I Was in a Musical about Silence, Part II

What Does Silence Sound Like?

"Oh Lord, You Know, I'm tired."

Is there anything louder than silence? 

That is the question we set out to answer as we stepped onto the stage at the Ministry of Education, Sports and Culture's Arts and Culture Center on Wednesday, December 6th 2023. I remember vividly the bright harshness of the spotlight as it illuminated our first scene, 'School Choir', against a blue-dark auditorium. I'll never stop being in awe of how stage and theater performers weave magic into the atmosphere, right before "a thousand eyes", as Sia once sang. Said audience was, that day, a mix of bubbly teenagers and thoughtful, maybe slightly cynical, adults. And why shouldn't they have been? We were bringing to stage a locally produced, locally directed showcase that was going to do the still-difficult work of opening up conversations about Intimate Partner Violence and Domestic Violence. Of weaving words and music into the spaces where silence belies the existence of such nuances as mental abuse, microaggressions and unexpressed psychological trauma.

The magic of Performing Arts is felt not only by the audience. We as a cast experienced it too, in a very real way that gave us strength and agility, maybe even more than we had during the dress rehearsal the previous day. From Eseta and Benjamin's melancholic opening dance, 'Tired', to my brother's narration of performance poet Ioane Otineru's post-colonial ode to gender disparities in Samoa, everyone felt strong and so performed STRONG. Our first review, by pioneering Samoan performance poet and novelist Sia Figiel, commended the "physical and emotional strength (as well as the) conviction and confidence" with which the production was presented.

When I stepped on stage to perform my first piece, 'Ode to She Who Held Up the World', I felt a power and urgency that pushed me to remember every single word. It also encouraged me to give our audience the full gamut of all the many, MANY emotions that I feel about generational silences and the way religion, economics and culture weave a 'quilt' of trauma around so many mother-daughter relationships. I thought of my Samoan grandmother- herself a mother to three daughters and a grandmother as well as great-grandmother to many more. It was not until she was gone that I learned she had always dreamed of doing the very thing I was now blessed to be doing: writing for and performing on stage. It made me sad and it made me angry and somewhere between the two, I found a new kind of strength. My main emotion 'generator' has always been sense memory, so I thought of my father when I sang those words, ua fa'afetai Iesu, Lou alofa, ua e aumai mo matou nei ni tina. Really good art forces the artist to look within themselves and find truth, or at least, meaning. When a thing means something, we feel it. And when we feel it, the art has done its job. It is successful. It is a nice song or a good book or a funny movie.

I am not a dancer (not in public, at least 😂). Dance is on my bucket list of 'talents' that I want to somehow manifest myself into having. For this reason- but also because dance is beautiful- I have a very focused way of watching people when they dance. Samoa Performing Arts and Creative Excellence (S.P.A.C.E) produces some of the most magnificent, genre-bending dances Samoa has ever seen. Their storytelling is articulate to the point where words would only serve to misconstrue and spoil what is already perfectly clear and heavily palpable. Of all the things I love about S.P.A.C.E, one of the main ones is the willingness of their director, the brilliant Valentino Maliko, to let new and aspiring dancers join and also to work closely with them. Alofau Rile, my auspicious and highly ambitious student, had a late-night epiphany and decided he wanted to be part of the dances too. That they gave him the space and support to find his footing and leap into success is testament to how the right people in the right place can make dreams come true. Benjamin, Grace, Elisapeta, Eseta, Alofau and Tamiana all have unique ways of moving and feeling the beats and rhythms. They are, after all, individuals. No two people will dance the same dance to the same song in exactly the same way. I noticed this immediately in the all-male number, set to Hozier's 'Take Me to Church'. Where Tamiana's hand movements are strong and well-defined, Alofau's are graceful and fluid, whilst Benjamin's are swift and bouncy, with a hint of wit and gentle humor.

Even our poetry readings and recitations brought with them the unique personalities of each poet. Where Sia Figiel described my style as "commanding", she emphasized that Krystal's piece was "dexterous" and complementary to it. Lars, a rapper, brought in bars that hurled the message of SHE IS NOT YOUR REHAB at an eager audience who caught every rhyme and line. I think about it now as, many different voices amplify a common cause and help achieve a common goal. Our strength is in our differences.

Like any live performance, there were a few funny moments. Music queued at the wrong time, some wardrobe malfunctions, I even forgot my plain black tee in the morning rush and had to turn my 'HUSH' cast t-shirt inside-out for my narrations. But the combined good work ethic and high levels of trust between cast and crew put on what I know was a great show. And the reviews have all been stellar! (Also, people wanna buy t-shirts of us, so I'm guessing we looked good too, lol).

We've just wrapped filming our musical, something that I will talk about in a later post. For now, I am grateful, and I feel HEARD. The story has been told, and now, it is up to those who listened to live it, learn from it and pass it on. Also, someone said we should go on tour...

The cast of 'HUSH: The Musical' with directors: 

L-R: FRONT ROW- Benjamin Lelevaga (dancer, chorus member [tenor])Tamiana Olano (dancer, chorus member [tenor]), Lars Gustaf Bell (rapper/ narrator) 

CENTER- Maluseu Doris Tulifau (producer/ director/writer), Eseta Corrine Uili (dancer, chorus member [soprano]), Yvette Alalatoa (producer/director/writer), Abbey Tofamamao Heather (chorus lead singer, actress ['the Teacher], singer (soloist, 'Rise Up'), Krystal Elizabeth Juffa (singer [duet], chorus member [soprano], actress ['Toxic Girlfriend'], performance poet/narrator, writer), Grace Pauga Greed (chorus member [soprano], dancer, actress [' Silent Mother']), Jasmine Koria (chorus member [alto], writer, performance poet/narrator, singer [soloist, song as part of monologue, 'Ua Fa'afetai Iesu Lou Alofa']), Nathan Sam Pomare (chorus member [tenor], actor ['Toxic Boyfriend'], singer [duet])Valentino Maliko (director, choreographer, musical arrangements)

BACK ROW- Brown Girl Woke Representative (name not provided), Elisapeta Fepulea'i (dancer, chorus member [alto], actress ['Questioning Daughter']), Alofau Rile (dancer, writer, chorus member [tenor]), Daniel Koria (narrator, writer, text editor)

 NOT PRESENT- Ioane Otineru (writer)

I Was In A Musical about Silence, PART I

HUSH, and other Sounds

The beginnings of HUSH: The Musical

Starring: Nathan Sam Pomare, Krystal Elizabeth Juffa, Jasmine Koria, Daniel Koria, Tamiana Olano, Alofau Rile, Benjamin Lelevaga, Grace Pauga Greed, Elisapeta Fepulea'i, Abbey Tofamamao Heather, Eseta Corrine Uili, and Lars Gustaf Bell 

The Official Poster for HUSH: The Musical (2023).

Two weeks ago I was in my first-ever musical. The work was a collaborative production of Brown Girl Woke, Samoa Performing Arts and Creative Excellence (S.P.A.C.E), the United Nations Education, Social and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) and the Ministry of Education, Sports and Culture (MESC). I was a writer, vocalist and narrator/performance poet in the show. Busy does not even begin to describe this season of my life. 

At our first writing session, we, the writing team, threw around several onomatopoeic words and phrases. We knew right from the beginning that we wanted the narrative to have a poetic, lyrical flow. Think, ocean waves and sandy sea breezes. The focus of our work was to be IPV (intimate partner violence) and DV (domestic violence), and the way in which silence both perpetuates and prolongs these societal woes. We talked about the sound 'shhh' that is often heard when a child talks too loudly. 'Shh' is a very interesting expression- it can also be used to menacingly get someone's attention, or to jokingly brush off someone's attention. For some reason, as we all sat around the table making the 'shh' sound, the word 'HUSH' came to my mind. I blurted out, 'Shh sounds like HUSH!"...and everyone thankfully indulged my idea (lol). Thus, the musical got its name. And the serious work of drafting scenes, sequences, choosing songs and arranging the cast list began. 

One of the things I am most thankful for is that I starred in my first musical under amazing direction. Brown Girl Woke's Doris Tulifau and Yvette Alalatoa, and S.P.A.C.E's Valentino Maliko were an absolute dream to work for. They were visionary, perceptive, creative and super accommodating of our cast's different schedules (and personalities!). Directing and producing a musical in the developing Pacific is very different from running a show in, say, Auckland or Sydney. For one thing, you will most likely be working with artists whose 'art' is but a part-time or spare-time endeavor. Most people- especially young people- in our part of the world cannot afford to do their craft full time. The majority of our cast, and even the directors themselves, has full-time work and study schedules PLUS a myriad of family and community obligations that we had to very carefully work around. Then, of course, there were the usual setbacks like illness and bad weather. I should know...I had a bad episode of vertigo mid-week, two weeks before the show opened. I literally woke up in the E.R (fun times!) with a nurse (who happened to be a former student of mine!) telling me I had low blood pressure. Side note, I could barely talk but was so bloody proud to see my student living out the full fruition of his dream! Yay for Pacific success :)

Something I'll never forget is the human compassion and kindness that our directing team extended. They wanted the show to be a success, yes, but they also cared deeply about the health and well-being of their performers. I got the rest of the week off and they checked in on me constantly. Dream work environment, if ever there was one!

The final cast was a twelve-member ensemble. We were all versatile performers, the majority of us being able to sing, dance, write AND act. The Pacific is brimming with talent, but still lacks opportunity. Just before opening day, my brother arrived from Melbourne for his usual end-of-year holiday. He's an amazing performance poet, writer and rapper, so of course I kinda-sorta talked him into joining us. Yes, Samoa is THAT small-you and your entire family be in a play together before you know it 😂 

As a cast, we got on GREAT. Everyone was super supportive- there is nothing quite like knowing your co-workers are truly, genuinely rooting for you. If I had to attribute our success to any one single thing, it'd definitely be this. We had a lot of laughs, and a ton of great conversations about everything from where we grew up to how to become TikTok famous. Remember when Nelly sang "we started as strangers, now we leavin' as brothers'? Yeah. This was the vibe. We worked long nights sometimes, plus there was the general exhaustion and of course, for us narrators, a couple of slip-ups and forgetting lines. But we worked through it, and an absolute gem of a lesson that I have learned from this experience is that PEOPLE make all the difference. You can have the most high-tech, state-of-the-art facilities or the biggest budget in the world. An unsupportive team holds everyone back. I'm so blessed, so grateful, that this was not our case. We were a team in that cliche but important way: together, everyone achieve(d) more. Thanks team!

(to be continued...)

Dear Women In History (an open letter to the girls in my History classes)

RE: Be Brave

Dear Francine, Susana, Kanisshi, Happy, Lemonoria, Misialofa and Maggie,

This week you graduated and I remembered how we talked in History class about Bismarck and the two contrasting Kaisers. Be brave because women of our complexion are still largely missing from the narratives and discourses that are supposedly "World History." Not two hundred years ago, no one like us had dreams like you- not out loud, at least: law school, medicine, education, classical music. We were not allowed so we went about not breaking the mould, not talking too loud. Fit in, fit in. They told us.

As you fly away, be brave because 'good music' still looks like Beethoven and Mendelssohn. White and male. When you played 'Waltzing Matilda' on the strings that day, you held all of recorded History by its singular thin thread. Don't be careful. Challenge it and challenge them and CHANGE IT ALL. Write your Samoan names on the Berlin Wall (or what's left of it...), and break down the walls that want you to stay small. You are tall so stand tall.

Be brave, most of all, because life is difficult and the world is cold. You know the Cold War was about ideas, so THINK, so DREAM, so touch the sky and plant your own flag on the moon. Many things and people will stand in your way, but don't you be one of them. Get out of your own way and lead the way.

Our ancestors knew every constellation by name. Be brave because you are descended from navigators and seafarers and mathematicians. Be brave for your families, and be brave because it takes courage to remember. And to forget. Such is History. And such is life. 

Love,
Ms. K

With Francine Ausage, my top Year 13 History student of 2023, and her classmate, Susana Lina John. 

READING RECOMMENDATIONS :)

💭 Every few blog entries, I'll recommend two books from my reading list. I'm a very eccentric reader, so I'll post everything from historical fiction to homicidal manifestos.  

1.

"There is nothing special in (you)...it is in those who love (you)." 

Klara is an AF- an 'artificial friend'. Literally. She's the product of decades of scientific and social progress. And she's just one of several million 'friends' whose main purpose is to provide moral and intellectual companionship to the new class of genetically 'elevated' human children. In Ishiguro's usual heartbreaking, genre-bending style, Klara and the Sun is a masterpiece. Thoughtful, earnest, observational and with slight undertones of parody, the story of Klara's misunderstood and unconditional love for her human 'friend' Josie will stay with you long after you've turned the last leaf of this book. 

If you want a deluge of thought-provoking quotes, a cry over your 3pm coffee, or a springboard for your own existential questions about what it means to be human and what it means to love and be loved, THIS is for you. 

2. 

If POWER were a play, I know it'd be this one. 

A Raisin in the Sun is at once arresting and inspiring. The mundane suburban backdrop is coloured by the various painful hues of mid-50s America's civil rights struggles. Race, gender, social class and "no money" clash head-on in this celebration of faith, family and fearlessness. From the aspiring Black female doctor (we see you, Beneatha!) to the 'past-his- time' alcoholic father who is caught between his hope for a better future for his son and his disillusionment at the barriers that stand in the way of non-White Americans. To the starry-eyed, slightly deluded scholarship student from 'the motherland' and the well-to-do suitor who struggles to reconcile the labels he bears, 'black' and 'rich.' This dramedy is for you if you've ever asked the question: "what happens to a dream deferred?"

Congrats, Grad!

Tatou O I Ioritana

"We talked all night about the rest of our lives

Where are we gonna be when we turn twenty-five?"- Vitamin C, 'Graduation Song'

December 5th, 2013: After receiving our Secondary School Graduation Certificates, with my two high school besties, Isabella and Jasmine J (remember those monikers they'd dish out if you had the same name as another kid in class, lol?)

Tomorrow, the high school I graduated from- and which I now teach at- will have its Prizegiving and Graduation Ceremonies. I'm feeling super nostalgic for two reasons. 

Firstly, wow! "Another lot", as I used to hear my father say at the end of every academic year. The senior graduating class is one I've taught English and History to for two years. Over the year-and-a-half we've spent together, we've developed a great dynamic. Everyone speaks their mind, whilst keeping in mind that, as I said, EVERYONE speaks their mind. That is, have your say, but know that others will also have theirs. For me, this fosters an appreciation for open communication, and a respect for others, which will last these young people a lifetime. With uni, work and whatever else they may choose to do looming just on the horizon, I have every hope that they will go out into the big wide world with love, compassion and resilience. That they will make space for others to grow and succeed. And that, as they navigate the vast ocean that is the 'outside world' (lol), they'll be able to say they learned a thing or two from us, their teachers. 😭

Secondly: it's the ten year anniversary of my own high school graduation! Where did the bloody time go? This time a decade ago, I was among my classmates, cleaning and decorating the SDA Youth Hall. It was a lot of work, but we were so excited to finally be graduating. We did flower arrangements, changed the seating arrangements eighteen million times, got mini-mini heart attacks every time a balloon popped (and then ended up going to look for more white balloons at midnight!), and then watched midnight turn into early morning as we sang our hearts out to the gentle strumming of an old guitar. I still remember the songs we sang: Cups (by Anna Kendrick), and Ou Te Ofo Ina Atu A'u Nei Mo 'Oe (as sung by Punialava'a). I know, nostalgia galore! 

At work today I watched as the various prizes were being organized and readied for presentation tomorrow. I can imagine the anxiousness that some kids are probably wrestling with right now. "Did I do well enough?" "Am I getting that top prize like I did last year?" "Are my parents going to be satisfied with my effort this year?" "What's going to happen to me if they aren't...?" Lots and lots of questions, and even we as teachers certainly don't have all the answers. Not to your questions, and definitely not to a lot of our own. We are all human, at the end of the (long!) day. I'll be honest here- there are still errors I made on some of my final exams in 2013 that I regret, to this day, and think back to, often. No matter that I have enjoyed much success after high school, and in my professional life. Silly things I said as a teenager, graphs I didn't construct neatly enough, maps I misread, calculations I went over multiple times and still got completely wrong...those come back every once in a while to check in on me and remind me that before this, there was THAT. I was THAT. And no matter what any student is NOW, we cannot say that they won't go on to have wildly successful, extremely productive, wonderfully fulfilling lives. 

That cliche Samoan proverb is right. E toe oso fo'i le la. The sun will rise again tomorrow. It has never once failed to rise- even on a cloudy day, Mr. Sun is there, you just can't quite see him very well. Where there's daylight, Sol is smiling. And even in the densest darkness, if there's a little light, there is always, always hope. 

What's In a Name?

I AM VASHTI

"But the queen Vashti refused to come at the king's commandment by the eunuchs. Therefore the king was very angry."- Esther 1:12

Who are you named after? 

In Samoa, names are super important. And we don't necessarily get named after important people. A lot of folks I know are named after places, months of the year, body parts, numbers, weather patterns, colours (not just the traditional ones like Brown and White), and even movies! I actually once met someone called 'RoseTitanic'. We, as a people, are super invested in the stories (and details!) that catch our attention and impact us deeply. Names are a crucial part of the fabric that makes up Samoan (and Polynesian) society. We are, first and foremost, story-tellers. Words are of the essence. Your name has to be a word that means something, and that shows the way back to where you come from as well as forward, to where you're going. 

I've listened to many debates about names before a child is born. My gosh, I've even heard people argue over prospective children's names mid-way the wedding planning process. I know of many people, even those in my age group (mid-20s) who still choose to go the traditional Samoan route and give an eldest child a name from the father's side of the family. Whatever people choose, one thing's for sure: In Samoa, it's not our custom to give a child a name 'just because'. Your whole fa'asinomaga*, or the whole history of your parents' or grandparents' love story, usually has to be in there somewhere. 

I've heard it said, even, that a name can either be a curse or a blessing. I don't believe that, but I do find it interesting. They say people often become what you treat them like, or what you say they are. Super fascinating that sometimes it is possible to trace 'failure' and 'success' back to the most common thing we get called every day: our names. 

My paternal grandmother, Vasati Ulaula La'ulu-Tafuna'i, was born on May 12, 1939. This was twenty-two years before Samoa gained independence from the British Empire, and only twenty-one years after the deadly Influenza Epidemic. It killed at least twenty percent of Samoa's population. When my grandmother was born, Samoa was right in the middle of its independence struggle, and Eurocentric values as well as customs had infiltrated almost all spheres of life. Christianity, with its long dresses and even longer prayers, was the staple religion by then. Christian names were the norm for children born in those years. And not just any Christian names. If you were born into a God-fearing family, you would be given the name of a brave hero or an exceptionally obedient heroine. Think Joseph (Iosefa), Miriam (Miriama), Moses (Mose) or Esther (Eseta). For reasons I still don't know, my great-grandmother gave her eldest daughter the name Vasati. Translated, it is 'Vashti', the name of the defiant Persian queen whose disobedience cost her her marriage, her family, her home and her reputation. 

My great-grandmother was a pastry chef at one of the early Chinese eateries in Apia (Fong's, I believe it was called.) In many ways, she was a woman swimming against a stubborn tide. 

Smack-dab in the middle of colonial Samoa, at a crux between two major value systems, Leoi Baice did what women all around the world were still being discouraged from doing in the 1910s and 20s: she had a career. She is one of many strong Samoan women of that era who dared to dream, and dared to live those dreams to the fullest. Whether this influenced her to name her daughter Vasati, instead of Eseta, I will never know for certain. But I do know that my grandmother lived up to her name, and that I wouldn't be where I am today if she didn't.

Vasati had fourteen children, all of whom she raised and put through school despite various seasons of widowhood and divorce. She worked no less than three jobs at a time, beginning when she was a teenager (1940s) and only retiring a few years before I was born (1990s). Vasati's ultimate dream was to become a playwright, musician and actress. She wrote stories and songs which only ever got performed for the missionaries and people of her village. She learned to read and write in English, the colonial language, and made many friends, both Samoan and non-Samoan. One of her best friends was a German woman named Moola, who became like a sister to her. My grandmother never talked herself down, or displayed self-depreciating behavior in the presence of non-Samoans. She believed she was just as good as any woman OR man, black or white. She dared to think that. That all people were created equal. 

Whenever I hear the name 'Vashti', in Bible study or on television, I remember a story my grandmother told me when I was a kid:

"I was working at a guest house- reception, housekeeping and that sort of thing. It was just a few years after Samoa became independent, so there were still many rules in place. Tourists and locals alike had to abide by them if they stayed at our guest house. No cursing, no littering, no public nudity or inappropriate behavior or words. We were trying to balance things between fa'aSamoa and also Christian teachings. Be respectful to everyone, you know? Well, one night, these fine European gentlemen came in. They bought some beers and sat together chatting for a while. At first, everything was fine. Then, towards midnight, they started talking very loud and saying some very silly things. It was mainly us girls on duty and you imagine it- three or four Samoan girls and a whole lot of drunk men. My colleagues felt so nervous, especially because the men were breaking the rules of our guest house. I asked them what we should do and they said, 'just leave it. They're white. They'll make a fuss and get us kicked out of work.' I wasn't going to just leave it, though. I went and asked them nicely to please make their way to their rooms if they weren't going to order any more beers. They did go. But they didn't go to sleep. No! They went to the showers, threw their used towels all around the hallway, went into one room, and continued making noise. They acted like they owned the place, and our manager had already gone home for the night. I went straight to that room, carrying their wet towels, banged my fist on the door, and called them to open up. They were so shocked. I threw their towels right at them, and threw my big cleaning broom in too, then told those boys: "you better fold your towels and put everything away before the manager comes in at 6am tomorrow. Then, pack all your bags and leave. And there's the broom- sweep your room before you go." 

Yeah, my jaw was on the floor too, hearing that story. That's not even the end, though. She told me, "they packed their little suitcases faster than I've ever seen anyone pack anything away, threw all the bed-covers into neat piles, tossed their towels in the laundry area and rushed out. It took less than an hour. I've never seen grown men rush away like that before. But they left. And the floor was spotless too."

Whenever I hear the name Vashti, I think of independence. I think of being a strong woman in a dis-empowering world. I think of reclaiming ME, the way my country reclaimed itself in 1962. First in the Pacific to be independent, my Samoa. 

Esther is a beautiful name. My grandfather's mother was named 'Eseta'. Esther is courage, gentleness, and sacrifice. But Esther is also a figure that is weaponized by patriarchal narratives. She is used, and misused, against the demonized 'other' figure of Vashti. And yet, both are important. Vashti's refusal to be put on display like an object ushered in the era of Esther, without whom the people of Israel would not have been saved. In a world where docility and passiveness are idolized as 'feminine', sometimes, you have to dare to live outside the mould. In a world of Esthers, sometimes you have to be a Vashti. 

My grandmother, Vasati, in her late 30s, I believe.  

*fa'asinomaga: traditional heritage (a combination of your genetic ancestry, villages/districts of origin, and titles/ social privileges associated therewith)

What's the Story?

Writing: A Never-Ending Story

A poem often becomes a story, and stories sometimes never end.

My writing process is as hectic as everything else in my life. Someone once told me this is called 'organized chaos'. I love irony, so I took it as a compliment. 

I've been writing since I was twelve years old. I was a very imaginative kid. I had this fascination with blurbs on the backs of hardback book covers as well as magazine articles. National Geographic was my absolute favourite. Our school library had stacks and stacks of these magazines, dating all the way back to, like, 1970. I'd read and read, and then make up my own stories and write them in my exercise books. Much to the dismay of my teachers (especially the Maths teachers! Sorry Mrs Pelenato and Mr Epeli!). I just couldn't help myself. 

What I didn't realize as a child was that I was, slowly and surely, honing a love for telling stories about people and places. I learned to love descriptions. To appreciate nuances in the geography and topography of places I still haven't been to. I know a river still runs out of Eden. I saw the Tigris on my way out of Dubai. But which river was James Vance Marshall talking about, and where can I find it, in this big, confusing world? To hear and respect different voices, some of which belong to people who are no longer alive. Nelson Mandela. There are days when I think I walked with him the whole way to Johannesburg and back, to see his mother. To eat home-cooked food, just one more time.  I learned to feel different types of fear, and different types of pain. I'll always think The Boy Who Was Afraid was a missed opportunity to open so many conversations about Polynesian masculinity. About it being okay to cry. To ask for help...I learned, also, to love anomalies. Misfits. Shirts that have one sleeve longer than the other. German prisoners of war that fall in love with upper-class Jewish heiresses. Some of my most favourite books- simply for their amazing attention to detail- are:

1. Cry, The Beloved Country (By Alan Paton)

Favourite Quote: "There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa."

2. Project Hail Mary (by Andy Weir)

Favourite Quote: “Oh thank God. I can’t imagine explaining “sleep” to someone who had never heard of it. Hey, I’m going to fall unconscious and hallucinate for a while. By the way, I spend a third of my time doing this. And if I can’t do it for a while, I go insane and eventually die. No need for concern.”

3. As The Earth Turns Silver (by Alison Wong)

Favourite Quote: "Their god is a white ghost. You see the pictures. He has pale skin and a big nose and a glow of moonlight round his long brown hair. He has many names, just as we Tongyan have many names. We have a milk name, an adult name, perhaps a scholar or chosen name. The Jesus-ghosts call their god Holy Ghost. Even they know he is a ghost. People are like their gods, just as they are like their animals. They even call him Father. We do not need to name them, these gweilo. Even they know they are ghosts."

My love for details has given me a very eccentric reading list (which I love!). It has also given me a love for telling stories about various symptoms of the human condition; for telling them in different voices and drawing them in different colours. Because there is no singular way to be human, there can be no singular story that best conveys our humanness. Every story is just one of a trillion ways to express our humanity. Even the most high-fantasy or science-fiction plot is about our humanity. If it comes from us, it must be about us. 

The most hectic thing about my writing process is that I never actually know what anything is going to be. A single word becomes a poem. A poem becomes a story. A story becomes one of my many unfinished manuscripts. An essay can either be done in six minutes (no joke- I write faster than a bullet train when I'm under pressure), or six months. No in between. The biggest blessing is that I still have people who want me to write, and who actually want to read what I write. I'm a print and performance poet as well as a songwriter (I think? lol). I've published a few stories too. I'll always write more poetry than any other genre. A writing mentor I had as a teenager told me Pacific women write mostly poetry. She didn't know why, but I do. As Pasifika, our earliest modes of transmitting information were song, dance, chant and speech. Oral tradition preserved our stories and histories for eons before the papalagi brought their 'written word' to us. When we 'crossed over', as my Sa'anapu people would say, we brought with us our love for, and skill at the original record keeping methods. It's in our blood, basically. 

At my grandmother's funeral in September, I learned that she was a poet, songwriter and playwright, in both English and Gagana Samoa. With the few opportunities available to indigenous women in early post-colonial Samoa, she was limited to church and village spaces. She never told me about any of this. She always said how proud she was of me, writing and performing and traveling. She let me shine. She never, and I mean never, said, "you got your gifts from me." She allowed my gifts to be just that- mine. My own voice. My own story. Only last week, a cousin of mine shared with us some pages of our grandmother's handwritten autobiography manuscript. One thing I learned from my grandmother's writing: love. True, unconditional, sacrificial love. The kind that isn't 'cool' anymore. But that our world still desperately needs. Because this kind of love endures. Just like storytelling. Just like humanity. 

The title of my grandmother's manuscript, in her striking, confident handwriting. Translated and abridged, it reads:

I AM VASATI:

The Story of My Life

As I Have Written It, Aged Seventy-Six

Someday, I hope to edit and publish this on her behalf. She was a woman ahead of her time, in so many ways.