The White Man

“White man” says a boy in the room.

I am not a white man.

“Hah, you are white” agrees a girl.

          I am not a white man. I say to myself once more, but no one else can hear me. It’s enough that I know what I am. If I were to go to the mainland I would be ostracized. There I am not white enough. Akā, nevertheless here I remain an outcasted. Here, I am too white. E hele mai nā keiki. ‘A‘ole nahu au. Come to me children. I don’t bite. I am the black sheep covered in white wool. I am not the white wolf you think I am. Hoʻolohe nā keiki. Listen children.

         I was bullied for being white. Not enough to fit in with the white boys a na‘e, and nevertheless remaining too much white to be seen for anything else. The light refracts off me. In a crowd of shining white I am invisible but in a crowd of dark skin I am seen. The white guy in class. The white guy at Longs. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Put on the sunscreen, you know there’s not enough. Akā, however my hair is brown and curly. My eyes are yellow in the center with green bleeding out. I am not just white, it’s obvious to myself. Akā, however I’ve become a bit, a joke, amusement to everyone else including myself.

        What you see is big. What you see is fat. What you see is a gentle giant. What you see is white. What you see is a big fat smile on my face. What you hear is my proud exultant laugh. What you see are the things I show you. What you see is an act for attention. Call me names and I’ll become them. I’ll fit into your mold willingly. Blame me, chase me, hit me, scream at me and blow out my ears with your voice. Break my bones with your hands and use the powder as snow. Celebrate your hard fought victory.

        ‘A‘ole ke’oke‘o au. I am not white. He maku‘e a me melemele a me ‘ele‘ele au. I am brown and yellow and black. A symphony of colors turned to a cacophony. E ho‘omiki‘ao ana ka’u na‘au me ia‘u. My guts claw at me. My torn heart eats me alive. My lungs collapse under the pressure of silence. Under the pressure of fear.

“We didn’t think it would interest you” is what a close friend says when inviting out our group of friends, leaving me behind.

“You’re not like us” is what they mean to say.

         I am not looking for sympathy. All I want to say is, I’m sorry. For whatever I have done wrong. He kaumaha au. I am sorry. No matter what I say I am unheard. You hear a colonized voice. I am jealous of your mocha skin, beautiful cacao, chestnut. I feel the warmth coming from you. People see my pale skin and make assumptions.

“It’s a family thing”

ʻAʻole maopopo au. (I donʻt understand)

“Oh, I thought you had plans”

E kono iaʻu. (Invite me)

“We didn’t have enough seats”

He noho e lawe mai au. (Iʻll bring a chair)

“It’ll take too long to teach you”

I want to learn.

         I tread on glass. Each shard burying itself deep into ka‘u mau wāwae, my feet. With each new step the glass pushes deeper and deeper until I can no longer see it. I can no longer feel it, but I know it’s there. Deeply rooted in my foot. Deeply rooted in my memory. I walk towards humility. I walk towards peace, coexistence, or understanding. Whatever word you use. E ho‘omaopopo, nā keiki. Understand, children. ‘A‘ole ke‘oke‘o au. I am not white.