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Please check this site for two reasons:

  1. It takes Hawaii residents, local style,  to build 20 homes in a week for the evacuees. It takes a man called Gilbert to donate his property and his humanity to make this happen.
  2. Gilbert has a history with me. When he was born to immigrant parents, his father Alberto told me, “My son, he come lawyer someday.” I told him, “He can be anyone, Alberto, but be sure to raise a good man. A man who will return back to his people because our country has been good to us.”

When Gilbert was in middle school he told me he wants a shade job when he grows up. He has been working in his parents’ papaya fields since he could walk. He has his own electricity company today.

I will write up his story in more detail later, hopefull, for the press.

So Mr. Trump, what do you think of children of immigrant parents now?

Below is the site, where you can see the live coverage. I will also print out the story below the site.

http://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/38389180/were-gonna-get-it-done-today-volunteers-put-finishing-touches-on-emergency-shelters-for-evacuees

While many opted to stay with friends, family or in a county-provided shelter, less-than optimal conditions have led residents to begin worrying about long term solutions to an ongoing problem.

Last Friday, a group of Big Island volunteers teamed up to begin prep work on a project to build 20 tiny homes that will give evacuees a private place to plan their next steps. And on Saturday, the group is nearly complete.

By the afternoon, volunteer workers, which included several men and women with construction backgrounds, already had roofs on the tops of micro shelters, which measure 10-feet by 12-feet with about 120 square feet of floor space.

The effort was made possible due to an emergency proclamation issued by Big Island Mayor Harry Kim.

“Some of us here have been directly affected by the lava, so we’re happy to be here and give back to the community,” said Dean Au, with Hawaii Carpenters Union.

The 20 micro shelters will fill an 8-acre plot of land behind Sacred Heart Church off Pahoa Village Road. Several community groups and businesses pitched in time, supplies and manpower, including Big Island Electrical Services, HPM Building Supply, and HOPE Services Hawaii, among others.

“(There is) a wide assortment of occupations from the national guard, the carpenters union, businesses and community volunteers, all of the contractors, it’s just incredible,” said Darryl Olivera, safety officer for HPM Building Supply.

Gilbert Aguinaldo, owner of Big Island Electrical Services, said that he has no doubt that all 20 micro shelters will be completed this weekend.

“I promise you, there is no excuse, we are going to put all these houses up today,” Aguinaldo said. “And when I say we’re gonna get it done today, we’re gonna get it done It today.”

Copyright 2018 Hawaii News Now. All rights reserved.

 

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Our old house lot in Kapoho was covered with lava a few days ago. The poem below describes the original Kapoho of my childhood, not the current Kapoho:

 

Once There Was a Kapoho

 

Once there was a Kapoho

Where children played barefooted

Until the evening sun disappeared

And kerosene lamps and gas lamps

Beckoned each child home.

 

Once there was a Kapoho

Where outhouses and water tanks

Prominently stood as sentinels

And ohi’a firewood sent signals

Above rooftops, announcing

A hot furo* for the tired and the toiled.

 

Once there was a Kapoho

Where mothers pumping sewing machines

Marked the end of summer.

Homemade clothes and one-strapped schoolbags

For the first of September.

 

Once there was a Kapoho

Without television,

But battery-run radios,

Crackling “The Romance of Helen Trent,”

Dr. Malone and Arthur Godfrey.

 

Once there was a Kapoho

Without washing machines

But wooden washboards

Against concrete tubs

Slippery, muddy denims

Boiled in Saloon Pilot cans.

 

Once there was a place

Without shopping malls and Macy’s,

But catalogs from Sears and Montgomery Ward,

Dream-makers, before Charmin or MD.

Once there was Christmas without lights.

Yes, once there was a place

So simple and free

Where children swam in Warm Springs

And fished in Green Lake,

Played marbles and Ojame

And Steal Steal Stone.

 

Once there was a place

Where life went on without question.

Sons went off to war,

Teachers taught the 3 Rs

Parents were the PTA

And children pledged allegiance.

 

Yes, once there was such a place

Until Madam Pele** said, “No more!”

And scattered all the children

Like stars in the universe,

Echoing Thomas Wolfe,

“You can’t go home again.”

 

From Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii

 

* furo: bath

**Kapoho was destroyed by lava flows. Madame Pele, fire goddess in Hawai’ian lore, is believed to be the creator of eruptions.

I gave the following speech in my freshman class at the University of Hawaii while my home town Kapoho was being destroyed by Kilauea Volcano.  Yesterday I heard of someone from Sacramento who hired a private helicopter to see the “beautiful” once in a lifetime eruption. This is from my book Kapoho: Memoirs of a Modern Pompeii.

“Kapoho, my home town, is being destroyed by lava as I stand here. In the snack bar downstairs, in the media, and in conversations among many of you who have taken helicopter rides to view the eruption, I hear you saying things like “spectacular”, “awesome”, and even “inspiring.”  The camera lens, the first hand sightings from low-flying helicopter rides only show Pele’s  fire. That  can be awesome. Spectacular, even,  if Kapoho were just a piece of dirt, a nowhere place that nobody cares about. But Kapoho is where I grew up.

            My family has evacuated to my aunt’s house. I was there last weekend when my father’s name shrieked  from the radio to identify the next house that was destroyed. My father’s response made me feel  afraid for him as I watched his disbelief. I was  afraid that his mind could crack like the  land beneath our house, cracked wide open by earthquakes.

            My father looked at us and said,   “That can’t be me. That must be another Sadame Kakugawa.” It was spooky to hear him say that.

            My father is a simple plantation worker. He earns minimum wage to support our family of seven and send me to school. We depend on our thirteen acres of cane land  to pay off our   debts.  Losing our home would just kill him

            When my mother told him, “It is your house. There is no other Sadame Kakugawa,” my father just sat there. I could see him looking for some way out. The hardest thing I had to watch that sad day was his resignation. He said, “If Pele wants my house, she can have it.”

And that’s just one story, mine. There’s a village full of stories like this, and the saddest part is,  there isn’t even a village anymore. You want spectacle? There’s a spectacle for you.

I sat abruptly down. At least one person had heard me that day, because for the rest of the year, my purchases were paid for at the snack bar.  All I knew about my benefactor was that he was a veteran.

We knew we  were living on top of  a live volcano. The steam rising from small fissures that were under our house would rot some of my father’s fish nets.

“I think Pele lives under our house,” my father would say. Scientifically, it was a canary.

Pele was warning us, but we never gave it a thought. We took it for granted, the dampness, the smell of rotten eggs, it was an normal and natural as the wrigglers or the tiny fragments of stones caught in the Bull Durham tobacco bags that hung around our tap to filter water from the wooden water tanks.

My father’s relationship with Pele was personal. He often went fishing at nights and returned in the early hours of the  morning. When he returned within an hour, we knew there was a story that he would tell us later.

“I was about to throw my net when something told me to turn around.  I saw this old woman with long white hair, standing behind me on the rocks. She had no feet. I know it was Pele warning me that the waves were too rough and dangerous,  so I picked up my nets and said, ‘thank you, Pele,’ and came home.”

My father is not the only family member who respects  Pele.

 

The Go For Broke Spirit: Portraits of Courage

go for broke

The Go For Broke Spirit book is poetry. It is poetry that preserves the humanity of man and more. I first looked at the photos  without the text and was driven to my gut with emotions. The  portrait accompanying each story is a novel in itself… each man’s silent story of honor and dignity is  deeply embedded in the seasoned lines on  his face,  his hands, and in his  eyes. You can’t help but be drawn to the text,  knowing that it would compound the powerful photos with their stories. This is accomplished with poetic precision and inspiration.  Both photos and texts powerfully tell the stories of these young Japanese-American men who fought for their country while their families lived in internment camps. Veterans from Hawaii and the West Coast are represented in the book.

 

More than 80 veterans’ portraits and their stories are preserved in this hardcover book. If this part of our history is to be preserved, it must be through the generations following not only these brave and honorable men, but all others as well.

This book must become a legacy for generations to come so the lessons learned about honor, bravery, dignity, patriotism and human kindness can be lived and practiced by all of us. We owe this to these brave men and their families and to the Issei generation who began this story.  There is no enemy, no hatred, no racism, only ignorance and this can be dealt with, as told by each veteran.

 

The Japanese cultural practice of gaman ( to accept that which cannot be changed) ,

 on( obligation), and gambatte (perseverance)  are constant in how they processed the indignities of war and racism. The stories told by these Japanese-American men must be universally shared to end all wars and man’s inhumanity to man. Simply, fill each household with a copy of this book.

The Go for Broke Spirit: Portraits of Courage was created by Shane Sato and Robert Hosting.

On a very personal note, the following appeared in the Hawaii Herald in the May issue of 2017.

Special to The Hawai‘i Herald

There’s a piece of unfinished business in my memory that I want to share with the 100th Infantry Battalion/442nd Regimental Combat Team veterans on behalf of a stranger in Germany.

When I visited Germany years ago, an old woman looked at me and began to weep. She reached out her hand to me. When I went to her, she took my hand, kissed it and began to speak in German, tears rolling down her face. Her grandson explained that I reminded her of the Japanese-American soldiers from Hawaii who were so kind to her during World War II. Was I from Hawai‘i? Yes, I told her, and I know those soldiers.

For the first time in my life since Pearl Harbor, my face was greeted with tears of joy because of the 100th/442nd soldiers,

As a result, in my Dangerous Woman: Poetry for The Ageless,  I included the following poem to honor the Japanese – American soldiers who are still remembered and honored for their humanity while many of their families were in internment camps back home.

 

HAMBURG, GERMANY

In the Philippines,

World War II follows me into the night.

“Stay indoors after dark, people still remember

Japanese soldiers on Corregidor.”

 

My sixth-grade student writes in his journal

“December 7: I hate the Japs. I wish they were all dead.

My grandfather told me about them.”

 

In Hamburg, a woman, lined with age

Holds my hand and weeps to me in German.

I remind her of soldiers from Hawaii.

She has not forgotten their kindness long ago.

 

Our tears taste the same

In German and in English.

We are the only ones standing

In the aftermath of wars.

 

  • From: “Dangerous Woman: Poetry for the Ageless”

by Frances H. Kakugawa

 

 

Hi Everyone,
Here is an hour long interview I had with Micheal Pope,  CEO of ASEB (Alz Services of East Bay) this morning on aging and giving care. I read poetry from Ageless Woman and I Am somebody. Micheal is an amazing woman who devotes her life to helping others.
I don’t know how I did…I just about never listen or watch anything I say or do on radio or TV.
Take care,
frances

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lifeisasacredjourney/2018/05/24/poetry-for-the-ageless-with-frances-kakugawa

Thank you for asking about my Kapoho book: Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii.

I was 18 when our town was covered by the same Kilauea Volcano who has returned to the same area.  Book is available on Amazon, Watermark Publishers , Barnes & Noble, and other local bookshops. The  cover shows the main part of Kapoho: The pool hall, the Nakamura store, and the theater which used generators to show films. My grandmother’s house was one of the first to be totally covered by lava.

3 by 4 kapoho cover

Be Still, Be Still

 

What will poets do

Without the first bloom of Spring

Waltzing in the wind?

 

What will children do

Without slimy green frogs

Slipping through fingers?

 

What will  Basho have  seen

Without the leap of the frog

Splash! Then stillness again.

 

What will you do

Without the sound of stillness

In the morning dew?

 

What will you do?

frances kakugawa