tragedy

LONG STORY SHORT WITH LESLIE WILCOX
Jim Dator

 

As a futurist, Jim Dator of Waikīkī has spent the last 50 years pondering and researching what the future might hold. He’s a pioneer in this academic field and is an internationally respected voice in futures studies. Learn how a series of family tragedies in his early life propelled him to always look forward, not back.

 

This program will be rebroadcast on Sunday, July 14, at 4:00 pm and 11:30 pm.

 

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There is a little monument in Kapiolani Park that was placed there at the 100thanniversary, 1976, I think, that’s supposed to be opened a hundred years later.  I have something written in there which assumes it will be under water.  Now, this is 1976, I’m saying that the park’s gonna be under water.  I did television programs uh, that were used in the schools that talked about Waikīkī being under water.  I live in Waikīkī; I’m concerned about that.  We’re still debating it.

 

He offers educated forecasts of what the future may hold for the coming decades.  Jim Dator, next, on Long Story Short.

 

One-on-one engaging conversations with some of Hawai‘i’s most intriguing people: Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox.

 

Aloha mai kākou.  I’m Leslie Wilcox.  What does the future hold?  It’s a question that we ask ourselves from time to time.  Jim Dator of Waikīkī has spent the last fifty years pondering and researching this very question.  Dr. Dator is professor emeritus and the director of the Hawaii Research Center for Future Studies at the University of Hawaii at Mānoa. As a futurist, he studies a multitude of trends, ranging from social and environmental conditions to technology, and then develops forecasts, or alternative futures, for the next few decades and beyond.  He’s a pioneer in this academic field, and is an internationally respected voice in future studies.  While there are misconceptions about what futurists do, the field of future studies continues to grow, and has gained traction worldwide.

 

I think some people confuse futurists with psychics.  You get some jokes about: Why didn’t you predict this, Dr. Dator?

 

Yes. That’s right.  I used to have a statement: When all else fails, call a futurist.  But they call a futurist, and they want that futurist to predict the future, or to tell them what to do.  And there are futurists that do that; there are people that call themselves futurists that do that.  And they give a bad name to those of us that understand you can’t allow people to think that you know what the future is.  So, we have a code of ethics to make sure that we can’t predict what the future will be; we will engage you in a process of considering alternative futures, and you then decide to move in a certain direction.  It is more of a social science than it is of a natural science, but it is theoretically based.  That is to say, there are understandings the way the world works that allows you to make statements about forecast.  So, I distinguish between predicting the future, and forecasting alternative futures. And we still want to be able to be precise in the old scientific reductionist way.

 

When you’re familiarizing people with your alternative futures or future alternatives, it must sound pretty bizarre sometimes.

 

Well, yes.  Again, Dator’s second law of the future is, in a situation, in an environment of rapid social and environmental change.  In that environment, any useful idea about the future should appear to be ridiculous.  Because the things are changing, and things that are going to be important in the future are not things you’ve experienced before.  So, to be a futurist, you have to not only understand the trends from the past, but continue into the future of what are called emerging issues, new ideas, new technologies, new lifestyles, and you look for them just as they’re just popping out underground.  So, you don’t make it up, you see what could be a mighty oak if it grows in a certain way, or a cactus if it grows in a different way.  And therefore, you have to identify emerging issues, things that are not part of the past or the present, but which might be part of the future, and build scenarios around both the past and the emerging issues.

 

That’s right; you can’t rely on the same assumptions. You don’t even know if there are any assumptions you can make in some areas.

 

That’s true.  But we don’t throw it all away.  We do have categories; assume the categories will continue, at least for our foreseeable future.  But the content of those categories—so transportation, for example, has changed and might change.  Communication has changed tremendously over time.

 

As a futurist, Jim Dator studies the past and present to make forecasts about the future.  As he was growing up, he liked the idea of looking forward, rather than backward, because he and his family experienced many difficulties, starting with the death of his father even before Jim got to know him.

 

My mother did not intend to get pregnant.   She was anticipating a life as a musician or at least somehow related to music.  She was a student at the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, New York.  She got pregnant, they got married, and I was born. That was all fine, except my father drowned.

 

While you were still a baby?

 

I’m just about sixteen or eighteen months old.  Anyway, she had to come back to Florida, which is where she was originally from.  And we’re talking about 1933, 1934, which is the very depth of the Depression.  And so, my grandfather was the town undertaker.

 

This is her father?

 

Yes; that’s her father.  And was the town undertaker in a little town called DeLand, Florida.  His father had been one of the pioneers that had come and settled that part of Florida.  They were sort of fixtures in the town, having a furniture store and a funeral parlor, making coffins from the furniture store.

 

Well, that seems to bode well for the child who now has additional family.

 

Well, people die, but they don’t have money to pay for it.  So, he had the job of burying people, but not necessarily being paid, or not necessarily being paid in cash, but in kind.  So, we would get pieces of furniture or silverware, or other things like that.  Times were very, very tough.  And for me to show up, unwanted, and for his daughter, oldest daughter to return instead of going off to seek her fortune as he imagined.

 

It’s two more mouths to feed.

 

Yeah. That’s right, two more mouths to feed. And one of them a squalling brat, you know.

 

More tragedy struck Jim Dator’s family in DeLand, Florida during his youth.  Within a period of two years, all of the adult males in the family, including his great-grandfather, grandfather, and uncle, passed away suddenly.

 

Dying was not only the family profession in terms of the undertaker, but all the males in the family died all at once, leaving me as the only male with three females.  My grandmother, my mother, her sister—my aunt, were my family during the time I was young.

 

And what was your life like?  Was it a happy childhood?

 

No; it was not unhappy in the sense that I was well taken care of.  But no one felt really happy, and they didn’t show. So, I don’t ever recall being hugged and kissed, and being told I was a good boy, or anything like that.

 

Even when you were a young child?

 

No.

 

No?

 

I might have been, but that’s not the memory I have.  And I don’t recall feeling depressed.  That’s just the way it was.

 

Well, you don’t know what’s normal, I suppose.

 

No.

 

But you must have been a good student.

 

Well, but that was expected.  I was expected to succeed.  So, the things I did were never praised.  That was just what Jimmy did.  I had to overcome that, and to learn to love other people, and to love people who could love me back.  And so, I was sort of a driven kid.  I was extremely popular in terms of elections to things at various stages, but I never was a person that hung out with a lot of people.  I was friends with everybody, but not close friends with anyone.

 

Because you hadn’t had that intimate connection in your nuclear family.

 

No, I never had.  That’s right; exactly right.  I hated Christmas, let me put it that way, because all my friends got all these wonderful presents, which I never did.  I would get literally, an orange, or a walnut, or my uncle’s refurbished scooter. Something like that.  And also, the men died around Christmastime.  So, Christmas, which is supposed to be the big family joyous time, was always sort of the saddest time.  My aunt, she joined the military also during the war—SPAR, that’s the Coast Guard, which then gave her military preference, veteran’s preference for a really good job with the post office.  She never married, never had children.  She taught me how to be a man, and discovered at age eighty that she was lesbian.  But in between that, she’d never made the connection.  And so, I learned to be a man from this, again, not loving, but matter-of-fact, hardworking woman.  And my mother was off being a university professor, and didn’t pay much attention.  My grandmother had all this personal sorrow and hardship, because she had lived a fairly good middleclass life, and suddenly no money, no income, she had to do a lot of working on her own.  And so, we were just all expected to do our duty.

 

Did you ever go on a walkabout to find your father’s family?

 

Well, yes and no.  We were brought back, and I never wondered, I never felt the loss of a father.  In fact, if I may say before I get directly to that, in looking back, I was always glad I didn’t have a father, when I looked at other fathers and other families with fathers.  I was glad that I didn’t have somebody say: That’s not the way we do it in this family.  No one said that to me.  There was no one telling me that we have to behave a certain way, because this is the way the family does things.  I also like my name, Dator, because it’s a simple-sounding name, but there’s no ethnicity attached to it whatsoever.  And it turns out now in this day of the internet that there are Dators, Dator in the Philippines.  But I don’t think there’s any connection to that.  I suspect it was something like Dieter or Datorovich, or something that got shortened to it.  But at least I never had ethnicity, I never had a father, I never had a family history. And that’s one of the reasons I became a futurist, I think.

 

Because?

 

Because I didn’t have a past that was telling me how to behave.  I needed to find my own identity.

 

As a young adult, Jim Dator continued to look forward, while studying the past.  He graduated with a degree in ancient and medieval history and philosophy at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, where his mother was a professor. He then earned a PhD in political science at the American University in Washington, D.C., and briefly considered becoming a priest, before deciding to center his career on teaching.

 

My very first job as a teacher with a PhD was to go to Japan, where I taught in a Japanese university in a college of law and politics in Japanese for six years. I encountered a group of people from an established university in Japan called Rikkyo Daigaku in the Ikebukuro section of Tokyo, if you’re familiar with it.  And they had created a new college of law and politics in this old established university, one of the so-called Big Six Universities.  And they wanted a new political scientist, a young political scientist to come and bring the American style of politics to that university.  And they said: We’ll send you to Yale to learn intensive Japanese.  And so, for nine months, from eight in the morning ‘til five at night, every day for nine months, I studied oral Japanese.  I didn’t know how to read and write, I didn’t know how to read and write anything; I just knew how to speak.

 

Futurist Jim Dator says that his six years working and teaching in Japan was a profound experience, and sparked his interest in future studies.

 

And while I was there, I met a person who said: Jim, I want you to read this article I’ve written; it’s called The Senior Partner, and it analyzes Japan as a civilization.  And he concluded that Japan went through the same stages, in the same order that the West did, each one about the same length of time, and that Japan was two hundred years ahead of the West.  And I said: What?  This is 1963, 64.  Didn’t we just beat them in a war?  Aren’t they underdeveloped?  Aren’t we the crown of creation?  Well, I never argued or cared whether he was right about Japan.  It just said: Well, wait, we have these theories of moving from underdeveloped, to developing, to developed, but what’s next? Development—didn’t say it then, and it doesn’t say it now.  It makes it act as though we’re the end of history.  Well, that is what made me a futurist.  That episode in 1963, it happened to be on the day that John Kennedy was assassinated, which is another part of the story.  But I said: Okay, I’m now gonna ask what’s next.  And so, all of the work I subsequently did in future studies came from that day, and I oriented all my teaching towards the future from that.

 

After a half-dozen years in Japan, Jim Dator returned to the United Stated and started the first accredited future studies program in the country at Virginia Tech.  In 1969, Dr. Dator came to the University of Hawaii at Mānoa to teach future studies. When he arrived, he found that Hawaii was interested in futurism and had recently launched statewide activities called Hawaii 2000 that would examine the possible futures of Hawaii.

 

When I arrived, Governor Burns and Tadao Beppu, and David McClung, and the people in the business community, and the labor unions, and the University, had already started something called Hawaii 2000, which was an activity to look thirty years ahead.  I had nothing to do with it; it had already been created.  But Glenn Paige, remember, of the political science department, was sort of the secretary of that.  And he said: Well, you know, we got this futurist at the University; why don’t you join the group.  And that is what really, really, beyond anything else, turned me into a futurist. Because that activity, which has never been equaled anywhere in the world, never been equaled here in Hawaii—we’ve tried several times, but the powers that be don’t really want to have people thinking about alternative futures.  But at that point in 1970, statehood was good, the future was looking good, tourism was just beginning to blossom, they wanted to look ahead optimistically, and it was no holds barred.  We had incredible variety of people, all islands had their own—Maui 2000, Kauai 2000, and so forth.  There were student groups, youth groups, university groups, elderly groups, women’s groups, all sorts of different groups.  If you look at the number of lectures, the numerous talks I gave to groups during that time, thousands of them.  Honolulu Magazine in ’73 or so said I could have been elected governor, ‘cause I knew so many people.  It was an incredible opportunity, a deep dive into Hawaii culture and thinking about the future.  I’m obviously still excited about it.

 

Interesting that you say that people were excited about the future, and therefore, they wanted to peer into it.  Do you find they don’t really want to look too far if they suspect the worst?

 

Not anymore.  I mean, even at that time—if you read the book, Hawaii 2000, the book exists, and there is a list of people who attended, the who’s who of the future, as well as of the present.  But if you look at it, all of the married women are Mrs. John Doe.  None of them have their own first name there.

 

Ah …

 

Can you imagine how un-futuristic that was?  It’s embarrassing to look at that.  But in any event, the groups of people who participated in it made me very optimistic about being able to change things, and all sorts of ideas. There were a number of task forces, and if you read each one of the recommendations of the task forces in their area, there was a desire to have open land, and high-rises, and mass transit. So, the idea is, we would not do what actually happened, divide up the large estates and give everybody a little piece of land.  We would in fact have as few landholders as possible holding things in trust, and we would keep land open as much as possible, and use high-rises spread throughout each one of the islands, linked by mass transit.  That was one example.  The things that we got most right was, we basically predicted the cell phone, and the network, internet.  If you read it, that’s almost totally predicted.  And we basically understood the changes in genetic engineering, and so forth; all the things that are now very controversial.  We understood that those would be emerging issues. So, in the area of technology, we did a pretty good job.  Completely missed the entire Hawaiian renaissance.  The Hawaiians that we had on the committee, and we had a lot, were of that generation that assumed they would be lost, that there would instead be what Governor Burns called The Golden People of the Pacific.

 

Yeah.  So, they were probably older, because that was the Western generation.

 

And they didn’t speak Hawaiian, and they were forbidden to speak Hawaiian.

 

And yet, the Hawaiian Renaissance was knocking on the door at that time.

 

If was already existing.  So, on the one hand, we missed women’s liberation, if you will, and we missed the Hawaiian Renaissance, even though they were there.  So, the moral to that story, and it’s still true, it’s a lot easier to predict, if you will, technology than it is social changes. And that’s still a problem for futurists.

 

In 1971, the State Legislature established the Hawaii Research Center for Future Studies at UH Mānoa, and appointed Jim Dator as its director.  Dr. Dator has developed the program into a world-renowned institution for futures research, and helped to educate four decades of futurists.

 

In general, during your just very long and successful career in academics, have people taken what you’ve said to heart and made changes?

 

Well, everyone said at the end of Hawaii 2000 or other things, people will come up and tell me that such-and-such an event changed their life.  So, I think that individuals have acted on it, but in fact, there was a point in the late 70s, after the so-called Arab oil crisis, when suddenly we realized that Hawaii is not really independent, that it’s highly vulnerable, that if the oil stops coming, things don’t go well, in which it became forbidden to think about alternative futures.  Even though Governor Ariyoshi used that term, and he did a better job than almost anyone else in doing futures work, it was still relatively select.  And the thing that worked, tourism, he didn’t want anything to upset that.  And so, you couldn’t really begin to think about other alternatives.  And so, I’d say from that point on, this heavily citizen-based free expression of ideas about alternative futures has been pretty much discouraged.  But there are certain other things that I have harped on over, and over, and over, and over again, like climate change, sea level rise, and so forth, that we still are debating and figuring out what we ought to do about.  We say we’re gonna do something, but in fact, we’re not yet really doing anything.

 

How do you gauge your success as a futurist?

 

Well, when I deal with a client, the success is not whether they enjoyed the activity.  Often, they do, and will say what I said earlier; it really changed my thinking. If the organization then institutionalizes future studies as part of their planning and policymaking, if they hire a futurist or engage in a process of getting information from the future of building their strategic plan around a prior futures activity—most don’t; most just go back.

 

Even after recruiting you and getting the getting you to study something?

 

Yeah, and enjoying it.  They go back, but some don’t.  The State of Virginia, for example, did incorporate futures into their judicial planning.  And there are other examples here and there, but basically, that’s my definition.  Other futurists might have other criteria.  Did it make a difference in the way they did business?  Do they now routinely begin to try to look ahead or not?  And we haven’t learned to do that as people, yet.  And who can blame us.  We have millions of years of responding only to immediate pressures. It’s in our genes, it’s in our psychology, it’s in our stories.  Look backwards in order to understand what lies ahead.

 

In addition to leading future studies at the University of Hawaii, Jim Dator served as secretary general, and then president, of the World Future Studies Federation.  Even though he’s retired, he continues to travel, teach, and consult.  At the time of our conversation in late 2018, he was teaching Space Humanity courses at the International Space University in France and the Korea Institute for Future Studies.  Mahalo to Dr. Jim Dator of Waikīkī, Hawaii. And thank you for joining us for this edition of Long Story Short on PBS Hawaii.  I’m Leslie Wilcox.  Aloha nui.

 

Futurists who are being minted now at the PhD level; how do they differ from you?

 

Well, they’re a lot smarter.

 

No, really.

 

No, that’s really.  I have some fantastic students.  In fact, on Saturday, I will hood my last PhD student, since I’ve retired from the University of Hawaii.  And he’s an absolutely fantastic guy who is already doing so many wonderful things all around the world.

 

For audio and written transcripts of all episodes of Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox, visit PBSHawaii.org.  To download free podcasts of Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox, go to the Apple iTunes Store or visit PBSHawaii.org.

 

[END]

 

 

 

 

LONG STORY SHORT WITH LESLIE WILCOX
Allen Hoe

LONG STORY SHORT WITH LESLIE WILCOX: Allen Hoe

 

As one of more than two million draftees called upon to fight in the Vietnam War, 19-year-old Allen Hoe thought he would serve his time and then his life would return to normal. He couldn’t have imagined that his 10-month combat tour would make him what others describe as a soldier’s soldier. The longtime Hawai‘i attorney reflects on the wartime experiences that forever shaped his civilian life.

 

Read the November program guide cover story on Allen Hoe

 

Program

 

This program will be rebroadcast on Sunday, June 2, at 4:00 pm and 11:30 pm.

 

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The Flag

 

Why Polo?

 

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Transcript

 

When U.S. Army General Robert Brown spoke of the 2018 recipient of the Mana O Ke Koa, Spirit of Warrior Award, he said: Awardees demonstrate unparalleled patronage for and civilian leadership toward our Army.  Allen Hoe embodies those qualities.  While each nominee for the award is deserving, we feel Allen’s dedication to the Army is truly outstanding.

 

Fifty years prior to General Brown’s statement, the Army sent a special invitation—a draft notice, to the same Allen Hoe, who admits he was a typical local boy of the late 60s, focused only on surfing, hotrods, and girls.  But a ten-month combat tour in a small country in Southeast Asia turned this local boy into a soldier’s soldier.  Vietnam veteran Allen Hoe, next, on Long Story Short.

 

One-on-one engaging conversations with some of Hawai‘i’s most intriguing people: Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox.

 

Aloha mai kākou. I’m Leslie Wilcox.  Allen Hoe’s father was from Kalihi on O‘ahu, and his mother was raised in Moloa‘a on Kaua‘i.  He points out his ancestors were all subjects of monarchies—on his father’s side, Chinese and Japanese; his mother, Hawaiian, English, Scottish, German, and Spanish. His father was a World War II veteran, and there’s evidence of warriors serving their country throughout Hoe’s family tree from the Queen’s royal guard in India, to a war lieutenant for King Kamehameha.

 

Now, you were raised a regular local kid?

 

Typical local boy; right.  You know, in the 60s, focused on surfing, rock ‘n roll, and girls.  The 60s, I think, for me, our history in the 60s was probably the most traumatic decade that our country has experienced in the last century.

 

And were you part of that resist, oppose? You know, resist authority was the call of the day for young people.

 

Yeah. Me?  No; I was more interested in hotrods and surfing.

 

So, that kind of passed you by.

 

Yeah, yeah; that kinda passed us by.

 

Were you in ROTC as a student?

 

So, did the war in Vietnam touch your life as it started out in the 60s?

 

You know, not really.  I think in my junior, senior year, it was just really kinda like an extra subject for history lessons, history courses.  And it wasn’t until the summer after we graduated that it kinda came home very personally, because the older brother of one my dearest friends was one of the first casualties in Vietnam.  He was killed in Cu Chi.

 

Oh …

 

And then, later on that year, I had a cousin who was killed in Vietnam as well. And then, it’s like, wow, this is for real, what’s happening here.

 

What happened next?

 

And then, I was still pretty much living life like a local boy.

 

Hotrods.

 

Hotrods—

 

Girls and surfing.

 

Yeah, yeah, surfing.  And then, I got a special call.  I love to tell this story, because the young soldiers today, I said: You know what, we are so proud of the decisions you made to serve your country, but you know, my legacy is a little bit different.  I was very special; Uncle Sam came looking for me.

 

He said: Mr. Hoe, we need you.

 

Had you been dreading a draft call?

 

No; no. You know, in my generation, that was part of growing up.  At some point, you know, you would either volunteer to become part of the then, what was very fascinating all-Hawai‘i company, which on 4thof July every year, you know, a hundred or so young high school grads would become part of the all-Hawai‘i company.  So, for me, you know, service was just gonna be part of my growing up.

 

So, that service didn’t, in your mind, include combat.

 

No. But it included, you know, doing some time in the military.

 

Right.  And so, even when you got that call, you didn’t say: Oh, my god, I could get sent to Vietnam, I could get put in really difficult circumstances.

 

Yeah; reality … I was nineteen, and that was not, I think, part of my reality. You know, I was young, still making perhaps unwise decisions regarding activities in life, et cetera.  So, for me, yeah, I didn’t feel threatened by it, neither did I feel any kind of overwhelming sense of obligation, other than to serve your country.

 

I understand after being drafted, you could have stayed here, I think.  But you volunteered to go to Vietnam?

 

Yes. Having grown up and hearing the stories from my aunts and uncles, and cousins, regarding our, quote, warrior culture, after training to become a combat medic—

 

Why did you train to be a combat medic?

 

Well, Uncle Sam said that’s—

 

You were designated.

 

Designated.

 

Okay.

 

Yeah; for training.  And you know, they give you a battery of tests, et cetera, and you know, who knows, but you know, fortunately, and I feel I was very blessed to have been selected to become a combat medic.  And after I trained long and hard to do that, when we graduated, all of the new combat medic qualified soldiers would go to the bulletin board to see where their next duty station was.  And the bulk of my class went straight to Vietnam.  I was assigned to San Francisco.  And you know, I didn’t question it.  And then, when I got to San Francisco, I was assigned to Travis Air Force Base.  The unit I was assigned to had a lot of soldiers who had come back from Vietnam, and they maybe had three to six months left on their assignment before they got out of the Army.  And stories that they shared with me in terms of what it was like presented a challenge to me, and I said: You know, given my background and my family history, I don’t ever want to … look back and say, I wonder how I would have done in combat.

 

But it was a different kind of combat.  I mean, it was like no other war we’ve had.

 

Yeah, but you know, for a nineteen-year-old, there’s only one kind of combat.

 

Wasn’t there some Geneva Convention ruling that it’s a war crime to shoot a combat medic who’s clearly identified in combat. But in Vietnam …

 

There were no rules.

 

Forget it.

 

Forget it; right.  And life expectancies for combat medics were worse than first lieutenants.

 

So, you wore weapons.

 

I carried, I carried both sidearm and a rifle.  And you wore nothing that indicated that you were a medic, other than your bag was bigger than the rest.

 

And then, you went out right after people got hurt in combat.

 

My mission, I was with a long-range reconnaissance team.  And so, when someone got wounded, they were generally standing right next to you, so you knew what was going on.  Yeah.

 

So, you could have been hit too.

 

Yeah.

 

Did you fire your weapon?

 

Yes. You know, for me, part of that experience, being twenty by the time I got there, and being young and adventurous, part of my responsibility being on that team was, I had to learn all the duties or all the functions of everyone else.  And as the medic, I trained the members of my team to the best of my ability in terms of, you know, first responder life-saving methods.  So, while with the team, not only did I fire my weapons, but you know, I helped set ambushes, I learned how to call artillery, and learned how to set demolitions and blow charges.  And yeah, you gotta understand, for a twenty-year-old, this is like fun stuff.

 

You don’t feel that it’ll actually hurt you? Do you feel untouchable?

 

You feel immortal.

 

Immortal.

 

Yeah.

 

Yeah.

 

The most foolish kinds of things that one accepts in combat is that if it happens, it happens.  You know. And then, for me, it was, you know, as long as I can get through three of these life-threatening experiences, then I’ll be okay.  I very clearly distinctly remember the three times that I was supposed to have received something fatal, and survived.  And after the third time, it was like, oh, big relief.  I said: Nothing’s gonna happen.

 

I’ve got a force field around me.

 

I’ve got a force field around me.  And then, you just kinda learn how to operate just naturally and freely.  And yeah, you were still concerned, you were still frightened on occasion, but you knew that at the end of the day, nothing’s gonna happen. And you know … nothing happened.

 

But you can’t do that by skill alone; right?

 

It’s luck.

 

It is a matter of chance.

 

No, no, no.  Yeah; you survive combat purely on luck.

 

And meanwhile, you were seeing some scenes you can’t un-see.

 

Yeah.

 

Mutilated limbs and gory stuff.

 

Yeah.

 

Very sad, just grievous injuries.  How did you deal with that?

 

For me, it was just reactionary.  I trained; everyone trained.

 

You compartmentalized?

 

You compartmentalize.  When stuff happened, instinct kicks in.  And you know, I think one of the saving graces of our current force is that our young shooters, as I call them, the young infantry soldiers or the young combat soldiers that have to go to war for us, they are required to train twenty-four/seven.  And it becomes instinctive, it becomes reactionary.  So, when they’re on a patrol, they experience enemy action, they immediately shift into their combat mode.

 

Did you hear the talk that we understand was common at the time, where people were saying: What are we here for, why are here, this war doesn’t make sense.

 

Yeah. We would hear about that or read about that in letters or the newspapers that would occasionally come to us.  But you know, the reality is, at the end of the day in combat, you’re not thinking about fighting for your country, you’re not thinking about fighting to preserve, you know, family values or the constitution, et cetera.  You are simply thinking about saving the life of your buddy on your right and on your left. And you know, the reality is, at the end of the day, if you’ve done your job right and everybody survives, our country will be blessed by that.

 

Did you get really close to the guys you served with?

 

Oh; you know, to this day.  Fifty years ago, I met incredible bunch of young men, and probably spent twenty-four/seven with these men, maybe not more than four or five months with them, but to this day, when I hear their voice, I immediately know who I’m talking to. It’s that special bond that even kind of um, surpasses a familial bond.  You know, I have a relationship and memories of guys that I served with perhaps that run deeper than with my own two siblings.

 

Wow.  And you know, when you’re with somebody who’s terribly hurt, and possibly or inevitably dying, it’s a really intimate time you share.  How was that?

 

Yeah. For me, and the guys most closest to me, if one of our buddies was hit, we were—this is fascinating–we were doing our best to stabilize his condition, but it becomes not quiet and soft, but it becomes a loud, raucous kind of conversation to get their attention, to get them to focus, to get them to hang on and not to give up.  You know, so it’s yelling and screaming.  This is like—you know, I remember the first time that happened, my platoon sergeant, who obviously had been there longer than me, as I was treating one of my wounded buddies, he was shaking him to get him to respond, to wake up, and to fight on before we put him on the helicopter.  And I learned something that day, in terms of first, you know, you’re gonna … do your job to stop the bleeding, prevent the shock, but at the end of the day, you’ve got to get that young soldier’s attention, to get him to focus on things he needs to do.

 

Because that helps him—

 

Him, yeah.

 

–help himself.

 

Help himself.

 

You know, you have seen some things that most people never see, never have to know what it’s like.

 

Yeah.

 

How has that affected you?

 

You know … at times, it causes me to kinda go into a slump, but I’ve always been able to deal with that in terms of, that’s war.  And I kinda kick into this mode where long time ago, I read this passage where, you know, in war there’s only two rules; the first rule is that people die, and then the second rule is that you cannot change rule one.  So, you know, we were at war, people are gonna die, you know, and thank God if you survive, that you survive.

 

That 1968, when you were there, that was a particularly …

 

Yeah.

 

–fatal—

 

Yeah.

 

–grisly year.

 

Yeah.

 

I mean, lots of fatalities.

 

Yeah. I guess the high water mark was 1968; in May, 1968.  And yeah, May 1968 was a particularly bad month for me.

 

What happened?

 

I lost eighteen of my guys.  And but for the grace of God, I would not be here, because ten of ‘em are still missing in action.  The grace of God was that my unit was transitioning from Point A to Point B, and I was not with them that day.  I was back in the rear, getting ready to rejoin them.  Before I could rejoin them at the new location, they were overrun.

 

And some of them were never found, but were you treating your own men?

 

Yeah.

 

In the field.

 

Yeah.

 

May; was that Mother’s Day?

 

May, Mother’s Day.

 

Mother’s Day.

 

Mother’s Day, 1968.  Yeah. I mean … if you can imagine, I mean, you’re a mother, you know how important Mother’s Day is.  That day by itself, you know, to get the message or the knock on your door that your son was killed on Mother’s Day.  I mean …

 

And so now, when Mother’s Day comes around at your home, you think of another meaning for it.

 

Yeah. I am reflective on the mothers of my men who didn’t make it.  And you know, over the past fifty years … that bond I had with their sons, I’ve developed with them.  So, for me, it’s very special.  For me, it’s always been an obligation to assure their mothers whose sons never came home that their sons are superb young men.

 

You made an effort to go do that?

 

Absolutely.  The majority of the men who I lost on Mother’s Day 1968, their mothers and their fathers had absolutely no clue what happened to them.  And to live without any knowledge of what happened, I just couldn’t.  And that’s even worse, you know, to have your son taken from you in combat, and that’s all you know.  He’s not here.  Why? We can’t share that with you, we can’t tell you the circumstances, or what happened on that day.

 

Do you think you had PTSD after the war?

 

I had issues.  I don’t necessarily think it is or was PTSD.  Everybody who experiences combat has issues.  I remember when I first came back from Vietnam, the first month that I was home, it was just party time; right?  You know, I was riding motorcycles back then, and every night we’d go out and … go and enjoy life, tip a few Primos.  And I remember like after a month, one day, my dad came home.  We were passing, I think in the driveway; I was getting ready to go out, and he was coming home from work.  And said: Al.  He said: You have a moment?  I go: Yeah, absolutely.  He told me, he said: You know, son, I won’t even begin to understand what you experienced in Vietnam, and what you’re doing now, you know, I’m not supportive of your behavior and what your conduct is now.  So, you know, how much longer are you going to do this, ‘cause don’t you think you need to start thinking about your future?  I hope you’re not planning to do this the rest of your life.  And I said: No, Dad, I’m just having fun.  But you know, that kinda came home to roost really strong for me, my father saying: Okay, all right, it’s time to kinda like get on with your life.  And, you know, I did.

 

He did it in such a nice way, too.

 

Yeah; he was just an incredible guy.

 

Allen Hoe’s parents had always insisted he would attend college, so when he returned home, he took advantage of two new State institutions for learning.  He enrolled in the new Leeward Community College, later graduating from UH Mānoa, and he was among the first class of law students admitted to the William S. Richardson School of Law.

 

Okay; the style of the day was long hair.

 

Yeah.

 

So, did you go back from the war with your short haircut, to—

 

Long hair.

 

–long hair.

 

Yeah.

 

And did you see anti-war protests?

 

Oh, yeah; yeah.  You know …

 

How did you feel about them?

 

You know, this may sound strange, but to me, that was just part of our great democracy.  You know, I tell people: Yeah, I have no problems with the protests, the marchers, and the anti-war people, even when I was in Vietnam.  I said: Hey, that’s what we’re here for, to give them the right to exercise, you know, their freedom.  And it truly did not bother me.  One of the things, though, that did bother me was, a couple of the young Leeward students were egged on by this group to pull down the American flag. And four of us Vietnam veterans stood ‘em off, and we said: You touch that flag, and you’re gonna go down.  And … they left the flag alone.  I said: You can protest the war all you want, but you’re not gonna come and touch this flag.

 

And that was a spontaneous act by the four of you?

 

Yeah.

 

Did you ever get pegged the wrong way when you walked around campus with the long hair?  I mean, did people assume anything about you that wasn’t true?

 

The wife of a soldier who was in one of my classes, her husband was a career soldier, had not been in combat.  And she made this kind of strange comment to me.  She said: Why are you so angry?  And I said: What do you mean?  She said: There’s this hate that comes from your eyes.  And I said: Your husband’s a soldier, has he been in combat?  No.  I said: Well, you send him to combat, and this is the look that he will come home with. And she just couldn’t understand that.

 

That it’s not anger.

 

It’s not anger.  People these days, or even for many years, they call it the Thousand-Yard Stare.

 

Allen Hoe’s adjustment to civilian life was bolstered when he met his future wife, Adele.

 

We met actually, I think maybe the second month after I got out of the Army. And you know, when I first saw her, I said: Oh, my god, that is the girl of my dreams.

 

At first look?

 

That first day we spent together.  She was actually a coworker of the sister of one of my dear friends.  So, we just kinda like wound up on not a blind date, but time together.  And she was, or is just a special person.  Yeah; yeah.  Swept me off my feet, so to speak.

 

Adele and Allen Hoe married and shared in the joy of raising two sons: Nainoa and Nakoa.  Both young men chose to be warriors and serve their country.  The elder son, Army First Lieutenant Nainoa Hoe, was killed by a sniper’s bullet while he led a foot patrol in Northern Iraq in 2005.  He was just twenty-seven years old, and had been married for less than a year.

 

My wife and I, Adele, we still hear from the soldiers who served with Nainoa. And that is very comforting to us. He absolutely loved being a soldier. And the fortunate part, if there is anything fortunate about that horrible tragedy, was that his last day on this earth was documented by a writer who wrote an incredible story of how my son spent his last day with his men in combat.  Now, for me, as a father who had experienced combat, that was just an absolutely incredible story.  For me, it was very gratifying to hear how he performed in combat, and how his men just dearly loved him.

 

Yeah; I was so impressed by your son Nakoa.

 

Ah …

 

Seeing him at an event where Nainoa was being spoken of and honored, and all the attention was on the fallen son.  And Nakoa is a very honorable and brave, Army leader in his own right.  Right?

 

Correct.

 

But it was not about him; he was just happy to see Nainoa being celebrated.  I thought, he’s grown up in that shadow of his—

 

Big brother.

 

–his big brother being venerated as a hero.

 

Yeah.

 

And not feeling like: What about me?

 

Yeah. You know, in retrospect, my Hawaiian culture, that’s what led me to name him Nakoa; brave, courageous, strong, army, a soldier.

 

It does take courage to kinda—

 

Yeah; to stand in the shadow.

 

To stand in the shadow; right.

 

Yeah. And he has become just an incredible young man.

 

So much grace.

 

So much grace.

 

Did you teach him that grace?

 

His mother taught him that grace.

How our family and how this community responded when our son was killed, for me, it was very eye-opening.  You know, having survived combat, having witnessed death, it was totally different when that knock came on our door.

 

2005.

 

  1. And then, it’s like our whole world just came screeching to a halt. And then, you know, over the years, I’ve become very close to the Vietnam veterans’ efforts, the memorials, et cetera.  Jan Scruggs is a very dear friend.  And you know, Memorial Day 2005, I was invited to come and be a speaker at the Memorial Day ceremony at The Wall.  It was not the first time I had been there, but that was my first experience when I got there and I looked at the fifty-eight thousand plus names in the wall, including like a whole panel of my guys.  And I just kinda like … stopped, caught my breath, and I said: Oh, my god.  Looking at all these names, you would think that the world would have come to a complete stop.  Because I know my family—

 

For some, it did.

 

Yeah.

 

Many, it did.

 

For some, it did.  And for, you know, my—my experience and my family’s experience, the world did come to a stop.  You know, but there it is, fifty-eight thousand plus names, and we’re still at war.

 

Shortly before our conversation with Allen Hoe in the summer of 2018, he and nine other local Vietnam veterans were honored at what the Army referred to as a long overdue ceremony.  While only ten veterans were selected, the Pentagon report said they represented a large number of soldiers who served in the Southeast Asia conflict, but were never given a proper military ceremony to present awards and medals.  Allen Hoe received a Bronze Star and Purple Heart at the ceremony, and told news reporters it was well worth the wait to have the brigade you went to war with recognized years and years after that war was over.

 

We thank Vietnam Combat Medic Allen Hoe for his time with us, and the work he continues doing in the civilian and military communities.  And we thank you, for joining us.  For more of Allen Hoe’s conversation, including how a flag originally purchased as a souvenir in Vietnam has earned a military record of its own, and why it’s in Hoe’s DNA to be passionate about horses and the sport of polo, please go to PBSHawaii.org and our Long Story Short archives.  I’m Leslie Wilcox for Long Story Short and PBS Hawai‘i.  Aloha nui.

 

For audio and written transcripts of all episodes of Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox, visit PBSHawaii.org.  To download free podcasts of Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox, go to the Apple iTunes Store or visit PBSHawaii.org.

 

People say: You do so much for the Army.  And I said: You know what, when I have a quiet moment, sitting in my backyard at Maunawili, looking up at Mount Olomana, which was one of Nainoa’s favorite places, I just kinda look up there and I says: All right, son, you didn’t think Dad had enough to do?  So, my mission has been to try and make the lives, and the comfort, and the memory of soldiers who put on the uniform every day for us a little bit better.

 

 

 

HIKI NŌ
#1014 – Top Stories from the Winter Quarter of the 2018-2019 School Year

HIKI NŌ #1014 – Top stories from the Winter Quarter of the 2018-2019 school year

 

This compilation show features some of the top stories from the Winter Quarter of the 2018-2019 school year:

 

–Students from Maui High School in Kahului introduce us to Maui High robotics captain John Fabella. John’s mother passed away when he was just seven years of age, and his father was deported. Growing up without his biological parents, John found an extended family in his Maui Waena Intermediate School robotics team and later, in the Maui High School team.

 

Program

 

–Students from Wai‘anae High School on tell the story of a female wrestler who used to be teased and bullied about her weight, and lost the pounds to regain her self-esteem.

 

–Students from Kalāheo High School in Windward O‘ahu focus on the importance of taking responsibility while driving. Their story is framed by the recent traffic fatalities in the Kaka‘ako neighborhood of O‘ahu and how that tragedy sparked a family’s memories of losing their daughter in a drunk driving incident.

 

–Students from Hawai‘i Preparatory Academy Middle School in the Waimea district of Hawai‘i Island show us the proper way to saddle a horse.

 

–Students from Ewa Makai Middle School on O‘ahu feature two cancer survivors who battled with their diseases at a very early age: Lily Mallory, who was undergoing treatment for her cancer at the age of three, and Emi Robison, who was battling leukemia at the age of seven.

 

–Students from Chiefess Kamakahelei Middle School on Kaua‘i introduce us to Mike Coots, a surfer and photographer from Kīlauea, Kaua‘i, who lost his leg in a shark attack and now, ironically, works to protect sharks against the ravages of the shark fin soup industry.

 

–Students from Maui Waena Intermediate School in Kahului feature a food truck owner who starts a pay-it-forward campaign to help feed workers affected by the recent federal government shutdown.

 

–Students from Moanalua High School on O‘ahu introduce us to figure skater and Moanalua High School senior Kyra Fukumoto. While Hawai‘i has only one ice skating rink, and its resources for training figure skaters is very limited compared to the Mainland, Kyra is adamant about being based out of her home state. She is very proud of being from Hawai‘i and looks forward to representing the islands in her career as a figure skater.

 

This special episode is hosted by Tyler Bright, a 2018 HIKI NŌ graduate from Wai‘anae High School on O‘ahu who is currently studying biology at Chaminade University in Honolulu, with hopes of becoming either a canine rehabilitation therapist or a physical therapist.

 

 

 

 

PBS HAWAI‘I PRESENTS
Under a Jarvis Moon

PBS Hawaii Presents Under a Jarvis Moon

 

This film tells the story of 130 young men from Hawaii who, from the late 1930s through the early years of World War II, were part of a clandestine mission by the U.S. federal government to occupy desert islands in the middle of the Pacific. The first wave of these colonists was a group of Hawaiian high school students, chosen because government officials assumed Pacific Islanders could best survive the harsh conditions present on the tiny, isolated islands. For the young men, who were unaware of the true purpose of their role as colonists, what ensued is a tale of intrigue, courage, and ultimately, tragedy.

 

Preview

 

 

 

THE WIDOWER
Part 1 of 3

THE WIDOWER: Part 1 of 3

 

“The Widower” is the three-part true story of Malcolm Webster — an infamous wife-killer who marries, and then attempts to kill, a succession of woman to mask his debts and cash in on their life insurance policies. Webster, a nurse by profession, is on the surface, a perfect gentleman. Well-­spoken, personable and oozing with charm, he marries first wife, Claire Morris, in 1993. However, a year after her dream wedding, Claire is dead — the apparent victim of a tragic road accident. What no one knows at the time is that Webster has spent the entire marriage plying his unsuspecting wife with sedatives. He aims to keep her in a constant state of fatigue and drowsiness to prevent her from questioning his wild spending habits or mounting debts. But with his debtors closing in on him, he decides to silence his wife once and for all  by killing her in a staged car accident that will pay him a life insurance policy that will resolve his financial difficulties.

 

Preview

 

Part 1 of 3
When Claire Morris (Sheridan Smith) confronts her new husband, Malcolm Webster (Reece Shearsmith) over his wild spending, he tries to control her with sedatives. Afraid he’ll soon be caught, he silences her once and for all. Three years on, he has a new bride…and history appears to be repeating itself.

 

 

 

AMERICAN EXPERIENCE
The Greely Expedition

AMERICAN EXPERIENCE: The Greely Expedition

 

In 1881, 25 men led by Adolphus Greely set sail from Newfoundland to Lady Franklin Bay in the high Arctic, where they planned to collect a wealth of scientific data from a vast area of the world’s surface that had been described as a “sheer blank.” Three years later, only six survivors returned, with a daunting story of shipwreck, starvation, mutiny and cannibalism. The film reveals how poor planning, personality clashes, questionable decisions and pure bad luck conspired to turn a noble scientific mission into a human tragedy.

 

Preview

 

 

 

VICTORIA & ALBERT: The Wedding
Part 2 of 2

VICTORIA & ALBERT: The Wedding, Part 2 of 2

 

Witness the most accurate reconstruction of Victoria and Albert’s wedding ever staged, followed by a sumptuous wedding breakfast, a prelude to the first night that began a marriage so iconic, it heralded constitutional monarchy as we know it today.

 

Preview

 

 

 

VICTORIA & ALBERT: The Wedding
Part 1 of 2

VICTORIA & ALBERT: The Wedding - Lucy Worsley

 

Lucy Worsley introduces the team of experts who will join her in reconstructing the wedding that changed history. As they get ready for the ceremony and investigate the stories behind the dress, the food and the music, they uncover surprising details while the reality of their enormous undertaking comes into focus. As they labor, Lucy and her co-presenters reveal the backstory of the most romantic of all Royal romances, a tale of tragedy, scandal, intrigue – with a whiff of revolution.

 

Preview

 

 

 

TREE OF LIFE:
A Concert for Peace and Unity

TREE OF LIFE: A Concert for Peace and Unity

 

Join renowned Israeli-American violinist Itzhak Perlman, the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra and music director Manfred Honeck, and the Mendelssohn Choir of Pittsburgh for a special concert in remembrance of the city’s Tree of Life Synagogue tragedy.

 

Preview

 

 

 

Allen Hoe
A Soldier’s Soldier

ALLEN HOE: A Soldier's Story by Emilie Howlett

 

Leslie Wilcox talks story with Allen HoeAs one of more than two million draftees called upon to fight in the Vietnam War, 19-year-old Allen Hoe thought he would serve his time and then his life would resume as normal. In his conversation on Long Story Short with Leslie Wilcox, Hoe reflects on the experiences that turned this local boy into a soldier’s soldier.

 

Trained as a combat medic with the Army, he witnessed some of life’s greatest horrors, and these intense circumstances helped forge a life-long bond with the men he served alongside. The politics and ethics of the controversial war and the reasoning behind what they were fighting to preserve came second to “simply thinking about saving the life of your buddy on your right and on your left” recalls Hoe.

 

LONG STORY SHORT WITH LESLIE WILCOX, Tuesday, November 13, 7:30 pmOn Mother’s Day 1968, one of his greatest fears played out in front of him. While he hung back at headquarters waiting to rejoin the other men in his unit, they were overrun. Hoe lost 18 men from his unit, while several more were captured and held prisoner.

 

While many would seek to close the door on this tragic chapter of their lives, Hoe extended his kindness towards those who felt the loss most profoundly. “I am reflective on the mothers of my men who didn’t make it. And over the past fifty years … that bond I had with their sons, I’ve developed with [the mothers] … It’s always been an obligation to assure their mothers whose sons never came home that their sons are superb young men.”

 

“... my mission has been to try and make the lives and the comfort and the memory of soldiers who put on the uniform every day for us a little bit better.” – Allen Hoe

 

Allen Hoe and the courageous men he had served with.

 

Along with the atrocities he witnessed as a combat medic, the loss of the men he served alongside would follow him long after his tour ended. However, life went on. After returning to Hawai‘i, Hoe found success as an attorney, got married and had two sons.

 

But tragedy struck again. In 2005, his elder son, 27-year-old Army First Lieutenant Nainoa Hoe, was killed by a sniper’s bullet while leading a foot patrol in Northern Iraq. “How our family and how this community responded when our son was killed, it was very eye-opening. You know, having survived combat, having witnessed death, was totally different when that knock came on our door.”

 

While visiting the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. on Memorial Day of that same year, seeing the names etched on The Wall, including those of his own men, took on a new resonance. “Looking at all these names, you would think that the world would have come to a complete stop,” Hoe says.

 

Allen Hoe’s own losses inspired a lifelong commitment to healing the wounds of war by supporting those touched by its effects. In June 2018, he was presented with the Mana O Ke Koa award, which honors his unparalleled patronage and his dedication and service toward soldiers, civilians and the U.S. Army Pacific. Hoe has transformed the tragedy in his life into generosity, serving as a guiding light for so many. “So, my mission has been to try and make the lives and the comfort and the memory of soldiers who put on the uniform every day for us a little bit better.”

 

 

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