THE MOUSE IS DREAMING
In a dark hole behind the washing machine
The house-mouse is dreaming.
Whiskers, body, tail – twitching and trembling,
Paws scratching the air.
That mouse, he’s a dreamin’
Of great chunks of cheese, and whole loaves of bread,
Of a nest made of the finest pieces of cloth and paper –
dry, warm, and snug,
of living out in the open once again, to be sun-warmed
and star-shined,
of walking. Of walking through the territory patrolled
by the Cat.
Of cat traps and cat cages,
And cats without claws and teeth;
Of a world without Cats.And this mouse, she’s a dreamin’
Of acres of lo‘i kalo, of nets full of ‘opelu,
Of rocks choke with ‘opihi and limu.
Of forests of Koa and Iliahi and Wiliwili,
Of empty and crushed buildings, which no longer
Scrape the sky;
Of living in the open once again, to be sun-warmed
And star-shined;
Of walking through the territory controlled
by the Cat.
Of cat traps, and cat cages,
And cats without claws and teeth;
Of a world without Cats.And the mice dream dreams
That would terrify the Cats.By Puanani Burgess
January 22, 1986
This week in our beloved community cohort circle, only the uncles could come. One by one, we shared our Culture in a Bag. Two of the uncles, raised in plantation camps on O‘ahu and Maui, pulled stories from what felt like a time machine. George brandished a coin like a talisman and regaled us with the story of Kanda’s Lunch Counter, where for just a quarter, a kid could order hamburger steak with rice and gravy all over. That memory, so specific, so thick—wasn’t just about food. It was about being seen, being served, being fed with care. The plate, the rice, the patty drenched in gravy—it was enough. It was everything.
My own grandma ran a restaurant in Chinatown O‘ahu called Millie’s Grill. An Okinawan-American woman who came up through the plantation in Pepe‘ekeo, she served Hawaiian, local, and Japanese favorites in the 1950s and ‘60s. My mom remembers sitting at the counter eating potato chips dipped in mayo, using quarters marked with red nail polish to play songs on the jukebox, watching bright parties across the street at Wo Fat Restaurant from her bedroom window upstairs. She could run down the street to ‘A‘ala Park and make it home safely. This would be unheard of today.
These stories aren’t just nostalgic—they’re blueprints. They remind us that even within extractive systems—colonial plantation economies, racial hierarchies, poverty, post-war and post-statehood Hawai‘i—kids could still feel held by community. And that sense of being held and safe feels increasingly rare in today’s Hawai‘i, and the world at large.
Returning to Aunty Pua, she knew how to hold multiple truths; she knew that indeed, we have to if we’re going to make it. She taught us to critique the structural violence around us and honor the many stories our kūpuna carry, sometimes conflicting. It’s part of telling the whole story. George’s quarter wasn’t just money—it was memory, meaning, and a fleeting kind of freedom.
And I wonder: if we don’t know what freedom feels like, how will we know if it’s being taken away?
In her poem The Mouse is Dreaming, Aunty Pua writes:
“…the mice dream dreams
That would terrify the Cats.”
The mouse, even from behind the washing machine, dreams of abundance. Of forests returned, oceans teeming. Of sun-warmed, star-shined freedom. Of a world without Cats—without the systems that hunt and hoard.
These are the times we find ourselves in now, where care is intentionally denied. Where children face hunger, and elders, languages, and cultures face erasure, displacement, separation. However, in pockets all over, people are dreaming—collectively. Returning to land, to each other, to circles and protests and stories that feed us like hunks of cheese for a future we refuse to give up on.
This weekend I joined a community workday at the lo‘i at Ulupō in my hometown. After our work, we were fed a meal grown and prepared by the youth of Kauluakalana’s summer program. We ate ‘ulu and kalo from the land. Poi we pounded ourselves. Pigs caught right there; yummy laulau, potluck brownies. The food tasted like sovereignty. I know it’s naive, but I believe this kind of community weaving and feeding can overturn empires.
Kaulu is renacting an old story: a chief of Kailua who fed his people every time they came to work the fishpond. Leadership. A young boy accidentally overlooked, who, with a magical branch in hand, had a talisman that could restore balance. Leadership. Kaulu teaches the young folks of Kailua this story, and teaches them how to be more caring citizens of our ahupua‘a, our island, our nation, this world.
By reclaiming our systems and sovereignty, our piko, places, and practices, we render the narratives of the oligarchy and billionaires irrelevant. We follow the stories of our elders as guideposts showing us what worked and what didn’t, showing us our values. We learn what freedom feels like, quarter or magical branch in hand. We learn what it means to come to the middle for something you believe in. By investing in these acts, our dreams become dangerous to the systems that try to keep us small. Our dreaming, our existence is an act of love and resistance.
Sometimes I feel guilty. In Hawai‘i, we are privileged to still drink from a deep, recent well of genealogy, practice, ‘ike, and aloha. This isn’t something everyone has. But it is what it is—and it’s our legacy. We stand in solidarity with others restoring and fighting for their narratives and freedom, even as we continue building our own. We have no other choice.
May you feel fed this week—in body, mind, and spirit—for the struggles and dreams ahead. Gravy all over. With so much anxiety and uncertainty everywhere, we still have to dream. And dream big. Don’t get caught in the eddy of anxiety; dream, speak it out loud, write it down, share with a friend, talk to friends who are in dangerous places physically and emotionally, and offer support. This helps to shift the energy in our bodies and around us, returning our locus of control. It makes space for a newer, better world that we believe in and fight for not just for us, but for everyone all over.
Mahalo!
Dawn
Photo of Kawainui fishpond taken 3/5/22.