When she’s accepted into the conservation fellowship of her dreams in Washington, DC, Emi Okikawa must break the news to her family that she’s leaving their home in Hawaii.

Emi Okikawa grew up surrounded by the beauty of the Hawaiian Islands. Her childhood spent exploring tidepools, snorkeling over the reef, and hiking in the mountains led her to fall in love with the natural world as a young child. She is also a child of the Asian-American diaspora, and has spent much of her time peering into the chasm between her hyphenated existence. Most of her work draws inspiration from the sacrifices, struggles and triumphs of her family’s intergenerational search for “home.” She's a former RAY Fellow from Ocean Conservancy where she focused on highlighting the stories of communities of color leading the environmental justice movement. Currently, she is the Digital Comms Fellow at the Washington State Sierra Club. You can follow her on Twitter @EmiOkikawa.

This story originally aired on Nov. 16, 2018, in an episode titled “Getting In“.

Story Transcript

My last name, Okikawa, comes from the kanji ‘oki’ for grand and ‘kawa’ for river.  And for generations, the Okikawas have always been people of the water.  My uncle and my grandpa can tell the type of fish on the hook just by rhythm of the vibrating fishing line and my dad used to wake up every day before dawn to go surfing before school, known for dragging in sand and saltwater behind him before the bell rang. 

One of my earliest memories as a child is bawling incoherently, fat, heavy tears streaming down my face after being caught unawares by a rising wave from behind.  Every time I was buffeted by the waves or pearl dived into the sand, my dad would fish me from the churning shore break, set me on my feet and remind me, “Never turn your back to the ocean.  Treat it with the respect it deserves.” 

Now, I also had the pleasure of growing up in a conservative Asian household so there is another model that was ingrained in me since birth, which is, “Study hard and get to a good college.  Work hard and be successful.” 

I’m yonsei, so fourth generation Japanese-Filipino, born and raised in Hawaii.  As a yonsei, I've had to shoulder four generations of hopes and aspirations.  What this meant is that I was put on a very different path than the rest of my family because that’s the goal, isn’t it?  With each new generation, you’re expected to take your family just a few steps forward into the future. 

One step forward, instead of going to public school at ‘Aiea High like the rest of my family, my parents saved all their money to send me to Punahou School, a private school whose major exports include lawyers, bankers, doctors and, of course, former president Barack Obama. 

Two steps forward and I announce to my family that I will be attending college at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, six thousand miles away from home.  My family looks at me like I am about to jettison off to a different planet. 

Three steps forward and here I am, distinctly not a banker or a lawyer or the leader of the free world.  Instead, I am a crunchy granola-eating, tree-hugging environmentalist.  Definitely not part of the plan. 

I grew up in Oahu surrounded by the beautiful nature of the Hawaiian Islands.  I have memories snorkeling over the reef, hovering over the bustling underwater metropolises, of scouring the shore’s edge, poking around in tide pools.  As someone from Hawaii, I grew up with the childhood lesson of respecting, revering and protecting nature.  These lessons that I learned as a child, it only made sense to me that I would take these lessons forward with me into my adult life as well. 

But when I looked at environmental organizations, so rarely did I see anyone that looked like me reflected in their ranks.  As a result, I had a really difficult time with convincing my family and showing them who I wanted to be and what I wanted to do when I grew up. 

This all changed for me when I was a junior undergrad.  I was doing a research project looking at Asian-American, native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander contributions to the Environmental Justice Movement.  What I found out was that one of the fathers of environmental justice was actually a Chinese-American man named Charles Lee, and this shocked me.  No textbook, no professor, no class had ever mentioned this before and it made me realize that even though I was one of a handful of people of color within my major and my department and my field, that someone from my community had been here before, paving a way in front of me.  And no matter what challenges I encountered, that I belonged here in this field. 

This realization really inspired me to apply for a fellowship that would take me a universe away, to Washington DC.  I was really drawn to it because it was called the RAY Marine Conservation Diversity Fellows and the position now, as advertised, is one that was a community-based storyteller.  So I would be highlighting the stories of environmental leaders of color and highlighting the stories that were so often concealed from mainstream media, like that of Charles Lee, and hopefully inspiring a new generation of environmental leaders of color and making them recognize that they too belong in this field. 

So after months of applying and waiting and interviewing, I finally got the phone call.  I can still hear the Director’s voice in my ear saying, “Congratulations.  You've been accepted into the next cohort of Roger Airliner Young Marine Conservation Diversity Fellows. 

I was still sitting on this information, sitting in my bedroom having just recently graduated and wondering how I was going to tell my family that I wanted to leave Hawaii and go all the way to Washington DC when I hear the doorbell ring.  I run downstairs and it’s already a flurry of movement.  Every Sunday night, the entire extended family comes over to our house for dinner. 

After dinner, my grandma and the aunties have a time-honored tradition of sitting around in a circle, drinking tea and gossiping.  It’s something I usually try to avoid but this time as I’m pouring the tea, one of my aunties turns to me and she asks the question that all recent graduates hate to be asked, which is, “So, what are you going to do next?” 

I kind of look at the floor and I mumble I say, “Oh, yeah, I might go to Washington DC to work in an environmental organization.” 

And one of my aunties interject and she goes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Whatever.  But did you hear that your cousin is now head chef at IHOP?” 

Another auntie goes, “That’s cute, but I hear the environment is really the hip thing to do nowadays.” 

A third auntie interjects dealing the final blow, “Oh, that’s really nice, but what are you going to do with a major in environment anyways?  I don't know why you didn’t just try to find a rich husband?” 

I consider their reactions for a second.  They're exactly what I had been anticipating.  I say, “Yeah, you know you're right.  It is really hip and cool nowadays to care about the environment and to care about breathing fresh air and drinking clean water, and making sure the planet is habitable for human life.  And yeah, that’s a good question.  What am I going to do with a major in the environment?  I think I’m going to focus on communities that are at risk because of climate change, because we’re here in Hawaii, which is an island surrounded by water, soon to be submerged by rising sea levels but, you know, yeah.  Whatever.” 

Of course I don’t say any of that.  The dialogue runs in my head but nothing actually leaves my mouth.  Instead, I just bottle up all my feelings.  I can my face turning red with embarrassment and irritation.  My hands are shaking as I put the teapot on the table, excuse myself, turn around and run up the stairs into my bedroom. 

It’s moments like these that I feel like a waste.  A waste of my family’s sacrifices, of their money, of their efforts, and I’m sitting there thinking about this when I hear a soft knock on my door.  My mom pokes her head to the doorway and she says, “What’s wrong?” 

I burst into tears.  I tell her about the fellowship.  I tell her how stressed I am, how I feel like I’m letting my family down if I take it, like I’m letting myself down if I don’t. 

She says, “Well, this position sounds like it has a lot of writing in it, which is good for future lawyers.”  We laugh a little and then she sighs.  She sits on the edge of the bed and she says, “Look, it sounds like a difficult decision but I think you already know what the right choice is.  I mean, it’s like surfing.  It’s always looking on the horizon for the next big wave.  It may take out another adventure and it may bring you back home.  But what I admire about you is that you're not ever taking the traditional path.  You're following your passions.  That’s what makes me so proud.  It’s like your dad always says.  ‘Never turn your back to the ocean.’” 

With her words, I feel the tension evaporate in my chest, the weight on my shoulders disappears and I can finally breathe easy again.  “Never turn your back to the ocean.”  The words that I had been so used to hearing as a child have now taken on a different meaning for me. 

Every day when I walked to work in Washington DC, I think about my family.  How their sacrifices and their hard work have led me to where I am today.  They give me the freedom to pursue the things that I’m passionate about.  I've come to understand that I’m proud to carry their hopes and aspirations.  It’s not a burden but a gift to have a heritage that spans generations. 

After feeling conflicted for so long, trying to choose between family obligations and expectations and trying to pave my own way in life, I've come to understand that ocean conservation is not something separate from my identity.  It’s integral to my heritage.  The Okikawas have always been people of the water.  It’s simply in my blood.  Thank you.