Ka Wai Ola - Office of Hawaiian Affairs, Volume 21, Number 4, 1 April 2004 — Hawaiian inmate finds inner freedom through a 'decolonized mind' [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Hawaiian inmate finds inner freedom through a 'decolonized mind'

By Naomi Sodetani For inmate Howard Kealohapau'ole Kekahuna, now imprisoned at the maxi-mum-security Colorado State Penitentiary, remembering and reconnecting to his culture has helped him find his way to new possibilities. Kekahuna's face and body are covered with tattoos of various types, but he says that only the traditional markings he has acquired in the past few years — linking him to his genealogy, 'aumakua and his people's culture — matter to him now. "The rest are just prison tattoos, I wish I could erase them," he says, like shedding his childhood "druggie" name "Boogie" in favor of the name Kealohapau'ole that he goes by these days. The tattoos and name change reflect a sea of change in Kekahuna's identity that has occurred over the past seven years, while he has been bounced around between correctional facilities in Hawai'i, Arizona, Oklahoma and now Colorado. But Kekahuna, 32, knows he can't erase the facts of his life that landed him in jail as he ean a name or tattoo. At age 13, he was first sent to the Olomana youth facility. Since then, he has been in and out of jail, racking up petty drug and property crime offenses that escalated to illegal use of firearms. "In my lifetime I've done a million dollars' worth of drugs," he says straight out. "The only thing that finally made me stop was decolonizing my mind — learning my culture, and to speak the language of my ancestors." "I am the statistics," Kekahuna declares. His wrists and ankles in shackles that elank heavily with the slightest move, he recalls a eommon scene: "In school, teachers ask, how was your weekend? 'Oh I went heaeh, Fun Factory.' Me, my weekend was watching people drink, do

drugs, or go with my mom to prison to visit my uncles. When I was four years old, I already

knew I was going to prison." In 1996, while high on crystal meth, Kekahuna got into a shootout. He winces: "I almost killed another Kanaka Maoli." With his formidable "rap sheet," he was slammed with two 20-year terms. Now, struggling to get his life on a different footing, he sees his misdeeds and violent behavior as an outgrowth of history, as a Kanaka Maoli born to poverty and abuse. "My culture helped me get my life together," Kekahuna says. "When it comes to sovereignty stuff, I cry, because I know the truth now. I wake up and tears eome down because I can't do nothing. It's like I'm stuck in a web and try-

ing to yank my arms and legs but I can't. I'm yelling, but nobody comes to help." Kekahuna's sentence was recently reduced, and he will be up for parole in 2007. "I hope I got a ehanee to eome home. But it don't matter if I never go free again, because I am at peaee with myself and I have an identity today," he says. "I'm Kanaka Maoli, Polynesian forever." For more information, please contact the Community AUianee on Prisons, 76 North King St. #203, Honolulu, HI 96817, or eall or email CAP Community Coordinator Kat Brady at 533-3454, cap.hi@verizon.net. U

With Native Hawaiian inmates comprising a disproportionately high percentage of state prison populations — and a large number of them now being shipped off to mainlaneī faciUties to alleviate critical overcrowding problems — Hawaiian prisoners have been struggling for the right to practice their culture behind bars. In this second installment of a two-part series, Naomi Sodetani, former OHA publications editor, examines how a cultural awakening has transformed the outlook of one Hawaiian inmate now confined in a mainlanel prison.

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Kekahuna holds a certificate of attendance for a Hawaiian language class he took at Halawa Correctional Facility. The class is offered through Leeward Community College's Continuing education and Work Force Development program,