Carving out inclusive sanctuaries for participation in higher education

Abstract

The work that we do and how we do that work is formed through our view of the world, shaped within our own ways of knowing and prioritized by the needs of people and the lessons of place. This article illustrates what one educational policy, filtered through one way of knowing, and prioritized by the needs of people and place looks like in higher education. Kuahuokalā, a metaphor for third space manifestation, is used to carve out inclusive sanctuaries in the university. It is a praxis of Hawaiian epistemology through four intentional guides: hōʻai, ʻāina momona, kuahuokalā, and aʻo aku aʻo mai. These intentions reveal a (k)new old wisdom that simplifies complexity into purpose and common sense. The defining of the metaphor as well as these intentions frame this paper to transform the dialogue at the university, raise consciousness through action, and set policy in motion.

Introduction

As a faculty member in a teacher preparation program at my university, I sometimes use teachable moments, such as a student teacher witnessing students fighting during recess, to direct my teacher candidates to our public school’s board of education website. We always review educational policies in my introduction to teaching class; but, when an incident occurs, my students have a very relevant purpose for reading these policies. For all of us, when we do not have personal connections with a policy then it is just something on a website to look at for a random quiz or philosophical discussion.

This article is about having high hopes about an educational policy while being realistic enough to understand that, unlike my students, I cannot wait for an incident to happen. If I do not take action on my own, the policy will just become another link on an unused website. In short, the action I chose to take was to start a Hawaiian ways of knowing hui or group that meets once a month. (A brief glossary of Hawaiian terms used in this article is provided in the Appendix.)

During the semesters, I come up with a topic, or others suggest a topic, based on Hawaiian ways of knowing. I find a leader and we meet for an hour to learn about the topic, practice, and go off with resources that might be used in our own classrooms. This group is always open to all faculty and staff and I only keep attendance records so that I can send a personal invitation the next month before the email goes out to everyone. Even if just one person shows up, it is still a success because the one faculty or staff member who shows up is hungry to learn more about Hawaiian ways of thinking and knowing, which in turn helps them to better understand the majority of our students that stand in front of them. But I am sharing the end of my story. The beginning of the story has to do with following my gut reactions in order to understand what actions I needed to take to see a policy in action. This begins with following that instinct, and then stepping away to reflect on the decisions that were made on the gut level.

Auamo Kuleana

As both background and context, the University of Hawaiʻi is a public higher education system that includes three universities and seven community colleges. The University of Hawai‘i system-wide strategic plan, or the University’s Strategic Directions 2015–2021 includes a report from Hawaiʻi Papa o Ke Ao, a group tasked with developing a plan to make the University of Hawaiʻi a leader in indigenous education. One of my mentors, when she found out that I would be joining the University of Hawaiʻi West Oʻahu faculty, sent me the Hawaiʻi Papa o Ke Ao report. What caught my eye was the University of Hawai‘i’s common mission, as established by the Board of Regents policy, Chapter 4–1, which states:

As the only provider of public higher education in Hawaiʻi, the University embraces its unique responsibilities to the indigenous people of Hawaiʻi and to Hawaii's indigenous language and culture. To fulfill this responsibility, the University ensures active support for the participation of Native Hawaiians at the University and supports vigorous programs of study and support for the Hawaiian language, history and culture. ¹

I believe the key word is responsibility. In Hawaiian, that word is kuleana, but kuleana is stronger than responsibility. It is a right, an obligation, and a privilege (Pukui and Elbert, 1986). So when the policy says, in Chapter 4–1, ‘the University embraces its unique responsibilities’, the question becomes: who has the obligation to act or fulfill this policy? Is it some nebulous Other; or, as a member of a faculty, do I then become the University? If I feel the weight and possibility of this policy, does it then become my responsibility? As a kanaka maoli, or indigenous Hawaiian faculty member, am I interested in working for a university that ‘embraces its responsibilities to the indigenous people’? Uh, yes! And with my resounding yes, I am also saying that it is my kuleana to enact this policy at this time, in this place that I occupy. I believe that my mentor sending me this report ahead of my employment at the school was her way of telling me to auamo kuleana, to take on this obligation and carry it as my own. Putting policy into action, whatever policy it is, starts with an individual accepting the kuleana to put actions to words. Paolo Friere called this act ‘conscientization’, the ability to wake up, be conscious, and then take necessary action (Friere, 1993). I break it down as a challenge for my students by asking them the question, ‘now that you know, what are you going to do about it?’ Even if I am a junior faculty member, untenured, tenuous, insignificant, I propose that it is only through collectively taking small steps forward, rather than waiting for someone else to hand us our privilege, that we progress.

Hōʻai

The first intention that frames this action is hōʻai, to feed. Part of growing up in Hawaiʻi is to understand the importance of food and the kuleana to feed. My grandmother, a kanaka maoli woman, welcomed visitors and family into her house through the kitchen. No matter what time it was, we were invited to eat. Creating an action to fulfill my kuleana as a faculty member is about hōʻai, the desire to offer a different kind of sustenance as a way to feed others spiritually, physically and emotionally. Hōʻai is about putting policy into action in order to support ‘vigorous programs of study and support for the Hawaiian language, history and culture’. To feed is both a personal and a political act. I chose an approach that was purposefully non-threatening; it had to be. Hawaiʻi is a small place in the middle of a very large ocean. The University of Hawaiʻi – West Oʻahu (UHWO), my home school, is a small university that is a part of a much larger system. Kanaka maoli make up just 23% of the total population in the state, and less than 1% of the total US population. ² As a kanaka maoli faculty member, I know that we comprise only 7% of the faculty in the University of Hawaiʻi system. ³ At the fall 2016 faculty and staff convocation it was revealed that UHWO enrolls the largest percentage of kanaka maoli students in the UH system. However, when looking at those kanaka maoli instructors that are in tenure track instructor positions (rather than specialists, or lecturers), the percentage of faculty is less than the system average. What that tells me is that there is work to do.

The issue of space to feed

The issue of space at UHWO is a factor that stands in the way of forward movement. There is not enough space. Although UHWO is the newest of the three universities, we are bulging at the seams. Junior faculty share office space with at least one other faculty member. When deciding on times to offer classes, there are times and days of the week where the request for classes outnumbers the available classrooms, so as faculty we either ask for a conference room or move our class days and times to secure a space to meet our students. In addition, UHWO sits on former sugar cane fields on the ʻEwa plains. It is still rural and somewhat isolated. Perhaps to pay homage to the legacy of sugar cane and plantations in Hawaiʻi and in this area of ʻEwa, our library is built like a plantation mill and the other three buildings are designed like the warehouses around the mill. Traditionally, the plantation mills in Hawaiʻi are built around a very large smoke stack. These smoke stacks were often landmarks in many towns and if the mill was near a port, as in Lahaina, it was also a navigational guide for ships and boats. ⁴ Since I grew up with my grandparents in a plantation camp, I spent many nights of my youth fixated on the red light blinking at the top of the smoke stack. The smoke stacks also had a steam whistle that blew to signify important times of the day. The first whistle blew at 5 am to start the workday. At 4:30 pm the end of work whistle would blow and I knew it was time to wait for my grandfather to ride his bike back from the mill. There was also an 8 pm whistle which meant ‘lights out’ for the plantation communities. The smoke stack was meant to be the hub of the community and dictated both work life and social life. The large warehouse buildings around the smoke stack were used to house and process the sugar cane stalks brought in from the adjacent fields.

Like the plantation mills in Hawaiʻi, the UHWO library looks like a factory or large warehouse, with the high pointed roof, high ceilings and a tall rectangular column that juts out. As a beacon, the library ‘smoke stack’ stands out from the flat agricultural land around UHWO. In fact, until it stopped working recently, the top half of the library ‘smoke stack’ would light up in an artistic display of color at night. The classroom buildings and student service buildings are also built like warehouses with large industrial windows on the pointed roofs. In addition, they circle the library in the same way that the warehouses would circle the smokestack. Aside from the obvious shock of seeming to promote a factory model of education through the architecture of this space, I believe that the decision to create the buildings at UHWO in this manner was more of a nostalgic choice that honored the history of the land use of this area. But history is complex and the repercussions of sugar in Hawaiʻi are both sweet and bitter.

In addition to the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian nation by a handful of white businessmen who enjoyed the protection of the United States government, the power to dominate and rule Hawaiʻi continued to stay in the hands of a small group of white men with the formation of sugar cane and pineapple companies controlled by the Big Five. ⁵ The heads of the Big Five were also the board of trustees of the Hawaiian Sugar Planters Association (HSPA). Together they controlled almost all of the 10,000 votes and, on a rotation basis, each head served as president. The HSPA created policy for the industry, conducted technical research, and was in charge of recruitment and lobbying. These companies used sugar cane as a way to wield economic and political power for generations (Alcantara, 1988; LaCroix and Fishback, 1989; Lind, 1954; Takaki, 1984). Sugarcane plantations, through the recruitment efforts of the Big Five and HSPA imported laborers from the ethnic groups that now make up contemporary Hawaiʻi.

The planters controlled and encouraged the ethnic and racial divisions on the plantation to ensure that no one group gained control of the labor market. Lind argued the following:

It was, in brief, through the plantations that the first clearly defined pattern of stratification by race was initiated in Hawaii [sic]. . .a fairly distinct barrier of social distances separated the proprietary white from the large mass of non-white laborers on the plantations, and a further social gradation of other racial groups at the lower levels of the plantation occupational pyramid also emerged. (Lind, 1954: 3)

Stratification meant building segregated housing camps, racially/ethnically segmented labor teams, and paying different wages for the same work based on race. In a disaggregated study of wage differentials and workforce segregation for the period 1900–1901, La Croix and Fishback (1988) found that although Japanese laborers made up the majority of the workforce in the plantations, less than 18% of the Japanese and less than 23% of the part-Hawaiians were paid the same or more than Americans or Europeans within the same job and firm (La Croix and Fishback, 1988: 16). Lind (1954) further found that although the major wage differential was between white and non-white labor, HSPA also maintained wage differentials among Asian workers, with the Chinese laborers receiving slightly higher wages than the Japanese, and the Filipinos receiving slightly less than the Japanese. Finally, as a way to keep as many workers as possible on the plantations, early wages were paid partially in currency and partially with in-kind coupons or scripts that were only redeemable for goods offered at the plantation store. This made it difficult for plantation workers to send money home or save up enough to leave the plantation camps with their free housing and medical services (La Croix and Fishback, 1989; Takaki, 1983). For our family, it took four generations and 100 years before we were completely independent of the plantation.

The techniques of separation of ethnic groups into separate camps, and the economic prowess of creating a system of reliance by the workers on the very patriarchal plantation system, ensured that besides the colonization and marginalization of the kanaka maoli every other minority group brought in by the plantations would also be marginalized. The buildings at UHWO are a reminder of this historical trauma. Therefore, if I am interested in participating in the transformation of this institution, I must first steer clear of the buildings.

I must also start small and work with others in the kind of collaborative nature that sustains island living. I do not want to use top-down strategies that force others to comply with policy. I acknowledge that I am a minority in multiple ways. I also acknowledge that as a kanaka maoli, as a female, and as a product of Hawai‘i’s plantation system, my being at the University gives me a kuleana to speak out about oppression, colonization and continued inequality. I am fully aware that I work in a social environment where I am not in charge, so in order to move forward and auamo kuleana, I choose to shy away from reactive political acts to create positive, proactive acts. In this instance, for this time and in this place, taking policy and creating action, the act of feeding, is about carving out both an inclusive metaphoric space as well as securing a physical space to invite faculty and staff to gather together, to practice Hawaiian ways of knowing and to develop strategies and content to transform classroom practices. I believe that the only way education can truly change for the betterment of our kanaka maoli and minority students, and for all students, is through Hawaiian culture-based practices, what I refer to here as Hawaiian ways of knowing, that incorporate the cultural values, ways of knowing and ways of relating in our classrooms. When I invite faculty and staff members together to immerse them and teach them these Hawaiian ways of knowing, they have the tools to work with our students. What this does for our students is to create a space that feels both familiar and safe for them. What this does is to honor our students’ home knowledge in an institutional setting that may seem very cold and foreign to them. This is about a shift away from decolonization, which puts the colonizer in the center, and toward conscientization (Friere, 1993). Ultimately, the connection is that the incorporation of Hawaiian ways of knowing into our teaching methods will help to feed and nurture those faculty members that are willing to grow an Indigenous-serving institution.

ʻĀina momona: finding the riches

Whole papers have been written about the significance of ʻāina, land, to indigenous people. Kanaka maoli are no different. ʻĀina is not about real estate and ownership. It is the word that connects to food, ʻai, and connects to us as people who are stewards of the land, kamaʻaina. Hawaiian elder Kawika Kaʻalakea (Harden and Brinkman, 1999) speaks about the significance of land to Hawaiian ways of knowing.

Up the mountains, down the ocean. I was taught many good things. I was lucky. I learned all the land. I learned how to plant taro, sweet potato. Fishing. All these things. That’s how we survived. We had to do it; nobody gonna do that for us. That’s why my grandmother said ‘Put your hand on the land. And what goes in the land it will take care of you.’ In the land is many things. That’s where our food comes. That is where our culture comes and our language comes from the land. Everything. That’s aina. We Hawaiians come from the aina. (Harden and Brinkman, 1999: 64)

The word momona means fat, fertile, and rich (Pukuʻi and Elbert, 1986). Put together with ʻāina, the words mean the land that feeds. It is more than a concept or a philosophy: it is part of the praxis that makes up Hawaiian epistemology. How does a focus on ʻāina momona bring us to transformation? If, as Kaʻalakea says, our culture and language comes from the land, and that everything is land, then my kuleana is to work toward inviting faculty and staff to interact and create their own relationships with the land.

There is an old Hawaiian oli or chant that starts with the riddle, He ui, he nīnau, aia i hea ka wai a Kāne? The translation of the riddle is, ‘A query, a question, where is the water (wai) of Kāne?’ Each stanza of this oli offers up a different answer that teaches young students about the hydrological cycle. Kāne, the god of fresh water, agriculture, and fertility can be found in the clouds, the rain, the streams and bubbling springs. He is found in all of these things. Using wai, the word for fresh water as a root word, the word for rich in the Hawaiian language is waiwai. When a word is repeated, then that doubles the importance of the word, so waiwai means that someone has an abundance of fresh water, which in turn makes them wealthy. It is a clue to what the native Hawaiians valued most. It is evidence of what Hawaiian epistemology or Hawaiian ways of knowing is about, which is the importance of using land and its resources to both understand and define the broader world. My attempt to carve out a pedagogical and physical space in this institution has more to do with searching for the waiwai of this place than it is about changing an institution. Where are the water sources, the wealth that can nourish and sustain this community of learners? It was not a random coincidence, then, that the physical third space was not in a building, but on the land. The waiwai of UHWO is in the lepo, or the dirt of the organic garden. The richness of UHWO is in the students, the staff, and the faculty. This is ʻāina momona.

Third space as ʻāina space

Consciousness-raising happens in both a metaphoric as well as a physical space. Third space theorists (Anzaldua 1999, 2000; Irving and Young, 2002, 2004) suggest that the creation of ‘third’ or ‘borderland’ spaces can provide the opportunity for creative, novel and respectful interpersonal relationship dynamics. Anzaldua addresses issues of power and identity in colonized areas, and conceptualizes third or borderland spaces as places or states of ambiguity, of being in-between different ‘realities’ (Anzaldua, 2000). Post-colonial theorist Homi Bhabha equates third spaces as places of in-between-ness, within and amongst people to articulate perspectival views (Bhabha, 1994).

Anzaldua and Bhabha see the notion of third or borderland spaces as places where we can articulate and live cultural experiences involving self and other; a space that is comprised of both inner and outer ‘realities’, the both/and of an inter-subjective experience. But third space is just a framework. It is not necessarily a physical space, more a concept of a space. Theoretically, the third space or borderland experience can happen in a classroom, but I knew that the waiwai was not just in the lepo, the students, the faculty, but also in the makani, the wind, which swirls in the organic garden. This makani led me to Kuahuokalā.

Kuahuokalā

Kuahuokalā is a traditionally built Hawaiian open-walled building, hale, created with rocks from the area, wooden posts from the forest above the campus and a fan palm roof gathered from the garden and nearby groves. It is a building created without nails. Visitors to Kuahuokalā must actually walk amongst the rows of trees, vegetables and gourds of the organic garden in order to enter the space. From the ground, Kuahuokalā is virtually hidden from sight, which adds to its mythical quality. It is close to the intersection of buildings, but in space it feels very far away. Because of that isolation, there is no noise but the makani. The foundation, the kahua of this space is the only man-made piece of this building. It is a solid cement slab that allows us to lay down our lau hala, pandanus mats, and use the moveable benches so we can gather together on the floor or move close enough to have conversations or presentations. This outdoor classroom became both the metaphoric and physical third space.

Kuahu means altar and o ka lā means of the sun, which makes the alignment of the building to the sun's path during the summer solstice both purposeful and sacred. This name brings forward ancient Hawaiian ways of knowing. The alignment of the altar, the openings of the hale, the direction of the roof beam, the placement of the cross pieces strategically track the sun as we metaphorically track our own sun, our own enlightenment. The name gives this space purpose – the sanctuary for enlightenment.

Ea

According to Pukuʻi and Elbert (1986), the Hawaiian word ea means sovereignty and independence. It also means life, air, and breath. I argued earlier that the aim of creating this Kuahuokalā was to incorporate Hawaiian ways of knowing into our teaching methods as a way to transform UHWO into an Indigenous-serving institution. While that is a hoped-for result of this work, to put policy into action, in a deeper sense the aim is to use Kuahuokalā as both sanctuary and breathing space. The radical hope is that this sanctuary becomes a sovereign space for independent thought: Ea.

How can ‘ea’ happen? How can a little shack in the middle of the garden, metaphoric or not, be used as an inclusive space for conversation and shared learning about Hawaiian ways of knowing? Who should be invited? Who should be excluded? What ideas should be brought forward as valuable? Who decides what is valuable? Is this something people want to even talk about or care about? Any of these questions can stop forward movement. Any of these questions can spawn more questions. I certainly do not have the answers, but what I do have is a belief that I own my kuleana. I also believe that once I own my kuleana then I need to be ʻeleu, alert, in order to notice when slivers of opportunities arise. I also need to be mākaukau, ready to put my words into action.

Aʻo aku, aʻo mai

The word aʻo means both teaching and learning. In Western thought, to teach and to learn are two separate verbs. Having the two verbs implies that the do-er of the verbs must be two different people; thus we have the teacher and we have the students. The teacher’s job in this relationship is to lead students to learning and pass on knowledge that the teacher already has and the student needs. But in Hawaiian there is only one word: aʻo. Therefore, teaching and learning may be done by the same person. The words aku and mai are directional words meaning away from the speaker and towards the speaker. In Hawaiian ways of knowing, then, the teacher and the students share a tidal flow of knowledge going in both directions so that, seamlessly, the teacher can become the student and the student becomes the teacher.

The opportunity to move forward came with an email from one of the professors running the Center for Teaching and Learning Excellence (CTLE) at UHWO. The email invited all faculty and staff to an informal talk story session, at the CTLE office, on Hawaiian ways of knowing. This professor used the exact phrase ‘Hawaiian ways of knowing’ because it is listed in the University report Papa o Ke Ao. I did not feel as if the timing was right. After all, at the time of receiving the email, I was just two months into this new job. I had just graduated with my doctorate in education and this was my first foray into higher education. After 23 years in secondary education, this was a very different ballgame for me. But this was my moment to step forward and auamo kuleana. I quickly responded that I would be there. I got an email from the professor to let me know that she was unable to be at the gathering, but would I open the door and at least take attendance? I went, I got the door open and I felt as though perhaps people were looking at me to facilitate, because I was able to get the door opened. Because I truly believe that aʻo aku aʻo mai shifts the power dynamics in the classroom, I felt a kuleana to lead the discussion just this once, because we were all here to learn from each other. There were nine of us in a small room and we only had one hour, so I asked them three simple questions. What is your name? What is your role? What brought you to this meeting? What came out of it was that they wanted to learn some Hawaiian language and culture, in short they wanted to learn about Hawaiian ways of knowing. I volunteered to facilitate and find cultural leaders to run our workshops and this initial group became the first members of the Hawaiian ways of knowing hui.

I had a month to create a hui that would privilege Hawaiian ways of knowing that prioritized the people stepping forward and the land we called home. I also had to think about sustainability; after all, I promised a monthly meeting. CTLE supports this endeavor by forwarding my email invitations to all faculty and staff and providing snacks, which fits nicely into my need to hōʻai.

Conclusion

Part of being mākaukau is about finding the waiwai. From the first hui meeting in Kuahuokalā, I knew that I had found the waiwai and the sanctuary. Kuahuokalā continues to be a magical and calming space. Over the past two years of the Hawaiian ways of knowing hui, I have a handful of faculty that, schedules permitting, show up at every hui. If I do not get an RSVP from these members, then I send them a personal reminder and they have always responded or showed up. For other members, I know that they are interested in certain things and so if we have a language workshop, for example, and I know someone is interested in learning more language, I sometimes check their teaching schedule. Based on my belief in aʻo aku aʻo mai, I almost never ask professors to be our leaders. Our leaders are practitioners, experts from the community and even someone’s mother – who taught us to make a lei. The invitation is always to join ‘us’ even if I am the only one sending the invitation out. This becomes important in my invitation to the faculty and staff because I never present myself as the ‘Hawaiian ways of knowing’ expert. Rather, I am both a fellow student in this hui as well as the finder of space and bringer of snacks.

The topics for our hui range from Hawaiian language workshops to lecture series to hands-on workshops. If the members of the hui do not have a preference for the next month’s topic, I do something that highlights the concept of ʻāina momona. For example, we learned how to harvest ferns growing around Kuahuokalā to create a lei, a garland to be placed on the ahu or outdoor altar. That gave us the opportunity us to learn how to harvest plants without harming them. It also presented the opportunity us to discuss the importance of Hawaiian protocol and the purpose and intent of this kind of protocols in our own classrooms. We were able to talk about some misconceptions about protocol versus religion. Most importantly, we learned how to learn on the land.

Another workshop in the garden surrounding Kuahuokalā was on laʻau lapaʻau or medicinal plants and their uses. Participants toured the garden, learned about how kanaka maoli used certain plants for certain illnesses, harvested some of the leaves and herbs for home use and tried some teas made with a few of the dried leaves. The aim with these types of workshops is to continue to return to the idea that this land that we occupy and take care of will be abundant and fertile for us as long as we continue to foster that relationship (ʻāina momona). When we learn to use the land and its abundance, we are learning culture. We are learning language. We are practicing Hawaiian ways of knowing and the cultural leaders and I always encourage teachers to use both the space and the knowledge in their courses.

My obligation as part of the ‘University’ to support ‘vigorous programs of study and support for the Hawaiian language, history and culture’ starts with my intention to hōʻai, my intention to recognize and honor ʻāina momona, to share the sanctuary of Kuahuokalā with all who step forward and to teach and learn together (aʻo aku, aʻo mai). As an indigenous scholar working in a colonizing space, I must be intentional in order to see transformation. These intentions help to carve out a safe space where we can learn together; but, most importantly, we are able to pass this learning on in our own classrooms and spaces. This hui may be but a small success in transforming a university, but it is a small success in the right direction.