Category Archives: Journal

Writing in corners

fashion art coffee macbook pro

Photo by OVAN on

Austin Kleon talks about Bliss Station as perhaps both ideal place, but also ideal time to get the very independent work of doing done.

Even he believes this is the best solution in an ideal world and as I struggle to actually take advantage of my own carved out time on my calendar, and as I see deadlines start to pass me by for my “on the side writing,” I realize that I need to stop looking for my own bliss station and start writing in corners and in the car as I am sitting in traffic. Perhaps my ideal time that I carved out – Wednesdays, 7-10 am – really only works if I stop looking for the ideal chair, the perfect light, the best inspirational quote and I really just write.

So this is me, just writing after one whole month and a half of having my every Wednesday morning carved out for writing on my Google calendar as well as my paper calendar. This is me writing for the first Wednesday instead of wishing that I was writing or feeling guilty that I was not writing. I am not at home on my uncomfortable, cheap office chair, nor am I at the university in my comfy chair but always with the risk of a distractions from students, colleagues, email and fast wi fi.

I am sitting at a Honda service center on a little round table with plastic chairs waiting for my car to get looked at. I am here with a television blasting the morning news and a view of the men’s bathroom. Perhaps this is the bliss station because hey, at least I am writing.

I sat in on a student writing group the other day and one of my students was supposed to be reading his poem that he had just written as a way for me to model Elbow groups based on Peter Elbow’s work Writing Without Teachers. He is a science teacher candidate, not used to being forced to write poetry from a couple of mentor texts so in the 10 minutes I gave him to write, I gave him this technique: write “I don’t know what to write” until your pen is so used to moving that you will start to write with fluency.

When “J” shared his piece to our small Elbow group, he read “I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I carry my father’s last name, but I wish I carried my mother’s. I don’t know what to write. . .”

The way he read it. The way after a series of the same sentence he would throw us some pearl of insight and then close up again was so powerful that as I think back to that now, I realize that I have absolutely no excuse for not having anything to write. I just have to build up my stamina for writing by writing.

What I need to/want to write about:

  • The cosmogenic relationship to Kuahuokalā (the dirt that smells like my grandfather’s yard and the dirt below the mango trees)
  • and how this relationship has created a hale that is my Room of Requirement (walk past three times with your intention in mind and the room, like magic, provides what is necessary)
  • Abstract for our work in community partnerships – pilina, pilina, pilina
  • The lessons of Hiʻiaka in Honouliuli and how that is the foundation of the secondary education program




I am an adult who loves words

red heart on a old opened book

Photo by Kaboompics .com on link

Although I do a LOT of YA reading — and by a lot, I mean 109 books this year so far, I came across the book The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafron.

It is not a YA book, but this quote from the NY Times review sold me:

“Gabriel García Márquez meets Umberto Eco meets Jorge Luis Borges for a sprawling magic show.”

I pictured exotic (non-American) civilizations, the romance of the past, and indulgent adult sentences that seem to make me as a reader feel like I am floating in the buoyant, salty waters of my youth as the humpbacks sing their mournful songs in the ʻAuʻau channel. The promise of this book is that I am free and unencumbered to slow down and get pulled in.  Seems silly even for me, but that is what Gabriel Garcia Marquez meets Umberto Eco meets Jorge Luis Borges

I got to the first page and I need to write this paragraph down somewhere so that when I am old or sad or scared that I will not be able to write, I can at least read something that is good and pure and magic.

     Shortly after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had taken my mother away. We buried her in Montjuic on my fourth birthday. I can only recall that it rained all day and all night, and that when I asked my father whether heaven was crying, he couldn’t bring himself to reply. Six years later my mother’s absence remained in the air around us, a deafening silence that I had not yet learned to stifle with words. My father and I lived in a modest apartment on Calle Santa Ana, a stone’s throw from the church square. The apartment was directly above the bookshop, a legacy from my grandfather that specialized in rare collectors’ editions and secondhand books–an enchanted bazaar, which my father hoped would one day be mine. I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day. As a child I learned to fall asleep talking to my mother in the darkness of my bedroom, telling her about the day’s events, my adventures at school, and the things I had been taught. I couldn’t hear her voice or feel her touch, but her radiance and warmth haunted every corner of our home, and I believed, with the innocence of those who can still count their age on their ten fingers, that if I closed my eyes and spoke to her, she would be able to hear me wherever she was. Sometimes my father would listen to me from the dining room, crying in silence.


Tagged , , , ,

Native Control of Native Research

silhouette of trees

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on

This month we are meeting again to talk about native control of native research. For many academics, it has to start with controlling the IRB process (the organization and structures we have in place in universities so that we are no longer able to do the kinds of research on humans that were done until the Holocaust.)

For me, however, it has to do with knowing the “who you.” Who are you to do this research or even ask for an IRB? What is your kuleana to this community? How do you know that this is what the community wants? It starts with this quote:

If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together. I want to be free. I want you to be free. And you aren’t free until I am. Spend your privilege, and just when you think you’ve spent enough, spend some more. Lilla Watson, Aboriginal activist and artist

The Spirituality of Evaluation

background balance beach boulder

Photo by Pixabay on

I was asked by a former professor of mine to come and speak to the UH Mānoa Ed.D. cohort 3 on indigenous evaluation. It was really to provide some feedback on their own growing understandings based on a scenario they were given on a mental health project in Hawaiʻi.

These doctoral candidates are mostly local and about half of them are native Hawaiian so they really understood the idea of native control of native research, kuleana, understanding the community and asking permission as well as input and feedback from the community.

One of the big ahas that came out of the group was the idea that even if you are a native researcher, it is not about chasing the money. Ask yourself if the intentions of the researchers sit right with your own naʻau, your gut. Also ask yourself if you are the right person to bring this evaluation forward. Are the right people at the table?

That led to a discussion on how do you know the right people are at the table? What I wanted to talk about was the power of letting go as a way to know if the right people are at the table.

In my work, I have found that I increasingly rely on the methodology of “letting go” meaning I plan, create foundations, but then there is a point where I need to evaluate the “Pono”ness the right-ness of my moving forward by letting go. This is about talking to people involved about what I am trying to do, putting it out into the universe and then waiting for hoʻailona or signs.

I tell the story of my needing participants in my dissertation project and not being able to answer my committee as far as my n=. My answer to the committee was that I was going to personally talk story with as many teachers as possible, I went to conferences, opened it up, but that the teachers that stepped forward were the teachers that were meant to step forward. I then gave my committee a random number (10) and they let me go. I didn’t end up getting 10, but each of the teachers that stepped forward were supposed to be there and proved that in many ways throughout the project.

Another story is about finding my kupuna, or elders to become mentors in the program. When I sought out specific elders, I found that things were not working out. Once, there was an elder that I really wanted. She is a famous musician from one of the last remote fishing villages in Hawaiʻi. I happened to see her at my OB/GYN. I did not personally know her, but I whispered to my husband, “look it’s Aunty D. Do you think I should go up to her and ask if she can be part of my project this summer?” My husband was aghast and told me to not do that in this place. I let it go but I still saved a spot for her in my agenda.

About a month before my project was going to start, I see on my roster of participants a name that I know is connected to Aunty D. I email this teacher, talk about what we will be doing in the summer and casually ask if she thinks Aunty D might be able to come talk/sing/spend time with us this summer. The teacher says sure, I will ask and I quickly got a reply that Aunty D will show up. Again, the right people at the right time show up when I just trust that there are forces outside of myself that will help me if what I am doing is pono.

The last story, another kupuna story came one and a half weeks before the start of the project. Of course I had already committed to going to an educational conference on the continent so although the timing was not ideal, it was part of my job so I am on an airplane, last row, middle in front of the galley and I am in the middle of three seats. Not ideal for a 9 hour plane ride. I also still have one day open without a kupuna for my project. A women sits next to me with her blanket, pillow, large bag. I look at her and recognize her from work. Although we work at the same place, we are on different campuses so I have not seen her in a while. It takes me about half an hour to get my nerve up, but I know that her mama is a very knowledgeable kupuna of another community in Hawaiʻi and that both of them are cultural practitioners, so I talk to her about my project and ask if she is willing to take us through Puna to share their moʻolelo (stories) and maybe we might hang out at her mama’s house in the middle of the lava fields. She says yes, she would like to share her community moʻolelo and have us come to their house to spend the day but she only has one day available because they are traveling again. Of course it was the only day that I had an opening.

I have many of these stories in my own research as well as my work in evaluation. This letting go is what I call the spirituality of evaluation. I find that Indigenous time has nothing to do with time. It has to do with timing and the “faith” to wait for the right timing. It also has to do with a belief that the people that you have contact with are meant to be with you at that particular time for a specific reason.  In Hawaiian thought, it means when the student is ready, the teacher will come.

Austin Kleon wrote about something similar in his post “Ideas in cars, honking”

A Warning to My Readers

There is a poem by Wendell Berry “A Warning to My Readers” from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry that I want to keep for days when I must get motivated to not start, but finish. I realize that writing is like making a lei. The attitude coming in is everything and the finished product reflects that attitude. Bad attitude = crooked lei. I had two people tell me this week, “it is because you’re a writer” although the “it” part is lost to my memory, it is just a reminder that I am a writer. My lens in life is through words, so get writing, even if I would rather be reading.

But I am a reader that writes first, so I am holding onto this poem because it will come in handy and then I can start writing.


Tagged ,

Mana: Junot Diaz Breaks Silence


Author Junot Diaz writes a powerful personal essay, “The Silence” in the April 16 New Yorker. It is a letter to an anonymous fan who approached him after a reading, stood in line and asked if the sexual abuse alluded to in Diaz’s books happened to the author.

This is Diaz breaking the silence, not that day, but many days and years later. It is his emergence away from the mask that both shields him and destroys him.

As a teacher of English teachers, I always caution my teacher candidates to not allow themselves and their students to automatically make leaps in literature. Not everything is personal autobiography for the authors. It is a dangerous assumption to make.

However, this type of evidence, the mana, that spiritual power of a writer writing about his/her writing and how themes in their life intersect and seep out into their work is valuable and must be collected and held in our “teacher memory” so that we can help our students delve deeper into the psychological, spiritual and aesthetic power of literature.

What is sacred:

Iʻm still afraid–my fear like continents and the ocean between–but I’m going to speak anyway, because, as Audre Lorde has taught us, my silence will not protect me.



To share something is to risk losing it

Although the blog is 20 years old, I just started reading it but the first post I read is timely for my writing process. Jason Kotke shares  this video which is a parable about sharing this Broccoli tree and what we gain by its loss. In essence:

To share something is to risk losing it, especially in a world where sharing occurs at tremendous scale and where everyone seems to want to be noticed, even if only for cutting down a beloved tree. […] And the truth is, if we horde and hide what we love, we can still lose it. Only then, we’re alone in the loss.

The connection, because shouldn’t I always pay attention to relevant connections, is that the message is answering my questions that got me stuck yesterday and stopped my writing flow.

My first question that stopped my writing: how much of the back story do I need to tell and how do I tell the truth without sounding victimish or angry brown female-ish? No one wants to read that and I have to keep in mind that there will be editors and “peers” reviewing the work so no turning people off. For this one, the Broccoli Tree message is to share what I love. I don’t have to go down the rabbit hole if I am focused on sharing what I love. Yes, I have to talk about how decisions were made and why but I can generalize it, use other researchers’ similar findings without calling people out where I work. So parable as universal rather than personal truth.

The second question is from one of the co-writers. Three of us were working together on separate sub topics on one Google document and I started writing questions at the end of one of my sections and then just staring out the library window at so much sky. He thought that I needed to talk about insider versus outsider. I didn’t want to go there because I don’t want to deal with those terms when I am talking about inclusivity. He does not have to deal with the connotations of the terms as a tenured, white, male faculty member. I as a non-tenured, Indigenous female walk a cultural tight rope and choose not to see myself as insider and the participants as outsiders. I am a facilitator and a third space conjurer, cultural grounder and feeder. He listened, I listened, none of us came to any kind of solution or compromise and then we left it like that. I think we both understood that we were heard but I am just going to sit on it a little.

What then does the Broccoli Tree say about that? In watching the process of Patrik Svedberg who created the IG account and shared his weekly pictures of the tree with the world, I learned that I can look at the same thing over and over and what it will show me is the subtle changes over time and seasons. This process may look like it is rooted and steadfast, but I need to be aware of how elements, people, interactions, the tree itself work to change things so that 200 pictures taken at 200 different times/seasons/days will not look exactly the same. This process, this writing – each little question, each direction that the writing takes about this one project will be a little different. I just have to know at the end of the process what story I want to share, editors and peer reviewers be damned.

The interesting thing is that was not the take away lesson I was going to write about when I started writing the above paragraph. That just shows that perhaps the light shifted in the room, the breeze stopped and I saw something different from what I thought I saw earlier.

Tagged , , ,

What IS the process?!

2018-03-13 09.12.45-2

I am guilty of owning this bit of advice: trust the process. I say it all the time. Literally. For every situation where someone asks me why are we doing this? Where? What? How? My answer is always the same. Trust the process. It’s my own fault then that as a small group of us start trying to write about our work around professional learning communities, I am given the sub topic of trusting the process which forces me to then define, demystify, bullet point out, one two step the “process.” Darn. I like to do intentional things behind the curtain and then magic happens, but should I just explain that a lot of the process is guided by na’au (gut-level) decision making based on an awakening of my own Indigenous self?  That is somewhat wrong too. I have mentor ideas that I have connected to my own ideas, analyzed them at the gut check level and moved them forward or discarded them according to what feels pono for a specific situation. Not really useful to anyone else.

I am still at the thinking as I write stage. I call this my palu stage. The word palu in Hawai’i sometimes has a wrong connotation. For locals, to vomit is to palu, but in the Hawaiian language, that is not the right word. So in a sense I am not vomiting out my thoughts in some verbal diarrhea rant. That kind of explosive, volcanic vomit is luaʻiI am also not just quickly writing out train of thought squirrel observations. . .ooh shiny flow like water sentences. That kind of flowing, watery vomit is puaʻi. Palu is fish chum, usually made with fish heads and guts, mixed together for the purpose of baiting fish. Palu writing is my way of using both my guts and my head to start forming connections. The pieces are not always set, but I am trying to throw some palu out on the water to see what kind of interest it brings up.

Here are some of the materials I am trying to massage to create this palu writing that talks about process, not about what it is, but what the intention of the process for this professional learning community is first. Then we talk about the how.

Yarning Circle (Bennet-Mclean, 2000) encompassing both modern and historic communal gathering processes found amongst many Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander populations.

Talking Circle introduced into the Reconciliation movement and adapted from Native American Cultures (Picou, 2000). Both derive from Indigenous Peoples’ methods recorded through the stories, songs and ceremonies as mechanisms for inclusion into the transfer of knowledge, participation in the decision-making process and identifying shared goals and desired outcomes for community. (Aseron, Wilde, Miller and Kelly, 2013).

Cultural Safety Circles (CSC’s) borne of the Indigenous experience and found within traditional ways and cultural practices. CSC’s are an acknowledgement of traditional methods for sharing, learning, and collective knowledge development and maintenance. The application of CSC’s can help provide a collective space where definitions for cultural and educational exchange take place and can also be identified. It it through this application that the inherent issue of cultural safety, specifically where it pertains to higher education participation, can then be explored to a deeper understanding. (Aseron, Greymorning, Miller, Wilde, 2013, p. 412)


Bennet-Mclean, D (2000). The yarning circle.

Picou, J.S. (2000). The “Talking Circle” as sociological practice: Cultural transformation of chronic disaster impacts. Journal of Clinical and Applied Sociology (2) 77-97.

Aseron, J. Wilde, S., Miller, A. & Kelly, S. (2013). Indigenous student participation in higher education: Emergent themes and linkages. Contemporary Issues in Education Research 6(4) 417-424.

Aseron, J., Greymorning, S.N., Miller, A. & Wilde, S. (2013). Cultural safety circles and indigenous people’s perspectives: Inclusive practices for participation in higher education. Contemporary Issues in Education Research 6(4) 409-416.


Speaking in Tongues

The Girl on the Couch

Anzaldúa, G. (2009). Speaking in tongues: A letter to third world women writers. In Anzaldua, G. & Keating, A. (Eds.), The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader (39-48). Durham: Duke University Press.

This  epistolary essay (written in the form of letters), was drafted beginning in 1979 and published in This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color (1981).

What is Sacred:

How do I begin to talk about what is sacred? In Hawaiian thinking, the word for future is ka wā mahope, or the time behind, after. It is a very different concept than the western idea of one’s future being brightly shining ahead. The difference is in who leads and who follows. In Hawaiian thinking, those of us in the present are following our ancestors who are in front of us and we are leading our grandchildren or the generations behind us. With that lens firmly rooted, then I feel like what is sacred about this essay/letter is that Anzaldúa reaches back into the future to pull me forward. I feel like she is writing specifically to me. She has heard my frustration as I try to write with my authentic voice in a seemingly hostile academic environment and she assures me that she has always been in front of me waiting, patient and naked. When I am frustrated and on the edge of compromise, she says:

My dear hermanas, the dangers we face as women writers of color are not the same as those of white women, though we have many in common. We don’t have as much to lose — we never had any privileges. (39)

I do believe that the audacity to take time from surviving to write is a huge limitation to me. As part of my tenure process I have to write and publish, and yet there is so much to do in creating a program for my students where cultural humility and teaching through culture will actually engage hundreds and thousands of children so that work comes first. Growing and sustaining our pathways to grow our own educators comes first.  It definitely comes before my writing. Anzaldúa quotes Luisah Teish who is addressing a group of mostly white feminist writers about the Third World women’s experiences:

If you are not caught in the maze that [we] are in, it’s very difficult to explain to you the hours in the day we do not have. And the hours that we do not have are hours that are translated into survival skills and money. And when one of those hours is taken away it means an hour that we don’t have to lie back and stare at the ceiling or an hour that we don’t have to talk to a friend. For me it’s a loaf of bread.  (29)

So what is her solution to me, not a Third World woman, but a struggler nonetheless? These are just highlighted snippets, but I tagged this post with the word “enough” because these little pearls have to be enough of a reminder for me that when I am beating myself up or feeling like I have nothing worthwhile to contribute, it is enough.

• Forget the room of one’s own – write in the kitchen, lock yourself up in the bathroom. Write on the bus or the welfare line, on the job or during meals, between sleeping or waking. (31)

• It’s too easy, blaming it all on the white man or white feminists or society or our parents. What we say and what we do ultimately come back to us, so let us own our responsibility, place it in our own hands and carry it with dignity and strength. No on’s going to do my shitwork, I pick up after myself. (32)

• It’s not on paper that you create but in your innards, in the gut and out of living tissue. (33)

• The meaning and worth of my writing is measured by how much I put myself on the line and how much nakedness I achieve. (33)

• I say mujer mágica, empty yourself. Shock yourself into new ways of perceiving the world, shock your readers into the same. Stop the chatter inside their heads (34)

• If you are going to spit in the eye of the world, make sure your back is to the wind. (34)

• Throw away abstraction and the academic learning, the rules, the map and compass. Feel your way without blinders. To touch more people, the personal realities and the social must be evoked — not through rhetoric but through blood and pus and sweat. (34)

Finally, because that last page of the essay is so so rich, the paragraph leading up to my favorite line so tight and heavy and naked, I have to share it, but I set the last part of the paragraph on my own. It is not written like this in the original, but if I have not listened to Anzaldúa by this point, she leaves with one last pearl for me in case I did not hear her all the other times:

Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. You are the truthsayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues of fire. Don’t let the pen banish you from yourself. Don’t let the ink coagulate in your pens. Don’t let the censor snuff out the spark, nor the gags muffle your voice.

Put your shit on the paper. (34)

The best part of all, after all the “can you hear me now?!” rhetoric, is that it ends quietly and simply,




Tagged , , ,

My son shames me into feminism


What is missing from the screenshot above is the text from my Boy 3 about the Anzeldúa article that I sent to him called “Letters to Third World Women Writers.” He said the letter was “really fantastic.” He had hundreds of pages to read and he read my piece I sent first.

Sometimes, not as often as I allow to happen, the most teachable students are my own boys. I have been enjoying our little two day exchange and I have used this as an opportunity to really read more feminist writers like Anzeldúa, especially feminist writers of color.

I am taking full advantage of my university library to read more widely even though this is what I put on my FB about this whole thing.

 I keep saying Indigenous women really do not have the luxury to write about feminism, and that feminist white writers write from the kind of privilege we do not own. We write about lāhui kine tings.

My notes on the letter will be posted soon, but I just wanted to keep this little snippet somewhere for when I happen to come across it again in the future. It will just be a hidden pearl until then. I know Ursula Le Guin is not an Indigenous female writer, but she died a little while ago and I always find her writing to contain such snippets of mana wahine-ness.

We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, as human truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains.

This is from a commencement address she gave at Bryn Mawr College in 1980.


Tagged , , ,