Issue 1 Low Res

March/April 2010
Issue No. 1
Celibacy in
the City
Mastering
the platonic
love affair
commonly
known as
friendship
The Beauty
of Butterfish
A new recipe
for a classic
local favorite
From the
Jungles of
Brazil
Exposing a
long history
of infanticide
Can White
Rice Really
Be Good
for You?
Kitchen Medicine
Part 1 of 2
High-Heeled
Escapes
Hawaii is 1 of 7
states without a
human-trafficking law;
why this needs
to change
Grow so old
Publisher Kathryn Xian

Editor-in-Chief Jennifer Meleana Hee
Managing Editor Mayumi Shimose Poe
Contributing Editor Anna Harmon
Art Director Kathryn Xian
Photographers
Michelle Bassler, Rita Coury, Jasmine Joy,
Ryan Matsumoto, Bianca Mills, Lucas Stoffel,
Kathryn Xian
CONTRIBUTORS
Jennifer Allen
Alexandra Armstrong
Harmonie Bettenhausen
Misty Tashina Bradley
Ivy Castellanos
Theresa Falk
Suzanne Farrell
Carmen Golay-Swizdor
Jasmine Joy
Frances Kakugawa
Jess Kroll
Nancy Moss
Aldra Robinson
Jennifer Dawn Rogers
Lorelle Saxena
Mayumi Shimose Poe
Dana Vennen
von Hottie
Jemimah Wright
MISTY TASHINA BRADLEY
Our Room Is the World
GROW OLD
when I am standing
over your bones
buried by our earth,
My old heart
will be wise enough
to keep beating
without you.
Years ago,
when I first knew

my love for you,
lying on a black sofa,
I envisioned your funeral
and wept.
Kristel Yoneda
The Hawaii Womens Journal
a project of The Safe Zone Foundation 501(c)3
a Hawaii-based nonprofit organization
For submission information, e-mail:
submissions@hawaiiwomensjournal.com
For advertising inquiries, e-mail:
ads@hawaiiwomensjournal.com
www.hawaiiwomensjournal.com
facebook.com/hiwomensjournal
twitter@hiwomensjournal
Disclaimer: The Safe Zone Foundation (SZF) dba Hawaii Womens

Journal (HWJ), its Publisher, and Editors cannot be held responsible
for errors or consequences arising from the use of information
contained herein; the views and opinions expressed do not necessarily
reflect those of the SZF, HWJ, Publisher, and Editors, neither does the
publication of advertisements constitute any endorsement by the HWJ,
Publisher, and Editors of the products advertised.
photo by Michelle Bassler
Our Room Is the World

March/April 2010
Issue No. 1
photo by Rita Coury
features
13
poetry & prose

1
Grow Old
A Letter to My Child
10
Shells
details
16
Hole
From the Editor
19
Becoming 88
27
The Shape Love Takes
34
Dharma Map
34
Palm Prints and Post-its
High-Heeled Escapes
and Forced Labor
BY MISTY TASHINA BRADLEY
BY JENNIFER ALLEN
17
3
7
Burying Babies in Brazil

BY JEMIMAH WRIGHT
Contributors
BY CARMEN GOLAY-SWIZDOR
BY THERESA FALK
BY SUZANNE FARRELL
BY FRANCES KAKUGAWA
BY MAYUMI SHIMOSE POE
BY HARMONIE BETTENHAUSEN
BY JESS KROLL
from the editor
"Find. The. Bitch."

photo by Ryan Matsumoto
If I had a dollar for every time publisher Kathryn Xian told me this
over the past three months since we began the Hawaii Womens
Journal, Id have ... a dollar. She only had to tell me once, because
Kathy is the type of person who gives it to you straight and you
listen, because she doesnt have time to tell you again: shes
working for Legal Aid, running Girl Fest, organizing the Pacific
Alliance to Stop Slavery, growing kale and Mexican oregano,
saving Corgis, and launching a magazine to give women writers
an alternative platform for their words. You dont talk back to
revolutionariesor dog-owning gardenersyou jump on their
wagon, proud that you were invited along for the ride.
As for finding the bitch, Kathy wasnt telling me to hunt
someone down and beat her or himeither literally or with a
whoop ass sized can of metaphorsbut to look through my own
thin skin, under years of wanting to please, needing to either give
it my all or give it all up. To knock on the dollhouse-sized door of
my Inner Bitch and wake her the hell up, because we had work to
do. Was I supposed to send my inner Paula to rehab and become
bedfellows with my inner Simon? Did I have to stop shaving my
armpits? By accepting the position as editor of a new, independent
magazine I knew that Id have to become the hapa face of
rejectionstomp-tapping on the literary ambitions of mostly
women writers whose beautiful pieces just werent the best fit
for our pages. I wanted to fit everything between our covers, to
accept with abandon until our pages overflowethed with diverse
voices, but I knew Id have to reject. I also knew I would have to
deal with more of the world than I was comfortable dealing with.
Im no poster child for this societys definition of functional living:
I dont call people, meet people, or sleep my way to the top. More
than once, I wanted to crawl back into a lacey petticoat and leave
literary progress for the Jane Doers of the world.
But before I could gracelessly quit HWJ for the sixth time, due
to panic attacks from the very thought of having to enter the
world as any form of leader, bearing the uncomfortably phallic
staff of rejection, writing began popping into our inboxesnames
we knew, names we didnt know, names we hadnt heard from in
foreverand the healing began. Our submissions overwhelmed
me with hope for writing-kind. I found myself swooning over the
words of our contributorsshouting, AMEN! in my pajamas,
laughing, crying, wanting to bring all these writers together from
worlds as separate as Los Angeles, London, New York, and Mililani
to hide in a room together and feel safe and whole. Is that weird?
Probably. Instead of a room full of these writers, we have the next
best thing: a magazine full of their words.

HWJ is not thematic by issue, yet for our inaugural issue, motifs
did emerge, like women sharing close spaces and beginning to
cycle together, and not in a triathlon sense of the word cycle.
Pieces mirrored each other: Carmen Golay-Swizdor wrote about
becoming a mother and Theresa Falk about how she healed from
the loss of hers. Kristel Yoneda captured too perfectly the struggle
to form an identity in our twenties. Frances Kakugawa used
both poetry and prose to describe the struggle during her sixties to
maintain her identity: as she writes, Neatly categorized under OLD.
/ They gave me flu shots before anyone else. / They began mailing
me funeral plans. We received two columns on wellness, one by
acupuncturist and traditional Chinese medicine practitioner Lorelle
Saxena, offering practical information so we could see through the
quick fix-it health fads and go back to simple, natural cures. In the
other column, Diet, Interrupted, Ivy Castellanos tackles our bodyimage and weight-loss misconceptions, so that we may fight the
diet commercials in which depressed, miserable-looking women
go from fat and frumpy to fit and utterly fabulous in under two
weeks. Yea, right.
In our First Writes column, twenty-something Kristel Yoneda
writes about our childhood idealism: We were dreamers back
then: give us a cheap ukelele from Walmart and we wanted to
be musicians; give us a playdoh set and we wanted to be chefs;
give us an empty refrigerator box and we wanted to be Batman
and live in a cardboard cave. Even as children, we realized
one role would never satisfy us. We insist on being everything
to everyone:Domestic Divas (Jennifer Dawn Rogers), good
daughters, amazing lovers, attentive but not oppressive siblings,
platonic friends, happy campers, BFFs, Glamour Women of the
Year, responsible dog owners, sport fans, neighborly neighbors,
and editors of supposedly progressive magazines that should be
avoiding the language of misogyny yet use the word bitch on
the first page. Even at the ends of thingsdeaths and divorce,
or traveling like writer Jasmine Joy to the mythic countries of our
ancestorswe are left with more questions than conclusions.
Harmonie Bettenhausen closes her poem wondering how will
we connect / without a road leading us back to each other? We
have tried to fight the stereotype of the unstable woman, but how
can we not embody uncertaintyfor our children, our dreams,
our sickly racist and homophobic communities? It is our concern,
our questioning of the status quo, with which we move forward,
using pages such as these to muster our collective strength.
Hawaii Womens Journal | 3
We will love ferociously, tend to our gardens, and live in

peace. But mess with our shit, our children, our rights, our
humanityand well use the same amount of passion to fight.
For a world without trafficking, infanticide, size 0 skinny jeans,
and The Secret. Many of our writers are part-time humanitarians.
Women such as Jemimah Wright, who traveled to Brazil to expose
the truth about tribal pressures on mothers to kill imperfect
infantswhere imperfect can be defined as two X chromosomes.
The Honolulu Pen Women president Nancy Moss, who helps
troubled girls in Honolulu through the Girls Court program.
Women like law student Jennifer Allen, who understands that
spreading awareness about human trafficking is the only way to
eradicate it. Dana Vennen, a woman whose childhood obsession
with horses evolved into a therapeutic horsemanship nonprofit,
healing children, particularly young girls, in a way only horses
can. We cant help but try to heal ourselves by healing the world.
We no longer want a room of our own; our room is the world.
Indeed, in our Venn diagram, our similarities as women and
writers overlap, forcing us to define the centerand Im totally
not being sexist, but have you ever noticed how vaginal the center
of a Venn diagram is? Our experiences in Hawaii, the mainland,
and abroad converge. We are the eye of our own storms;
together, we are biologically designed to connectsometimes
with a mate but always with places, the children of our loved
ones, each other.
As you read our inaugural issue, I hope you experience the
pencil breaker. The pencil breaker is a phenomenon whereby
you read something so good the pencil you happen to be holding
breaks in your overexcited little fist. The pencil breaker has
proved to be my favorite editorial screening tool. (Heyits
cheap.) Every piece weve included in this issue has pencil
breakers, but here are a few teasers:
The Secret teaches that everything in life that happens to us is a
result of our thinking: thoughts become things. In the film, Bob
Proctor (credentials: philosopher) poses the question, Why
do you think that one percent of the population earns around
96 percent of all the money? My response was: inheritance;
slave labor; unfair tax laws; the chance of nation of origin; and
an unequal playing field. But apparently Im wrong. According
to Proctor, its because they understand the secret. Aldra
Robinson, The Great Big Vending Machine in the Sky
I need to be under, I said. On my health information form, I had
explained that I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Id
written that lately, since piecing together the scene of my fathers
fatal car accident, I couldnt bear things stuck in my headears,
nose, eyes, mouth, throatbecause it all felt like hoods of cars
crunching into my face, or peels of fender sliding into my ears, or
shards of windshield puncturing my brain. Id been having visions
of my head with metal parts disappearing into one side and
reappearing on the other, like train tracks through a mountain.
Suzanne Farrell, Hole
But the volcano could only reach so far, so life outside this area
would go on and someday someone would dig us up. Our bones
would long be bleached dry in their sarcophagus of ash and
perhaps when exposed to air they would crumble, but I am sure
my marrow would still be thick with love. Mayumi Shimose Poe,
Are manners really pass? I think not. Just because we have

iPhones doesnt mean we can behave like savages. von Hottie,
von Hotties Guide to Navigating a Modern Life
Reading the poetry by Misty Tashina Bradley, Harmonie
Bettenhausen, Frances Kakugawa, and Jess Kroll, I broke a whole
box of pencils. Thanks a lot, poetstheyre cheap but theyre
not free!
Im not good at saying thank you because I dont like to talk,
but I can write it with all my heart. Thank you to everyone who
has volunteered their time, words, photography, and art
friends, Family Hee, Family Matsumoto, strangers, Facebook
quasi-acquaintances, and Jess Kroll for willingly being the one
male voice in a sea of estrogen. Thank you to my boyfriend,
Ryan Matsumoto, for understanding when I married the Hawaii
Womens Journal, for taking photographs of butterfish and
beautiful produce, and for always knowing how to push my zoomout button. Thank you to Kathryn Xian, I think, for conceiving the
idea and not making me cry. Or at least not more than once.
Per day. Thank you to Mayumi Shimose Poe for being a full-time
editor by day and still carving a huge chunk out of your free time
to be the best Managing Editor ever. Thank you Anna Harmon for
volunteering your editing and everything-else services when you
didnt know any of usor what you were getting into. Thank you,
Rita Coury, for the stunning cover. And thank you, writersI can
hardly believe how much amazing you all are.
I am especially grateful for the many HWJ sloganbrainstorming sessions. Finding a gender neutral, positive, catchy,
multidimensional, and meaningful phrase that wed all be proud
to show off on our ecofriendly bags and racerback tanks was no
easy task. Here are my favorites:
Hawaii Womens Journal: Come Feel the Love.
Hawaii Womens Journal: Everything and the Kitchen Sink.
Hawaii Womens Journal: Say Hello to Womanessence.
Hawaii Womens Journal: Women on Women.
Hawaii Womens Journal: For Women, and Also for Men, but
Mostly for Women.
Hawaii Womens Journal: Wit + Grit.
Hawaii Womens Journal: What Would Oprah Do?
Hawaii Womens Journal: Let Me Ask the Chicago Manual of Style
What It Thinks about Your Appositive.
Hawaii Womens Journal: Never Too Pretty to Take It Outside.
(About the bitchI think I found her.)
Hawaii Womens Journal: Enjoy This. We Did.
- Jennifer Meleana Hee

e-mail: editor@hawaiiwomensjournal.com
blog: www.jennmeleana.com
contents
columns
photos by Rita Coury
The Pen Womens Column
Ms. DeMeaners
11
First Writes
21
Got Faith?
23
Kitchen Medicine
24
Nonprofit Corner
25
The Wellness Manifesto
26
The Domestic Diva
31
Celibacy in the City
33
Going Places
Pen Women & Girls Court

BY NANCY MOSS
von Hotties Guide to Navigating a Modern Life

BY VON HOTTIE
Are You There Angst? Its Me, Quarter-Life Crisis.

BY KRISTEL YONEDA
The Great Big Vending Machine in the Sky

BY ALDRA ROBINSON
Traditional Remedies for Today, Part 1

BY LORELLE SAXENA
Therapeutic Horsemanship of Hawaii

BY DANA VENNEN
Diet, Interrupted
BY IVY CASTELLANOS
The Road to Heaven Is Paved... with Miso!

BY JENNIFER DAWN ROGERS
Just Friends. No Benefits.

BY ALEXANDRA ARMSTRONG
Pinay Sabbatical
BY JASMINE JOY
The National League

of American Pen
Women, a professional
organization for women artists, composers, and writers,
promotes the development of creative talents of
professional women in the arts. The national organization has
The
Pen Womens Column
over 5,000 members; the Honolulu Branch has over 80 members and
affiliated friends.
The Honolulu Branch holds monthly luncheon

meetings featuring speakers and musicians, and sponsors
conferences, arts shows, seminars, salons, and outings that further the
artistic development of its members and the community. Our Girls Court
program, now in its third year, demonstrates our outreach. For more
information, contact President Nancy Moss at hawaiimoss@msn.com or
call 808-395-5524.
Pen Women & Girls Court
by Nancy moss
n the multipurpose room of the Circuit

Court building in Honolulu, six girls sit
around a conference table listening to Alice
Ann Parker, author and professional psychic.
An elegant, white-haired woman, Alice Ann is
presenting a workshop on dreams to the girls
of Girls Court as part of the National League
of American Pen Womens monthly sessions
on art. Girls Court, initiated by Judge Karen
Radius, is our countrys first gender-specific
program dealing with juvenile offenders.
Today Alice Ann talks about dark and
light dreams, which cover the same event
but from opposite angles. A dark dream
portrays an event as scary; a light dream is
positive. You all have problems, Alice Ann
tells them, and the girls nod. Something has
happened, and youre stuck with it. You can
deal with it as a dark dream or a light dream.
She has the girls write three things that are
their dark dreams. The girls write, then talk
about what they have written.
A girl well call Bellea confidentiality
agreement protects the girls nameswho
is due with her first child any day now says
that her dark dream is that I wont be able
to take care of my child. Another girl talks
about developing an anger management
problem. Alice Ann points out that, Its
important to feel angerpeople who dont
know anger have a hard time expressing
joybut good not to take it out on anyone.
Another girl says her dark dreams concern
her younger brother, who she thinks may be
Completion of the 9x12 Victory Mural, a traveling mural completed for Girl Fest
2009 by the Girls Court, led by instructor John Hina. Photo courtesy of Girl Fest.
using drugs. Alice Ann nods. Which one?

Ketone, the girl says.
Alice Ann nods. A horse tranquilizer.
Thats a tough one, she agrees.
Quiet intensity reigns throughout the
hour-long session as the girls unveil their fears.
Alice Ann agrees and points out ramifications
to Alicia, who isnt sure she wants to marry
the boy who is the father of her unborn child.
At the sessions end, everyone, one at a time,
puts her hand on Belles stomach and gives
her baby a blessing, saying it out loud so that
everyone leaves filled with good wishes.
Its hard to call this Pen Women session
typical because programs vary so, from
ecstatic dancing to poetry writing, play
writing and performance, collage, making and
decorating a cast of a shoe, and painting and
taking home a tote bag. Once, a successful
graduate of the Girls Court programwell
call her Kimcame to talk to the girls about
how to apply for jobs. She brought sample
job applications as well as some of the outfits
she wore to her interviews. But Kim also
talked about getting off crystal meth at age
16, how she locked herself in the house and
wouldnt answer the phone. Her audience
nodded in understanding: thats what it
would take.
The intensity of the girls responses to
Alice Anns presentation is typical: turbulent
emotions lying close to the surface. To Pen
Women presenters, most of them long
past the anguish of youth, this presents a
challenge. The girls writing can be raw:

emotions on a short fuse. Dialogue in their
plays is full of what teachers call the f-word.
As one girl wrote last year, Sometimes, you
feel like calling up the dealer and asking him
for your fix. Yeah, youll get high . . . but your
problems are still there. The girl who wrote
this missed the next few sessions, which
means she was either in DH (Detention
Home) or on the runand Judge Radius
has said that being on the run often involves
prostitution.
The Pen Womens project of monthly
presentations vindicates their belief that
self-expression through the arts, in myriad
and diverse wayscutting and pasting
paper, writing, dancingcan bring people in
touch with powerful emotions and promote
healing. Judge Radius has affirmed Pen
Womens efforts: Through your dedicated
group of volunteers, performers, artists,
and educators, literary and other creative
activities have been offered to our girls,
enhancing their lives and increasing their
sense of connectedness to the community
(letter of support, July 2008). Pen Womens
programs conclude with the girls Power
Point presentation at the ceremony marking
the end of their year in Girls Court, featuring
slides on the topics Who Am I?, What I
Have Learned, and My Future. The slides
show a lot of smiling faces, a suggestion that
their year in Girls Court may have made the
girls futures more hopeful. v
contributors
Jennifer Allen
Jenn graduates this May from the

William S. Richardson School of Law.
Special thanks to Hawaii Immigrant
Justice Center (@ Legal Aid Society
of Hawaii) for providing her greater
insight into the legal intricacies of
human-trafficking cases and to Pawaa
Community Church and Imago Dei Christian Community
members for helping us fill the service gaps to victims.
Alexandra Armstrong
Alexandra is from New York but has

been a public school teacher in Hawaii
since 2003. She enjoys running,
writing, and performing poetry. e-mail:
alexandraarmstrong@hotmail.com
blog: www.readstrong.wordpress.com
Michelle Bassler
Michelle is a UH Manoa graduate who

is currently living in southern California.
She first started selling her designs in
Brooklyn, NYC, in 2005 after learning
how to screen print. In 2009, Blonde
Peacock was created. She enjoys
growing her company in an ethical and
sustainable way. www.blondepeacock.etsy.com
Harmonie Bettenhausen
I wrote my first poems when I was

very small and we were living in a
shitty neighborhood in the suburbs
of Chicago. My muses included
overhearing our endlessly fighting
neighbors, discovering my fathers stash
of cocaine, and finding my mother passed-out drunk on the
floor. I excelled at high school. Not at grades but at being a
part of my own teenage years. I wish I could recapture that
rapture. blog: www.ednaseyes.blogspot.com
Misty Tashina Bradley
Misty spends most her days dreaming,

but when there is time writing,
friends, and ashtanga yoga contribute
to her happiness. She is a graduate
from the University of Hawaii at
Manoa and is currently preparing to
serve with the Peace Corps. www.
xanga.com/strewnlight e-mail: mistytashina@gmail.com
photo: Lauryn Gerstle
Ivy Castellanos
Ivy is a freelance writer, currently

shopping her first screenplay
and finishing two unruly, very
insubordinate novels. She has
worked in the health and wellness
field for over ten years and holds
a masters degree from the Johns
Hopkins School of Public Health in health education,
behavioral health, and health communications. e-mail:
ikcastellanos@gmail.com
Rita Coury
Theresa Falk
Award-winning photographer Rita

Coury finds the beauty in all that
surrounds her. She specializes in
fine-art portrait photography with
an emphasis on the unique and
emotional side of her subjects.
www.ritacouryphotography.com
Theresa is a writer, director,

performer, and educator. She began
her writing career at age five when
her parents refused to buy her a
Barbie Playhouse and instead bought
her a mini Brother typewriter and a
stack of paper. Theresas work has
been seen on stage in Creating Face, in Unbinding the
Foot: An Asian American Womens Journal, and Strong
Currents. e-mail: theresa.d.falk@gmail.com
Suzanne Farrell
Jennifer Dawn Rogers
Suzanne is an MFA student at

Vermont College of Fine Arts. A
graduate of Trinity College, she also
earned an MA at The New School
for Social Research, where she
edited the interdisciplinary magazine
canon. Her nonfiction has appeared
in canon, InTheFray, Tiny Lights, and is forthcoming in
Muse & Stone. Suzanne lives with her husband in New
York City, where she teaches elementary school and runs
a writing salon. e-mail: suzanne@suzannefarrell.net
A graduate of Harvard University

and a former film development
executive, Jennifer cooks and
writes in Los Angeles. In 2009, she
launched her blog Domestic Divas,
which focuses on local, organic
cooking and wine reviews. She is
currently writing her first novel.
e-mail: domesticdivasblog@gmail.com
www.domesticdivasblog.com photo: Jeri Rogers
Carmen Golay-Swizdor
Lorelle Saxena, M.S., L.Ac, is

a licensed acupuncturist and
practitioner of traditional Chinese
medicine. Originally from Honolulu,
Lorelle now lives in Santa Rosa,
California, where she maintains a
private practice. She welcomes any
questions at lorelle@thesaxenaclinic.com.
www.thesaxenaclinic.com
Carmen grew up in rural Iowa and

studied Sociology and Womens
Studies in England and New
York.
She currently lives and
works in Honolulu, promoting 4-H
Youth Development for military
kids. She is a partner to a Navy
submariner, mother to Ethan, and
dog mom to rescued pitbulls Lucy and Bella. e-mail:
thinkingglobal@mac.com
Jasmine Joy
Jasmine is a freelance writer and

poet in love with shore break sandy
beaches. She is inspired by Mother
Nature, adventure, and positive
vibrations. Check out her eco-conscious
organization www.solshredskim.com.
e-mail: jasminejoy@vicskim.com
photo: Gregory Heller
Frances Kakugawa
Frances is an award-winning author

of eight books. In 2000, she was
selected as one of the outstanding
women of the 20th century in
Hawaii. A strong advocate for the
Alzheimers Association, Frances
travels throughout the U.S. giving
lectures and writing workshops
for caregivers, students, and educators and leads
writing support groups for caregivers and youngsters.
www.francesk.org e-mail: fhk@francesk.org blog:
franceskakugawa.wordpress.com photo: Jason Kimura
Jess Kroll
Jess was born in Hawaii. He has an

MFA in Writing from the University
of San Francisco. Recently he has
contributed writing to 34th Parallel,
Gloom Cupboard, Puffin Circus, and
Hawaii Independent. His poetry
has appeared on stages across the
country and he has written one novel.
e-mail: jmskroll@gmail.com photo: Chung Nguyen
Nancy Moss
Nancy Mosss plays Anna, about the

Russian poet Akhmatova, and Hostage
Wife, Ring of Fire, and The Last
Outpost, all about the Iraq War, have
been produced in Honolulu recently.
Hostage Wife won Abingon Theatres
Wolk Award in 2005. As president of
the Honolulu branch of the National
League of American Pen Women, Ms. Moss runs the groups
Girls Court program. e-mail: hawaiimoss@msn.com
Aldra Robinson
Aldra is a Midwestern misfit who

feeds her messianic complex as a
grant writer in the concrete sprawl
of Los Angeles. When not toiling
away in the nonprofit industry, she
can be founding writing about frugal
living and social justice on her blog,
consciouslyfrugal.blogspot.com, and
telling the truth about doing something meaningful
with your life at www.martyrsmanual.com.
e-mail: aldrarobinson@yahoo.com
Lorelle Saxena
Mayumi Shimose Poe
Mayumi has been published in

American Anthropologist, Eternal
Portraits, Hybolics, Stepping Stones,
the Honolulu Advertiser, the Phoenix,
and Dark Phrases and was awarded
a 2002 honorable mention in the
Honolulu Magazine Annual Fiction
Contest. She wrote the libretto
for Kaililauokekoa, an opera based on the Hawaiian
myth of the same name, which was performed at
Orvis Auditorium by OPERAtunities on June 2831,
2007, in Honolulu, HI. She currently lives in Brooklyn,
NY, but dont think she isnt homesick. e-mail: mayumi.
shimose@gmail.com www.mayumishimosepoe.com
Dana Vennen
Dana Vennen has been running

the Therapeutic Horsemanship of
Hawaii (THH) nonprofit since 2000.
She has been an avid horsewoman
since the age of six and is now a
NARHA certified Therapeutic Riding
instructor as well as the Executive
Director of THH.
e-mail: dana@thhwaimanalo.org
www.thhwaimanalo.org phone: 808-342-9036
von Hottie
von Hottie is performer, pinup,

and guru living in New York. You
can follow her many adventures at
vonhottie.com as well as on Twitter
@askvonhottie and Facebook.blogs:
www.vonoracle.blogspot.com,
www.vonhottie.tumblr.com
Jemimah Wright
Jemimah Wright is a freelance

journalist and author based
in London, England. She loves
spending time in the Hawaiian
Islands, especially when it is
snowing in London. Get Involved:
www.hakani.org/en
Kristel Yoneda
Kristel is a writer/photographer/
dreamer currently based in Honolulu.
She attended George Washington
University, where she learned two
important lessons: quarter-life crisis
anxiety will find you, no matter where
you are and thermal underwear
no matter how dopey lookingis
essential. Her blog, Slowdancing with Strangers, centers on
the concept of sharing an intimate moment with a stranger
and features candid photos from events around town.
e-mail: kristelyoneda@gmail.com
blog: www.slowdancingwithstrangers.com
Ms. deMeaners
von Hotties guide to navigating a modern life
ack in ye olden poodle skirt times, every situation had a rule

and every person an idea of how to follow that rule. For
instance, when passing through a quadrille, let your arm hang
easily and avoid any display of agility or knowledge of steps.
Translation: When walking through a group engaged in a formal
dance, dont dance with them. Obviously, we can let some of
these antiquated rules go, but we dont need to toss out our
panties with the petticoats. As our interpersonal interactions
have become far less personal, weve let a lot of those rules
slide. Are manners really pass? I think not. Just because we
have iPhones doesnt mean we can behave like savages.
What do we have against manners? Manners let people know
were not psychopaths and that were well worth an invitation to
the next cocktail party. Manners mean were taking a little extra
time to improve the world around us. If we can invent indoor
plumbing and wireless Internet, surely we can get it together
enough to be nice to one another. Id like to see a few classic
etiquette rules resurrected, but in this modern age, they apply
to all genders, all sexes, and all walks of life.
Five Manners That Should Make A Comeback:

1) Hold doors open. Holding doors open for other people is a
sign that you recognize you are not the most important person
in the world. Hold it open and smile at your neighbor. Just dont
hold it open too long, or youll become a doormat for the entire
town.
2) Send a stranger a cocktail. This gesture is deliciously Mad
Men. A good bartender should approach the other party and say,
So-and-so would like to send you a drink. That party can then
either accept or refuse the cocktail. If you offer a cocktail and it is
refused, accept defeat with grace. Dont hassle or approach the
other person. They dont have to drink your stinkin drink if they
dont want to. Likewise, dont accept a drink unless you want to
strike up a conversation with the person who sent it to you. Its
gauche to sip and give the slip, as it were.
there. I have a dancer friend who always walks on the curbside

when hes with me. Even better, if he needs to switch sides when
we cross a street, he twirls me like a ballroom dancer while in
the crosswalk. Protect the ones you love; theyre worth a little
street splash.
3) Chat with deli men and baristas. When there were only
one or two stores in a town, people would spend lots of time
catching up on the town gossip with their local merchants. Now
that we have many more options, that kind of daily exchange of
pleasantries is often lost. How are you today, Sandy? has been
replaced with Following customer, step down. Ew. Each time
you order a coffee or a sandwich, make it a point to ask how the
counterpersons day is going and actually listen for the reply. A
few extra seconds of your time gets you a bigger smile from a
stranger and sometimes even a little extra treat. You wouldnt
believe how many extra pickles and accidentally venti mochas
this trick has gotten me.
5) Send handwritten thank-you notes. In many cases, an e-mail

acknowledgement is acceptable, but thanking someone only by
writing on their Facebook wall is really not trying hard enough.
If someone invites you to their home or does you a great favor,
you should send a handwritten note. They are a treat to receive
and make you look like a superstar. Princess Diana, no matter
how tired she was from looking pretty and saving orphans,
always wrote her thank-you notes as soon as she arrived home,
before bed. It only takes about as long as checking five Facebook
updates and makes a much larger impact. To help yourself out,
leave note cards on your bedside table and jot down a quick note
before you fall asleep. v
4) Walk on the curbside of your companion. Traditionally,

gentlemen walked on the curbside of the sidewalk to protect
ladies from passing horses and buggies. Regardless of your age
or sex, if your companion is a younger person (adolescent or
younger) or elderly, you should stay on the side closest to the
street. If youre accompanied by a contemporary for whom you
have a great affection, you can also walk on the outside as a
gesture of respect and caring. Dont let it turn into a battle for
the sidewalk: the person who made the gesture first gets to stay
If you have pressing etiquette concerns or questions on how to best

navigate this modern life, please e-mail vonhottie@vonhottie.com.
photo by Lucas Stoffel
by von Hottie
vonhottie.com
A Letter
to My Child
Before the day-to-day routines of our lives begin

to take shape, as we prepare to welcome you into
our world, Im havingas mothers around the world
probably domoments where I consider the long-term
effects and importance of this job. As I lay here tonight,
over the quiet sounds of the rain, I hear the helicopters
again. As I did last night. The intensely militarized nature
of the place where we live becomes undeniable. Reading
poems by Haunani-Kay Trask, I ponder our white place in these

islands. Could I ever, even with a mind toward social justice, do
more good than harm by virtue of my white skin? I dont know.
Is having awareness or even acting out of conscience of privilege
enough? Knowing my privilegethe privilege you will be born
withdoes not change history, colonization, and institutional violence. I

can actively resist racism, but the truth remains that though we may live in the
United States of America, in the 50th state, we reside on stolen lands. We are
members of the class of people that illegally took these islands, which led to
an occupation and then finally legitimization through statehood.
How will I raise you to be aware? To understand, think, empathize, and,

most importantly, stand in solidarity with those who have been oppressed?
How does a parent teach justice? If it is so difficult for very intelligent adults to
comprehend, how do I instill in you a sense of right and wrong without ignoring
history or context?
By Carmen Golay-Swizdor
photo by Rita Coury
Artwork by Michelle Bassler
On the surface, teaching justice seems fairly straightforward: treat individuals

with dignity and respect. But what about the bigger picture? How, as your mother,
do I overcome all the media-scare-tactic cop shows that will teach you to fear
black and brown men? How can I compete with movie after movie depicting
heterosexuality as the only way that people can be? How do I, without scaring you,
break through the fog of U.S. history classes and talk with you about colonialism,
imperialism, genocide, and institutional racism? Will you listen to me, or will you
refuse my lessons in favor of other views?
I felt enormous responsibility to my college students, and they were only with
me for a semester. But I have you for the rest of our lives. Parents may not be the
only influence, but I must believe we can be the most important one. My task is
huge and serious. Shaping the heart and mind of another human being who will be
here long after Im gone is the most important job Ive ever had.
Just as others around me are assuming that parenthood will instantly depoliticize
me, make me more conservative, or assimilate me into the glossy, smiling Parents
magazine mommy, your tiny energy makes me read theory again, pick up more
challenging texts, and move outside my comfort zone. I need to be equipped for this
jobarmed with evidence, authors, resources, and stories to back up my claims
toward justice. You will be observing the whole world around you, and Im going to
need to be prepared for your curiosity.
As many questions as I have as to how I will ever do this, I know I can. Because I
must. I love you, and with that love comes a commitment to educating and opening
your heart to all struggles for liberation. As your mother, I will never let you wander
through the confusion of our society. I will hold your hand and guide you, the best I
can, down a path toward justice. v
Shells
by Theresa Falk
photo by Michelle Bassler
hen Mom died, I moved quickly. I went to Bank of Hawaii

to settle her assets, cancelled her Macys card, and packed
up her extensive shoe collection for charity. I cleaned out the
childhood home that she had so generously left me, renovated
it, and moved in. I wrote dozens of thank you cards, organized
endless tangles of jewelry, and cleaned out the safety deposit
box. I got things done.
Each first without my mother was predictably painful:
Mothers Day, Christmas, her birthday, and my own passed with
the expected grief and tears. However, I surprised myself each
timethere was a lack of sharpness to the pain. I would cry
for a few minutes and then suddenly stop, the desire to cut the
cake or hang ornaments overtaking the grief. I took this as a
sign: things were getting better. I was moving on. I was showing
a strength that would have made my mother proud.
One morning at school, I ventured out to procure some
much-needed coffee before having to teach my next class.
Out of the corner of my eye, across from our chapel, I spied an
unusual sight: two ducks in the middle of the center courtyard.
One, brown with lovely mottled feathers, and the other, blackbrown with a brilliant streak of green, waddled for a while across
the dew-damp lake of grass and settled themselves down in the
shade of a staircase of about thirty yards away.
As I stood and sipped, a student revealed that the female
had laid eggs in the bushes by the counseling office. I wandered
over. There, sure enough, nestled among the greenery at the
base of a tree, lay three small eggs.
I looked back across the courtyard at the ducks, who calmly
surveyed the scene. Why are they so far from their children? I
thought. Wouldnt it make more sense to keep close? You never
knew what kind of harm a wayward ninth grader could do.
It was clear, however, that Mom and Dad Duck knew what
they were doing. They sat comfortably against one another,
angled toward the eggs. There was no panicked beating of wings
or worried squawking, only patient waiting.
My eyes suddenly burned with hot tears as I thought of my
mother, who, despite a penchant for her own kind of squawking
(in high-pitched Tagalog, no less), could easily break me with a
calm yet piercing stare.
I soon learned that the passing of the first year without her
would not be the end of grief. On Mothers Day of 2009, a year
and a half after she died, I sat in front of Neiman Marcus on the
bench where she and I would regularly meet and cried with a
ferocity that emptied me. I remember shaking uncontrollably,
wanting desperately for her to appear on the bench beside me.
The months that followed proved to be among the most
difficult of my life. The sadness of each first was overshadowed
by the grave realization of each second. The dull ache of the
previous years holidays was replaced by the searing pain of a
new reality: now my mother was really, truly gone. I became
depressed. I could not sleep. I suffered myriad physical problems
related to my stress. My body, mind, and heart broke down.
I could not understand it. I had been so proud of the strength
I had displayed the year before. I thought I had moved through
my grief. Why was I falling apart now?
It took time for me to comprehend what I thought was an
emotional backslide. Those months were so completely filled
with every kind of pain that it was nearly impossible for me to
function, much less navigate my grief. I lumbered on through life
and work, surviving on the hope that all of this would somehow
work itself out.
I spoke to Mom oftenusually while sitting on that bench
outside of Neiman Marcus. I asked her why everything was
tumbling down around me, and more importantly why she, in
her heavenly place, did not do anything to stop it.
It was a selfish question, I know. It was only a euphemism for
what I really wanted to ask her: Why had she left me? And what
was I supposed to do now?
A couple of months ago I was standing in the kitchen. It was
the only room in the house I had left exactly as it had been when
Mom lived there. The once eggshell-painted cabinets had faded
to a dull grey and the metallic gold drawer pulls were tarnished
from thirty years of use. I had avoided renovating this piece of
the house; it was, in my mind, still my mothers domain. Due
to my chronic clumsiness and lack of common sense (I once
attempted to fry Shake and Bake), my mother had, with the
frenzied shaking of a wooden spoon, banned me from the
kitchen. Now in her absence, I inhaled, expecting to smell her
chorizo fried ricebut I didnt.
The weight of that particular moment will always be with
me. It had finally sunk in: my mother had moved on. I now had a
chance to do the same. However, I wasnt sure I should.
It was a huge epiphany: the pain of that second year was
not only about my mother leaving me but also my guilt. I had
wanted to move forward, to be free of pain, to forget, but thats
not what a good daughter would have done. A good daughter
would have grieved even harder.
But thats no way to live, and its certainly not the kind of
life my mother would have wanted for me. I decided then and
there to take a step forward. The next day I painted the cabinets
bright red and installed brushed nickel pulls.
As I cross the threshold of a third year without my mother,
I find myself healed in a myriad of ways. I know now that I
needed to grieve in whatever way was necessary and that to
demand a timeline for it was unrealistic. The first year without
her was about closing her door, and the second year was about
the much more painful process of opening mine. Ive come to
understand that my mothers transition was and is a reflection
of my own: we both let go of one life to start another. The trick
was negotiating the space in between.
I also now understand why those ducks sat so far from their
eggs. It wasnt that they wanted to leave themand, indeed,
they never really did. They simply went to a place where they
could watch their children come into the world under their own
power.
Their children needed to break their own shells. v
Are You There, Angst?

Its Me, Quarter-Life Crisis.
first writes
I sleep on a bed with no frame. The box spring is still wrapped in

plastic, and when I roll around too much in my sleep, I wake up with
the mattress at least several inches from where its supposed to be.
On those days, I forget where I am.
For the past two weeks, Ive been waking up at 3:30am feeling
anxious, as though Ive forgotten to do something important. Ill
tear through my apartment, half-asleep, trying to scratch an itch
in my brain that I cant reach. Ill check that the stove is off and
then press on my front door to make sure that its locked properly.
Feeling unsatisfied, Ill sort my mail into two piles: bills I have to pay
now and bills I really have to pay now. Reminders of my financial
irresponsibility flood my tired mind until I feel overwhelmed and
nauseous. The sun peeks its way through my blinds before I feel
completely defeated, like I should head back to bed. The last thought
that enters my head before drifting back off to sleep is always: when
am I going to start feeling like an adult?
Ive been told this restless panic is the quarter-life crisis, which
will be weighing me down until Im at least 30. The term, originally
coined by writer Abby Wilner, was used to describe her postcollege
anxiety after she moved back home and had no idea what to do with
her life. A quick Google search brings up an entire website dedicated
to my predicament, complete with an ad at the bottom for a job
listing site with a picture of smiling women dressed in power suits
giving an insincere thumbs-up.
Honestly, though, there is comfort in knowing that there are
others suffering right alongside with me. Many of us are so busy
reconciling the noticeable gap between our childhood dreams and
our not-as-exciting lives that we forget these experiences are not
unique but, rather, our rite of passage into adulthood. In high school,
we spent our time desperately trying to fit in. In college, most of us
reinvented ourselves and shed the high school identities we tried so
hard to create (or destroy, depending on who you ask). We strutted
around campus like pseudo-adults, high on the possibility that we
could change the world and certain wed have our futures printed
on the back of our diplomas like treasure maps. Nobody warned us,
however, that postcollege life lacked the structure and routine to
which we had become so accustomed. Nobody told us we needed
to reshape our childhood dreams into practical goals; we were illprepared, thrown out into the world as if from an airplane, clutching
onto our dreams as if they were our only parachute.
As a child, I dreamt of being a famous violin player and novelist
(for some reason, both were connected in my mind). I had a blurry
by Kristel Yoneda
vision of my taller self, playing so beautifully Id bring crowds to

tears. After signing autographs, Id go home and write novels that
people wanted to discuss over coffee with friends.
I can assure you at 26, Im neither of those things. My dreams
of becoming a famous violinist fell to the wayside by the time I was
eight or nine when I became infatuated with the electric guitar.
Now, my lifelong dream of becoming a writer is the onlyalbeit
hugegap in reality Im trying to reconcile.
Part of the problem with beating ourselves up over our
unaccomplished childhood dreams is that as children we had no real
concept of age or responsibility. Being a grownup was an abstract
concept. To us, adults were giants who ruled the world, having
somehow magically acquired the skills and information to become
self-sufficient.
As children, we could not predict the obstacles we would
encounter on our way to adulthood. Back then, our biggest concerns
were making friends on the playground and finding clever ways to
avoid eating our veggies. We were dreamers back then: give us a
cheap ukulele from Walmart and we wanted to be musicians; give
us a Playdoh food set and we wanted to be chefs; give us an empty
refrigerator box and we wanted to be Batman and live in a cardboard
cave.
I am not suggesting that we abandon our childhood dreams. After
all, there are reasons (whether we understand them or not) why we
work towards accomplishing these goals, no matter how outrageous
they may seem. Even if we dont end up becoming the grownups we
originally set out to bea virtuoso violinist, a best-selling novelist
our childhood fantasies dare us to dream bigger and push ahead
(even if we lack direction). Our experiences from childhood are what
steer us toward who we are now, filling in the essential markers in
our journey, markers that we could not anticipate as children.
Quarter-lifers, we dont give ourselves enough credit for getting
this far. We lament over our decision to buy an expensive pair of
shoes instead of carefully budgeting our paychecks, wondering
when well start making responsible adult-like decisions. We are so
fixated on waiting for that adult light switch in our head to flip that
we lose sight of ourselves. Were meant to be in this chaotic limbo
between adolescence and adulthood. Were meant to flounder in
our new freedom and responsibilities, making the wrong decisions
in hopes of eventually learning and making the right ones. Weve
focused so much on how much we havent accomplished, that weve
completely disregarded what we have done: survived this far. v
www.facebook.com/blondepeacock
High-Heeled Escapes and Forced Labor:
Why Hawaii Needs To Adopt Legislation That Criminalizes Human Trafficking
Hawaii Undercover
by Jennifer Allen
photography by Rita Coury
Let Justice roll down like waters in a mighty

stream, said the Prophet Amos. He was
seeking not consensus but the cleansing
action of revolutionary change. America
has made progress toward freedom, but
measured against the goal the road ahead is
still long and hard. Martin Luther King Jr.1
ravel to a Hawaiian beach on any given

Saturday and you will probably encounter
a lau celebrating a one-year-old babys
birthday. Aunties and uncles gather round to
celebrate the importance and value of the new
life.
Now travel almost 7,000 miles from
Honolulu to Cambodia and make your way to
a brothel on the outskirts of Phnom Penh in
the village of Svay Pak.2 Girls
lining the streets may appear
to consent to customer
requests and pimp demands.
But consent seems doubtful
coming from a five-year-old
sex worker, especially when
realizing some prostituted
children are expected to have
sex with as many as 30 men
per day.3 Suddenly the value
of a child is defined by sexual
gratification and commercial
gain, not family love and
protection. This grotesque
picture of sexual appetite
gorging upon innocent
victims provides a good
wake-up call for international
accountability in fighting
human trafficking, the
modern-day
form
of
slavery. No one should possess the sexual
authority to order services from a child,
woman, or man forced into slavery.
Travel back to Hawaii, and you may be
surprised to learn that pimps and traffickers
enslave victims within the United States.4
Trafficking does not just exist overseas.
According to FBI Special Agent Brandon
Simpson, the trafficking problem is
widespread throughout Hawaii, Guam, and
American Samoa.5 In Honolulu, one defendant
still awaiting trial allegedly offered a 13-yearold girl a ride, tried to rape her, and finally
solicited the girl to work as a prostitute.6
This example presents a typical pattern in
transnational trafficking: a pimp sexually
breaking in the girl prior to forcing her into
the commercial sex industry.7 Sex-trafficking
cases often capture the publics attention as

a particularly contemptible crime; however,
human trafficking as a modern-day form of
slavery is not limited to the sex industry.8
Sexual exploitation paints only one section
of the human-trafficking picture. Human
trafficking also consists of forced labor, bonded
labor, debt bondage and involuntary servitude
among migrant laborers, involuntary domestic
servitude, forced child labor, and child soldiers.9
The Aloun Farms case epitomizes the classic
forced-labor trafficking scenario. Through a
scheme of debts, threats, and restraint, the
co-owners of Aloun Farms in Hawaii pleaded
guilty to conspiring to commit forced labor.10
Based on my experience, my opinion is that
human trafficking is ongoing in the State of
Hawaii. It is not an easily identifiable crime,

said Bow Mun Chin, an attorney representing
some of the Thai labor victims on behalf of
Hawaii Immigrant Justice Center at Legal Aid
Society of Hawaii. Whether [victims] are
or are not legally in the United States, it is
difficult to identify the victims, as they are
generally afraid of everyone, particularly law
enforcement, he said. While human rights
are at stake, characterizing the humantrafficking problem with data and statistics
remains a difficult task due to the hidden
nature of trafficking in persons.11
The exploitation of workers found
throughout Hawaii and many other U.S.
states reveals the need for multilevel
government cooperation and participation.12
Cooperation in Hawaii began with the
2005 establishment of the Hawaii AntiTrafficking Task Force I, which laid the ground
work for developing local research and
introducing anti-trafficking legislation.13 But
no comprehensive trafficking legislation has
been enacted.
WHAT IS HUMAN TRAFFICKING?
According to the United Nations Protocol to

Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in
Persons, human trafficking is defined as:
The recruitment, transportation,
harboring or receipt of persons, by
means of the threat or use of force or
other forms of coercion, of abduction,
of fraud, of deception, of the abuse
of power or of a position
of vulnerability or of the
giving or receiving of
payments or benefits to
achieve the consent of
a person having control
over another person
for the purpose of
exploitation.14
The
United
Nations
emphasizes that human
trafficking constitutes a
crime against humanity
and includes three elements:
the act, the means, and the
purpose.15 Indeed, defining
human trafficking requires a
multifaceted understanding
of many issues, including
poverty, vulnerable victims,
sexual and labor demands,
corporate and consumer responsibility,
gender discrimination, and immigration
issues, to name just a few. Poverty alone is
not the sole cause of traffickingtragedies
are perpetuated by fraudulent recruiters,
employers, and corrupt officials, all of which
should be considered perpetuators of a
vicious cycle of trafficking.16
Forced-labor victims are most vulnerable
to exploitation due to unemployment,
poverty, crime, discrimination, corruption,
political conflict, and cultural acceptance
of the practice.17 In the garment factory
Daewoosa Samoa, Ltd., Kil Soo Lee trafficked
individuals from Vietnam, China, and
American Samoa to work at his factory. The
following is testimony from one trafficked
victim:
It was [like] watching a film

where the people are being brutally
beaten to the point of like massacre
There was a lot of blood on the line
and on the floor of the factory and on
the fabrics.18
This testimony describes the most violent
incident, in which Lee gave permission to a
Samoan supervisor to beat anyone who dont
[sic] listen to you. If anyone die [sic], I will be
responsible.19 After this instruction, the guard
grabbed one of the workers, choking her to
the point of not being able to breathe.20 About
20 Samoan guards used plastic plumbing
pipes to attack other workers who came to her
rescue, causing one worker to lose her eye.21
Lee is now serving 40 years in prison.22 At
Daewoosa, Lee controlled when and whether
the victims could leave the grounds, be paid,
or even eat.23 In contrast to the large-scale
operation of the Daewoosa case, forced labor
is generally more difficult to spot. Instead
of the large criminal rings often involved in
sex trafficking, often a trafficker may be one
individual controlling either one other person
or hundreds of workers.24
HIGH-HEELED ESCAPE
Leilanis blisters from her high-heeled, five-mile

hike to Waikiki were from a desire to check out
designer stores off of Kalkaua Avenue.25 Her
heels were not a treat for herself or a present
from a loved one. Instead the heels were a
gift from her pimpas was her dress.

Tourists and locals alike may be shocked
to know that Leilanis unconventional walking
route resulted from a desire to flee the sex
traffickers holding her bondage in a house and
neighborhood she could not identify on Oahu.
People who are not from Hawaii generally
find pronouncing, let alone memorizing, street
names next to impossible. This is especially
true for sex-trafficked victims, who stay for a
brief stint of time before being forced to leave
and go to another unfamiliar U.S. city.26 The
triangle routes that often move girls between
cities like Los Angeles, Honolulu, and Las
Vegas entrap girls like Leilani, keeping victims
defenseless and vulnerable.27 If a victim is
unfamiliar with the surrounding territory and
if she is constantly moved, then chances of
discovery or escape are reduced.28
Another unique aspect of Leilanis situation
is her identity as an Americanshe is not the
typical vulnerable immigrant victim. Leilani
met her boyfriend in Los Angeles. After
gaining her trust, the boyfriend shipped her to
Hawaii to be sexually exploited. She knew the
job he promised her in Hawaii might involve
some type of sex work like working at a strip
club, but she had no clue she would end up
a slave.
Luckily for Leilani, she was able to escape
within about a weeks time. That weeks abuse
and degradation put her in survival mode
hence the high-heeled escape. But during
that week, she also met other, less fortunate
girls. Some were already brainwashed by the

threats of the traffickers, and others were too
afraid to escape.
Preventing such situations requires both
outreach and research to identify the scope
of the problem, understand who the victims
are, and assess what their needs may be.29
Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) in
Hawaii currently raise awareness about the
need for a state law criminalizing trafficking
by giving presentations to neighborhood
boards and conducting training sessions for
interested community members.30 To raise
overall awareness, theyve hosted antitrafficking conferences and continually engage
in dialogue with potential victims in Waikiki
and Chinatown.31 In addition, a few NGOs
such as Girl Fest, The Domestic Violence
Clearinghouse and Legal Hotline, and Hawaii
Immigrant Justice Centeractively participate
in a state-mandated anti-trafficking task
force.32 The Hawaii Anti-Trafficking Task Force
(HATTF) meets periodically to brainstorm ideas
to alleviate the problem in Hawaii, compile
trafficking statistics, and craft and propose
legislation.33
The value of partnerships is revealed in
Leilanis situation, as a member of the Pacific
Alliance to Stop Slavery (PASS) raised funds
through her church to help send Leilani back
home to California.34 The state may be limited
in funding, but partnering with faith-based
and secular organizations can offer a solution
to the financial support problem.
The fact that Leilanis situation and many

other human-trafficking violations occur within
U.S. borders still shocks many Americans. And
yet most trafficking cases are identified by the
public, according to a representative from the
Department of Justice Office on Civil Rights.35
Public awareness and law enforcement
training need to be enhanced.
During a PASS presentation at a Makiki
Neighborhood Board meeting, a member
of the public asked: Why does Hawaii even
need to criminalize an offense thats already
criminalized at the federal level?36 The scope
of the federal law in theory extends to
individual trafficking violations throughout
the United States. However, in reality, federal
agencies are limited in time, manpower, and
resources.37 Trafficking cases involving one or
two individuals do not garner much attention.
Instead, federal prosecutions generally focus
on large trafficking rings. When community
members run across victims like Leilani,
they need access to local law-enforcement
agencies that are well-trained and prepared
to deal with trafficking situations.38
State criminalization of human trafficking
is a fundamental step Hawaii needs to take
to protect victims. Hawaiis tourism-based
economy provides a luring environment
for traffickers to set up shop.39 Prevention
strategies like educating the public will
not solve the problem if local police and
prosecutors do not have a statutory means

of prosecuting perpetrators. The Aloun case
was handled by federal prosecutors. However,
local prosecutors and police should be trained
to handle these situations when they arise, as
local police are usually the first on the scene.40
This will reduce the trafficking cases flowing
into the federal dockets, allow local agencies
to follow cases from beginning to end and to
increase visibility to anti-trafficking progress.41
Increased visibility could deter trafficking if
local prosecution successes are highlighted in
the media.42 State legislation will not replace
the Federal Trafficking Victims Protection Act
(TVPA) or federal involvement in prosecuting
cases; instead, it will increase effectiveness.43
The purpose of state legislation creates a
tighter partnership with federal anti-trafficking
initiatives.44 As more states adopt legislation,
less safe havens will be available to which
traffickers may flee.45
The federal government alone cannot
deter human trafficking as a threat to Hawaiis
communities because the federal statutes are
not efficient at the local level.46 The Federal
TVPA has several weaknesses that make it
ineffective at the local level including the
following: the absence of an enforcement
arm makes implementing provisions difficult;
the top-down approach leaves only highranking officials knowledgeable about how
to recognize and help victims; the limited
NOTES
1. King 1965.
2. Haugen with Hunter 2005. Haugen describes International Justice Missions
(IJM) discovery of Svay Pak, a place he describes as a small, lawless village
where scores of girls, including very young girls, were sold on an open market to be
molested and abused by sex tourists. According to IJM, the most shocking part of
the sex market in Svay Pak was how the brothel owners openly sold elementaryschool-aged girls in the middle of the day.
3. World Vision n.d.
4. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007.
5. Soloman Star 2009. This source notes the trafficked woman is from the U.S.
mainland and is being helped at a temporary shelter.
6. Star Bulletin 2009. See also Hawaii State Judiciary, Hoohiki Public Access to
Court Information. This case does not go to a jury trial until April.
7. U.S. Department of State 2008:32.
8. William Wilberforce Trafficking Victims Protection Reauthorization Act of
2008, HR 7311, 110th Cong., 2nd session.
9. U.S. Department of State 2008.
10. Federal Bureau of Investigations Honolulu 2010.
11. U.S. Department of State 2008:7, 20. Characterizing the problem is difficult
because a wide range of estimates exists on the scope and magnitude of modernday slavery.
12. Polaris Project: For a World without Slavery n.d.
13. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007:15. The Hawaii AntiTrafficking Task Force I, which receives funding from the Department of Justices
Law Enforcement and Service Provider Multidisciplinary Anti-Trafficking Task Force
grant, was one of 31 other task forces across the United States in 2005. Pursuant
to Act 176, Session Laws of Hawaii 2008, the sunset date for the task force extends
until June 30, 2010.
14. United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime 2004.
15. United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime n.d.
16. U.S. Department of State 2008:8.
18. U.S. v. Lee, 472 F.3d 638, 640 (9th Cir. 2006).
19. Ibid.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid, 641.
23. Ibid.
25. Leilani is an alias for the real trafficked victim for purposes of identity protection
and pursuant to instructions from the faith-based organization that ultimately helped
her out.
26. William Wilberforce Trafficking Victims Protection Reauthorization Act of
2008, HR 7311, 110th Cong., 2nd session. 22 U.S.C.A. 7101(b)(5) (West 2000).
Traffickers take victims away from their home communities to make the victims feel
defenseless and vulnerable.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid. It is important to note that transporting the victim is not a necessary element
of the crime; however, traffickers often take victims from their homes and displace
them in an unfamiliar destination in attempt to weed out protection available to the
victim.
29. United States Department of Justice n.d.
30. Authors interview with PASS member in Honolulu, HI, February 24, 2009.
31. The Pacific Alliance to Stop Slavery n.d. See also: changeyourworldHawaii.
org.
32. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007:2. See also the
NGO websites: www.girlfestHawaii.org, www.kukuicenter.org/index.php/Hawaiiimmigrant-justice-center, and www.stoptheviolence.org.
33. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007:1.
34. The Pacific Alliance to Stop Slavery 2009.
35. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007:22. I realized the
importance of the balance between training law enforcement and raising public
awareness about trafficking issues.
36. Authors notes, Makiki Neighborhood Board Meeting, February 19, 2009.
37. State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General 2007:4.
38. Federal Bureau of Investigation 2008.
39. The Pacific Alliance to Stop Slavery n.d.
40. Federal Bureau of Investigation 2008.
41. Kara 2007.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid, 667.
44. Ibid, 671.
45. Ibid.
46. Mariconda 2009:151.
47. Ibid, 175.
48. UN News Centre 2009.
49. Ibid.
REFERENCES CITED
Federal Bureau of Investigation
2008 Human Trafficking: Todays Slave Trade. www.fbi.gov/page2/may08/
humantrafficking_050908.html, accessed February 10, 2010.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Honolulu
2010 Department of Justice Press Release: Two Brothers Plead Guilty in
Conspiracy to Hold Thai Workers in Forced Labor in Hawaii. FBI Honolulu,
January 14, 2010. www.honolulu.fbi.gov/dojpressrel/pressrel10/hn011410.htm,
accessed February 10, 2010.
Fujimori, Leila
2009 Man Charged in Rape of Teen. Star Bulletin, July 7, 2009. www.starbulletin.
com/news/20090707_Man_charged_in_rape_of_teen.html, accessed February
13, 2010.
Haugen, Gary, with Gregg Hunter
2005 Young Girls Held Captive and the Daring Undercover Operation to Win
Their Freedom. Nashville, TN: W Publishing Group.
Kara, Shashi Irani
2007 Decentralizing the Fight against Human Trafficking in the United States:
The Need for Greater Involvement in Fighting Human Trafficking by State
funds and manpower restrict the number of

prosecuted cases to those generally involving
a large ring of conspirators or large numbers
of victims.47 Following the 43 other states that
already adopted legislation, Hawaii legislators
need to prioritize anti-trafficking legislation to
ensure that our residents, immigrants, and
tourists are protected from traffickers.
Visit traffickjamming.org to learn how
you can reach out to Hawaiis trafficking
victims and sign the petition to support state
legislation criminalizing human trafficking. See
the following websites for more information:
on the national level, www.polarisproject.org;
on the international level, www.ijm.org.
Rallying public support and awareness
through various campaigns provides the ability
for ordinary citizens to help solve trafficking
problems. The blue heart initiative (www.
unodc.org/blueheart/en/about-us.html) is the
most recent international campaign launched
by the United Nations. The blue heart
symbolizes the sadness of trafficking victims,
the cold-heartedness of the perpetrators and
the commitment of the United Nations to
fight this crime.48 The campaign aims to end
ignorance about modern slavery issues and
to harness support by encouraging the public
to advertise both the human-trafficking video
on YouTube and the blue heart on Facebook
profiles, web pages, and Twitter.49 v
Agencies and Local Non-Governmental Organizations. Cardozo Journal of Law
and Gender 13: 671.
King Jr., Martin Luther
1965 Let Justice Roll Down. The Nation, March 15, 1965. [Republished February
7, 2002.] www.thenation.com/doc/19650315/king, accessed February 10, 2010.
Mariconda, Stephanie L.
2009 Breaking the Chains: Combating Human Trafficking at the State Level.
Boston Third World Law Journal 29:151188.
The Pacific Alliance to Stop Slavery (PASS)
N.d. Combating Sex-Trafficking in Hawaii. PASS. www.traffickjamming.org,
Polaris Project: For a World without Slavery
N.d. Domestic Trafficking within the U.S. www.polarisproject.org/content/
view/60/81, accessed February 10, 2010.
Soloman Star
2009 Samoan Man Arrested in Honolulu for Operating a Prostitution
Ring. Soloman Star, March 16, 2009. www.solomonstarnews.com/index.
php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7365&Itemid=26, accessed, accessed
April 25, 2009.
State of Hawaii Department of the Attorney General
2007 Report on the Hawaii Anti-Trafficking Task Force [HATTF]. www.Hawaii.gov/
ag/main/publications/reports/legislative_reports/2007-leg/haw-anti-traff-tsk-frce-1of-2.pdf, accessed February 10, 2010.
UN News Centre
2009 UN Rallies Public Support to End Human Trafficking with Blue Heart
Campaign. UN News Centre, March 5. www.un.org/apps/news/story.asp?NewsID=
30096&Cr=Human+trafficking&Cr1, accessed February 10, 2010.
United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime
2004 United Nations Convention against Transnational Organized Crime
and the Protocols Thereto. (See, particularly, Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and
Punish Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children, G.A. Res. 55/25
[November 15, 2000]). www.unodc.org/documents/treaties/UNTOC/Publications/
TOC%20Convention/TOCebook-e.pdf, accessed February 10, 2010.
N.d. Human Trafficking. www.unodc.org/unodc/en/human-trafficking/what-ishuman-trafficking.html, accessed February 10, 2010.
United States Department of Justice
N.d. What We Do (see Fight Trafficking in Persons). www.usdoj.gov/whatwedo/
whatwedo_ctip.html, accessed April 25, 2009.
U.S. Department of State
2008 Trafficking in Persons Report. www.state.gov/g/tip/rls/tiprpt/2008/, accessed
February 10, 2010.
World Vision
N.d. The Child Sex Tourism Prevention Project: Combating Slavery in the 21st
Century. World Vision. www.worldvision.org/content.nsf/learn/globalissues-stp,
Hole
Four years ago, my tooth had a cavity. It was a molar, number three
on the chart. Everyones number three tooth is the biggest. Along
with fourteen, nineteen, and thirty, number three makes up the
gang of big, rugged, third-from-the-back teeth that does the grunt
work. During the drilling, a root was struck and the pain began.
Whenever pain begins, we become violent. Clip out hangnails.
Burn off warts. Suck out tooth roots.
A root canal took the first three roots, but there was a fourth,
hidden root, still providing nourishment to the tooth and pain
to me. The fourth root was found and exorcised. The tooth was
declared dead. But it still hurt. The pain worsened until this year,
when a fuzzy line showed up on my x-ray.
I dont want to be the bearer of bad news, said my dentist as
she peered at the pictures. But I think there might be something
stuck in there.
Where? Behind it? In my gum?
Inside your tooth. See this? I followed her index finger to the
whitest blotch on the x-ray. I think that its part of an instrument.
Shanna, show her, OK? The Russian hygienist opened a shallow
drawer and pulled out a skinny metal stick. Sometimes the tip
of the file breaks off during a root canal, said my dentist, while
Shanna modeled the needlepoint end. Its rare, but if it happens,
you can develop a fracture or infection. Thats what I think is going
on here in the white part.
The white part should have been my favorite. Iridescent, it
stood out from the hazy gray of my sinus cavity above it. And it
was not defined like the sharp outlines of healthy tooth roots
nearby. The white part was an enchanting, guarded mist.
Im sending you to a specialist, my dentist said.
The specialist was a young woman with a powerful microscope.
She seconded my dentists opinion. You need to have this taken
out ASAP, she said. Trust me. You wont even realize how much
pain youre in until its gone.
I called my dentist for a referral, but her guy was booked for
days. The specialist with the microscope, however, knew an oral
surgeon who would take me as a walk-in.
Open up, said the oral surgeon, an old, gruff man. A war veteran,
Korea maybe. He peered inside my mouth, struck the molar with a
probe, and sniffed. The tooth, he said, cannot be saved.
I need to be under, I said. On my health information form, I
had explained that I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Id
written that lately, since piecing together the scene of my fathers
fatal car accident, I couldnt bear things stuck in my headears,
nose, eyes, mouth, throatbecause it all felt like hoods of cars
crunching into my face, or peels of fender sliding into my ears, or
shards of windshield puncturing my brain. Id been having visions
of my head with metal parts disappearing into one side and
reappearing on the other, like train tracks through a mountain.
I think Id even used those wordstrain tracks through a
mountainright before Id listed that Im an asthmatic and
always carry an Albuterol inhaler.
Heres the waiver for general anesthesia. He stuck the first
by Suzanne Farrell
dose of Valium into my left arm as I signed with my right hand. He

stretched my lips around a mouth gag. The sedative could not kick
in fast enough. I distracted myself with visions of the white mist,
my oral oracle. The first dribble of drool spilled from the corner of
my open mouth.
What is this? he asked, noticing the L-shaped inhaler on
my lap. He pinched the feed. We cant put you under. You have
asthma.
Naw, naw, you prahmised. I sahned. I hah phee klee ehh
deee, I cried around the gag, tears now streaming down my
stretched cheeks. I was partially drugged but fully panicked. When
he plunged both hands into my mouth and growled forceps, I
screamed.
Stop crying, he said. Youre upsetting everyone, including
me.
I was going to die in that chair. My tooth would die first, ripped
out and sent to the garbage can casket lined with bloody tissues.
I would follow, its broken-hearted lover, dead from fear, from loss.
The deaths would cause a local stir. New Yorkers would cancel their
dental appointments for a day or two. Then we would be forgotten.
There was no pain. But there was. I cried harder.
Your wife is a difficult patient, he said to my husband, Justin,
whod been called in to extract the shaking, sobbing patient. I
would have retorted, or at least gaped, were it not for the gauze
soaked with blood and bitter medicine.
We should have a funeral for your tooth, said Justin when I
told him later that night that I missed it. I humphed onto my left
side, an ice pack balanced on my right cheek. I complained that Id
never gotten the autopsy results, that I would never know what
killed it. Was it a hairline fracture that snaked like a skinny river
through the enamel? Was it a crevasse, a blue glacial crack? Was it
a cavern? Was a file tip lurking inside? Was the pulp petrified? Why
did my tooth analogies all have to do with rivers and mountains
and caves? Was the tooth infected? How close was the infection
to spreading into my circulatory system and down into my heart,
where it would have transformed the muscle into the half-pound
piece of rancid meat I sometimes suspect it really is?
Now the huge hole on the upper right draws my tongue to
its broken rim. The hole is filled with two rice kernels and half
a kidney bean. A tooth used to block such things. But now the
food swaggers in and thunks into the upside-down lounge chair
upholstered with tender red skin. I empty the hole by lightly
swishing with saltwater and swabbing with cotton on a stick.
Im skittish about the swabbing, nervous that a wipe one bit too
aggressive will poke through the inverted basin and strike my
still-aching jawbone. Its too soon for rice and beans.
Tooth number two seems weaker without its neighbor. Even
the cool air of breath threatens number two. Threatens all my
teeth. They are so fragile. I sense the extraction has opened up
a network of holes on the right side of my head, exposing miles
of damp, empty tunnels. I cant keep from exploring whats
missing.
Why didnt I make an impression of the tooth when I had the

chance? Why didnt I crown it, at least, and save the mold? My
tongue traces the hollow, tasting aluminum. It should be a tooth.
But its a hole, a functionless one. I cant suck too hard, or spit, or
swish, or eat anything crunchy. To maintain the hole, Im told, to
keep it from breaking down, I shouldnt explore it with my tongue,
shouldnt prod it with anything, shouldnt look inside. I should
avoid it, let it heal, and move on. I should adjust. I should not think
about it until the day, months from now, when it will be filled by an
expensive implant. A false tooth that I might someday believe was
always there. I should not, absolutely not, treat it like a hole.
I like my regular dentist because she has a loud laugh and a
debilitating fear of flying. She examined the area. Does this hurt?
she asked as she pressed her forefinger against a protrusion above
the excavation site. It did. Bone chip, she said. The size of a
ladybug. Its one of two that I can see. Well have to take those out.
Does it hurt to blow your nose? Everything hurt, but yes, I had
Burying Babies
been avoiding blowing my nose. I had been holding my breath, too.

I wish my guy had been available, she said. Who did you see? He
punctured your sinus. She pulled out her medical pad to prescribe
the antibiotics one normally gets for typhoid fever, gonorrhea, or
anthrax. She exchanged a look with Shanna. He tortured you, she
said. And in what I consider a moment of professional weakness
but great personal strength, she said, What an asshole.
Eight checkups later and Im still working out the pieces. Left
behind, they hurt. My dentist took out two chips so farone,
the ladybug-sized lump, and the other, a full centimeter long and
shaped like a sharks tooth. The rest are floating in my gum, trying
to break free. There is no solid bone left above the empty space,
nothing in which to anchor a new tooth. Everythingthe incisions,
the jaw, the sinus cavity, and especially the hole itselfhurts. The
more you take away, the more pain you find. The pieces hurt, but
so do the empty places. v
World Views
in Brazil
by Jemimah Wright
photos by Kathryn Xian
he little Amazonian girl in a pink t-shirt

emblazoned with a cartoon character came
up to me with a smile that encompassed her
whole face. Flinging her arms around my waist
and pressing her head against my middle, she
said in broken English: I love you!
This was my introduction to Hakani, a girl
born in the middle of the Amazon rain forest
in Brazil into the Suruwah tribe, a small tribe
of 200 Indians living far from civilization.
In the Suruwah, a pregnant girl will walk
into the jungle to give birth alone. She then
cuts the babys umbilical cord, buries the
placenta, and returns to the village with her
child if it is wanted. The child is abandoned
to die in the jungle if it has any physical
disability, if the mother is single, or if the
family has too many girls and the baby born
is female. This practice could be understood
as a survival of the fittest mechanism of
the past, but now, in 2010, when medical

help is freely available, there is the chance of
life for the mothers and families who want
to take it. For centuries, many Indian tribes
such as the Suruwah have buried some of
their babies alive. Many tribes believe it is
a curse to give birth to more than one baby
at a time, therefore twins and triplets are
also often killed. Burying babies alive is not
the only way tribes kill unwanted children:
mothers and family members also suffocate
newborns with leaves or poison them.
In 1995, a woman from the Suruwah
gave birth to Hakani. Hakani means smile
in Suruwah. As she grew, Hakani was not
developing like a normal child. By age two,
she could not walk or talk. The Suruwah
saw this, and the elders told Hakanis
parents she had to die because she was a
curse to the tribe.
Hakanis parents loved their daughter and

wanted to do whatever they could to save
her life, even if it meant going against the
demands of the whole tribe. However, after
months of enduring the constant demands
for their daughters death, Hakanis mother
and father were under so much emotional
pressure that, feeling hopeless but knowing
they could not kill their own daughter, they
decided to take their own lives. Together
they committed suicide by eating a poison
root called kunaha.
The responsibility to kill Hakani now fell
to her oldest brother. The tribe elders told
him his parents were dead because of his
sister, and so, with shaking but determined
hands, he hit Hakani over the head with a
machete to knock her out. He tried to bury
her alive in a hole next to the hut where
they would normally bury dead animals.
Hakani woke up before enough soil

was put on top of her to muffle her cries.
Overcome with emotion, her brother could
not go through with the murder and ran off
into the jungle, and another brother took
his sister out of the soil. Hakani had survived
being buried alive, but she was still was not
safe. Her grandfather then took his bow and
arrow and shot at her, narrowly missing her
heart and piercing her shoulder. Guilt also
overcame him, and he ate poisonous root
in an attempt to take his own life.
From that day on, at two-and-a-half
years of age, Hakani lived as an outcast.
For three years, she survived on rain water,
bark, leaves, insects, and occasionally scraps
of food one of her brothers smuggled to
her. Along with her familys neglect, other
children burned her legs because she could
not walk and laughed when she cried. Why
are you still alive? theyd shout. You have
no soul! Why dont you just die? Over
time, Hakani lost her bright smile and all
other facial expressions that revealed any
emotion she felt.
Only when she was near death did her
youngest older brother, Bibi, rescue her by
carrying her to the home of a Brazilian couple
named Marcia and Edson Suzuki, who had
been working for 20 years with the tribe.
The Suzukis knew Hakani was weak and
very ill. At five and a half years of age, she
was the size of a baby27 inches long and
only 15 pounds. The couple began caring for
Hakani as if she was their own child, but it
was extremely challenging. She responded
to nothing, had no facial expressions,
displayed no emotion, and would scream
and cry when touched because she had gone
for so long without loving physical contact
and been subjected to constant abuse from
the Suruwah. Hakani needed medical
attention that was unavailable in the jungle
or she would die. This was and still is the
problemthe Brazilian authorities make it
almost impossible to save a child. They want
to protect indigenous cultures but therefore
end up indirectly allowing children to die.
Eventually the Suzukis received
permission from the Brazilian government
to take Hakani out of the jungle. Within
six months of receiving love, care, and
medical treatment, Hakani begun to walk
and speak and her bright smile returned.
After a year, she was double her weight and
size. Marcia and Edson took Hakani back to
the tribe, and the Suruwah Indians wept

when they saw her. We thought she was
rubbish, now we see she is a princess, cried
the mothers. For the first time, the people
understood that children born with physical
or mental handicaps and those resulting
from a multiple birth had souls and that
they, as parents, did not have to kill the
children they loved. There was help, and it
was available to them.
However, the problem of getting help
still persists. According to Dr. Marcos
Pelegrini, a doctor working in the Yanomami
Tribe Health Care District, 98 children were
killed by their mothers in 2004 alone.
Campaigners say that the true figure is
obscured by officials who often record cases
of infanticide as simple malnutrition. At the
same time, family anguish over infanticide
has led to many adult tribal members
committing suicide.
Today Hakani is fourteen years old,
attending a mainstream school in Brazil.
She was diagnosed with hypothyroidism,
which when left untreated manifests the
developmental problems she experienced
as a baby.
Now Indians within the Amazon are
campaigning to change tribal attitudes
and save their children. One young man,
Matasempe Mayoruna, had been born a
twin, but his father, the chief, refused to kill
his two sons as custom dictated. When the
children were ten, a witch doctor visiting
from another village learned about the
twins.
They must die, you must kill them now,
he told the twins father.
Is there any way I can die in their place?
the father pleaded.
The witch doctor relented and allowed
him to be sacrificed in the place of one of
his sons. Matasempe was forced to watch
his brother and father be tied together and
burnt alive. The traumatized boy was later
adopted by a Brazilian man in the military
and taken to live in Rio de Janeiro.
In 2008, Matasempe told a government
committee in Brasilia that they must help
stop the tradition. He decided to speak out
against infanticide because he had seen a
film about Hakanis life. He had never talked
about what had happened to his father and
brother, but now he felt it was time.
Hakani and Matasempe are symbols of
the fight to stop infanticide in Brazil. And
change is happening. A film was recently

made of Hakanis life by an American film
crew, entitled Hakani: Buried AliveA
Survivors Story (Cunningham 2008).
Miguel Martins, a government official,
saw the Hakani film and as a result made
an amendment in Brazils Adoption Law.
He indicated in the laws revision that
indigenous children at risk of being
murdered due to cultural reasons should be
put up for adoption, preferably within the
tribe, but if that is not possible, anywhere
else.
Mr. Edson Suzuki, adopted father to
Hakani and founder of a campaign group
called Atini (from the Suruwah, lit., Voice
for Life), said: We are fighting against
doctors and anthropologists who say we
must not interfere with the culture of the
people. This cultural preservationism
is exemplified by Dr. Erwin Frank, an
anthropology professor at the Federal
University of Roraima State in the Amazon.
Speaking of the tribes, he said: This is their
way of life and we should not judge them
on the basis of our values. The difference
between the cultures should be respected.
But when culture impedes a basic human
rightthe right to lifeshould it still be
respected?
In a way, the issue mirrors the Western
conundrum: Amazonian women want the
choice of allowing babies to live; Western
women want the choice of allowing fetuses
to die.
Brazilian politicians are currently
debating a bill to outlaw infanticide. It is
known as Muwajis Law, named after a
Suruwah woman who refused to bury
her baby alive. But perhaps the strongest
argument against infanticide comes from a
survivor, Edison Bakairi: No child is guilty
of being born; all children have the right to
life. v
Get Involved: www.hakani.org/en
REFERENCE CITED
Cunningham, David Loren, dir.
2008 Hakani: Buried AliveA Survivors
Story. www.hakani.org/en/synopsis.asp,
Becoming
Eighty-Eight
by Frances Kakugawa
photo by Rita Coury
Happy New Year. Happy New Year. Yes, Happy New Year. Its time for new hope. New resolutions. New anticipations.
My mother, bless her soul, never liked New Years. It meant another birthday, growing older, her own mortality. Her
wardrobe was full of lavenders and light blues. Brown is for old people, she said when she was 88. I have become my
mothers daughter. The following is lifted from my next book: A Caregivers Voice: Breaking Silence through Writing.
y own mortality continues to surface. Why dont we

take a razor and scrape away labels that spell elderly,
seniors, or old? Imagine my shock when I realized numbers
were now going to make a great difference in my life after age
65, especially in doctors offices. It was no longer my mothers
milieu but my own.
The young doctorand they all look so young these days
looked at my birth date before asking me why I was there.
Oh, she said, You dont look your age.
After I told her the details of all the pain I was experiencing,
she said, Seems like you still have a few good years left, so
Ill give you this prescription. A prescription without even
touching her stethoscope to my heart? A prescription without
even knowing the cause of my pain? Do young doctors know
magic?
When I asked, What will this prescription do?, she responded,
Itll stop your brain from sending pain to your body.
No, I said, I can stand this pain. I need to know the cause
of this pain before getting a prescription. She insisted on the
prescription, so I took it and left it in the trash can on my way
out. Besides, my ten-minute office visit was up.
Aside from feeling angry and insulted (dont medical schools

teach students that calling a woman old makes her feel worse
than a diagnosis of avian flu?), I felt very sad that these young
doctors see the elderly as people who dont deserve medical
diagnosis.
I didnt have the time nor interest to tell her I have more
than a few good years left. For decades, I have worked with
the elderly and sickand have done so with respect, love,
compassion, and dignity. I didnt tell her this. I didnt tell her
about the incredible life lessons I continue to learn from each
of these individuals. She didnt hear me when I told her I had
pain; why would she hear me now?
These poems speak to those who see the elderly as having
lived out their lives after age 65 and who believe that only
productivity in the workplace has human worth. Yes, Dylan
Thomas, I am once again raging against the dying of the light.
On Becoming 69
How can I be 69 when I feel 49?
How can my mothers daughter turn 69?
For Gods sake, children arent supposed to age.
Not children born out of mothers wombs.
How can my mothers daughter turn 69?
Four years ago, it all began . . .
They called me elderly,
Neatly categorized under OLD.
They gave me flu shots before anyone else.
They began mailing me funeral plans,
Nursing home ads on slick colored sheets
In large black print,
Invitations to free luncheons
By long-term care insurance agents.
You are old, their messages said,
And you are dying. Shall I tell them
Of my plans for my 88th birthday?
When I am 88
I will have a love affair
that will leave me trembling
on a windless day.
I will drown in Puccini,
Mozart, Verdi,
Tidal waves roaring
inside of me.
I will feel the brush strokes
of Van Gogh,
clawing, bleeding
my inner flesh.
I will be Shakespeare
vibrant on stage,
rivers rushing, splashing
over moss and stone.
I will become soft,
sensuous, wet,
against your skin,
silk against steel.
When I am 88
I will still be woman.
Yes! v
photo courtesy of the Lim Family
Got Faith?
The Great
Big Vending Machine in the Sky

by Aldra Robinson
here has always been a synergy between solidarity and solitude

within religious traditions. Christians speak of a personal
relationship with Jesus, in addition to the communal context of
existing within the metaphorical body of Christ. Jesus told us that
the kingdom of heaven could be found within, and that anytime
two or more of us are gathered, the divine is also present. The
individual and the community have long been interwoven in a
healthy balance within religious traditions.
But there is something new afoot within the modern landscape
of religious life. Within Christianity, the social gospel movement
that spurred activists and preachers
such as the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King
Jr. to stand in peaceful opposition
against injustice and poverty has
been usurped by something far
less noble. The prosperity gospel
movement, with leaders such as
Pastor (an informal title, as he
has no credentials in theological
studies) Joel Osteen, has galvanized
hundreds of thousands of followers
not on the basis of justiceas did
the social gospel movementbut
on the supreme importance of the
individual and materialism, rendering
community virtually irrelevant.
Christianitys prosperity gospel
has found an ally in some new-age
spirituality movements, such as the
New Thought movements popular
Law of Attraction devotees. The
law of attraction ideology attempts to
marry science and spirituality, placing
the individual and positive thought
in the forefront while regulating the
divine to little more than a vending
machine dispensing various wants
(but only if you really want them).
Its not that feel-good spirituality
and a deity-as-vending-machine are inherently bad. Positive
thinking and a generous God are infinitely more beneficial to the
psyche than the hell-fire-and-brimstone theology of fear, backed
by a hate-filled oppressor in the sky. Fundamentalist Christianity
has long touted an angry, male god sitting on a throne in some
ethereal nebula, reigning down blessings on wealthy nations and
calamity upon the poor. The supporters of this bipolar Divine
One give various reasons for their unjust deity. Pat Robertson
most recently attributed the horrors of Haitis earthquake to its
citizens pact with the devil. Devil pacts, gays, divine jock itch ...
the story changes to suit the prejudice of the messenger.
Mainstream media has done much to promote such lunatic
interpretations of God as the one and only voice of Christianity.

Progressive religious leaders who advocate equal rights and
social justice are given little consideration, while conservatives
such as Rick Warren and Pat Robertson receive ample prime-time
attention. With devil pacts and the denial of basic civil rights to
the LGBT community, its no wonder many seekers run screaming
to the first warm fuzzy message they can find.
The popular DVD The Secret has become a bible for adherents
to the law of attraction philosophy and was promoted as
groundbreaking by Americas favorite oracle, Oprah Winfrey. If
the only other option presented is gay
bashing and hate, who wouldnt opt for
a lovely trip down Me and My Goodies
spiritual lane?
But there are significant problems in
setting our compasses toward this shiny
new star. Prosperity gospel appeals
greatly to Americans, as our once
rugged individualism has morphed into
a hyper-individualized society defined
by materialism. Studies have shown that
our mantra of equating happiness in the
next purchase has left us depressed,
disconnected, and in danger of destroying
our environment. The law of attraction
philosophy has taken a full-stomach
solution to full-stomach problems (if you
think happy thoughts, youll have more
positive interpretations of lifes events,
make better choices, and create happier
life scenarios) to ridiculous proportions,
re-establishing an oppressive blamethe-victim paradigm that the civil rights
and womens movement spent decades
trying to overcome.
Prosperity gospel preachers dont
burden their flocks with difficult questions.
Despite the fact that Jesus fought against
photo by Bianca Mills
oppressive Roman rule and commanded
that followers leave all their worldly possessions behind in service
to humanity, prosperity gospel adherents are never asked to do
more than think positive thoughts and expect that God desires
only the best for them and will intervene on their behalf. This
selective divine intervention is never questioned in the face of
global poverty or violence, because such difficult questions
would move followers away from the megalomaniacal focus on
self. In mega churches like Osteens, it might also siphon money
away from church coffers or retailers pitching their products as
congregants leave services. In these churches, Jesus isnt kicking
the money changers out of the temple; hes asking them about
cross-marketing potential. If there is any mention of spiritual and
social obligations to community, its only given as an afterthought the greater whole. There is no rapist, no human trafficking ring
(oh yeah, remember to give back once you have all your goodies, just folks manifesting their deepest desires, thus relieving us of any
children. Just remember, more is better!). And if you find yourself collective responsibility to change horrifying paradigms. Women
jobless in the current economic crisis? Well, just turn that frown dont need economic opportunities globally, they simply need to
upside down and think positive!
change their stinking thinking and pray harder.
Positive thinking as a primary solution to all that ails is a
A friend of mine was raped as a child but clings unwaveringly
cornerstone of the philosophy behind the law of attraction. The to such principles. When I asked her how she could possibly have
Secret teaches that everything in life that happens to us is a result manifested a rapist, she told me: The soul makes agreements
of our thinking: thoughts become things. In the film, Bob Proctor before we enter into this material plane. I remember agreeing I had
(credentials: philosopher) poses the question, Why do you think lessons to learn and suffering that abuse was one way to learn them.
that one percent of the population earns around 96 percent of all Its part of our duty here on earth.
the money? My response was: inheritance; slave labor; unfair tax
Her belief, sadly, is not uncommon. It is perhaps the most
laws; the chance of nation of origin; and an unequal playing field. disturbing kind of internalized oppression. After decades of battling
But apparently Im wrong. According to Proctor, its because they notions like its all in your head, dear and you shouldnt have worn
understand the secret, and now you are being introduced to the that dress and that little girl acted in a very seductive manner, we
secret. Nevermind the fact that much of the wealth of the top one have come to accept them as fact by wrapping them in a blanket
percent has been built on the backs of the
of pseudo-spirituality. What could have been a
poor. Unethical business practices didnt make
purely positive experience of adding concepts of
Joel
Osteen,
has the
banking executives rich; it was their ability to
power of thought and a loving, generous God
galvanized hundreds to a more complex system of belief that retains
manifest through the secret.
When the producer of The Secret, Rhonda
of
thousands
of the importance of community and working to
Byrne, was asked how such logic could apply
ensure that all of us on this spinning blue ball are
followers not on the sheltered, safe, and fed has instead become an
to something as horrific as the Holocaust,
she gave a disturbing answer about how
basis of justiceas oppressive force that re-establishes a dangerous
cultures of fear can manifest their own
paradigm that blames the victim and absolves
did the social gospel violent aggressors of any responsibility. Most
demise. Byrne insists, the frequency of
their thoughts matched the frequency of the
movementbut on the disturbingly, it releases us from any collective
event Thoughts of fear, separation, and
responsibility to name the adversary and work
supreme importance for change.
powerlessness, if persistent, can attract them
to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Its time for a new integration of spiritual and
of the individual and
(Surely this means that the United States, with
religious thought that does not rely on simplistic
materialism
one of the most fearful cultures on the planet,
absolutes and rampant narcissism. We must
will be razed to the ground shortly.)
embrace the positivity of these new movements
Right. So, in the world of prosperity gospel, we have no obligation while maintaining the call to activism of Dr. Kings social gospel.
to our communities because the spiritual life is devoid of anything Positive thinking and a loving God are important, but we cannot
outside of the self and the want of material gain. God no longer calls delude ourselves into thinking that women and children across
us to seek justice for our fellow humans; we need only turn to God the globe desire or are responsible for the unrelenting pain of the
to help us gain material riches. Got it.
poverty and violence that they endure. Nor can we dismiss our
For new thought adherents, Jews are responsible for the collective responsibility to ensure that all of humanity has a fair and
Holocaust and rapists are excellent at manifesting their desires decent chance of living a long, healthy life. v
while their victims arent actually victims but, rather, people who
have attracted the violence they endured due to their funky thought
patterns. Darfur? Culture of fear. Global poverty? These folks just
arent in tune with their ability to manifest. Slave trafficking? Some
really talented dudes able to manifest the worlds second largest
criminal industry because those trafficked deeply desire their fate.
If you want to gang-rape a child badly enough, the universe will set
what you need in motion to make it happen. Awesome!
Within both of these movements, the adversary is absent. The
quest for positivity is so strong, the desire to move from being
against something to being for something so intense, we are
absolved of any responsibility on a communal level but are ultimately
responsible for every harm and joy we may experience. Megalomania
abounds, giving absolute power to the individual with no regard to
Kitchen Medicine
Kitchen Medicine Basics:
Traditional Remedies for Today,
Part 1
This column is not intended to replace
the advice of a medical doctor. If you are
diabetic, have any type of metabolic disorder,
or have a history of food allergies, consult a
health professional before taking any of the
remedies listed here.
It has happened to all of us. We come down
with a common cold, cant get a good nights
sleep, or find ourselves getting motion
sickness on our daily commute. Wanting
quick relief, we head to the drug store for an
over-the-counter remedy. And while these
meds often resolve our symptoms, we are
often left with undesired side effects like an
upset stomach, drowsiness during the day, or
a nervous feeling.
Happily, traditional Chinese medicine
provides us with gentle, effective alternatives
that are easy to prepare and dont cause
problematic side effects. Even better, many
of the ingredients are things you probably
already have in your kitchen or can easily find
in your grocery store. Its easy to keep some
basic ingredients on handand that way, if
you find yourself or a friend unexpectedly
under the weather, you have some good
medicine at the ready. Here, in this first
edition of Kitchen Medicine, I discuss some
of the most useful kitchen medicinals.
Whenever possible, buy organic. Because
pesticides are sprayed directly onto and
absorbed through the surface of plantsand
can be present in the soilits especially
critical when using produce that has a thin
skin (like ginger root), when the surface
of the produce is the part youre cooking
with (as with orange peel), or when youre
using leaves (like mint). Getting an organic
certification can be expensive for farms, and
this is reflected in the price tag of lots of
certified-organic produce. Growing your own
produce is one budget-friendly way to ensure
youre eating organic without overspending;
another is building relationships with local
farmers who employ organic practices but
may not have obtained a formal organic
certification.
FRESH GINGER ROOT

Of all the food remedies
in the Chinese kitchen
pharmacopoeia, ginger
is the most commonly
used. This unassuminglooking rhizome can
be used to address an
amazing variety of symptoms. Boiled into a

strong tisane, cooked in a chicken soup, or
nibbled in candied form, it helps to suppress
coughs, prevent motion sickness, ease
headaches, and stimulate the appetite of
convalescents.
When choosing ginger, pick roots that are
fresh and have a high moisture content. The
skin of the ginger root wrinkles as the root
ages and dries, so look for roots with smooth
skin and a strong, spicy fragrance.
TANGERINE OR ORANGE PEEL

Tea made from citrus
peels can stop that
cough that lingers for
weeks after the rest of
your cold symptoms
have cleared up. It can
also relieve feelings of
tightness or stuffiness in the chest and help
to clear out chest congestion, making coughs
at once less frequent and more productive.
When you eat an orange or tangerine,
save the peel. If youre not going to use your
citrus peels within a day or so, preserve
them by drying. Just put your oven at a low
temperatureabout 170 degreesand
spread the peels out on a baking sheet. They
can be pulled from the oven after a few hours
or when they feel dry but not brittle. Stored
in an airtight container, the peels will keep
indefinitely.
FRESH MINT
A handful of mint cooks quickly into a tea that
soothes a sore throat,
eases depression, and
lifts that drained fatigue
we feel when weve
spent too long working
or playing under a hot
sun. When making
mint tea, simmer your mint for no more than
five minutes; if you do it for longer, the mint
loses its efficacy.
No matter where you live, chances are you
can grow mint yourself. Plant seeds in as large
a pot as possiblemint likes to rambleand
make sure its in a sunny spot. (Unless youre
prepared to exercise serious discipline over
your mint, growing it in a pot is recommended.
Mint can rapidly become invasive.)
HONEY
Besides making your medicine go down a
little more sweetly, honey is used in Chinese
by Lorelle Saxena
herbal medicine to soothe a dry cough,

benefit digestion, and treat constipation.
Some sufferers of pollen allergies report that
ingesting a little bit of local honey every day
has decreased the severity of their allergy
symptoms. Since honey contains small
amounts of pollen, its thought to help the
body gradually build up tolerance. If you are
thinking of trying this route, its essential to get
honey thats produced as close to your home
as possiblelook up your states beekeepers
association to find local producers.
SHORT-GRAIN WHITE RICE

This staple of the Asian kitchen gets a lot of
flack for being a refined grain, and its true
that white rice doesnt have the nutritional
density or fiber content of brown rice, its
whole-grain counterpart. However, its this
very lack of fiber that makes white rice easily
digestible, which makes it a perfect food
for someone suffering from gastrointestinal
distress.
A simple congeerice simmered with
water in a 1:8 ratio for a couple of hours
is an excellent food for someone starting
recovery from surgery or a long illness. More
ingredients can be gradually added as the
person gets stronger.
PEARS
Pears are an excellent source of fiber eaten
out of hand, but when theyre cooked into
a tea, they can also help with insomnia,
constipation, or a dry, hacking cough. The
absolute best pears to use for medicinal
purposes are Asian pears (Pyrus pyrifolia),
but any type of pear will work.
ROASTED BARLEY
Cooked into a tea and taken daily, roasted
barley can help to alleviate water retention,
clear up acne, and stop chronically recurring
sinus infections and diarrhea. You can
often find this in the tea section of your
supermarket; if you cant, try the Asian
foods section. Still no dice? Buy uncooked
barley and toast it in a dry pan over medium
heat for five to ten minutes or until it is dark
brown and smells rich and nutty.
Keep your kitchen stocked with these
basics, and youll be well-prepared for most
common ailments. In the next edition of
Kitchen Medicine, Ill discuss specific ways to
use these ingredients to treat colds, insomnia,
and many other maladies. v
nonprofit corner
Therapeutic Horsemanship of Hawaii
I was born loving horses. I dont know
what it is about them, but when I was
young enough to not have worries, horses
were the only thing on my mind. I had every
sort of horse gear available: books, models,
clothes. I would pretend to be a horse,
own a horse, and would ride anything even
vaguely horse like.
My parents didnt worry about my
obsession because they had observed this
love for horses not only in me but also in
other girls. Much to my dismay, they only
indulged my addiction to everything equine
on a cost-efficient basis. Lessons here and
there. Horse calendars for Christmas. A trail
ride on the family vacation. This limitation
did not lessen my fascination. But they
never would buy me a horse, no matter
how I begged.
My love for horses continued throughout
my life until a bizarre series of events led to
who I am today: the Executive Director of
a small nonprofit that helps girls like me
be around horses. I sit in my office with 15
horses outside and keep wondering what it
is exactly that brought me here. What is it
that fuels such a desire for horses in young
women?
The story seems the same no matter
how many times it plays out here; Im always
awestruck by my fortune to be a part of it.
The story begins when I get a phone call
from a mom of a child that is obsessed
with horses. The young girl will walk into
the barn, eyes huge, expression alternating
between awe and joy. Ill hear about the
trouble she gets into in school and her lack
of confidence.
Within a few weeks of spending time
with the herd, learning what secrets the
horses have to tell and telling them hers, out
emerges a lovely young lady, brimming with

confidence, riding her steed. Her muscles
develop, her skin tans. Grades improve. She
speaks up. She can tell you whats wrong
because shes already told her horse and
he didnt judge hernow she can tell the
world.
If these girls stay here with us, they tend
by Dana Vennen
Here they learn about life and death. A
new foal is born at the end of the field. One
of our old horses gets put down. They learn
that its okay to say good-bye. They learn to
deal with change.
Despite all my theories, I still dont know
how it all works. I just want everyone who
knows a young girl who needs our horses to
know that they are here. v
About THH
to stay out of trouble. Interest in boys is

second to their devotion to their favorite
horse. We find ways to keep them moving
forward, presenting new challenges and
watching them become strong and learn to
communicate.
Therapeutic Horsemanship of Hawaii (THH) has

been providing horsemanship and horseback
riding to a variety of populations in Hawaii since
1983. It is a NARHA Premier Accredited Center
that is trained to use horses as tools to improve
the minds and bodies of many kinds of riders,
including physically and mentally challenged
individuals. Instructors are trained and certified
to use horses to improve a riders strength,
balance, endurance, and gait as well as build
confidence and self-worth. Through the years,
the program has seen the benefits of therapeutic
horsemanship benefit virtually anyone who
has an interest in horses and has expanded its
programs to include not only physically and
mentally challenged but also able-bodied riders
and wounded members of the military. We even
have a popular program for moms and other
grownups. Many individuals have found another
type of therapy in becoming a volunteer at THH,
and the program depends heavily on the support
of the volunteer crew. THH offers riding lessons
daily, day camps for both adults and children,
and also group activities.
Get Involved: Call 808-342-9036
e-mail: dana@thhwaimanalo, or check out
www.thhwaimanalo.org
The Wellness Manifesto
Diet, Interrupted: An Exploration of Thinness,
Fatness, Self-Loathing, and an Elusive Entity Called Health

I am face-to-face with a glossy ad containing
an airbrushed and highly digitized supermodel
in poststomach flu form. She stares at me
through lovely but vacant kohl-rimmed eyes
and coyly whispers, What are you looking
at, fat ass? See my shit? Its flawless.
The modelat least her Photoshopped
versionis indeed flawless, and almost
reflexively, I notice my thighs are quadruple the
size of hers. Before this highly manufactured
piece of advertising imagery permeates my
subconscious and ultimately convinces me
that my cellulite is a medical emergency, I
imagine a team of bourgeois corporate suits
sitting around, wilily plotting the unraveling
of my psyche.
On second thought, maybe my thighs are
only double the size of hers.
ostfeminists would argue that we, as

women, have arrived. Indeed, on many
fronts, we have. Yet theres no questioning
the fact that society still sums up of the
value of a woman based on her appearance.
Thinnessor its present-day vernacular,
beautyis the iniquitous yardstick of worth
and success, the impervious gauge against
which every woman (and, increasingly, man)
is measured. You hold a Ph.D. in molecular
biophysics? Yawn. Youre fluent in eight
languages and you mentor at-risk youth?
Blank stare. Youve managed to fit back into
your size zero jeans, two weeks postpartum?
Youre a fucking rock star! Interestingly, over
the last thirty years, as social pressure to be
thin has steadily increased, so has the actual
body weight of our nation.
The increase in overweight and obesity
has been fueled by a complex interplay of
factors: environmental, social, economic,
behavioral, biological, and genetic. The health
consequences of overweight and obesity
should not be reduced, but its important
to note that underlying the issue of weight
are social mores and sanctions. Fatness,
for many people, rouses a set of deeply held
beliefs that transcend aesthetics and point
to a moral principle. Gluttony is, after all, a
cardinal sin, and since ancient times, dieting
has been viewed as a rite of purification.
Today, theres still an implicit assumption that
equates fatness with overconsumption and
being lazy, undisciplined, and unmotivated.
Diet Diatribe
The omnipresent fad diet has been the

commercial response to overweight. The
diet industry is a multibillion dollar empire,
engineered to generate false hope and exploit
our insecurities. At its core, the weight-loss
industry is less concerned with helping people
than it is with money, power, trends, politics,

and unattainable ideals. The obesity epidemic
has certainly served some well: food and diet
industries, pharmaceutical companies, and
federal agencies have all benefited from a
fatter society, yet what remains is an everincreasing disconnect between body weight
ideals and body weight realities.
Dieters (overweight and thin alike) are
often left beleaguered, frustrated, and
vulnerable, resulting in a vicious cycle of selfloathing and the consequent pursuit of the
next diet, the new liposuction technology, or
the latest breakthrough product. Inevitably,
its back to square one. As long as consumers
continue finding temporary solace in
commercial solutions, the diet world keeps
on turning. Ka-ching! We live in a shamelessly
image-obsessed culture and are saturated on
a minute-by-minute basis with images (some
transparent, some arguably compelling)
engineered to convince us that we are too
fat, too skinny, too plain, too old, too bald,
et cetera. Essentially, we lack whatever
corporate America is trying to hustle.
Heading my list of pet peeves are the diet
commercials in which depressed, miserablelooking women go from fat and frumpy to
fit and utterly fabulous in under two weeks.
Implicit in this message is that thinness is
happiness. The media tends to highlight,
almost exclusively, individual stories of
overweight: specific cases where fatness is
overcome by determination, will power, and
a shiny new diet. If the diet fails, however,
the onus is on youyour lack of will power
and your personal weakness. We are each
ultimately responsible for our health and our
bodies, but we must acknowledge the fact
that there are other forces at play.
Whose Ideal?
As women, our bodies have been vilified,

objectified, disregarded, and on rare occasion
when aligned with social prescriptionslauded
and celebrated. In an era of blatant and
unapologetic narcissism, we have learned to
judge ourselves against others and through
the eyes of others. We have learned to look
outside ourselves to discover who we are,
which creates the ideal environment for
promoters to capitalize on whats wrong with
us. We are constantly comparing ourselves
with others, and this appraisal ultimately
determines how we feel about ourselves: Oh,
Im much cuter than her = Ill be emotionally
stable for the next 2.5 hours. Its a perpetual
competition, without a victor.
But let me be clearI am a strong
proponent of a healthy lifestyle. What you
eat matters. Being active and managing
by Ivy Castellanos
stress matter. The media, government, and
well-intentioned health professionals urge us
to get healthy. But the point is, these messages
are falling upon ears deafened by judgment,
hypercriticism, false hope, and consequent
negative self-talk. How can any degree of health
be achieved or sustained when our attitudes
and beliefs about our bodies are constantly
manipulated, exploited, and undermined?
So why do we cling to a beauty ideal that
almost no one can achieve? If one-third of
our nation is overweight or obese, and a
majority of Americans struggle with their
weight, why havent we moved toward a
collective acceptance of larger bodies? The
thinness standard set forth by society is
decidedly unattainable. The origins of this
feminine ideal date back to the early 20th
century with the creation of the ubiquitous
Gibson girl, the cultural phenomenon that gave
rise to Americas first standardized model of
beauty. Interestingly, our Gibson girl prototype
wasnt even a real person. She was an
illustrationa fantasy brought to life by the pen
of artist Charles Dana Gibson. Each subsequent
American female archetype was comparatively
thinnerfrom the flappers of the 1920s to
Barbie with her anatomically impossible 3918-33 measurements to the slew of models,
actresses, and celebrities that have followed.
Dont Call It a Comeback

Its a Paradigm Shift
Its late Februarythe time of year when wellintentioned New Years resolutions typically
fade into oblivion. Weight loss is undoubtedly
one of the most ubiquitous resolutions and
(surprise!) the one least likely to be realized.
We live in an environment where it is easy
to negate health in favor of looking good.
However, we must take responsibility for
our bodies and cultivate lifestyles that allow
us to thrive. In our quest for total wellness,
we must first look inward and examine our
attitudes and beliefs about health and about
our bodies. When you look in the mirror, what
do you see versus whats really there? The
first step is to take inventory of insecurities,
weaknesses, and vices, taking time to reflect
on them and understand them. Discover what
factors play a role in your struggle with your
body and resolve to focus on your strengths
and assets. At the end of the day, we must
learn to judge our bodies for what they are,
not for what they arent.
Stay tuned for the next issue of Hawaii
Womens Journal as The Wellness Manifesto
continues its diet-bashing campaign and
presents a practical, clever, and decidedly
rebellious guide to appreciating your body. v
the domestic diva
the road to heaven is paved... with miso!

by Jennifer Dawn Rogers
I was twenty-three years old the first time I fell in love
Japan as early as the third century B.C.E., is a great source of

zinc, manganese, copper, vitamin B12, and protein. In animal
studies, its also been shown to protect against breast cancer,
which may explain why the breast cancer rate of first-generation
Japanese immigrants to Hawaii is sixty percent lower than that
of subsequent generations of Japanese born in Hawaii.
Not to be left out, black cod isnt a slacker in the health
department either. Also known as
sablefish or butterfish because
of its buttery texture, the fish is a
great source of protein as well as
fish oil and minerals such as iodine,
phosphorus, magnesium, copper,
iron, zinc, and calcium. Wild-caught
black cod from Alaska or British
Columbia is considered sustainable
(less so if it is from California, Oregon,
or Washington), meaning that fishing
it doesnt jeopardize future fish
populations or the function of the
affected ecosystem.
While traditional preparations of
this dish require at least a 24-hour
photo by Ryan Matsumoto
marinade, Ive broken the recipe
down to a simpler version that requires no marinade at all
by transforming the miso paste into a sauce. Ive also added
shiitake mushrooms, which imbue the dish with an earthy zest
that works brilliantly with this buttery, flakey fish. This recipe is
sure to impress at a dinner party but is also perfect for a quiet
night at home. Give it a try! I promise youll also fall in love at
first bite. v
Black Cod (Butterfish) with

Shiitake Mushrooms and Miso Sauce
Directions
with miso, that is! While I was fortunate enough to have met
my soul mate in high school, I wasnt so lucky when it came
to Japanese food. My native state of Virginia isnt exactly the
land of bonito flakes and tamari sauce; its more like the land
of picked pigs feet and everything deep fried. It wasnt until I
moved to Los Angeles to pursue my lifelong dream of being a
Hollywood minion of the lowest order
that I went on my first blind date with
a hunky piece of black cod smothered
in miso.
I can still remember it like it
was yesterday. The location of the
rendezvous? Famed Japanese Chef
Nobu Matsuhisas flagship Beverly
Hills restaurant. The impetus? My
unpaid intern, who inexplicably
always had more money than I did,
was horrified to learn that Id never
tasted Chef Matsuhisas famed cod
dish and insisted on treating me to
lunch. The first glimpse of my date?
A delicate slice of deeply caramelized,
oily fish presented simply on a white
plate. The first kiss? Heavenly! As soon as the fish passed my
lips, it flaked apart into a thousand and one stunning flavors,
from sweet to savory to umami.
It was love at first sight err bite! Thats why, for my
inaugural recipe, Im bringing you my take on black cod with miso
sauce. Not only is this recipe delicious, it also packs a healthy
punch. Miso, a fermented soybean paste that first originated in
Serves 2 people
Cooking time: 30 minutes
Ingredients
2 (4 oz.) fillets of black cod
1 cup fresh shiitake mushrooms
(or dried shiitake mushrooms,
soaked and reconstituted)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup mirin
1 tablespoon white miso paste
1 tablespoon tamari sauce
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced
1/2 teaspoon chili flakes
1. Set the oven to broil.

2. Rub the fish with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil.
3. Quickly broil the fish for about 56 minutes, depending
on thickness, until cooked through.
4. Meanwhile, cut the shiitake mushrooms into slices.
5. Heat the remaining olive oil in a small saut pan over
medium heat. Add the shiitake mushrooms and saut them
for a few minutes, until softened. Set aside.
6. To make the sauce, use the same saut pan, add the
ginger and chili flakes, and cook for one minute over
medium heat. Add the mirin and simmer for 2 minutes,
then add the miso paste and the tamari sauce and simmer
for another 5 minutes until the sauce thickens.
7. To serve, place a piece of fish on a plate and top it with
some of the mushrooms. Spoon the sauce over the dish.
Enjoy!

MATTIE
This is the shape love takes. I am going to see you again.
The trains take three hours each way, from my Brooklyn
apartment to your home in Jersey and back again, but the
journey is worth it. I have my routine now, arriving at Penn
Station in time to grab a coffee and the morning Times. I
choose a window seat. Once were out of the tunnel, New
York fades into Jersey, but my mind is already drifting toward
you. I have never felt this way before. Its both funny and
awful to think that. You know, you get to be certain ages
and you think youve felt it all, but youre wrong every time.
Remember that.
I sip at the coffee. I fiddle with my ponytail. I lay the
bundled newspaper across the aisle seat, and I wait. Were
at NewarkNewark International Airport, Newark now, next
stop North Elizabeth. I could work for New Jersey Transit, I
know the conductors spiel so well. Next up North Elizabeth,
Elizabeth, Linden, Rahway, Metropark, Metuchen, Edison,
New Brunswick, Jersey Avenue, and Princeton Junction.
After that, Hamilton. Youll be there, waiting, and I can give
everything I have to give.
Of course, you wont remember any of this. Youre only
a few weeks old. Your eyes dont focus yet, so these weeks
and my presence and most of the rest of it are a blur. All
you know is the soft chest against which you nestle and the
calming voice attached to it, a voice youve known as long as
youve been her missed period. I believe it, the tiny zygote
of you, a cluster of cells swimming through primordial goo,
you without ears or eardrums could still hear her. You know
this, her, and you know that otherrumpled shirt, stubbled
chin, the arms that fold you and the fond-foolish constant
touching. They are unable to believe you are here, you are
theirs, you livethey hold their own breaths to hear you
breathe.
She is mother and he is father, but youre many months
from having the words. Itll be years before you understand
who I am. Itll be years before I understand it either.
by Mayumi Shimose Poe

photo by Bianca Mills
HANA
She had never thought of them as anything but toys. They
had been apples, boobies, breastsesses, chichis, fun bags,
knobs, maracas, peaks, pompoms, second base, tatas, the
twins, titties, umlauts, and yayas. But now they were teats.
Udders. Mammaries. Now they werewell, what were
they but food containers, like Ziploc bags but without the
patented watertight seal. All it took was a cry of a certain
pitchfrom any infantand she could feel the colostrum
soaking into her nursing pads, making her grasp at herself
in public to check for leaks. Hana had taken to wearing only
patterned clothing to camouflage her inability to predict a
sudden downpour. But this time, it was her babys cry that
engorged her breasts full to aching, and she was at home.
She was able to settle down onto the couch, whipping up her
old shirt with one hand and tucking her son close to her left
teat with the other. His mouth was intent on her, a gaping
red maw, although he missed at first, gumming her breasts
undercurve before she took his neck in her firm grasp.
And when she wasnt obsessing about the overheavy
breasts or her chapped and aching nipples, she was hating
the rolls of flesh of her now body, all warm and risen from
the oven of her womb. The noticing was inescapable because
she has nothing to do but sit here, emptying first this breast,
then the other. She saw it all splayed before her, a cornucopia
of excess. Her thighs were once so thin they actually bowed
away from each other, but now as she sat, they did too, like
twin plumped loaves; when she walked, the way they brushed
constantly against each other made her want to check for a
trail of crumbs. Next, there were her arms, what she used to
call mommyarms in an unkind tone of voice when it hadnt
been her own flesh that jiggled off her torso, as beside the
point as wings on a chicken when faced with the size of the
breast. She couldnt understand how she could possibly have
mommyarms when she was lifting things all day, every day,
things like a baby and groceries and diaper bags and baskets
full of laundry ripe for the washing.
Then there was her face, the way the lines had curved and
softened, the jawline less defined, the sunken cheeks filled,
even her lips felt fat. Her once-oval face was now as round
and porcine as morning bao, its richness and meaty quality
perfect alongside a strong cup of oolong. It was as if, over the
last nine months, she had managed to produce not one but
two new bodies, one a miracle and one less so.
The baby squirmed in her arms almost angrily, pulling her
nipple with him as he detached himself. Fuck! said Hana,
then sorry, sorry, you didnt hear that, as she cradled him
with one hand and pressed the other, a flat palm, to her ache.
He sounded a pterodactyl cry, as if he were on the hunt, then
attached fiercely to her bicep. And she just let him suck. After
a few moments, though, she pulled up the other side of her
shirt, switched him to the other arm, and began coaxing him
close. Cmon, I know youre hungry. You barely ate. Except
when you nearly took off my nipple and chewed on my arm.
Cmon, Tommy. Take it. His head bobbled like a doll, as his
unfocused eyes moved in the direction of her nipple to her
eyes to the green ottoman to the window back to her nipple
again. Then back to her eyes. Be a good boy, Tommy, she
said, jostling him, and eat your freakin breakfast. And then
there it was, a smacking of lips closing on her, the slippery
inside of her sons mouth, the pinch of milk starting to flow.
She sighed and tried to wiggle the pillow behind her into a
better position without unhinging his mouth. It really was no
wonder that every way she saw her body now was as food.
And not even in the good waysnot apple-bruise hair; not
cherried lip; no look in the mirror prompted an involuntary,
yet audible, Hello, delicious, paired with a satisfied curve of
lip. As once it would have done. Now she was all yeast and
grain, vitamin and fiber. She felt like a vending machine of
necessity.
Hana checked her watch. She mustnt lose track of the
time. Mattie was coming today, and days went more smoothly
with Mattie around. But she still had time, so she placed her
bare feet up on the coffee table and tried to relax. The tugging
at her nipple was insistent and steady. There were slurping
noises. She found all of this distasteful. A mother who doesnt
want to be one, she thinks. How fucking original. There had
been that woman down in Houston, Andrea Something,
drowned her five kids in the bathtub, she recalled. Taking it a
huge, gaping step further, there was that San Antonio mother
who actually ate her babys brain, and three of his toes, and
some other unspecified parts in a crime the police dubbed
too heinous to describe further. Hana completely agreed
with their assessment but couldnt help but wonder: ingesting
the brain seemed somewhat logicalin an illogical kind of
worldlike the account Mattie had told her about, just the
other week, of the indigenous cannibals of New Guinea whod
ingest dead tribesmembers brains as a sign of respect. But
why the toes? And then why only three of the toes? And what
were those other parts that couldnt be specified? And, finally,
what the heck was in the drinking water down in Texas? Hana
thought of these parents, so disturbed, quite literally outside
of their minds, and yet all people could think to ask is why, if
they were so depressed, they didnt just kill themselves. To be
fair, thought Hana, people were missing the point entirely. The
point was not needing to end ones life but, rather, to be given
a different oneor, in good probability, merely to recover the
one you had before.
But oh, god, what was she going on about? Too heinous to
describe further just about covered it. Hana pressed fingers
to her temple as if to massage away such thoughts. She wasnt
interested in any of this, didnt sit around contemplating the
death of her child. She smoothed the wispy top of Tommys
head. But it was like she couldnt help it. It was all over the
news, and god forbid she do anything as stupid as Google
mother kills child because of the rash of results that popped
up in consequence. She wasnt interested in these cases; or
maybe she was, but morbidly so, obsessed with the horrific
details because she wondered how one got to that point.
Tommy detached himself again, more gently this time, and
turned the steel of his gaze up at her. She wondered for a brief,
horrible moment if he could hear her thoughts. There had
been a time not too long ago that they had been connected
in the most deep, intuitive waya way only ever shared by a
child and its mother. But now he was scanning the room and
now he was drooling. He didnt seem particularly upset. Hana
covered herself up and slung him up toward her shoulder,
patting at his back with a cupped hand. Small noises caught in
his chest as she thumped away at him, but he wasnt burping.
He didnt seem fussy, so she settled him into the spoon of
her, so he could face outward. Together, they gazed out the
window.
Hana imagined that she was outside, striding up the walk
and past the porch swing and looking in, and tried to see what
that version of herself would see. The room is dim, a single
lamp in the corner lights it, but it beams onto a young woman
with an infant on her lap. Her feet are up. The TV is off. The
baby cannot hold up his own head. His hair is coming in slowly,
but his eyebrows are already thick and wild. The Hana in the
room peers over Tommys head and uses a spit-wet pointer to
smooth each wayward brow. It is a tender scene that the self
on the porch observes.
Then again, Hana remembers all those mothers in the
news were described as mild, even non-descript, and then
one day some synapse does or doesnt fire, some thread is
snapped, and the boundary between being in ones right
mind and ones wrong mind is revealed to be mere filigree.
Was it all post-partum depression? And if so, why did the
body and mind disconnect so abruptly at just the emptying
of a womb? Or was it something more sinister, that these
individuals, or even all individuals, carried around in them a
whisper of violence, the possibility looming silent and large,
like a secret identity, like Clark Kent whipping off his stupid
glasses to reveal superhuman and unsurpassable capabilities,
answerable only to Kryptonite? What mild mothers were
capable of terrified her.
Besides it wasnt that she didnt love her son. She did,
but she never knew how complicated love was. That you
could feel brisk in its grasp. She was not one of those women
who had ever melted at the sight of a babys face. And now,
presented with her own, she did not coo or bill at him; she
made no noise shed be embarrassed to make if no baby were
present. She did not search his body for signs of herself or
Jimmy. No, she perched the baby on a hip, she slung him in a
sling, she belted him into seat after seat, and in this she could
be grateful: even she, impatient with it all, could see that he
was a good baby.
MATTIE
Elizabeth, Elizabeth now. Eight stops to go. Cars starting to fill up,
so I am careful not to meet the eyes of the people seeking seats.
When they pass, I encourage my sprawl: coffee cup, rifled-through
Times, bottle of water, proofs, red pensI lay it all out on the seat
next to me. I take up the front section of the paper and begin
to page through the headlines, hiding behind its large spread.
President-elect Obama on clear-air technology. Violence in the
Congo. Somali piratesnow theres a thing I cant wrap my head
around, real live pirates, today. I swig at the coffee, which is going
lukewarm. Citigroup to lay off employees. Detroit auto industry
seeking government bailout. God, this stuff is depressing.
I do let them pay me. Just a little, mind you, and barely enough
to cover what I spend on train tickets, coming and going three
days a week, and ingredients for the meals I make and freeze
into individual servings so that Hana doesnt have to cook. So,
yes, I let them give a little, because I understand the importance
of appearances. Its important to Jimmy that they dont appear
to be a charity case, just as its important to me to appear to be
offering a service, rather than the entire pulp of my heart. Whats
important to Hana? I dont know, even though I grew up alongside
her and have been in love with her about that long, too.
Glancing up, I read the platforms sign as we pull out: Rahway
Station. So, Metropark next. I mull it over, decide to take a stab at
what matters to Hana. Once, I would have said being beautiful
for this was Hana as a girl, Japanese anime girl hair and glossed
lips and clothes that pointed out her tiny figure, and in that vision I
see dull, plain me following her about, a moth to light. Later, what
mattered would have been achievement. Shed been headed
for a marketing career in the beauty industry; I was off to the
wilds of anthropology; but there was one math class in which we
overlapped while at college, Trend Analysis, the one for which she
had an uncanny intuition. The one where shed met Jimmy. Then I
suppose Id be forced to say that he was what matteredbecause
she gave up everything. And my god, remembering that time is
still like a knife to my gut: watching her become hisand, worse,
watching it not make her happy like she thought it would. After
that, she came to value privacyturned inward, started writing
in her ever-present notebooks, said she was learning to be alone
without being lonely. She pulled away even from me. I think now
its love that mattersjust love of a different kind. Hana has her
son now, her beautiful boy; she cant possibly still feel lonely, for
now shes never alone.
But thats the reason I gowell, part of it, anyway. I dont want
Hana to feel alone. She never has been; Ive always hovered near.
I go, and we put away groceries and gather laundry and she asks
me whats what in anthropology these days. Just two days ago
I had come out; we went to the Farmers Market and I held the
baby while she shopped. Tommy leaned against my chest in his
carrier, so his eyes were on me the whole time. I gazed back at him
and we moved so slow down that dairy aisle that it seemed thirty
minutes passed between eggs and ice cream. Each time I saw
Tommy, it seemed that he had changed again. I wanted to sit and
just watch it all happen: the caterpillar closing into a chrysalis and
then emerging, its veins filling with blood and pumping the wings
hard with strength, the tentative first flight, then the soaring.
Hana was I dont know where, in the canned-food aisle or
maybe amongst the produce. We were planning that afternoon to
make Bolognese from scratch. What a gorgeous child you have,
an older couple murmured, stopping our slow progress, wanting
to stroke the peachy fuzz of his head. And there I was, next to the
milk, stammering that Tommy wasnt mine, exactly. Hana chose
that moment to materialize next to the cart, depositing in canned

tomatoes, fresh herbs, and a Styrofoam slab of ground meat.
Hes not giving you any trouble, is he, sweets? she asked, using
her pet name for me, ignoring the older couple. She circled her
arms around me, resting the point of her chin on my shoulder,
and reached up to ruffle Tommys hair before exclaiming, Oh,
motherfucker, I forgot the damned pasta. She whirled off while
the older couple stared. Im not sure if they were more appalled
by the idea of us three as a family or Hanas ferocious mouth, but
without another word, they left. Hana wasnt there to hear me
lie to the next woman who stopped me, wanting a better look
at Tommy. She didnt see me claim him as minebecause it was
easier; because I wanted it to be true.
The doors chime a warning, then close, and the train begins to
leave Metuchen Station. A voice startles me, booming as it does
into the relative silence of the car. A-l-l-y-s-o-n? Id never name
a child with a misspelling like that. The woman in the aisle has a
thick Jersey Italian accent. Are you kidding me? Her companion
is male and quiet compared to the woman. I wish theyd keep their
voices down or move to another car, but they pick the seats across
the aisle from me, a coveted four-seater, the two pairs facing each
other.
Rex? suggests the man.
No. Just no. Thats a dogs name. The man actually slaps his knee
as they laugha caricature of how to react to funny.
What else, says the woman, what else?
Monique?
Ex-cuuu-say-mwa, were not French, are we? I dont think so.
The woman laughs hard enough for both of them. And as for
Micaela? says the woman. I dont even know what language
that is. What is that, its just Michael, isnt it? Its a girl version
of Michael? Why dont you just name her Lesbo and get it over
with?
There is a cascade of giggles from both, despite the fact that
what she has said lacks any logic. How does giving a boy name
to a girl, or vice versa, determine their sexuality? Does she really
believe there is that much power in a word? Am I being overly
sensitive or are they glancing at me between giggles? Do I look
like I have a boy name? I take inventoryponytailed long hair:
femme; jeans and a henley: tomboyish, maybe, but certainly not
butch; no makeup: but thats because I like to look fresh faced.
Anyway, I dont have a boy name; my full name is Matilda. Am I
being paranoid?
I prop myself again behind the paper, trying to tune them out.
Jimmy thinks I come for the money. Hana thinks I come because
Im a good friend. I tell them, why do I work from home if I cannot
help outand put a few more bucks in your wallet, Jimmy
assures us all, winking. Yeah, I answer. A few more bucks.
What nobody sees is that I show up for me. That all of this is like
playing house, like pretending to belong. I come because Hana
is everything her name implies: Arabic bliss; a Japanese flower;
the Czech conception of Gods graciousness; the Hebrew notion
of favor; and the Hawaiian word for work.
And, of course, I come for you, Tommy, our son. Thats how Ive
come to see youas all of ours. You are always Hanas. You are Jimmys
when he comes home from work and a silent Hana passes you to him
and leaves the room. But you are mine, too, baby, and I can love you out
loud as I cannot your mother. I can stroke your head, exclaim over your
thick fan of dark lashes, study the sharp little nails on all ten fingers, all
ten toes. I can look for where Hana begins and where Jimmy ends
find the places where you are neither her nor him but only you. I can
kiss your fat cheeks till your dimples appear, your round tummy till your
fists flail, and your small and perfect feet till your toes start to curl.
I crumple the empty coffee cup. Edison now. New Brunswick, next.
HANA
She knew she had to get going but she couldnt hear herself think.
He just kept crying. What time was Matties train coming in, and did
she need to change the baby first? Could she afford not to, when hed
been making very concentrated faces ever since he finished feeding
and there seemed to be a sour odor coming from his general direction,
where he wailed his healthy pink lungs out in the carrier next to the
couch? She had put him down in the chair so she could stretch every
limb out and across that couch and finish her cup of rooibos tea. Herbal
tea was bullshit; it tricked neither her mind nor body into accepting it
as replacement for caffeine; but she was shivering and
she had wanted something to warm her up. By now,
the tea had long gone cold, but the microwave in the
kitchen seemed a marathon away.
Hana gave up on the tea and scooped Tommy up
from the chair. Though she found it distasteful, she
sniffed at his diaper. She couldnt be sure. Maybe
he needed to be burped, maybe that was it. She
maneuvered him over her left shoulder again, trying
to anchor a burp cloth in place with one hand. She
cupped her hand and thudded up and down his back,
and all she could hear was the small, hiccupy, sobbing
breaths he took in between larger swaths of sound. Perhaps he wasnt
gassy; perhaps it really was the diaper. She probably should just change
him, but that might upset him further. The air itself smelled a little
sour, a little saccharine, like what else but spilled milk left sitting too
long and then wiped up with the nearest cloth-like item: a burp cloth,
an orphaned infant sock, a mothers shirt. The laundry piled itself in
various rooms, as if conspiring behind her back. The baby was crying,
yes, but where were the car keys, her bra, a hairbrush? She was running
late. She was forever running late now. Nine-eleven was the train, she
remembered now, nine-eleven, a number one always remembered.
She had to get going, or she had to make him stop, or she had to reach
the right position on this couch such that she no longer saw or heard
him or had to think about where she was and what she should be
doing. Maybe she should try meditation. Zen stuff. Emptying the mind.
Might be good for her. Or might be impossible. He couldnt possibly still
be hungry, could he? She could feed him again, but how could he be
hungry? It had only been twenty minutes. Thirty at most, she thought
but wasnt sure.
Shed heard that the sound of a baby crying was a form of
torture in some countries. Theyd pipe itlike music, like airborne
diseasestraight into the cells. Just hour upon hour of a baby wailing,
inconsolable, like it had been left alone, or was scared, or was being
hurt. A cry without an answering shush. No rush of adult feet down a
hallway. And no baby that anyone could see or help. It was enough to
make hardened criminals break.
Hana wondered, though. It seemed worse to be looking right at
himthe wail, embodiedand see that he wasnt, in fact, left alone,
scared, or being hurt and still not know how to just make him stop.
MATTIE
My loud neighbors get off Jersey Avenue, thank god. With only two
stops left, I turn to the Science and Technology section. NASA seeks
possible new planet in solar system. Scientists discover new method
of erasing memories without using drugs. Sulphur dioxide plume of
Ethiopian volcano travels halfway around world to dissipate over the
Pacific. Im intrigued by this last article, until I see the photo of four
corpses being unearthedwhich of course reminds me that I havent
gotten any of my work done. I feel bad, but I quiet myself with the
promise to proofread on the ride home. For now, though, I am drawn
into this story. The corresponding article is about how archaeologists
have recently uncovered a new cache of Paleolithic graves. Back in
college, I majored in archaeology because I saw it as a mystery that
could be solved. You dug through the past and then used your most
objective reasoning to interpret it. Things checked out: DNA confirmed
that we descended from primates. A copper headdress found in a
grave revealed the date of interment and provenance of the headdress
based on trade patterns of copper in the region. And so forth. There
was a tidiness to the logic. I still deal in tidiness, but now its the dotting
of is and the crossing of ts. Proofreading is pouring meaning into a
particular template, making it fit, but I miss the mystery of science.
There is no magic of interpretation to commas or style
or grammar.
It seems Grave 99 is the one scientists and the
media are interested in, taking that familiar matrix
of adult male corpse, adult female corpse, and two
skeletal youths. Buried in Each Others Arms,
proclaims the headline. Scientists discover remains
of worlds most ancient nuclear family. But what of
Grave 90, with its single adult female and small child?
And Grave 93, with its adult male and two related
children? And what, finally, to make of Grave 98, with
its adult female and three unrelated youth? These
graves merit only a single sentence, clauses separated by semicolons,
a dutiful listing of contents before returning to the meat of the matter:
Proof! Of the nuclear family! Goes back to the Paleolithic!! I page forward
and back to the pages around the article, hoping for a continued on
or a sidebar at the very least. There is nothing. There is absolutely no
speculation on whether those other graves formed variations of what
constituted a family.
As we pull out of Princeton Junction, I wonder: Who is to say we
even have the equipment to discern what these graves could mean?
Can science discover irrefutable evidence of the nature of family? Can
an equation mathematically prove what shape it should take?
Mayumi
Shimose Poe
HANA
Hana sat in the parking lot of the train station. The baby was sleeping
in the back, probably having cried himself out earlier, and all she could
hear were the slight sounds of him sucking at his pacifier. She could
almost pretend he didnt exist.
She could be a very different kind of woman living a very different
kind of life. Perhaps she was a successful businesswoman who had
bought a second home in the country so that when she could, she
slipped the confines of her city life, indulging her longing for nature and
open space and stars in the night sky, for miles on the highway flanked
only by these trees, bursting like fireworks of fading autumn leaves.
Or maybe she was a much-beloved novelist, whose sheer naked talent
somehow excusedeven explainedher reclusiveness, as if the two
facts about her were in direct proportion, linked quantities, and as one
shifted, so must the other.
Or maybe she was a wife fresh from the altar, such a very young
woman, still unaware of how hard it will all be, being a wife, being
just a wife, keeping all those vows and expected to have no more
secrets. She was any of these women, and each of them, and sitting
in the short-term parking lot waiting for the train to arrive. Perhaps
it was time to return to her apartment in the financial district before
work on MondayMonday, this she would sigh in despair. Or maybe
she had to make her annual and detested few public appearances
to promote her newest book, doorstoppingly thick with brilliance.
Or it could be that she was meeting her young husband for
a date in the city, that being their job right now, everyone
had said so, this was the time for fattening their love on
these rich first few years, wining and dining that love
and escorting it out to Broadway musicals and exhibits of
strange art both would be too embarrassed to admit they
didnt understand.
hes sleeping. Hes fine.

Hana. Honey. I was just kidding. I hug her, and she lets me.
When I let go, Hana starts up the ignition and rolls slowly through
the parking lot. I am belted in, but I turn to look back at Tommy,
while Hana keeps her eyes on the road. His pacifier has fallen to the
side of his car seat, and sweet drool crusts a path down his right
cheek. I lick my thumb and use it to wipe the whiteness away. His
mouth puckers and unpuckers and those long lashes flutter, but
after a big sigh shudders through his chest, he is back to soundly
sleeping. I cant help the smile that breaks across my
face. Those lashes, that pout of lips, that sigh, these are
things I have loved about Hana, but they are somehow
even more precious in miniature on this boy. We roll up
to the longest stop light in all of New Jerseyweve sat
at enough of them, all around the state, to believe this
and wait.
How will they one day interpret us, I wonder. It could
happen in seconds. I could be sitting here in this passenger
seat, gazing back at the baby, while Hana keeps her eyes
on the road. The light could hold red, and hold red, and
hold red, and as our attention wanders, it would come to
rest on a secret stratovolcano of central New Jersey, one
that had successfully passed as a mountain for so many
years that people forgot it was only dormant, not defunct. And
today, it would show how it wasnt sleeping at all; it was capable of
real violence, spewing forth a cloud of ash and pumice that would
spread like a blanket over us, fossilizing this day exactly as it was.
Pompeii, New Jersey. But the volcano could only reach so far, so life
outside this area would go on and someday someone would dig us
up. Our bones would long be bleached dry in their sarcophagus of
ash and perhaps when exposed to air they would crumble, but I am
sure my marrow would still be thick with love. v
The
But the baby stirs.
Shape
Love
Takes
MATTIE
Hana is waiting when I arrive. I see the car and wave, but
she sits, her head straight forward, near motionless. The
car is off, and there are no sounds coming from within. For
no reason I can put a finger on, the whole thing spooks me, and I
speed my steps to the car. When I open the car door, Hana startles.
Geezus, you fucking scared me, she says.
Hana dear, were going to have to clean your mouth out with
soap before Tommys first word is a swear word, I say. Anyway.
Whatwere you dozing off on the job? I place my tote bags and
the small cooler of food at my feet.
Hana replies, Spacing out, I guess. Her voice is soft and wispy,
as if waking from a dream. Her tone sharpens as she adds, Anyway,
My first platonic friend
was a new kid

to my high school named Nick. Nick
was taller than any of the other guys at my
school, and he could quote The Simpsons
for hours and play Blackbird on the guitar.
I, meanwhile, had covered every square inch
of wall space in my room with retro Beatles
posters and magazine clippings. Naturally, I
had a life-threatening crush on Nick.
Nick liked the attention and actually liked
me, too. But I had too much acne and too little
social standing to interest him romantically. His
MO was to call me to chat about his troubles
with the various girls at our schoolgirls
who liked bands in which all the members
were still alive, girls who didnt wear bulky
cardigan sweaters that hung to their knees in
a vain attempt to camouflage the Nebraska-like
quality of their chests. It was worth the subtle
sting of romantic rejection just to get to talk to
him.
Somehow, even back then, I figured out that
it wasnt in the cards for Nick and me. He was
too blithe and uncomplicated and I was too
conflicted and dark for us to ever make it as a
couple. Plus, he just didnt like me that way. I got

over my crush, and we never discussed it. Since
it wasnt Dawsons Creek, nobody had to make
a dramatic speech about their True Feelings
so that we could have a Very Special Episode.
We coexisted as friends, laughing our heads
off at Comic Book Guy and Ralph Wiggum and
ignoring the occasional, vague undercurrent
of sexual tension. Really. We took swing dance
lessons together because both of us secretly
loved World War II movies, but apart from the
lessons, we never so much as held hands. I
was preoccupied with figuring out how much
of a Prozac queen I wanted to be, and he was
enmeshed in an on-again, off-again relationship
with a girl who had a sunnier disposition than
me and way, way bigger boobs.
Im still friends with Nick. (Hes married now.)
We chat on the phone every now and then; its
a healthy, stable relationship that is fine the
way it is. Nick may have been my first platonic
friend, but he wasnt the last. Since then, Ive
had at least a dozen close male friends who, for
whatever reason, werent appropriate boyfriend
or husband material. Im a serial platonic friend.
Chris Rock said that every platonic friend he

has is some woman he was trying to get into
bed, but he made a wrong turn somewhere
and ended up in the Friend Zone. Most of my
platonic friends fall into the same category
almost all of them did start off as potential
boyfriends. But the friendship zone isnt a
wrong turn, a booby-but-no-boobies prize of
love. The friendship zone is a very special place.
The friendship zone is where mature men and
women recognize that love doesnt really
overcome all obstacles. The friendship zone
is for men and women who care about and
appreciate each other but who also recognize
their irreconcilable differences before
exchanging sweet nothings and bodily fluids.
The friendship zone is for men and women who
know that no matter what popular culture has
to say about sex and our entitlement to it, it is a
profoundly emotional experience with strong,
irrevocable implications to relationships. Well,
maybe not to everyone. Im fine with people
who can have sex without caring or without
caring as much as I do. All Im saying is that I
cant do it.
There are some men who are wonderful but

who you shouldnt have sex with. Ever. But who
says you cant be friends? I know, I know: Harry
(of When Harry Met Sally) says the sex part
always gets in the way. The following guide is
what Sally should have had all along. If you want
to stay platonic friends without the sex part
getting in the way, I encourage abiding by these
guidelines:
1. Go Slow.
Romantic relationships arent built in a day, and

neither are platonic friendships. Before youve
spent some serious time with a man, hes not
a real person. Hes a romantic archetypethe
answer to all your dreams and hopes. Do not fall
for this. That knight in shining armor is a human
being, just like you, and its a bad idea to make
out with him before you know his flaws and he
knows yours. The key to building good platonic
friendships is waiting and seeing. I find that
the success of a platonic friendship is inversely
proportional to the amount of physical passion
you allowed yourselves to have prior to figuring
out that a romantic relationship was not your
destiny.
2. Assess Deal Breakers.
Be honest with yourself about a mans deal

breakers. Do not gloss over them. This doesnt
mean you should agonize over superficial
differences. My own deal breakers in men
have nothing to do with income or physical
appearance. Im looking for traits that I know
would cause heartache and disaster down the
line if I were involved in a romantic relationship
with him. Is he a womanizer? Does he have a
radically different attitude about money? Is he
fixated on doing things that I have no interest in,
such as spending large quantities of time in bars?
How does he feel about meis he emotionally
available? (This is a huge one: if a guy just isnt
that into you, no matter how perfect he is on
every other front, its a deal breaker.)
3. Dont Go Overboard
with the Sexual Fantasies.
Its okay to have sexual thoughts, dreams, or

fantasies about a platonic friend, but theres no
point in taking those thoughts seriously. If youre
spending time with someone who you like being
around, you find that person attractive, and
that person is in your basic age demographic,
its normal that you're going to have thoughts
of sex. Whatever you do, DO NOT tell the friend
that you are having these fantasies. As the
person turns from a romantic archetype into
a real person, the thoughts will dissipate. In
the meantime, let the thoughts come and go
and see them for what they are: your bodys
biological reaction to the proximity of a person
with whom you could mate. You are a human
being, and you have the ability to override your
biological urges for the sake of having a stable,
viable friendship with another human being.
And, while were on the subject, do not allow
the platonic friend into your apartment until
you stop having sexual thoughts about him. For

me, that usually takes about two months. Use
the same rule to determine when you can spend
time in the platonic friends apartment.
I dont allow bashing sessions of girlfriends. Its

disrespectful towards the woman hes dating.
Shes number one in his life, not me. If he calls
her his girlfriend, thats my cue to back off.
4. Secret Not-Lovers.
8. PJs = Sexual Thoughts.
Eventually, you will probably have to have a

conversation about the fact that the two of
you are going to be friends, not lovers. In that
conversation, it is a good idea to intentionally
outline physical boundaries. I dont touch my
platonic friends. Not any touching. No excuses.
Never. No social hugging, no hand on the arm, no
playful wrestlingnothing. Im too passionate to
get away with platonic touching. Not everyone
needs to be this much of a nun, but be realistic
about your limits. Not all men are going to be
able to handle boundaries. Some men just dont
make good platonic friends. They dont see any
point in having a relationship with a woman
that doesnt involve at least the potential for
sex. There are women who cant get into the
platonic friend thing, either. Thats okay. Just as
polyamory, marriage, bondage, and the whole
gamut of sexual fetishes arent for everyone,
neither is a sexless friendship with the opposite
sex. (By the way, it is possible for a man to accept
a sexless friendship with a woman hes attracted
to without it meaning that he is gay.)
5. Split the Check.
Do not let him pay for you, and dont pay for
him. You can buy each other gifts for birthdays
and holidays, but these should be small and
impersonal. Theres a blurring of the lines
when he pays for you. It feels more like a real
date. Thats just what you dont want. Splitting
the check quenches romance. The check
negotiationwhos going to throw in cash?
whos going to use the credit card?is a horribly
distasteful dose of reality, just like bringing up
condoms in the middle of a hot-and-heavy
makeout session. Even if you were having sexual
thoughts, youre not anymore.
6. Remember Why Youre Not Together.
Because there is a good possibility that there

may be periodic, underlying tension in the
relationship (Youre so great! Why was it, again,
that we can't be together?), I find it advisable to
make a detailed list of the persons deal-breaker
qualities and read it to myself at regular intervals.
Keep an eye out for those incompatibilities when
you are hanging out with the person, and let
your imagination linger over their implications
in a dating relationship or in marriage. Remind
yourself: Man, am I glad Im not signing up
to have sex and thereby form an ill-advised
emotional attachment to THAT. Nope, I get to go
home and do whatever I want! Woo hoo!
7. Take the #2 Slot.
If you or your platonic friend starts seeing

someone seriously, your roles in each others
lives should decrease dramatically. I will not allow
my platonic friends to discuss their girlfriends
with me, except very superficially and positively.
Under no circumstances should you stay

overnight at the platonic friends apartment,
even if you have been friends for years and have
gotten to the point where its safe to hang out at
each others homes. I always get a hotel room
if Im going to visit a platonic friend who lives in
another city. Theres just something too intimate
about seeing someone in their pajamas.
9. The Friend Breakup.
If it has been a long time, and youre still having

sexual dreams about the person, and you talk
about him to your friends and family constantly,
and you start referring to him as your fake
boyfriend, you have to come to terms with the
fact that youre falling in actual love with him. Its
no longer that shiny lust that accompanies the
beginning of most male/female relationships.
At this point you have to take inventory. Are the
incompatibilities still there? Every time this has
happened to me, Ive had to have a friendship
breakup. I did not want to date the person, but
if I stayed friends with him, I would never want
to date anyone else. So that was it. No calling, no
e-mailing, no nothing. Done.
10. Mix It Up.
Make sure you have other friends. And a life.

Female friends and married couple friends are
important. Even when my platonic male friends
are dominating my social calendar, I still have
lots of other things going on. That way, if the
friendship breakup has to happen, it isnt as
hard.
Theres just one rule left. The golden, much
coveted rule number 11 is one I havent
experienced yet, but I havent given up hope.
Its the When Harry Met Sally rule, in which the
platonic friend evolves past his verboten status
and becomes a friend who isnt so platonic after
all. In my opinion, this can happen successfully
if and only if the deal breakers have been
resolved. In that case, congratulations! If not,
dont be discouraged. All of my platonic friends
have brought richness and flavor to my life that
I treasure, despite the fact that we couldnt be
together romantically. Im so glad to know them,
but Im also glad that I havent made a bad
match out of sexual indiscretion and the fear of
being alone.
The truth about this guide is that it proposes a
different script to dating than the one our current
hook-up culture offers. It isnt for everyone.
However, delaying sex in favor of building a
strong, stable relationship with a man that is
based on mutual affection and respect instead
of romantic excitement and hormones is good
advice for women in romantic relationships as
well as platonic ones. v
photo by Jasmine Joy
Going Places
Pinay Sabbatical
This is our place of humble beginnings, my

apu (grandma) says to me as we walk through
the property where her children grew up. It
took me 27 years to get to the Philippines. I
was apus first born grandchild in America.
The stories I was raised on about Mabalacat,
Pampanga of Luzon, were haunting,
superstitious fables. Now, as a grown woman,
I am experiencing the reality of my family tree
and the roots of its native origin.
In the middle of the courtyard, there is
a homemade basketball rim with a tattered
net barely hanging on to a beaten backboard.
While my apu points at each house explaining
our heritage, I am greeted by an auburncolored rooster tied up alongside one of the
cement walls. His opponent, with golden
highlights and a green tail end, responds
with a louder cock-a-doodle-doo. I mention
the word cockfightand my uncles do
not hesitate. They release the birds. Long
colorful feathers around their necks extend
outward to form manes, flaring with their
dainty movement. They shuffle back and
forth almost beak to beak before one of them
starts to violently flap his wings in defense. My
apu calls it off when the necking and clawing
begins. She thinks I am crazy for initiating
such madness, but she smiles and says: This
is where your mom and aunties played.
I stay within the barrios of my familys
hometown during the initial days of my
visit. Family members I have never met
By Jasmine Joy
before are shocked when they hear me
fluently communicate in our native dialect,
Kapampangan. My understanding of our
culture and the respect I have for it was
embedded in my spirit before I could speak
any language. As a child brought up in
southern California with traditional Filipino
values, I never packed an all-American peanut
butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. I was not
ashamed to bring a tiny Tupperware filled
with my favorite chicken adobo leftovers
and have my classmates stare as I ate with
bare hands. Back then, home was my hidden
village and my relatives were my teachers.
What I imagined about my motherland as
a little girl goes beyond any faerie tale. The
main strip of Mabalacat and its continuous
gusts of dirt, exhaust, and burning smoke
remind me that Im in a third world country. I
am relieved to venture outside of the towns
fussiness, where the plains open up and the
mountain ranges trace the neutral skyline.
Sitting in the sidecar of a motorized tricycle,
my uncle brings me to a historical landmark
known as Bamban Grotto. My Uncle Emer
thought I would appreciate an elevated view
of the land stretching past the local district.
The Grotto is a flight of 162 steps leading up
to a sacred monument dedicated to Virgin
Mary. It directly overlooks Bamban Bridge,
separating the provinces of Tarlac and
Pampanga. When Mount Pinatubo erupted
in June of 1991, the volcanos heavy sediment
clogged the river that flowed beneath

Bamban Bridge and the bridge collapsed.
Before such mishap, my mother, Uncle Emer,
and their cousins would swim in that river,
but it is now a sad quarry filled with ash
deposits. Listening to Uncle Emer elaborate
on how things were before the eruption, I
start to wonder about the indigenous tribes
of Mount Pinatubos dense forest. Research
is not enough to satisfy my curiosity about
these ancestors; I decide I want to meet
these Aeta (eye-ta) people, also known as
Negritos.
On Christmas Eve, another one of my
uncles takes me to the Aeta village to spend
some time with a datu (chief) who is 100 years
old. We find him as he is walking toward the
river where his people fish, bathe, and wash
their garments. After formally introducing
myself in Kapampangan, he tells me his name
is Apung Duman. He sits down to share some
history with me while puffing on his cigar. In
our dialect, Apung Duman speaks calmly of
the days when cars did not exist and horses
were relied on for transportation. Being in
the presence of someone who has lived here
for a century to see the rise and fall of nature
and government is completely humbling. I
feel honored when he invites me to build a
home in his community. He does not want
me to leave and neither do I. I tell him I will
return soon and this is not the end. v
HARMONIE BETTENHAUSEN
dharma map
i crept up the stairs

to the anne frank room
where you had moved
all your belongings.
our bed, the red-painted table,
a chair.
stupidly, in my bare feet,
i slid across the plank floor
dirty, rotting wood emanating
attic-dwelling rodent excrement
im looking for a book.
a book i know is packed
away in a box
a box you packed
when i told you i was leaving,
even though i didnt actually leave.
it must be ten degrees
colder in this part of the attic
i should leave you
some arsenic-laced donuts
to set beside the day-old coffee
the lid to the ice cream
the half-bottle of red wine.
i look at the studs
that constitute your walls
interlaced with substance
that fills the cracks,
it leaks out over itself,
forming hard globs of grey matter.
on the wooden posts
are pictures
colored-tacked
black and white photographs
arranged in a time-line
a spiral.
i picture you squeaking
around on loose floorboards
up in that drafty attic,
wringing your hands in despair
looking at us all through the
fingerprinted lenses of
your German watchmaker wire-rims.
where did we go wrong
where did i lose touch with you
when you lost yourself.
what have you to gain,
as you willingly give up everything
in an attempt to cleanse
to purge,
to pick up pieces
and assemble
them neatly into your next life.
how will we connect
without a road
leading us back to each other?
Palm Prints
and
Post-its
Every morning
at precisely nine
Amy traces the lines imprinted
on her palm with a blue pen
to track the time her life will end.
Then she exits her apartment door
where she glued a paper reading
In blue handwriting,
Do something today
that you will remember
until your last tomorrow.
While in college she read a short
story of a woman confined
by her husband to a room draped
in fading yellow wallpaper
who sees another woman trapped
in that wall
and digs her nails into the wood
ripping sheets down in jagged strips
until her fingers bleed.
So when Amy decorated the interior
of her bedroom with yellow post-it notes,
sorting all her lifes goals
into five-year increments,
she left a window in the center
that she could escape through.
On the first notes she placed
at middle top and middle bottom
to create a symmetrical frame
as the beginning and end points
was written
Fall in love,
like you deserve to be loved.
She always addresses herself
as someone other than who she is.
Her affections have been spread
between a cat named
for a food she quit eating,
a series of pretty boyfriends
so meaningless their memories
have merged into one face
with half a dozen names,
and a bookshelf sagging
from the weight of words
written so precisely that they
could never be any more than fiction.
She records on their covers
the exact time it required to read them.
It isnt that Amy is obsessed with dying,
she is obsessed with living
like she deserves to be living.
While I was the boy sleeping
in the next room
By Jess Kroll
staring at the other side of the wall
her escape window stuck on
Waiting for her to stop living
long enough to notice
That my palm print
was the reverse of hers
And if wed ever joined them
The points would align in
an endless circle
Like one half of the symbol for infinity
Waiting as both our lines
slowly wound away
Like a lit fuse burning
itself to a glowing end
I kept my walls bare and white
To remind myself that
no matter how dark it gets
There remains still a tunnel of light
to look forward
Waiting to be worthy of her notice
Like a piece of paper
stuck to a front door
Or something written in blue pen
on a bright yellow post-it.
But people like me
We write about ourselves
because nobody else will
Using words precise enough
to only describe
things that never happened
With no idea what we deserve
So we pine for the people
who flash their brightest, briefest smile
While staining doorknobs
with the fresh ink from their palms
Wishing we could call after them:
Slow down.
Life is so big that you miss
whats next to you
And following a traced line
will only get you from beginning
to end faster
While we live within the distance
between.
I wrote my own note
on the sticky side of a post-it reading,
Amy, even your own name
is an ignored call for your attention.
Asking for you
to remember the first person.
And I left it in the center
of the other side of her escape window
And I left it
Waiting to be noticed
Like it deserved to be.

Issue 1 Low Res

Încărcat de

Informații document

Titlu original

Drepturi de autor

Formate disponibile

Partajați acest document

Partajați sau inserați document

Opțiuni de partajare

Vi se pare util acest document?

Este necorespunzător acest conținut?

Drepturi de autor:

Formate disponibile

Issue 1 Low Res

Încărcat de

Drepturi de autor:

Formate disponibile

March/April 2010

Publisher Kathryn Xian

MISTY TASHINA BRADLEY

Our Room Is the World

buried by our earth,

will be wise enough

when I first knew

Disclaimer: The Safe Zone Foundation (SZF) dba Hawaii Womens

Our Room Is the World

photo by Rita Coury

poetry & prose

From the Editor

The Shape Love Takes

Palm Prints and Post-its

BY MISTY TASHINA BRADLEY

Burying Babies in Brazil

BY MAYUMI SHIMOSE POE

from the editor

"Find. The. Bitch."

best thing: a magazine full of their words.

Hawaii Womens Journal | 3

We will love ferociously, tend to our gardens, and live in

Are manners really pass? I think not. Just because we have

Hawaii Womens Journal | 4

- Jennifer Meleana Hee

photos by Rita Coury

Hawaii Womens Journal | 5

The Pen Womens Column

The Wellness Manifesto

The Domestic Diva

Celibacy in the City

Pen Women & Girls Court

von Hotties Guide to Navigating a Modern Life

Are You There Angst? Its Me, Quarter-Life Crisis.

The Great Big Vending Machine in the Sky

Traditional Remedies for Today, Part 1

Therapeutic Horsemanship of Hawaii

The Road to Heaven Is Paved... with Miso!

Just Friends. No Benefits.

The National League

Pen Womens Column

The Honolulu Branch holds monthly luncheon

Pen Women & Girls Court

n the multipurpose room of the Circuit

using drugs. Alice Ann nods. Which one?

challenge. The girls writing can be raw:

Jenn graduates this May from the

Alexandra is from New York but has

Michelle is a UH Manoa graduate who

I wrote my first poems when I was

Misty Tashina Bradley

Misty spends most her days dreaming,

Ivy is a freelance writer, currently

Award-winning photographer Rita

Theresa is a writer, director,

Jennifer Dawn Rogers

Suzanne is an MFA student at

A graduate of Harvard University

Lorelle Saxena, M.S., L.Ac, is

Carmen grew up in rural Iowa and

Jasmine is a freelance writer and

Frances is an award-winning author

Jess was born in Hawaii. He has an