A Big Hawaii 4-0 for the Islands in a Mainland Dream

Exactly 40 years ago this Saturday, there was dancing in the street on Kalakaua Avenue. Tens of thousands in downtown Honolulu partied all day and all night. It was the day Hawaii became a state.

For 40 years now, mainland Americans have:

* Failed to figure out if the “w” in Hawaii should be pronounced like a “v.”

* Made Hawaiians laugh by wearing Bermuda shorts with black socks.

* Continued calling California the “West Coast,” even though it is now more like a middle coast.

* Never taken the Hawaii presidential primary as seriously as we should.

* Refused to put a baseball or NBA team there, even though we give them to Canada.

* Wondered when Hawaii’s language will get around to using all 26 letters of the alphabet.

* Wondered when Hawaii’s artists will run out of ways to paint fish.

* Wondered when Hawaii’s tourists will run out of jokes about the word “lei.”

* Never eaten poi. Ever.

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I have bored people in print, as well as in person, for a number of years now. But with one subject in particular I have bored my closest friends for longer than I (or they) care to remember.

Hawaii.

I consider it the greatest place in the world. I have been all over the world, from Argentina to Australia to Anaheim, Azusa and Cucamonga, but none of them compares. Well, OK. Maybe Cucamonga.

Ever since I was a kid in Illinois, where the weather is every bit as enchanting as Hawaii’s is on all but 360 days of the year, I have longed to move to the islands. We used to watch Johnny Weismuller do TV commercials, inviting everyone to “come to Ha-VI-ee.” Ve vished ve could.

From that distance, I knew nothing of Hawaii or its people. All I had were Michener novels, National Geographic magazines and Arthur Godfrey singing about little grass shacks while playing a ukulele.

To me, Hawaii seemed to be a place where people were friendly and wore really gaudy shirts. I knew that Pearl Harbor was there and that Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr made out on a beach. I had always wanted to make out on a beach, but in Illinois you’re lucky if you can find a pond.

Eventually, I became a Hawaii expert.

I memorized the names of its major islands--Hawaii, Oahu, Maui, Molokai, Manitoba, Krakatoa, Kahlua and Java.

I listened to its greatest singer, Don Ho, and his greatest-hits album, “Who You Callin’ a Ho?”

I learned that the “Hawaii 5-0” TV program got its name because that is the actual phone number of the Police Department there--5-0. There are only 100 phone numbers in all of Hawaii and this is one of them.

I discovered that Hawaii has not one volcano but four, and that if lava is ever coming toward your house, don’t stand beneath a door. Run.

I found out that Hawaii’s original settlers came from the Marquesas Islands, circa AD 400, and shortly thereafter opened a store to rent snorkel gear.

I read that Capt. James Cook named them the Sandwich Islands when he got there in 1778 and that he got killed in 1779, possibly over bread.

The only thing I never figured out was why Hawaii wanted to be a state. I would rather be an island than a state. I’ve been on islands and I’ve been to states, and let me assure you, islands are better.

Nevertheless, Hawaii did indeed seek to join the club, and I don’t mean in 1959. Its first statehood bill was introduced in 1919, back when the only island we’d let into the union was Rhode.

Not until March 12, 1959, did Hawaii get the official OK. We were looking for a 50th state at the time. I know Norway was interested, but it was too far away.

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By a vote of 323 to 89--and Hawaiians are still looking for those 89 finks--the House of Representatives adopted a bill that was passed by the Senate a day earlier. Hawaii was the big 5-0.

Old Sam Rayburn, speaker of the House, proclaimed: “My congratulations to Hawaii. I opposed this in the past, when I felt Hawaii was not ready for statehood.”

Not ready? Come on. I would have made Hawaii a state even if we could only have 48 and had to kick out a Dakota.

President Eisenhower signed the bill on Aug. 21, 1959, and Hawaiian soldiers at the Iolani Palace gave a 50-round artillery salute. I believe this was the last reported shooting incident in Hawaii, which is why I’d like to move there.

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Mike Downey’s column appears Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Write to him at Times Mirror Square, Los Angeles 90053. E-mail: mike.downey@latimes.com