The Things I Carried

After seven years away, I can say this: The continent is nothing like Hawai‘i. In my first week in Southern California’s Orange County, a drunken driver crashed into parked cars in front of my apartment building. It was a fiery end to a multicity car chase, like the ones you see on TV. A few days later, a school shooting erupted across the street from me, or so I thought. Turns out the school was conducting a drill that included someone shooting a gun loaded with blanks while alarms blared. I was a newcomer and didn’t get the memo like everyone else, so it was pretty terrifying.

I left O‘ahu for the same reasons others do—to further my career and to give my son more educational opportunities. Being part kānaka maoli and raised in the Islands, the first year away from my family and friends was difficult. I was incredibly homesick and flew back to Hawai‘i four times. It was even worse during COVID. Even now, when I return, it’s like I’m recharging my battery just so I can handle being away.

When I first moved, I didn’t think crime would affect me. But since I’ve lived in California, there’s been a stabbing across the street, a shooting 2 miles away, and so many pedestrian hit-and-runs I’ve lost track. At first, I was glued to the local news but then shut it off. The greater Los Angeles area, including five counties, has a population of more than 18 million, so “it’s going to happen everywhere,” an LA friend told me. Instead of worrying about it—and to help me feel I have some control of the chaos around me—I bought a home alarm system, pepper spray and my first knife.

Illustration: Hailey Akau

What do I miss, besides friends and family? Hawai‘i’s beaches, my refuge. I have vivid dreams about them. I’ve spent many days beach hopping along the California coastline, seeking a semblance of home. Santa Barbara, Venice, Huntington Beach, San Diego. But Southern California beaches are so big, cold and uninviting, with expensive homes lining their sands. Finally, I found the sun-sparkled waters of Crystal Cove State Park, Orange County’s only remaining natural coastline. It’s beautifully undeveloped.

I miss local food, too. There’s an L&L nearby and I make kālua pork in a slow cooker, but I crave Two Ladies Kitchen mochi, Chun Wah Kam manapua, Leonard’s malasadas and Hanalei poi. I tried frozen poi (yuck), and also grew a dryland taro plant on my lānai, but it got invaded by pests.

It’s funny how things you thought you disliked are what you long for, like Hawai‘i’s humidity. I always complained about it before, but now I need humidifiers, lotions, eye drops and allergy pills to keep my skin and eyes happy.

What else? I miss Hawai‘i’s hiking trails, getting muddy and exploring forests and waterfalls without worrying about dangerous wildlife. Hawai‘i’s beauty spoiled me; the hikes around me now are not nearly as scenic. Still, I tried the trails, until a mountain lion scared me off one. It snarled behind bushes, scattering the hikers ahead of me. I turned right around.

Yet, when friends ask me if I’ll ever move back to Hawai‘i, it surprises me that I can’t answer their question. Instead, I think about how going back means maybe never owning a home, having limited career opportunities, and struggling financially. Maybe I’ll end up in the Pacific Northwest, with more affordable home prices and where the forests and waterfalls remind me of home. But no matter where I go, Hawai‘i sits heavy in my heart, like a weight, reminding me why I will never let it go.

Now I know what it means to live in two worlds, like lots of other Hawai‘i folks in Vegas or all the other places that we move to for myriad reasons. You don’t realize what you have until you’ve left it, but you move forward, connected to the past and present, in an expanded life.