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As a white Pastor who has spent considerable time working alongside many poor people of color in the American South, I am uniquely drawn to the stories coming from Ferguson and Staten Island. Yet, I live in Hawaii, geographically isolated and demographically different than many U.S. urban contexts.

Hawaii in general, and on the Kona Coast in particular, has a very low percentage of African-Americans. A small gathering of protesters demonstrated on Oahu, but on the Big Island, the news of the grand juries’ non-indictments did not spark social protests visible on the streets.

As the only state with a non-white majority, the distance from Ferguson, both physically and emotionally, hinders our community from learning from the collective grief and call for justice emanating from the mainland. I believe, if we listen well, Ferguson can act as a mirror reflecting our own blind spots of communal unhealth.

A message for local authorities during a solidarity protest in Waikiki.

Carolyn Hadfield

Black Lives Matter

During the Civil Rights Movement, Martin Luther King, Jr. had two books always close at hand. One was the Bible, and the other was ‘s “Jesus and the Disinherited.” Thurman interprets Jesus’ story and teachings with reference to the disinherited, underprivileged, and poor. He begins simply by acknowledging Jesus’ own historical background as a minority poor Jewish boy born under the oppressive rule of the Roman empire. In other words, Jesus, as one who is disinherited, dealt “with the question of his practical life, his vocation, his place in society, [and] first … had to settle deep within himself [the critical issue of self-esteem within Rome]. This is the position of the disinherited in every age.” Rome stood in the way of peace of mind, which often gives way to fear.

Thurman explains that the fear of the oppressed minority is not a fear of death but a fear of deep humiliation that is reinforced by the dominant (white) culture’s contemptuous disregard for personhood. Thurman wrote in 1949 at the height of Jim Crow, but we are witnessing a similar systematic contempt of our black brothers.

In her seminal work, “,” Michelle Alexander paints a clear picture of injustices directly measured against poor people of color. A close look at our prison systems shines light on this truth: Even though white youth are more likely to use and sell drugs it is black and brown drug offenders that fill our prison cells.

In some places, black men have received 20 to 50 times the sentence as the same offense done by a white counterpart. She writes, “The United States imprisons a larger percentage of its black population than South Africa did at the height of apartheid.” The direct instances surrounding the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner (and a whole host of other black lives that matter), to be grieved for sure, acts as a symptom of the deeper story of powerlessness and the lack of dignity afforded various minorities of our community.

In 1968, during the Memphis sanitation strikes, the protesters wore signs around their body that simply said, “I am a Man.” Today, we are seeing a similar plea for dignity, respect, and personhood in the hashtag and signs crying out: BLACK LIVES MATTER.

Personhood is directly related to one’s value and place within the community. When a justice system refuses to indict a white police officer, despite the video evidence to the contrary, of killing an unarmed black man for usurping a cigarette tax, we have to at least ask whether we truly live like black lives matter.

No, people of color still remain on the outside, viewed more as suspects than persons. And to be honest, it’s not just black lives. In many parts of the country an epidemic of criminalizing homelessness is on the rise, stop and frisk laws continue to target racial minorities, and police officers often act as psuedo-ICE agents to aid in deportations. The truth is, many who are poor, black or brown, or a recent immigrants, live in a system that perpetuates sub-human relations.

Black and Brown and Poor Lives Matter

So what does this mean for us who live here in Hawaii? I would posit that we are not immune to the social creation of ethnic divisions giving way to sentiments of prejudice, marginalization, and injustice. Hawaii prides itself in its diversity, but we still struggle with the full inclusion and embrace of many of the world’s people who call Hawaii home. I would like to map out just two such instances in the Mexican and Micronesian communities before outlining a way forward.

Looking around Kona, one would recognize signs mostly in English, some in Hawaiian. But at the health clinic they are in English, Spanish, and Hawaiian. Many Hispanic people on the West Coast work on coffee farms and macnut farms. The clinic sees many Hispanic patients during the off picking season with skin rashes, respiratory issues, and eye problems from the pesticides used on the farm. They don’t come when the symptoms first arise because they work (and live) on the farm. Their poverty pushes aside the issues of physical health.

The Hispanic community is dispersed from Waimea all the way down past South Kona. There exists no advocacy group, Hispanic community organization, union, or social support. The closest consulate is in California. They remain present, but socially invisible.

A recent study highlighting the challenges and prospects for Mexicans in Hawaii shows the relative feeling of being unjustly targeted (“,” Migration Policy Institute). When talking with those in the Hispanic community, stories arose of bogus traffic tickets merely to assess legal status.

Ironically, in Hawaii as a whole, the face of undocumented immigrants isn’t Hispanic, but Filipino who comprise about 40 percent of the undocumented peoples. Only 10 percent of residing Mexicans (or 4,000 of 38,700) are undocumented. But when looking at those deported between 2007-2008, 50 percent were Mexican.

This gives the community a particular feeling of being targeted, the perception of inferiority, and a general sense of exclusion. For many within the Hispanic community, the system stands in the way of peace of mind and fear creeps in.

After World War II, the United Nations placed Micronesia under the trust of the United States. The thought was to develop a relationship that bent toward self-dependency and economic empowerment. Instead, The U.S. used Micronesia as a testing ground for its nuclear arsenal.

Today, Micronesians have had to deal with the loss of their land, the pollution of their water, and the degrading health of their bodies. In the 1980s, the Compact of Free Association (COFA) created a larger influx of Micronesians to the U.S. Hawaii has now become the largest recipient of this migration.

Honolulu residents protest the grand jury’s decision not to indict a Ferguson, Missouri, police officer for the shooting death of an unarmed teenager.

Carolyn Hadfield

Low-income Micronesians have benefited from the state’s health care laws, a necessity due to the high percentage of physical ailments among the community. But in the past five years, a number of attempts to exclude Micronesians from life-extending services, including dialysis and chemotherapy have been stopped by a federal judge. Had the measure gone through, over 100 people on dialysis could have died within three weeks. Furthermore, Micronesians are still the only legal immigrants excluded from crucial benefit programs such as SNAP, SSI, Temporary Assistance, and Medicaid (“The Case for Justice for Micronesians in Hawaii,” Victor, Geminiani, Civil Beat, 2/1/12).

Upon arriving in Hawaii, Micronesians put up with the convoluted immigration system, struggle with assimilation to a new economy, school system, and social networks, and don’t quite fit into the acceptance that many other ethnic groups attain. On the Big Island, Micronesians have the highest illiteracy rate and highest poverty rate while continuing to live in areas with poor sanitation. All of these differences, on top of a being the fastest growing new immigrant population, have resulted in exclusion, ethnic tension, and violent skirmishes.

All Lives Matter

poignantly critiqued the human capacity to isolate, writing, “We are satisfied to assign ‘others’ the status of inferior beings. We make sure that they cannot live in our neighborhoods, get certain kinds of jobs, receive equal pay or honor; they must stay in their proper place, which is to say the place we have assigned for them…this is exclusion as domination” (Exclusion and Embrace).

This is the same kind of exclusion that black communities know too well, the same exclusion day laborers experience picking our coffee, and the same cultural exclusion Micronesians live when arriving on the islands. It shows in the apathy of non-recognition, the ignorance of proclaiming a post-racial America, the hatred spewed on our Facebook walls, and the degradation of wages too low to pay for rent and food.

The stories of Michael Brown and Eric Garner point to the social reality of belonging and identity and the lengths humans go to isolate and exclude. John Paul Lederach analyzes in “” that “people seek security by identifying with something close to their experience and over which they have some control. In today’s settings that unity of identity may be clan, ethnicity, religion, or geographic/regional affiliation, or a mix of these … More importantly, however, the process by which this happens has its roots in long standing distrust, fear, and paranoia, which are reinforced by the immediate experience of violence, division, and atrocities.” The violence of police brutality reinforces the already latent expressions of fear and mistrust cemented in marginalized communities.

The issue to be addressed is not just police body cameras. As hard and necessary as it will be to implement them; the harder work will be the work of reconciling divided communities.

Recent surveys from the suggest that 75 percent of the white population don’t have any non-white friends. In other words, we live in an increasingly segregated society in which neighborhoods and social networks are marked by similarity rather than difference. When groups remain separate, do not make space to listen to each other, and do not share common experiences, stereotyping and prejudice emerge and further exacerbate conflict. In the context of Hawaii, with such a diversity of people groups, stereotyping and prejudice are common.

The work of reconciliation happens in a place. In other words, the work of reconciliation relies first on an actual encounter and experience with a person different from yourself. It is within this movement towards the “other” that the reality of saying “All Lives Matter” moves from something cognitive to something performed. This performance of reconciliation ought to reach across divided groups, but also across “criminal” labels.

If we are working toward a view of full personhood, full inclusion into the community, then we should not allow the criminalization of a person to rob that person of personhood. This notion is behind the story of Brown stealing cigars, but also behind the label of “illegal aliens.” These stories act to polarize and separate, rather than understand and bring together. Our communities must focus on creating safe spaces where difference can be experienced, examined, and accepted.

Finally, reconciliation must have a framework. Many faith communities have developed practices of peace and reconciliation.

My own Christian faith teaches us that reconciliation is the Story of God in Jesus to restore all things; that in and through Jesus the dividing wall of hostility that keeps groups separated has broken down (Ephesians 2). This surely touches on issues of the heart as well as issues of poverty and divided people groups.

In the Church, the practice of Communion (The Eucharist) emphasizes the coming together to receive and give forgiveness, extend hospitality, practice listening, and to pronounce dignity to all people. It is a place in which the truth of our past is revealed and laid before God and the church for justice to take place.

The Church must participate in the active role of creating reconciling spaces alongside the community. But, the Church is also our place of reconciliation that demands we look toward those who are disinherited and marginalized and let their voices speak to us.