When I left the Marshall Islands in 2008, I allowed myself a week in Honolulu because I had never spent much time in Hawaii (all flights from the Marshall Islands stop in Honolulu). I stayed with Brian, of couch and dresser fame. As I looked around Honolulu, I decided I rather liked it and might want to live there some day. I had also heard that the price of living in Honolulu was no joke, so I asked Brian what it would take to live comfortably there. He thought about it for a moment and said, “You need a wife.”

Three years later I brought Cindy with me to make a life in Hawaii. It was probably the only good piece of advice Brian has ever given to anyone. He certainly sucks at suggestions about moving furniture.

The only thing I want to say about Hawaii is this–it has stories that are worth hearing. If Hawaii were a person, it would appear well put together but with subtle physical characteristics that suggest a tough life, like weathered hands or a limp. It would be a little older, polite, and working in a service-oriented job that requires you to interact with it, but not learn about it.

Last hike in Hawaii

Except Hawaii has a life outside of its brief interaction with you. It has a history, a family, problems, and accomplishments. Hawaii was around long before it served you your coffee, mai tai, or fish taco. Its home was taken away, its memory erased, and its leg was injured in a war. Its ancestors were kings, scientists, and explorers. But also plantation owners, ruthless sharecroppers, and racist bureaucrats. It had to reinvent its way of life a half dozen times for seemingly no purpose, but always forcibly.

Its newest way of life is to serve you during your brief meeting with it. At best, you might walk away from the interaction thinking it was pleasant and not think about it again. At worst, you might make assumptions about why Hawaii has “that kind” of job. Is it not very educated? Does it not work hard enough?

Because maybe you didn’t ask Hawaii how its history motivated its present status. How military occupation affects its economy, or boarding schools eradicated its sense of self, or housing pressure forces more people into less space. All of this is part of the person taking your drink order. If you heard its stories, you would understand how the roles of your interaction–Hawaii serving you–were not randomly determined. A purposeful historical trajectory brought both of you together in that way and, at some level, your meeting is continuing that trajectory.

When you part ways and return to your respective homes, you and Hawaii will lead similar lives but according to very different rules. Your job might pay you more than Hawaii’s job, but it is wealthier in people and relationships than you will ever be. You open your wallet to solve a problem. It makes a phone call. You pay a florist to decorate your wedding. Cindy and I asked a friend, who called her mother, who called her granddaughter, who brought native flowers from another island, and none of them asked for anything except that Cindy and I be good to each other.

If you hear these stories, you might start to realize that there is more to Hawaii than meets the eye. You will understand that the person serving you your mai tai came a long way to be there. You might even think that that person is not just your server, but also a source of knowledge, a teacher. Its stories are worth hearing, and I’m honored I had the privilege of listening to some of them.

I will miss this place, and I will miss my friends. Aloha, Hawaii.