It wasn’t something that ever came up in conversations with friends, but lately I’ve wondered whether I am “local.” Or, to put a sharper point on it, am I local enough for Hawaii?

My whole life, I never questioned this. I was born here. I’m kamaaina. I went to kindergarten barefoot. When people ask that only-in-Hawaii question — Where did you go to high school? — I can say: Kailua.

But lately I’ve heard academic discussions about the term “local.” That it is a bad term, a word coined by oppressors. I thought about that and thought about my parents, who moved here in 1955 and fell in love with Hawaii, a place that was far more remote in those days.

They weren’t oppressing anyone. They were teachers who had children — me, my sister and my brother. They raised us to be respectful of the differences around us.

My parents didn’t start out local, but they wound up as local as anyone I know because of their deep feelings for this place. They embraced Hawaii and will be part of it forever — my father buried in its soil and my mother scattered over land and sea. When it’s my time I want the same thing.

One could argue there’s no firm definition for local, that it’s not so much an ethnic identity as it is an appreciation for the rhythm of life in the islands. An appreciation of our differences. That’s always made the most sense to me.

The real Hawaii is nothing like a visitors bureau postcard. We snipe and scratch at each other about all sorts of wrongs and slights, some legit, some not. For the most part, though, we seem to get along. We’ll say hello to each other at Safeway or the beach. Who would be so mean to do otherwise?

Although we usually identify ourselves along cultural lines in Hawaii, we’re not shy about sharing those facets of our identity — or embracing someone else’s.

We heap lei on high school graduates (yours, mine, theirs), wear slippers instead of shoes, order a plate lunch with teri beef, kim chee and a piece of fried chicken. And rice. When you grow up here, as I did, all of that simmers like beef stew on the family stove.

What’s not to love about that?

Obviously, I’m a haole — and I don’t mind the term, unless it comes with an adjective. Then we might have words. When I was in college, I would get asked about my heritage. What was I? I would always answer: first-generation local haole.

But my local is probably different from your local. I’m my own mixed plate.

I’ll start an email with “Aloha!” but I don’t always write “Mahalo” when I’m done.

I’ll flash a shaka every chance I get — if you follow me on Instagram or Facebook, you already know this — but not one of those touristy, pointy, wild-eyed shakas. I like mine low key.

I slip into pidgin all the time, but I don’t want to use it when I write.

I like Spam musubi but not Spam.

And I prefer a green salad to mac salad.

So that’s my story. I’m a product of my environment. A little of this, a little of that. I don’t need an activist to bless me or an academic’s permission if I want to call myself local.

It’s who I am.

Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.