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Hawaii license becomes
badge of pride

I never thought this would happen, but I've formed a peculiar attachment to my Hawaii driver's license. It's not that I love the aesthetic of its Technicolor rainbow cascading across a vista of white plastic. It's definitely not as if my DMV portrait would qualify me for a place on a "Who's Hot?" type of reality show. And it's certainly not the lovely memories of my last trip to the Wahiawa DMV, where I had the opportunity to wait in line with giddy teenagers holding their first learner's permit. For that matter, my license devotion is not even about driving.

No, I'm attached to that ID, sweetly and simply, because it's proof that -- no matter how far I might be from the islands -- I'm kamaaina. I might not be native Hawaiian, but I know how important roots are, and mine are firmly planted in red dirt.

When I actually lived in Hawaii, my driver's license didn't mean all that much to me. Having it merely meant that I could drive, which was certainly convenient. But it also meant that I could waltz past jealous tourists into Hanauma Bay without paying a dime, I was eligible for special rates while staying in Waikiki or I could show my license to airport officials without labeling myself as an out-of-state traveler.

But now that I have made the exodus to Colorado, I find myself strangely attached to my Hawaii ID. It is an unlikely badge of honor, an oddity in this land of Colorado licenses graced with proud images of the Rockies' purple mountain majesty. When I buy beer at Liquor Mart or write checks at Safeway, the salesclerks never fail to make comments about how festive the rainbow looks or how -- like a rare bird -- they've only spotted a Hawaii ID once before.

IT'S STRANGE, really. Now that I don't officially reside in the state of Hawaii, I find myself more often in a Hawaii state of mind. This stands in contrast to my earlier years, when I was 14 and one of those fortunate high school freshmen with a birthday closer to January than December -- a lucky break that meant I could get a learner's permit in my first year of high school. For three months leading up to my birthday, I had carried that silly Hawaii driver's manual -- the one with the orange border and '70s-era photographs that could be found at any Longs checkout stand -- in a conspicuous place on top of all my other textbooks.

Back then, all I really wanted was to get away from Hawaii. Like so many of my other friends suffering from "rock fever," I would have driven out of the state if my learner's permit, and a trans-Pacific roadway, had permitted it. Maybe it's the standard teenage rebellion phase, a case of wanting the opposite of what I had. At that time, I categorized Hawaii by what it was not and did not have: It did not have mansion-size, two-story houses with color-coordinated furniture and squirrels scampering through a tulip-strewn lawn. It didn't have the mainland stores I would sigh over in YM magazine, like the Limited or even Target. And let's face it, the addition of Red Lobster to Waikiki was not equal to being able to have all-you-can-eat breadsticks and salad at the Olive Garden.

Instead, I was just a Japanese girl from Mililani who shopped at Liberty House and wore Bongo shorts from the junior section, just like every other Japanese girl who grew up in Mililani. Instead of eating at the Olive Garden, I went to Zippy's. And because I couldn't live on the mainland, I contented myself with speaking textbook English tinged with an unfortunate Valley-girl accent.

But now that I am only five minutes from Target and two minutes from the Olive Garden, I am fiercely and strangely proud of where I come from. Maybe it's maturity. It could be an identity crisis. Or perhaps I just like the attention. "You're from Hawaii! Cool!" is something I enjoy hearing on a regular basis.

In any case, today I categorize Hawaii by what it so beautifully is: fresh air and fragrant breezes, a green jewel in blue water, and a culture filled with so many influences that make it unlike anyplace else in the world.

I could make the short trip to a local Colorado DMV and get a Colorado license, but I have been told that I would have to physically surrender my Hawaii ID for the privilege of becoming a full-fledged Colorado driver. I cringe when I imagine a hard-faced DMV clerk collecting my helpless license and unmercifully snipping it in half with a giant pair of bureaucratic scissors.

I feel silly equating a simple plastic card with my identity as a local girl. But to those who say you can't go home again, I say, "Forget it. I'm driving."

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