Then when I was 13 I accompanied my friend to her Tahitian dance class and I was mesmerized. I was intoxicated by the drums, they seemed to fill me all the way up and all I wanted was to move my hips to their rhythm like the beautiful women I saw with their long black hair flowing, their rapid hips and their graceful hands. I begged my parents to let me join and weeks later I was enrolled. I skipped TGIF (a serious sacrifice) to let those drums fill me up once a week and let my budding womanhood come out and play for an hour. An hour where my body was for myself in all it's movement and sexuality, an hour where I wasn't afraid of how I looked only how isolated my hip movements were and how much they moved with the beat.
A year later I went back to classical styles and started a jazz class but I always practiced my fa'arapu alone in my room, my CD player blasting the recording of a drum session. And one day I returned to Polynesian dancing, kind of by accident. When I began to learn the moves and vocabulary of Hula I experienced a new kind of joy. The ancient kahiko dances with their precise movements and melodic chanting made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. As I spoke Hawaiian words I felt reverence for a people who had endured so much. Reverence for the land that was stolen and the culture and language that they fought to get back. The same moves I was dancing and the words I was chanting along with my teacher were all banned in their birthplace for decades by foreigners.
Colonizers were brilliant that way. You create a kind of confusion when you cut people off from their culture, their ancestors, their language, their way of life. When you make people forget the essence of themselves, what makes them special and connected you can manipulate them. Today Hawaii's culture has been co-opted by the US. I grew up watching the mostly white casts of Save By the Bell and Full House travel to Hawaii and do horrible offensive renditions of Hula while wearing synthetic grass skirts, their blonde tresses flowing in the ocean breeze. My childhood brain was always confused by how different Hawaii seemed on TV when the Hula I saw looked nothing like that. When I began dancing myself I searched all over the island for the perfect leaves for a head piece or skirt, the skin on my fingertips frayed from the weaving and intricate knots I had to tie, the feeling of disappointment when I opened the fridge to see that my plumerias were brown on the edges, a sign that I would have to go pick a fresh batch before my performance even though I had a mound of homework and needed to detangle my hair. All of that is erased when all people see on TV is actors waving their arms around like idiots in plastic shit.
But something inside always tugged at me, something reminding me that as beautiful as it was and as connected to it as I felt, it was not mine. I am not Hawaiian or Tahitian and the only reason I was on this island at all was because the US had decided that Pearl Harbor was a strategic place to put a Naval Base. So I don't talk so much about all of this anymore, I stuff it down and only quickly mention I grew up in Hawaii before saying that my family isn't from there and I'm actually really from California.
Then every once in a while something triggers that connection and I am in a sea of tears longing for mountains and seas and flowers and bare feet. Tonight that trigger was Moana. I had resisted watching for as long as I could but when my (part Hawaiian) nephew donned a custom made Moana outfit for his Baby's 1st Lu'au I knew I'd have to watch it eventually.
As Moana sang of her island home and her longing for the sea I was reminded of the unbelievable story of the Polynesian people. A story of faith, courage and connection. I all of the sudden missed the ways my hips swayed to a Hawaiian song, the way my fingers waved gracefully and the repetitive rhythm of a Kaholo, my feet knowing exactly what to do next.
Then I was instantly filled with sadness. Sadness for MY people, for Black people. Our language, our dances, our customs, diverse and beautiful and connected to our souls were ripped away. Out of our resilience and resistance we created new culture, new language, new connection and for that I am always proud. But there is something about seeing people dance the same dance that their ancestors danced from the beginning that takes your breath away. I don't know that we'll ever have that in the same way as other people who were colonized on their own land do. It's a different story. I guess I hope I can feel some sense of connection to culture that belongs to my ancestors while also appreciating the gift that the Polynesian people gave me in Hula and Tahitian dancing.
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