By Aiko Yamashiro

Editor’s note:

Like Hawai‘i, French Polynesia suffered a period of colonial suppression, when indigenous languages and traditions were banned, discouraged, and commodified for outside consumption.

Similar to Hawaii’s cultural revival in the 1970s, poets, musicians, and creative artists led a cultural renaissance in the 1980s and 90s, using art to help reassert a proud Mā‘ohi identity to themselves and the rest of the world. There are large differences between our two regions however. For example, I was amazed to discover that up until a mere 10 years ago, France was still using parts of French Polynesia to test their nuclear bombs.

It will take much to overcome images of luxurious beaches and hip-shaking women. Vārua Tupu is just the latest example of writing back against a long history of stereotypes that reduce this variegated and complicated place into a simplistic and servile island paradise.

On October 5, 2006, Vārua Tupu writers Flora Devatine and Célestine Hitiura Vaite visited Professors Albert Wendt and Reina Whaitiri’s UHM English 371 Pacific Literature class to talk about their writing and experiences. The following piece contains excerpts from this discussion.

It was a gift to be in the presence of two women who have overcome much to make their voices heard. This is dedicated to them and their work.

ONE.

“To write, you do it from your life, from the people you’ve met, from the depth of your feelings and all the contradictions…without [necessarily] understanding all of it.”

—Flora Devatine

Flora in her cream and brown mu‘umu‘u steps out of the car and immediately embraces me with gentle aloha. This woman is one of the founders of Littérama‘ohi, the first French Polynesian literary journal, created in defiant response to French (men) claims that the Polynesian people had “no real literature.”

In addition to fighting outsiders’ disbelief, she has had to counter her own people’s lack of faith in their stories. Flora recounts the first time she ever spoke to a Tahitian orator in an attempt to preserve some of the oral traditions of her culture. He cautioned her as to the futility of her intended work. “Baby, [these stories are] just dry leaves. Only good for fire.” She responded with passion and certainty, “but I want these leaves.” He laughed and agreed to meet with her.

This was the beginning of a long career dedicated to empowering her people to speak their stories, write their stories for themselves. Flora herself first wrote in Tahitian [instead of French, which is the language most commonly associated with literacy] for a profoundly simple reason – so her mother could read it too.

She speaks of her sense of great responsibility for the older generation to transmit their knowledge to newer generations, because “they have to know from where they came.” Her energy has always been dedicated to the people who for reasons of history and injustice have been stripped of their voices. When she was younger, Flora chose to work not in a French university, but among people less privileged, somewhere where she could help “to say, from the floor, what’s inside us.”

In class, Flora stands quietly without extra movement. Her shoulders slope down and remind me of a mountain, strong and sure of itself. She gestures with her hands, using her fingers to physically pull the words out of her and mold the sounds into shapes we can understand. Her poetry runs so deeply in her that her words have beauty even in a language unfamiliar to her, each word a careful stone weighted with feeling, purpose, and the effort of expression.

AY: What do you feel is the importance of art in society?

FD: I think that…when I say that we write from our feelings, our life, from the good, the bad, the experiential…from the contradictions in our life…from our difficulties in our life, and also from our joys and depressions in our life. We write especially about the sad or the violence inside us. We try to do…to do something. First we have to cross…to pass away this feeling, this emotion with our doing. And it pass by the writing, by the sculpture, by the painting, by the music, by the arts.

TWO.

Celestine rushes out of the car like running electricity, laughing and talking. In jeans and a string of Tahitian pearls wrapped defiantly around her neck, she immediately captivates the class with her energy and animation. Célestine begins her talk to us by talking about her childhood. She grew up in a very poor part of Fa‘a, but as she describes it, this period in her life was filled with color and adventure filled with strong women. “I loved my neighborhood!” she exclaims.

She talks with deep affection and humor about her mother, who made a living as a professional cleaner. Despite books being a luxury item, her mother made it a point to make her children learn the importance of reading and writing. These two skills have helped Célestine feel empowered to tell her own story and her mother’s.

I will let her speak for herself.

In the Beginning:

Célestine: “And at eight, my godmother gave me my first book ever…and I thought, oh, I wanted so much a Barbie Doll…”[Listen]

All About My Mother:

Célestine talks about how writing helped her to reduce “The Electrician” to mincemeat. [Listen]

>>>>>>>><<<<<<<

EXCLUSIVE Ka Lamakua SOUND BYTE:

Despite being exhausted after a long morning of talking to a UHM English class, Célestine Hitiura Vaite and Flora Devatine take a moment to share with Ka Lamakua their advice for new writers. [Listen]

Anne Kennedy is the University of Hawaii’s Distinguished Writer in
Residence for Fall 2006. Her newest book is a narrative poem, The
Time of the Giants. It is the story about the relationship between a
young woman giant and a – “medium-sized,” as she puts it – man.
Kennedy speaks of her giant girl as someone who is entirely willing to
conform to the ideas of society by hiding her height at all costs; she
tries her best to be sitting whenever in her suitors’ presence.
Kennedy has published five books of fiction as well as collections of poetry. She is currently the co-editor of Trout, an online arts and literature
journal from Aotearoa and the Pacific Islands.

Interview by Blaine Tolentino

KL: Which, of all your published work, are you most proud of? And, of course, why?

AK: I’m most proud of my most recent book, The Time of the Giants, which is a long narrative poem about a young woman giant who forms a relationship with a medium-sized man. Through the whole relationship she tries to hide her height from him, going to great lengths never to stand up in his presence. Sometimes a storyline drops into your lap and I felt pleased this one had because it says something about the way we think young women should look like and behave like. I think we’re going backwards as a society in that regard – I’m talking about the West in general. Young women seem to be MORE concerned about conforming than they were, say, a generation ago. My giant character is like that. But the book also brings together a couple of strands of writing that I’ve had going on for years – poetry and plot. I was influenced by Virgil’s Eclogues.

KL: Where had you been residing before being at the University of Hawaii?

AK: I’ve been in Hawaii with my family for three years, because my husband Robert teaches writing at UH.

KL: As a teacher? If so, how is it that the students at the University ofHawai‘i differ from your prior experience?

AK: I’ve a bit, not a lot, in the past, so can’t really compare at this stage.

KL: How is it being on the resident writer “circuit”, how often do youinvolve yourself in this sort of thing, how were you engaged to be atthe university? Those sorts of things.

AK: I feel so incredibly lucky to have been offered this fellowship. The university is a wonderful place to be, full of interesting people and ideas. Teaching is a buzz. I’ve had a fellowship before, back in Auckland at the university there, but it wasn’t a teaching position. In Aotearoa the university writing fellowships don’t involve teaching, you just write. The teaching side is an American thing, in fact the whole notion of teaching creative writing at all is American – it began in Iowa about forty years ago I think. Now it’s being exported all over the world like wheat.

KL: I see that you cited Alice Monroe and Flannery O’Connor as a pair ofyour favorite writers. Do you find yourself comparable to them? Isit more of a keen point of inspiration or do you aspire to accomplishliterary works similar to theirs?

AK: I admire those writers greatly – Flannery O’Connor for the grotesque thing she has going – but you can’t set out to write like another writer. For one thing, you have to have your own voice. Writing is about voice. If you have a voice you can do anything with it. So in fact reading a writer you hugely admire could be a disadvantage while you were in the intense stages of writing a particular piece. Janet Frame, one of our most esteemed writers from Aotearoa, said she didn’t read any fiction at all while she was writing a novel. She only read poetry.

KL: Have you been to any of the readings around town? This question ismore about the literary scene. How do you perceive it? Do you feelthat its flourishing or being diminished? It’s always interesting toget an outsiders point of view on this sort of thing because itsdifficult, of course, to judge something like that when you are soclose to the source (as we are).

AK: There are small festivals going on here that are amazing. You have to look out for them though. I’ve been to some memorable readings here – Mahealani Kamau’u was the most recent. I’ve enjoyed hearing people read at UH – W.S. Merwin the most recent, And some wonderful writers come through – Martin Espada was here a couple of years ago.

I think the scene is definitely growing but it would be good if several pockets got together. It’s a small place – we have much the same problem in Aotearoa. We’ve got 4 million people, but that’s still small. Writers festivals there have grown over the last 15 years or so. They take time to catch on. But that said, festivals aren’t everything. You can get too carried away with thinking festivals are writing. They’re just the public face of it. Only writing is writing. And there’s some amazing writing happening here. I’m a fan of Rodney Morales and Gary Pak who are both at UH, of Haunani-Kay Trask and I know of a couple of younger poets who’s work we’ll no doubt see soon. People just need to buy their books! A writer can’t keep writing if they don’t sell books.

I co-edit an on-line literary magazine, Trout (www.trout.auckland.ac.nz) with my husband Robert, and recently we did a combined issue with Tinfish – edited by the inimitable Susan Shultz, who puts out a phenomenal number of books and chapbooks.

For more information on Anne Kennedy’s literary readings, go to http://www.english.hawaii.edu/events/events.html

By Alyssa S. Navares

He looked inside and now tells others through his books to Chaloookyu Eensai, too.

Kaua’i-born poet Jozuf (Joseph) Hadley, also known as Bradajo, uses pidgin as a medium of self-discovery in order to encourage island locals to do the same.

“People are always taught to look at what’s outside or at the form of things,”  said Bradajo, who spent much of his childhood days contemplating for hours in the jungle behind his house.  ”We should present our inside selves to others and focus on the now you.”

As the first pidgin poet and artist, Bradajo published his 1972 edition of Chaloookyu Eensai (Try Look You Inside). The palm-sized book addresses the issue of understanding oneself through a compilation of personal experiences while growing up on the Garden Isle.

Bradajo looked deep into the inner core of himself for many years strolling through the plantation jungle, playing the ukulele, but spending a few days in Waimea Canyon proved to be most inspiring for him.

“I hiked up a waterfall near Alaka’i Swamp to find the source of the water and came to a black pool,” he said. “That was da beginning when my poetry shifted to pidgin.”

“Da Beegeeneen” takes the reader on a spiritual journey, in which Bradajo uses the pidgin colloquialism to convey his message in a more free-form style.

Changing his writing to pidgin, a spoken language common in the nineteenth-century among plantation workers, remains a mystery to Bradajo. He does not recall learning pidgin but rather, absorbing the language differently than he did English. He attributes nature to his pidgin-speaking ways.

“I just can’t explain it,” he said.  ”I’ve always felt like a fish out of water. So, nature was my way of communicating.”

Bradajo presents his many Hawaiian pidgin haiku poems as calligraphic puzzles that he hopes the reader will use to figure out the meaning. CD recordings of Bradajo reciting his poems help to piece those puzzles together.

Ink-pen calligraphy, which he admits this method is also a mystery, stains each page of his four books with onomatopoeic pidgin. These books include Chaloookyu Eensai, Foreeel (for Real), Avebade Bade (Everybody’s Body) and Da Bradajo Yellow Tablet.

Inspired by the summer 2006 film on global warming called “An Inconvenient Truth,” his most recent Da Bradajo Yellow Tablet addresses more contemporary issues when compared to his other books.

“I struggled with the information for months,” Bradajo said. “This movie made things clear for me because I was so overwhelmed by the truth.”

His pidgin writings launched a craze among local artists, who used pidgin to express themselves in a variety of ways. Soon theatrical performances, books, commentary and comedy found their way into people’s lives as a constant reminder of an often-overlooked language.

Pidgin also found its way in classrooms around the state.

Kapiolani Community College professor Lee Tonouchi teaches pidgin literature as one of few professors formalizing the language in schools. In Fall 2006, he will teach a Hip Hop Hawaii course and use local magazine “Hip Hop Hawai‘i” as a textbook supplement.

“For dat class, one of da tings we going be examining is da current state of Pidgin,” Tonouchi said.  ”We going try look ws going on wit da intersection of Pidgin and Hip-Hop speak among da young Pidgin talkers today.”

For many years, people looked down upon pidgin-speaking, especially in classes. Some teachers even refused to let their students go to the bathroom until they asked in standard English.

“These scholars are showing that pidgin is a valid form of expression,” Bradajo said. “Pidgin denoting a lack of intelligence is a dominant view in Hawai’i. People shouldn’t heal others wounds by not speaking it “just be you.”

Portrait

An Austrian

The German Grandmother’s Got a Smile

“What the hell? Was this written by third-graders?”

was the first thing I heard as I entered the Ka Leo building, looking for Candice Novak. Sure enough, it was her voice echoing throughout the newsroom, letting the entire editorial staff know of its literary incompetence.I pulled Candice away from her desk for a quick interview.

KL: Hey Candice, how are you doing?

CN: I’m fine.

Really, you seemed a little flustered earlier.

No, no. I’m just really passionate about writing… and about getting other people to DO THEIR JOBS (she yelled it so that the entire newsroom could hear it).

Well, let’s start from the beginning. As a child, how did you fill your time, besides yelling at people for grammatical deficiencies?

Growing up, I had an imaginary everything – friends, wars, ponies, adventures.

Okay. You sound like a very interesting child. How did this childhood lead you to become such an intriguing writer and poet?

I spent all my summers in strange places like on a cow field in Germany drinking fresh milk from the barn, the Bayou of Louisiana watching rodeo games, in San Francisco where everyone smelt mysteriously like oregano and the roads were like roller coasters. For all of this I was brutally forced by my dad to write a page a day in a journal about all this weird stuff my brothers and I were dragged along for. I guess I started doing it on my own at some point, and now I have graphophilia.

That can be a deadly disease. Now that you’re an outted graphophile, what prompts your writing? I mean, where are you when your inner bard emerges?

In a crowd, in the morning, in the dark, outside with my cat, in a fluffy chair, while listening to Miles Davis, when it rains and there’s that earthy smell in the air, after it rains and everything’s quiet, while I drink a cranberry-vodka, after I can’t handle anymore vodka, after a nightmare.

What kind of voice would you say that you use in your works?

You can’t hear my voice, what you hear while you read is always your own voice. Try it. I never really thought about it that way, but you do make sense.

On another note, what do you think about the burgeoning arts scene in Honolulu? How have you been contributing?

Does sneaking into shows and galleries with bars count? I can’t say that I’m too impressed with much of the ‘burgeoning’ arts scene when most of them are 21 plus. Basically, I’m involved, but I tend to like the off beat University art gallery show over a Tool concert, for example. Either way, I end up writing about it, wether it’s a rave or bashing.

You do bring up a valid point. I mean, your first immersion in the writer’s culture started in childhood, as did many other prominent and creative writers and poets. I’m sure. Judging from your experiences, you seem like a pretty hip cat.

I’m definitely not hip, and I tend not to like cool people in general.

Okay, okay. You may not be a cat, but do you have one? Well, we have a cat that adopted us. Occasionally he’ll bring in a bird he’s caught and just pluck its feathers while the bird trembles naked. We’re proud of him, but he’s a snob, like all cats. We just feel honored that he lets us feed him and plop stunned animals on our bed.

Your cat sounds very nice. Nice. Ya, nice. So, what else fills up your spare time besides ridding your bed top of half-dead creatures?

Sewing found material together into something wearable, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle – only until Wednesday, after that it becomes embarrassingly hard – and finding typos after I do the crossword, meeting strangers that are eerily open about their lives, and willing to divulge everything they really shouldn’t, for the sake of art.

Gathering personal information from strangers? Finding typos in the paper? Sounds like a closet journalist. 

I’ve been writing for papers and publications since high school. Right now, I’m the Chief Copy Editor at my college newspaper and working at the Honolulu Weekly.

What other jobs have you held? I worked at a used bookstore so I could syphon all the good books out before they went to the shelves. That was the most profitable job I’ve had, actually.

Syphoning books? You are definitely hardcore.

-By Matthew K. Ing, Managing Editor