Originally published November 22, 2023 — before this brand existed. Republished here with light edits for orthography.
Much has been said about the brain drain plaguing Hawaiʻi and threatening its future. For decades, studies have revealed that Hawaiʻi's high cost-of-living, lack of housing, and dearth of opportunities have caused a steady outmigration of local people. A recent study from the state estimated about 500,000 people born in Hawaiʻi live on the mainland. Comparatively, about 730,000 of those born in Hawaiʻi still live in Hawaiʻi. Anecdotally, Hawaiʻi-born residents earn a degree on the mainland and remain there, having been enticed by better-paying jobs; others earn a degree in Hawaiʻi before leaving for better-paying jobs. Statistically, the study reveals that a disproportionate amount of those leaving for the mainland is this audience, or "both younger and more educated." As a current resident of New York and in the words of one of the better musical artists of our generation, "I'm the problem, it's me." In this newsletter, I explain why I'm coming home (eventually), and why it matters. To be clear, I am not intending to inflame nativism rhetoric – there are obvious benefits of attracting talented and productive individuals to our state – or to shame those who move away for good. My hope is to generate discourse on what can make Hawaiʻi a more attractive destination for young professionals such as myself, as well as to hear from readers still living in Hawaiʻi and how they're making it work.
If you're reading this, you're from Hawaiʻi – or, at least, you care about Hawaiʻi. I was born at Kapiʻolani Hospital 24 years ago. There's no other place I could imagine growing up. To my mainland friends, learning to surfing at Canoes, cooling down with li hing mui Icee's, and going slipper shopping at Long's (only when the Locals are on sale) are memories that don't even scrape the surface of what differentiates a Hawaiʻi childhood from the rest of the country. You and I had very different childhoods, yet ours were surely more similar than those of anyone who grew up elsewhere. No one from outside Oahu will understand why a 20 minute drive across the Pali makes a trip too humbug, while we wait hours in line for Olive Garden, Raising Cane's, or any other mainland chain restaurant finally gracing Hawaiʻi with its presence. Perhaps this phenomenon encapsulates the Hawaiʻi brain drain problem as a whole: we get so familiar with what's on our remote island – so acutely aware of all the cracks, crevices, fruit trees, "hidden," hole-in-the-wall spots, etc. – that we crave an opportunity to explore a new frontier with endless new places, opportunities, and people. This feeling seems natural, especially for us as CTL alumni who care deeply about Hawaiʻi but are curious about the world and wonder how learnings from beyond Hawaiʻi can be brought back to move our state from a laggard to a leader.
A phrase oft-repeated during my academic career at Punahou was, "To whom much is given, much is expected." The relevance of the phrase at the school, where tuition just crossed $30,000 – or about 37% of the median household income in the state – is obvious, but it also seems applicable to anyone from the islands. In school, on TV, and elsewhere in public service announcements, we've been drilled on the scarcity of Hawaiʻi's natural and capital resources. Seemingly our state's never had enough housing, sleep, teachers, and so on. As children of the islands, we were given access to these limited resources and grew physically, mentally, and spiritually. Now, much is expected of us.
First, what is expected of us? Second, how do we meet these expectations? The answers to these questions are imprecise – akin to asking "When will The Rail reach UH?" – and require personal reflections on both the Good, metaphysically speaking, and on the workings of one's own moral compass. For me, the idea of "paying it forward" is an adage worth following. The concept of upward mobility – i.e., leaving the next generation better off than one's own – is quintessential to the fabric of American idealism. More personally, this notion is one of the ways I frame my own aspirations. As children of Hawaiʻi, do we not have a responsibility to leave the islands in a better state than when we inherited them? Recipients of this newsletter are members of CTL: a non-profit "Engaging, equipping and empowering young leaders for Hawaiʻi." Even while lacking an Oxford comma, the organization's tagline clearly states the purpose of the programs we have all generously benefitted from. We were chosen to participate in the program for a reason, and we chose to participate in the program for a reason. By joining the CTL community, I would argue that we implicitly entered a social contract to rise as leaders and to guide decisions that our generation makes to benefit our children and grandchildren. When we sever what are, or once were, deep ties to the state by leaving for the mainland without giving anything back to the land that raised us, we abdicate our responsibility to lead and to improve the state for future generations.
I graduated last year from the University of Notre Dame and have been living and working in New York City since then. At school, I served as president of our Hawaiʻi Club, spreading awareness of our unique culture through events such as our annual luau. While attending a school made up of vastly different racial demographics and students from across the globe, staying in touch with other Hawaiʻi kids helped me maintain a connection to home, even during the coldest of winters and the lockdowns of COVID. At luau, walking around barefoot in the ballroom draped in lei and wearing an Aloha Shirt brought me back home. In those moments, I felt proud of my heritage and grateful for an opportunity to share an authentic piece of Hawaiʻi. In New York, pockets of Hawaiʻi are easy to find. Since moving just over a year ago, I've eaten (enjoyed would be a generous term) spam musubis from multiple restaurants, attended concerts by J Boog and Common Kings, and even laughed at a Tumua comedy show just last week. These kinds of gatherings are rejuvenating – they help me remember my roots and are a reminder that there are countless others seeking to stay oriented while on a similar journey to me.
Even so: as I stuffed myself yesterday with turkey, stuffing, and other side dishes at a Thanksgiving feast, it was hard not to miss being home for the holiday. I longed for a party at my aunty's house, where I would look for a good spot to leave my slippers (hoping to avoid a premature Yankee swap), and fill a plate, or three, with the most curious mix of local and haole dishes. What did not immediately come to mind while I was longing for home, however, are the things I've gained along with my increased distance from home: namely, the freedom that comes with living outside of the multi-generational house that I grew up in, the geographic proximity to dozens of friends from home and university, and the worldly experiences I've had by virtue of being away from the Pacific. I was grateful for a reprieve from work, sure, I but am also lucky to have a well-paying job that provides me financial independence. Similarly, my nostalgia did not include the countless hours I spent in bumper to bumper traffic commuting to school on the H1, unnerving encounters with the homeless downtown during my internship with Lieutenant Governor Josh Green, or the sticker shock I get these days at Times or Foodland.
Living away from home can make it easy to romanticize a permanent homecoming, especially after a rude interaction or when a "poki" bowl just doesn't cut it. According to a recent study from the Department of Business, Economic Development & Tourism, Hawaiʻi-born people on the mainland make more money than those who stay, especially those on the higher end of the income distribution. Furthermore, over half of Hawaiʻi-born people who earn a bachelor's degree move to the mainland, while about 40% of those with a high school degree or less leave. The number of young, well-educated Hawaiʻi-born people leaving for the mainland constitutes a crisis; but, in the words of one of the great leaders of an island, "never let a good crisis go to waste."
As tomorrow approaches and expectations of us become increasingly unavoidable, we have an opportunity to lead simply by bringing our talents, knowledge, and residency back home to the islands. It won't be easy – there's good reason why over half of us have left – but, as was said by the first US President to take steps to protect Hawaiʻi's natural resources: "the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." As time passes and I become accustomed to living in what was once a foreign place, self-doubts of my permanent return become increasingly frequent. Each time I visit home, I miss conveniences, people, and comforts of where I now live. Though the self-serving mindset that dominates New York has already clouded my own moral compass, the words "to whom much is given, much is expected" always ring true when thinking about my future and reminiscing on my childhood. Hawaiʻi is many things. It is paradise, it is unique, it is remote, it is the arena, it is home, and it is where I will be.