Hula

In this way, she began to understand that while the islands were connected like siblings they were not identical. Each had a rhythm, a heartbeat, unique to itself.

You can steal a kingdom, but the kingdom will never belong to you.

We are not here for you. We were here before you came, and will be here when you leave.

The ocean gave us no reasons, no anger, no apology. It answered to no one. We belong to the `āina, the `āina does not belong to us.

In Hilo, we are the `āina. Its mist is our breath, its rain our tears, its waters our blood. Our veins run deep, our song louder than their noise. Roots too deep to extract. That’s the thing about hula. Burn your books, rewrite your history, build walls, plant flags. Hula is written within the swirls of our feet. It’s our umbilical cord, our pulse. Our battle cry, our death rattle, our moment of conception. The chants are archived in the stars. Hula is the heat rising from within our volcanoes. It is the pull of the tides, the beat of the surf against our cliffs. It is our hair, our teeth, our bones. Our DNA. You can steal a kingdom, but the kingdom will never belong to you

We used to grow taro, bananas, sweet potato. Now we grew headstones. The only remaining place where Hawaiians were still a majority was in the cemetery. We were a species on the brink of extinction.

To truly dance hula could not come from choreography or perfect timing. There could be no mimicking the elements of Hawaii. There was only becoming a part of them.

What you will learn here is an honor. A torch. You will be the caretakers of our land, our ocean, our culture, and our community. This knowledge is already inside you.