FLUX No. 34 Power

22 | Arts

Sally Lundburg & Keith Tallett

30 | Community Craig Hanaumi 36 | Technology

| Arts

192 | Campaign Refections

48 | In the Wake of Water

Christian Cook recounts the record-breaking rainfall, fash fooding, and mudslides that devastated Kaua‘i’s north shore.

62 | The Guardians

Lindsey Kesel shares insider stories from O‘ahu’s active sisterhood of lifeguards, who are some of the most elite and respected waterwomen in the world.

76 | Enclothed Cognition

There is more to what we wear than meets the eye. Chris Rohrer photographs individuals dressed in their most self-afrming garments.

92 | Birth Rights

From a landmark legal case to changing health care protocols concerning placenta, Rae Sojot covers indigenous birthing rights, traditions, and wellness here on the islands.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

102 SPECIAL SECTION

PELE

The Hawaiian Islands are forged by fire. Recent events at K ī lauea bring this understanding to the surface with breathtaking intensity.

 Shown above is Leilani Estates, a subdivision in Puna that was at the center of the media’s international coverage of Hawai‘i Island’s disastrous lava flows in 2018. Photos by John Hook.

Who What Wear

In this video essay, diverse modes of dress display a range of attitudes, contextual clues, and ways the world is navigated. “It’s about signaling a meaning to those around you and to yourself,” says Joni Sasaki, an assistant professor of cognitive psychology at the University of Hawai’i at noa, not ust as individuals but also who they are in connection to the community around them.”

ON THE COVER:

An explosion of rock in the glow of lava at Kamokuna, Hawai‘i Island in 2017, photographed by Elyse Butler. The event occurred after a section of the lava delta collapsed into the ocean on New Year’s Eve. Butler visited the dramatic and unforgettable spectacle by boat just after daybreak. “I came away with a deeper sense of wonder about volcanoes and how the islands are created,” Butler says. “As the daughter of a seismologist, I’ ve gro n up around scienti c data about how the Earth moves, but seeing lava up close gave me a fuller understanding.” Read more about the eruptions at lauea on page .

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“An ability to act or produce an effect.”

If you turn to the Merriam-Webster dictionary and look up the word po er, this is the rst entr listed. The next reads “possession of control, authorit , or infuence o er others. he most performati e de nition of “physical might”—the meaning that can be most easily observed in others—doesn’t appear until three entries do n. nd it telling that our main understanding of power is built around recognizing that it is largely felt over seen. That, with power, we sense its potential before the actual fact.

As 2018 progressed, Hawai‘i’s natural forces made the vagaries of power that inspired this issue all the more clear and potent. Fire and water, and what these elements left in their wakes, ended up as building blocks for this issue of FLUX. In Christian Cook’s field account and film photos of the storm that shook Kaua‘i’s north shore on page 48—made all the more haunting considering the images were tainted by the torrential rains after water seeped into his camera gear—disaster allowed room for deep reflection. Lava allowed similar sentiments to surface for the writers and photojournalists who brought to life our special section on Pele that begins on page 102. Nothing is permanent, these stories reveal, no matter how solid the foundation under your feet may seem. We can climb our way to higher levels of power, yet we are also not in control.

lauea is still erupting, and as Coo states, “Floods will come again.”

Following my first year as an editor, I’ve been deliberating on what this

role means, on what power it yields. I’ve learned there are many things required of editors beyond managing words, assigning photography, and making them stick coherently to the page. There are responsibilities that occur off paper that require an editor’s devotion, too, like fostering a creative environment and upholding spaces where we feel free to be expressive and take risks with our work. Being an editor involves analyzing structure—breaking sentences apart, bridging passages together—in a written story, but also the structural dynamics of one’s relationships with a team. I like that if you walk into our Chinatown office, you might find it hard to discern who is in charge. That there aren’t insulated, corner offices where our publisher, creative director, or editors sit in rooms separate from individuals divided by cubicles. We share desks and resources in an open floor plan where anyone can raise a thought or ask for feedback, out loud, at any time. We all have a window view.

This framework and access is essential to producing a composite of voices and perspectives every issue. The themes of FLUX reflect our interests and what is on our minds, but, more specifically, they materialize in the form of questions: What does it mean when...? What would it look like if...? How can this story be more of that or less of this, and what could that say? It’s what I’m struck by most about our team’s process, from conception to execution, and what I appreciate above all: the constant

stream of consideration, of inquiry. I’m so enthralled by this issue’s cover image of lauea photographer Elyse Butler because, for me, it captures this same attitude: In its overwhelming magnitude, it forces you to look hard and make sense of what it even is

When I discuss ideas with Lisa Yamada-Son, FLUX’s editor in chief, and we’re uncertain about whether they belong in an issue, we often return to whether or not they are in service to the publication’s mission: to show Hawai‘i as a place that is dynamic, not static; to inspire thought and conversation, not apathy; to activate prose and photography in ways that engage rather than pacify readers. To transfer whatever creative influence we’ve used into shaping a story out to the reader.

So, once you’ve finished reading a piece—seen its ultimate photo, followed it to its final word, and hopefully, been expanded on something you previously knew little about—you won’t feel it’s enough to merely be made more aware of it: You might feel empowered. You may feel “an ability to act,” even if that action is to put forth more questions. You may ask yourself, Now that I know about this, what will I do with it?

With aloha,

Matthew Dekneef EDITORIAL DIRECTOR @mattdknf

MASTHEAD

“A passage from Virginia Woolf’s journals that reads, ‘The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.’ For myself, it’s a constant reminder to embrace uncertainty and have no fear of the future.”

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©2008-2019 by Nella Media Group, LLC. Contents of FLUX Hawaii are protected by copyright and may not be reproduced without the expressed written consent of the publisher. FLUX Hawaii assumes no liability for products or services advertised herein. FLUX Hawaii is a triannual lifestyle publication.

ISSN 2578-2053

Christian Cook

Born on Kaua‘i and raised there by journalist parents, Christian Cook grew up around the island’s historians, ecologists, farmers, and conservationists. With a background in computer science, Japanese language, and world travel, Cook writes about futurism, culture, and the relationship between humans and the natural environment. Returning to his home island in early 2018, Cook found himself faced ith historic fooding on the north shore and the looming threat of a destructive hurricane in the feature, “The Wake of Water,” page 48. “My life was thrown into chaos after my childhood home was destroyed in Hurricane Iniki in 1992 with my family inside of it,” he says. he analei food rought ac apocalyptic visions of what it’s like to survive without modern resources.”

Joshua Iwi Lake

Joshua Iwi Lake is an artist, graphic designer, photographer, and lmma er. n riting a out Hawai‘i’s data archiving systems and public statues of historic heroes, on pages 36 and 144, respectively, a e contemplates the signi cance of crafting a collective memory and identity. “Hawaiian culture has struggled to maintain its language, history, and knowledge base due to rapid religious, political, and economic changes in the islands,” he says. “From this change, Hawaiians have been marginalized and underrepresented in leadership roles only to be used in decorative or super cial a s. hrough continuous e orts in education, archi ing, and placemaking, Hawaiians will hopefully regain agency as stewards of the islands, avoiding irrelevance and extinction in the process.” As an indigenous designer, Lake’s lifelong goal is to assist Hawaiian culture into the 21st century and beyond.

Bailey Rebecca Roberts

Bailey Rebecca Roberts is a photographer who was born and raised on Maui. She earned degrees in photography and cultural anthropology at Parsons School of Design in New York City, where she lived and worked for nearly a decade before returning to Hawai‘i. For the feature, “An Upstream Battle,” page 132, Roberts covered Maui’s Ke‘anae region to visit the home and lo‘i kalo of water rights activists Ed and healani endt. Ro erts as most struck by their dedication to their cause. eople li e d and healani are not fueled by popularity or social media likes, but by the reclamation of their power and collective power of their community. Their hearts are rooted in conviction and dedication to their culture and lineage, and to the gift that is their home.”

During Kaua‘i’s flash floods, the north shore received nearly 50 inches of water in a 24-hour period. Image by Christian Cook.

POWER

“Looking weak takes tremendous courage.”—Timothy A. Schuler

The Burdens of Artmaking

The latest commissions of artists Sally Lundburg and Keith Tallett comment on Hawai‘i families’ trying times.

TEXT

BY

RAE SOJOT

IMAGES BY MICHELLE MISHINA

It’s a warm summer morning and artist Sally Lundburg is not getting dressed for work. Rather, she s getting undressed for it. hile al ing past stands of oa and hia on the four-acre Pa‘auilo homestead she and her husband, Keith Tallett, call home, Lundburg strips down from her jeans and T-shirt and into a black swimsuit.

Nearby is a small pond, its still surface reflecting the deep greens of the surrounding forest. Lundburg slips into the water soundlessly and lines of inky water unfurl around her in languid, concentric circles. A few meters away, a floating piece of cordwood from a 2012 Honolulu Academy of Arts installation Lundburg created of koa logs, inkjet prints, silk, and epoxy resin reveals a sepia image of a man from Hawai‘i’s bygone plantation era. His gaze is stoic amid the rise and fall of the incoming eddies. Camera in hand, Lundburg examines the log with interest. It rests partially submerged at a curious slant, its exposed surface now textured with thin, white, raised wrinkles. It has no doubt been affected by its time in the pond.

The piece is one of 37 logs used in Sink or Swim , Lundburg’s mixed-media installation commissioned as part of a collaboration between the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center and Aloha United Way. In this work, Lundburg examines concepts of fragility and resilience—all-too familiar themes in Hawai‘i, where the struggle for financial security resembles a path along the razor’s edge. Living expenses in Hawai‘i are on average nearly two-thirds higher than the rest of the United States, and almost half of all residents live paycheck to paycheck, according to the Aloha United Way “ ALICE Report a ai i . ” According to this report’s findings, financial hardship is especially felt by a segment of the population termed as ALICE, an acronym for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed. These are households with working adults who struggle to cover basic necessities such as food, housing, transportation, healthcare, and childcare and yet remain ineligible for government relief programs. In other words, households that are poor, but not poor enough.

 Keith Tallett and Sally Lundburg in their home and studio space in Pa‘auilo, Hawai‘i Island.

Lundburg and Tallett, who is also an artist, were both commissioned to create a piece in response to the Aloha United Way’s findings. The two were given carte blanche to transform the report’s sheer volume of research and complex analytics into something alive: art. “It’s this giant, almost overwhelming document full of data, graphs, and numbers,” Lundburg says. The report struck a personal chord with the couple, too. In reading about struggling families, they recognized their own. “I remember thinking, ‘Whoa,’” Lundburg says. “We fit into that category.”

Upon reading the report, Lundburg recalls being drawn to the idea of buoyancy: the ability to rise or sink depending on one’s internal and external circumstances. Observing cordwood’s interactions in nature undergirded what Lundburg describes as interconnectedness—how each decision we make in turn affects other decisions, an endless ripple effect influenced by personal strengths and

weaknesses, resources or the absence of them, and the people individuals surround themselves with. Lundburg says, “All of these factors affect how we collectively or individually rise or become submerged.”

With achieving financial stabilty in Hawai‘i often a Sisyphean task, the “starving artist” who strikes gold and now lives comfortably off her art alone is the exception rather than the rule. “When you go to art school, you’re told the odds are stacked against you,” Tallett says.

For Lundburg and Tallett, being artists requires a twin mindset of creativity and pragmatism. Though long-established and active as artists, both still hold full-time jobs in order to support their family, which includes their teenage daughter, Kia‘i. But making ends meet is no easy task, and it is made more challenging by their decision to live in a rural area on Hawai‘i Island where creative career opportunities are scarce and tough decisions arise at the intersection of priorities, passions, and paycheck.

 Lundburg’s installation, Sink or Swim , addresses familiar themes for Hawai‘i families who are struggling with financial security.

A detail shot of Tallett’s Paycheck 2 Paycheck , which sources data from the ALICE Report to create a stamped pattern that highlights the high cost of living in Hawai‘i.

Both artists tackle contentious topics in their art careers. Tallett’s 2017 piece “Vamos Amigo” addressed the immigration policies of the United States.

These sentiments are confronted in Tallett’s piece titled Paycheck 2 Paycheck At the couple’s studio on their property, a massive roll of white cotton rag paper hangs near the ceiling’s edge and unspools to the floor like a massive receipt. It is systematically stamped with an unusual design: custom-made, large-scale images of paychecks. Covered with rows upon rows of crimson paychecks—Tallett chose the color red to speak to being “in the red,” fiscally— the piece looms like a formidable brick wall. Upon closer scrutiny, each stamp is a cryptograph of sorts that reveals a cache of information. The graphics reflect the sobering data found in the ALICE Report, which include everything from housing needs to income statistics to the ongoing pressures of having to stretch one paycheck long enough to meet the next. The mixedmedia piece showcases how a limited income is not just a disadvantage but a palpable barrier to financial security. In

the most trying times, Tallett muses, it feels like an insurmountable wall.

Creating art inspired by the stark nancial realities so man a ai i households face has struck home for Lundburg and Tallett. But it has also reminded them that their choices refect their purposeful decision to live as artists regardless of income stability. “We are kind of further away from the sun,” Tallett concedes. However, wealth can be framed in variety of ways, including what one chooses to do. “Our heads and minds are rarely still,” Lundburg says. “We want to be doing this. We imagine the life we want to live, and then gure out ho e ma e it happen.

 Tallett and Lundburg with their daughter, Kia‘i.

To learn more about the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center, visit smithsonianapa.org.

Humanizing the Badge

As a member of the Bellevue Police Department, an ‘Aiea local aims to change the way the community he serves views ofcers in uniform.

TEXT BY KYLIE YAMAUCHI

IMAGES BY IJFKE RIDGLEY

Officer Craig Hanaumi likes to joke that of any job, police officers have the closest one to being Batman. “We have a car that has special equipment, we have a uniform with armor and a belt full of tools, and we get to fight crime,” Hanaumi says. “There’s no other job like that.”

But the masked vigilante and blue-clad law enforcement ofcers share more similarities than gadgets and goals. oth face intense scrutiny, tend to keep their personal identities private, and are seen as enforcers of the law. They’re de ned their uniforms, not ho the are underneath.

In recent years, Hanaumi has worked to combat this by “humanizing the badge,” he says. Today, the Bellevue police officer uses his personal interests and hobbies to redefine how the community perceives him, creating personalized forms of outreach in his Washington community. News outlets such as Today and ABC News have featured him as the “skateboarding cop,” presenting atypical coverage of a police officer. The 42-year-old visits skateparks, schools, and community centers and shares it on his Instagram with an audience of 34,000 followers, creating relationships in person and over social media. “It’s neat to see good acts every once in a while,” Hanaumi says. “Because [the media] is usually just negative stories, which is unfortunate.”

ac on ahu, the iea igh chool graduate patrolled District Four, which spans Kahuku to aim nalo, after oining the police force in . hile he had been attracted to the job for its promise of job security,

 In response to growing anti-police sentiment nationwide, Craig Hanaumi builds trust and improves relationships with Bellevue’s youth by appealing to their interests.

its wages weren’t enough for him to ignore a ai i s rising cost of li ing. n , Hanaumi moved to Washington after being hired by the Bellevue Police Department.

On May Day, which made him think of lei, he learned of protests in Seattle. In the Northwest, the day had long been marked by demonstrations for labor rights, but that year there was a heavy focus on police brutality. He was surprised by the antipolice sentiment and militaristic response. As he acclimated to his settings and settled into his community, Hanaumi learned of the four city-run skate parks. This news of a thriving skate scene excited the police officer, who had lived and breathed the sport in his childhood. The classic skate film The Search for Animal Chin featuring the iconic trio the Bones Brigade—Tony Hawk, Steve Caballero, and Mike McGill—engrossed Hanaumi when he was 10 years old. The film featured Wallows, a gulch in O‘ahu’s Niu Valley, which gave him every reason to assume a skater persona. But increasing amounts of

time spent in school and at work put his skateboard into retirement. It wasn’t until 2015 that he decided to return to the familiar landscape of concrete and Masonite slopes. He hadn’t skated for nearly two decades, but praises of Bellevue’s four skate parks increased his longing to get back on the board. Not wanting to draw attention, he visited Bellevue Indoor Skate Park one evening after work, during the park’s slower hours. To his relief, only an employee and a 6-year-old were there. The pair greeted the uniformed police officer with some confusion, since cops were usually only present for events or camps. When Hanaumi asked if he could join the action, their confusion became skepticism. Assuming Hanaumi had no experience, Akash Rishi, the worker on duty, handed over the necessary skate equipment and began to instruct him on the basic skating stance: Stand on the bolts, bend your knees, stay low. Hanaumi dropped in on the ramp with ease.

 The 42-year-old officer approaches his job with humility and a smile. His motto is “Serving and protecting with aloha.”

 A thriving local skate scene excited the police officer, who had lived and breathed the sport during his upbringing in Hawai‘i.

Impressed, Rishi asked for a picture with Hanaumi to post on Instagram. “Seeing the amount of positivity that came out of Akash’s reaction, I thought ‘I can use this activity as an outreach,’” Hanaumi says. “And then I realized there are camps here with two dozen kids coming out for a week at a time. Every single one of those kids probably has never had any interaction ith the police, and their rst one can e of me skateboarding with them.”

From then on, Hanaumi kept a skateboard in his police car. “Anything done in uniform gets more notice,” he explains. “But I’m the same person whether in uniform or not. It’s just weird to see an officer doing normal things, because people aren’t thinking officers are human beings or have hobbies.” When given slower work assignments in mellow areas, Hanaumi experimented on his skateboard, which drew curious observers, as he hoped. He also teaches jiu jitsu at community

centers like the YMCA and Boys and Girls Clubs as part of his job as a police officer. In his spare time, he continues to hone his skating skills, and he also volunteers teaching students low-brass instruments at Tillicum Middle School. He is almost always in uniform.

 Hanaumi became a police officer in 2003 for District Four on O‘ahu, which spans Kahuku to Waim ā nalo. Three years later, he was hired by the Bellevue Police Department.

Officer Hanaumi is on Instagram at @craighanaumi.

Data Loss

Local television, newspapers, and radio stations build bodies of work that preserve the history of places and their communities. But these institutions are shrinking.

TEXT

AND IMAGES BY

JOSHUA IWI LAKE

In the spring of 2010, I stood ankle-deep in colorful wires that lay in twisted piles on the floor of KGMB studio’s master control room. The oldest surviving television station in Hawai‘i, KGMB had hosted many locally produced programs, including Hawaii’s Superkids , Hawaiian Moving Company , Rap Reiplinger’s Rap’s Hawaii , and Checkers and Pogo . But this station that had provided Hawai‘i families with authentic local programming for more than 50 years had finally succumbed to the realities of an internet world, merging with local stations KFVE and KHNL a few months earlier. It was relocating to a new shared home in Kalihi, and what was left of its former location was a maze of lifeless rooms filled with boxes, old furniture, and forgotten technology.

As I wandered the empty offices and hallways with Mike May, a friend and former KGMB news cameraman, we found one room that stood out from the rest: a small office space lined with mismatched bookshelves and oddly shaped boxes. It was the tape room. Typical of television studios, this room was a climate-controlled space that held broadcast-ready versions of programs and any reusable raw footage. Typewritten labels on cases denoted episodes of Hawaii Superkids , Hawaiian Moving Company , and nightly newscasts.

ll legac media, including these lm reels, was to be donated and digitized at the Henry Ku‘ualoha Giugni Moving Image Archive of Hawai‘i at the University of Hawai‘i’s West O‘ahu campus, part of plans to protect KGMB’s archives and make it available to future generations. This is important because newspapers, radio stations, and local television outlets like KGMB build bodies of work that preserve the history of a place and its people in perpetuity. Analog technology has portrayed our communities through stories, photographs, news segments, and children s tele ision sho s, and e are the ene ciaries.

Unfortunately, all technology is not created equal for doing so. For example, prior to the 1980s, almost all of the station’s content was shot on 16mm film. To reduce production costs demanded by the film, the station transferred its back catalog into newly emerging videotape technology and sent the original film to the city dump. But the videotapes deteriorated until they were unplayable. As these institutions disappear, we trade antiquated trappings of in on paper and light on lm for still ne er technology like Facebook posts and live television for Twitter updates. In doing so, we begin to undermine the archival services these legacy institutions provide. It is unknown if our investment in the internet and social media is building something similar. Our collective data represents who we are as a community and a culture. Without proper access to our shared stories, memories, and hopes, we undermine our own identities and self-determination.

According to Sree Sreenivasan, a technology journalist who served as chief digital officer for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and New York City, archives are a huge part of history. It is important to have an accurate historical record of everything and being able to access such archives enables this. However, paywalls, poor website design, and disregard for how the internet works have contributed to the demise of legacy institutions that generate this information even as they have attempted to go online. Furthermore, Sreenivasan continued, online platforms and individuals increasingly store everything digitally with cloud computing. “What happens if we lose access to the cloud?” Sreenivasan said to me during

 Inside KGMB studios, from the writer’s visit in 2010. It relocated to shared facilities following a local merger, and all its legacy media was donated.

a phone conversation. “Everything’s in the cloud, great, but what if the cloud is gone one day? What would happen to all the collected memory that we have?”

This scenario is more common than we think. In 2012, Twitter went down for a few hours, costing advertisers an estimated loss of $25 million per minute. In 2015, Facebook caused self-inflicted downtime for nearly an hour, sending the website, apps, and dependent services like Instagram and Tinder grinding to a halt. These websites affect billions of internet users. Then consider the hypothetical downtime of internet service providers, domain registrars and website hosts, government and education services, and the millions of websites that depend upon them. We may have traded our boring but stable solutions for a virtual house of cards.

The internet also has another flaw. “You know the old adage, ‘History is told by the winner?’ In this case, history may be told by the hacker,” Sreenivasan said. “Many years ago, the front page of the New York Times was hacked. … But that kind of vandalism you can tell has happened. What is much more insidious [is if hackers] go in and change the [earned run average] of a pitcher

from a baseball game of the ’40s or ’50s. No one would ever notice or check those records. That kind of tampering is huge.”

Hawai‘i, with its over-dependence on importation that has normalized out-ofstate purchasing decisions and influenced our internet habits, stands to lose the most from a rapid adoption of cloud-based services and increasing reliance on social media as an archival tool. The state’s investment in social media and internet web services place the majority of the data generated by its residents in servers on the mainland and beyond.

There is no local version of Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or YouTube, and likely never will be. The idea of instant connectivity in your pocket is a highly effective illusion that only exists if the islands’ power stays on. This issue gets increasingly dystopian when you consider nearly every popular service is a publicly traded company that sells your data for profit. Do we trust these companies to protect our heritage and keep our memories safe forever? Can we verify our data hasn’t been tampered with? Will there be anything to show to future generations?

 KGMB provided Hawai‘i families with authentic local programming for more than 50 years before finally succumbing to the realities of an internet world.

Hard Look

In art, as in life, men are constrained by old notions of masculinity. How do we break the mold?

TEXT BY TIMOTHY A. SCHULER

The men are alone. That’s the first thing I notice. Despite their differences—for they are old, young, black, brown, Czech, Hawaiian, heavy, slender, muscular, soft, real, symbolic, and fictional—almost all of the figures in MEN , an exhibition that debuted in September 2018 at the Hawai‘i State Art Museum, are depicted solo.

This isn’t so unusual. A portrait is, almost always, the study of an individual. Many artists begin by drawing the human od , and that od , too, is often a lone gure in a room. And yet there is something profound in the bodies of the men here, not least because, besides being alone, many of their faces are obscured. They show us their backs.

The second thing I notice is that, again with exceptions, the men are all doing something. They dive beneath the waves or bend over fishing nets. They hunt or surf or plant rice in dark paddies. Elizabeth Baxter, the show’s curator, said she didn’t select such images intentionally, but that’s the beauty of art: Even in a collection as small as the museum’s Art in Public Places collection, from which the exhibit was assembled, one can start to see patterns. That so many of the men in MEN are frozen in action says something about us.

The question is: What? What does it say that when we look at men, we largely see them as archetypes concerned with age-old tasks of hunting and gathering?

The exhibit, which spans the century between 1910 and 2010 and features work by Francis Haar, Carol Bennett, James Surls, and Jean Charlot, among others, leaves the question largely unanswered. Only a few pieces, such as Melinda Morey’s series on young men’s public posturing or Rick Allred’s La Bouche , address the topic of masculinity directly. And yet somewhat inadvertently, the show

joins a much larger conversation. In the past few years in the United States, there has been an explosion in the number of people trying to answer a very basic yet very complicated question: What does it mean to be a man?

New York Magazine devoted an entire recent issue to the topic, as did the podcast Death, Sex, and Money, while Devin Friedman published a meditation—in GQ of all places—on the sad lack of intimacy in male friendships. In the wake of #MeToo, discussions of toxic masculinity now can be found in the unlikeliest of places, such as Playboy, which published an exploration of the science of extremism featuring the work of Michael Kimmel, the executive director of Stony Brook University’s Center for the Study of Men and Masculinities.

It can also be found in think pieces about the Harry Potter spin-off Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them , whose highly sensitive, deeply human protagonist, Newt Scamander, has been praised for existing outside the macho mold of the typical Hollywood hero. Or in the national conversation surrounding the death of Anthony Bourdain, who publicly called out chefs who harassed women but also examined his own role in perpetuating the restaurant industry’s toxic culture. “Bourdain’s death is the loss of an ally,” penned one female writer.

Understanding what men are being taught has become an urgent task, and not just because every day seems to bring new sexual assault allegations. There is also a

 Masaji Kobayashi by photographer Brian Sato. On display in MEN , a group exhibition focused around artistic depictions of masculinity at the Hawai‘i State Art Museum.

growing awareness that we are poisoning ourselves. According to a 2018 poll of 1,000 kids aged 10 to 19 in the United States by PerryUndem for PLAN International USA, while the definition of what it means to be a girl has gradually expanded—the result of decades of hard work by women—boys continue to be taught that the number one thing a man should be is “tough.”

“Too many boys are trapped in the same su ocating, outdated model of masculinit , where manhood is measured in strength, where there is no way to be vulnerable without being emasculated, where manliness is about having power over others,” Michael Ian Black wrote in a New York Times op-ed in early 2018. “They are trapped, and they don’t even have the language to talk about how they feel about being trapped, because the language that exists to discuss the full range of human emotion is still viewed as sensitive and feminine.”

Black was responding to the mass shooting in Parkland, Florida. As of September 2018, there had been 104 mass shootings in the United States since 1982, and all but three of them were committed by men. Men are also responsible for the vast majority of rapes, sexual assaults, and instances of domestic violence in this country. Our violent rage is also aimed inward. Men commit suicide at more than triple the rate of women; in the United States, roughly 80 men kill themselves every day.

At least part of why men are prone to violence is because we are taught that vulnerability is a sign of weakness. As a result, as men get older, our relationships, especially with other men, tend to fade.

Our social circles become smaller and smaller until we find ourselves more or less alone. This sort of social isolation, we’re learning, can be just as deadly as physical violence. Researchers now believe that loneliness is a much greater public health epidemic than obesity, able to increase mortality risk by as much as 50 percent. If men are struggling, we have only ourselves to blame. We mistook our power for strength. We believed our own hype. We couldn’t see the warning signs, or if we did, we largely ignored them. In our silence, we forced women to do our emotional thinking for us. We outsourced to women any question about how we ought to behave in the world. We rely on women to tell us, “This is OK. That is not.” We ask women not only to su er our oorishness ut to it too.

Art and film have romanticized the image of the lone male hero, but rugged individualism is less rosy in real life. It comes at a price. While men retain the power in a patriarchy, we are also imprisoned by it, taught to assert ourselves but only in ways that do not threaten the system. Like war, patriarchy maims even the victors.

Standing in the gallery at the Hawai‘i State Art Museum, I think about the ways that I’ve internalized messages about shame, weakness, vulnerability. I never bought into the idea of machismo; I’ve been the shy, sensitive guy for as long as I can remember. Still, it seeps in. Like a muscle, our ability to be emotionally honest can atrophy. It’s taken three years of therapy to decode the breadth of my own feelings and learn how to access them in real time. And I still have a long way to go.

 The exhibit asks a very basic yet very complicated question: What does it mean to be a man?

Above, Query Abjection by Allen Hori.

 Photographer Robin Kaye’s portrait of a L ā na‘i resident from the 1970s titled Jonathan Mano

A series by Melinda

displays the backsides of its subjects, a common posture and motif that appears throughout creative expressions of men in contemporary art.

Morey

In the past few years, more Americans are trying to answer a basic yet complicated question: What does it mean to be a man?

From La Bouche , a series by Rick Allred.

Clearly, more than ever, there is a need for men to listen to the women in their lives—at home, at work, in school, on the eld. ut men also need to see out one another, not for empowerment, but for help. We have to unlearn what we were taught as boys and instead remind each other that it’s OK to be vulnerable, to look “weak.” Looking weak takes tremendous courage.

After I leave the exhibit, I find myself meditating on one image in particular, a black and white photograph by Robin Kaye, ho documented na i throughout the 1970s. The work is named for its subject, Jonathan Mano, who in the photograph wears a loose-fitting T-shirt and smiles proudly as he leans on the carcass of a huge pig, which is stretched out on a table, its skin sagging in huge, long folds.

At first glance, the image is full of all the old symbols: physical strength, violence, death. But then we read that the pig was not wild. Mano raised it for the occasion, a l au that as a out to ta e place. he circumstances of the animal’s death are a clue to something else as well: Mano is part of a communit . l au is not a solo event but a raucous, often celebratory feast,

full of uncles, aunties, cousins, friends. In his book, Lāna‘i Folks , Kaye wrote that the preparations for one l au too months and, during those days beforehand, “It was as if the party had already begun.”

We know very little about Jonathan Mano and nothing of his wellbeing in the moment that Kaye made his picture. But his is one of the only smiles in the exhibit. And at least a portion of his happiness seems to come from his participation in this communal ritual. I wonder: How can men recover this kind of community? To start, we’ll have to admit that community requires human connection and human connection requires vulnerability. A lot of men are learning this. I’m learning it. As I do, life gets a little bit easier, for me and for those around me.

Shortly after Mano posed with his pig, the animal would have been hauled to the imu. It would have been set on a bed of kiawe wood and red-hot stones, itself the result of much hard work performed by dozens of hands. What we see in the photo is a solitary man, but Mano is not alone. A party is about to begin. The feast is imminent.

 Art and film have romanticized the lone male hero, but rugged individualism can be less rosy in real life. Spear Fisherman by Louis Pohl.

MEN , on display at the Hawai‘i State Art Museum, runs through January 2019. Free and open to the public.

FLUX FEATURE

In the Wake of Water

Home to one of the wettest places in the world, Kaua‘i is blessed with an overabundance of rainfall. But the people who live there also know how unstoppable and destructive water can be.

TEXT

AND IMAGES

BY CHRISTIAN COOK

Growing up on Kaua‘i, water was all we knew. Every free second we had we spent playing in the tossing shore break at Lumaha‘i Beach, swimming in the frigid waters of cold ponds, or kayaking up a river to a waterfall. The water was always there, and always on our minds. At Hanalei Elementary School, every kid was obsessed with the surf and everyone constantly sketched perfect waves on school notebooks. Rain, floods, and landslides were also part of life growing up on Kaua‘i. I spent the night at my best friend’s house in Wainiha Valley every Wednesday, and the drive there, which took us over steep ridges on narrow two-lane roads with no guard rails, gave me recurring nightmares about landslides taking us over the edge. We would be free from school for weeks at a time when the typically placid Hanalei River would swell with the heavy rains of Mount Wai‘ale‘ale and spill over its banks, covering the road and even the bridge that connected Hanalei with the rest of Kaua‘i. These small natural disasters were normal, and we relished them. We shared the same insight as Hemingway in For Whom the Bell Tolls : “This was a big storm and he might as well enjoy it. It was ruining everything, but you might as well enjoy it.” The change a storm brought, those moments of uncertainty and unknowing were exciting and different, and they brought an element of danger to our everyday, idyllic life.

Then came Hurricane Iniki. Kaua‘i was demolished, and my life was never the same. My family lived in a small condominium, and in the second half of the hurricane, the roof of a nearby tower flew right into our condo. We were in the bathroom, and death missed us by only inches. I could tell you of other storms after that hurricane, about the time we saw ball lightning rolling around in the yard of

our off-the-grid home in Pila‘a, about when my uncle was lost at sea, about what it’s like to see a steadfast and strong coconut tree break out of the ground and fly in the air and the aquamarine blue of swimming pools transform into a deep green, about encountering massive sinkholes that opened in the middle of the road and swallowed swathes of asphalt. But these childhood memories could never prepare me for the destructive power of water that the people of Kaua‘i were yet to witness.

In mid-April 2018, I was an enjoying warm, sunny day on the west side of Kaua‘i. Sitting in the shade of my brother’s garage, I absentmindedly checked Instagram and saw the live feed of my friend Timothy Hamilton, who works at an upriver Hanalei tour boat yard on the island’s lush north shore. What he was broadcasting shocked me: Hanalei River as wide as the Amazon, its distant shore shrouded in rain.

Tim continued to live-stream through the morning, first from the boat yard and then from the mouth of Hanalei River. Floodwaters inched over the banks, up to his heels. Then, over the next hour, the water surged to head-high and reached as wide as a football field, washing away everything in its path. Tim filmed as he clung precariously to an areca palm to avoid being swept away in a deluge of foaming, chocolate-brown river water. Then, out of the maelstrom, a jet ski raced up to him. Tim reached out, and the ski delivered him to safety.

The gentle rain and waters of Kaua‘i had shown their darker side. They also revealed unlikely heroes.

On that day, the rain-saturated rivers and streams of Hanalei and Wainiha poured over their banks, flooding to levels beyond what anyone could remember. A rain gauge measured nearly 50 inches of rainfall in a 24-hour period, a world record. The raging rainwater soaked the land, causing landslides that moved homes off their foundations, undermined roads and  In the aftermath of historic flash flooding and mudslides, Hanalei Bay on the north shore was rendered unrecognizable to those who lived there.

i ak ana a iā ‘o

ia i a ka ai a ān

ia i lalo i ka on a i ka ai

ka ai ka a ān analoa

He waipuna, he wai e inu

He wai e mana, he wai e ola ola n a

One question I ask of you

o s a o ān

Deep in the ground, in the gushing spring

n s o ān an analoa

ll s in o a a a o a a o o a o li

Li Lon a i li

l o ān

buried them with red dirt. Early on April 15, determined to help, I set out for Princeville, a resort town sitting high on a plateau overlooking flood-ravaged Hanalei to the west. The road into Hanalei was closed by a police blockade, with officers in their blue uniforms waving traffic back and away from the destruction zone. I walked around to a side entrance. Even at Princeville, far above the low-lying flood plain of Hanalei, the extreme rain had broken the road in places. One section I had crossed countless times on my way to Foodland as a child was completely washed away, a gaping sore in the otherwise smooth roadway.

Making my way to the east bank of the Hanalei River, I came upon a flow of evacuees from the populated valleys of analei, ainiha, and ena ho had een rescued by boat and ski. Huge hands of green bananas, cans of gasoline, bottles of water, and other supplies packed by volunteers were piled up on the shore. Among them was a group of campers who had fled from the famous Kalalau Valley. The Kalalau Trail is renowned as a beautiful hike, but also as one of the world’s most dangerous. They had tra ersed this precarious trail to ena after the storm s rains lifted and then made their a do n flooded hi Highway to Hanalei. They recounted hiking through wash-outs on a narrow, slippery trail carved into a pali thousands of feet above the ocean, one slip away from a deadly plummet. They told of arriving back to civilization at a andoned each, utterl in shoc as the encountered apocalyptic scenes of downed telephone poles and abandoned vehicles littering the roads. I flagged down a friend on a jet ski. He dropped me upriver on a dock in the backyard of the home of big-wave surfer Laird Hamilton. The day before, Hamilton had tirelessly trekked up and down the river, rescuing people from second-story windows and delivering food and water to stranded people in Wainiha. A quarter-mile downriver, the home of retired longtime Hanalei boat captain and surfer Ralph Young lay in ruin, pushed aside effortlessly by a muddy landslide. The classic plantation-era home was nearly 100 feet from its foundation. The flood left behind a muddy outline of the house littered with his possessions. Ralph’s home lay peeled open like a tin can. A hole torn in a wall revealed a beautifully renovated bathroom exposed to the elements. I joined in retrieving glass balls, surfboards, and memorabilia from the mud.

Then I caught passage on a boat headed west to Wainiha Valley, which along with its adjoining valleys were the most heavily flooded areas. In earlier times, Wainiha was a kalo-farming valley, the longest-lasting on Kaua‘i. The waters of Wainiha, which make it prime for wetland taro farming, flow from the table-top plateau of ount ai ale ale, hich is a out , feet a o e sea level, and then pass through the valley on a 14-mile path to the Pacific Ocean. Rock walls were strategically erected to turn the wild waters of the stream into a precise irrigation system. Hawaiian planters at Wainiha fed a large

 Suffering major damage to roads and bridges, many communities were completely cut off from one another.

The majority of homes affected were in Hanalei, Wainiha, H ā‘ena, and Anahola.

population on taro, ananas, olon , s eet potatoes, a a, and noni. The name of the ahupua‘a translates to “angry waters” or “unfriendly waters,” perhaps a reference to both its flowing streams and its dangerous shoreline.

Growing up, I spent days with my best friend, Makana, exploring upper Wainiha Stream near his family home. We would wander barefoot under blue skies and brilliant sunlight through verdant fields, crossing streams by clinging to slippery stones. I remembered the dappled light filtered by the shade of overhanging choke plum trees, patches of light reflecting on the fast-moving mountain water. We would catch Tahitian prawns with our hands and sometimes even manage to score a sucker-bellied, slimy o‘opu. Those pleasant days belied the extreme power of the Wainiha streams. In the aftermath of the flood, I barely recognized the valley. Homes, brand new Toyota Tacoma trucks, and the possessions of entire lives were washed away on April 14. The flood forever transformed the landscape and the lives of families who were now bereft of houses, of dry clothes, of drinkable water, of any of the typical comforts we take for granted.

Returning to the beaches of Hanalei, the verdant mountain backdrop stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated and collapsing fooded lu ur homes that sell for double-digit millions along its coast. These mansions, twisted and waterlogged, stood in testament to the arrogance of man. Houses built upon sand had collapsed as the land under their foundations was swept away. I saw wrecked vehicles and pieces of once vainly glorious homes degrading into standing water and sediment. Walking through Black Pot Beach Park was the most shocking. I had spent so much of my youth at this beach. I had been umping o its pier for as long as I could remember, and relieving myself in its always sandy public restroom for just as long. I still have a scar on my back from being slammed into the parking lot’s ironwood hedge on my 14th birthday. Now this landscape that I

had considered ed and permanent, somewhere I could always relive my childhood exploits, was irrevocably transformed. Water had consumed the land around the pier, and the restroom lay squished on the ground nearly eight feet lower than where it was originally. Looking down into its ruins and seeing tilapia swimming around a sink where I had washed my hands for more than 30 years gave me the strangest feeling, one I can only describe as cognitive dissonance.

A flood tears everything apart. It also brings everything together and creates renewal and growth in the wake of its destructive path. Nine days after the flood, the townspeople of Wainiha, Hanalei, and Ha‘ena gathered at Hanalei Colony Resort to discuss plans for ongoing rescue and aid efforts and how to move forward. There still wasn’t enough drinking water. Standing water

 A preliminary assessment from the Hawaii Emergency Management Agency estimated nearly $20 million in damage to public properties from the severe storm.

throughout Wainiha contained disease-carrying microbes. Officials from the Department of Health and other government agencies took turns sharing their instructions and guidance. People, justifiably exhausted and frustrated, still managed to smile at one another across the room. Many people had lost their homes and were unable to work but remained cool and neighborly. A haunting mele had begun the town meeting, and its ethereal melody engendered thoughts of the countless generations who had come before, of Hawaiians traveling on foot and by canoe to meet around puna ho offered advice and support for ama ina ho ere ust as traumatized by the storms of ancient Hawai‘i.

The gentle and nourishing rain and waters of Kaua‘i had shown their darker side, a destructive force, unstoppable and unknowable. But they also revealed unlikely heroes. Talitha Byram, general manager of Hanalei Big Save, and her staff of two worked a 56-hour shift to keep residents and tourists fed and comfortable while they were trapped in Hanalei. The Robinson family landed a barge with supplies and Polaris UTVs for residents to navigate the transformed landscape. Volunteers immediately brought in excavators and worked to remove the debris from 12 landslides that blocked the roads. Water, that substance that we use so much of and

think of so little, showed its true power to destroy and divide, but also to dissolve the barriers between landowner and resident, tourist and shopkeeper, na a maoli and haole. Floods will come again. There will be storms and wind, lightning and rain.

Way out in the Pacific, our islands are the most remote in the world, completely exposed to the powerful forces of nature. Everything can change in an instant, and if we remain inflexible, we will be washed away just as easily as tears in the rain.

 More than 150 people were evacuated and rescued by helicopter and more than 120 by bus and watercraft from floodstricken areas.

FLUX FEATURE

T he

Gua rd ians

O‘ahu’s female lifeguards are some of the most elite and respected waterwomen in the world.

Every day, these fearless first responders test their power to save lives against the formidable Pacific Ocean.

TEXT BY LINDSEY KESEL

IMAGES BY JENNY SATHNGAM

She sits alone in a white tower before a sea of bobbing surfers waiting for the next set, capped swimmers following imaginary perpendicular lines, bodyboarders flirting with pounding shorebreak. She is tracking every silhouette in her line of sight, searching for the harbingers of trouble—the child ignoring his mother’s warning to stay close, the snorkeler inching closer to the current, the stand-up paddler with a beginner’s stance. While O‘ahu’s locals and visitors enjoy another day at the beach, she waits vigilant as bodyguard and guardian angel, ready to risk her own life to keep the sea from claiming the lives of those she protects.

“You go into tunnel vision,” says Kawehi Namu‘o, a 39-year-old lifeguard stationed at a a each ar on the island’s west side. “You’re running from the tower, your shades are flying off, you don’t see nothing around you. It’s just you against the ocean in that moment.”

he sta of cean Safety and Lifeguard Services, a division of the City and County of Honolulu Emergency Services Department, can’t a ord to tear their e es from the sea for longer than a few seconds at a time. Lifeguards are on duty seven days a week, including holidays, typically for eight-hour shifts, or longer if there’s high surf. The 42 towers on O‘ahu are split into

four districts: South Shore, Windward, North Shore, and Leeward—each with a captain and two or three lieutenants, plus two teams of eight personal rescue watercraft operators. Of the 126 lifeguards, only nine are women, and there’s never been a woman in a supervisor or watercraft position.

Hawai‘i is one of the few places in the world where lifeguarding is a year-round and full-time job. It’s also one of the most dangerous places to be a lifeguard, mixing inexperienced swimmers with hazards like strong currents, high surf, and sharp rocks. These risks are compounded by the growth

 Above, Kawehi Namu‘o, at Pō ka‘ ī Bay Beach Park. She is the west side’s lone female lifeguard and the only one with EMT certification. Previous spread, Ka‘iulani Bowers, a lifeguard stationed on O‘ahu’s east side.

of stand-up paddling, kayaking, hydrofoiling, and kitesurfing—sports that have high percentages of beginners. In 2017, local lifeguards assisted in 3,340 rescues, according to Shayne Enright, public information officer for the Honolulu Emergency Services Department. These included responding to 1,300 major medical cases (traumatic injuries, near drownings, and other calls requiring emergency medical services on the scene) and 16 drownings.

In 2018, O‘ahu will likely surpass the 23 million beach visits it saw the previous year—and more visitors means a greater potential for injuries, even fatalities. Ocean Safety continues to fortify the best defense it has in minimizing collateral damage from ocean recreation nding and recruiting rst responders like Namu‘o. As a kid, she was always on the beach near her home in n uli learning how to dive for tako (octopus) with her grandpa and teaching herself to surf. Working with the sea was all she ever wanted to do. On

her da s o , she surfs her favorite west side breaks or leads paddling crews as the head coach of aha Canoe Club. The only female lifeguard with EMT certi cation, she sa s it gi es her more con dence in caring for victims of severe injuries.

When Namu‘o first began lifeguarding, she rotated through the west side beaches and fell in lo e ith a a , a one-tower beach tucked in from Farrington Highway. She requested it as her permanent assignment. Having spent most of her 15-year career here, she has watched it go from a sleepy local hangout to what she calls the “West Side Ala Moana,” a location popular with tourists and locals like Ala Moana Beach in Honolulu. Today, the majority of her rescues involve visitors who are stand-up paddling. “It’s definitely higher stress,” she says. “A lot of stand-up paddlers have a false sense of confidence. They’re following dolphins and heading out in the surf now instead of staying in the flat water.”

 Lifeguard Chelsea Bizik mentors young girls in the Junior Lifeguards program. She says, “A lot of women care about looking skinny and petite, but that’s not us, we’re strong women.”

Lifeguards are on duty seven days a week, including holidays, typically for eight-hour shifts, or longer if there’s high surf. The 42 towers on O‘ahu are split into four districts: South Shore, Windward, North Shore, and Leeward—each with a captain and two or three lieutenants, plus two teams of eight personal rescue watercraft operators.

In 2018, O‘ahu will likely surpass the 23 million beach visits it saw the previous year, and more visitors means a greater potential for injuries, even fatalities. Ocean Safety continues to fortify the best defense it has in minimizing collateral damage from ocean recreation by finding and recruiting first responders.

When it comes to getting the job, Ocean Safety holds everyone to the same high standards of performance, regardless of age or gender. Candidates participate in two-day tryouts packed with physical strength, stamina, and skills tests. High-ranking recruits are invited to apply for employment, and if they are hired, intense training begins: two weeks of accelerated medical instruction in the classroom culminating in an emergency medical responder certification exam followed by two weeks of water-based exercises. Instructors incorporate training scenarios based on real-life situations former lifeguards have faced. Emergency Services department director Jim Howe says these methods help guards overcome the barriers of fear. “When you’re presented with a situation that is life-threatening, the normal human response is fight or flight, and neither of these responses is appropriate in a rescue situation,” he says.

Ocean Safety training hits all the fear points: deep water, rough surf, confined spaces, sharks. Exercises might entail scaling a coral bench in surging water at Witches’ Brew in Hanauma Bay or jumping into a cove at na i oo out and then s imming the coastline to the area designated for pulling victims out of the water. The new hires are taught highly technical survival and safety maneuvers. One day they might learn how to move a victim of a spinal injury onto a 12-foot rescue board in dangerous shorebreak, and the next they might execute mock rescues in both small and big surf. Freediving is also integrated, including diving a minimum of 30 feet to retrieve a weighted dummy posing as an unconscious swimmer. They do open-ocean swims and sit in the impact zone where waves break to practice maintaining clarity in high-stress environments. They learn how to effectively communicate with hearing-impaired and non-Englishspeaking guests. For the final test, the lifeguards must reach a flag in the back of Moi Hole—a jagged lava cave in Wai‘anae that is the site of one of the most dramatic rescues in Ocean Safety history.

What O‘ahu’s lifeguard inauguration lacks in comfort it makes up for in camaraderie. Surviving the grueling training and working together in the field creates a strong, lifelong bond—because saving lives largely depends on trusting your colleagues. United in this high-stakes role, the guards have each others’ backs. “I don’t go out of my way to prove myself, but over time you earn respect, then you’re tight,” Namu‘o says. “We all hang out outside of work. It’s one big family.”

Exceptional water skills aside, the women lifeguards all share a deep love for the ocean. “Most of us just do it because we’re most comfortable when we’re in the water,” says east side lifeguard Elizabeth Bradshaw. “We all feel that connection. I couldn’t tell you the last day I didn’t go jump in the water.”

At age 15, Bradshaw watched her brother try out for the lifeguard program in Crystal Cove State Park, California.

“I remember being so upset because I wanted to be able to jump in on it, thinking I totally could have done that,” she says. A year later, in 2013, she became a lifeguard at Crystal Cove. After moving to O‘ahu for college, at age 19, Bradshaw was hired by the Ocean Safety division. The island’s strong currents ere challenging at rst, and she had ne er used a rescue board before, but the men and women in her district helped her get acclimated.

In June 2018, Bradshaw saved 70-year-old snorkeler Lawrence Gambone at Hanauma Bay by performing CPR for eight minutes. Along with the EMTs and other guards who responded to the incident, she reunited with Gambone in his hospital room two weeks later to celebrate his dramatic rescue. This deep-rooted team dynamic is what makes the victories possible—and carries the guards through the tragic losses as well. “It’s like having a second family. When you have incidents that are heavier or harder, you have 50-plus brothers and sisters who are around,” Bradshaw says. “Everyone will come together and jump in the water and check on each other.”

Successfully manning 198 miles of O‘ahu coastline and near-shore waters out to a mile also hinges on the Ocean

 Elizabeth Bradshaw, a lifeguard on O‘ahu’s east side.



“Most of us just do it because we’re most comfortable when we’re in the water,” says Bradshaw. “We all feel that connection. I couldn’t tell you the last day I didn’t go jump in the water.”

Safety crew following a very precise code of conduct. “Before we go out on a rescue, we have to alert the neighbor towers,” explains south shore lifeguard Marianna Pires, who is stationed at la oana and ai . “They watch the rescue and wait for hand signals—it can either be, ‘It’s all good,’ ‘I need assistance,’ or ‘unconscious person.’” hen it s up to the guards to focus on lling in the gaps of what happened and wait with the victim until the paramedics arrive, o ering life support if necessar . The rescues tend to get all of the glory, but the guards actually spend most of their time on preventive action and administering medical attention for emergencies like heat exhaustion, stroke, cardiac arrest, seizures, and Portuguese man-o’-war encounters. Lifeguards are constantly talking to beachgoers about the day’s conditions and hunting for behaviors that could put people at greater risk for injury. Says Bradshaw, “At Sandy’s, sometimes I’ll see people walking up carrying floaties and I have to tell them, ‘That’s not a good idea.’”

Behind the scenes are the lifeguards manning the Safety Dispatch Center in ai , here a team of four ta e and emergency calls from tower guards and then coordinate with Honolulu Fire Department, Honolulu Emergency Medical Services Department, Honolulu Police Department, and Honolulu Department of Parks and Recreation to get them the support they need. “It’s just like on the beach, some days everything goes well, and some days everything is going wrong,” says lifeguard Chelsea Bizik, who left her east-side post to join dispatch in February 2018, when she was seven months pregnant. “You get a call from the east side—a broken neck—and then two minutes later a possible drowning on the North Shore. It’s crazy to see the teamwork side of it all.”

Bizik returned to dispatch after maternity leave, but she hopes to resume her beach post soon. “I’m seeing all the different situations the tower guards go through and it’s made me more confident,” she says. “But the feeling of saving someone is priceless. I wouldn’t mind being

a lieutenant, and maybe even a captain one day—how amazing would that be?”

Mentoring Ocean Safety hopefuls in the Junior Lifeguards program, Bizik encourages young girls to focus on developing their strength. “A lot of women care about looking skinny and petite, but that’s not us, we’re strong women,” she says. “You need the muscle, and you need to be able to pull somebody onto your board and swim them in past a three- to five-foot shorebreak.” She advises them to get in the water as much as possible to swim, surf, and practice quick turns on a longboard. Sitting and watching people interact with the ocean is also important, she says, to start developing an eye for spotting trouble.

“After a few years, you see the patterns of people who know how to swim and people who don’t—you can pick them out just like that,” Bizik says. She and the other guards have a saying, “lifeguards for life,” that speaks to this notion of “the eye” as an ingrained response. It’s not something you can turn off or age out of.

Former south shore lifeguard Helene Phillips saw a lot of changes over her 33 years of service, but one thing that never wavered was the close relationships formed among the guards. “We were a lot smaller then—about 50 of us—and everybody knew everybody,” she says. “I always felt it was a brother-sister relationship with male lifeguards. The competitiveness was a bonus to the job; it was so cool to be inspired by each other and push each other to get better.” She retired from Ocean Safety in 2014 after lifeguarding alongside respected waterwomen Rell Sun, Pua Moku‘au, and Marie McCauley, who went on become Honolulu Police Department’s first female deputy chief.

Looking back, Phillips feels grateful for the opportunity to spend her days right next to the sea, and for the fitness habits she parlayed into a lifelong training regimen. About five days a week, she heads to Ala Moana Beach to exercise and reflect. “The sprints are getting harder, but the run-swim still feels natural to me today,” she says. “Then I’ll sit on the bench near my old tower and think, I’m home.”

 Helene Phillips, a retired south shore lifeguard.

OF THE 126 PART - TIME AND FULL- TIME LIFEGUARDS, 9 ARE WOMEN.

District I – South Shore

Kristin Acerra

Megan Jones

Marianna Pires

Leslie Roberts

District II – East Side

Chelsea Bizik

Ka‘iulani Bowers

Elizabeth Bradshaw

Shannon Clancey Tuinei

District IV – West Side

Kawehi Namu‘o

Enclothed Cognition

The drape of a kīhei. A family heirloom handed down. A body-hugging dress. In the following portraits, we gathered people from all walks of life and disciplines to look at the diverse array of garments that most empower them.

IMAGES BY CHRIS ROHRER

Throughout history, humans have used clothing to signal power and prestige. In a ai i, items li e n hulu ali i, or ro al featherwork, functioned as more than adornment. They signaled status, genealogy, and a right to rule. Take, for example, the ei, or feathered cordon, that elonged to loa, a legendar ali i of a ai i sland. t measured just under three meters in length and was generously covered on both sides with crimson and gold i‘iwi feathers— an undertaking that necessitated that thousands of individual feathers be carefully plucked from the necks and wings of birds and sewn to the garment’s fabric. Bordering the ends were yellow feathers from the prized and elusive o‘o bird. Along its cross section at the bottom edge, arranged in neat little rows, were human teeth. This arrangement of feathers and teeth was a show of power. Only the elite could don such plumage. The teeth contained the mana of ancestors and fallen warriors.

Today, researchers have found a psychological function to how we dress. Referred to as enclothed cognition, their theory is that clothing can affect how we think and behave.

“It’s about signaling a meaning to those around you and to yourself,” says Joni Sasaki, an assistant professor of psychology at the ni ersit of a ai i at noa. “Clothes are something that people really find deeply meaningful in terms of what it says about them,” Sasaki says. “Not just as individuals but also who they are in connection to the community around them.”

In the following portraits, we gathered members of Honolulu’s community to explore which items of clothing are their most empowering.

— Eunica Escalante

Bradley Rhea Owner, Barrio Vintage Clothed in: 1970s rice bag kimono

“I am always looking for the most original pieces to add to my closet items that played an important role in very specific moments in history. Most of my favorite pieces have been personalized by someone long ago, and this kimono is an incredible representation of this. It’s recycled from rice bags in the ’70s, a trend somewhat prolific during the time. Though you can find wonderfully done reproductions, there’s something about donning the original that is incredibly insurmountable.”

Clothed in: On-stage persona

“The idea of Cocoa Chandelier is empowering in itself: She is bold, courageous, cheeky, and camp. Being a role model is not something I aspired to be, but when you are out there living your truth, people look up to you just for being yourself. My mana comes from the people I surround myself with, and they have helped cultivate who Cocoa Chandelier is today.”

Cocoa Chandelier

Entertainer

Clothed in: Everyday work attire

“When I worked as an art installer at Spalding House, I used to wear the same outfit just because it’s the easiest to work in. Over time, it’s turned into something that’s recognizable. I didn’t consciously think about branding myself, but it’s just kind of turned into something that people associate me with.”

John Koga Artist

Ara Laylo

Creative director, NMG Network

Clothed in: Vintage jacket

“I found this jacket at a flea market. The vendor was selling her mother’s vintage jacket for basically nothing. There’s something about finding value in things that others don’t.”

Summer Chong Dermatologist

Clothed in: Doctor ’s coat

“The first time that I put on this coat after receiving my PhD, I felt proud, accomplished, and honored. Wearing my white coat does empower me. For me, it stands for professionalism and reminds me of my commitment to my patients and the community.”

Brian Lam

“My father gifted these to me and my brothers. I chose the one with the dark green tint and giant chip, and my father said that’s the damaged one with immature color. I guess it was meant to be! I like feeling the gravity of it sitting on my wrist, and I like to imagine it bringing me the tiniest bit closer to my ancestors.”

Founder, The Wirecutter

Clothed in: Jade bracelet

Keli‘iokalani Mākua

raditional tattooist, a n h n holani Clothed in hei and au uhi tattoos

“I got into k ā kau uhi while dancing hula for my cousin Keone Nunes. Elders passed information to him in his younger years on the priestly practice. I would assist him and became his apprentice. My sixth-generation grandfather was the last tattooist in my direct lineage—I’m following in my ancestors’ path. The patterns I wear are some of the same they wore. We mark our bodies to strengthen them, and to show who and where we are from. My ancestors will recognize me after I pass and guide me along the long red path of K ā ne because I wear their markings.”

FLUX FEATURE

Birt h

R ig ht s

More than a decade ago, Hawai‘i became the first state in the nation to give mothers the right to take home their placentas after childbirth. This has helped revitalize indigenous birthing rights and traditions and enabled holistic maternity practices on the islands.

TEXT BY RAE SOJOT

IMAGES BY MARIE ERIEL HOBRO AND JOHN HOOK

The placenta is a study in both substance and sustenance. With a name derived from “plakous,” Greek for “flat cake,” the placenta is hefty and oblong, averaging nine inches wide and one inch thick. It is dense and spongey and slab-like, with a rich vein system that radiates outward in myriad root-like lobes. Though no two placentas look alike, most subscribe to a palette of deep, meaty reds and dusky blue-purples, with large surface areas that outpace placentas of other mammals due to the human fetus’ enormous nutrient demand. Engorged with blood and attached to the interior wall of the mother’s uterus, the placenta is an organ of consequence during pregnancy. For nine months, it plays many critical roles: a conduit for nutrients and hormones, a filter against toxins, a sensor determining the needs of the fetus, a manufacturer of hormones for both fetus and mother. Once the mother gives birth, the placenta is expunged, hence the term, “afterbirth.” However, outside the womb, the placenta’s mystique remains in two arenas: cultural practices and the wellness industry.

I.ea eo ap ha u ichael to as orn in the hushed, early morning hours of a rising autumn moon. On a day marked by another rising moon, two months later, the infant’s family gathered in a quiet ceremony to bury his ‘iewe, or placenta, on his father’s ancestral homelands in Hilo on Hawai‘i Island. Doing so would spiritually lin the child to his ina, or land. o the first-time parents, this Hawaiian birthing

practice concept felt more than just pono, or right. It felt destined.

The preparations for the ceremony were simple and intentional. A small pit was dug and lined with compost and ash and then bordered with rocks that had been gathered from a waterfall on the family’s property. Nearby, a young niu, or coconut sapling, awaited planting. The selection of the niu was purposeful: the tree was a inolau, or em odiment, of , a masculine deity in the Hawaiian pantheon. Throughout its years, it would produce prized nuts; over the child’s lifetime and beyond, it would serve as a ceremonial marker and living testament to the ‘iewe’s resting place.

What was earthly was transcended into something otherworldly as the ‘iewe, dark and flushed with blood, was gently placed into the ground by the child’s father. With the ‘iewe’s return to the earth, the consecration was complete: The child as fore er lin ed to the ina and his ancestors. The child’s parents felt a sense of peace wash over them. Their son, ea eo ap ha u ichael to, ould ne er be lost.

The relationship between man and ina is a crucial one in a aiian culture. “Our origin stories have us coming from the land as kalo,” explains Malia NobregaOlivera, a Native Hawaiian cultural specialist and a director at the University of a ai i at noa s a ai inui ea School of Hawaiian Knowledge. By burying a child’s ‘iewe, one pays homage to that sacred link. “It’s usually done in a special place, often near a tree that holds meaning to the family or planted alongside a tree sapling,” NobregaOlivera says. For some practitioners, that connection carries significant weight, an

“We empower couples that want to employ cultural practices into their birthing plans.”

—Ka‘iulani

Odom, director of the clinic’s Roots Project

 Right, at Kokua Kalihi Valley health center, participants gain knowledge from Native Hawaiian cultural practitioners in an eight-week family birthing program.

almost non-negotiable spiritual responsibility that, if not recognized, puts the child at spiritual risk. “Some believe that if a child’s ‘iewe is neglected and not given a proper burial,” Nobrega-Olivera says, “the child will grow up disconnected from its ancestors.”

The opportunity to bury an ‘iewe rests on a mother’s ability to obtain it after childbirth. But in Hawai‘i, a mother’s access to her own placenta after giving birth at a hospital wasn’t always easy. During the 1990s, heightened concern about AIDS and hepatitis prompted hospitals and medical centers across the nation to enact protocols to minimize the threat of blood-borne pathogens and avoid litigation. A blanket policy was adopted in 2005 by the Hawai‘i State Department of Health that effectively categorized placenta tissue as biological waste and called for its disposal. That determination quickly became a hotbutton issue among civil liberties organizations. For Native Hawaiians wanting to honor traditional birthing practices, the idea that the sacred ‘iewe would be carted off and then burned as infectious waste was especially horrifying. “Native Hawaiian rights have always been marginalized,” says Andrew Sprenger, an attorney who challenged the new rules on behalf of a young Native Hawaiian couple whose formal request to obtain their ‘iewe was stymied by bureaucratic red tape. That 2005 case, among other similar cases, galvanized myriad cultural and political activist groups. In 2006, state legislators passed a bill that made Hawai‘i the first state in the nation to give women the right to take home their placentas after childbirth.

At Kokua Kalihi Valley health center, participants in an eight-week family birthing program gain knowledge from Native Hawaiian cultural practitioners about how to deepen their connections to their partners, their ancestors, and their ina. e empo er couples that ant to employ cultural practices into their birthing plans,” says Ka‘iulani Odom, the director of the clinic’s Roots Project. The program got its start nearly a decade ago, when a group of women, Odom included, began regularly gathering because of their interest in Native Hawaiian birthing practices. By poring over historical documents and inter ie ing puna, the group egan to uild a wealth of knowledge, which they shared with anyone who was interested.

“All of a sudden, we were being asked what we were doing, especially pregnant women who wanted to know more and more,” Odom says. Today’s classes, taught from an indigenous perspective gleaned from the group’s years of research, cover prenatal topics like nutrition (the importance of incorporating ‘ai pono foods, or healthy Hawaiian or locally sourced meals, into one’s diet), massage (fathers are taught the practice of lomi lomi)

 The relationship between k ā naka and ‘ā ina is a crucial one in Hawaiian culture. For some practitioners, that connection carries significant weight and a nonnegotiable spiritual responsibility.

and medicine ho to use a aiian l au lapa au during the irthing process . he lama e e class teaches participants Hawaiian customs of care surrounding the ‘iewe, including how to symbolically wash the ‘iewe with both fresh water and ocean water, how to create pule and oli, and how to select a tree—like a kukui tree for strength or an ‘ulu tree for growth—to plant on the child’s behalf. “All these actions help to prepare a path for the child to move forward in life,” Nobrega-Olivera says. hene er on a ai i sland, ea eo ap ha u is brought by his parents to visit his ‘iewe. Together the family waters the tree. According to Odom, the ‘iewe has another name in lelo a ai i onua, hich means Earth. “When you bury the ‘iewe, you’re feeding back into the Earth and the Earth is going to continue feed the child,” she says. “It’s a continuous cycle.”

II.

When Kiersten Homalon gets the call, it’s go-time. The call means a baby has been born, and Homalon, a placentaencapsulation specialist and owner of Aloha Placenta and Childbirth on O‘ahu, can now jump into action. The clock is ticking. “I have between 24 to 48 hours,” Homalon says. Processing a mother’s afterbirth from raw form into ingestible pills requires a tight schedule. Once she successfully navigates a hospital’s placentarelease protocol—“It’s different for each one,” Homalon says—she swiftly heads home, transporting her client’s organ in a temperature-controlled medical bag.

The encapsulation process takes place in Homalon’s kitchen, where everything has been meticulously prepped beforehand. The space is sterilized from cabinets to floor and all working surfaces are covered in plastic. Medical-grade tools including tongs, scalpels, and knives are neatly arranged on a counter. Nearby, a compact desiccator is primed for use. Within moments of arrival, Homalon begins her work, gently removing the placenta and scrutinizing it for any abnormalities or meconium, the residual in-utero feces from the baby that needs to be washed away. Any blood remaining in the umbilical cord is kneaded into a glass tincture bottle. She separates the amniotic sac and carefully peels away the thin membrane that surrounds the placenta. Then, knife in hand, Homalon makes deft cuts into the placenta, transferring small strips onto the desiccator’s tiered trays for drying. Once dehydrated, the stiff, nearly brittle pieces are ground into a fine powder and placed into capsules, ready for immediate delivery to the mother.

For Homalon, the work is intensive but gratifying, and a labor of love: The sooner her client has access to the pills, the faster she believes her client can replenish nutrients and hormones depleted during pregnancy and be on the road to recovery.

Homalon, who also is a doula, is no stranger to the stigma surrounding placentophagy, the formal term for consuming placenta. When she describes to others what she does for a living, she is unperturbed by the initial surprise, skepticism, and, most often, squeamishness, that flicker across their faces. “Placenta encapsulation in America is often viewed as a taboo or a scheme to trick women into paying for something they don’t really need or doesn’t really work,” Homalon says. Even when touted by modern-day wellness guru Gwenyth Paltrow or gushed over by celebrity influencers like Kim Kardashian, the concept of eating one’s placenta still feels uncomfortable if not amiss to most.

Placentophagy advocates are eager to offer some historical credence. For example, sixteenth-century Chinese medicine records describe the placenta as being simmered in a broth, while practitioners in Transylvania were said to have burned placentas and fed the ashes to the fathers to prevent more children. Homalon also points to its more primal relevance: Nearly all mammals eat their placentas after giving birth. However, human mothers don’t usually eat their whole placentas raw, unlike their animal kingdom counterparts. Instead, contemporary approaches include ingesting a small, raw morsel immediately after delivery (a shot of cranberry juice helps to take the edge off of the distinct taste of iron), preparing it as a soup (it makes a great miso, according to Homalon), adding it to smoothies, creating oral tinctures, or dehydrating it and processing it into a powder that is swallowed in pill form.

Homalon’s introduction to placenta ingestion arrived on the wings of new motherhood. It was 2012, and Homalon had just given birth to her first child. As the heady excitement of motherhood unexpectantly eroded into sadness, doubt, and fatigue, Homalon, whose husband was deployed in Afghanistan, soon

“The placenta holds DNA from the mother, the father, and the baby. Essentially, the whole ‘ohana is in the womb.”

 Kiersten Homalon, a placenta-encapsulation specialist, at her home kitchen where the placenta-to-pill process is underway. She only has one to two days to take the organ and turn it into this ingestible form.

found herself spiraling into loneliness and depression. “Most moms agree the postpartum part of having a baby is actually harder than the birthing part,” Homalon says. When a friend suggested she seek out a placenta encapsulator to help treat the hormonal “baby blues,” Homalon’s interest was piqued. The new mother had a longstanding interest in traditional Chinese medicine and naturopathy. Would taking placenta pills work?

That question over placentophagy’s medicinal merit is a linchpin in the argument between its advocates and skeptics. When pregnant, the mother’s body is working hard to create and sustain a new life, Homalon says. The placenta is responsible for producing and regulating myriad hormones for mother and baby. Post-birth, the sudden drop in these hormones—including oxytocin, the hormone responsible for feel-good social behaviors such as recognition, trust, and bonding—is jarring for the mother, often manifesting in erratic mood swings, elevated stress, decreased energy, or despair. Ingesting one’s own placenta bridges the hormonal gap and helps rebuild the mother’s depleted hormonal stores, Homalon claims. Doing so allows for a smoother return to pre-pregnancy hormonal levels and helps a mother feel like herself again. Though there is inconclusive scientific data, placentophagy proponents like Homalon consider the widespread anecdotal evidence from mothers to be enough.

“I had a really hard time postpartum,” Homalon says. Taking placenta pills helped her to feel grounded. Supported. Sane. The results also led Homalon to a critical realization. “There isn’t enough support for mothers during the postpartum period,” she says. “I knew immediately I wanted to do this for other women.”

What had begun as an individual wellness decision catalyzed an entirely new career path for Homalon that merged passion with profession, a career that she could share with others. “Placenta encapsulation is not only natural and beneficial, but it is a big step towards women understanding their bodies, birthing, and healing from birth however we choose to,” Homalon says. The former dental office worker became a quick study in all things placenta, and enrolled in a two-year placentaencapsulation training course through the International Placenta and Postpartum Association. The coursework was intensive, covering everything from anatomy and physiology to preparation and blood-borne pathogen safety. “I loved it,” Homalon says. “I like to geek out on things like that.”

As she learned how a mother’s body works to create and support life within, Homalon saw deeper, sweeter meanings surface. More than just an organ of brute purpose, the placenta encompasses the concept of m lama, to ta e care of. he placenta cares for and

 Placentophagy is the formal term for consuming placenta. Proponents claim the practice assists in replenishing hormones depleted post-birth. Homalon dehydrates the organ and grinds it into a fine powder kept in pill form.

protects the baby. It holds DNA from the mother, the father, and the baby. Essentially, the whole ‘ohana is in the womb,” Homalon says. And while the placenta’s nourishing role is well understood, it also brings a fetus comfort. That shushing sound we make to babies? Says Homalon, “It’s comforting because it mimics the sound of blood pushing through the placenta.”

An explosive display from Fissure 8 within Leilani Estates. Image by Andrew Richard Hara.

PELE

“They endured her furies, and celebrated the drama of creation with which they lived so intimately.”—Mary

Kawena Pukui

Table

By Meghan Miner Murray

Seeing A photo essay reflects on the beauty and force of lava

By Elyse Butler, Andrew Richard Hara, and John Hook

Tales of ancient and familial lineage are unearthed in a writer’s visit to the volcano

By Diane Ako

 Image by John Hook

The Hawaiian Islands are forged by fire. The past year has brought this understanding to the surface—of how ‘a – ina and its peoples are rebirthed anew— with breathtaking intensity.

In this section dedicated to Pele, one of Hawai‘i’s most formidable icons of strength and power, we’ve turned to a team of writers and photographers to look at the myriad layers this natural phenomenon possesses, from the visual to the spiritual.

With the Flow of Disaster

In a crucial time of need, Pu‘uhonua o Puna became a home for those who no longer had one. Channeling his experience with the Kalapana eruptions of his youth, lava tour operator Ikaika Marzo set out to help in any way he could and became a community touchstone.

The lifted white pickup that carries Ikaika Marzo to the lot where Pu‘uhonua o Puna is based seems made for days like this, when deluges of rain turn dirt lots like this one situated beneath it into puddle-pocked mudflats. Also known as The Hub, Pu‘uhonua o Puna is a resource- and information-sharing center Marzo founded to serve lava evacuees. For months, it shifted its shape to meet the needs of area residents who have been dealing with the most disastrous eruption in recent history. It started out as a sprawling network of tents and trailers, then eventually just a few makeshift structures once the eruption began to wane. Now the downsized hub is closed for the day and only a few of Marzo’s friends linger, including several co-workers, two of whom lost homes in the eruption but are still eager to discuss the possibility of surf in the wake of a recent storm. Marzo sits at a picnic table under a tarp and says he had to sleep in his truck the night before, since flash-flooding left him stranded in Hilo. But this inconvenience doesn’t seem to have bothered him, just like, he says, the recent storm is nothing to the people of Puna. The community has been through three months of la a eruptions from lauea olcano. t s a spur-of-themoment life,” he says.

The 34-year-old knows a thing or two about adaptability and natural disasters. Molten earth has shaped him into the man he is. “I’ve been around lava all my life,” he says. It’s the lifeblood of Kalapana Cultural Tours, the hiking and boat-tour company Marzo co-founded with his business partner and longtime friend Andrew Dunn. It is also the cause of his recent celebrity.

Shortly after the first volcanic fissure opened up in Leilani Estates in May 2018, spewing lava into the air in a quiet residential area, Marzo was on the scene, documenting changes with his iPhone and sharing updates via his personal Facebook page. Marzo says that it was through his live feed that Governor Ige first found out about the eruption, which has claimed some 1,000 homes and structures. After leaving the subdivision more than 24 hours after the eruption’s start, Marzo was inundated with concerned messages from friends and people he had never met who wanted information on the status of the subdivision, which was hard to come by as the much of the impacted area was off-limits and many residents faced mandatory evacuation. He envisioned a physical place where affected residents could go for information, food, goods, and community support. Two days after the start of

Text by Meghan Miner Murray Illustrations by Lauren Trangmar

the eruption, Marzo and a handful of friends transformed an empt corner lot across from hoa igh and Intermediate School into a grassroots community center. At the pu‘uhonua—which means “place of refuge”—he aimed to recreate the warm embrace of his past.

Marzo was born and raised in Kalapana on Hawai‘i Island, another area that was remade by lava. “I was a typical Hawaiian boy. I surfed every day,” he says. In 1989 through , a lauea la a flo encroached upon the town. During that trying time, Kalapana was an especially close-knit and supportive place, says Marzo; neighbors took care of one another throughout the lava flow that destroyed more than 150 homes and blanketed the famous lac sand each at aim .

When Marzo was 21, lava returned to Kalapana and brought with it a twist of fate. Marzo and Dunn took two tourists to see the fo as a fa or, and ord of their ser ices spread li e ild re. o eep up ith the demand, he says, “We started hiring brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, everybody from Kalapana.” This is what led them to start their company.

Marzo scrolls through his feed of live videos taken at The Hub and at the lava flow’s ocean entry aboard his lava tour boat that places him at the epicenter of a community of 30,000 global followers on Facebook. “During the eruption, there was so much false news,” he says. Putting himself near the lava and filming for his audience, Marzo gave many outsiders their first glimpses of Hawai‘i life and the aloha spirit that prevails amid crisis and loss. “I just do my thing,” he says. Sometimes officials shared information with him. “Because I can talk to the community faster than they can, they’ll say: ‘Put that on your news feed,’” he says. “OK. Boom!” Everyone in the area knows who he is. “It feels good! It’s a confirmation that you did something for your community,” he says of being stopped in the grocery

store. But he also grapples with Puna’s new normal, li e e er one else in the area. round hoa, irtuall everyone who remains has a story of loss, of discomfort, or at the very least, of profound change. “There’s a feeling like sadness and acceptance,” he says. “It’s a juggle between both.”

He hopes that The Hub helps ease the sadness. “Before The Hub, [the situation] was very stressful for a lot of people,” he says. Evacuees were given little notice and had to leave most of their belongings behind. At The Hub, “at least they knew other community members were also facing the same thing,” Marzo says. “They got a lot of relief from that.” Uncles and aunties brought homecooked meals, clothes, and home goods, and volunteers from across the island and vacationers from around the world made sure everything ran smoothly. When he wasn’t giving visitors tours to the ocean entry aboard his lava boat, Marzo was there helping, talking, and playing his slack-key guitar.

Marzo continues to be a touchstone and presence for many at The Hub. During the eruption’s two-month onslaught, “This place was booming,” Marzo says. “We had meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—for about 500 to 1,000 people every day. And tons of volunteers.”

Though the lava output slowed in early August 2018, the mandator e acuation of a ected area homes is still in place and The Hub remains open two days a week as of December 2018. “A lot of people are trying to move on, a lot of people are trying to get services,” he says. “They come here and talk story about what they’re going through now and what kind of services they got provided and share it amongst each other. We want to try to help them make going through the process of healing easier than going through the process alone.”

Creation in Crossfire

When K ı ¯ lauea erupts, you can’t look away.

Two unforgettable, and unforgiving, volcanic events captured the attention and imaginations of onlookers far and wide these past couple years: the lava stream that flowed into the ocean from the Kamokuna sea cliff at Kalapana in 2017 and the massive lava flows and fissures that ravaged the Puna district in 2018. Together they display the duality of lava, which destroys while she creates.

In their arresting and artful imagery of these twin occurrences, Hawai‘i photographers Elyse Butler, Andrew Richard Hara, and John Hook bring us as close to the source as possible. In the custom of oral history and to honor their portraits of Pele, their visual testimonies are paired with accounts of their experiences and how they themselves were left forever changed.

 Image by Andrew Richard Hara.

Images by Elyse Butler, Andrew Richard Hara, and John Hook

“It

was surreal. Lava was spewing out, but it was still peaceful enough to hear the frogs and the wind through trees. You could just stare at the lava all day like a campfire. It really takes a moment of stepping back to realize how destructive and powerful it is, its hypnotic beauty.”



Image by John Hook

“We arrived by boat just before daybreak. It was amazing. Even from far away, as we glided through the dark sea, you could see Pele’s orange glow pulsating into the water. As we got closer I could feel her energy, watching the island being created before my eyes. I was in total awe of the raw, beautiful power of Earth.” Elyse Butler

“I

was mesmerized by the massive lava stream flowing into the ocean. Heat from the lava stream radiated through my body and the smell of sulphur wafted through laze clouds. The air was filled with the thunderous sound of lava rocks exploding into the sea.”

 Image by Elyse Butler

“It was one of the only times I was fully engaged with all five senses. How high is the fire fountain and can you feel the tradewinds? Is your skin starting to burn from the acid in the atmosphere? Is the ground stable enough to hike over? Every sense is stimulated—the experience was out of body.”

 Images by Andrew Richard Hara

“The magnitude and force of the lava from this eruption redefined my understanding of how this island was built and grown. It puts in perspective how little beings can change nature’s course. You have no influence over how a situation is going to turn out.”

 Image by Andrew Richard Hara

“You’re this tiny dot in front of this orange cone of hot lava and you feel really small. Very vulnerable. At the same time there’s this reverence to this larger, greater thing that can destroy you in seconds. I really felt like the lava was allowing me, in one way or another, to document it. I’m being allowed to be there, in front of an uncontrollable force.”

Andrew Richard Hara

Mother Nature

Text by Diane Ako Illustrations by Lauren Trangmar

As a woman is putting her life back together following the loss of a loved one, a natural disaster brings her closer to her ancestors.

It was death that propelled me to seek meaning in life. My mother, with whom I was very close, died in March 2018. It was expected, but it still knocked me to the ground.

Her pile of things sits in my O‘ahu home waiting for attention, but my grief is tucked into the little spaces, so when I open the boxes, sadness tumbles out too, and I have to pack them back up and leave them for another day. This has become a monthly ritual.

While it may be the natural cycle of life, her death cut a small wound in my heart that only seems to be salved by ongoing internal dialogue. Where does the soul go? What is the purpose of life?

Something has slowly shifted in me. I am not the same person I once was. I am seeking. I am uncomfortable. I have activities and people I enjoy, but at my core, I am restless and questioning if this is all there is to life.

At the same time, I think my mother and my greatgrandmother are looking out for me. I grew up hearing stories a out t elen aliu, a full- looded ati e Hawaiian, and have always been comforted by the idea that she is our family’s ‘aumakua.

Therefore, I don’t think it was coincidence that I was dra n to isit lauea after its eruption in a . n the first days of the lava flow, I interviewed Hawaiian cultural e pert ili al ame eleihi a for a out ele s people,” a clan that maintains ancient traditions that honor the volcano goddess.

Our conversation off-camera veered into the personal, and I mentioned my Hawaiian heritage and my great-

grandmother, t aliu, ho as orn in eo ea, aui li ed in apa lea, ahu and died in alaupapa, Moloka‘i. Maliu, commented Kame‘eleihiwa, is mentioned in some of the chants for Pele.

Intrigued, I began researching my possible connection to descendants of Pele. This led me to Kumu Hula Michael ili ang of lau ula a o eau, ho referenced the first erse of the mele o una a ale ai o ama ale a

o l na i ka al kai o a a al a ānā ka aka iā oanon ikal Noho i ke kai o Maliu k a la ka l a i laila a lā a lā a laila o i

Pili Pang interpreted the chant as part of the legend of Hi‘iakaikapoliopele as she travels back from Kaua‘i with Lohiau, Pele’s lover. As she crosses the Ka‘ie‘ie Channel, she sees a vision of her ancestor, the goddess Moananuikalehua, sitting in the ocean. Maliu is the name for the section of the sea in the Ka‘ie‘ie Channel. “Ke kai o Maliu” translates to “sitting in the sea of Maliu,” explains Pili Pang.

This thin connection between my ancestor and Pele’s descendants probably meant I wasn’t part of this tribe, but it still served to draw me in further. Next I spoke with Kekuhi eali i ana a oleohaililani, umu hula of lau o e uhi, which is famed for its dance style honoring Pele and her

sister Hi‘iakaikapoliopele. Keali‘ikanaka‘oleohaililani identi es as a descendant of ele.

What Keali‘ikanaka‘oleohaililani wants people to understand is that Pele is more than a fiery, jealous goddess. For Native Hawaiians, the cultural understanding of Pelehonuamea is deeper and more nuanced. For starters, Pele is both the name of the goddess as well as a Hawaiian word for lava.

“The Pele element is simply the fluid lava. What the pele does, how she moves through chambers and up through cracks, is a concerted effort of Pele and all of her relatives,” Keali‘ikanaka‘oleohaililani explained. She listed a few of Pele’s many relatives who play roles in eruptions: ather nehoalani is the sun or the ig olcano. other Haumea is the Earth’s core, the source of the magma. rother nel honua produces the earth ua es. ther deities control sulfur, gases, steam, fissures, sounds, ash, lightning, and other elements. Youngest sister i ia ai apoliopele s pur ie is ferns and hi a, the earliest plant growth on new lava fields.

I asked Keali‘ikanaka‘oleohaililani about the chant in which Maliu is mentioned. She explained that double meanings are common in Hawaiian verse. There is the literal definition, which is the place name. Then there is the figurative meaning—maliu also means “to listen.” Perhaps Hi‘iakaikapoliopele wants this section of the sea to dwell on her plea.

As for my relationship to Pele? eali i ana a oleohaililani suggested gure it out for myself. Meditate about it, she told me. “Why are you thinking about your ancestors and Pele? What is happening in your life right now?” she asked. “This is coming up for a

reason.” This, I decided, was probably what my mother and great-grandmother were nudging me toward.

Maliu: To heed, give attention, listen, look upon with favor, turn toward

Pele beckoned. I flew to Hawai‘i Island. I wanted to be in her presence, soak in her energy, and see what feelings came up when she was near.

The National Guard allows me and other members of the media to access a mandatory evacuation zone of homes close to the lava and volcanic gas. They bring us 200 meters from Fissure Eight in the Leilani Estates subdivision, where we stand on a deserted residential street, mesmerized by the glow and the sight of the lava. Pele is hypnotic and powerful. In one arm, she cradles life; in the other, death. She pulls both close to her bosom. I close my eyes to tap into Pele’s energy, which is thick with warmth, heavy with thunderous boiling, and tinged with a slightly rotten-egg odor. I think about my existential questions and then focus on the sounds, the smells, the senses.

Then I have an epiphany: This lava flow, like life, brings unknowable change. It is my own challenge to accept constant flux, release the past, enjoy the present, and embrace the future, however that may look. I took a circuitous journey to reach that understanding, one I believe was sparked by the unseen forces of my ancestral guardians. I give silent thanks as I look at the pele for a few final seconds.

On the northeast coast of Maui. Image by Bailey Rebecca Roberts.

EXPLORE

“Although the study of nature is of widespread appeal, not everyone approaches it in the same way.”—Victorien Battandier

An Upstream Battle

Activists residing in Wailuanui and Ke‘anae are continuing to untangle the complex politics of East Maui water diversion to reinstate this natural resource. Their eforts are part of decades-long litigation and the largest water rights case in the state.

TEXT BY SHANNON WIANECKI

IMAGES BY BAILEY REBECCA ROBERTS

“ Wai ” is the Hawaiian word for freshwater. Said twice— waiwai—it means wealth. By that measure, the small villages of Ke‘anae and Wailuanui in East Maui should be among the wealthiest. Midway along the scenic na igh a , they sit at the base of the Ko‘olau Forest Reserve, which receives as much as 280 inches of rain per year. Rain-fed streams run from the summit to the sea here, passing through the villages and saturating residents’ lo‘i kalo with fresh water along the way. Ed Wendt lives and grows kalo in Wailua, as

his ancestors have for five generations. From his living room window, he can see aio ne, a waterfall that thunders down the eastern flank of alea al . n , he and his neighbors noticed the village streams slow to a trickle and the water in their lo‘i turn stagnant. They sought help from the Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation. Together they prepared to fight one of Hawai‘i’s oldest and most powerful companies: Alexander and Baldwin. The fight dates back to the late 1800s, when sugar plantations began

 Water flows through East Maui. Sugar plantations diverted as much as 63 percent of the water from mountain streams as of 1990.

proliferating throughout the Hawaiian Islands. To grow their thirsty crop in the arid plains, sugar planters sought to tap windward streams. In 1876, the government of ing al aua issued the first ater license to bring water to the plantation of Haiku Sugar Company, a predecessor to Alexander and Baldwin, and three other plantations in central Maui, a plan conceptualized by Samuel Alexander. The agreement came with a caveat: “ The existing rights or present tenants … along said streams shall in no wise be lessened or affected injuriously. ” Sure, the king said, use the water, but don’t harm the kalo farmers who rely on these same streams. Problems arose from the start. While kalo farmers channel water through their lo‘i and return it to the stream, sugar ditches carry the water away. As plantation engineers dug miles of ditches and tunnels, downstream kalo farmers saw their water sources start to dry. In 1881, when sugar magnate Claus Spreckels sought a water license, 13 residents of Ke‘anae and Wailua wrote a letter in Hawaiian imploring al aua s land commissioners o not allow any water rights of the Crown Lands of Honomanu, Ke‘anae, and Wailua to

be lost to Claus Spreckels. … We already know what the millionaire has done with the water on other lands.” That lease was approved, and another was granted to H.P. Baldwin in 1902 despite the protests of hi u homesteaders.

Water in Hawai‘i is a public trust, enshrined by the state’s constitution. Yet for close to 150 years, sugar plantations and their subsidiaries have been allowed to capture and distribute water like a commodity. This is most pronounced on Maui, where sugar plantations diverted as much as 63 percent of the water from mountain streams as of 1990.

As the legacy water licenses began to expire in the 1970s and 1980s, the State of Hawai‘i issued temporary, year-to-year permits. Alexander and Baldwin has four such permits that enable it to collect water from 33,000 acres of state land. The company then sells some of this water to Maui County at double or quadruple the rate paid by the company depending on the cost of leases and amount of rainwater captured. The county purchases water from Alexander and Baldwin’s East Maui Irrigation system to supply its Kamole Weir Water Treatment Plant, which produced

 “There’s a whole generation of young farmers that we lost,” M ā healani Wendt says. “There was no opportunity for them, the waters were gone.”

 A sixth-generation kalo farmer, Ed Wendt tends to his lo‘i in Wailua, Maui.

Keauhou (Song of Renewal)

Poem by M ā healani Wendt

This earth is sweet, Its spirits full of providence. Mountains shake torrential skies, Cloud and leaf scatter

Before their winds. Each far shore is a vision

Of colors hovering, disappearing, Circles of light encircling rain.

This place is sacred, A sacrament of blood, earth, shell and bone. Wraith spirits dance, Teeming gossamer, Transparent wing and gill, While Night Marchers keep Their ancient sojourn.

This land knows the dark incision Of steel, granite, glass; Gray boneyards of iron, Chilling slabs of high rise, Concrete vaults, embalming places For four million souls By the Coroner of Commerce.

This land still sings: Grass, flower, gulls, Surge of ocean, thunder, The wind’s lullaby, All a chorus of renewal, A mighty chorus Of earth’s eternal song.

1.85 million gallons per day in 2014. It also purchased 3.5 million gallons per day for Kula Agricultural Park in 2015. In total, Maui Department of Water Services can receive up to 16 million gallons daily from the company’s Wailoa ditch.

le ander and ald in s East Maui Irrigation system consists of 388 stream intakes feeding into 74 miles of ditches, tunnels, pipes, and flumes. t s one of the largest private water systems in the United States, capturing around 134 million gallons a day in the winter and 268 million gallons a day in the summer. During heavy rainfall, it can capture up to 450 million gallons a day.

“As time went on, their diversions got more efficient,” says Ed’s ife, healani endt, a community advocate and poet. “They were determined to take every drop of water, and they did. healani met d when he and his fellow kalo farmers approached the Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation for help. She was the executive director at the time.

t rst, it as one person who wanted to have one stream released, healani says. “We encouraged the community to organize because we realized it would be a big undertaking.”

he farmers formed o u upuni o olau Hui. After consulting with puna from the area, they decided to petition the Hawai‘i Commission on Water Resource Management to restore all 27 streams in East Maui’s o olau district. o u s legal action would force the water commission to esta lish in-stream fo standards for each stream, determining how much water could be removed without detriment to instream users such as kalo farmers, recreational s immers and shers, and species native to the streams.

“We were confident that the law was on our side, healani sa s. “Before we accept a case, we do an exhaustive assessment to gage the viability and chances of winning. We never lost faith that it was right and ultimately we would prevail. But we weren’t prepared for the political dimension of this case, which was the most harrowing.”

In 2002, as the farmers pursued their claim to the water, Governor Ben Cayetano appointed Alexander and Baldwin vice president Meredith Ching to the seven-member water commission board. In 2016, after the Hawai‘i Supreme Court ruled that the state could no longer continue to

 The legal tug-of-war to establish instream flow standards for East Maui streams stretched on for two decades. Some of the elder plaintiffs passed away before seeing its conclusion.

issue temporary, year-to-year water permits without conducting proper environmental assessments, Alexander and Baldwin sought help from the state legislature. Legislators passed a bill extending the permits for another three years.

The legal tug-of-war to establish instream flow standards stretched on for two decades. Some of the elder plaintiffs passed away before seeing its conclusion. Children grew up and moved away without the ability to grow kalo. “There’s a whole generation of young farmers that we lost,” healani sa s. here as no opportunit for them, the waters were gone.”

“I call that cultural genocide,” Ed says. “What they did to us, I don’t know how I survived. You can only get pounded on for so long.”

t last, in une , o u upuni o olau ui on a signi cant ictor . The water commission determined that the in-fo standard for of the streams—those that run through Ke‘anae and Wailua—was 100 percent, thus ordering the full restoration of their water. When the decision was announced, Ed expressed his gratitude: “Our community spread its

wings over the whole of the Ko‘olau and accomplished something great for the aters of ne, for all the people of o olau, for all people of Hawaiian ancestry, and for our public trust.”

healani smiles. here s a group of oung adults from na out here or ing today. Now that we have the water, we’re back to farming,” she says. “We have to start over. It will take years to really get it going and restore our plants. One plant produces a bunch of huli, or shoots, that you break off and plant again. This is what we’re in the process of doing. It’s what we hoped for.”

The water commission also required the partial restoration of another seven streams, with the aim of reviving natural riparian habitat. Native stream species embody the Hawaiian principle of mauka to makai, the living connection between the mountain and the ocean. ‘O‘opu go ies , pae shrimp , and h h ai (snails) spend their adult phases in the streams and their juvenile stages in the sea. For many years, ditches and other diversions have prevented these animals from completing their lifecycles.

 Ed and M ā healani Wendt beside a stream that flows to a lo‘i kalo.

 “All the years that I represented our community, I never did ask for money,” Ed says. “I did it for sheer love.”

“When [Alexander and Baldwin] first started to release water, it didn’t take long. The ocean and stream fish started to come back,” Ed says. “We are already seeing the return of the o opu and the h h ai.

The June 2018 ruling was historic, a true ictor to cele rate. ut d and healani know that the battle never really ends. Alexander and Baldwin closed its last sugarcane operation in 2016. The sugar plantation era is over—and yet the ditch infrastructure remains. Should a private company still be in charge of the spigot?

The law granting a three-year extension to Alexander and Baldwin’s water permits expires in June 2019. When it does, healani suspects the compan ill appl for a long-term license to continue tapping the remaining streams not speci ed the recent ruling. Alexander and Baldwin has said that, beyond the 20 million gallons per day it supplies Maui County, it needs 89 million gallons per day to transition , acres of former cane elds to di ersi ed agriculture, including cattle and energy crops.

Ed is tired after many years of fighting. He hopes that the quest to restore his village’s streams will inspire other communities to assert their rights— especially as climate change renders water even more precious. He has heard that law schools across the country are already teaching the East Maui case. “That makes me happy,” he says. “All the years that I represented our community, I never did ask for money. I did it for sheer love.”

 Ke‘anae and Wailua in East Maui are located at the base of the Ko‘olau Forest Reserve.

In June 2018, the water commission made a watershed decision by ordering the full restoration of 10 streams.

Deconstructing Statues

As modern society struggles with the ostcolonial in uences o the ast a ai i s statues continue to educate and interrogate their own relevance.

TEXT BY JOSHUA IWI LAKE

IMAGES BY CHRISTIAN NAVARRO

The accomplished explorer and cartographer Captain James Cook is widely recognized for providing detailed maps of the Pacific, including New Zealand, Australia, and Hawai‘i. His voyages to survey uncharted waters and strange lands for the British Royal Navy have placed him in a historical pantheon of contributors who mapped the planet. According to the Captain Cook Society website, an online resource devoted to his life’s work, there are more than 100 monuments dedicated to Cook around the world.

Landing markers and statues of the famous explorer dot Pacific coastlines, from the icy Alaskan Cook Inlet named in his honor to coastal towns of New Zealand. However, if you ask a Native Hawaiian about the famed explorer, you will likely be told of the monument located at the place of his death. On Hawai‘i Island, a solitary white obelisk on the shore of Kealakekua Bay marks Cook’s final stop. It was here, in response to the captain’s attempted idnapping of the ruling chief alani pu u, that he as attacked and killed by natives defending their ali‘i.

History books frame Cook as a benevolent explorer bringing modernity and order to the unknown world. Hawai‘i is often a sad footnote carved into monuments honoring his achievements: Killed in Ohwayee. Largely unmentioned in books and on plaques are the tragic consequences of Western sailors entering the Pacific. Cook and his crew were the harbingers of colonization. Diseases such as chicken pox, polio, and tuberculosis quickly spread after they arrived, killing thousands of Hawaiians within two years of contact. Australia’s indigenous peoples faced a similar fate, as Cook’s “discovery” of the southern continent fueled a land rush by European settlers that brought devastating disease and violence.

Now, 250 years after his first voyage to the Pacific, Cook is under attack again. In anticipation of Australia Day in

January, a national holiday celebrating the first British settlers, statues of Cook in the capital city of Melbourne have been repeatedly defaced. The words “change the date” and “no pride in genocide” were sprayed across statue bases in 2017, and “no pride” on one in 2018, reminding Australians of their country’s contentious history. In the coastal city of Gisborne, New Zealand, a statue of Cook was vandalized in protest of his violent confrontation ith the ori, e ealand s indigenous people. In October 2018, the city’s council voted to remove the statue and place it in a museum.

For those who have benefited from the colonial occupation of the Pacific nations, Captain Cook is a historical figure worth remembering. But for those whose ancestors suffered after his arrival, his statues are two-ton physical reminders of pain worth forgetting. United States history is facing a similar reckoning as young Americans target Confederate statues that glorify the country’s racist past. In the summer of 2017 in Charlottesville, Virginia, a statue of General Robert E. Lee, a Confederate icon, was at the center of a violent protest at which a white nationalist drove his car into a crowd of demonstrators, killing one woman. Controversial statues across the country have been protested as historically inaccurate and symbols of latent racism condoned by their communities.

“Who controls the past controls the future, who controls the present controls the past,” reads a famous passage from 1984 , George Orwell’s dystopian novel of a society plagued by war, propaganda, and government surveillance. This statement suggests the motivation of

 The Queen Lili‘uokalani statue, located between the Hawai‘i State Capitol and ‘Iolani Palace.

many in scrutinizing the solitary figures standing in parks and at universities. From monarchs and religious figures to dictators and military leaders, statues are often omnipresent proxies watching over citizens and followers. In time, statues inevitably outlive their creators and intended communities and are left to the interpretations of a new generation.

To Hawaiian artist and sculptor Kazu Kauinana, the intentions behind statues are more altruistic than diabolical. “Statues are a way to pass on messages, ideas, or standards of what a person accomplished,” he says. “It’s a person’s life being honored, a righteous person, what they contributed, but times change.” In Australia’s case, Cook’s achievements are undeniable, but his continued presence carries a different message today.

“That’s the failing of a statue,” Kauinana says. “It captures a person who was considered incredible from that time. Kamehameha was a

 Right, King Kamehameha III statue at Thomas Square. Opposite, King David Kal ā kaua statue in Waik ī k ī

brilliant man and warrior, but by today’s standards, our own ali‘i were brutal. Things are relative.”

Changing attitudes toward statues are nothing new. Failed states, from the Soviet Union to Libya, have left behind an inventory of fallen leaders. As monuments, statues are erected to celebrate or remember people or events, but as memorials, they stand as somber reminders. Inspirational to one generation and controversial to another, a statue’s relevance is destined to change given time. “The only statues that have real permanence are not related to personality,” Kauinana says. “We’re all human and being human means vulnerability. My favorite statue is the Statue of Liberty. It represents an idea, liberty, which never really changes.”

As the long reach of colonial influence slowly recedes, new statues continue to be erected for future generations. In Gujarat, India, a nearly 600-foot-tall bronze statue of Sardar Vallabhbhai

 Right, the Prince Jonah K ū hi ō statue fronting K ū hi ō Beach. Opposite, the statue of Duke Kahanamoku.

Patel, an activist for India’s independence from British rule and an advocate for the country’s unification, was completed in October 2018. In Hawai‘i, a 12-foot-tall statue of King Kamehameha III was unveiled on July 31, 2018 in Thomas Square Park to commemorate his unwavering commitment to sovereignty during temporary British occupation in 1843. In a society in which nothing seems permanent and everything is susceptible to manipulation, the antiquated statue may be the perfect antithesis. At their worst, statues remind us of our vulnerability to oppression. But at their best, they inspire us to overcome adversity and persevere into the uncharted future.

 The King Kamehameha I statue at Ali‘i ō lani Hale in Honolulu.

On the birthday of King Kal ā kaua, November 16, FREE museum admission for kama‘ā ina with Hawai‘i ID.

This exhibition is made possible by Ohuokalani Charitable Foundation, an award from the National Endowment for the Arts, Judy Pyle and Wayne Pitluck, Allison Holt Gendreau and Keith Gendreau, Laura and Donald Goo, Linda and Michael Horikawa, the Dolores Furtado Martin Foundation, and Jean E. Rolles.

PRESENTING SPONSOR

MAJOR SPONSORS SUPPORTING SPONSORS

honolulumuseum.org #hoouluHoMA #preservinghawaii

ON VIEW THROUGH JANUARY 27, 2019

Uniform of Walter Murray Gibson, Collection of Hawai‘i State Archives

Bibliophilia for Botanicals

A library of rare books on Kaua‘i represents a wide range of musings and curiosities about the natural orl s annin e centuries.

TEXT BY SHANNON WIANECKI

IMAGES BY CHRISTIAN COOK

The glass-enclosed rare book room is the first thing you see upon entering the National Tropical Botanical Garden’s research center in al heo, aua i. Recessed lighting beams down onto bookshelves, giving the space an ethereal glow.

“It was meant to be the jewel of the building,” says Tim Flynn, the herbarium collections manager. Like most of the staff here, he relishes any opportunity to browse its arcane stacks.

The little library of 600 titles includes rare monographs, accounts of sailing expeditions, and early editions of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species . The collection is especially strong in 18th and 19th century botanical literature. It once belonged to Elizabeth Loy McCandless Marks, who amassed it over the course of her life with help from esteemed botanists Joseph Rock and Horace Clay. The

 Inside the National Tropical Botanical Garden’s rare book room.

client Jean Yamada is predicated on assertiveness and wit, and is solidified by a mutual care for one another.

garden acquired the books in 1998, a few years after Marks’ death.

“When we got this collection, we promised we’d house it appropriately,” Flynn says. To do so, the garden sought out renowned architect ladimir ssipo , ho provided the plans for a building that would honor the books and serve as a state-of-the-art research center. Completed in 2008, the uilding as the rst on Kaua‘i to receive LEED Gold certi cation. paragon of modern design, the twostory concrete structure blends beauty and function. Photovoltaic panels on the roof generate electricity and a 25,000-gallon cistern collects rainwater. The hurricane-proof facility houses the institution’s seed bank, laboratories, herbarium, research library, and, of course, its rare-book collection.

A treasure within a treasure, the rare book room is kept several degrees cooler and drier than the rest of the building. A halon fire suppression system protects its precious contents. A box of white

 The collection is especially strong in 18th and 19th century botanical literature.

gloves sits on a desk, available to guests who wish to handle the books. The library’s visitors tend to be scientists or artists seeking fresh inspiration. “Tattoo artists spend hours in here,” Flynn says.

The oldest book in the collection is the hefty, leather-bound Herbolario Volgare , published in 1522. It is a compilation of folk remedies written in Renaissance Italian. Simple wood-block illustrations extol the properties of meliloto (sweet clover) and cicoare (chicory). It is not a reproduction— these are the actual pages that a printer painstakingly inked almost 500 years ago, not long after Copernicus first proclaimed the sun the center of the universe.

On the nearby shelves are antique floras (regional botanical records) that specify what once grew in the wilds of Scotland, Syria, Japan, and Korea. The 1893 Avifauna of Laysan and the Neighbouring Islands describes and depicts now-extinct birds such as the Laysan crake in great detail. An immaculate copy of Isabella Sinclair’s Indigenous Flowers of the Hawaiian Islands lays open on a table. Published in 1885,

Sinclair’s gorgeous illustrations were among the first artistic renderings of Hawai‘i’s native plants.

Some of the most exquisite botanical artwork can be found in Banks’ Florilegium , which occupies most of the shelves along one wall. This impressive 35-volume set is a newer publication, though its contents date back to Captain James Cook’s first major voyage. Sir Joseph Banks was a botanist who traveled aboard the Endeavour with Cook from 1768 to 1771. Banks collected tens of thousands of plant specimens during visits to Madeira, Java, Australia, and Tierra del Fuego. An onboard artist created 743 paintings of these species, which Banks later turned into copper-plate engravings. The plates languished for two centuries before being published in 1980. Only 116 sets were created, including this one. Several books on the shelves are handmade single editions. “This is probably a one-of-a-kind,” Flynn says, gently flipping open a thin volume entitled Ferns of Hawaii . It’s by celebrated 19th century botanist William Hillebrand.

 In browsing its arcane pages, readers will discover the records and musings of bygone explorers, mapmakers, and plant collectors.

For more information about the National Tropical Botanical Garden, visit ntbg.org.

Each page includes a pressed fern. Another novelty is devoted entirely to seaweeds. One of Flynn’s favorite books contains delicate cut-paper illustrations by French artist Victorien Battandier. In flowery French script, its introduction reads, “Although the study of nature is of widespread appeal, not everyone approaches it in the same way.”

The rare book room isn’t the largest or most valuable botanical library in the world, or even in Hawai‘i. But it represents a wide range of musings about the natural world spanning five centuries. Its intimate shelves hold the records of explorers, mapmakers, painters, poets, and plant collectors—the sort of curious people who slip seeds and leaves into their pockets to study later.

 Several books found on the library’s shelves are handmade single editions.

Honolulu’s iconic IBM Building at night. Image by John Hook.

LIVING WELL

“The details are not the details. They make the product.”—Charles and Ray Eames

The Giving Trees

On Hawai‘i Island orests o nati e naio ane oa an iliahi are care ull nurtured to replenish the mountainside.

TEXT BY RAE SOJOT

IMAGES BY MICHELLE MISHINA

Along the cool, upland slopes of Mauna Loa on a ai i sland, all is uiet in the forest. Wade Lee of loa ina, a a aiian forestry organization, stands under the dappled shade of the forest canopy. Surveying a nearby copse, he introduces trees, each one endemic to Hawai‘i,

with the natural ease one might use when presenting family members: naio, m mane, oa. hen his gaze falls upon a tree with trigonal leaves of opaque, grayish-green. Its mottled branches creep upward to the sky. This is ‘iliahi, also known as Hawaiian sandal ood, loa ina s arboreal lodestar in its reforestation efforts.

The history of sandalwood in Hawai‘i is one of tragedy and consequence. Prior to Western contact, island forests were abundant with ‘iliahi, its fragrant wood used by Hawaiians in medicinal treatments and to scent kapa (bark cloth). During the late 1700s, fur traders en route to East Asia recognized the tree’s commercial potential. By 1805, under King Kamehameha I, ‘iliahi emerged as a ai i s first export crop.

China’s appetite for Hawaiian sandalwood was nearly insatiable, especially in Canton, where it was made into medicine, furniture, and incense. To keep up with demand, entire forests were felled, with workers harvesting ‘iliahi all day and even into the night

 Wade Lee, a biologist and managing member of H ā loa ‘Ā ina. The family-owned business is dedicated to restoring the native dryland forest.

by torchlight. Large lua moku ‘iliahi (sandalwood pits)—their measurements corresponding with a ship’s hull—were dug into forest foors to e pedite orders. The sheer volume of ‘iliahi leaving Hawaiian shores was staggering. In 1810, about 66,000 pounds of sandalwood were shipped to Chinese ports. Two years later, the amount exceeded 2 million pounds. By 1830, the Hawaiian sandalwood trade frenzy had reached its zenith as sandalwood supplies were nearing exhaustion and competing with cheaper, India-sourced sandalwood. The years of overharvest took an ugly toll: The majority of iliahi forests ere all but decimated.

The few remaining forest enclaves would be dealt another blow the following century a ai i s urgeoning cattle industry. “Cattle are the biggest detriments to Hawaiian dryland forests today,” says Justin Lee, Wade’s son, who

or s ith him at loa ina. hen left to roam unchecked, cattle can cause extensive damage to their environs. In already vulnerable Hawaiian dryland forests, they eat young shoots, trample saplings, and rub up against and bunt trees. When the Lee family first purchased its 3,000-acre property above Kona in 2010, the land was scorched from drought and scarred by fire. There were no young trees because the cattle on the property had eaten everything green.

“To have a forest, you need biodiversity,” Justin says. “You need trees of di erent inds and di erent age groups, some old, some young, so that if, for example, a disease breaks out, there is some control over the spread and not everything goes at once.”

By removing the cattle, the Lees saw that the endemic trees were able to better establish themselves. It is the Lees’ hope that with diligence and care,

 In the eight years since H ā loa ‘Ā ina started reseeding the forest, the native tree population has increased tenfold.

“Sandalwood is a good barometer of how well your reforestation efforts are going,” Justin says, noting ‘iliahi’s symbiotic relationship with surrounding trees. Such interconnectedness among trees is vital.

At the property’s onsite nursery, the arboreal labor of love continues. There, hundreds of trays of naio, m ā mane, koa, and ‘iliahi are carefully nurtured from seed to shoot to sapling.

the native forest can thrive.

“We know we can’t get the forest back to pre-human contact,” Justin admits. “But we can try to get back to at least pre-cattle days.” During routine rounds of the forest, the Lees monitor tree health and employ methods that maximize growth. For example, coppicing healthier, younger ‘iliahi and leaving the root balls intact generates new sprouts. At the property’s onsite nursery, the arboreal labor of love continues. There, hundreds of trays of naio, m mane, oa, and iliahi are carefully nurtured from seed to shoot to sapling. Once ready, they are planted with intention along the flanks of the mountain. The results have been more than promising: In the eight years since loa ina started reseeding the forest, the native tree population has increased tenfold.

loa ina har ests sandalwood in order to achieve its reforestation vision, a sweet if not unexpected irony. Ancient ‘iliahi groves discovered on the property have provided the economic vehicle for

 Sandalwood oil is the second-most expensive essential oil in the world.

forest stewardship. By gathering old and dying ‘iliahi and then harvesting its prized oil—coveted across the globe and ranked as the world’s second-most expensive oil loa ina generates the funds needed for its reforestation initiative, covering everything from equipment to arboreal crews. All profits go back to the forest.

“Sandalwood is a good barometer of how well your reforestation efforts are going,” Justin says, noting ‘iliahi’s symbiotic relationship with surrounding trees. Such interconnectedness among trees is both vital and vibrant. A healthy forest perpetuates its own health.

In the forest he helped to build, Wade is a man with quiet purpose. A slight breeze stirs the latticework of leaves above him. Scientists call it psithurism—the sound of wind moving through the trees, a forest’s auditory signature. Here, the song is unique, resonating with notes of native plants found nowhere else in the world. It is a sweet song of reclamation.

To learn more about H ā loa ‘Ā ina or tour its forest, visit haloaaina.com.

Objects of Affection

An architecture riter n s o ents o eaut in onolulu s ar illa e.

TEXT BY TIMOTHY A. SCHULER

IMAGES BY JOHN HOOK

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine got into a debate with a well-known architecture critic about the design of a new Apple store in Chicago. My friend wasn’t impressed with the building, and at some point said, essentially, that Chicago didn’t need another Apple store. Instead, he said, he ould applaud pple s e orts hen it uilt a orda le housing on the South Side of Chicago. I remember that moment because it crystalized the way our relationship to architecture is colored by the cultural context in which we view it. en ears earlier, in a di erent political climate, m friend ma ha e felt di erentl .

Over the past several years, nearly everything in our lives has been assigned a value using an arbitrary and often binary system—good/bad, valid/problematic. Buildings are no exception. And yet rarely is architecture so one-dimensional. Ward Village in Kaka‘ako is a perfect example.

From the preservation of Vladimir Ossipoff’s IBM Building to the attention to detail evident in its high-rise towers, The Howard Hughes Corporation, the developer behind Ward Village, has put a premium on design in ways that other Hawai‘i developers have

not. (Irongate, the developer behind ai s rump nternational otel and the Ritz-Carlton Residences, comes to mind.) Ward Village’s first three towers— Waiea, Anaha, and Ae‘o—are intensely sculptural, outliers in a sea of rectilinear concrete boxes. The news that Jeanne Gang, architect of Chicago’s Aqua Tower and recipient of a MacArthur Genius Grant, will design Ward Village’s next building only promises more prodigious architecture to come.

Generally speaking, we in Hawai‘i have little patience for high-rises, no matter who designed them. Their size and ostentation o end us. Could there e an thing less Hawaiian than a great, gleaming obelisk reaching for the sky? And it’s not just here. Like the moon shot—which too has been hijacked by billionaires—skyscrapers are passé. Architecture critics bemoan them the world over, while to the public they are emblems of either ego or income inequality. Often, it’s the height that bothers us. Over the course of the 20th century in Honolulu, as buildings went from 4 to 12 to 25 stories, concerned citizens decried the city’s changing skyline, the loss of the Honolulu they knew. The joke went

 In a development’s desire to engage with an urban community, design can treat something as stultifying as a luxury condominium tower as a work of public art.

that the state bird was the construction crane. Similar comments are made today, as Kaka‘ako undergoes rapid redevelopment and its warehouses and empty lots are alchemized into luxury condominium towers.

But at least one of the reasons condominium towers are treated like villains is because they’re so visible. Inescapably present, we project onto them all manner of sins— the depletion of Hawai‘i’s natural resources, the jacking-up of housing costs. In reality, density is good for Hawai‘i, especially compared to suburban-style sprawl. When Hawaii Loa Ridge was first developed above ina aina in the s, it suffocated previously undeveloped land with gaudy, Italianate mansions, each with their own pool

 James Lord of Surfacedesign brings an understanding of Pacific cultures to the streetscape.

(sometimes two) and as many as seven bedrooms. Urban high-rises such as those of Ward Village repurpose parking lots and big-box stores and further conserve resources by reducing commute times or eliminating the need to drive altogether. A tower like Anaha fits 300-plus units on less than two acres. The approximately 500 homes at Hawaii Loa Ridge occupy a land area 100 times that size.

But isn’t Ward Village just the 21st-century equivalent of a gated community? In some ways, yes. I certainly can’t a ord to li e there. ut it’s misguided to say that because a building is prohibitively expensive its architecture is somehow bad. When I visit ShangriLa or the Liljestrand House, I don’t begrudge

 Waiea, Anaha, and Ae‘o are intensely sculptural outliers in a sea of rectilinear concrete boxes.

Doris Duke or Howard Liljestrand for their fortunes. (Well, maybe I do a little bit, but I certainl don t rite o the houses designs. When I walk into the Honolulu Museum of rt, don t sco at the ichtenstein ust because it cost almost $2 million. I may not be able to buy a certain kind of car, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the care that went into its making.

Besides, Ward Village isn’t gated. It’s right there, in plain view, with shops and restaurants lining the streets and park spaces. These buildings are part of Honolulu in a way that the homes at Hawaii Loa Ridge are not. If the design teams have done anything right, it is their acknowledgement of that fact, reflected in their commitment to well-designed public spaces at ground level.

The development’s emphasis on walkability is evident in the design of its streetscapes. Take, for instance, the generous walkways and planters brimming with Moloka‘i white hibiscus, or the

geometric patterning of the sandstone outside Merriman’s, with every other zigzag sanded smooth, creating an asymmetrical, quasi-chevron pattern that elevates the plaza beyond that of a typical city sidewalk. Even the concrete pavers along Kamakee Street respond to the width of the walkway, narrowing where it narrows, widening where it widens, a subtle cue as if to say, this is a place to linger.

Here’s an assignment: Get a table at Piggy Smalls or on the lanai of Kaka‘ako Kitchen some afternoon. Watch the people walking by. Watch them notice the glass-bottomed s imming pool foating feet a o e the sidewalk. Watch as they point and nudge their signi cant others, ho su se uentl pull out their cameras or phones. Watch them laugh and wave to the pool-goers above, who wave back, underwater, holding their breath. Watch as the sun arcs over the building, turning the pool into a prism that makes holographic snakes shimmer, sidewinder-like, across the glass.

 The use of basalt and volcanic stone as materials connect back to Hawai‘i’s geology.

Inside of Anaha, which features the largest living wall in the state. Ward Village is a master-planned community with access to shopping boutiques, high-end dining, entertainment, and public programming.

The development’s emphasis on walkability is evident in the design of its streetscapes, generous walkways, and site amenities and furnishings, like benches.

It’s tempting to see that pool as a gimmick. But it hints at something rather profound: Imbued in the design of Ward Village is a desire to engage the public, to treat something as potentially stultifying as a luxury condominium building as a work of public art.

Ward Village is not perfect. Its streets are too wide, and the buildings all feel a little too new; the IBM Building notwithstanding, there’s not much in the way of character. The development can feel generic. And yet planned communities always require time to cure, and certain decisions made at Ward Village—like the choice to leave the Queen Street facades blank, done in anticipation of a future rail station—will only make sense as time goes on.

 Through design, Ward Village aims to establish a Hawai‘i-specific design vocabulary which doesn't rely on old forms and iconography.

The strongest critique, of course, is one of affordability. But architecture is not housing policy. Ward Village isn’t solving Hawai‘i’s most pressing problems. I don’t think it pretends to. It does, however, offer moments of beauty. We don’t have to own the penthouse, or even be invited up to the pool. We do have to look closely and maybe block a few things out. It’s worth trying. Because if we can’t separate the object from the pedestal it sits on, we’ll end up missing out on a lot of the world.

 The swimming pool at Anaha has become a signature of the area.

Exercise with Integrity

Sweat + Soul empowers mind and body with its challenging workouts.

To move with thought and intention is what sets barre (pronounced “bar”) apart from other boutique fitness classes, but it is diligence and understanding that distinguishes it from its competitors. In addition to being trained and certified at New York City-based Exhale Spa, Sweat + Soul instructors also incorporate their own unique flair into class as many of them have extensive backgrounds in dance and sports. This passion for fitness and overall well-being provides for a motivating and inspiring environment. Sweat +

Soul encourages everyone to welcome challenge, whether inside or outside of the studio, and surpass it.

For Sweat + Soul founder, Melissa Rota, it is this betterment of one’s self that is equally, if not more important, than the physical improvements made at the barre. As a mother and software engineer before opening Sweat + Soul in 2015, Rota understood the need for an effective and efficient workout, so she structured her intelligently-sequenced classes accordingly. A Sweat + Soul barre class combines athletic sequences, micromovements, and sustained holds with elements derived from dance training to create a unique, high intensity workout.

For those who have never experienced a barre class before, the intensity may be surprising despite being a low-impact workout. he difcult often comes from identif ing and isolating di erent

muscle groups in order to target a particular area of the body with small, yet precise movements. As most classes are at an open level, Sweat + Soul instructors are accustomed to teaching a wide range of experience and abilities in a single class, allo ing people of all tness le els to participate.

In 2018, Rota moved the studio to its current home in the courtyard of Keauhou Lane. It is still one of the only independent barre studios in Honolulu. Now nestled in the urgeoning neigh orhood of a a a o among the picturesque cafes, chic restaurants, niche shops, and craft breweries, Sweat + Soul invites everyone to meet at the barre.

Sweat + Soul is located at 522 Keawe St. For more information, visit sweatandsoulstudio.com/flux or call 593-8384.

Experience Marriott International – Hawaii

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At the premium tier, Marriott International – Hawaii now boasts a combined collection of Westin, Sheraton, and Marriott resorts across the four main Hawaiian Islands in the most enviable oceanfront locations in Hawai‘i.

“Exactly like nothing else” is the resounding mantra for Marriott International’s Autograph Collection brand, and the three very unique Autograph Collection hotels and resorts in Hawai‘i are no exception. From the expansive Koloa Landing Resort at Poipu to the quirky vintage am iance at he a lo in ai , and the unparalleled timelessness

of the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel at Kauna‘oa Bay, the Autograph Collection offers visitors to Hawai‘i the opportunity to immerse themselves in an experience unlike any other in the world.

A selection of suite and villastyle Marriott Vacation Club resorts and Westin Villa properties cater wonderfully to families looking for more space to spread out and enjoy the comforts of home combined with the luxuries and conveniences of a resort.

The possibilities are endless at Marriott International – Hawaii properties, with dozens of on-site restaurants, l au sho s, spas, pools, and an expansive selection of ocean and cultural activities, including surfing, canoe rides, catamaran rides, hula lessons, ‘ukulele lessons, and more.

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Located on a quiet stretch of golden sand on Kaanapali Beach, experience Maui in a resort unlike any other. Wake-up to the tranquility and stunning ie s of the aci c cean ith foor-to-ceiling indo s from your private hideaway complete with custom furnishings. Why not treat yourself to some luxury living with an upgrade to a premium suite with gourmet kitchens, upgraded bathrooms and lu ur d cor. he resort o ers studios to two-bedroom suites, all with breathtaking oceanfront views.

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seekers, scuba diving, ziplining, downhill biking and horseback riding are just some of the available options. Whatever your plans are, discover your best vacation yet and experience island life at your own pace.

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Sonny Side Up

A

Millennial journalist-turned-hopeful politician tracks the rise and fall (and rise again) of his political ambitions.

TEXT BY SONNY GANADEN

ILLUSTRATION

BY MITCHELL FONG

I didn’t dream of being in politics as a kid. My childhood experiences with prefects and bullies fostered a lasting distaste for power. If I identified most with anyone at that age it was the anthropomorphic fox from Disney’s Robin Hood . Like him, and most people who are powerless, I view the elite with a healthy dose of skepticism. Early on I figured that if I would never have political power, at least I could understand it, and maybe outsmart it. Later came college degrees in policy and political science, a law degree that emphasized critical race theory. I wrote everything possible about broke artists and struggling athletes. I paid the bills representing domestic violence victims and those in the vice grip of the criminal justice system.

Then I found myself in Kalihi, home to a workingclass community of Filipinos, Pacific Islanders, and the islands’ growing Micronesian and Chinese immigrant community. They reminded me of my own mixed-up immigrant family. I attended funerals and first a l au. al ed ith kids along streets with potholes that seemed like portals to alternate dimensions, by gambling houses as famous as the Bellagio, through a 10-block neighborhood that floods most days. Even the progressive advocates told me the neighborhood used to be a swamp; as if it’s just the natural order of things, the way regular working people get swept away when the waters rise. As if Kalihi wasn’t a mile away from the most advanced military base in the history of the world. As if places like Washington D.C., Manhattan,

ondon, or ai eren t s amps too. othing seemed fair when I met kids who got lead poisoning, kids with the worst dental health in America, local kids without shoes. So, what if I broke character and sought power? What if I ran? Over the years, the politicians I met were, for the most part, well-meaning people with shortcomings similar to my own. Many of them are straight-up lazy. I hit the streets with my dad and tita who spoke Tagalog and Illocano, friends, lovers, and anybody willing to wave a sign. The new mode of life went against the habits I had acquired over the previous three decades. I felt like an outsider at every turn. I spent six months in the elements, punctuated by constant meetings and awkwardly plastering my face all over the neighborhood. The equivalent of a down-payment for an apartment was spent on mailers, websites, and community events. They described a goofily simple platform of fairness, dignity, and labor. I worked so diligently to avoid being exposed as a political fraud that I ended up becoming a legitimate politician. We lost, barely, but that’s a subject for another essay. The next campaign begins in a few months. In Tagalog we’d say “pag pag,” kicking the dust off your feet to keep moving. I’m hoping the next campaign goes like the last scene in Robin Hood , when the fox exclaims, “Fear not, my friends. This will be my greatest performance!” as he dodges an arrow to the butt and another gets stuck in his hat, shoots the camera a wink, just before scaling the castle wall.