By Wade Kilohana Shirkey
Special to The Advertiser
Poor little Hawai‘i State Flag — hidden way back in the shadows behind all the other state flags in storage at Kane‘ohe’s Hawai‘i State Veterans Cemetery.
She knew, even on those rare occasions like tomorrow when they’re all ceremoniously paraded out on flagpoles from the bowels of the majestic central monument for Veterans Day ceremonies, she would always be last. Last to join the Union, last in line. Last to see the sunshine. Always a bridesmaid.
And, sure, some of the other flags were even taller — staggered in size to compensate for height differences in placement along grassy knolls and shadowed glens, encircling the cemetery’s central plaza. After all, it’s all about precision here — razor-thin uniform creases and ramrod-straight attention. She had to measure up.
The Little Flag even knew the majesty of her nearby Ko‘olau cliffs would drive off streaking National Guard jets in somber “missing man” formation, shunning her this day for her bigger, more open cousin at Punchbowl. The little cemetery would get helicopters in formation, M*A*S*H-style.
That was OK, she figured: The jets’ drama only lasts a moment but the grandeur of her pali is eternal.
And perhaps the Poor Little Banner might even apologize for another of her Windward proclivities: rain. When you’re made for public ceremony and starched uniforms, ua often is less than a blessing. But even with tents mandatory after a ribboned-uniform-type was drenched one year, nothing could hide the specialness of the mist-shrouded mountains, waterfalls and fluted pali crevices. This was God’s Special Place. And the flag’s, too.
The Poor Little Flag realized from her spot in the back of the darkened storage room, deep in the soaring cemetery memorial, that it was just Island graciousness — allowing the other flags to be presented first: “E komo mai. Nou ka hale.” Come, it says to them, this is your home now, too.
For unlike the big Punchbowl cemetery, The Little Flag knew that under her warm earth lay only Hawai‘i’s sons and daughters. Unlike the more ostentatious national cemetery over which jets will roar and crowds thunder in applause in ceremonies tomorrow, hers was a strictly local act. Island residency requirements said it: Live here to be buried here. Folks from anywhere could dwell for eternity in her bigger federal cousin, P¨owaina.
The Little Banner didn’t care — like everything on the Windward side, she was a smaller, but more spectacular, gem. Not bigger, but better. And she planned to march as strong and straight as they tomorrow, as proud to be American as keiki o kÅ ‘aina.
So, tomorrow, locally humble, the “Little Flag That Could” would shed a silent tear of welcome for those who come visit.
After all, she knew, maybe shorter and maybe last, she was the best-loved.
The Advertiser’s Wade Kilohana Shirkey is kumu of Na Hoaloha O Ka Roselani No‘eau hula halau. He writes about life in the Islands.
