Telling stories at the kitchen table, or Lessons from my Father

Telling stories at the kitchen table, or Lessons from my Father telling stories at the kitchen table , or lessons from my father ho ¯ ku ¯ lani k . aikau A response to Jordan Wilson, “Gathered Together: Listening to Musqueam Lived Experiences.” Biography 39.3 (Summer 2016): 469–94 My son gently took my hand when he saw my tears. In late May 2015, I was on an airplane flying over the Pacic O fi cean, my eyes shut, tears rolling down my cheeks, listening to the familiar sound of my father’s voice in my ears. My son saw my tears, took my hand, and asked why I was crying. No words would come. I took one earbud out of my ear and shared it with him. We held hands and listened. Dad was telling me how every time he and his friends came together at Iosepa they told the same stories. They laughed at the same jokes. They chided each other when the storyteller took too many liberties with the retelling. Gathering to (re)tell stories filled him with joy. When they were apart he longed to gather with his friends. e Th re was comfort in know - ing the next time they got together they would repeat the ritual http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Biography University of Hawai'I Press

Telling stories at the kitchen table, or Lessons from my Father

Biography, Volume 39 (3) – Dec 21, 2016

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © Biographical Research Center
ISSN
0162-4962
eISSN
1529-1456

Abstract

telling stories at the kitchen table , or lessons from my father ho ¯ ku ¯ lani k . aikau A response to Jordan Wilson, “Gathered Together: Listening to Musqueam Lived Experiences.” Biography 39.3 (Summer 2016): 469–94 My son gently took my hand when he saw my tears. In late May 2015, I was on an airplane flying over the Pacic O fi cean, my eyes shut, tears rolling down my cheeks, listening to the familiar sound of my father’s voice in my ears. My son saw my tears, took my hand, and asked why I was crying. No words would come. I took one earbud out of my ear and shared it with him. We held hands and listened. Dad was telling me how every time he and his friends came together at Iosepa they told the same stories. They laughed at the same jokes. They chided each other when the storyteller took too many liberties with the retelling. Gathering to (re)tell stories filled him with joy. When they were apart he longed to gather with his friends. e Th re was comfort in know - ing the next time they got together they would repeat the ritual

Journal

BiographyUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: Dec 21, 2016

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