The first time anyone ever called me a haole (pronounced: hau̇-lē), my reaction was a combination of mild irritation (did this dude just call me Hallie?) and confusion (why the hell is he laughing at me??). But I learned shortly after, that ‘haole’ is what locals (usually good naturedly… but if someone says “eh, you f***kin haole!” you better start running) call white people, or general foreigners. These are some things that I’ve learned as a haole maintaining semi-permanent residency on Oahu.
1. Waikiki ≠ Paradise
Living in Hawai’i is a completely different experience from coming here on vacation. I’ve been exposed to the dirtiest, most unpleasant parts of residency; including homelessness, horrible traffic, too-small parking spots, and public buses – but, imperfections like these are inevitable in any place you live. I have also, however, been exposed to a completely new definition of paradise. Waikiki is plastic paradise – where you go to spend lots of money, drink lots of Mai Tais, and spend hours relaxing on a ‘beach’ at the nearby resort. Real paradise is the little hidden island gems – the random cliffs, waterfalls, and restaurants you find on accident, or by hanging out with locals. Real, actual bliss is spending the day at the beach, and then coming home to shower in your own apartment and sleep in your own bed – then returning to your real life without a 9-hour flight in between.
2. EH. Howzit??
Howzit, aka the most common greeting in Hawai’i, has proved to be the most effective way for me to show people that I am most definitely not a tourist. Try as I might, my brain refuses to respond to a greeting (especially at work, where I’m the one little white girl among a bunch of really cool Samoan dudes) with something other than “hi, how’s it going?!”
3. AUNTY.
I really thought I knew everything there was to know about the basic structure of a family tree – until I moved to Hawai’i.
What I thought I knew:
Aunt/Aunty – your mom or dad’s sister
Uncle – your mom or dad’s brother
Cousin – your aunt/uncle’s kids
What it took me an embarrassing amount of time to learn:
Aunty – your friend’s mom, your boyfriend’s mom, your mom’s friend, the lady who does your mom’s hair, that random checkout lady at the grocery store, the little old lady on the bus, that one lady you met once when you were 4 and your mom has been talking to for an hour and a half in Target…. And your mom or dad’s actual sister.
Uncle – see above…. The male version
Cousin – LITERALLY EVERYONE YOU’VE EVER MET THAT IS WITHIN 5 YEARS OF YOUR OWN AGE…. Including, but most certainly not limited, to your mom or dad’s sibling’s kids.
The confusing nature of this system has led me to start asking the question… “aunty,” or like, your actual aunty? I’ve just about got it down though… one of my proudest moments recently was saying “thanks, aunty!” to the sweet little lady that tears tickets at the movie theater without feeling like a complete haole.
4. Queen Liliuokalani
On a more serious note: mainland American public schools do NOT teach Hawaiian history. Besides the basic facts, like Hawai’i used to be a monarch ruled by its own kings and queens, I really had no idea about the general history of the islands before moving here. But, thanks to Hawaiian universities’ gen ed program requirements, I was one of those cool people in the movie theater who already knew about all of the history and ancient traditions being referenced in Moana.
5. SHAKA.
This one is multipart, and arguably the most important thing I’ve learned. First of all, before I moved here the closest thing I’d ever seen to a shaka was a ‘hang loose’ followed by some sort of phrase along the lines of “gnarly, dude!” from some blonde surfer guy in a crappy Cali surfer movie from the nineties. In Hawai’i, the shaka is a serious part of the culture, and can often be the make or break opportunity to differentiate yourself from the tourists. I’ve learned to shaka in many different driving situations – from “I just cut you off, my bad,” to “Ay, uncle, come on into my lane brah!” So there I was, thinking I was cool shit fitting in with the locals, until one day – mind you, this was after I had already been living in Hawai’i for EIGHTEEN MONTHS – that it was brought to my attention that my Shaka. Game. Was. WEAK. Here I was, throwin’ up loose-ass shakas, looking no better than the tourists posing for the obligatory luau photo. But, no thanks to every person I’ve ever shaka-ed, I have rectified the situation and now my shaka is on point. The key is muscle definition – you gotta really flex the shaka hand.
It’s been 3 years since moving to the island and although I still can’t say I understand it all, I am way better off than I was when I first got here. At least my shaka is on point! Now time to get that island tan…