In Hawaii, winter consists of one week in January when the temperature drops below 70 degrees. That was the week I always looked forward to. I was probably the only little Hawaiian girl that owned sweaters and wore them around during the usual 80 degree heat. I longed for the cold.
The first time I saw snow was when I was fourteen-years-old. My family took our first skiing trip to the resort town of Park City, Utah. This was also one of the first years of the Sundance Film Festival. (The only celebrity I saw that year was Jasmine Guy. She was stunning.) Park City was spectacular, and the white flakes stacked on the ground were my new playground; little did I know that the new snow was mechanically made the night before. One of my fondest memories about ski trips in Park City was driving through the unplowed snow with my dad. We would always take our rental car up the hills and see how far we could go before we got stuck. It only happened once, and we were in a residential area jumping snow banks.
Yesterday, November 21st, was the first time I have ever been afraid for my life while driving in the snow. There was no visibility for five miles. The interstate was icy and snow-packed. The flakes were falling, creating a tunnel with my lights as I drove through it. My back tire caught the rumble strip and spun me in the opposite direction going sixty miles an hour. It was the first time I wished I was back in Hawaii.
I never loved Hawaii. For as long as I can remember, the only thing I wanted was to escape Hawaii. Hawaii was paradise, but only to those that had a means to venture past the pristine beaches and coral reefs. I havent been back to Hawaii since we moved to Montana. The last memory I have of my island is through an airplane window at eleven oclock at night: the lights on Oahu shimmer in the sky over the still damp leaves covering the Koolau mountain range, leading to my town of Kailua. Almost everyday, someone asks me if I miss Hawaii, if I have been back, if I will ever go back, if Im really Hawaiian. I tell them no to every answer, even though the vast majority should be yes. Yes, I miss Hawaii for the dry roads and superstitions. No, I have never been back. Yes, I will go back, but not to live. Yes, I really am Hawaiian. But youre so white. But you havent seen my brothers or my father. Oh.
It snowed over a foot of snow in the last twenty-four hours. When I open the door, there is that distinct smell of skiing down the Payday run with my mom and Austin. The sky is dark gray, still, luring in the presence of evening. A sudden urge to construct a snow-person comes over me. I rush out to my back yard and attempt to roll snowballs, but the snow does not stick. Instead, I succumb to a game of doggie snow soccer with Moses and Nikki. I fall only once and laugh the entire time. The three of us ravage the virgin snow and hope for its renewal later tonight.
There was never virgin sand in Hawaii. Every beach had a least one person on it, and usually, it was someone you knew. After three years, I get excited when I meet someone from Hawaii; they understand what its like to have lived in a place where people dream about living, a place where the world stops, and the only thing that matters is the portrayal of perfection, a place where utopia is expected, but intrusion exists. Even though we may all miss Hawaii for a few minutes, the reality of beauty keeps us grounded in the snow. In the land of paradise, there is no complete solitude in nature: you always know there is someone behind you, waiting for you to fall so they can take your place.
The first time I saw snow was when I was fourteen-years-old. My family took our first skiing trip to the resort town of Park City, Utah. This was also one of the first years of the Sundance Film Festival. (The only celebrity I saw that year was Jasmine Guy. She was stunning.) Park City was spectacular, and the white flakes stacked on the ground were my new playground; little did I know that the new snow was mechanically made the night before. One of my fondest memories about ski trips in Park City was driving through the unplowed snow with my dad. We would always take our rental car up the hills and see how far we could go before we got stuck. It only happened once, and we were in a residential area jumping snow banks.
Yesterday, November 21st, was the first time I have ever been afraid for my life while driving in the snow. There was no visibility for five miles. The interstate was icy and snow-packed. The flakes were falling, creating a tunnel with my lights as I drove through it. My back tire caught the rumble strip and spun me in the opposite direction going sixty miles an hour. It was the first time I wished I was back in Hawaii.
I never loved Hawaii. For as long as I can remember, the only thing I wanted was to escape Hawaii. Hawaii was paradise, but only to those that had a means to venture past the pristine beaches and coral reefs. I havent been back to Hawaii since we moved to Montana. The last memory I have of my island is through an airplane window at eleven oclock at night: the lights on Oahu shimmer in the sky over the still damp leaves covering the Koolau mountain range, leading to my town of Kailua. Almost everyday, someone asks me if I miss Hawaii, if I have been back, if I will ever go back, if Im really Hawaiian. I tell them no to every answer, even though the vast majority should be yes. Yes, I miss Hawaii for the dry roads and superstitions. No, I have never been back. Yes, I will go back, but not to live. Yes, I really am Hawaiian. But youre so white. But you havent seen my brothers or my father. Oh.
It snowed over a foot of snow in the last twenty-four hours. When I open the door, there is that distinct smell of skiing down the Payday run with my mom and Austin. The sky is dark gray, still, luring in the presence of evening. A sudden urge to construct a snow-person comes over me. I rush out to my back yard and attempt to roll snowballs, but the snow does not stick. Instead, I succumb to a game of doggie snow soccer with Moses and Nikki. I fall only once and laugh the entire time. The three of us ravage the virgin snow and hope for its renewal later tonight.
There was never virgin sand in Hawaii. Every beach had a least one person on it, and usually, it was someone you knew. After three years, I get excited when I meet someone from Hawaii; they understand what its like to have lived in a place where people dream about living, a place where the world stops, and the only thing that matters is the portrayal of perfection, a place where utopia is expected, but intrusion exists. Even though we may all miss Hawaii for a few minutes, the reality of beauty keeps us grounded in the snow. In the land of paradise, there is no complete solitude in nature: you always know there is someone behind you, waiting for you to fall so they can take your place.
VIEW 15 of 15 COMMENTS
later
\m/
Chuck