In Sunday’s post, A Guest in My Own Home, I wrote about an attitude I have that I think affects my ability to put myself “out there” socially: something that might be termed “Good Guest Syndrome.”
As I wrote there, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to be a “good guest” and not a thing wrong with respecting whatever culture one puts oneself into. Where I’ve gone wrong is in being too reticent—too hesitant and too cautious—for someone who’s made a decision to make this place my home.
Further reflection yielded an additional element to the attitudes that are, perhaps, holding me back socially. I call it “Haole Guilt.”
In Hawai‘ian, “Haole” means “white person” or “foreigner.” The term can be affectionate or disparaging applied to a white person or foreigner, depending on how the speaker feels about the haole, but generally it’s understood to refer to those whites who act arrogant and superior, especially those of Hawai‘ian or half-Hawai‘ian descent who have adopted the ways and attitudes of whites.
I believe myself to be humble; I hope I approach Hawai‘ian culture with an attitude of humility, reverence, appreciation, and curiosity. I do not (consciously) think of myself as a “haole,” at least not the kind of whom the term is used disparagingly.
I find myself astoundingly conscious, however, of the injustices suffered by indigenous Hawai‘ians, particularly at the hands of the U.S. government. Every weekend I see (and someday soon I’m going to patronize) a barbecue selling huli chicken as a fundraiser for “Lawful Hawai‘ian Government.” Every day I see vehicles with bumper stickers calling for a “Reinstated Hawai‘ian Nation.” Even a cursory review of the history makes it seem clear that the U.S. government illegally annexed the Hawai‘ian Islands against the wishes of its lawful and sovereign government and its indigenous population.
In addition, haole were responsible for the suppression of Hawai‘ian culture and language, although to be fair it was also haole New England missionaries who initially strove to preserve Hawai‘ian language and tradition.
I am deeply sympathetic with Hawai‘ians who feel robbed of their heritage and who long for independence and self-determination. And because I am sympathetic, I feel a measure of “haole guilt”—guilt by association for the wrongs done by “white people”—even though I personally did none of them.
I wear the face of their ancestors’ oppressors. Out of respect, I hold back from pushing myself into a culture that I believe has the “right” to refuse me, even though I personally have committed no offense.
Again, though, as with “Good Guest Syndrome,” “Haole Guilt” goes too far. I tend to be so concerned about giving offense that I avoid opportunities to be welcomed in (and it is a welcoming culture). I borrow trouble I don’t have, don’t need, and don’t deserve.
“Good Guest Syndrome” and “Haole Guilt” have worthy roots, but have grown too broad and now block the rays of the life-giving sun. It’s time for a pruning.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
A Guest in My Own Home
Today I toured downtown Lahaina as part of a program called “History in Our Back Yard,” organized by the Lahaina Restoration Foundation (a non-profit historical society that manages a number of historic sites in the town). The program is intended for teachers in the area, and between 10 and 15 teachers enjoyed a walking tour of significant historic and cultural sites while volunteers explained their significance.
Sites ranged from Moku ‘Ula, the sacred island where once Hawai‘ian royalty dwelled to the old prison and everything in between: three Buddhist Missions, the oldest church in Lahaina, the King’s Taro Patch, the Baldwin House, Hale Aloha, the courthouse, the banyan tree, the Pioneer Hotel, the print house where the first newspaper west of the Rockies was published (in the Hawai‘ian language), the smokestack for the old sugar mill...more than I can easily name. It was amazing (just like last week’s Huaka‘i bus tour), and added to the mound of evidence that I am where I belong.
On the mainland, I was in many ways a round peg in a world with square holes. On Maui, I find smooth, well-worn round holes where I fit just fine. I am home.
The cruise ship was anchored off shore, making today “Boat Day,” and the area by the courthouse was swarming with posturing, posing, self-important “Look at me!” cruise passengers (tourists). They were loud and obnoxious, and everything they did was clearly intended to draw attention to them.
It worked, too, though in my case at least, the attention was not admiring or appreciative. They had no attention to spare for the amazing place they stood; all their attention was on getting the attention of others. “Tourists,” I thought. “If they only knew how ridiculous they look.”
I much prefer the stereotypical rubbernecking redneck, getting a crick from looking at the tall buildings in New York City; s/he is interested (if unsophisticated), and I myself have stood in awe with my jaw hanging open, without one thought for how I looked. Awesome sights ought to be seen as wonders, and wonders deserve a reaction. I pray I’m never “too cool” to gawk and point at something wonderful.
This led me to reflect a little on how I, a lifelong tourist in many ways, did it differently.
My sojourn as a world traveling tourist began when I was a Navy rating on the U.S.S. England, a guided missile cruiser. I sometimes think that the very best thing about being in the Navy was the chance to travel. While I didn’t travel as much as some, I still visited: Victoria, British Columbia; Subic Bay, the Philippines; Singapore; and Perth, Australia. I loved it.
I loved meeting new people and seeing new places and learning about cultures other than the one I grew up with. I loved discovering different customs and different cuisines and different couture. I was always mindful that I was a guest and as a good guest, it was my duty to adapt to whatever degree possible to the culture and customs of my hosts.
I was always a little embarrassed for my shipmates and countrymen who just didn’t get it; who apparently had no capacity to appreciate the “different.”
They were the ones who wouldn’t even try food that wasn’t what they were used to at home. They were the ones who figured that English was the only “natural” human language, and if you just spoke it loudly and slowly enough, any “heathen” would automatically understand. They were the ones who asked for cheap American beer in Australia (which had a number of quite good beers, and no, I don’t mean Foster’s). They were the ones who lived in a fantasy world where everything was just like it was “at home” and if it wasn’t, then somebody was doing it wrong (and “somebody” was whoever wasn’t doing it like it was done at home).
In a word, they were arrogant, and I had no desire to be numbered among them.
I’m not trying to suggest that I was some tourist paragon; I was quite likely less culturally sensitive than I should have been, but at least I tried, and I believe my hosts gave me credit for the effort. I was always treated very well by the indigenes I met, and to this day I take some pride in that. I at least tried to be humble and understand my hosts and their culture, rather than be arrogant and instruct people on what they were doing wrong.
Later, I had the privilege of traveling to Mali to visit my dear friend Angie, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in that country for three years and more. Again, I sought to adapt to the degree it was practical, and to learn what it was like there, rather than try to make it just like the place I called home.
Likewise, for the past twelve years I’ve traveled with my family to Hawai‘i and all of us came not to live the way we did on the mainland but instead to explore and discover the ‘āina (the land) and its customs and culture. We met the people where they were and tried to get to know them, we got away from the tourist destinations and activities (although we did some; a luau is really not optional for first-time visitors, and it can educate), we put ourselves where we could encounter the “real” Hawai‘i.
When I moved to Maui almost 10 weeks ago, I did much the same. I avoided the tourist destinations and activities (for the most part). I strove to adapt to the rhythms and patterns and practices of island life. I sought to learn and understand the culture I choose to be a part of.
Today’s epiphany was that as I’ve done this I have continued to think of myself as a guest. I’ve been a good guest, respectful and flexible and humble, but I’ve behaved as if I don’t belong. My customary reserve has been intensified by this, so I haven’t asserted myself, asking to be included in social events or activities, putting myself into social circles, inviting myself along.
Silly.
I am not a guest. This is my home, now; this is where I belong. I am not a guest.
I am home.
Sites ranged from Moku ‘Ula, the sacred island where once Hawai‘ian royalty dwelled to the old prison and everything in between: three Buddhist Missions, the oldest church in Lahaina, the King’s Taro Patch, the Baldwin House, Hale Aloha, the courthouse, the banyan tree, the Pioneer Hotel, the print house where the first newspaper west of the Rockies was published (in the Hawai‘ian language), the smokestack for the old sugar mill...more than I can easily name. It was amazing (just like last week’s Huaka‘i bus tour), and added to the mound of evidence that I am where I belong.
On the mainland, I was in many ways a round peg in a world with square holes. On Maui, I find smooth, well-worn round holes where I fit just fine. I am home.
The cruise ship was anchored off shore, making today “Boat Day,” and the area by the courthouse was swarming with posturing, posing, self-important “Look at me!” cruise passengers (tourists). They were loud and obnoxious, and everything they did was clearly intended to draw attention to them.
It worked, too, though in my case at least, the attention was not admiring or appreciative. They had no attention to spare for the amazing place they stood; all their attention was on getting the attention of others. “Tourists,” I thought. “If they only knew how ridiculous they look.”
I much prefer the stereotypical rubbernecking redneck, getting a crick from looking at the tall buildings in New York City; s/he is interested (if unsophisticated), and I myself have stood in awe with my jaw hanging open, without one thought for how I looked. Awesome sights ought to be seen as wonders, and wonders deserve a reaction. I pray I’m never “too cool” to gawk and point at something wonderful.
This led me to reflect a little on how I, a lifelong tourist in many ways, did it differently.
My sojourn as a world traveling tourist began when I was a Navy rating on the U.S.S. England, a guided missile cruiser. I sometimes think that the very best thing about being in the Navy was the chance to travel. While I didn’t travel as much as some, I still visited: Victoria, British Columbia; Subic Bay, the Philippines; Singapore; and Perth, Australia. I loved it.
I loved meeting new people and seeing new places and learning about cultures other than the one I grew up with. I loved discovering different customs and different cuisines and different couture. I was always mindful that I was a guest and as a good guest, it was my duty to adapt to whatever degree possible to the culture and customs of my hosts.
I was always a little embarrassed for my shipmates and countrymen who just didn’t get it; who apparently had no capacity to appreciate the “different.”
They were the ones who wouldn’t even try food that wasn’t what they were used to at home. They were the ones who figured that English was the only “natural” human language, and if you just spoke it loudly and slowly enough, any “heathen” would automatically understand. They were the ones who asked for cheap American beer in Australia (which had a number of quite good beers, and no, I don’t mean Foster’s). They were the ones who lived in a fantasy world where everything was just like it was “at home” and if it wasn’t, then somebody was doing it wrong (and “somebody” was whoever wasn’t doing it like it was done at home).
In a word, they were arrogant, and I had no desire to be numbered among them.
I’m not trying to suggest that I was some tourist paragon; I was quite likely less culturally sensitive than I should have been, but at least I tried, and I believe my hosts gave me credit for the effort. I was always treated very well by the indigenes I met, and to this day I take some pride in that. I at least tried to be humble and understand my hosts and their culture, rather than be arrogant and instruct people on what they were doing wrong.
Later, I had the privilege of traveling to Mali to visit my dear friend Angie, who was a Peace Corps volunteer in that country for three years and more. Again, I sought to adapt to the degree it was practical, and to learn what it was like there, rather than try to make it just like the place I called home.
Likewise, for the past twelve years I’ve traveled with my family to Hawai‘i and all of us came not to live the way we did on the mainland but instead to explore and discover the ‘āina (the land) and its customs and culture. We met the people where they were and tried to get to know them, we got away from the tourist destinations and activities (although we did some; a luau is really not optional for first-time visitors, and it can educate), we put ourselves where we could encounter the “real” Hawai‘i.
When I moved to Maui almost 10 weeks ago, I did much the same. I avoided the tourist destinations and activities (for the most part). I strove to adapt to the rhythms and patterns and practices of island life. I sought to learn and understand the culture I choose to be a part of.
Today’s epiphany was that as I’ve done this I have continued to think of myself as a guest. I’ve been a good guest, respectful and flexible and humble, but I’ve behaved as if I don’t belong. My customary reserve has been intensified by this, so I haven’t asserted myself, asking to be included in social events or activities, putting myself into social circles, inviting myself along.
Silly.
I am not a guest. This is my home, now; this is where I belong. I am not a guest.
I am home.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
ʻIke Pilina...ʻIke Honua
‘Ike pilina
‘Ike honua
‘Ike piko‘u
This weekend I started “Kahua 1A: An Introduction to Culture-Based Education,” a professional development course offered through a partnership between Kamehameha Schools and Hawai‘i Department of Education.
The course is at least a little immersive—every session starts and ends with traditional Hawai‘ian chants and some instruction alternates between Hawai‘ian and English languages—it (rightly, in my opinion) emphasizes the value of indigenous culture and the importance of accommodating a teacher’s practices to the values and practices of that culture. For a haole like me it’s especially important; I want to belong here, and that means finding ways to fit myself into culture as it is and not force the culture to accommodate me as I am.
Yesterday’s session was a bus and walking tour focused on ‘ike honua—a sense of place—we visited both historic sites (Ukumehame, Olowalu, Dragon’s Teeth/Pi‘ilani Lookout, etc.) and places that students either live or hang out (Ukumehame again, Honolua, Ka‘anapali, etc.). We stopped several times to take in the spirit of the place, and even a frequent skeptic like me can sense whatever is meant by “the spirit” of a place.
Each place had a story of its own, as well. Ukumehame has centuries of agricultural history, Olowalu was the site of a bloody clash between Europeans and Hawai‘ians, and Pi‘ilani Lookout was where Ali‘i (“chief” or “leader”) Pi‘ilani went to oversee the outer islands of his kingdom, Lana‘i and Moloka‘i.
Pi‘ilani also went to his lookout to release his worries and concerns, the things that might keep him from ruling effectively. The winds at Pi‘ilani Lookout are strong, and the thought was that any concern released there was taken up by the wind and blown away. We were invited to do as Pi‘ilani did and release anything that might be holding us back: to inhale then deliberately exhale, letting our breath carry our burdens into the outer air, three times.
I have made considerable progress in “letting go” over the last three months, but as of yesterday morning I was still carrying a burden of resentment and anger that in some small way was holding me back. I found a spot along the cliff facing the wind and the ocean with the sun at my back, and I centered myself, and three times I focused on releasing my resentment and anger and hurt into the air as I exhaled deliberately. As I did, I felt my heart lifting (it was already soaring pretty high; if it goes much higher, I’ll need to give it the same warning given to Icarus).
Most of you know full well that I’m a bit of a romantic, and that sense of letting go could very easily be a part of that romanticism. Yet this morning I awoke, and probing carefully, the way one’s tongue probes an aching tooth, I found only the echo of an ache where before I felt throbbing pain. Maybe, at Pi‘ilani Lookout, I was finally able to take the next step in forgiving and moving on. I’d like to think so.
We also stopped at the Ka‘anapali Beach Hotel, where we were fed like ali‘i and got to see some amazing artifacts made by the hotel staff during the economic crash; the owners and management didn’t want to lay anyone off, so they gave them work discovering traditional tools and techniques.
Friday’s session focused on ‘ike pilina—a sense of relationship—and in that session I got a sense of what may have drawn me to Hawai‘i for so many years and why, despite significant challenges, I feel so very happy.
Among the values integral to Hawai‘ian culture are “‘ohana”—family, kinship group, relations—“kuleana”—right, privilege, concern, responsibility—“kāko‘o”—support—and “pilina”—relationship, union, connection. And pilina is not just interpersonal relationship; it includes relationship with the ʻāina—the land. Pilina is important in Hawai‘ian culture...and it is likewise important to me.
I make no claim to being a great teacher. I am a competent teacher. If I get great results (and I think sometimes I do) it is because I make great relationships with students. An almost proveribal phrase once frequently heard (and lived out) at my former school is, “They won’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” That aphorism fits nicely into Hawai‘ian culture, which additionally has many excellent proverbial sayings (“‘ōlelo no ‘eau”) relating to learning and relationship:
At the end of Friday’s session we went around the circle, each speaking our “take away” in one word. My word was “home.”
I am home. Come visit!
“Aloha, komo mai!” Welcome!
‘Ike honua
‘Ike piko‘u
This weekend I started “Kahua 1A: An Introduction to Culture-Based Education,” a professional development course offered through a partnership between Kamehameha Schools and Hawai‘i Department of Education.
KahuaIt’s a course intended to equip teachers to better understand and serve students raised in or thrust into Hawai‘ian culture, and it focuses on three things, two of which were covered in Friday night and Saturday sessions.
- Foundation, base, site, location, ground, background, platform, as of a house; an open place, as for camping or for sports, as for ‘ulu maika or hōlua sliding; playground area, arena, stand, stage, courtyard course, camp; bed, as of a stream. fig., declaration of principles or policy, doctrine, platform
- Base of a quilt on which the pattern (lau) is appliquéd; this base is above the layer of cotton or wool. The pili is below it.
The course is at least a little immersive—every session starts and ends with traditional Hawai‘ian chants and some instruction alternates between Hawai‘ian and English languages—it (rightly, in my opinion) emphasizes the value of indigenous culture and the importance of accommodating a teacher’s practices to the values and practices of that culture. For a haole like me it’s especially important; I want to belong here, and that means finding ways to fit myself into culture as it is and not force the culture to accommodate me as I am.
Yesterday’s session was a bus and walking tour focused on ‘ike honua—a sense of place—we visited both historic sites (Ukumehame, Olowalu, Dragon’s Teeth/Pi‘ilani Lookout, etc.) and places that students either live or hang out (Ukumehame again, Honolua, Ka‘anapali, etc.). We stopped several times to take in the spirit of the place, and even a frequent skeptic like me can sense whatever is meant by “the spirit” of a place.
Each place had a story of its own, as well. Ukumehame has centuries of agricultural history, Olowalu was the site of a bloody clash between Europeans and Hawai‘ians, and Pi‘ilani Lookout was where Ali‘i (“chief” or “leader”) Pi‘ilani went to oversee the outer islands of his kingdom, Lana‘i and Moloka‘i.
Dragon’s Teeth
Pi‘ilani also went to his lookout to release his worries and concerns, the things that might keep him from ruling effectively. The winds at Pi‘ilani Lookout are strong, and the thought was that any concern released there was taken up by the wind and blown away. We were invited to do as Pi‘ilani did and release anything that might be holding us back: to inhale then deliberately exhale, letting our breath carry our burdens into the outer air, three times.
I have made considerable progress in “letting go” over the last three months, but as of yesterday morning I was still carrying a burden of resentment and anger that in some small way was holding me back. I found a spot along the cliff facing the wind and the ocean with the sun at my back, and I centered myself, and three times I focused on releasing my resentment and anger and hurt into the air as I exhaled deliberately. As I did, I felt my heart lifting (it was already soaring pretty high; if it goes much higher, I’ll need to give it the same warning given to Icarus).
Most of you know full well that I’m a bit of a romantic, and that sense of letting go could very easily be a part of that romanticism. Yet this morning I awoke, and probing carefully, the way one’s tongue probes an aching tooth, I found only the echo of an ache where before I felt throbbing pain. Maybe, at Pi‘ilani Lookout, I was finally able to take the next step in forgiving and moving on. I’d like to think so.
We also stopped at the Ka‘anapali Beach Hotel, where we were fed like ali‘i and got to see some amazing artifacts made by the hotel staff during the economic crash; the owners and management didn’t want to lay anyone off, so they gave them work discovering traditional tools and techniques.
Traditional tools
Poi Board
Awa Bowls
Weapons
Paddle
Toys for keiki (children)
Friday’s session focused on ‘ike pilina—a sense of relationship—and in that session I got a sense of what may have drawn me to Hawai‘i for so many years and why, despite significant challenges, I feel so very happy.
Among the values integral to Hawai‘ian culture are “‘ohana”—family, kinship group, relations—“kuleana”—right, privilege, concern, responsibility—“kāko‘o”—support—and “pilina”—relationship, union, connection. And pilina is not just interpersonal relationship; it includes relationship with the ʻāina—the land. Pilina is important in Hawai‘ian culture...and it is likewise important to me.
I make no claim to being a great teacher. I am a competent teacher. If I get great results (and I think sometimes I do) it is because I make great relationships with students. An almost proveribal phrase once frequently heard (and lived out) at my former school is, “They won’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” That aphorism fits nicely into Hawai‘ian culture, which additionally has many excellent proverbial sayings (“‘ōlelo no ‘eau”) relating to learning and relationship:
- Ma ka hana ka ‘ike (learning is in the doing)
- ‘A‘ohe pau ka ‘ike i ka hālau ho‘okahi (all knowledge is not learned in one place—“hālau” is a learning environment)
- ‘A‘ohe hana nui ke alu ‘ia (no task is too great when done together)
At the end of Friday’s session we went around the circle, each speaking our “take away” in one word. My word was “home.”
I am home. Come visit!
“Aloha, komo mai!” Welcome!
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Roll-Your-Own Luck
It’s been a busy week. Work, of course, a birthday on Tuesday (when you’ve had as many as I have, they tend not to be so momentous), chaperoning a dance last night, a scuba hunt for lobster just after midnight this morning (first day of the season)...it’s been a good week.
I turned 53 on Tuesday. Birthdays have gotten pretty routine; I won’t concern myself overmuch with birthdays, as long as I keep having them. Mine started with a FaceTime conversation with my best friend Wayne, who remains on the mainland. One of my classes sang “Happy Birthday” to me, about as well as you might expect an 8th grade class to sing it, and I treated myself to a burger at Teddy’s Bigger Burger in Lahaiana Gateway:
...but otherwise didn’t do much, and that was fine. I am pleased that at the age of 53, I am as fit and able as I’ve been in probably 20 years. I can keep kidding myself that “I’m not getting older; I’m getting better!” for another year.
This week was “Renaissance” nomination week at Lahaina Intermediate School. Teachers nominate students for a variety of awards relating to academic excellence, character excellence, and improvement in those categories. Teachers also nominate teachers for “Teacher of the Month” awards and students also get to nominate who they consider to be the “Teacher of the Month.”
I’m the “new kid”—I really had no expectations of being nominated by either colleagues or students. It’s a small school, and it is reasonable to assume at a small school that the people who have been there for a while would be favored over a newcomer. I know many students like me, but that does not mean that they ought to nominate me as “Teacher of the Month,” and my colleagues are a long way from knowing me well enough to know what to think of me.
But 10 students nominated me for “Teacher of the Month.” That wasn’t enough to win—the winning teacher received more than 60 nominations—but it really is an honor to be nominated, especially when you’re the “new kid” and you do everything a bit differently than any of their other teachers do.
Any teacher who is nominated by students receives all the nomination forms in an envelope, and reading those forms was both humbling and uplifting. Several clearly indicated that the students need some help articulating their thoughts but they were heartfelt, and a few just made my day. One student said, “Because he’s BEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAST!” Two or three others talked about how I helped them understand things they hadn’t understood before, and one said I was “inspiring.” Those nomination forms are treasures.
I’m really lucky; I love my job and I love my students and I love my home. I take some credit for that “luck”—I am the one who made tough decisions and took real risks—but I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) take credit for all of it. Call it what you will—random chance, fate, karma—I call it God.
Last night was the “Welcome Back Dance,” a fundraiser for the Science Club. I was assigned to maintain the perimeter and keep students from going where they shouldn’t. That meant I spent my time outside (a blessing on many counts).
Sunset, shot between the cafeteria on the right (filled with sweaty middle-schoolers dancing madly) and a classroom building on the left:
After the dance, I joined a few staff members at LuLu’s for an after-dance snack (and, for the drinkers, a cocktail or two). Then I met some local scuba divers at Olowalu Beach to try for lobster; the season opened at midnight.
Conditions were’t ideal—entrances and exits at Olowalu are tricky, it was dark despite a gorgeous full “blue” moon and clear skies, the water was a bit turbid, the swim out was long, and we didn’t see a single lobster—but it was still diving on a gorgeous night in gorgeous waters and it was diving! Wait’ll next time!
I got home at about 3:30 AM and fell, exhausted, into bed. Woke up about 8:30 to this view:
...had a ridiculously huge breakfast (per my usual habit), went down to a nearby dive shop to get some information about trips, buddies, gear, and the like, then went to scout out Honolua Bay, a marine preserve that features (among other things) a Honu (Hawai‘ian green sea turtle) colony.
I didn’t get any pictures of honu—my iPhone is a decent camera, but not for shooting protected ocean wildlife in its native habitat—but here are some pictures of the ocean, the sky, and the beach:
It’s Labor Day weekend. Funds are tight (payday is “Po‘akolu” Wednesday), so I’ll stick pretty close to home. My one lengthy excursion will be to church (and to Costco for gas) tomorrow.
No deep insights this week—I’m sure I've had some, but nothing leaps to mind—but just “routine.”
Pretty amazing routine, isn’t it?
I turned 53 on Tuesday. Birthdays have gotten pretty routine; I won’t concern myself overmuch with birthdays, as long as I keep having them. Mine started with a FaceTime conversation with my best friend Wayne, who remains on the mainland. One of my classes sang “Happy Birthday” to me, about as well as you might expect an 8th grade class to sing it, and I treated myself to a burger at Teddy’s Bigger Burger in Lahaiana Gateway:
...but otherwise didn’t do much, and that was fine. I am pleased that at the age of 53, I am as fit and able as I’ve been in probably 20 years. I can keep kidding myself that “I’m not getting older; I’m getting better!” for another year.
This week was “Renaissance” nomination week at Lahaina Intermediate School. Teachers nominate students for a variety of awards relating to academic excellence, character excellence, and improvement in those categories. Teachers also nominate teachers for “Teacher of the Month” awards and students also get to nominate who they consider to be the “Teacher of the Month.”
I’m the “new kid”—I really had no expectations of being nominated by either colleagues or students. It’s a small school, and it is reasonable to assume at a small school that the people who have been there for a while would be favored over a newcomer. I know many students like me, but that does not mean that they ought to nominate me as “Teacher of the Month,” and my colleagues are a long way from knowing me well enough to know what to think of me.
But 10 students nominated me for “Teacher of the Month.” That wasn’t enough to win—the winning teacher received more than 60 nominations—but it really is an honor to be nominated, especially when you’re the “new kid” and you do everything a bit differently than any of their other teachers do.
Any teacher who is nominated by students receives all the nomination forms in an envelope, and reading those forms was both humbling and uplifting. Several clearly indicated that the students need some help articulating their thoughts but they were heartfelt, and a few just made my day. One student said, “Because he’s BEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAST!” Two or three others talked about how I helped them understand things they hadn’t understood before, and one said I was “inspiring.” Those nomination forms are treasures.
I’m really lucky; I love my job and I love my students and I love my home. I take some credit for that “luck”—I am the one who made tough decisions and took real risks—but I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) take credit for all of it. Call it what you will—random chance, fate, karma—I call it God.
Last night was the “Welcome Back Dance,” a fundraiser for the Science Club. I was assigned to maintain the perimeter and keep students from going where they shouldn’t. That meant I spent my time outside (a blessing on many counts).
Sunset, shot between the cafeteria on the right (filled with sweaty middle-schoolers dancing madly) and a classroom building on the left:
After the dance, I joined a few staff members at LuLu’s for an after-dance snack (and, for the drinkers, a cocktail or two). Then I met some local scuba divers at Olowalu Beach to try for lobster; the season opened at midnight.
Conditions were’t ideal—entrances and exits at Olowalu are tricky, it was dark despite a gorgeous full “blue” moon and clear skies, the water was a bit turbid, the swim out was long, and we didn’t see a single lobster—but it was still diving on a gorgeous night in gorgeous waters and it was diving! Wait’ll next time!
I got home at about 3:30 AM and fell, exhausted, into bed. Woke up about 8:30 to this view:
...had a ridiculously huge breakfast (per my usual habit), went down to a nearby dive shop to get some information about trips, buddies, gear, and the like, then went to scout out Honolua Bay, a marine preserve that features (among other things) a Honu (Hawai‘ian green sea turtle) colony.
I didn’t get any pictures of honu—my iPhone is a decent camera, but not for shooting protected ocean wildlife in its native habitat—but here are some pictures of the ocean, the sky, and the beach:
Honolua Bay, looking toward Moloka‘i
Da’ Beach
Just around a promontory; here be Honu!
It’s Labor Day weekend. Funds are tight (payday is “Po‘akolu” Wednesday), so I’ll stick pretty close to home. My one lengthy excursion will be to church (and to Costco for gas) tomorrow.
No deep insights this week—I’m sure I've had some, but nothing leaps to mind—but just “routine.”
Pretty amazing routine, isn’t it?
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