It was near sunset at Kalama Beach Park in Kailua, O‘ahu, and I had lost my slippers. Just as we were packing up the car to leave, I realized they were missing. So as I finished loading kids and boogie boards into the car, my husband trekked back out to the sand to find them.
What we didn’t realize was that it was nearly 6 p.m. The gates at the Kalama Beach parking lot would be closed and locked by a security guard at that time. I had grown up on this beach, tumbling in the shorebreak, building castles in the soft white sand — I’m a Kailua girl, born and raised. But back for a visit after many years away, I had forgotten all about the gate.
My husband arrived triumphant, waving the slippers at me, then we pulled out to leave. As we rolled toward the gate, which was still open, the security guard glanced up at our approaching rental car and slowly swung the bar shut. He latched the padlock and walked away. I looked at my husband, aghast. This had to be a joke.
Then, before I could stop him, my husband rolled down the window and asked politely in his South African accent if we could please exit. The second he opened his mouth — branding us as outsiders and probably tourists — I knew we were screwed. The guard laughed and shook his head. I knew I had only minutes to try to save the situation. So I jumped out of the car and crossed over to the guy, breaking — I’m embarrassed to say — into my best pidgin: Eh, uncle, I called out to him, walking my best tita walk, you’re not gonna lock us in, yeah?
Full disclosure: We did not speak pidgin at home when I was growing up. My dad’s family has been in the islands since the days of King Kalākaua, but my father spent many school years on the continent, and my mother was a haole from Ohio. My grandparents, however, my Popo and Gung Gung, spoke a kind of island pidgin that goes back to the plantation era. This wasn’t the cheesy shaka brah pidgin you might hear from new transplants and surfers trying to fit it. Back then, Asians, haoles and Hawaiians all spoke pidgin as a common language, because it was the only way they could communicate with one another.
As kids, many of us were constantly codeswitching — from home to school to hula class to the beach, with town friends, with neighborhood friends, with grandparents, with teachers. But no matter which neighborhood you grew up in, or which school you attended, back then if you were growing up in Hawaiʻi you’d better know some pidgin to get around. It was like a secret handshake, a passport that showed your localness. It still is, maybe now more than ever. At times your survival might depend on it — or in this case, your exit from a parking lot.
The guard turned slowly and looked at me, sizing me up: small hapa girl giving him big-tita attitude. I wasn’t sure if he was convinced by my posturing, but he pointed at the sign and shook his head: This happens every night, yeah? They nevah learn. Call the police — they come let you out. At that moment a sunburned surfer with wet, shaggy blonde hair carrying a shortboard walked past us and laughed at me: Ha-ha! Locked in! And though I was already upset about the gate, for some reason this guy made me furious.
I could see the guard was enjoying this. I could also see that he was fed up. The number of tourists flooding Kailua Beach — considered one of the best beaches in the country — has increased exponentially over the years, crowding out locals. The cost of living in Kailua has also ballooned, pushing out Native Hawaiians and long-time kamaʻāina families. The pressure in this small beachside community is approaching a breaking point, as residents old and new wrestle over short-term rentals and real estate prices. The small-town culture of my youth is rapidly being paved over by a new culture driven by wealthy, entitled newcomers.
I’ve known for some time the situation has been tense. I’ve known the locals are angry. I feel it myself every time I come home. The crowds, the traffic, the frustration of finding a parking spot. But did this guy think I was part of the problem? Am I part of the problem? My family is now five generations deep in Hawaiʻi, but I’m not Hawaiian. I went to a private school in town, but we lived in the back of Kailua in Keolu Hills — on a street with roosters and drug dealers — not on the fancy beachfront. I moved away from Hawaiʻi when I was 18 to attend college in California and two years ago moved my family back, but we now live in rural Maui. We rent in rural Maui. My husband and I are professionals with advanced degrees, and even we would struggle to live comfortably in Kailua.
Had I been gone so long I was now an outsider in my own hometown?
I erupted like a small volcano: You know what, I grew up in this town. And this is not the town I remember. This — what is happening here, right now — is not the way this town used to be. I’ve got two little kids in the car. We just want to go home. We were driving out and you shut the gate right in our face! People in this town used to help each other out and take care of each other. This was a family town. But Kailua has become a mean place! This is why I don’t live here anymore!
The guard was silent for a moment, then a sadness washed over his face. Yeah, I rememba how it used to be. I grew up here too, you know. It’s changed a lot. He nodded, thoughtfully. You know what they call it now? Cry-lua. Because everybody’s always crying over here.
I took a deep breath. He was hearing me. And I was hearing him. We talked some more, about how he was worried about his job, about whether he’d be able to stay in Kailua himself. Though we were on opposite sides of this argument about the gate, we had found a connection through our love for this place, through the sense of loss we both felt for a Hawaiʻi we once knew.
Kailua means two seas. It’s said the area was named for the two large lagoons that once existed here. The extensive wetlands were used as fishponds and kalo fields by Hawaiian families, then as rice paddies for Chinese farmers, then as a water source for a nearby sugar plantation. Much of the surrounding land was bought up by wealthy haole ranchers, and for many years cattle roamed the area.
Then the 1950s brought tremendous change: After World War II, a large military base was expanded in nearby Kāneʻohe, bringing thousands of personnel. The Pali Highway tunnels were blasted through the Koʻolaus, creating an easy route to Kailua just as statehood and jet airplanes opened doors to a massive wave of American migration from the continent. The former wetlands and cattle pastures of Kailua became real estate gold. The ranching company became a land development company. The royal trust that also owned large parts of Kailua – Bishop Estate – went into business with another developer. The lagoons were partially drained and filled in to build housing, and the boxy middle-class suburb of my childhood was born.
Now Kailua is transforming again — into a luxury resort town of vacation homes for America’s elite. This place simply changes too fast for many of us to keep up. And each new wave of newcomers overwhelms the last. I think the security guard understood this. I was just beginning to understand it, too.
At this point a few other cars had lined up behind ours — stragglers who were also locked in, at the mercy of this guard. Many of the other drivers, who did appear to be tourists, were hanging out of their windows, listening to our exchange, probably glad it was me and not them confronting this stern-looking bruddah. My husband and kids were frozen in the car watching me through the glass — either embarrassed or impressed by what I was doing, maybe both. If he didn’t open the gate we would all be stuck there for hours in the dark, waiting for the police to arrive, waiting to be ticketed and then let out so we could take our wet, sandy kids home.
The guard nodded slowly. Ok, you know what? In a few minutes I’m gonna open this gate and drive my truck outta here. Maybe you guys can follow, yeah? I wanted to hug him. I got back in the car. He opened the gate and got in his truck. The drivers of the cars behind us cheered. It felt like a small win for the old Kailua of my youth, a friendly community where neighbors helped each other, not purposely hurt and hated each other. We are shaped by the culture of a place, but we can also help shape that culture. We all waved our thanks to the guard as we exited. There would be no Cry-lua that day.
