MAY 2024 - Hawaii

In 1988, I was in Hawaii attending a PhD seminar: Cross Cultural Community Cooperation. The heart of the seminar was our meeting with a group of veterans who had blockaded an area they maintained was a sacred site and wanted the government to recognize their native Hawaiian ownership. They created an encampment where they’d made a huge garden, established a community kitchen, and developed a program to treat alcohol and drug addiction that was rampant among the vets. 

Our group was invited to spend a day in their compound helping in various ways—cooking, working in the garden, serving food, listening to their stories, and how they were cleaning up and rehabilitating the area they said belonged to their people.

After an early dinner, one of the men, the leader of the project who had been a drug addict after serving in Vietnam, talked to us about how he’d been in prison, in solitary confinement, when he was “visited” by his grandmother. She rebuked him for forgetting his heritage, the stories she’d told him, that she was extremely disappointed in him and his choices. He laughed when he told us how she’d kept at him until he promised to change his ways, help his buddies to change their ways, and to remember and tell the stories she’d told him. From this encounter had come the encampment and the programs. 

He related one of the stories he’d learned from his grandmother, which was followed by a few of the men telling old stories they’d learned from ancestors. The silence after the last story was companionable, as if we were all connected despite the differences in our lives. 

I was reflecting on the lovely end to a full and thought-provoking day when one of the seminar members suddenly said, “Nancy is a storyteller. She even knows some Hawaiian stories.” 

I was so embarrassed all I could do was shake my head and murmur, “No.” How could someone suggest I tell a Hawaiian story to native Hawaiians after hearing how sacred their stories were to them? I hoped saying no would be the end of the matter but other members assured the Hawaiian men that I knew Hawaiian stories. 

When the leader of the project asked me to tell a story I couldn’t figure out a polite, viable way to refuse. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Waiting. I chose to tell one of my favorite stories, about the goddess Pele. Before I began, I stopped looking at the group and focused on the landscape, the huge boulders standing watch over the ocean as it crashed against the rocky cliffs. In my mind’s eye I could see the power of Pele’s actions as my words found their telling. When I finished, I bent my head, a kind of thank you to the audience, afraid to look at anyone.

This silence felt different from the silence after the men’s stories. This one seemed filled with a jumble of thoughts and feelings. The people in the seminar remained as quiet as the men. All I could think of was that I had transgressed, that as a white woman from the mainland I had no business telling a Hawaiian story to Hawaiians. I was prepared to be reprimanded, told never to tell other people’s stories.

The leader of the group stared at me until I looked away, dreading what I thought he’d say. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and kind. “Thank you for telling our story with such care and reverence. We have never heard a stranger tell it so well. You are no longer a stranger. You are a friend of our hearts.”

I tried not to show my relief as I thanked them for their stories, for the memorable day, for their willingness to share their lives and struggles. 

The seminar ended with all of us in a circle, the Hawaiians teaching us PhD students a prayer of gratitude and blessings. The chanting felt healing and comforting, creating a sense that we had come together, one community despite our differences. 

As we were leaving to get into our van, the leader took me aside. “Nancy, don’t ever stop telling stories. What you look like is of no consequence. What matters are the stories you tell and the way you tell them.” I was grateful for his kindness, but I would never willingly put myself into that situation.

Was there a time when you felt like an outsider and was then welcomed? What was that like?

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MAY 2024 Monthly Stories