Pure Manaʻo

  Photo by Daian Gan Pexels Author's note: what color is nothing? was the prompt that led me to this rabbit hole. I'm not sure what I want to do with this. I am thinking I would like to know what unexpected lessons others have learned about themselves through teachers. I feel like the dumb girly is a different piece or I need to weave it better into the end in order to justify the space I give to the dumb girly thing.  In 7th grade art class, Ms. Glazer taught us about mixing water colors, the color wheel and the potential of water. She also told me that I was not an artist. It stopped my random doodling on the margins of my Holly Hobbie journal. It made me hesitant when I had to take industrial arts in 8th grade because we had to design a t-shirt for silk screening. How do I design on silkscreen when I have lost the ability to art?  Despite my lack of talent in art, I did remember that black can represent the presence of all colors. White is colorless. But at the end of the se

  Author's note: This is just a list poem of things I learned as a 17 year old chasing and trapping pigs that have helped me all these years later. Pigs are very similar to humans and their bodies are studied in place of humans because of this. We have deemed this knowledge ethical to humans. Not necessarily ethical to pigs. Wild pigs are vegans. I used to be a vegan. It was a lot of work. I used to dream about eggs. Wild pigs will also eat eggs if the opportunity exists, but they won't go out of their way to get it. Pigs are the ultimate locavore and whole foods advocates. Wild pigs live the native American concept of "Survivance" by Gerald Vizenor. They exist not just because they are survivors, which they are, but they survive through an active sense of presence and resistance. I have seen wild pig mamas teach their babies how to push through the uluhe ferns, find the maze of lava tubes hidden under the tangle of vines and navigate their natural subway system to ge

  Author's Note: This is going to be about how I got into teaching as a 3rd generation teacher. I guess I was fighting being a teacher, but my experiences outside of teaching led me to the fact that teaching was always going to be the choice. I have not regretted the acceptance of my role in the 30 plus years that Iʻve been doing this.   At 17, I was a pig hunter for the Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park. Well, actually, I was a pig trapper, pig radio collar "hunter," bait girl, pig mama. I did not accompany the hunters and scientists with a gun, knife, rope. Just me and my green rubber boots, Leviʻs 501 button downs, and my favorite purple and pink Izod shirt.  On the day that one of my snares caught and killed a pig, my title changed to forensic science assistant. At 17, the title made me important enough to drive the official national park F150, pick up the police forensics guy at Kilauea Military camp at 7 am, open the evacuation locks, trek him through the rain forest

  Author's Note: I'm not sure what the story will be. I ended my first independent writing time with the first two lines and perhaps an idea that I would be writing about the things I lost in the fire, or maybe things I gained from the fire.  After the daily conversation about the prompt with teachers talking about events like 9/11 and Columbine, it seems to be the beginning of  a connection with some national/international shared traumas and how that linked to my own life and also shifted at that moment how I choose to live life. I am letting this just reveal itself so any feedback is welcome as I try to see what sticks.  6/5/24 On the night Lahaina burned, August 8, 2023, Tuesday, I dreamt about my great grandfather's church burning as if I was somehow in the graveyard looking toward Lahainaluna Road only to wake up to the photo of the Waiola Church social hall burning. Not a dream, more like a portal that opened up, or my spirit traveling to say goodbye one last time. Th

  6/4/24 Anna's last day was Friday, May 31, 2024 She collected all of her gifts and notes from her students Took pictures with her seniors who she had as freshmen four years ago Turned in her keys and walked away from her Georgia classroom made up of predominantly  black and brown students  who needed her to stay. She is not (really) leaving because of the constant shift of politics/policies/procedures of her school district She survived that. She is not (really) leaving because she suddenly lost her colleague and mentor last year, her marigold. She survived that. She is not (really) leaving because of the overwhelming needs of her students  Who continue to need her even after they have left her class.  She did this tearfully because she was both too empty and too full to stay another year. She is going to graduate school for counseling in the fall Her next dream is to do horse therapy for children and young adults. She sees this as a failure on her part.  She could not stay in th

  Photo by Brent Keane 6/3/24 The first sign. On Sunday the earthquakes started along Kilauea 4.0 on the surface, but  20 miles down the road in Hilo, only a community alert on my husbandʻs phone  gave us any indication that Pele was waking up from nap. The second sign.  On Monday morning, during a 4 am Zoom class, Lava, Pele, was fountaining out of an old rift zone Her glow calling locals and tourists alike out of bed like a siren luring sailors onto her rocks. By 10 am she was done, leaving only a shower of sulfuric smoke to mark her path across the new black pahoehoe. Third sign. On Monday evening, Kanehekili, brother to Pele and Hiʻiakaikapoliopele, born from the mouth of Haumea rolls into Waiakea and Hilo bringing his thunder, lightning, rain. The sky lights up the Panaewa forest outside my home rain stomping on our totan roof and waking my moʻo who calls out for me as I try to compose this poem.  ---------------------- Anarchy - non recognition of authority or other controlling s