I still remember the first time I heard someone chant “Up, up-down, up-down…” — not at a game, but in a chemistry class. That was the kind of magic Pamela Fujinaka brought into her teaching: formulas turned into rhythms, lessons transformed into memories.
Pamela, or simply “Fuj” as her students called her, spent decades shaping minds at ‘Iolani School. She didn’t just teach chemistry; she made it feel alive. Back in 1979, when she first stepped into the halls to replace a retiring teacher, she inherited a program of fewer than a hundred students. Today, thanks to her energy and vision, hundreds walk into chemistry classes each year — each carrying her influence.
But what struck me most wasn’t the numbers. It was her spirit of service. Long before “service learning” became a buzzword, Pamela believed that real education extended beyond textbooks. She brought the Key Club to campus, mentored science bowl champions, and inspired generations to tie knowledge with community. That blend of intellect and compassion left fingerprints on so many lives.
Her students often described her as “enthusiastic,” but I think the better word is relentless. She never stopped asking: how can I teach better, how can I connect more deeply? Even when new technologies felt intimidating, she dove in, eager to learn alongside her students. In that sense, she wasn’t just a teacher — she was also a lifelong student.
I find that part beautiful. Because in a way, the best teachers are mirrors: they model what they want us to become. Pamela showed that curiosity doesn’t fade with age, and that dedication isn’t about working late hours, but about loving the work so much that time disappears.
Years ago, she radically reimagined her classes. Instead of ending the year with rigid lessons, she handed the stage to her students. They picked topics, designed projects, even tied their research to local community service. Suddenly, chemistry wasn’t confined to the lab — it lived in their neighborhoods, in conversations, in creativity. That kind of teaching is rare, and unforgettable.
Pamela Fujinaka received awards, met presidents, and earned the highest honors in her field. But when I think of her legacy, I don’t picture Washington ceremonies or medals. I picture students laughing while chanting about metalloids, or nervously presenting projects that stretched their imagination. I picture her desk light still glowing long after sunset.
And maybe that’s the truest measure of greatness in teaching: not the titles, but the echoes — the way a voice lingers in your head when you finally get it. For so many, Fuj’s voice is still there, whispering chemistry as story.