Yesterday I had one of the final meetings with my advisor/thesis director. It has been a very amicable, but very challenging, relationship. She's a new but highly respected scholar who returned to the University after years as a missionary in a developing country. She's schooled and wise, idealistic yet pragmatic, optimistic yet realistic, and thick skinned but with a tender heart.
She sits there at her desk, in her dim office lit by floorlamps and a desk lamp. Behind her are shelves of books, copies of journals, and the like. She sits firm, back straight and eyes up. She carries herself with a regality and command. Her clothing is sharp and professional; her shoulders are squared by an uncompromising jacket.
On the other side of the desk: rubbah slippas, jean shorts, one aloha shirt, and one moke with messy hair.
Some people here don't take me very seriously probably in part due to how I look. I'm not white and I'm not old. Slim and chic I am not. I'm a moke. I'm a big guy as my genes dictate - my family has always worked the land. I'm the first in my family do to this kind of "sissy stuff" - that is, going to school. My language doesn't flow like with most of the haoles. I have to think before I talk, and more words doesn't equal better speech.
So what? I'm just a moke in academia. That's how I'll remain.
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