As summer exhaled her first breath of heat and drought, a placeless girl boarded a one-way plane to Kauaʻi. While her mother and father lay asleep at home, she wriggled herself free from California’s safe hands and watched her world dwindle, diminish, and dwindle still beneath her feet. This girl would never be seen again. 

At dawn, she washed up on Kauaʻi’s red shore, bathed in the sunlight of a new day in a new place. Perhaps Kauaʻi had thought her a mere tourist, perhaps Kauaʻi had resigned herself as a cultureless island for cultureless people like this cultureless girl, or perhaps her ticket of entry was her kumu and hula sisters who had traveled alongside her; nonetheless, by this island’s benevolence or otherwise, Kauaʻi wrapped her arms around this wahine of a mere fourteen and held the lost child in her embrace for seven days. 

As the day, once young and innocent, bled into nightfall, she watched the moon ascend to her throne from the window of a Princeville house. Yet even without ʻo ka pā shining down, she could read the time of day with her eyes closed; the voice of a Hawaiian night is unlike any other. The rattling of insects harmonized with the friendly laughter of neighbors and distant music, all breathing mana into the humid atmosphere of kindness and nā pua, all breathing mana into this placeless girl. Her kumu of ten years breaks the rhythm of this nighttime mele, asking the girl to join her in the living room. 

Humbly kneeling upon the carpet, this girl looked like a keiki learning her first mele, learning how to move, learning how to be. But this girl is no keiki, and to remind her, her kumu bestowed upon her the most treasured gift of all—a name. For a decade, stories of names—of kings and queens, of gods and nature—flowed through her like rain down the pali; now, she had a name to call her own, a name with its own story. Those sacred syllables, handcrafted over ten years, danced out of her kumu’s mouth and fell, fell, fell, upon eager ears:

Ka—The. The origin of a sentence, an oli, a language. The mere monosyllabic beginning of something grander; look ahead, something important is coming. Look ahead, this girl is important. 

Lei—a garland of more than just flowers. Love, devotion, friendship, family carefully woven together by hand to be worn around the neck, close to the heart. This girl is the meticulous patchwork of those who love her. This girl carries the spirit of Aloha. This girl is to be cherished, to be kept close to the heart. 

Lehua—stubborn, steadfast, yet sensitive—life sinking down roots into the dark desolation of dried lava, where nothing else can flourish, grow, or even dare to breathe. Unashamed of her bright red hue, the lehua flower anchors herself to the earth against all odds, as if to say Look at me. I am alive, like a dandelion in concrete, only more beautiful, more sacred. This girl is the lehua in the lava, an interloper fighting to survive where she does not belong. And somehow, she has put down roots into the ancient art of hula, into the Hawaiian culture, the language, and begs the island to let her stay.

Makamae—Beautiful. After all, isn’t there something beautiful in beating the odds? Isn’t there something beautiful about losing yourself in something that you are not, about becoming what you were never meant to be? Isn’t there something beautiful about finding a home country when a home country never existed for you, even if it only lasts a week’s time? 

Kaleilehuamakamae. I tread carefully at first, with that same contemplative tenderness I used to take my first kaholo at four years old, that same contemplative tenderness I used to hold my first ipu. The pronunciation rolls off my tongue, but I’m cautious; I know I am not Hawaiian, yet I have a Hawaiian name. I know I was not born here, but perhaps I was reborn here. I do not claim this stolen land, I do not call myself what I am not, yet I let the culture live in my feet, in my hands, in my hair, in my voice. I let the culture live in the stories I fight to keep alive. As long as my knees bend and my feet carry me, as long as my hands remember the stories, as long as my voice can chant, no matter how quiet, this culture will live within me. 

Somewhere on that island, there is a girl who has lost herself in another’s culture, who has found her long-lost pulse in the drum of an ipu. Perhaps she still watches ʻo ka pā rise and reign over the night sky. Perhaps she still dances for Pele at the foot of the Kilauea lighthouse. Perhaps she is still braiding her lei poʻo, surrounded by her hula sisters, all reborn with different names. Perhaps she wanders the forest in solitude, whispering her new name to herself until it joins Hawaii’s nighttime mele, until she becomes one with Hawaii. 

Translation Guide (in chronological order as they appear)

ʻO Kaleilehuamakamae koʻo ʻinoa = Kaleilehuamakamae is my name
kumu (n.): (hula) teacher.
hula sisters (n.): the girls I dance hula with
wahine (n.): woman
ʻo ka pā (n.): the moon
mana (n.): sacred power; life, energy
 nā pua (n.): the flowers
mele (n.): song
keiki (n.): child
pali (n.): cliff
ka (determiner): the
oli (n.): chant
lei (n.): garland
lei poʻo (n.): lei worn around the head
makamae (adj.): my precious one
kaholo (n.): a basic hula motion
ipu (n.): a drum made from a hollow guard used in hula
Pele (n.): Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes