Hawaiian Sun

Wrapped in the warmth of wanted

my insecurities slowly soften

as the sun beats down on my skin.

I wonder when we learned

we needed others to see us

the way we want to see ourselves.

If I delve into my dissociated past

I would find more questions than answers

and one, in particular,

that struck a chord:

There was a gourd on the desk

of a classroom labeled “Hawaiian 101”

or as my ancestors would call it – an ipu.

I grew to understand that I held

no right to call it that myself because my skin

was a few shades too light.

I was born White, Chinese, and Hawaiian –

on an island once inhabited solely by the last

in the middle of a vast Pacific Ocean.

There seems to be this notion

that these circumstances would be conducive

to understanding my native culture.

Yet, assumed rapture was replaced

with austere rejection as I went through life

wearing a pale complexion.

So there I sat,

as the teacher who donned

a name with more letters than the English alphabet

comprised only of letters found in the Hawaiian one

asked everyone:

“What does mana mean to you?”

I couldn’t even get through a full moment

of feeling I was finally where I was meant to be

when she turned to me

and with a tilted voice that let us both know

she delivered her query from the callous

where trauma lives, said:

“Travis, do you know what mana is?”

My face flushed red

with the Hawaiian blood

she wished didn’t flow through me.

A sea of anger

crackled in my bones

laden with our shared past.

The contrast

of who gets to wear the hurt

and who has to admit having caused it

can be seen in the tint of skin

and the texture of hair.

I’ve learned to wear the scar that I am.

In 1778, Europeans explorers made contact with Hawai’i

bringing disease that decimated a thriving population.

This desecration became a mode of operation

for a culture that thrived on oppression

and suffocation.

And with each new generation

Hawaiian and White blood further mixed

creating a pathway for the uninvited

to introduce the idea of “blood quantum”

that caused division amongst a people that were once one.

As the number of Hawaiians dwindled

the United States sent more settlers until,

having deemed it a strategic “military stronghold in the Pacific,”

overthrew and imprisoned Queen Liliuokalani in 1893.

From the darkness of her cell, she sent out a plea:

“People of Hawai’i,

stand down, so we may one day stand up.”

I grew up dreaming of the day a Hawaiian hand

would be extended in my direction to help me understand

the culture that underlies my existence.

All I have come to find, however,

is that my very existence is triggering.

I am sorry,

I never intended to be born a living manifestation of your deepest trauma –

the Hawaiian blood that spilled into White veins.

It pains me to know my existence causes you so much hurt.

But buried in the dirt of this ‘āina

is a truth that our ancestors dance together.

I spend the better part of always

imagining how calloused feet would feel when free

to frolic in the sacred sands of acceptance –

I fear I may never get that chance.

I wonder when you learned

to mispronounce my name – Travis Kā’eo Cundiff

as “Hā’ole” –

“Hā” meaning breath that sustains life

and “’ole” meaning without or none.

The truth is,

I am done apologizing for the breath that flows through my body.

If I embody your scars then don’t look at me.

I’m tired of waiting for someone else to set me free.

Perhaps the purest form of perpetuating

the plea given by our beloved Liliuokalani

is when I looked my teacher in her eyes,

a pulsating piece of a past she wished didn’t exist,

after she questioned if I knew anything of my own culture

and said:

“No.”

I’ll never forget the smile that cracked

from the corner of her broken.

And yet,

this “no” said more than a “yes” ever could.

Because "mana" is the strength it takes

to give someone a small victory at the cost of your dignity.

"Mana" is going home every night

and feeling like you are not enough so others can feel like they are.

"Mana" is holding other people’s trauma

when they get tired of holding it themselves.

Perhaps,

after all this time,

I am a product of the White blood that spilled into Hawaiian veins –

and not the other way around.

But until we can walk together

on the hallowed grounds of understanding,

I’ll be sitting here at the beach –

tanning pale skin,

so that if you do decide to look at me

maybe you’ll see the lengths I have gone

to try and understand

the color that I truly am.