A couple of posts ago I wrote about what it means to be from somewhere. That’s a concept that has followed me throughout my life. This past week I was able to be in Hāna for four days with my work and our partners. This definitely was an immersion in that concept. Hāna, a rural community brimming with history, ‘āina, kuleana, so much to do and be. Exponential potential, so much work at hand and so many hammahs getting it done.
Rural places in Hawai‘i are amazing because if you’re not from there, if you have no context, they feel sleepy, perhaps slow, like there’s not much going on. If you have a tourist lens and are looking for things to do, there’s mostly nature. And if that’s your jam, you can enjoy it enough. However, it’s a completely different story if you’re from that ‘āina. The history, the interwoven mycelium and mo‘olelo of people, places, and generations, even the acknowledgement that ‘āina IS, are all right there, if you know.
That gets me to my topic—leadership. From a western perspective, a leadership role might not be hard to attain. Leadership, and the pursuit of it, can be a singular, individual goal. One wants to be a leader. One goes to school, one becomes in charge of things, and then more; one is entrepreneurial and finds a way to make money in a capitalist paradigm; these are all hallmarks of success as a leader. There are bootstraps and people raise themselves by them. One can become a leader of many things simply because they made a lot of money, or had some measure of power and influence due to their relationship and control over money or things or supply chains. It doesn’t matter how, or what else they’ve done or what kind of person they might be behind closed doors or away from a news camera.
I was thinking a lot about leadership this past week and how important it is, and how much I was learning from our colleagues in Hāna. And then eventually it struck me that “leadership” didn’t feel right. As Hau‘oli described being a part of all of these different issues and organizations in the community because it’s what’s happening and what needs to be done, she described this interconnected sense of kuleana and commitment. To be bound to a place—to be part of it, to come from somewhere that is in your DNA for generations, to belong to this kind of continuity, is to have what needs to be done revealed to you, and to feel compelled to do it. Koho ‘ia—do you chose, or are you chosen?
That sense of accountability and belonging is so strong in places like Hāna. And it seems like it can be tiring, because there is so much to do, to protect, to teach, pass on, to preserve, restore, to ensure. To feed. People to take care of, land to cultivate, invasives of all kinds to fend off, rocks to stack, youth to mentor, elders to consult and heed and take care of and love and learn from. Being tired is a bit irrelevant in this kind of paradigm. Self-care becomes a luxury; life is so deeply entwined in the WE, not the I.
From that lens, I see leadership not as a solitary pursuit, or any sort of hierarchy, but as an interdependent way of being that holds us in relationship to all around us. A sort of accountability. If there is any kind of hierarchy, then ‘āina is at the top, and we all fall in line. Our genealogies and histories, the trauma we endure, avoid, heal; our work, all is accountable to the land under our feet and the wind, rain and sun on our faces; mountain, ocean, reef, in front and behind us; the bees bushes and trees all around us, the soil underneath our feet. Everything happens on ‘āina or in the sea. That is a simple fact. Our past, present and future are all held, hosted and remembered by the land.
My friend Cheryl recently began coordinating the Omidyar Fellowship experience. She described to me that for her, for this cohort experience, accountability to Hawai‘i is at the forefront. “What is your gift?” A gift not just for you, but for this place you are from or have chosen to live? And how will you give that gift to make Hawai‘i a better place? How profound this question is. It’s not just that you have a gift—you can be a leader, but for what? And so what?
In the year or so before Aunty Pua passed, she wanted to figure out how her work could endure and be useful. She didn’t want to talk about legacy. She didn’t want herself to be the center of the circle, the focus. However, she rightfully believed that her principles, practices, and stories can help people who are looking to find the middle. People who are finding their gifts amidst this crazy world, and learning how to give them to make the world a better place. How profound. But it was hard to navigate the journey together, because for us, she was a kind of center.
We sought different ways to approach the conversation. I realized that we couldn’t have a direct conversation about legacy. We needed to tell each other stories, continually. She made us answer the questions we asked her. The well-worn rhythm of the circle, the track of our voices talking and then silent, ears listening, hanging on to every word as George shared about growing up in Ah Fong Camp, as David shared about life in Little Village and his youth sprouting like flowers through concrete, as Greg wrote haiku about each of us, as Aunty shared the poems that randomly showed up on her computer screen—all of this was comforting. We missed Aunty Pua when she couldn’t make it, but we continued to meet. We grew in accountability and relationship to each other maybe similar to the same way as what I witnessed in Hāna last week—you feel your way through, you listen to your kūpuna, you take note of the landmarks and the history that brought us to this place, this moment, our evolving and exponential potential together, as parts of a beloved community.
Today is a solar eclipse. There’s a lot going on and so much work, so much change. A time to shed old patterns and habits that no longer serve us. I hope that you are finding your interconnectedness these days and the support systems to hold you up—I won’t pretend there will ever be any less work to do.
A poem that came leaking from Aunty’s computer one day with her note at the end:
Struggle
It’s a struggle
Developing Solidarity.
It’s a struggle
Being Positive
It’s a struggle
MAKING Common Unity.
It’s a struggle
LIVING.
It’s a struggle
Because it’s slow
But if we Struggle
At developing Solidarity.
Being Positive
Shaping Reality.
Making Common Unity.
We will all Grow
Because to struggle
Is to work for Change,
And Change is the focus of Education,
And Education is the Basis of Knowledge,
And Knowledge is the Basis for Growth
And Growth is the basis for
Being Positive and Being Positive
Is the Basis for Building Solidarity
Building Solidarity is a way to shape
Reality and Shaping Reality is Living
And Living is Loving
So struggle.—Mel King
Community organizer, activist, educator from Boston, I met when he was a teacher at MIT. This poem uplifts the need for our communities to talk and laugh and share stories as we Build Beloved Communities. Mahalo Mel.
Photo taken 11/24 in Hāna, Maui. I didn’t take many photos last week on our huaka‘i.