i.

when they ask me what my favorite food is i say  

edamame 

and then two words into my explanation they say 

we know what that is, 

offer me sugar-coated li hing gummies and  

rice crackers 

          and i know i’ve found hale 

                   in this place i’ve never been before. 

 

my first time at Ala Moana Mall,  

i drink in the smell of miso and  

          adzuki beans and  

                   waffle cones so  

hard 

i almost cry.  

my body remembers. 

          my Old Home.  

                   it’s here too.  

 

here,  

the tradewinds whip up my curls until my mom          ānuenue

calls me Albert Einstein.                                        an                 in

when she picks me up from school,               with                           the

                    the license plate says TBD2016                                        back

                                                                                                                   ground. 

 

at school,  

i learn the new words of this place,  

                                                      how to speak pidgin, 

                                                                                     how to talk story,

how to eat tender pua’a and  

                                          fix the pukas in a pa’u skirt and  

                                                                                          form pollen-dusted puas within my hands, 

how to weave haku lei into halos and  

                                                         sway with the palms dancing kā’o and

                                                                                                                     chant oli mahalo on may day.  

 

i hear mo’olelos of  

rampaging Pele,  

                      Lehua in her swishing evening-sky skirts,  

                                                                                   Naupaka and Kaui 

                                                                                                                     blossoming 

                                                                                                               star-crossed lovers

                                                                                                      f o r e v e r              a p a r t  

 

i hear mo’olelos of  

Kalaupapa,  

         the Merrie Monarch vs. the Bayonet Constitution,  

                                                                                     “Lili’uokalani...  

                                                                                     and there’s a million things 

                                                                                                                    I couldn’t do...” 

 

in the spring we visit hamakua marsh and rip out the monkey pod saplings. 

       in the fall we tend the lo’i kalo and pound poi. 

             in the garden we chop the sickened banana tree with a machete,  

             pick papayas with a plunger duct-taped to a wobbly PVC pipe, 

             sell royally striped dragon beans and baby lettuce,

             chew on sprigs of the mint plant slowly engulfing the aquaponics and dunk carrots in ranch. 

 

ae’os and chickens stare at us from the field at my siblings’ school.  

          my brother’s teacher lends me all seven harry potter books to read before we  

          leave.  

                         my friends sign a can of SPAM to take with me as a joke.  

                         i pack it in the polka-dotted suitcase I got when I was six.  

 

ii. 

not all of me gets on the plane.  

 

now, i still wear slippahs to school in december even though it’s supposed to snow in the afternoon  

because i don’t want my feet to learn how to wear socks again,  

because i don’t want my brain to hear slippers and think fuzzy,  

because i don’t want my mouth to forget how to say it.  

because they already are. 

 

now, the fluorescent lights hurt my eyes.  

it rains for days. 

the hallways have  

walls. 

 

now, the faces ask why i have an accent.  

i didn’t know i did.  

i tell them about malama ‘āina and uncles and  

ask if they like haupia pudding.  

they don’t. at least, i don’t think they do. no one actually answered me.  

 

now, the faces ask me to play field hockey with them. 

i don’t know how to. 

i tell them about recess at Kainalu Elementary and 

ask if they want to play tetherball instead. 

they don’t. at least, i don’t think they do. no one actually answered me. 

 

now, when the faces ask where i’m from, 

i stop saying Hawai’i. 

i stop speaking at all.