Hiking With Nathanael

To remember is to fracture a memory. But memories do not splinter with the neat irregularity of glass. They fall apart like so many jigsaw puzzles, all cast on the same die, pieces breaking off and reconnecting not quite where they’re supposed to be, but close enough. Recollect enough, and the past blurs together. Not intentional enough to be a lie, not accurate enough to be a truth. All this to say that I can’t, with any fidelity, provide a singular recollection of my time hiking in the Smoky Mountains with Nathanael Hale Parsons. But I will try. Those hikes have been the highest points in my life, no matter what altitude my life’s current trajectory takes me. The air is so thin here and my friend is so far away. But I digress. Digression is easy when struggling to begin. 

Where does a hike begin? The trailhead seems the obvious answer, but better to be fiercely suspicious of anything obvious. The truth? A hike with Nathanael, by and large, begins at his house. Early enough to give us the day, but not the kind of early at which serious hiking starts. The casualness is part of the joy. This time we’re taking my car. His older sister usually lets me in when I knock on the door, and no sooner than I cross the threshold, does his dog, Oakley (Of the sharpshooter’s fame), make it abundantly clear I have worn out my welcome. She’s a neurotic animal, and has never liked me. Ignoring her is the most sincere affection I can show her in kind. She usually slinks away after a while, mollified by my disregard. Oakley is promptly replaced by Nathanael. How best to describe him? In a word: long. Long arms connect to a long torso via shallow rotator cuffs that give him no end of trouble. The long torso, substantial enough to preclude lanky from my conception of him, connects to long legs. We joke that his posture takes several inches off his height, but the Lilliputian desks at our school simply don’t do his six foot, three inch frame any justice, and the days I was ever taller than him are well and truly lost to all memory except that of his perpetual teasing. Fair skin makes a stark contrast against dark brown hair that I remember best with frosted tips, and in this memory the earnest beginning of what is now a well grown beard frames blue eyes and a mouth which, taken together, cast his face in a vaguely fae light. Today, so many yesterdays from now, he has a small backpack slung on one shoulder, basketball shorts, a light rain jacket, and hiking boots that are perpetually, infuriatingly, untied. And all at once, we’re gone. I’m driving, he’s both navigating us a path out of suburbia and introducing me to the lyrical genius of Kanye West. The things one tolerates for their navigator don’t bear thinking. Along the way, we’ll pick up a friend of his. John more often than not, Ellie, Badger. These additions to the dramatis personae of what remains in my mind’s eye as a two person play have also become my friends, but our stories are not this one. The car fills with noise more than people, conversation mingling with music, jokes and stories snatched out of the open windows by air moved from stillness to furious excitation by my Honda Civic barreling down the highway at speeds of which  I’ll hear no end from my likewise lead footed mother, who monitors our pace towards eden with an app on my phone. The way to the mountains, so much longer than the way back, for all its continuity, is a bacchanal all its own, counterposed by the solemnity that follows when we find parking. The blurred grey of the rushing highway is now the vivid green of stationary trees, not quite still in the breeze. We approach now that obvious beginning, the trailhead. 

What follows is a patchwork of recollection. I’ve hiked so many trails with Nathanael, but like the trees that now surround us, the memories, though distinct, are not dissimilar. Though we start at the same trailhead, we are miles apart. Separated by time and experience, we spend the first hour or so laying plank after storied plank, bridging that gap. But the talk has a practical purpose, too. You see, there is an art to walking a trail like this one. Think too hard, and you’ll stumble on a root, or the more stubborn of the rocks that have resisted the trodding of decades. The conversation requires the devotion of the mind to navigate. Deciding what to tell, what to withhold, either for later conversation or permanently, frees the body to navigate the trail. Step. Step step. Hop step step. Step hop. The conversation takes on the cadence of our trek. But, eventually, the stories told, the tales over, we settle into an easy silence, one you can only find in a forest. Dead silence belongs to mankind, in its jungles of concrete and steel. This is the silence of living things, trees creaking in the wind, small things scuttling, maybe even birdsong if the mounting pressure of a coming storm hasn’t sent them to their nests. Perhaps when we stop talking, it is inaccurate to call it silence after all. Not silence, but the woods resuming its conversation. This is a steep trail. The switchbacks abound, and I curse the gilded era ghosts that built these trails. When we reach the edge of a ridge, you can see where fire tore through this place. The undergrowth is too young, and the surviving trees still wear charcoal as bark. The ones that didn’t survive haven’t even left skeletons, just ghosts, gaps in the forest, swiftly reclaimed. There are few things more cannibalistic than a forest recently burned. Of course, these musings are the offspring of retrospect. At the time, my head was lowered, eyes turned downward to combat the upward slope. It works, for a time, but when we collectively realize it’s time for a break, we stop. It is during this break that it happens. The knife is a hiking staple of mine, a buck knife with the Army Special Forces symbol laser etched on its hilt. To Free The Oppressed. The sharpness of the ideal matched only by the sharpness of the blade. For a reason now forgotten, Nathanael reaches to grab it from the sheath at my waist, and I close my hand around his and the hilt. A mistake realized too late. The clarity of this realization is followed by the acid cool of damascened steel. Nathanael’s determination, stubbornness, cuts deep into my palm and three of my fingers. I’m furious, not at him, oddly, but at myself. The buckle that would have prevented the knife from ever slipping from the sheathe was left undone. Stupid. Ignoring his apologies and the kicked dog in me that wants to tuck tail and go home, we keep hiking. My heart is in my hand now, each throb spilling crimson onto Tennessee’s red clay. It is a pair of serious hikers, descending from a hike they started hours before us, that saves this memory. Perhaps bewildered by the sight of more blood than should ever be outside a body on a hike, they were nonetheless better prepared than we, and their unconditional kindness saw my hand bandaged, and our hike resumed in infinitely better spirits, though now on a different trail, a different time. 

It is sweltering, the cool of the previous memory replaced with a wet, oppressive heat. The trail is no longer an incline, but a descent, and our passage is painfully slow, the trail unwieldy and steep, and no Geryon to ferry us to ever hellish depths. But when we reach the bottom, there are no words to describe the feeling. Your feet encounter it first, so cold you would swear they were wet. But no. It is only the silky exhalations of the earth, trapped in a granite bowl, pouring like incense from the mouth of the cave. This is water’s ghost. As our heads go under the surface, we’ve entered another realm. The air is cool and dry, and there is a peace here that defies all foreboding when we enter the inky blackness. Ours is now a world of solely light or shadow. Gone the soft outlines of tree and bush. Over the years the fangs of the earth have defied decay, growing sharper with every drop of water, the earth’s blood, that falls from them onto our heads. Gorgonian shades leap to and fro, only to be reduced to cave crickets by our phones’ flashlights, their bodies feeling the light their eyes can no longer see, and they scatter. This is called Sheep’s cave, named by a sect of Christians that settled here when the country was young and the land was ever so less ancient. They imagined this place as a piece of Jerusalem, wherein they might find their Lamb newly arisen, but in that I think they are wrong. However cold the air is, the water is truly frigid, and it is more likely that Tawiscara, the Iroquois spirit of winter, lies dying in the depths of this cave, his icy blood purer than the conquering settlers’ redeemer could ever render theirs. We turn our phones to the ceiling, and find that the many millions of tons of rock hanging over our heads is lost in a sea of stars. Water, plain and pure, now holds galaxies in the depths of its droplets. I cannot fault the long dead sect for finding their divinity here, though I wonder in what light this place would be cast by their flames. It is beautiful. We have reached a mortal’s end to the cave. Water gurgles from a crack through which a spirit might slip, carrying only Charon’s fare, but nothing more will pass. Certainly not us, so warm and full of life. We leave the depths, baptised and blinking in the light. Nathanael turns back to take a picture of the entrance, something conquered. But I never look back at caves, humming only what I hope will remind Eurydice she is not forgotten as I depart from where she may never leave. It’s a silly superstition, but when we break the second surface, returning to the heat of life, something of the blissful cool stays with me, and I imagine her shade appeased.

The hike is now reaching its summit, and we have found a second wind. We pass several miniscule marvels as we fly up the trail. A salamander crosses our path, its brilliant, ruby skin a harbinger for another season. A living geode, an indigo snail the agate in an earthy shell. By the alchemy of inattention, the whirring of a septendecimal cicada transmutes into the husky rattle of a timber rattler’s tale. We would stay to read the story in those keratinous rings, but death is only something to flirt with at our age, and she is a lover we’re content to scorn with our hurried absence. One obstacle left, not of this place, and entirely paradoxical. More reasonable to ask a masked figure who they are than to ask why a gate, connected to nothing, now blocks our path. Cold iron bars the way, but we have neither the allergy of the fae nor the hubris of man to believe the beaten path is the only way forward, and we are soon past it. We imagine the risk together, what it would mean to meet a park ranger past that gate, and we speak only in Russian for a time, practicing ignorance of the language our mothers taught us. How we would feign ignorance of the meaning of a locked gate, however, I never had to figure out. The reason for the gate has been met already. That fire from barely a year past rose on infernal wings to roost here, and the hide of the mountain has sloughed and blistered off, no roots to secure the mask. The shale that caps the peak has cracked and splintered, slick with the memory of rain that came too late. We stand now on the razor’s edge, flight on either side if we would dare it. We do not. Tripedal now, we clamber towards Chimney Top, today’s goal. Chimney Top is an interesting formation, so named because of the hole that runs through it down into a rift valley. This valley and hole channel the smoky exhalations of the mountains up through the peak, and so does life imitate itself, imitating itself. You can see none of the ground from the top, even the other mountains are rendered subaerial by the eponymous mantle of the Smokies. I feel none of the mountain’s weight beneath me, upon which I, so physics tells me, am continuously accelerating upwards, and flight becomes so very hazardous a reality as I stand tall. I would be the highest point for miles, if only Nathanael wasn’t standing with me. We separate now, for the first time since we started, all those years ago, and explore the peak. I’m engrossed in a pattern of choleric lichen almost as dizzying as the heights when I hear Nathanael’s voice booming impossibly, somewhere below me. I hurry to find him, and this is what I see: His face, so full of mischief I’m surprised the iron gate didn’t burn him after all, looking up at me from inside Chimney Top. I cannot see what he is supported by, so in this moment it looks like he is composed of opposites. Encased in rock and standing on air. To see him thus is to love him more deeply, more fiercely, than I will ever have words to confess. Love’s light wings are leadened somewhat by worry of mortal danger, but then I see a snack wrapper and an old water bottle cap on a nearby ledge, and my worry lessens. Someone has climbed down here and made it, or, if not, then they flew down to that rattlesnake with a full stomach. He extricates himself back into gravity’s surety, though I am thoroughly surprised, and satisfied, at his solidity when he places a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. We’re grinning like the fool himself, even if my heart is still pounding. We take a picture, and immortalize a frame of time. It’s a blank canvas upon which, even now, I will still paint with thought and fond remembrance.

The parts of finishing a hike are two-fold. The first is the incredibly involved process of actually leaving the mountains. Ordinarily, this is done by the arduous reversal of the entropy that brought us here. Every landmark, once familiar, is rendered tediously alien when seen from the back. But in this, we have with us the gift of memory, merely one of morpheus’ myriad monikers, and so we may see things truly anew on the way back. No more for us the wretched heat, nor the cool green of the beginning. The salamander’s season is now buried in ice an inch thick, and snow falls like pride on our cheeks. Our torches forgotten at home, our phones dead, moonlight is our guide this evening. In her silvery light, which, if I were more jaded, casts everything in the hues of Judas’ fee, we are amply protected from weres, be they monstrous reflections of humanity or simply a past participle. This is a blessed present, though our slippery descent leaves much blessing to be desired, and indeed invokes much cursing. But as we crackle over the now icy planks of the bridge we built and then crossed earlier, the second part of our return begins. The heater is now on full blast, and because this is not a hike from which I would want to drive back, this memory sees someone else is driving while Nathanael and I stretch out in the back of the van. Heaven knows his bad knees need the room. We make only one stop on the way back. Dinner. If it were earlier, as it sometimes is, we would be eating at Aubrey’s. Nathanael know the menu better than I do, so his order is already delivered by the time I hurriedly rush to a familiar favorite: The chicken ziti. Afterwards, we’d pick apples from a tree that has survived the building of the restaurant. It is not earlier though, and the time for apples is past. So we go to Waffle House instead. Getting there proved to be a challenge one night, as some deep remembrance had me take us towards one in Chattanooga, where my great grandmother lives in a house on Signal Mountain, her own chimney smoking and the scent of biscuits kneaded by loving, arthritic fingers wafting out of the expectantly open door. We catch my mistake early, which has the dual benefit of not taking us too far out of our way, while also taking us by the Gatlinburg light show for a brief moment. The lights, though it brings me no end of joy to see them, seem a cheap imitation of the brilliance of the cave, but I will not fault life imitating life, imitating life. We eat quickly at Waffle House. Ordering is not difficult and the food goes down easy. The rest of the way home needs no long telling, though I fear it may yet get it. Everything not lit by harsh sodium bulbs is blackened, this time an imitation of the cave’s darkness. It rushes by faster than when first seen by sheer virtue of being unobserved, and it is the stoplight before the turn off of Kingston Pike to Nathanael’s house that wakes us in the back. Groggy goodbyes are said, gloves and hats found again, and, like that, the hike is over. As I drive back to my own home, which I haven’t seen since the first time sunlight graced it’s plastic paneling today, I am nearly giddy with delight to see that I have, sitting in my passenger seat, two left gloves. I’ll have to return them at some point. Perhaps on another hike with Nathanael.

Works Cited/Documentation

Two resources that are not my own were used in the writing of this essay. Firstly, I owe my deep seated love of reading and using words to my mother, a brilliant wordsmith in her own write (forgive the pun), who is in this way responsible for the allusions and literary devices used herein. Secondly, I owe the experiences about which this essay is written to my best friend on this divinity forsaken earth, Nathanael Hale Parsons.

Survival by Formline

Most Native American cultures are close to dying in today’s modern world. The broadly accepted mindset in America is neglectful for indigenous people and their ways of life. With the increasing vulnerability of indigenous culture, communities and tribal peoples are calling upon tradition to save their histories and heritage. As seen in the state of Alaska, the art of formline is one of the few ways that indigenous people have been able to preserve centuries of culture amidst a history of Western colonization. Formline has played one of the most important roles in the conservation of Native Alaskan language, art, values, and life. Formline’s presence has influenced society to listen to Native voices and appreciate traditional Alaskan ways from non-Native perspectives. The formline art’s ability to normalize Alaska Native life in modern society is important in keeping the Northwest Coast indigenous cultures alive, as well as unifying tribal and non-tribal people. 

Formline is a precise type of design that was invented by the Northwest Coast Native Americans. Elements that distinguish formline from other styles of art are negative space, shape, repetition, direction, simplicity, and harmony. Formline is seen in all walks of Native life. Canoes, carvings, houses, jewelry, clothes, and most commonly, totem poles, are all examples of where formline is commonly expressed. Native clans, moieties, and houses express their identities with different formline designs of creatures from the natural world. The Southeast Alaska Heritage Institute Curriculum describes formline as “the foundation of Northwest Coast

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Alaska Native design” (“Northwest Coast Formline Design” 5). Formline is not only “a key component of Southeast Alaska Native culture,” but also “a gateway for all students of the region to learn about the concept and cultural significance of [the] art tradition” (“Northwest Coast Formline Design” 5). Alaskans, Native or not, are routinely exposed to indigenous cultural beauty through formline design. Because of this environment, it is easy for people to understand why the Native Alaskan way of life should be protected and respected. On a larger scale, appreciation for Native life combats the institutionalized racism and cultural destruction that has been forced on Alaskan tribes over time. The large presence of formline art in Alaska has encouraged society to preserve the ways of the indigenous people who came before them. Formline is responsible for keeping many components of native culture alive, one of them being language. 

Historically, Native traditions have been passed down orally through stories to younger generations. The survival of the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian ways of life depended on the ability of the youth to retell history in their tribal languages, as they did not have a written dialect. This cycle was put to a screeching halt in the 1800s when Alaska Natives were forced to assimilate into Western culture. Children were prohibited from speaking their languages which caused the Native tongue to be critically endangered. The link between the heritage of the old and the young Native Alaskans was nearly gone; however, the presence of formline in society remained intact. When the tribes didn’t have a written language to fall back on, formline served to preserve indigenous folklore. The stories of Alaska Native people are accompanied by formline carvings and art. Formline contains the visual elements of Native stories that words cannot represent, and are interpreted by tribal storytellers. Rico Lanáat´ Worl, a Northwest Coast tribal member, asserts that “Northwest Coast art is ingrained in the social fabric and oral histories

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of [native Alaskan] clans” (qtd. In Worl). Alaskan tradition is preserved through formline artwork, which has saved hundreds of years of indigenous storytelling from going extinct despite near language loss. Because of the art of formline, countless Native Alaskan stories still circulate in the Northwest Coast communities. The stories and language of the Tsimshian, Tlingit, and Haida people are integral parts in the passing down of traditional tribal values to younger generations. This would have been lost without formline and its ability to serve as an archive for the Alaska Natives. Because the stories of the indigenous people were preserved, enough material was available to recover their language via Native and non-Native collaboration. In a KTOO Alaska radio broadcast, assistant professor of Alaska Native language at the University of Alaska Southeast, Lance Twitchell, claims that “rebuilding an endangered Native language also requires non-speakers” (Twitchell, KTOO). In recent years, formline has played a major role in integrating non-speakers in the effort to preserve Native Languages. In Southeast Alaska specifically, there has been a language resurgence in an effort to combat language loss due to increasing appreciation for indigenous culture. Language programs have been integrated into educational institutions across the state in an effort to keep Alaska Native stories and language alive. Formline kept indigenous culture alive when there was no language to do so, which consequently emphasized why it was so important for the tribal languages to be revived. Outside of formline itself, another essential part of indigenous tradition and storytelling is dance. It is no surprise that formline has kept these more interactive rituals alive as well. 

Formline is not only a style bound to static artwork, but also a key component in Southeast Alaskan dance regalia. Formline is painted, woven, and carved into hats, blankets, masks, and more. As described by former curator at the Sheldon Museum in Haines, Alaska, Barbara Waterbury, the formline on these objects depict “natural and mythical worlds” that

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represent spiritual connections the tribes have to the land (Waterbury). Indigenous groups like the Chilkat Dancers perform for hundreds of spectators every year, showcasing their drums, regalia, and stories decorated by formline art. When asked why he dances, Charlie Jimmie Sr., a member of the Chilkat Dancers and Raven clan, noted that dancing is “in [his] blood,” and makes him feel proud (qtd. In Waterbury). To Native dancers, donning their regalia and embracing their culture is incredibly important. The beauty that formline adds to dancing revitalizes the cultural pride that was stripped from the Native Alaskans only three generations ago. Today, indigenous dance troupes are inclusive to people of all ages and ethnicities. It is common for non-tribal people to be heavily involved in dances and the art of making dance regalia. The complex stories told by indigenous dances can’t be expressed without the intricacies of formline. Combined with movements mimicking entities like the halibut, bear, and killer whale, formline makes for an engaging, visual element of Alaska Native lore and storytelling through dance. Formline through art and dance has not only kept Native Alaskan heritage alive, but it has also extended the invitation of cultural preservation to everyone. As a whole, formline in Alaskan communities connects non-Native people to the rich histories, traditions, and culture of the Northwest Coast. 

Formline is the perfect medium for non-tribal people to learn about Alaskan stories. Not only does formline effectively convey tribal heritage to visitors, but it also instills in them a genuine appreciation for indigenous culture. In just about every southeast Alaskan tour, it is common for locals to introduce outsiders to longhouses, traditional homes where important indigenous stories are recorded on walls by formline. One of the most famous examples of formline storytelling can be found in the Whale House in the Chilkat Valley village of Klukwan. The house has four posts: the Black Skin Post, Sea Monster Post, Worm Girl Post, and the Raven

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Post. This collection of totems, adorned with formline, depict Tlingit tales that have survived for generations. People from all over the world come to the Whale House to hear from Native curators about these ancient stories. This cultural exposure that formline provides to thousands of visitors is revitalizing for the Indigenous communities. It gives Northwest Coast towns an incentive to embrace indigenous heritage, which builds a societal culture that respects the Native way of life. Indigenous traditions are able to survive because of this modern appreciation, and the fact still stands outside of tourism. 

Because of formline art’s persistence from the past, Native Alaskans today are integrating their heritage in society through contemporary mediums. Siblings Rico and Crystal Worl are the founders of Trickster Company, an organization that aims to represent Alaskan tradition in modern culture. The staple of their company is the incorporation of formline design on leggings, basketballs, jewelry, and more. This has brought indigenous culture out of museums and back into regular life in Alaskan communities. Institutes like the Sealaska Heritage Institute have published formline kits to increase the number of qualified instructors of Northwest Coast artists to teach formline. Consequently, people of all ages have been exposed to formline, which ensures that the traditional art form will never be lost. The tourism industry thrives on the presence of formline in popular Alaskan attractions. Thousands of visitors enjoy Native Alaskan tradition by watching dancers, walking through the many totem parks, and experiencing indigenous art in clothing, company logos, and more. Because of formline, people today are recognizing the importance of Alaska Native tradition. Alaskans have used inventive ways to preserve their culture through Northwest Coast art, which has been crucial in keeping once dwindling traditions alive in modern society. Another factor that cultural survival of any kind

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depends on is the involvement of younger generations. Formline presents many opportunities for Alaska’s youth to be involved in their heritage, especially in elementary classes. Teachers Sue Forbes and Eileen Hughes studied the effects of integrating Native Alaskan values into their Anchorage elementary school curriculum. They found that exposing children of all backgrounds to formline carving contributed to bringing together the “very diverse population of Anchorage” (Forbes and Hughes 146). An example was when Kavic, a Native student, brought an old Native Alaskan carving book to the classroom. The Kindergarten children paid great attention to the book, which prompted their teacher to invite them to discuss the “carvings they might find in their homes” (Forbes and Hughes 146). The children all shared the carvings they found in their home environments, and then brought other cultural artifacts to class. The classroom introduced the children to master formline carvers so they could experience first-hand how to make formline art. The children wore traditional masks, took part in formline design, and got “exposure to the actual [carving] tools” (Forbes and Hughes 146). This built relationships between the young Alaskans, their community, and the indigenous Native culture. Overall, the classroom environment successfully exposed a culture that was once on the brink of extinction to young children. Because of the art of formline, children from all backgrounds, races, and religions were able to participate in crucial cultural discussions and traditions. What formline did for this class generated a relevance of traditional Alaskan culture and passed down ancient skills to the newest generation. 

Formline is much more than just an art form—it is one of the few ways that Native Alaskans have been able to preserve centuries worth of culture amidst a history of Western colonization. Although the ways of the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian tribes have been attacked and suppressed throughout time, formline has been a force of persistence, longevity, and hope for

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Alaska Natives. Formline not only preserves Native culture but integrates non-tribal Alaskan citizens into the state’s traditional ways of life. People who aren’t Native see the beauty within the Northwest Coast heritage and are consequently less inclined to feed into the racism and cultural destruction against Alaskan tribes. On the outside, formline may only look like art, but its societal relevance transcends that role. It is a spiritual connection from people to nature, an integral cultural practice, and a testament to indigenous perseverance that has withstood the test of time. 

Documentation Statement: Received help from my instructor and Purdue OWL for citation formatting. Worked with librarian Andrea Wright to find a peer reviewed source for my essay. Referenced peer reviews from class to refine my essay. Utilized a thesaurus. Final peer edits were made by my sister, a University of Alaska Anchorage student, Hannah Boron.

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Works Cited 

Sealaska Heritage Institute Curriculum, Northwest Coast Formline Design. Sealaska Heritage Institute, www.seaalaskaheritage.org. Accessed 18 Nov. 2021. 

“Tlingit Carving | Haines Sheldon Museum”. Haines Sheldon Museum | Preserving Our Past For The Future, 2020, https://www.sheldonmuseum.org/vignette/tlingit-carving/. Accessed 19 Nov. 2021. 

Phu, Lisa. “Preventing Language Loss: A Three-Step Process”. KTOO, 2013, https://www.ktoo.org/2013/12/29/preventing-language-loss-a-three-step-process/. Accessed 24 Nov. 2021. 

Waterbury, Barbara. “Tlingit Dance” Haines Sheldon Museum | Preserving Our Past For The Future, 1987, https://www.sheldonmuseum.org/vignette/tlingit-dance/. Accessed 28 Nov. 2021. 

Hughes, Eileen, and Forbes, Sue. “Keeping Alaskan Tradition Alive: Building Relationships in the Curriculum.” Childhood Education, vol. 81, no. 3, 2005, pp. 145–151., https://doi.org/10.1080/00094056.2005.10522258. Accessed 1 Dec. 2021. 

“Trickster Company”. Trickster Company, 2021, https://trickstercompany.com/. Accessed 6 Dec. 2021.

Kapu Aloha

Deeply hidden on the eastern side of O’ahu, between the towns of Kailua and Kāne’ohe, lies a mysterious, but utterly tranquil paradise. It can only be accessed via a single, long, and windy road void of traffic signs or street lights. Houses are spread out far from each other and are separated by tall trees and heavy bushes. The leaves create a vibrant green backdrop for the fruits and flowers that pop out as circles of yellow, orange, pink, or red. Vines and branches dangle and sometimes fall in the path, indicating that the land is untouched. Every so often, you can read messages painted on wooden posts like “Keep the Country, Country” or “Kapu,” the native Hawaiian word for forbidden. You might ascertain that this place, while genuinely special, does not welcome everyone. Instead, this place is home to a small group of Native Hawaiians who are tremendously proud of their heritage, culture, and way of life. I challenge you to think about the motivation behind societal opposition and isolation. 

Since the beginning, Hawaiians have suffered through waves of maltreatment. We combatted the imperialism of Captain James Cook when he attempted to claim the islands under British rule. Measles and sexually transmitted diseases decimated the population as natives were unable to defeat infections with medicinal herbs and limited gene pools. The introduction of gun powder divided kingdoms and caused chiefs to kill their own kin. Western ideals such as Christianity and land ownership split households, criminalized the innocent, and exiled half the nation. Materialism and gluttony became part of the stereotypes that we still see today. Native species of animals, flora, and fauna declined with the introduction of invasive ones. We were silenced when America illegally annexed our islands and used them for target bombing practice after World War II. Tourists flew in, established skyscrapers on our beachfronts, cleared our forests, and privatized our land, thus leaving many of the survivors homeless. We conformed to the expectations of society and endured the beatings as consequences for practicing hula (dance) or speaking in our native tongue in public. And today, we still deal with controversies like Thirty-Meter-Telescopes that astronomers build atop our sacred summits. This pain not only fuels the resistance against the outside world but also the effort to desperately hold on to the pieces of our fleeting culture. Therefore, if you are fortunate enough to visit this place, it is because you are kanaka maoli, Hawaiian by blood.

At the end of the road, the forest opens up to reveal a breathtaking sight. A vast landscape of plant beds, all interconnected with fresh water streams and grassy paths for people to walk along. Taro (kalo) grows in abundance and is set in rectangular orientations of twenty by twenty, totaling hundreds of plants in all. Each plant’s stem is light green and is topped by a heart-shaped leaf which has veins that run down the middle and pulse outward. The whole system is surrounded by a diverse array of trees, including bananas, avocados, papayas, and mangos. Everything is nestled under the protection of the lush Ko’olau mountain range, which never falters regardless of the weather. When everyone is quiet, the only sounds here are the calls of native birds, the rush of running water, the rustling of leaves, and the howling of the wind. This region is also known for heavy rains, allowing the environment to flourish and thrive.

The Hawaiians call this place a lo’i (taro patch). Taro is not merely a staple for the Hawaiian people as it is connected to the origin of life. In native mythology, Papa, the Earth Mother, and Wākea, the Sky Father, the two earliest known deities, conceived a child named Hāloa. When this child was stillborn, they buried him in the ground and he grew to develop into the first taro plant. Then, after giving birth once more, they named their second son Hāloa in homage to his older brother. When this child grew to become the first man, he relied on his sibling to provide sustenance and attained an extraordinary understanding of man’s relation to the environment. This concept is encompassed by the ‘ōlelo no’eau (saying) “He ali’i ka ‘āina; he kauwā ke kanaka (land is chief, man is its servant).” Thus, lessons regarding sustainability, the value of community, and the cultivation of kalo have been passed from kupuna (elder) to keiki (children) since the dawn of our existence.

All of these stories and principles run through my mind when I am working in the lo’i. We usually start at seven in the morning by chanting for permission to enter. “E Ho Mai” is one that I can remember vividly because if it is executed correctly, it demands that the speaker dig deep. You cannot rely on voice alone but must channel energy from your na’au (soul). When this type of mana (power) joins that of the people around you, shivers run down your spine and the hairs on your body stand upright. The echoes resemble the frequencies of howling wolves but carry the weeping of an oppressed race. If the keepers of the land are gracious enough to allow you entry, they offer a chant in response before you peacefully climb into the lo’i. It is believed that the crops will not grow unless they are fed positive thoughts. Therefore, all negative energy, stress, or anxiety is left outside the patch.

Stepping barefoot into the lo’i is a sensation unlike any other. The thick, cold mud swallows your feet and goes in between your toes. It is brown and opaque, yet extremely relaxing, and slows your movements so that you cannot resist. Instead, you must flow with the mud and only adjust your body in slight increments. Most of the time, the manual labor is physically demanding and requires a lot of focus. Your bare hands scoop mud so that kalo roots can be tugged out, one at a time. A combination of strength and technique are utilized when twisting and pulling because you want to pull hard enough to remove the root while also maintaining its structural integrity. Each plant is passed from one hand to the next in an assembly line until it is piled outside the lo’i. You exit the lo’i feeling sticky, sweaty, and dirty with mud invading every crevice of your clothes and skin. But then you move your entire body, which is heavy from excess mud, into the cold, clear, refreshing waters of the stream. You are fully immersed and slightly shocked but your muscles are eased as you watch the brown flow off your skin and downstream. You cup the water in your hands, splash it on your face, and wipe back your clean, wet hair, feeling rejuvenated and content.

Upon my acceptance to the Air Force Academy, I was faced with an internal dilemma as I felt that I had to choose between my identity as a Native Hawaiian and someone who sought to partake in the benefits afforded by Western society. I felt that my paths had diverged, creating an ultimatum where I only accomplished greatness if I betrayed my genealogy. However, I have found solace and repose in the fact that my community still embraces me. They do not blame me for assimilating with American culture because they support my ultimate goal: to bestow upon my children enhanced opportunities for success. Furthermore, as the opportunities to return to my good place dwindle with increased responsibilities, I continue to think about my past experiences and those yet to come. I think of the land, my values, family, and history, as they are all stored in the lo’i in some way. Whether it be the skills I learned from my grandparents while working in the mud; or the lessons which I conveyed to younger children at community events hosted at the lo’i, I know that I can recall those memories, especially in difficult times, with warm fondness and aloha (love/compassion). 

Figure 1. The taro (kalo) fields in Kailua, taken from my iPhone. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32vcntOp0i4

This link provides one rendition of “E Ho Mai,” the aforementioned chant which asks for entry to my good place. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kapu_Aloha

This link contains a description of the title of this essay, “Kapu Aloha.”

 

Documentation Statement: I completed this assignment without any assistance.

A Life in my Hands

Today was my first day of jump school. It was in June and the sun had yet to rise. The mountains where hidden by a murky haze that smothered the landscape. 7,258 feet above sea level, the United States Air Force Academy. I had only just completed my first year of college. Day after day of sleepless nights studying followed by early morning military formation. I rose from my man-sized mattress to the chirping of my alarm. Day 372. I kept count. The room I shared was only lit through the cracks in our curtains. The clock read four. I fell out of bed, landing on my feet from the top bunk. I flipped the switch by the door, and the florescent lights that stretched across the ceiling lit the small space. I stood in front of the sink, looking back at myself. I could hear the sounds of my two roommates digging through their drawers behind me. I pulled the chrome sink handle up and let the water run warm. I lowered my head to the faucet and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Locks of wet hair set streams of warm water drizzling down my face. For a second I drifted back to sleep and in an instant I was awake again, standing in front of the mirror. I dried my hair and face with a small hand towel that was hidden beside the vanity. I slid on a tan shirt and into my olive green flight suit. Creamed and combed my hair. Then rolled olive green socks onto my feet, hiding them in my coyote brown boots. This would be my morning routine for the next 17 days. 

The bus had come to take us to our first day of training. Sky diving, a bucket list item. It hadn’t sunk in for any of us as we boarded the big blue bus, but before we knew it we had arrived at the airfield. We shuffled off the bus and into the ground training facility. A block of concrete carved with windows and doors. We filed in, taking our seats in cheap plastic folding chairs, where we sat through hours of briefings and harness trainings. We left as we came, half alive. Somewhere in the time we spent at the airfield each of us woke up just long enough to understand what we would be doing in the coming days only to fall back asleep by the time we had to leave. I stumbled back to my fifth-floor dorm room that evening. The clock read six. I ate, then showered in my clothes. Got to bed. The clock read nine. I took some time to understand the texture of my ceiling from the view of the top bunk. My eyes fluttered closed and where carried away to sleep, like the morning mist from the newly risen sun. We, a small group of teens, lived that same day for the next week. Eventually finishing our training, ready to take our first steps into… and out of an airplane.

Again, my alarm chimed. Soon I was aboard the same bus headed to the same airfield, but today was different. After the week of unending trainings, early mornings, and infinite bus rides we were ready to jump.  They called our names one after the other and we dawned our prepacked parachutes. Sliding the many straps over our limbs. The parachute was heavier than I expected. I tightened the straps of the chute to myself like a trucker tightening cargo to his trailer. Our jumpmasters and instructors checked our gear and we waited outside next to the runway. The adrenaline coursed through me. My mind was clear and my heart was moving a mile a minute. I could see the fear in my compatriot’s faces. The blank stares of their glassed over eyes seemed to look straight through me. The plane sauntered down the runway in our direction. Its props buzzed and the air was full of hot exhaust. Everything was loud. We packed in tightly one after the other onto our aircraft. Seatbelts on and heads down. The engines raged and we defied God’s will to keep us on the ground.

I am not a religious man. The world got smaller. A painted picture on a canvas that stretched as far the eye could see. My altimeter read 1500 feet. “SEATBELTS!” I removed the one thing keeping me in place along the metal bench we called a seat. I thought of nothing at that moment. Life was still. Still inside the plane and still on the faces around me. Calm but violent. The air felt thin and my breath felt shallow. I had a pressure on my heart. Anxious. We made battle cries and pumped ourselves up like football players in the huddle. My altimeter read 4500 feet. “GOGGLES DOWN! DOOR’S COMING OPEN!” Our jumpmaster lifted jump door like opening the garage to get his car. It was loud again. I could smell the engine and feel the cool morning air rush into the cabin. I was a religious man.

It was 5:30 when I was first told to get ready to jump. I could see the sun… and the ground. A tiny world filled with tiny people. Cars raced along on the highway, like ants in a column. “STAND IN THE DOOR!” The guy across from me, a well-built strong looking guy about a year older than I stood up and climbed into the open space where the door once was. He placed his feet along the thin edge of where the plane ended and the sky began. He hung outside the plane only holding onto a small bar that resembled a towel rack. Before I could say goodbye, he fell away… like the heart in my chest. Fear. I had fear for what was next. Everything told me no, don’t, you can’t, you won’t, you shouldn’t.

I had never understood what it meant to have your own life in your hands. “STAND IN THE DOOR!” I rose. I placed my hands and feet then hung outside the plane. At that moment I knew what it meant. The world was silenced by the sound of the wind. A roar like a river drowning out everything else. I felt free hanging from the plane. I wasn’t scared anymore. I saw the two fingers in front of my face, signaling a clear jump, and I fell away. I looked back to that canvas that coated the world. It wasn’t small… I was. The world felt so vast; I had never seen it that way before. In those ten seconds I fell, life seemed so simple. So easy to understand, but yet it felt so unimportant. We were just small things that lived in a big world. It was clear to me as I fell from heaven, above the sharp tops of Colorado’s mountains. I saw the world as God did. I was above. The air felt good as I fell. It was loose and free. Crisp and cool. Like a wild horse, but I still had the reins. I levitated there, feeling my flight suit pressed against my skin from the pressure of the wind. I looked and pulled the bright yellow handle on my chute. Going through each of the motions taught to me over the last week. The thud of the opening shock grounded me. I was no God. Just an 18-year-old kid who had the chance to have his own life in his hands.

Belonging

America 

Throughout elementary, middle, and high school, there were four years where there was a peak of three Chinese American students in my grade. In high school, in which there were about 500 students per grade, we were still a very small minority in a predominantly Caucasian majority. In elementary school, I remember vividly the time that I was called and labeled the “Chinese girl.” I quickly learned that to fit in, I had to hide my “Chineseness” and shamefully ignore my culture and heritage. During my years in middle school and high school, I became fine-tuned to the stereotypes of Chinese Americans. While I worked hard, was active in clubs, and was on the cross country and track teams, a part of me feared my peers would only see the one aspect of who I was—that I was smart—and place me as another Chinese American that fit the stereotype. 

 

The Past – Grassroots of Prejudice

When we think about how the United States came to be, many think of the Declaration of Independence, the writing of the Constitution, the Louisiana Purchase, and the Civil Rights Movement. We often forget the importance of the building of the Transcontinental Railroad, which pioneered the rapid development of the United States, connected the Western half of the United States to the East, and facilitated international commerce. We often forget that this significant innovation was built largely by Chinese laborers who made up 90% of the workforce during its construction. With blood, sweat, and tears, Chinese laborers worked in harsh desert and winter conditions, for longer hours than their white counterparts worked, and were treated like slaves. While the Chinese laborers contributed to the building of America, their efforts were not fully acknowledged and were soon forgotten.

 

China

A trip to China made me realize a lack of connection to my roots, my heritage, and my culture. About every four years, my family takes a trip to visit family in China. It’s been four years since I’ve seen my grandparents. When I converse with them, it is a constant battle to find the right words and phrases to express my thoughts. While we are there, we also get to be reunited with our cousins, whom we barely know. My cousin, who speaks Mandarin but is learning English, tries to converse with us in English; while my brother and I happily oblige to speaking English, we soon realize she doesn’t understand half the words we speak. We turn to Mandarin to converse with her but realize that much of what we say is lost in translation. With our mix of Mandarin and English conversations, we talk about our different lives, 6,937 miles away. Our conversations are like cars driving on a road with stop signs every five feet. Even though my brother and I share the same jet-black hair as our grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts, we feel like complete outsiders. From our mannerisms to our accented Mandarin, we were strangers experiencing a culture shock of a culture we thought we understood; in reality, we only had a shallow grasp of its beauty and complexity. 

 

The Present- Coronavirus

 “ANTI-ASIAN HATE CRIMES RISE DRAMATICALLY AMID PANDEMIC”–NPR

“ASIAN-AMERICANS ARE BEING ATTACKED. WHY ARE HATE CRIME CHARGES SO RARE?”– New York Times 

By associating the virus with an ethnic group, society has again dehumanized Asian Americans to the point that individuals believe that it is okay to say and do what they want towards Asian Americans. By being viewed as more of a virus than human, it makes it easier for others to hate and blame Asian Americans for being the cause of the global pandemic; it makes it easier to make Asian Americans as the scapegoat.  These headlines expose the deep-rooted prejudice in our society. A prejudice that makes it easy to place the blame of a global pandemic on one ethnic group. This culture of prejudice heavily affects the lives of Asian Americans, especially when it comes to the influence it has on the next generation of Americans. There has also been an increase of Asian American children bullied for their ethnicity. The magnitude of these types of occurrences can be felt by Asian Americans across the United States. On a deeper level, these Asian-American children who have been bullied may internalize the feeling of alienation from their culture and heritage, and the children who were the bullies developed prejudice. 

 

The Future – I belong here

I am a second-generation immigrant. I am Chinese, I am American, I belong here. As a Chinese American who was born and raised in the United States, I grew up going to school and reciting the Pledge of Allegiance that played over the intercom every morning. 

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America

and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation

under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”

I would recite the pledge and wonder, “What did I just recite? What does it mean to be one nation? What does it mean for there to be ‘liberty and justice for all?’” Until now, I didn’t give it much thought. However, the irony that the children reciting this pledge may have grandparents who are at risk of hate crimes is unsettling. The fact that children reciting this pledge may be bullied for being Asian American is unsettling. How is there liberty and justice for all when Asian Americans have to hide their identity or be attacked based on their identity? As we move forward, I hope the Nation can stand as a unified Nation, regardless of race, culture, and identity, to foster a more accepting and empathic environment. I am a second-generation immigrant. I am Chinese, I am American, I belong here.

 

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The Tower of Pisa Finally Topples

I cannot be convinced that 7th grade is not one of the most bizarre times in one’s life. Whether you consider the year to be a part of ‘middle school’ or ‘junior high’ or ‘that period of time where I was socially tormented’ is irrelevant. Some kids have themselves somewhat figured out, while others… others are still not quite confident on the concept of a shower nor how it operates. Regardless of your life’s progression up to that point, it truly is a peculiar, eye opening experience—albeit confusing. From the naïve jokes about my clothing, to my agonizing attempts to fit in, I myself learned a lesson in the 7th grade classroom that has been formative in my development as a young adult. Said lesson molded my personality, my actions, and my perspective on life. It is difficult to fathom how an isolated moment in time can drastically alter the thinking of a young mind, yet one botched social studies project came to teach me the importance of being myself and of accepting failure.

I still remember my first day in junior high school. The day looms in the back of my mind, similar to how a storm looms ominously on the horizon. The memory usually fidgets in and out of my conscience until it ultimately pronounces itself with a downpour of mixed emotion. I, the ‘typical new kid,’ sat in the back of a windowless, grey classroom as I tugged on my newly bought, uniform khakis that invaded my space in all the wrong places. Tacky posters, attempting (but failing) to bring some livelihood to the room, lined the walls with their laminated sheen offending my eyes. I fiddled with the itchy collar of my navy blue polo from the Gap, forcing the buttons in and out of their holes—unconsciously forming a new habit. The striking odor of Axe body spray wafted off some dweeb to my right and assaulted my nose. My panicked eyes searched for something to occupy themselves with rather than those damn posters. They eventually settled themselves on the ever-so-pronounced nose of the gremlin-sized instructor as I began to learn about the first project of the year. I heard what he had to say, but didn’t really listen. Something about having to build a miniature parade float out of a shoebox. Something about having to represent a country of our choosing.

Italy occupied my mind. My family just visited the previous summer. I could still smell the algae that browned the sides of the waterways in Venice and could still feel the rocking of the gondola as it whisked us downstream. My heart filled with melancholy and I longed to return. What a stupid task, I thought, snapping back into the moment, to attempt to recreate the serenity of such a place within the confines of a shoebox. Yet on such a task I embarked. My imagination led my mind to places only natural for a young teen. Perhaps if I do well on this project, I’ll impress my peers. Perhaps if I do well on this project, I’ll become well-liked. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… Speculation and longing for acceptance vaulted me to a place of innovation. Not only would I place a Lego replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa atop my project, but I would also mobilize the rig using a remote-control car. Thoughts, ideas, and plans whirled around my mind like electrons around a cell’s nucleus. The bell rang and I found my way to my next class.

Red, white, and green paper seemed to lay scattered on almost every surface of my home: the walls, the ceiling, the paws of both of my cats. Hot glue stuck my fingers together. I pulled them apart and they found something else to stick to. My hair imitated Einstein’s. Those shitty khakis, now forgotten, sacrificed to the laundry as I schemed with a wild look in my eye. Fitting, considering Mӧtley Crüe’s “Wild Side” crackled from my slinky shaped, Dollar Tree speaker. It seemed to me that I might rival that of Shelley’s Frankenstein as far as creation was concerned. The shoebox took shape; holes cut in the bottom for the remote-control car and topped with my Leaning Tower of Pisa. Alive it truly seemed to be as it whirred along the floor and throughout my house.

My head snapped off my pillow on presentation day, my ego unaware of the chaos to ensue. Back in the refrigerator-esque classroom, I once again sat in the back. However, this time I sat like a king upon a throne as I deemed other projects inferior to my own. Mine was clearly the best and the whole school district was about to know it. The gremlin teacher man called my name and I strutted to the front of the room with the bulge of the float’s remote control announcing its presence to everyone from my right pocket. A dangerous confidence lined my voice as I began to show my way around the shoebox. I highlighted the Italian flag, the exotic Hot Wheels, and the Lego structure that dominated the entire project. I felt my peers were rather impressed, but nothing would bring them more delight than what I had planned next. I took the remote out of my pocket, pressed the forward control and proclaimed, “and just like a real parade float… mine moves!” My project sat upon the table as immobile as before. I must´ve forgotten to turn the car on, I thought. Fatefully, I lifted the lid off the shoebox, causing the Lego sculpture to fall off the project. It crashed on the floor in a million pieces. In disbelief, I scrambled to finish turning the car on. I then crawled across the floor (with no help from my peers) for what felt like an eternity as I gathered the remnants of my shattered dream. Once all of the pieces were collected, I made the float move about an inch with the controller. I then placed the shoebox, along with hundreds of Legos, on the teacher’s desk for evaluation.

I figure my cheeks have never been so red, nor singed with such searing warmth; my eyes never more streaked with tears. I sulked back to a chair in the front of the room like a punished circus animal. I sat down and cried profusely, soaking my freshly pressed laundry from the night before. I purposely sat with my back to the room, hoping no one could see the tears rolling down my rosy face. Such an effort to hide my embarrassment was futile. My classmates certainly noticed the faintness of my sobs and the sniveling of my nose as they looked upon me from behind. Snickering tapped at my shoulder and I thought about running out of the room. Instead, though, I sat there and pondered my failure. My over-confidence was repulsive, and my catastrophe offset my ego in the most perfect, diabolically evil way. I calmed myself with one long, drawn-out breath. Air filled my lungs, and I held it there. I then let it go with a controlled exhale. It was at that moment I realized both the profound importance of acceptance of one’s self and the acceptance of one’s of failure.

The rest of that day, week, and year seem to be a blur. That is not to say that this event ruined the entire seventh grade for me (I had several other experiences that handily accomplished that). It’s just that my memory is considerably weak, so it is remarkable that I recall this event with such detail. Honestly, it may be one of the clearest memories I have. It was in this time of defeat, humiliation, and failure that I learned to be okay with who I am. I was still proud of my project and my effort to succeed. After the Leaning Tower of Pisa toppled, some of my peers even approached me and talked about what a great idea it was to make the shoebox move. Sure, the project did not go exactly as planned, but I seemed to have gained some respect from my peers, and that was all that I was really after. 

When I reflect on that far-gone day, I almost feel a sense of nostalgia. What in the world was I thinking when I opened that lid? How could I not know that the project would end up crashing onto the floor? I never imagined that I would be the one to finally knock over the Leaning Tower of Pisa (although the thing has been leaning for over 800 years, it was bound to happen eventually). I did know, however, that it was okay that my plan had failed. I still made friends and I still, somehow, survived middle school.

Work Cited

None.

Documentation

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