Ryan Oishi

Ode to the Humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa

I.

I once had a student
who was obsessed with the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa.

Each week,
Kahiolo Rees bent my good-willed prompts
to the shape
of his peculiar inspiration.

“The humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa is fearfully
and wonderfully made”
began his
first composition,
an unusual start to the prompt:
“Tell me about yourself…”

The second composition,
about the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s second spine,
revealed the author’s
sophomoric intent—
to include the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s name
as often as humanly possible.
I sighed at the brazen display
of laziness—
a crude gambit to outwit my one-page requirement.
Imagine, every sentence brimming with humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa, swimming in the convoluted reef
of his syntax—
schools of humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa locking stubborn bodies
in the coral crevice of every sentence.
Pronouns were banished.
Appositive phrases,
always containing the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s prodigious, twelve-syllable name,
were grafted everywhere.

The third composition,
concerning the etymology
of the fish’s name,
contained twice as many references.
They multiplied endlessly,
simmering with Kahiolo’s tumultuous thoughts.
I crossed out the flourishing school one by one,
stripping away every extraneous element
until only the marrow
of a single unblemished thought
remained:
...humuhumu=triggerfish,
...nukunuku=snout,
...āpuaʻa=like a pig.

Kahiolo was unrepentant.
His fourth composition,
a soliloquy on the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s
brilliant blue teeth,
contained a long digression
about Harald Bluetooth,
the famous 10th century Viking king, who bestowed
both rune and legacy
upon the language
of our fixed and mobile devices.
With half a page remaining,
he began a prolonged meditation
on the absence of “blue”
in the Hawaiian language—
the closest being uli,
which in reality could mean any dark color—
the black-and-blue of a bruise,
or the dark blue of the sea.
To my surprise,
it also contained an oblique reference
to Homer’s “wine-dark sea”
(an allusion, perhaps, to the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis,
the limits of our linguistic being).

And so it went,
every composition a delirious attempt
to include the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s name
as often as humanly possible.

II.

Some compositions were tinged
with a more melancholy air:
a technical piece,
for example,
described a new chess opening called “The Humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa”.
It was named for the fish’s infamously
tough skin,
and involved the asymmetric sacrifice
of pawns,
the rare exchange of queens.
The goal, it seemed,
was to build an impenetrable fortress
around the king.
I was told by the school counselor, a good friend,
that it was a variation of the Sicilian,
a reflection, perhaps, of Kahiolo’s combative personality.

His compositions about Kamapuaʻa,
after reading Kame‘eleihiwa’s translation,
were equally somber.
The pig-god’s heroic feats were rarely mentioned;
only the inauspicious birth,
a humble cord tossed into a wine-colored sea—
the fiery love affair,
the harrowing escape,
transforming into a fearful humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa.

It was during this Blue Period
that I learned of Kahiolo’s
origin story.
April is the cruelest month, lamented the school counselor
(he secretly fancied himself an English teacher).
He noted the maudlin sea
while we played a game of chess,
an oblique reference, he believed,
to Kahiolo’s mother.
He lives with his grandmother now in Kahaluʻu.
His father’s mostly absent,
works as a photographer for National Geographic.
He travels the globe chasing women,
the most recent natural disaster.

He castled his king.

I met him once,
after the Lahaina fire:
he had a beautiful alaniho
tattooed from thigh to achilles.
It was made of stunning blue teeth.

The fortress was now complete.
The bastard had used Kahiolo’s opening.

I resented my friend’s knack
for sanctimonious answers.

Look, he said,
pointing back to the very first composition.
His tone was pregnant with the secret knowledge
only school counselors are privy:
a seemingly happy memory of Kahiolo’s first May Day
at Kaʻaʻawa Elementary.
Kahiolo is in the front row, dancing, smiling.
He is performing with classmates before a reef of seated parents.
“Little Grass Shack” blares from a pair of mounted speakers
decorated to resemble kāhili.
His parents are smiling; they are beaming with pride
as they watch Kahiolo’s adolescent palms
touch in prayer,
purified into the shape
of a humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa.

It’s the last time he saw his father.

Across the narrow highway,
the Pacific ocean glistens,
full of invisible humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa.

It was then that the puerile project
blossomed with ontological meaning.
“The humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa is fearfully
and wonderfully made,” I repeated.

III.

On May 1st my heart broke
when Kahiolo submitted a one-page report
on the lauwiliwilinukunukuʻoiʻoi.

IV.

For a week, he was absent.
I feared some invisible, blue-black disaster.
Is he okay? I asked the school counselor.
I received a vague reply,
something to do with his father.

When Kahiolo returned, he brooded.
His bluish-green eyes wandered,
just slightly unaligned:
the left, pointing towards a distant past,
the right, drifting towards
an auspicious, right-facing future.

To my relief,
his desire to immortalize the peerless fish
slowly returned:
first, as an acrostic poem,
a distant memory fishing with his father
(the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s name was hidden
in the second spine
of perpendicular letters).

A week later, it took the form of a persuasive letter:
Dear Alan Wong, Sam Choy, Mark Noguchi, et. al...
It implored Hawaiʻi’s top chefs
to use the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa
in their Hawaiʻi Regional Cuisine
(he suggested making it the star ingredient in a local version
of Culinary Class Wars).

I breathed a sigh of relief,
contrite, yet hopeful.
I searched for words
the color of uli.

Instead, I noticed Kahiolo’s thoughts turning outwards,
turning towards a larger,
more elusive mythology.
Perhaps that too was a defense mechanism—
like how kahuna sometimes substituted humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa
to feed their gods
in times of famine.
Or perhaps it was a sign of his maturity:
a seeking of a greater apotheosis,
just like how the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa was elevated—twice—
to the office of state piscis.

Beneath the serious tone
burned a second spine
of hope.
A string of compositions
examined the “Little Grass Shack’s” subtle, subversive meaning
(I’ve long suspected hapa-haole songs
possess a similar patriotic quality—
take, for example, Andy Cummings’ “Waikīkī”):
“Beneath its seductive scales, its tough, touristic skin,
the old guitars are still playing.
They strum as humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa ‘go swimming by’,
past the City of Refuge,
past Kealakekua Bay.
It is the only line repeated twice:
bearing witness
to Captain Cook’s arrival,
bearing witness
to Captain Cook’s defeat.”

We are all shape-shifters,
he seemed to say,
thrown into this world
searching,
exploring,
transforming,
peering anxiously,
eagerly,
eight generations into the future…

Now I see humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa
everywhere I go:
carved into mountains of Christmas sand
in the Sheraton Waikīkī’s lobby,
or hidden in a sneaker’s silhouette at Pioneer Saloon.
Its kinolau appears
in the most unexpected places:
pinned to the window of Hawaii National Bank,
or flying by on a Tacoma’s punny tail-gate
(humuhumu nukunuku watufaka–what unexpected poetry!).
I have seen it baptized on utility boxes
and school playgrounds,
canonized in museums and airline magazines.
I have seen it at sunset while strolling with Hope,
or while doom scrolling at midnight
through my Facebook feed.

Even my infant son’s nocturnal grunts,
rooting at Jenn’s breast,
remind me now of the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa.

V.

Last night,
on a rare date night at Sushi Murayama,
Jenn and I ate the most delicious thing:
“Trigger-fish nigiri”
declared Chef Ryuji,
a kolohe smile rising to his face:
“topped with trigger fish liver,
a drizzle of sweet shoyu.”

It was the penultimate dish
of a lyrical progression
of omakase…
the volta of an impressive
gastronomic sonnet.

My heart trembled,
terrified by the sight of Chef Ryuji’s piece de resistance,
the fulfillment
of Kahiolo’s minor prophecy.

Now, late at night,
I find myself adding
to this robust literature,
mesmerized
by the humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa’s lithe,
littoral beauty.

Dear reader, has it always been this way?
Has the humuhumunukunukuapua’a
always existed,
locked stubbornly,
deliciously,
in our collective imagination?

Author’s Bio

Ryan Oishi is a writer, educator, and editor of Hoʻolana Publishing, a literary hui dedicated to uplifting Hawaiʻi’s many talented poets, writers, and artists. His work has appeared in Tinfish, Routes, Bamboo Ridge, The Value of Hawaiʻi 2, and The Statehood Project with Kumu Kahua Theatre. He is proud to be publishing with Kaleohano and Mahina, and thanks his friend, Ryan Shimotsu, for the seed of inspiration for this poem.

Image 1 Open Commons. Image 6 Open Commons. All other photos by Ryan Oishi.

Cover photos by staff.