Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

Ten years in Hawaii-- that's it. That's only a decade. I've got a 5th grader's worth of life experience in Hawaii. I learned some things. I learned my favorite foods and favorite places. I learned the language. I made friends-- people grown there and flown there-- but always the seeking souls. The people curious about the world and open to conversations that dive and meander and plan and mourn. I threw a lot of parties. I lived most of a marriage there. It ended there, too, when he died. Hell of a way to end a marriage... But that's off topic. I'm thinking about carrying that forward, here, and now. In Utah. On the mainland. On the stolen lands of the Ute, the Shoshone. One reason I learned Hawaiian, and learned the stories and songs and chants and place names, was because I believe that is your responsibility when you live someplace, to understand the culture and history. It wasn't mine, by blood, but I did not want to contribute to its erasure wit...

Just got back from a four day jaunt to Oahu. We stayed in Waikiki, went to museums and ate out-- it was a fun mini vacation from our rural island. I liked pushing through the crowds of people, admiring the daring high-fashion haircuts, and eating authentic Japanese food.  But I was bothered by something unexpected.  I heard English in all accents, and a UN roster of other languages: Tagalog, Chinese, Korean, Russian, and French. I heard more Japanese than I have since living in Japan. But I didn't hear a single word of Hawaiian. No mahalo or aloha or e komo mai-- not even the token, tourist-board approved warm fuzzy version of Hawaiian that gets used as a tool to bring a non-threatening layer of native authenticity to maitais and cheap plumeria leis. Once I noticed it, the lack bothered me more and more. All the little chances people missed to use the few words of olelo that have crept in to common usage jumped out at me. At the bishop museum, we heard recorded Hawaiian voices...