Finding Power in Every Story

One of the great ironies in this life resides deep within the realms of storytelling. At its core, there is perhaps nothing more human that a good story. From language came the words to breathe life into memory, creating a through line of generational folklore passed carefully from mouth to mind. Stories became a vessel for cultures far and wide, capturing tales of battles and triumphs, of reckonings and spirit, of love lost that was always better than love never had at all. As children, stories are our introduction to the world at large, becoming gateways to places far beyond imagination that no plane, boat, car, or train could ever match. We learn many of those same tales gifted from generations past and present, filling our brains with values and cultural codes that will become mainstays. We learn the persistence of the engine that could, the selflessness of a rainbow fish, the insecurity turned to pride of a mouse named Chrysanthemum. We plunge ourselves deep into an endless pool of stories--all different, all valid, all coexistent. Only then are we siloed into a new train of thought.

Especially for those of us in Western cultures, we begin to lead lives existing solely in one dimension—our dimension. Our feelings are individual. Our politics are individual. Our perceptions of the world are individual. Two people’s entire lived experiences can vary from one block to another and be determined by where they fall on that map, respectively. We’re thrust into the perpetual feedback loop of main character syndrome, pigeonholed into the stories of our lives we take as scripture, so committed to the notion that our stories are also the only stories. Made easier in a digital age, we seek out only those stories which confirm our own, a constant confirmation bias in our timelines, our news cycles, and even darker corners of the web.

If our foundation for storytelling is plural, its evolution throughout our lives is singular. What’s been bestowed has been rewritten in favor of a narrower choice of prose. Reconciling with this can be a jarring at best, devastating at worst. For Elon University senior Molly Sposato, it all started with a question.

Ambitions and Expectations

Sposato sitting at the top of Kaiwi State Scenic Shoreline in Honolulu.

For many students, studying abroad has become a fixture of the college experience, idolized and anticipated until it’s finally their turn to take on the world. Still, it’s not uncommon for students to go into it without much rhyme or reason. In the Fall of 2018, Molly Sposato was planning her January term, a semester’s worth of studies condensed into a month-long course that was a popular time for study abroad trips. Having heard about a course taught in Hawaii at an Organization Fair earlier that year, her choice was pretty clear; she had grown up on the East Coast, was an avid swimmer, and figured spending her January in an island breeze was better than the chilling bite of her home in Maine. That was about all it came down to.

She’d registered for a course called Hawaii: Nation or State, the underlying question there likely confusing to many in casual conversation. This was true for Sposato until she took the prep class for this trip in the Fall, diving into the literature and history of a Hawaii, a side unfortunately often overlooked. Students learned about the triumphs, tribulations, and eventual turmoil of the Native Hawaiian people, surviving migration, colonization, subjugation, and illegal occupation from the United States which then became its new home. Sposato, like many others in the class, was stunned during this period of both learning and unlearning, the initial shock leading to anger which fueled curiosity.

Reconciling Reality

It was this curiosity which led Sposato to listen a little closer one afternoon during the trip. Well into the term, students had reached their final destination in Kona, nestled on the Western coast of the Big Island. Professors took students to meet with Mikahala, a woman whose story they’d previously learned about and now had the opportunity to interact with. 

Mikahala met them at the Ahu’ena Heiau, the Native Hawaiian equivalent for a temple or church of spiritual significance. Ahu’ena had served as a place of worship for King Kamehameha the Great in his heyday, only to fall out of use; having been revived by Mikahala’s father and passed down to her upon his death, she was now the sole and rightful proprietor of this land. But carrying out her duties quickly became a hard-fought battle against the Courtyard Marriott, as the hotel chain had developed a small beach-front resort right on this land. Every year, as Mikahala returns to speak with ancestors and honor the heiau, she is routinely removed by local authorities, a never-ending fight between old and new worlds.

Ahu’ena Heiau, nestled right on the edge of the Courtyard Marriott’s beachfront resort. Photo from Ahakanaka.

Sposato was stricken by the juxtaposition, standing barefoot in Ahu’ena listening to Mikahala’s sung and spoken rituals while eyeballing mainland tourists, perched up on lounge chairs, sipping frozen cocktails into oblivion. She was also angered by the seemingly obvious levels of irony. Here they were, technically in the United States of America, a nation founded on religious freedom that refused to grant those same liberties to the Native Hawaiians. Even still, this was just one crevasse into the bigger picture of American history never heard, never told. “I had no idea what was right in front of me in my own country,” she reflects. “When you grow up learning American history and then stand there as a 19-year-old girl learning history you should know, it’s impactful as a journalist trying to reason with this thing we call the melting pot”

Leaving Ahu’ena and eventually leaving the island, Sposato returned with a lightbulb moment. As she says, “There are people whose stories aren’t being told, and there are people whose job it is to tell those stories.” For this story in particular, she decided it was time someone told it properly.

Into the Untold

Ahu’ena Heiau pictured in 1954. Sposato dove deep into the archives to learn all she could about the temple’s past and Mikahala’s struggle. Photo from Ahuena Heiau.

The following semester, Sposato was taking Religion in Media. When students were tasked with choosing a religion outside of their own to investigate its relationship with the media, she immediately thought back to her day spent at Ahu’ena. To her surprise, she was initially met with hesitation, her professor unsure about the access to information and how well details would come to light. Sposato, however, never doubted the story she had at her fingertips; she carried on.

Sposato got in touch with Mikahala through her professors from the Hawaii trip, asking if she’d be interested in becoming the subject of this project. One call led to another, then another, then nearly a dozen more after this. The two developed a relationship over the course of the next four months, Sposato diving into any and everything she could get her hands on and even learning the basics of the Native Hawaiian language to grapple with this new world she’d become invested in. As she describes, the weight and promise of what she was doing drove her to take things further, eager to unlock the truth as it revealed itself to her.

It was grueling work with little in the way of immediate gratification. “Doing the work pushed me and challenged me,” she says. “Writing was always something I was good at, but I’ve never been as challenged as I was with this.” Sposato, an admittedly born talker, found herself having to listen more than ever, placing her in a position of perpetual vulnerability. With this vulnerability came pressure as well, as Sposato explains how, “You don’t want to tell the story wrong if you’re going to tell the story that’s not heard.”

In the end, Sposato did tell this story. She sent her final research paper over to Mikahala herself who cried upon reading it, honored and relieved that someone had finally stopped to listen. For Mikahala, a story never acknowledged was finally written in ink for eyes to see. For Sposato, a story never fully realized was only just being written. She expresses how she’s never felt more accomplished from anything else she’s ever done in college, even now. As a student, she was proud of the way she’d debunked her own expectations of paradise and dove deeper into the discomfort, finding a greater thread of truth. As a journalist, she’d discovered a more powerful drive within herself. “As someone who wants to pursue a career in giving a voice to people, that cannot happen without a clear understanding of the historical context of the world itself,” she explains. “It became clear to me that this is exactly what I’m supposed to do with my life, and this is important to the way I will live my life.”

A World of Mo'olelo

In many ways, Sposato feels that Mikahala was a vessel for contextualizing the larger issues at hand. Her story is a testament to the millions of other stories untold, hidden in plain sight yet free from investigation. Coming home, she couldn’t help but notice all that was happening around her, even right within the confines of Alamance county: gentrification, discrimination, wealth inequality. A sea of truths all neglected by the masses in favor of a linear narrative.

There’s a quote that Sposato learned during her time in Hawaii that always stuck with her. Local activist Jamaica Osorio spoke with students one day at the University of Hawaii, asserting how, “There is mana in every mo'olelo; there is power in every story”. She went on to explain how that emphasis on every story is intentional, given her belief that, “There is room for more than one story” Sposato reflects on how confused she was by this at the time, doubtful of what this might mean for her. Only after unearthing the truth behind Mikahala’s mo'olelo did those words truly take hold.

We live in a world of nuance, perpetually tied to degrees of separation from which entirely different realities coexist. Our instinct may be to rationalize singularity, but our duty is to accept plurality. Sposato learned firsthand the depth of true objectivity means making room for all the stories, both as a journalist and as a person. Only when people begin to tap into the unknown, asking questions, challenging convention, and defying expectation can they begin to see these layers of existence for what they truly are. It doesn’t require much, either, just a curious mind and a curious eye.

After all, there is mana in every mo'olelo and there is power in every story. May we never stop seeing them.