Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

It was our 6th anniversary last night and we indulged ourselves. For the first time in Rosie's 25 months of life, we left her with a babysitter and went out to dinner. It was sort of, totally, SPECTACULAR. Roy's Prix Fix tasting and Hawaiian menus. I can't really describe it, so here's my tone-poem, free-association, modern dance interpretation of the evening's partakings: snappy limu seeweed gelatinous sprigs, caramel sauce on meaty ravioli, crispy wontons with ponzu, flaky fish , sesame oil and chili edamame, filet mignon melting onto wasabi mashed potatoes, crisp fried lotus root salad, misoyaki butterfish, asperagus and mac nut crusted white fish, chocolate lava souffle and four delicate little scoops of tropical sorbets with tiny fruit cubes on top, all sworled with elegant dabs of flavorful reductions and sauces on wide plates, low lighting and the sharp awareness of a rare event combined to make a singularly ROMANTIC evening. Roymantic? Har har. I found myse...

Today we went to the beach with the playground to wear Rosie out a little bit (sun, slides, sand and surf, dude. It'll wipe anybody out.) We've only lived here since October-- that's, what, 7 months? We ran into four separate families that we know. And as the months go by, the island is only going to get smaller. Living here is my first experience with having to make a community work. Knowing that we're going to be here for a long time, with these same people, in these same situations, over and over-- makes me approach problems slightly differently than I've needed to before. My first example: the librarian is an SOB. He's notorious. Every parent on the island knows of him, and stays away from his library because he is so rude and HATES children. Every time we go to the library (every Friday, 11:30) he tells Rosie to "be quiet or get out!" This is especially annoying when she's saying things like, "Rosie! Loves! Libwawy!" I'm sorry, i...

This letter was published in The Garden Island Newspaper on April 8, 2009: Color blindness is wonderful When someone asks, “Are you haole?” I respond, “Why what I did?” When someone says, “What comes after two?” I respond, “Tree.” I now say “da” instead of “the” and always great people with a friendly “howzit.” I legally changed my name from James to “Kimo.” President Obama says there is not a White American or an Asian American or a Black America, there is only the United States of America. Color blindness sure is a wonderful thing, or should I say “ting?” James “Kimo” Rosen, Kapa’a Any guesses-- is this tongue in cheek? Is this a joke? It couldn't be-- could it-- for REAL? If it is... how is saying "ting" and "da" colorblindness? And what's the opposite of color blindness anyway-- colorseeingness? And since when is blindness of any sort a virtue? How about color-seeing-but-it-doesn't-adversely-effect-my-behavior-or-thoughts-ness?

Sunday morning, the choir stood in front of the congregation. The organ started up a four part hymn, and we sang along in four part harmony, reading out of our programs: Softly Blew the Breezes By Paul Carus and R.B. Bode Softly blew the breezes On that glorious morn In Lumbini's Garden Where the Lord was born. From the earth sprang flowers Birds in warbles sang While through earth and heaven Strains of music rang. Gods and men and angels All for worship came Glory to Lord Buddha Glory to his name. Organs and hymn harmony, folded chairs, and meandering talks by aged ministers are not the sole providence of protestant Christianity. At least in Hawaii, the sects of Buddhism that were imported with the Japanese plantation workers have morphed into something with plenty in common with the Baptist or Episcopalean churches down the road. George Tanabe gives a wonderful description of this Hawaiian Buddhism in his article, " Shaka Buddha ." Sunday was Hanamatsuri, Buddha's b...

We went to the Punana Leo Preschool fundraiser today-- I had seen the signs for it flapping around town. They are handpainted in bright primary colors, on squares of white fabric, inviting one and all for a full day of music and talk story. I've been thinking that the Hawaiian immersion preschool would be a good choice for my kid next year, and so I wanted to come and get a feel for the school community. We got there and realized we drove the wrong vehicle. The parking lot of the war memorial hall was full of trucks-- and foolish us, we came in our dusty little sedan. But no matter. In we go, retrieve our kalua pig and cabbage bowls, and peer around at the crowd. It made me nostalgic for our life on the Big Island-- big uncles and grandpas cuddling sleeping babies and swatting at hyper toddlers, skinny portuguese grandmas with gold necklaces and their sensuous micronesian granddaughters in bright haltertops. The lights flicked on and off and we moved into a beautiful theater. The l...

I recently took a pottery class-- once a week for five weeks I got to spend an hour or so thwacking cold wet clay down onto a plaster slab, kneading it into a cyclone, and thumping it down onto a wheel. Elbow cocked to hip, setting it spinning, and then praying, bracing, holding the slick hard lumpy mound. It spins and throbs and pushes against my hands, but I have to hold still-- bracing against the hard mass of clay-- without shoving or jerking-- just holding. Try to find true north, try to float above the pull of gravity-- that's holding still against this thing. One hand pulls up slowly, one hand pushes down and out and after a few lip-biting climbs and descents-- suddenly the thing is centered. Then I put one finger on the still piko of the mound-- and push down into that navel. The lump opens suddenly into a pot. And then draw the walls up, flare them out, pull them in. It becomes recognizable as a Thing. Every time is like a miracle. Even if they are all tiny and off-kilter!...

We got to the Kauai Veteran's Hall at 11:00, and peeked in at the crowded dining hall. The round tables, decorated with giant pomelos and mini snickers bars, were already mostly filled up. The band was doing sound checks on a low stage, and a group of ladies were taking registration fees and doing the sign-in by the door. We hovered and hesitated outside the door. Matt looked for a familiar face, and hemmed and hawed-- should we go in? Should we pay $20 a piece for a buffet lunch? Or should we join the society? I handed him the checkbook and took Rosie to run around outside, and left Matt to decide whether he wanted to go to this Hawaii United Okinawa Association annual New Years Meeting. He's a quarter Okinawan, Rosie's an eighth. I'm none Okinawan. I figured I'd leave it up to him to define his ethnicity as he pleases. When an acquaintance of Matt's from work drove up, we were finally swept in. I had to laugh-- in a room with 200 people in it, all were Okinawa...

So local people who make an effort to enunciate carefully and speak "standard English" are accused by of being "haolefied." In other words, acting like a haole. In other words, acting stuck up. Their poetic pidgin-speaking friends roll their eyes and resent or pity them. And being a mainland haole I naturally have a standard dull TV announcer accent. The way that I talk, without thinking, all the time, even when I'm mad or half-asleep, or jabbering to an infant, sounds like I'm putting on airs. It's a quandary. I sound pompous if I just talk like myself. But I don't want to be condescending or ridiculous with an affected pidgin accent. Last week after playgroup I walked with one of the other moms over to the library. Our cute kids gamboled around each other, darted into the street in front of speeding rental convertibles, got hissed at by the irate vampire librarian. We chatted about local elementary schools, about potty training, about baby talk-- ...

Can you see it? How about now? Under the Samoan coconut tree? Lookathat! Like Easter or something! I found 4 wild chicken eggs under the tree-- I'm thrilled! I haven't quite eaten them yet. I'm trying to think of something suitable. I'm hoping there won't be any little bones or feathers inside, but if there are, that will be a new culinary experience. Thanks for the bounty, nature! Who needs grocery stores? Now I just need some gallons of milk to come tumbling from the clouds. This is one of those rare posts that is relevant to each of my scattered blogs, so if you are disappointed to see the same one thrice, sorry!

Plantation Boy by Milton Murayama My review rating: 5 of 5 stars Tosh, the number one son of the Oyama family, is the hard-head, short tempered plantation boy-- who terrorized Kiyo in the first book and butts heads with his mother Sawa in the second of this series. Here we get into Tosh's head-- and to my surprise, his storytelling was the most compelling. Murayama creates complete voices-- full psyches and internal worlds-- so subtly that you don't notice how cleverly he's done it. The narrators are so natural that the novels seem like simple autobiographies. I realized with a jolt half-way through that the whole book is in the present tense. That gives the storytelling an immediacy and compelling urgency, even when the content is as detached as laundry lists: who is getting married, who has died. Tosh is all reports-- all political headlines, boxing scores, transcribed letters and major life events like a bulleted list. He gives no thought to the interior lives of t...

I love-- and loathe a tiny bit-- the Local tradition of hugging and kissing. You hug and kiss people when you're introduced to them, people you see everyday, when you say hello and when you say goodbye... On one hand, it's comforting. At a wedding, I ran into Aunty Ulu who I had met once briefly at church. She wrapped me in her arms and kissed me soundly on the cheek. I felt so comforted-- suddenly grounded in the strange setting of a fancified wedding with 100s of people I don't know, clinking their champagne glasses and balancing on high heels. And I loved the time consuming tradition of kissing everybody at church before the service started-- it would be unspeakably rude to just walk past all the kupunas and go to your pew. You have to stop and stoop to brush every dry soft cheek with your lips. Kissing down the line of tutus in their bright flowered muumuus made me feel warm and included-- part of the congregation, part of the family. Kissing can also make me fee...

This economic downturn thing has been reminding me of a loose t-rex. At first you only hear rumors that it's out there, and then a few newspaper articles confirm the rumors, and then friends of friends have actually seen it, and then an acquaintance, and then it finally reaches the inner circle-- your own friends and family start coming home with puffy T-rex bites. A high school aqcuaintance had his house foreclosed on, friends are getting downsized, and now immediate family members are trying to change jobs, or suddenly experiencing long stretches of unwelcome leisure. The landscape reconfigures itself-- it's now a place inhabited by monsters. You can feel the distant footsteps, see the water shaking in the glass. In the last week, I've talked to four people who are being downsized. Two families who moved here this year for construction projects are having the projects shut down under them. One man had his hours on a road crew reduced by 30 percent. Another family was tol...

Skyla announced at playgroup on Friday that her son, Kalani, would be riding in the high school rodeo this weekend, and that everyone should come down and watch. I like rodeos-- I like the girls dressed up in their ribbed plaid shirts and pink alligator boots, and the boys in their silver-spangled hats and shiny belt-buckles. I like the little brothers and sisters roping each other behind the stands, and the parents screaming and cheering, and the terrible food stalls. I don't know anything about rodeos-- I know enough to correct myself from "Baby cow" to "calf" but don't ask me what event is on or who is up or what a good running time is. The rodeo is a cultural experience for me-- like being a tourist in Athens. I can appreciate the aesthetics and excitment of the moment without really understanding what's going on. When I asked Skyla where the arena is, she said, "at the end of the road. Just go to the end of the road, and it's right there....

We've been on Kauai for almost 3 months now. The first three months someplace are usually the hardest-- no friends, no routines-- unfamiliar roads and disorienting landscape, not to mention a mountain of unpacked boxes. But not this time. This time, I think I'm in love. Everywhere I go-- out to the dry and stunning Waimea Canyon or to rainy and dreamlike Hanalei Valley-- I'm awed. Even riding my bike every day on our little muddy road and through the pastures I sigh and giggle. It's just all so beautiful! And the food! There is good food in every nook and cranny, in every little lean-to town--the ramshackle little place serving steaming bowls of rich brothy Pho with spicy basil and cool lemon grass on mismatched tables and wobbly chairs, or the cafe with the ugly ripped booths and flourescent lights serving buttery apple turnovers crusted with sugar. And my favorite, genki sushi-- where the sushi comes around on a conveyer belt and you can pluck it off like gleaming li...

Today Rosie and I went to our favorite beach. I buckled her in, drove less than a mile from our house through wide open pastures in the shadow of green cliffs, through a tunnel of Rainbow Shower Trees (their real name), and voila, we're at the beach: blue skies, shading palm trees, golden sand and pounding surf on a hot December afternoon. There was a huge storm last night-- the rain whipped our metal roof and the lightening lit the room. Our dirt road washed away by morning, and some new rocks are poking up through, jostling the car as I drive over them. And the ocean was still frenzied-- 10 and 15 foot waves breaking right on top of each other, pushing up over the lava rocks, and hiss-foaming long up the beach. Even the little protected baby lagoon water was wobbling with the heavy waves pounding over the break-- round little waveletts rolling quickly up the sand. We played on the playground. There were triplet boys, about 7, in matching khaki hats and long-sleeved rash guards (...

1. The beach is free. 2. The Queen Emalani Hula festival in Kokee Park (also free) was free. It's also bizarre-- a woman portraying the queen rides in on her horse with her ladies in waiting, sits in a royal tent, and then many hula halaus perform for her, to proxy performing for Queen Emalani. If you came to see some hula, too bad for you. The event seems like a ritual for the dancers-- it's certainly not a performance for the public. It was quite moving to see her ride in and all the halaus run out across the field to meet her. 3. Farmers markets where you can get a small mountain of sweet potato greens, or a bag of big juicy okra, or fresh yellow peppers, or a heap of apple bananas-- for a dollar 4. High energy costs means that we've never used our dryer and instead always can hang out laundry up to get nice and stiff and crispy in the sun. 5. Neighbors are generous: we gave our neighbors a bag of oranges, they came over later with a bag of baby snacks. 6. Wild c...

Kauai is the oldest of the inhabited Hawaiian islands-- she is rutted and raked down the middle-- deeply pitted and eroded with soft jungled mountains and dizzying cliffs. And here we find ourselves, strangers in a strange land, yet again! It is a little bit vertiginous to be on an island and know absolutely nobody. We got off the plane in Lihue, picked up our rental car, and drove to Kalaheo to an odd little rabbit-warren of a hotel/shelter/historic plantation mansion/apartment building. We stayed in a tiny room with just a bed, a shower, a sink, a mini fridge and a hot plate for two weeks and got to know our fellow inmates. I mean guests. In the mornings two big boys-- 9 and 11-- came galloping like bison down the stairs over our heads, with their edgy alert dog Penny in tow. They loved showing us around the grounds-- "This is where James kills the roosters! This is where I caught a lizard and accidentally pulled off his tail! This is sleeper grass!" You can poke your finge...

If I ever have the chance, I want to have a community education class for recent transplants to the island, whether they're from Oahu or Oakland or Oklahoma. It would introduce them to basics about the island, culture, daily life, and history-- and hopefully make them better able to integrate themselves into the community with as little friction as possible. I'd get long-time locals and successfully-integrated malihini to come and teach each session, and have lots of discussion. And food. Plenny food. How about this for some topics: History of the island: pre-contact, Hawaiian Kingdom, plantation, annexation, ww2, statehood, Hawaiian Renaissance and the present Local ghost stories (Obake stories!) State of the island: an overview of local politics-- introducing politicians and major issues and summarizing all (hah) points of view. Language: Intro to pidgin (what it's okay for Malihini to say, like pau, piko, howzit, and what it's not okay: cuz! Brah! Imua!!! When in dou...

Number one: Riding my bike down one of the back roads in Hawaiian homes one afternoon, I smell an overwhelming stink. I keep riding and it gets worse and worse. Then I notice a skull-- then another skull-- then a ribcage scaffolding out of the dirt-- and I realize that all up and down the roadside are goat carcasses. Some of them have been pulled out of black trash bags, some are just pearly white bones. The jaws have pulled open, and the mouths gape in impossible yawns. And it really, really reeks. Number two: I stopped to fill up my gas in Hilo (for some reason 20 cents cheaper over there). I unscrewed the cap on the gas tank, and went to put the nozzle in when I noticed hundreds of tiny yellow spiders pouring out of the tank, all over the side of the car. They were so small and slow it was almost like watching dust move in your eye-- but, blink, blink-- they don't disappear. Creepy times in paradise!

North of Kona, lava rock stretches like a crumpled black cloth for 60 miles. It's so open and endless it's dizzying-- like the long empty drive through Nevada or the Salt Flats. Acacia trees, thorny kiawe scrub, and patches of yellow grass grow crackling and dry on the older lava flows. Interrupting the black savannah, down by the beach, the resorts gleam in smooth green golf-grass oases. Are they good or bad? On the good side, sure, lots of locals work there-- I have friends who go down there, watering and trimming the lawns, distributing the towels, printing the paychecks, vacuuming, patrolling the grounds, clearing the buffet plates, watching the pool. Tourists come to the island to stay at these places and be spoiled and entertained and tanned and soothed-- and along the way they rent cars, eat dinner, buy souvenirs from other places where other local people work. So the tourist economy is doing a little trickling: tourists come, spend money, your boss makes money, so you g...

Well, we're leaving the Big Island for a job on Kaua'i in less than a month. It's very exciting and very sad. But the good part is we have one month to go do all of our favorite BI stuffs one "last" time. So here's my list for my Best of Waimea: Hiking up behind the Mormon church, past the reservoirs, through Parker Ranch, over the Puus and up all the way to the top of misty lush Waipio Valley. The Farmer's market on Saturdays (the Haole fishbowl as Uncle Rudy called it) with herb stands and crepes and popsicles and fresh strawberries and mushrooms and beautiful spinach and lettuce... The Aloha festival parade with the chanters followed immediately and completely drowned out by the loudest marching band ever. The Christmas mac truck big rig parade the rodeos-- cowboys and cowgirls in aloha-print western shirts and dense haku-leis on their cowboy hats, and singing Hawaii Ponoi with the national anthem and that "stand up next to me" song. Island ...

Yesterday I was up for an adventure-- something new. I flipped through my handy-dandy Lonely Planet Big Island Guide book for inspiration and found an enticing-sounding entry about A-bay at the Waikoloa resort. Showers, white sands, mellow surf, the opportunity to trespass at the fancy hotels? Sounds good. So I packed baby in the car (she chanted, "Beach! Beach!" the whole way) and made for the coast. We get to Waikoloa and I'm driving along-- past the King's shops and the Queen's shops, past golf courses and over-watered manicured golf lawns. I try squinting at the microscopic map in the Lonely Planet book but it's no help pointing me which windy road to follow to get to A-bay. Finally I'm nearly at the Hilton (think indoor canals, trains, massive marble statuary) and I see a tiny sign "Public Shoreline Access Parking." The law in Hawaii guarantees that all beaches are public access. So private landowners have to provide some kind of access corr...

I spent two weeks on the mainland and came to a startling conclusion. I didn't understand a word anybody said. Even if understood the individual words I couldn't parse the sense behind the words. Everything seemed baffling. Drivers were insane. Food was strange. Small talk was indecipherable. The dress code was all pitfalls for me. Maybe, just maybe... It's not just Hawaii. Maybe I'm a malihini everywhere I go!

Last night Sister Terukina and Sister Drummondo came "hallooing" at the door. They are two very tidy gray and efficient Hawaiian ladies, the last two surviving of their ten siblings. Sister Drummondo handed me a print-out and tapped it: "This month's topic is We are Created in the Image of God, and Certainly Not in the Image of Monkeys!" "Oh, I donno." I said, folding the hand-out, "I'm pretty monkey-like myself." They laughed politely. An idea struck sister Drummondo: "Do you know about Tutu and Me? At the Imiola Church? The preschool? Oh, you would LOVE it!" She patted my arm conspiratorially. "It's all haole ladies!" I must have reacted in some unexpected way. She explained. "Well, you know, everybody else is too busy working!"

On my bike ride this morning through the misty windy backroads I got to thinking about nightmarchers. They are warrior-spirits-- hungry ghosts who carry their ghost-lights through Waipio valley, along the Puna coastline, on the plains below Mauna Kea (where I was riding my bike-- safely in the daytime.) I know people who have seen them. Which is dangerous. I don't want to meet them. Because they eat you. I've heard that if you lie on your face as they pass, you'll be safe. But the best protection is to have one of them speak for you--usually an ancestor. So isn't that reassuring? You're safe, as long as you're blood-related to the vampiric night warriors. Actually, there's on exception. If one of them knows you, or for whatever reason speaks on your behalf, you'll be safe. Then I guess you're introduced all around, given a night-beer, and sent on your way. Today on my bike ride this idea was stressing me out. Not because I'm really worried that I...

This morning I put baby in the envirobuggy pod (Thanks Karen!) on the bike of the bike and set out on an adventure. We biked through Hawaiian Homelands, raced some hunting dogs, stopped and fed grass to some sheep (they bleated and baby signed, "SHEEP SCARY!!!" and hid). We peeked into the W.O.W Organic tomato farm's green houses (they send all their lovely red orbs to Costco, and we can't get any at the store in town) and saw the tall plants climbing up their supports and the little wee ones just coming into little bushes. It was windy. The Trade winds from Hilo to the west bring cold rain and fog and whipping winds, and the Kona winds from the East bring hot dry air and scorched dust. It's been hot enough to send all my vegetables into bloom-- even the fennel and parsley have bolted. So the cool weather is a relief. I pedaled standing up to the top of the hill, but on the downhill side we just stood still, held up by the wind-- I had to stand up to push down to ...

Saturday morning of the "Pioneers of the Pacific" Campout we woke up early-- before the sun was up over the mountain. The ocean, just two sturdy paces from our tent, was so still it was completely silent.Matt went out to the end of the levy and I sat on a little pier with my sketchbook listening for baby's waking up noises and look for sharks in the water. All around from the 3 bedroom tent-suites, the semi-automatic folding inflatable couches, the climate controlled, card-table-included-two story tent-suites the aunties and uncles emerged and set out their breakfasts: hibachi grills came out, rice was boiled: sausage, pancakes, eggs, and all laid out to share in the main pavilion. I surrendered my chocolate chip rice crispy treats. I watched the kids play like wild water-things on the rocks, flirting with jumping off the pier, bragging and daring each other. "You gonna jump off the pylons?" "If I ask my grandma." "I can do a front flip." ...

The announcement said, Church Overnighter at Halau Kukui. Bring Food for breakfast and lunch. The theme was Pioneers of the Pacific-- a churchification of the unbelievably long-distance and delicate settling of Polynesia. Friday I spent the afternoon cleaning the kitchen and then making a huge mess: I made potato bread and salmon croquette sandwiches with chard, and scrambled tofu and boiled eggs and chocolate chip rice crispy squares-- I used every bowl and cutting board and knife in the kitchen. Why couldn't I just pack PB and J? Who knows. Baby and I jumped in the shower and realized to my horror that I haven't shaved my armpits for-- I donno-- maybe 12 years. And even though I go to the beach all the time and fasten my ponytail and hang my towel with nary a thought of my festooned pits -- suddenly-- at the thought of going to the beach with people I KNOW-- I was ashamed. And so with five minutes to spare, I found a mostly rust-free razor and a very rusty can of shaving crea...

Check out these two great communities: Hawaii Threads For conversation about all things Hawaiian and Hawaii-- from living away to moving here, eating, reminiscing about the good ole days... good stuff. Also: Our Kuleana Calls Hawaii Activism at its nicest: make commitments on an individual level that will help keep Hawaii clean and beautiful and friendly.

So what is there to do in Kohala, the little nubby tip of the Big Island? First, drive up the mountain road listening to the Lilo and Stitch Soundtrack-- Kamehameha Children's chorus and Elvis, baby. Admire the burly cattle in the green pastures, the moth-eaten cactuses, the spindly iron-wood trees, and the odd over-wrought houses with stone lions in the driveways next to the ramshackle lean-tos. Drive down the hill to Hawi, past all the old plantation houses. They could be anywhere-- Waikapu, Maui, or Lihue, Kauai-- tight orderly little gardens of Ti leaves and potted orchids, Japanese-influence high sloping roof, latticed crawlspaces. I can imagine the interiors by conjuring up my husband's grandma's house: the memorial Japanese dolls, the hand-quilted pillows and light quilts, the ironing board draped in ti leaves to weave into leis or wrap around rice balls for a beach picnic. Drive further into Hawi: pass scruffy dusty hippy hang-outs: canvas houses and outdoor kitchen...

On Saturday we braved the $4.75 a gallon gas and drove to Hilo for the day. First stop, the farmers market. For ten dollars I got three bags of sweet smelling and sap-sticky tropical fruit and vegetables: papayas, 5 for a dollar, sweet potatoes, apples bananas as long as your finger and sweet and tender. I asked one farmer for a couple of the thick blunt plantains he had on his table. No, no! He said. Those are for cooking. I know! I insisted. I want them! I'm going to go home and fry them up. He reluctantly handed them over, shaking his head. Crazy lady. The micronesian grandmas push the gawking haoles out of the way and bargain in a shout with all the micronesian farmers. I also got a bunch of narrow light purple Japanese eggplants, and some zucchinis. I was tempted by the tiny light-yellow mangoes and the ice cold "organi" coconuts, and bought some authentic Japanese fish-shaped pancakes, stuffed with Adzuki beans and cream cheese. We went to the zoo and enjoyed the th...