“Moloka’i” by Alan Brennert
Rachel Kalama, a little girl in 1890’s Honolulu, immediately grabbed me with her straightforward sweetness and spunk. The spunk would serve her especially well, because at the age of seven, Rachel was sent to Kalaupapa on the island of Moloka’i, the isolated leper colony for the “untouchables”. Because I’d attached so affectionately to the young Rachel, It saddened and distressed me when she was forced to leave everyone and everything she loved for an existence restricted by her disease.
The progression of Rachel’s disease, its prominence in all aspects of her life was, for me, a constant tension. My uncertainty as to what blow the disease might strike next enhanced my response to everything Rachel did; I found the disease’s blight particularly poignant as it affected her relationships with the Catholic sisters, with the other residents of Kalaupapa, and, as she matured, with the boys and men she loved. How do you have relationships when you’re an untouchable? MOLOKA’I shows us.
I’m always impressed when writers successfully create characters who are not their gender. Brennert must have daughters or sisters or a well-developed anima or all three, because Rachel, as a character, is convincing. But the lengthy descriptions of the Hawaiian land, though gorgeous, were, for me, too much of a good thing. That I lost interest in them may be due to Brennert’s overdoing it or my overall lessened ability to read passages that don’t feed me other than visually. Geography buffs will probably appreciate them.
I learned a good bit about Hawaii’s history in MOLOKA’I. The story of the lepers, their treatment, and the slow advance of understanding and treating the disease frames Rachel’s story with a background that enriched my reading. I found the contrasts between the old cultures and the new ones alternately positive and painful.
Though its theme is a tough one, MOLOKA’I is not a downer. Rachel may have been always on the verge of death, but she lived, loved, grieved, and yearned in every human way. I ended the book with a renewed understanding that we are not defined by our bodies, but by our spirits, and that honoring each others’ spirits is the ultimate way to love.
The progression of Rachel’s disease, its prominence in all aspects of her life was, for me, a constant tension. My uncertainty as to what blow the disease might strike next enhanced my response to everything Rachel did; I found the disease’s blight particularly poignant as it affected her relationships with the Catholic sisters, with the other residents of Kalaupapa, and, as she matured, with the boys and men she loved. How do you have relationships when you’re an untouchable? MOLOKA’I shows us.
I’m always impressed when writers successfully create characters who are not their gender. Brennert must have daughters or sisters or a well-developed anima or all three, because Rachel, as a character, is convincing. But the lengthy descriptions of the Hawaiian land, though gorgeous, were, for me, too much of a good thing. That I lost interest in them may be due to Brennert’s overdoing it or my overall lessened ability to read passages that don’t feed me other than visually. Geography buffs will probably appreciate them.
I learned a good bit about Hawaii’s history in MOLOKA’I. The story of the lepers, their treatment, and the slow advance of understanding and treating the disease frames Rachel’s story with a background that enriched my reading. I found the contrasts between the old cultures and the new ones alternately positive and painful.
Though its theme is a tough one, MOLOKA’I is not a downer. Rachel may have been always on the verge of death, but she lived, loved, grieved, and yearned in every human way. I ended the book with a renewed understanding that we are not defined by our bodies, but by our spirits, and that honoring each others’ spirits is the ultimate way to love.