vida loca | ʻōpulepule ola — tauoranga whakawehi | koyaanisqatsi (crazy life)

a girl created by working hands, love and trauma (in every magnitude), and blood from
three beautiful cultures—
“shouldn’t you teach her spanish?”
“where’s the feather in her hair?”
“why isn’t she dancing the hula?”
–
i stare back at my reflection,
eyeing the precise features The Creator and my ancestors decided to give me:
the little slant in my eyes that arrives when I smile, the feature other kids would poke fun at
growing up — how are you a Mexican with small eyes?
the polynesian body, the thick bones that prepare me for a battle that may come one day, when
we reclaim the land that is rightfully ours — the island of polynesia
the bump on top of my “Indian” nose, the bump my glasses conceal — I touch it in the mirror,
smiling and frowning.
–
the fingers of my ancestors applied these features on me during my creation,
because they did not see me as half or incomplete;
i was one of them.
–
assimilation is an deliberate evil,
the colonizer sung the lullaby to his Mexican, Polynesian, and American Indian subjects,
draining the culture from beaten, dead, and haunted bodies,
swearing that the savage in them will be erased,
saving the white, enterprising future.
–
i grew up assimilated from 2⁄3 of my creators,
and the incompletion was evident – the jarring nature of my existence
burdening my life. i was living off of the tombstones of my ancestors—everything they had fought for
was disappearing in the blink of an eye. the colonizer wand that waved the spell, “FORGET THEM”,
was working.
–
i woke up one morning and greeted the sunshine,
it conveyed words to me without saying anything—a message from mother nature, dear girl. never
forget your people.

i pondered about the meaning, until it came fast –
an illumination blossomed on the ofrenda.
then, while i was walking outside, i found a feather.
shortly after, i found an old picture in my memory box: a photograph of me dancing the hula as a
small, baby child. my belly protruded from the skirt.
the message was clear.
–
i danced across the trail of truth and glided across the river,
until i entered the land of liberation and saw the hands of my people,
extended. i reached for them, accepted, and was brought to the refuge of my identity.
there were hammocks, tipis, hale nohos, and wharepunis and food and people–
music graced the place, blends of instruments and voices swimming between my ears.
each person looked at me.
“eres una de nosotras.”
“kākou.”
“kei a tātou koe.”
“lomasumi'nangwtukwsiwmani.”
i nodded, then cried.
because though i come from the three beautiful people,
i am ultimately still one person—a blend,
in this
( vida loca ʻōpulepule ola — tauoranga whakawehi koyaanisqatsi )
CRAZY LIFE.

​

-M.S. Blues