Pōhaku – “The Fire and the Forest"

Language is the gateway into another culture. If that gate is abruptly shut, then not only can no other understand the culture, and the culture dies, bittersweet and slow. Stripped away was the bark of Hawaiʻi, revealing the exfoliated wood, more vulnerable to the oncoming fire from the Northeast. Then, the fire leaped over the ocean to our islands, and burnt all but eight seeds, leaving its sparks to keep the rest of them in line. But, as Ian Malcolm says, "Life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, perhaps even dangerously. But life finds a way." Indeed it did. So here I am, sitting in a world of unknowing suppression. Thump thump thump goes the seed under the new concrete on which I kneel above, desperately trying to pick it apart to reach the soil where the seed cries. Until I have, and now it blossoms, instantly, having saved up all the tears of its people till now.

"Aia wau e ku nei, aia wau e olelo nei." Here I stand, here I speak, and it is here that I will keep speaking, as if my words are the sun, water, and air to bring back to life those eight seeds, to saplings, to trees, to forests. My mother will be like Bruce Lee and become water so that the rivers of language will once more be full among the four of her children. My father is the sands of Waimea, Ewa, or Kona Bay, where for so long, the seeds' brothers and sisters have been suppressed by the sparks. My brother will be the naupaka plants, spreading the flowers and life of the land, so that the seeds can arise in togetherness, not alone. My eldest sister, who sits on the back of the honu, will nurture the ocean, so that the seeds can spread to the rest of the world. My youngest sister will be the sun, to finally shed a little light upon the issue of the sparks, and fuel the broken pits to grow. I, Pōhakumauikekuaola, the rock upon the verdant mountain, will guard the seeds that have now become shrubs, and the future saplings that will come after me that will grow into trees to take up my place as guardian of this culture, and this language.

I will stand and speak, for the saplings and against the sparks. Now they are trees, and no longer need to cower from the sparks when they speak their native tongue, and are embraced by the forest of naupaka plants, the sun of hilinaʻi, the nutrients, teachings, and lessons from the river, ocean, and sand, and the protection from the mountain of which I stand upon. The names of my family, which were brought to life, now can direct a little of the spark's light in the right direction, and no longer do the seeds, grown to saplings, grown to trees, need to hide.