Why Pocho in Paradise?

Early October morning view makai with Diamond Head in the background.

It has been an interesting first two weeks back in Honolulu after a hiatus of several years on the mainland. New job, new friends and colleagues, and a new old culture. I think of the word honi, which, as I understand it, is the traditional way Polynesians greet each other, touching foreheads and noses thru which one exchanges and shares breath, and therefore your self, your life force -- the who you truly are. Those without this, then, are haoles...ghosts...

So, bit by bit, I am re-learning the world view of those who feel that some are without breath, those from without, foreign, and perhaps best epitomized by one Captain Cook who only knew to extend his hand in greeting, and puzzling his gracious and curious hosts who attempted to greet him in the only way they knew how. Honi. And we all know the end of that story. Similarly, in Mexico, American-born Mexicans are labeled pochos -- anglicized, wannabe Mexicans who've exchanged tortillas for Wonder Bread. I was once called a Mexican sandwich by two Mexican laborers as I walked to a business appointment in Portland, Oregon -- dark meat in white bread? Stopped me cold. Funny feeling to be a person between cultures, between borders. I felt like a ghost. Which is why Pocho in Paradise. This is the blog of someone who doesn't quite fit in, is 4000 miles away from a wife and family that he loves and misses, and is living in one of the greatest polyglot cultures on the planet. Aloha, mahalo nui for joining me, y viva los hijos de la chingada!