s holes in the other ear were thrust a freshly severed pig’s tail and several rifle cartridges. A bone bodkin four inches long was shoved through the dividing wall of his nose. And he addressed me as “Skipper.” Owner and master I was, the only navigator on board, without even a man I could trust to stand a mate’s watch; but it was the first time I had been called Skipper, and I was mighty proud of it.
I’d rather possess these several degrees of able seaman, sourdough, and skipper than all university degrees from Bachelor of Arts to Doctor of Philosophy. They mean more to me, and I am prouder of them. But there is yet one degree I should like to receive, than which there is no other in the wide world for which I have so great a desire. It is Kamaaina.
Kamaaina is Hawaiian. It contains five vowels, which, with the three consonants, compose five syllables. No syllable is accented, all syllables are pronounced, the vowels having precisely the same values as the Italian vowels. Kamaaina means not exactly old-timer or pioneer. Its original meaning is “a child of the soil,” “one who is indigenous.” But its meaning has changed, so that it stands to-day for “one who belongs” — to Hawaii, of course. It is not merely a degree of time or length of residence. It applies to the heart and the spirit. A man may live in Hawaii for twenty years and yet not be recognized as a kamaaina. He has remained alien in heart warmth and spirit understanding.
Nor can one assume this degree for oneself. Any man who has seen the seasons around in Alaska automatically becomes a sourdough and can be the first so to designate himself. But here in Hawaii kamaaina must be given to one. He must be so named by the ones who do belong and who are best fitted to judge whether or not he belongs. Kamaaina is the proudest accolade I know that any people can lay with the lovewarm steel of its approval on an alien’s back.
Pshaw! Were it a matter of time, I could almost be reckoned a kamaaina myself. Nearly a quarter of a century ago — to be precise, twenty-four years ago — I first saw these fair islands rise out of the sea. I have been back here numerous times. As the years pass, I return with increasing frequency and for longer stays. Of the past eighteen months I have spent twelve here.
Some day, some one of Hawaii may slap me on the shoulder and say, “Hello, old kamaaina.” And some other day I may chance to overhear some one else of Hawaii speaking of me and saying, “Oh, he’s a kamaaina.” And this may grow and grow until I am generally so spoken of and until I may at last say of myself: “I am a kamaaina. I belong.”
And this is my Hawaiian Aloha:
Aloha nui oe, Hawaii Nei!
The works of Jack London and other American journalists are freely available at The Archive of American Journalism.