The View from Here-
You're Going to Teach Near a Volcano: My New Life at the University of
Hawaii at Hilo, the School of My Dreams
Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor, Institute of Biology, Hawaii Pacific University
lfukuda@hawaii.edu
I grew up in Honolulu, an urban center, and spent summers at the beachfront home on the north shore of Kauai, but my visits to the island of volcanoes, tsunamis, earthquakes, forest fires, and shark-infested waters were often brief and dictated by time constraints. My earliest recollection of the island of Hawaii, a much bigger island than my now overcrowded, noisy, and "citified" Oahu, was of open land. My parents, my sister and I drove around the island in the late 1960s when much of the road was only gravel. Our not-so-new rental car had two flats thanks to the rough volcanic rock that lined the road. We drove for hours without seeing a single soul in those days, and help was slow to come if it was needed. Yet, it was pleasant to hear the silence of the vast volcanic land, the rocks absorbing the noises that would normally travel over water or open land on Oahu. The soil was dark and mysterious, of fresh volcanic origin. Unfamiliar trees such as the Ohia Lehua grew in vigorous clumps in the forested regions, and nothing grew in the lava-devasted areas. Small houses dotted the farms.
We toured the whole island, taking three days since the roads were rough, but even then we knew we had not seen everything. With a promise to return, we soon left for Oahu, but even as a four-year old I felt a deep and soulful connection to the land, its people, and its energy, which rose from deep beneath the earth, a mixture of volcanic force and electromagnetism, and what the ancient Hawaiians called mana, or supernatural power. I walked on the black sands of Kalapana Beach made from pulverized volcanic rock. The beach was lined with coconut trees patiently planted by and for generations of Hawaiians. I looked at the devastatingly deep-blue rough seas. This was not the tame beach of Oahu, where the sand was soft and white and the waters aquamarine; it was young, rugged, a new land that was ever increasing in size.
Decades later, Kalapana Beach disappeared. In the very year I returned to work at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park as an adult, the lava flow devastated the housing subdivisions that had sprouted during my youth and took away forever my early memories of Hawaii and the black sands of Kalapana. As a child, I sometimes would visit my aunt in Hilo, and I cried each time I set foot on and then had to leave that lovely island. I felt as though I were leaving a beloved sweetheart never to return, and as I grew older, I vowed that I would return to this land full of mana and spirit that my Oahu was quickly losing.
When I was 23, as I worked at Volcanoes National
Park for a summer, I knew that I was reunited with this sweetheart. This
time, I fell in love deeply with the maturity of a grown woman. I did
not weep as much as in the past. I vowed to retire there near the volcano
and be buried there.
For ten long years while I was on Oahu, I nurtured
the Big Island's native trees, the Ohia Lehua, in my garden. I
tended to them every day, and hired a "tree sitter" when I went
on vacations. These trees are ubiquitous at Volcanoes but rare on my island
of Oahu. The Ohia Lehua is a pioneer species, one of the first to establish
itself on the inhospitable new lava flow after it has cooled; it prospers
on acidic, virgin land, and with its roots it creates new, richer soil.
Its branches create a living place for birds, its leaves are home to insects
and tree snails, and its combined foliage is shelter to many animals and
plants below. With the native fern, the hapuu, it forms an Ohia-fern
forest that transforms the once-boiling hot lava field into a cool, vibrant
sanctuary. As the island ages, the Ohia begins to give way to other plants
that thrive in older soil; eventually the Ohia forest experiences a dieback,
and stands of magnificent Ohia forest are replaced by the native Koa,
the rich, slow-growing tree that produces a highly prized mahogany-like
wood.
The Ohia trees are rare on the older islands,
but their effects are evident in the forests that cover the mountains,
which have become worn by wind, rain, and sun and are mellowed with age.
The Ohia thrives only on the young lava fields of Hawaii. The five Ohia
trees in my garden served as a reminder of my promise to return to the
land of the Ohia and to give back to the aina, or land, where I
felt I truly belonged. My baby Ohias were true babies. Some died, being
sensitive to changes in watering, temperature, and other factors. After
somehow killing ten of them, I was left with five hardy survivors. There
were no blooms for the first five to seven years. But from some small
six-inch trees then, I now have trees in full bloom in their fifteenth
year. The blooms are a rich dark red like the fires of the volcanoes,
and some are a softer red, almost a salmon color, and one tree blooms
in a rich greenish-yellow (considered male in Hawaiian legend), while
red ones are considered female. Sometimes, when a vine bothered them,
they would appear in my dreams, sending their distress signals so that
I would be wide awake in the middle of the night and look out of my window
at the moonlit trees that called to me. They were my spiritual connection
to the land of the volcanoes, and I tended to them as a mother would,
loving them as my own children. Sometimes on moonlit nights, I imagined
them dancing the ancient hula, the hula kahiko that was once only
danced for the gods of the forest and not for a human audience. Their
branches swaying in the wind, they moved to an eerie melody that was the
chant of the volcano goddess Pele. And in doing so, they tugged at my
heart, compelling me to leave Oahu to join their families on the Big Island,
Hawaii.
In the fifteenth year, when my Ohia babies had
grown up tall and strong and no longer needed daily tending in my dry
land garden of Mililani, the blossoms of the Lehua brought me a sign that
I too would reach the time to flourish. After twelve long years with Hawaii
Pacific University, I received a fateful call from the University of Hawaii
at Hilo, the Big Island.
"Are you really moving to Hilo, where there
are volcanic eruptions, tsumanis, earthquakes, and sharks in the waters?"
a friend asked me, incredulous of my decision. To those in Hawaii, Hilo
is a small town, considered to be backwater, perpetually rainy and gray
with a depressed economy. Hilo is not considered a place to move to if
one comes from, say, Honolulu. Hilo natives moved to Honolulu, not vice
versa.
Why in the world would anyone live in the muck
and mire of Honolulu (or even its suburbs) to suffer three- to four-hour
commutes, and daily accidents on the overcrowded freeways and streets?
In the past ten years, even without any public transport except for buses,
our island had become a chaotic place. It was only a matter of time before
I, too, became a statistic. I also suffered from migraines, blurred vision
and anxiety attacks when driving in traffic. I was afraid that I would
not be able to see in a critical moment and my next place would be in
a hospital bed.
People in the malls were less polite, and rudeness
and carelessness became more commonplace. Everyone was in a hurry to get
somewhere, even at the supermarket. Salesclerks were overloaded with work,
and the shopping areas at night had become a prime target of muggers and
armed gunmen. Banks, fast food places, tourists, and residents were being
mugged or robbed almost every week. My neighborhood, once a beautiful
upper-middle class area, had become run-down. Our house had been broken
into four times.
Going to my beloved Honolulu had become a daily
trial. The city was prosperous in my youth, but now the old buildings
were run down, the good neighborhoods of the past were filled with riff-raff,
and my old haunts were torn down or changed. I mourned often in the last
ten years I spent there, since the population on Oahu had exploded and
dispersed itself even into the rural areas; even on long drives all one
could find were new subdivisions and no fields. The sugar and pineapple
fields of the past were gone. My work on Oahu did not seem to be very
useful any more. After teaching for twelve years at the same institution,
I felt the need to go on to newer things.
My new passion was to teach online and explore
all aspects of distance education. I had moved into the computer age,
and yet I felt this new mode of learning would also preserve a way of
life. Images of students in remote areas of Hawaii floated in my head.
In the pasturelands of Kamuela, the dry lavalands of Kona, the lush, forested
regions of Hana (accessible by a small gravel road), the dry abandoned
pineapple fields of Lanai island, the depressed ranchlands of Molokai,
and the uplands of Kula--all these students could learn at their computers
while working on their farms, raising their children, or working full-time
jobs. Those living in remote areas, too poor to move to Hilo campus, would
be future students. I wanted to fly to those islands and to meet with
my online students. I wanted to give them emotional support when they
felt alone; I wanted to be there to give them advice on their academics.
I wanted each student to feel needed and a contributing part of a greater
campus. I also wanted to mentor new online professors with my experience
in online teaching and from my research on distance education.
My dream was to teach from my own home, equipped
with a solar electric system, a wireless Internet access, a water-catching
system, a cesspool, a fishpond, subsistence garden with vegetables and
fruits, and a natural mini forest on my one-acre of land on the Big Island.
I spoke of it to my family and friends until they were bored stiff. But
with that fateful call from UH Hilo, my dreams began to take shape.
"Are you certain that you want to move to
Hilo? Won't you miss the glitter of the city?" an interviewer asked.
"The only glitter is that of cars in traffic
and the city holds only crowds and pollution," I answered.
"We have needed someone for three years,
and somehow struggled to understand distance education," one of the
interviewers said.
"I am willing to learn
anything you teach me and to do more," I answered.
When I get off the plane in Hilo, I am greeted
by the aroma of floral scents, the wet earth, and the clean air. I know
then that I am home at last. Images of old Honolulu in the 1960s float
into my consciousness. After a tour of the UH-Hilo campus, which was a
sprawling open land of lava and grasses, new roads, and a few new buildings,
my head buzzed with possibilities. The campus is known for its high-tech
capacity and varied studies: astronomers from around the globe come to
watch the stars from Hawaii's pristine atmosphere; others study volcanology,
geology, or marine sciences, and still others pursue aquaculture and agriculture.
UH-Hilo is a small campus, 3000 students and a smaller number of faculty
and staff, so each student has a name and face, including the growing
number of online students, who are an important part of UH-Hilo and a
source of pride.
Like the molten lava that brings
mana, or supernatural power, from deep in the Earth, I felt the
surge of energy during my tour of that small campus. The dreams of educators
and their students, the care of the staff and all those who support this
institution bubbled with unseen and organic power. Distance education
was not a step backward but a giant step forward.
As a small child who wept at leaving the black
sands of Kalapana, as a youth sweating beneath the sun at Volcanoes National
Park while a volunteer researcher, and now as an adult in the more modern
town of Hilo, I have come full circle. I am now in Hilo, a small town
that is the heart of the island. The inhabitants are curious and friendly,
often asking me where I am from despite my familiar looks and speech as
if I had suddenly materialized from a spaceship. There are signs of the
long patience that the people of old Honolulu had in my childhood. The
streets are not overcrowded and fairly familiar, the natives are happy
with their families, fishing, cooking, eating, and socializing as my old
friends were nearly twenty-five years ago.
As a new citizen of this town, I am adamant that
Hilo preserves its beauty and goodness. Honolulu, being the commercial
center and the center of all the islands, chose the development that ended
up having a devastating effect and took away the old charm of a smaller
town. Hilo also has a choice: to develop with care, to grow outward from
a college center that welcomes learners from remote regions of the world.
And in this welcome, or aloha, we can prosper. Like the Ohia trees that
run their life cycles so that other forests can come, we must lay the
foundation for those who come after us.
My youthful struggles, my young adult wanderings
are over. I do not regret that I traveled the world in search of my childhood
home from the hills of Europe to the neighborhoods of Japan, from the
islands of the Caribbean to the islands of the South Pacific. I met many
individuals who reminded me of home in the 1960s in Hawaii. But home was
closer than I knew. Like the lava, once molten and restless, I will settle.
My journey has ended close to the center of an active volcano where the
devastation of nature is great, but so are the energy, newness, and the
future of a land which is as yet young and unspoiled.
A forest fire is currently burning at Volcanoes
National Park. A haunting ache runs through my heart. But I know the forest
will come back. Hilo will also come back to its former prosperity. I will
no longer weep when I leave Hilo to go to Honolulu, for I know in the
end I will be home beneath the slopes of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea Volcanoes,
the sleeping giants above.
Although Hilo is presently
an economically-depressed town, a condition worsened by the shutdown of
the large Hamakua sugar fields and the sugar mill, I still have hopes
and dreams--not of money, but of energy and prosperity coming to a small,
caring town, where people still stop to be kind, things move at a slower
pace and old Hawaii values still survive. I envision a college town full
of students from around the globe, who come to haunt the cafes, restaurants,
bookshops, and Internet cafes of the old Hilo town. Old Hilo town was
once devastated by a tsunami. Another tsunami will approach, but not in
destruction. It will be a rush of young students who wish to be nowhere
else in the world but in Hilo and on the Big Island--to enjoy, preserve,
and to share the natural resources and give back to the greater community.
Academic Exchange Extra invites reader responses to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.
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