Hula

DedicationFor Riana, Mila, Mom, and Katrina, and the dance we dance.And for Hilo, where the heart beats loud and clear. EpigraphHula is the language of the Heart. Therefore the Heartbeat of the Hawaiian People.King David Kalākaua Contents CoverTitle PageDedicationEpigraphVerse IChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Verse IIChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Verse IIIChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Verse IVChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Author’s NoteAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorCopyrightAbout the Publisher Verse IHo`omakaWe are not what you think. To you who come on airplanes, who descend upon us, we are invisible as air. We are the `āina and the sum of its parts. Mauka and makai, past and present. Born of its waters, we are haumāna and kūpuna, ageless and ancient. The keepers of the stories, the watchers, the listeners. You think you’ve been here, you think you know us, you have the pictures to prove it. The pictures are wrong. You’ve seen nothing at all. We are not here for you. We were here before you came, and will be here when you leave. We are Hilo, one. We are we. Back in the old days you introduced yourself by telling your mo`o k`ū`auhau. Where you was from, who’s your dad, your grandma, your relations. Your mo`o k`ū`auhau told the story of where you fit, of your talent and ability, as well as your particular kuleana, the responsibilities and duty that contribute to the whole like a star in the sky. It said if you were of the mountain or of the ocean. It rooted you to your place. The Naupaka Ohana was one of Hilo’s first families, both creator and protector of Keaukaha, our land, our home.Our jagged coastline was stamped into the veins of the Naupaka women. Laka, her mother, Hulali, her great-tutu Ulu—their collective mana ran through the crisp fresh water gurgling up out of the black lava rocks along the shore and in the whispers of the hala groves. Everybody knew the story of the Naupaka Ohana, of where they’d come from, of everything they’d done for Keaukaha and Hilo. Theirs was the hula of us, the telling of not only how they became they, but how we became we. Like a mo‘o k`ū`auhau, star charts map ways both forward and backward. With them we find our way through the dark, we cross great oceans, we make our way home, to Hilo. With the Naupakas, we knew the canoe would stay on course. Like any ohana, there are many roots and branches to the Naupaka tree, many ripples in the water of each Naupaka spring, but this one, Hi`i’s story, was different. Her star chart was full of clouds. It muddied the waters of our history and left our future uncertain, our direction unknown. Hilo, Big Island’s heart. Land of the kanilehua rain, the mists from which the red lehua flowers drink. Hilo, our curse and our blessing. Chapter 11968When Hi`i was a baby, we blamed her color on sunscreen. We are the color of curly koa, of burnt butter, of empty beer bottles forgotten on the porch from the night before. Our rainbow is made up of browns, greens, blues. Our keiki roamed free. They tumbled naked on the same black sands of Richardson’s that we’d tumbled free and naked on. Here, tucked away in our quiet, overlooked corner, the world made sense. But Hi`i’s skin made her mother, Laka, do things only tourists do. That babe, so different from her mama, stayed parked under the shade of a palm tree, buried in hats and coveralls in Laka’s arms, slathered from ear to toe in sunscreen so thick the ocean didn’t know what to do with her. Ke kai bounced her on its vast blue glittering surface, a pink conch baby buoy. We itched to get our hands on that babe, the next in line of the great Naupakas, a true daughter of our neighborhood, finally returned to take her place. We wanted to strip off her clothes and wipe her free of all those chemicals, to hold her up to the sun and let her bake. But Laka stayed hunched over her baby, alert, anxious, like she was trying to keep a bubble from popping. She spread her towel on the sand on the other side of the beach as if we were contagious. We kept our questions tied to our tongues, dogs on chains. The sky was bone-dry and the moon winked bright on the night the muddy gravel driveway off Kalanianaole Street filled with rusted cars toddling on spare tires and with cracked windows. We extracted ourselves from cluttered backseats along with the foil-covered pans full of noodles for long life, lomi salmon and poi brought up fresh from the valley, tako poke, rice still steaming hot in the pot, and all the other pupus expected of a party. Six-packs clinked their way into the coolers on the porch, waiting with open arms and melting ice. The fish, caught and cleaned that morning, were salted and laid out on the hibachi to hiss and sizzle and fill the air with a smell that made the tourists driving by wish they were invited. The warped plywood floor creaked and strained under the weight of what was becoming a very heavy party. On the porch, cigarette smoke exhaled in an upward tilt toward the current of breeze that had danced its way across Hilo Bay and into the yard; hands the kind accustomed to manual labor waved at the wispy tendrils if they dared linger. We wanted to welcome her home. But Laka was skittish, a flight risk. We didn’t want her to leave again. We got as close as we dared. We tiptoed, we teased. But into those waters, we never went deeper than our ankles. We whispered. It’s what happens when you move Maui and like be high maka maka. When you work