Kaumaha

So tired. So angry. So tired of being angry. This program exhausts me. The only thing I can say against it is that itʻs too much sometimes. When you preach to the choir, theyʻre listening already. Who is this for? Everyone in this class chose to be here. The way they say “white;” the anger is palpable. We needed a radical in 1993. It was so brave to say, ʻWe are not American. We will never be American. I am not an American.” I have hoahānau that served in the U.S. military. What do I do about that? I went home to Oʻahu last month and I bristled constantly. “Thatʻs not how you say that. Thereʻs a kahakō. That place is not Yokes. Itʻs Keawaʻula.” No oneʻs going to call it that. Part of me, when I watch this, makes the argument, “Sanskrit is dead. Latin is dead. Hawaiian is alive.” And if it is alive then Yokes gets to be a part of the conversation. Then I go to the palace. I walk those hallowed grounds so many times. I look out the window of that empty room where they kept her. Promulgate. I didnʻt even know that word. Iʻm getting angry again. Why didnʻt she listen to Charles Wilson? Arrest three men and take a gamble. I went to a gathering on Lā Kūʻokoʻa. What is ea? Ua huhū au nō. Kaumaha. So heavy. Sadness is correctly described in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi as heavy. I could write about thus until you say, “Stop!” Venezuela. Greenland. Ukraine. It’s all the same fucking day, man.