For Family and Country Part 1

If there is one thing that is considered a backwards idea in this day and age, it is the notion that family and homeland do not matter and are simply things that have passed their time in our individualistic, globalized and atomized age. Those that know best consider that the individual and his personality is primarily constructed by his immediate environment, his life experiences and most importantly, his internal reflection on the above. That is, of course, bullshit of the highest order. First and foremost, we are determined by the innate codings of our genes and how they express themselves. Secondly, we are defined by the larger overall culture in which we are immersed in. Let me explain. A 100% Japanese-American will share proclivities inherent in every ethnically Japanese person, whether they be born in Japan, or third generation in America or Brazil. However, how those proclivities express themselves will be shaped by the larger cultural milleau he or she lives in. An inherent aesthetic sentimentality, for example, may attach itself to Bossa Nova instead of Enka, with all the trappings that entails. But what does that mean for our theoretical Japanese-American in his search for himself?

I hold that one of the great weaknesses of HBD in this discussion has been overgeneralization. What it can say about generalities and larger groups is both interesting and useful. Its efficacy in individual introspection is limited. It’s simply too macro in it’s outlook. What is necessary is to tell the story in a micro manner, namely to look at one’s own family tree, and one’s relations to see where they came from, and where perhaps they will go. This is not a screed of deterministic dictums on one’s fate. In my eyes, the illusory nature of free will is negated by the fact that we will never be able to completely predict everything, and we will always be able to surprise ourselves with the seeming capriciousness of our own and others personalities. This isn’t a scientific essay where I submit results of the allele analysis of me and my relatives 23andMe reports. Instead it is a rambling personal reflection on ancestral heritage and the soil, water and sun that surrounds it.

Where to begin? Let’s start at the ending. Myself. I was born and raised in Hawaii, a distant outlying part of the United States of America, once its own independent kingdom, and now a slowly homogenizing cosmopolitan society. American, yet not completely so. I am of Portuguese, Filipino, Hawaiian, Chamorro, Scottish, Chinese, and German heritage. For various reasons I self-identify as Hawaiian, but in future posts, I will explain why by the standards of where I live, my own designation is dubious. My multiplicity of ancestries is perhaps uncommon where you are from, but not so much here. Over 20% of the population of Hawaii is multiracial and no one ethnicity dominates, though it is not the shiny utopian world of beautiful sun people that some people who believe ideology over reality would have you think. Nor is it a hellhole of subliminated racial tensions that contrarian holders of socially frowned upon thought crimes on race would think it is. It is messy and disorganized and gloriously complicated. In short, it is human, and it is my home.

Part II: The awareness of difference

 

How to be “That sort of guy” without even trying

Yeah, I’m supposed to write a post outlining my music project. I’m also supposed to write a fictional piece for IMF. Both ain’t anywhere near ready to be rolled out with yet.

Why?

Because today was a sunny day and I live a 20 minute walk from one of the top ten beaches in the nation. Same with last weekend and the weekend before that. Ever read that Steve Sailer VDARE post about his theory that Hawaii is a land of the Lotus Eaters where in order for someone to accomplish something they have to leave the sun-kissed laid-back land of “Ainokea” for the big cities of the mainland?

All fucking true. This is a place where at work “lunch break” is a state of mind rather than a set time in which you hurriedly eat food and get back to your desk. A place where you invite a total stranger on the beach to jam on the uke and have a couple beers (happened Memorial Day). A place where clocks go to waste. Hence, near everything I try to start gets pushed back to oblivion. As for blogging… dude… why would I do something that gets me pissed off at the world when I can go to the beach and see loads of scantily clad 20-somethings?

On that note, let me get to the damn point of this post, in which a mildly amusing story is shared. Anyways, Friday night for me is “pau hana Friday”, even though I work most Saturdays. Because I can’t really drink alcohol without wicked hangovers that make me shit useless, I drink kava, the traditional mind-altering beverage of the Pacific Islands. It’s an acquired taste, to say the least. Think of sucking down a gritty mud puddle with Novocaine mixed into it,  and you have the flavor of straight kava. The effects ain’t too impressive for most, since you retain complete mental clarity the whole time, you simply get very relaxed and mildly euphoric. All you want to do is sit someplace nice and quiet and either play a little music or engage in light chit-chat. Think the opposite of an energy drink. I can tell you, it’s one of the best things you can drink if you’re all sore after a day of work, all the tension just flies out of your muscles. Of course, I’ve gotten to the point where I can drink enough of it to get to that point, as I enjoy taste. For most people, they gag immediately.

Anyways, I was little short on powder for the night, and there’s really only one place you can get the stuff in my town, a health food store run by some weird splinter group of the Hare Krishnas. Anyways, it’s always reasonably well stocked, but I don’t go there much, I’m not the sort of person who goes to stores that not only have a “no smoking” sign outside their door but a “no meat on the premises” sign.

So I go in and attempt to find the kava, and I notice that the store manager is shadowing me as I walk around the store. I think it’s a bit odd since I’m dressed in fairly respectable work clothes. As I walk down the aisle, two elderly hippie ladies stop their conversation and watch me as I go by, silent. I round the corner and nearly bump into an underfed and overtattooed Asian girl who jumps out of my way like I’m a leper.

By this point I’m slightly weirded out, so I go and fill a bag with kava and make my way out of the store (the clerk who rang me up at least was polite). As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, I look in the rear view mirror and realize what hat I’m wearing that day; my rusticated leather bushranger.

Hah, I can be a massive asshole without even realizing it!

P.S. Their kava was shitty and weak bulk Fijian powder, so I guess they had some revenge on me.

P.S.S. Plastic Beach sounds awesome when you’re zonked on kava.

P.S.S.S. I do believe that this is the first time that Steve Sailer and the Gorillaz have been invoked in a single post.