A Pineapple Princess I am Not.

I began taking hula classes with our neighbor-friend to establish a relationship with her and well, why not learn to dance hula? So every Tuesday evening at 4:45 pm Nicole and I trek over to the hulau to dance with the keiki (kid hula) for an hour, and then join the big girls for another hour. Early on I discovered that a graceful hula dancer was not in the cards for me, and so I merely suck in my breath, find my place in the back corner, and awkwardly dance hula with the local Hawaiian girls.

To give you an idea of my dancing background - well, there is none. My parents had enough awareness to know I was not suited for dancing due to my lack of coordination (rightfully so - they really were sparing me, not being mean) and encouraged me to do other activities, like swimming, which would not require as much coordinated grace. I tried a hip hop class in college and confirmed the fact that choreographed dancing is extremely hard for me. Really. I'm not being hard on myself, just being very honest. I'm ok with that.

Last night, however, was just plain embarrassing.

We had a special hula night to honor a five year old girl with cancer through Make A Wish Foundation. Her wish was to come out to Hawaii and learn to dance hula. The plan was to teach Julianne an easy hula called Pineapple Princess while the rest of us learned with her. Because of the special event, a few news crews came to report the cause. Which is all well and good and I'm so glad that precious Julianne, with her bleach blonde hair and bright blue eyes, was able to be honored and recognized... but, well, it was an absolute nightmare for me.

Before the grand entrance of Julianne, all the hula girls got into skirts and t-shirts to prepare for the dance. My neighbor-friend Nicole told me she wasn't bringing her hula attire because she thought only the little girls were dancing. Of course, I don't do anything without consulting my expert hula friend, and I leave my hula skirt behind as well. Instead, I sport a jean skirt, tanktop, and headband which looks nothing like proper hula attire. As the little girls and ladies get ready (because at this point the ladies are dancing too - glad I got the memo) I walk around aimlessly, looking for a place to escape when one of the ladies hands me a t-shirt and motions for me to get a skirt because the cameras are ready to roll. I'm absolutely mortified and rush to get dressed, pulling my hula skirt (which looks like cloth Aloha curtains cinched around my waist) over the jean skirt. Great. Now I look lumpy and sloppy. While we are waiting for Julianne to come in, I decide to try and take my jean skirt off underneath the hula skirt, because honestly, I don't want another ten pounds added on top of whatever the camera adds. Right as I am slyly doing a deck change, the camera lights turn on and the door opens to reveal the most beautiful five year old girl I have ever seen. She walks in with a shy smile on her face... and my hands are down my skirt trying to undo the zipper. This is not happening right now. Not happening. This only happens on TV. And now it's happening to me - on TV! In a moment of panic, I turn around, zip up the skirt and settle for bunchy hips as the hula instructor motions us to take position.

As our instructor begins teaching us the hula, a panic starts to wash over me. The camera pans the room, and I am one of maybe three hauole (white) girls in the room. Only I'm not born and raised in Hawaii, and I'm not five years old, so my awkward movements look extremely out of place. Escape now! I look for the nearest exit while the music to "Pineapple Princess" fills the room and the hula girls start dancing. Left? No right... Oh gosh they're going left and I'm going right. Lift arms. Oh, sooner. Dip lower. Let hips sway. Don't be awkward. Don't be awkward. "OK hula girls, let's try it again from the top." Dear God, please let me disappear. The entire church is going to watch the news tonight and see me moving opposite what I'm supposed to while wearing a frumpy hula skirt. Left foot, right foot. "Let's take a quick break hula girls and go over the motions one more time."

I know, you were all hoping I'd stick it out and just look goofy on TV, but that's not the case.

I bolted.

Literally.

In that moment of pause I ran across the room and out the door to watch the rest of the night with the smiling parents who came to see their six year old daughter dance hula with the sweet five year old Julianne. I avoided the quizzical stares the best I could and waited for the pizza party after. "Why didn't you dance with us?" asked the hula ladies after the dance was over. "Um, er, uh, well I was um just really awkward and the camera made me nervous. So I ran away." "But the hula was really easy, you could have done it." Not with bunchy hips and awkward arms. "Aw thanks, maybe next time." They politely smile and tell me they all started where I am today, except they were ten years old and not almost twenty three.

I did manage to make some new friends and I am so grateful for the experience, but from now on, I do believe I will stay far away from any TV cameras and live performances until I can get over the awkward white girl hula....

This Blog is Rated "G"

In case you were concerned, or wondering... this blog is rated G and is appropriate for all audiences. If you'd like to rate your blog, click here.

The only red flag that came up was the word "dangerous," used once. I don't even know where I wrote that word... apparently somewhere in my blog. This is very amusing to me.

Writing

I posted this on my writing blog, but I think that probably people don't check that blog often, especially since I rarely update it. And since I have nothing to write about right now, or at least I don't have the energy to turn everyday life into writing, I am just posting this to have something new and different. Partially influenced by Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life" which is both motivating and depressing at times.

Took two jr. high girls to the mall yesterday for three hours. I love that this is part of my job ;)





Writing sentences is like writing equations. Each word travels and carries and builds its way through a page, and it is the punctuation’s duty to surround and confine the words into formal structure. The effect creates an absurd, yet formidable mathematical equation. Literature and math, I think, possess the same limitations and opportunities. The laws of algebra, trigonometry, geometry, and calculus are learned and held fast – except, perhaps by the few who dare to rewire equations in an affix to defy mathematical laws. In literature, we are taught the value of the poetic license. In school we are taught the grammatical laws. In the writer’s hands is the opportunity to use her creative license… without being bound to laws of punctuation and structure. Few dare to defy these laws, however, just as few mathematicians venture outside the stable world of well-worn equations.

To the writer, this is both terrifying and exciting. Too much freedom releases the harness of the work and it dissipates before forming any sense of cohesion. In the opposite direction, structure breeds boredom and predictability.

I have begun many stories of prose. I have finished one. And I hate it, so perhaps it isn’t at all finished. The idea of reworking the story pains me. I have no interest in it any longer.

On most mornings, I am given a cup of coffee. My husband makes the coffee, puts one sugar in the raw and an inch of milk in the bottom of my mug, and fills the rest with bold coffee. Sometimes I pour my own cup of coffee. Regardless of who pours it or how it is made, I will only drink about four swallows of the dark, caffeinated liquid. My roommate in college used to fill my mug up to only two inches when she prepared the coffee. This is how she loved me.

Writing is like drinking coffee. I am overjoyed by the sight, sound, and taste of it, but when it comes to drinking it whole and swallowing the last ounce, I rarely follow through. Finishing is not my forte.

There are exceptions, of course to my coffee drinking delinquency. If I order a small, iced coffee with a half an inch of nonfat milk and one Sugar – in – the – Raw, I will drink the entire cup without hesitation. I will also finish a cup of coffee if prepared in a friend’s home. Not out of obligation, but because coffee tastes better to me if it comes from somewhere else.

If I sit down to write because it should be part of my routine and I feel the need to pursue its practice, I won’t finish. If I grab my laptop out of sudden inspiration and begin typing sentences, I will complete three paragraphs, maybe three pages, but I won’t finish. Somehow, there must be a marriage between the two to complete a piece of work. I believe this happens when inspiration meets discipline, and visa versa. My paranoid antics might just keep me from ever achieving my dream of becoming a writer. All because I can’t finish a cup of coffee. And coffee wasted is no good at all.

Getting in My Groove

Things are starting make sense... I understand the weather moves fast through the Island, dinners taste better when prepared with someone else, and face paint makes any Jr. High activity better.

Not your Average Parade

We attended Kailua's 4th of July parade this past Wednesday, and experienced a parade of interesting sights. It was amusing, to say the least, to watch Darth Vador walk the streets of Kailua carrying an American flag with his companions. Where do we live?!!!!