Prejudice is a bitch; and I’m white. I think everyone would agree that the black and native populations around the world have experienced prejudice to the most extreme degree, enduring centuries of persecution, systemic discrimination, and often genocide. Nevertheless it sucks blue whale balls when someone hates you without even knowing you.
If you’re pure-blood, Mayflower-descended white, like me, you almost never experience prejudice….but it happens. Side note: my Grams says she was 1/8 Cherokee, but that can’t be true otherwise I’d have my own casino or be a U.S. Senator (jkz Elizabeth Warren, love you lots).
All throughout the tropical world, milky white skin may get you a few stares, the occasional laugh when you’re slathering on sunblock, or someone might call you “gringo” once. But in actuality, this really has no teeth. Believe it or not, “gringo” tends to be used as a term of endearment, just like “gordo” (fattie).
But if you intend to understand real prejudice and sometimes downright hatred, bring your ass to the more secluded parts of Hawaii. As a “haole” (as the epithet goes), you will be treated coldly, answered in short, sarcastic, snarky outbursts if you ask a local a question, and occasionally be menaced if you stumble into somewhere that you are expected not to be.
I’m certainly not expecting to be over that edge.
Yet I definitely hold no ill will. Hell, if I were Hawaiian, I would hate us too. Through some bullshit deals, America deposed their legally-recognized monarchy, and colonized this place for the sake of pineapple and a nice vacation spot. If that’s not bad enough, Americans developed this weird, colonial nostalgia for Hawaiian culture, enhanced by the stories of World War II G.I.s, who returned home with tales of swaying palms and exotic, grass-skirted women.
Where are all the grass-skirted women in this blurry paradise?
This means that every year, driven by imperialist fantasies of getting served drinks by Polynesian coolies by the lapping ocean waters while bare-breasted women sway their hips for their colonial masters, scores of pink-skinned fat fucks flood the islands draped in 3XL Hawaiian shirts, yelling “mahalo” and chaka-ing at everyone. Yea, I’d want to break those fuckin’ teeth too.
It’s just not the same with all the pink people in view…
Still, while 99.99999% of haoles have been certified as dickholes by J.D. Power & Associates, that’s not to say that a hostile reaction is necessarily worthwhile. There is a gradation. And what I mean by this is mostly specific to myself.
I’m a pretty cool guy, who’s generally down to learn something, and I know a lot of white guys who are too. I’m happy to sit through a lecture on the bullshit ways the Mainland treats the islands; and I will probably agree too. Shit, if you wanna make a semi-aggressive joke about colonizing and raping the land, have at it. But don’t miss out on a good talk before giving me a chance that lasts about as long as the consumption of one beer; you might be surprised.
My brother and I happened to be on a lesser-known side of Kaua’i one January for a vacation. Our parents had turned in for a nap, but Jake and I weren’t ready to stop the party juuuuust yet. And we had a rental car.
I might have been a little sauced already, but Jake was fine and we drove the 5 minutes to the shack boasting the rusted-over, faded sign with “BAR” scrawled on it that looked like it had survived 40 tropical storms with women’s names.
Nothing like blazing trails in an ’82 Jeep Cherokee
As we walk in, people look down at their drinks and we can sense the immediate contempt. We had started getting used to this treatment, so we each casually parked our asses on a bar stool. A middle-aged local, who was still quite pretty for her age, but was clearly a little rough around the edges and looked like she gargled whisky with gunpowder for breakfast, shot us a long stare. With the dip of one eyebrow, she said, “You know, you guys can go sit outside with the kupunas.”
I had no fuckin’ clue what that word meant, but I didn’t need to. The meaning was clear: get the fuck out, you don’t belong. Obviously taken aback, we both silently contemplated our options. Either we skulk outside to exile with our tails between our legs, and leave them to clap each other on the back for the fleeting win over The Man, only to later drown their sorrows again in beer over the abject poverty in which the United States government had left them. Or we attempt the Hail Mary.
What did this mean? What it always does: something so crazy, it just might work. Quite naturally, actually, the words just fell out of our mouths, uttering something so disarmingly honest, a quick jab that was as nice as it was confusing. “But we’d rather sit inside with you….”
Silence. She stared at us, clearly not comprehending that reply. When she came to, she just rolled her eyes, and said, “Whatever.”
Such rude people for such a festive bar!
5 or 6 shots and about 4 beers later, the bar was laughing uproariously at our jokes, all smiles. There had definitely been a warming up period, but we stayed persistent. We had asked them questions, asked their names, and teased them playfully. Eventually a tipping point had come where we realized we had broken through, so we deployed the sledgehammer with the flamethrower tip on the ice remaining between us and the Hawaiians.
One of us, buzzed at this point on only 3 shots, just yelled, “What the hell, guys, do you want a drink on us, or not?!” That was it. Anything left frozen was melted for good, and from then on everyone was all smiles. The biggest, scariest guy in the bar yells, “Man, you bruddas are cool, man!” to which we could only reply, “See, just freakin’ talk to us!” Far from golfers, we still earned our green blazers, becoming part of the in-crowd as we sucked down that fiery rum.
Lesson learned: Just give people a chance, goddammit, beyond your petty prejudices. And if someone doesn’t like you, don’t be afraid to engage with some sincerity; you might make a friend you didn’t know you could have before.
–Wes (35), Aberdeen, WA, locating among locals in Kaua’i