat. As I tried this, the tender part of the meat broke apart nicely, but the fat wouldn't let go. If no one had been looking I would have used my fingers; I wasn't so lucky. I looked up and there was Jeff laughing until tears ran down his cheeks. My struggle with chopsticks wasn’t as private as I wished it to be. Logically, I knew that he wasn't being malicious. Rather, he was enjoying my differences. So, I laughed and tried to keep the twinkle in my eyes. Inside, however, I knew it was just another example of how different our backgrounds were.
My laughter, twinkling eyes, and hyper-sensitivity to social rules allowed me to fit in. I made a science out of watching the haoles for their "mistakes" and watching my Japanese, Okinawan, and Philippino friends for the "correct" way to act. I became quite good at ignoring what I might want in favor of what everyone else seemed to want. When a group of us was deciding what to do, I chose to keep quiet or say, "I don't know." But underneath that facade lurked the knowledge that I really did know what I wanted. It was simple: I wanted to be accepted as a part of my culture, not in spite of it.
I’ve spent most of my adult life perched on the western edge of the Continental U.S. I am not ready to move back to Hawaii because I have grown too accustomed to fitting in on the mainland without having to prove myself. However, I still have days when I yearn for my life in the subtropics. I miss hearing slack-key guitar music and smelling keawe trees in the sunshine. I miss boogie boarding and snorkeling at Hapuna Beach. I miss wearing plumeria leis and muu-muus. Perhaps most of all, I miss the people: my friends, family, and the rich variety of cultures I was exposed to every day. I carry these images lovingly in my heart. Perhaps I also carry something much deeper: a compassion and empathy for all people. I understand what it’s like to be different.
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