"Smallness is a State of Mind"

The first thing that came to mind after reading Hau’ofa’s “Our Sea of Islands” and Wendt’s “Pacific Maps and Fiction(s)” was my environmental ethics class from last year in which my teacher had pronounced America as being centered around roads; a country, and thus a culture, becoming more and more isolated and concerned with minimizing its landscape. If “smallness is a state of mind,” as Hau’ofa states, it is a state of mind which I believe Americans subscribe to (31).

Look at how few barren and untouched places we have in the country compared to the number of highways and parkways we have. Our desire to connect to one another with roads has left Americans completely devoid of a connection to the landscape, which, if I’m reading Hau’ofa and Wendt correctly, takes us away from our own history and culture, isolating us from who we truly are. We have an enormous amount of maps telling us how to get from point A to point B, but I become hesitant in thinking of the maps Wendt speaks of in his lecture; the maps that guide and shape our identities.

In reading these two pieces, I realized how much of my own preconceived notions about small islands and their contributions to the larger world were wrong. I feel as though I have been brainwashed to think that the bigger the country the more it contributes to the so-called well being of the world. In fact, I feel now it may just be the opposite. The size of Oceania becomes so much greater when the people’s “myths, legends, oral traditions, and cosmologies” are examined (30). It is within these stories that a people’s identity is captured and almost all of these stories are intertwined with the landscape of the islands. Thus, language and tradition and landscape are all connected, and if once one of those things is taken out of the equation, they all fall apart. An example of this is when Wendt speaks of how the educational systems he belonged to would exclude his own Samoan culture leaving him to believe that his culture was “poor” and “boring” (69).

Fortunately for Wendt, he was able to make a connection to his family’s stories and traditions through the landscape of his native villages. Like Ihimaera, Wendt writes as if the natural world and his own humanity are merging when he talks of his trip to Sava’i as a “journey” that “put the lava fields and the essence of Samoanness into my bones” (72). Wendt speaks of the landscape of Sava’i as becoming a part of him; giving him an identity and a oneness with his people’s past. This, in the end, is what Ihimaera describes in the character of Kahu: a link between a culture’s landscape, their present traditions and past myths as encompassed by their own language.

I think Hau’ofa says it the best in the line, “conquerors come, conquerors go, the ocean remains, mother only to her children” (33). Like Ihimaera, Hau’ofa sees the ocean as the signifier and the signified. It is a landscape that encompasses the Oceania tradition and carries it off to wherever its people go. Just as the ocean for Kahu and the Mahori people is where her traditions and myths lie and will continue to propel their traditions into the future.

The Pacific Rim and Japan

Signifiers: Geography
Japan existed with self-imposed, near total isolationism for hundreds of years and did just fine. The culture was rich with its own traditions, religions, and politics. What’s more, it survived on its own resources with little help from outside countries. This isolationism was made much easier by the fact that the nation is a unified body of islands and doesn’t border any neighboring – or competing – countries. However, it progressed much slower technologically than the Western world because of this strict isolationist policy. So, when Commodore Matthew Perry forced Japan to open its doors for trade with the West in 1854 – and did so with Western firepower to back him up – Japan had little choice.
This influx of Western culture took Japan by storm. Commerce with the West went well beyond simple goods. The country was taken by storm with Western thought – particularly its philosophy, especially that of Germany. People like Hegel, Husserl, Nietzsche, and Heidegger caught on like wildfire and Japan began to forsake its own philosophies for those of the West. In fact, this was happening all over. The famous samurai became useless with the import of firearms. Also, the economic boom post World War II gave the Japanese a reason to embrace the Western lifestyle of nine-to-five jobs and business suits even more; never mind that America neutered them as a nation at the end of the war to “keep them in line.” And then there was a backlash.
A man with strong nationalist Japanese sentiments, along with several sympathizers, took over a Japanese building only to commit seppuku, the ritualistic suicide ceremony conducted by the samurai. There was also the Kyoto School, a school of Philosophy pioneered by Nishida Kitaro and Nishitani Keiji. While it didn’t totally abandon Western philosophy, it simply used it to illuminate the strong traditions found in Zen Buddhist that the Kyoto School sought to revive since its loss of academic support in the face of Western thinkers.
Much the same thing is occurring right now in the islands of the Pacific Rim. As Albert Wendt explains in his lecture, Pacific Maps and Fiction(s), these territories had been a self-sustaining body that operated as well as can be expected. They also developed their own rich and unique system of beliefs, culture, and traditions. Since they are islands, they were almost protected from the rest of the world and allowed to flourish and fall on their own. This was, however, until the European colonial age.
With this came white invaders who, with their sense of superiority, denigrated the people of the Pacific Rim until they were ashamed of their past and had only these Western ideals to cling to. Labeled as savages without significant culture, they were broken down to think everything that worked for them in their pre-colonized lives was inferior and wrong. Instead, they were forced to adopt European religion, habits, language, and practices; indeed, they were stripped of their unique qualities to the point where later generations weren’t even aware of their deep and significant history.
However, the islands too have initiated a revival of their native culture. Now that the reigning hand of the whites has been loosened (but not entirely relinquished), these people have begun to uncover and revitalize the world they used to have. Things like native language, tales, and religions are no longer points of shame but rather pride. Also, allegiance to one’s tribe is becoming stronger and inter-island dependence is once again becoming more and more prevalent despite the false boundaries established by the whites. The Pacific Rim, like Japan between the 1850s and 1950s, is once again finding itself amongst the wreckage left behind by invaders.

Cultural Appreciation

“Hi. My name's Ross and I'm from Central Jersey.” That's how most of my introductions went freshman year. The distinction was important; I wasn't from North Jersey and I wasn't from South Jersey. I was from that belt of New Jersey that was too far from New York and Philadelphia to have an infatuation with either of those cities. I was never so specific about my home state or so adamant in my pride in it until I left. In fact, looking back now, I think my own personal entry in my middle school year book mentions something about wanting to live in Delaware when I grew up. Why Delaware? I can't recall now, but I definitely know better after driving through it on my way to and from Loyola. Since leaving the Garden State for school in Maryland, I have felt it's pulse in my veins and know an appreciation for New Jersey that others cannot appreciate or understand.
Of course, the typical New Jersey pride is born in a storm of downward looks and rhetorical jabs. Oh, you're from New Jersey... which mall? What is that smell anyway? These jokes are pretty much par for the course as any resident can tell you. That same resident can tell you that there's more to Jersey than the Turnpike, factories, and dumps. People from the other states don't necessarily know what a Wawa is or why it's the most magical convenience store in existence. They don't recognize most every scene from Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle (and can't claim Kal Penn as a alumnus of their high school). They don't even realize the joy that a pork roll, egg, and cheese can deliver in an authentic diner.
In some small imitation of what Epeli Hau'ofa and Albert Wendt describe in their articles, I have assumed the distinct New Jersey culture into my system. The legends and stories that they refer to remind me of the magazine Weird N.J.. This publication is entirely composed of reader submissions. Topics range from travel stories down back roads and into abandoned buildings to ghost stories to interviews with local legends to old man bars. The amazing thing about this tome is that none of it is necessarily factual and the beauty of it is that it doesn't really matter. Just about any native can turn to a random page and remark to himself or herself, “Hey! I remember everyone talking about that when we were kids”. Every article and story in the magazine a part of the legend of New Jersey just as the origin myths are part of the history of the Maori people.
I sympathize with Wendt when he states in his article “Pacific Maps and Fiction(s)” that his maps are “cultural, artistic, literary/language, spiritual, philosophical, cinematic, mythological, dream, emotional maps”(60). It is very apparent that the individual cultures of the South Pacific are historically inclined to bind all aspects of life into a single, cohesive unit. History and legend are the same thing and family genealogies easily extend back into the legendary. It is not such a difficult leap to come to the conclusion that it is because of this inclination that Wendt's people were so completely won over by European colonizers. He admits that he is “Samoan yet a product of the process of colonialism”(Wendt 63). He learned English by reading the Bible and European history while studying in New Zealand. Fortunately, Wendt was able to retain his own cultural identity and gained a greater appreciation for it through his experiences abroad.
Hau'ofa takes this idea of the individual culture and goes in the opposite direction with it, emphasizing the universal. Most outside observers claim that the South Pacific is merely an assortment of small, weak, unrelated islands. Surprisingly, much of the indigenous population has also adopted this view, including the author. Up to a point. He looks to the legends and traditions of his people to deny the claim that those of the South Pacific are not ““people from outer islands,” as social scientists would say, but as kakai mei tahi or just tahi “people from the sea””(Hau'ofa 31). Hau'ofa proposes that within this unity lies the answer to their economic and diplomatic problems.
This idea of an ever-expanding and all-inclusive culture appears to be common to all the distinct cultures of Oceania. In The Whale Rider the reader bears witness to the joining of past and present, real and myth, secular and religious in the small focal point of Kahu. In addition, Rawiri, the narrator expands his realm of knowledge into Australia and Papau New Guinea, accepting the parts that appeal to him and acknowledging those that he may not agree with but cannot change. In general, the holistic lives of the islands and nations is a marvel that may seem alien at first glance, but can ultimately be appreciated by anyone; even a college student from New Jersey.

Signifiers Analysis

Call Me Ahab

On August 30th, my mother said to me, “Always remember this as a day when life is completely perfect,” and for a moment, I believed her. We were at the beach, my family and I, enjoying one last day of summer before fall came. That day I came to experience longing and pain for an object I still can’t understand, except that it was profound.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon I noticed a large black object in the water, about 100 feet from the shore. I took a kayak that I had brought with me to the beach, and decided to go investigate. I pushed out beyond the waves with slow and deliberate strokes, until I finally came upon the item; it was an enormous piece of driftwood. The base, the part I had seen from the shore was a mess of gnarled and tangled roots, slightly larger than a basketball. The trunk attached was about eight feet long, pockmarked and scarred by its voyage from wherever.

I felt as if I had been drawn to this item, and now that I was within touch of it the feeling intensified. I had to have this piece of wood, for what purpose I still don’t know—but I wanted it. I pushed it ashore with my paddle, slowly but effectively. When I finally reached the shallows I realized that this thing was a lot heavier than I expected, it was after all nine feet of wood that had been waterlogged. I dragged it as best I could to the shore and let the waves do the rest. It was secured within my sight, tangible to me.

I had a legitimate dilemma though, there was no way I could drag the piece of wood to the car, and even if I could, no way I could fit it anywhere. I sat on the beach all day, watching my treasure tumble along the shore, spinning through the waves. The only way I could get the driftwood home would be to saw it up into pieces and carry it like that.

But I never did buy a saw, and I never did cut up the driftwood. I let it slip away from me, the last image I have is of it tumbling in the surf as the sun set to the east.

The driftwood was a microcosmic symbol of my entire summer, my entire life. I had given my sweat, blood (yes I sustained many cuts wrestling with the wood in the waves) and even tears to obtain this wood—and I failed. For one of the first times in my life that I can remember I wanted something that was completely free, something that was born of nature and seemed to just come to me, drawing me to it. I had done nearly everything within my power to extract this object and failed, it was out of reach. Just as my perfect summer had slowed down and died, the sun set, quite literally, on my prize. As we left to home, the air cooling and the night waxing, I evaluated myself. Covered in salt, sweating and burned I had sacrificed for something and failed in obtaining it—the nature or value of that item was inconsequential, it was what it stood for.

I believe this feeling is akin to what Albert Wendt refers to as “the enormous sense of loss […] one of the major concerns of literature in the Pacific and in other post-colonial countries” (64). Though my experience is quite trivial in relation to the imperialistic loss suffered by the Pacific Islands, I feel the same sense of loss of the unknown. Later, Wendt speaks of Mt. Taranaki with the same sense of sadness, writing “Somehow the Mountain never left me alone; Its sadness picked at me” (74). It seems as if there are unseen forms, forces in natural objects that evoke genuine emotions within certain people. For Wendt it’s the mountain, for me it’s the driftwood.

In Our Sea of Islands Epeli Hau’ofa describes the way colonial settlers have attempted to disintegrate indigenous culture through a campaign of language and belittlement. He speaks of hopelessness (29) as a tool in coercing natives to give up their traditions. The invocation of despair is both powerful and unsettling; it is among the most profound loss that any human can feel. In The Whale Rider, the ultimate threat of tribal annihilation is at the center of the novel. The characters cannot do anything to change their situation; they are reliant upon an outside force. Kahu serves as a savior, but she has no control over her gift—she is a function of it.

It is nature who becomes a character in these settings. The whales and the sea are entities in The Whale Rider which exert influence over the outcome. Wendt describes this phenomenon as, “the long sad silence of the land and the rainforest, the stark vulnerability and truth of lava, the slow relentless burning of the sun […] all these and more entered the pores of my skin, eyes, heart, moa and would never desert me” (72). I too, understand this language of nature.

The Essence of the Global System

This past semester I studied at the American University in Paris, and was enrolled in a “topics” history class. The instructor of the course was an outspoken and eccentric American who among his myriad of accomplishments could boast of spending a year working in Hollywood, teaching for several years at NYU and publishing a collection of successful history novels. The network he had created as he traveled and his years of experience examining the histories of other countries allowed him to lead the class discussion with a broad perspective and open mind. His next endeavor was a book that would be a study of one of France’s most infamous men: Charles de Gaulle. The class was comprised of a mix of American and European students that all lent an individual perspective to our analysis of the period that de Gaulle was in power in France, then out of power, and then eventually back in power. It was the first time that I had ever taken an in-depth look at another country’s rich and intricate history, and was learning about in the very place where the original events occurred.
Though de Gaulle proved to be an eloquent and powerful leader, we learned that foreign policy was not one of his strong suits. During the later years he was in power, many serious issues arose as the colonies that France was controlling at the time began to voice their discontent with the lack of representation they had in their native land, and how they were being treated by their foreign colonizers. Many of the French felt that the changes their government leaders and missionaries were imposing in their colonies like Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia were for the ultimate well-being of the natives who they believed simply did not know there was a “better way”, while simultaneously expanding the nation’s empire to other continents. Their authority over Algeria became a particular issue that came to a head while de Gaulle was in office. The Algerians were in turn upset by the disturbance of customs and traditions that had been practiced for centuries. The occupation resulted in a loss of their land, and an indifference to the well being of the native citizens. It was pretty appalling to learn how the civilized Frenchmen were treating the equally civilized Algerians, and very interesting to see the similar reactions of students from very different backgrounds to the issue.
Epeli Hau’ofa, in his essay Our Sea of Islands, emphasizes the idea that there is not one singular way to view things, but rather several. It is evident that the French, by refusing for awhile to allow Algeria to have its independence and finding it necessary to impose standard European policy in the state without very much regard to the Algerians opinion on the matter, felt they were doing so for the greater good of the natives. Hau’ofa also voices the tendency of those in power to attempt to fit the Pacific Islands into a standard economic mold, and the perils of a such a narrow singular view of what is “good”: “If this narrow, determinitistic perspective is not questioned and checked, it could contribute importantly to an eventual consignment of groups of human beings to a perpetual state of wardenship wherein they and their surrounding lands and seas would be at the mercy of the manipulators of the global economy and “world orders” of one kind or another.”(30) Promoting an idea of a prosperous nation that so differs from the structure of the Pacific Islands was only disheartening the inhabitants, and throughout the essay Hau’ofa emphasizes that there are several ways that they to can be an important part of the world’s economy, without sacrificing their cultural identity. In particular, the geography of the Pacific Islands has fostered a traditional relationship to the sea, and has been passed through generations.
Our professor emphatically related the events that led de Gaulle to concede to the necessity of Algeria becoming a free, sovereign nation. Perhaps the removal of the wealth of resources of the European nation from Algeria did not necessarily foster the economy of the African country, but it did allow the Algerians to freely practice their traditional customs and lifestyle. Hau’ofa takes the same stand for Oceania when he asserts the importance of the Oceanic cultures traditions of reciprocity: a simple, beautiful give-and-take relationship with one another, which may not fit the standard Western economic plan for success, but as he states, is an “interdependency, which is purportedly the essence of the global system”.(35) The history class, as well as the Post-Colonial literature class I had previously taken has allowed me to realize the merit of preserving ancestral tradition and unique cultures, as well as understanding the possibility of the amiable marriage of old and new.

Test Post

This is a test post.