The View from Here
Learning the Hula: A Gift from Hawaii
Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor of Biology
Hawaii Pacific University
E-mail: lfukuda@hawaii.edu
Later, in the years after the Hawaiian cultural revival, I saw the hula performed in the old way--the kahiko. Muscular youths who had warlike expressions held spears in gestures of attack. Equally fierce women, bent like Russian dancers, pushed the limits of their physical abilities to perform their dances. I felt it was far too difficult, almost a religious performance, and I did not have permission from the Hawaiian gods.
I imagined the scorn of the haughty gods, watching a slow and clumsy girl attempting the hula kahiko. "Who is this creature," they would say. "She is not even of our blood. How can she shamelessly dance for us when only the best were allowed to perform for us in the past." I did not wish to be cursed by the gods. Perhaps, one morning, I would awaken with a crooked toe after I had displeased the gods with my less than passable performance.
I knew that the hula kahiko of old was only danced by a chosen few. The dancers were trained under strict kumus. It was as if the young people had taken their vows and bowed to their gods. Their gods watched them, judging with harsh eyes and nodding their approval. I would never dance the hula kahiko. It simply was not allowed.
I knew girls who took hula lessons, but they were vigorous classes, and far too hard for a girl with bad coordination. I could not even balance on a bicycle or dance the Polka without stepping on my partner's feet. And my salsa dancing had a long way to go before it was even acceptable. I was left-handed. I rotated to the opposite and moved in a direction natural to myself but not to those who were the majority--right-handed.
Thus, I spent my growing up years, and my adult years, feeling only envy for those who had the skill. I wished I could don the pretty hula skirt and perform with everyone else. And yet, I hesitated--feeling like an outsider. I was not allowed. I needed to feel the call of the hula in order to dance it.
One night, on a pleasure trip with a college friend on the island of Molokai, I witnessed a group of Hawaiian women dancing the hula. But this hula was not the hula I knew in my childhood. They did not wear elaborate skirts made of grass with headdresses or flouncy, starched skirts that went to the ankles. Nor did they wear long dresses or holokus fit for a princess. They were dressed in their faded t-shirts and cotton shorts and were gracefully dancing the hula. They were not trim or young, like the dancers I had seen. They were plump and middle-aged with hardly any waistline, and yet, they moved their large hips with grace. It was as if I were watching the waves in the ocean moving, or the palm trees waving in the wind. I smelled the scent of the blossoms they danced about and heard at last the true song of the Hawaiian hula.
I sighed. There was a lot of cheering and clapping by the crowd, regulars who haunted the hotel's open-air bar on the edge of the water of the sea that connected with Maui. The torches reflected on the small pool and the moonlight danced on the ocean. "This is what real hula is," I told my friend, Pat. "I never knew that it could be so graceful and yet so simple and satisfying." I saw the glow of happiness on the women's faces as they danced. They did not do it for a performance. They were celebrating for a small party, perhaps for someone's birthday, but they had simply gone to the front and danced in their everyday clothes with only a small flower picked from their garden as adornment.
As they danced, I saw that it was a dance of giving. It was the dance of aloha, or love. Their gentle, caressing hands waved in the air, as if they were touching their sweethearts. The shy smiles showed their adoration of those in the audience. They flirted with their eyes and laughed. It was as if every man in the audience was the object of their affections. We were all touched. It was magical to see the hula; the hula of the heart. Tears came to my eyes.
I was in the heart of Molokai, an island where its inhabitants had suffered. I thought back to the time of leprosy, when patients from all islands of the Hawaiian chain were arrested like criminals and dumped on the lonely peninsula of Kalaupapa, where they remained in exile for the rest of their lives.
I wondered if they too had danced the hula, dancing away their tears and loneliness. Cut off from the rest of the world by high cliffs and treacherous waters, the afflicted were unable to return home to their families and were destined to die with the other patients in a barren, abandoned land. It was not the criminal treatment of leprosy or Hansen's disease patients that hurt them most of all, but the loss of contact with their own ohana, or family. The people of modern day Molokai also suffered, but in different ways: unemployment, poverty, and lack of adequate medical facilities. The Molokai ranch, with its famous roaming cattle, suffered from bovine tuberculosis. Whole herds of cattle had been slaughtered to halt the spread of the disease, leaving ranchers bankrupt. The inhabitants of Molokai of old and new had suffered.
And yet, it was here, tucked away in a pocket, a secret place in Hawaii where times had changed Honolulu, and most of Oahu, and had slowly begun to change the other islands, that a forgotten island, Molokai, stood still in time. The people lived the ways of the old, not being affected as much by the prohibitions against the hula and the Hawaiian language and culture. On Molokai, those of pure Hawaiian blood helped to preserve a cultural tradition that could have disappeared due to its prohibition.
On the last day of my trip, I paused and took a photo of our small aircraft and took in the last breath of fresh air in Molokai before departing. "It's nice here, isn't it?" a friendly Hawaiian man said to me, smiling.
"Yes. I try to come to Molokai often to get away from the city and the crowds. I love the real Hawaii," I said. Just as I loved the real Hawaii, the true Hawaii that was not buried under the concrete of the city or groaning under the stress of crowds and traffic, I loved the true dance of the hula. I did not crave the hula that was commercialized for tourism or the prettified hula for entertainment, but I longed for the hula of the Hawaiian heart. I did not know the true meaning of hula until I studied the Hawaiian culture and began to learn some Hawaiian words and their meanings. Once I began to read the songs of the hula, I truly understood what the hula spoke of.
How does one describe the love one has for the land of one's birth? How can one speak of the connection a person has with the land he or she has adopted? Like an agriculturalist grasping a handful of earth and feeling the moist richness and life within the soil, I felt my feet touch the Hawaiian soil and felt them planted there for eternity.
How does one say how much one loves the culture he or she has adopted? I am proud and filled with joy for the love I have for Hawaii and its people. The decades of the prohibition against speaking or teaching the Hawaiian language and culture had left painful scars on Hawaii's people. But as the scars began to heal, a new spring arrived. Many Hawaiians were proud of the Hawaiian culture and wished to share with others who were interested of their rich heritage.
An example of their pride is the Merry Monarch Festival, which showcases all forms of hula and teaches the Hawaiian culture to people around the world. There is a Hawaiian cultural revival too, not only in Hawaii but also in the West Coast of the United States, where Hawaiian expatriates reside. I heard of non-Hawaiians learning the language and dancing the hula and saw it as a sign that the time was right. I would be allowed by the gods to learn the hula.
I was fascinated by the hula. I began my study by digging into the past. I read the songs of the hula, which were more like poetry and myth combined. It was a vital part of the oral traditions of a people who did not have a written language but had managed to hold onto their culture and stories through their travels across the wide Pacific Ocean.
I imagined the hula dancers with their steady feet, dancing on the decks of a double-hulled canoe, practicing a form of exercise and entertainment. It allowed the Polynesian voyagers to pass away their months at sea and kept their bodies toned and healthy and happy. I saw them laughing and celebrating life, overcoming hardship and deprivation as they danced the hula. Some danced for celebration; others danced for their gods. It was an offering to the gods when the ancients danced the hula.
In ancient times, the hula was not performed for a human audience. It was a dance performed to the gods. The goddess of the hula, Laka, received an offering, and the hula, too, was an offering. I imagined the young girls and young men dancing in the forests of old Hawaii, the forest birds echoing their song, the wind whispering through the trees, and the mist coming down from the mountains.
The chants of old, the hula of old, described the natural environment and the love of the Hawaiians for such a place. Imagine how joyful and triumphant its first inhabitant were, finally making landfall on the mysterious island chain, crossing the perilous Pacific Ocean. The journey would have been long and hard. The supplies of water and food would have run low. Their patience and hope would have worn thin.
And yet, they must have danced the hula; the dance of joy and hope. They danced to the gods to ask for their blessings. When they settled on the green islands, with abundant streams and oceans rich with fish, they danced in celebration. The song of the hula began to describe the long journey to the islands; other songs spoke of the wonder of its people when they saw the rich forests and lowlands.
The hula, with the wholeness of body and spirit, of nature and the connection of the Hawaiians with the aina, or land, spoke of the universe. How can we face the future in an uncertain sea? How can we trust the gods to guide us to the right place? What can we do to survive the hardships and deprivation that human life brings us? These questions and many others were answered by the wisdom of the hula.
My next lesson on the hula was at the Merry Monarch Festival. I watched in awe as costumed young men and women danced away the nights, competing against others to show what they learned in their disciplined groups. The meanings of the songs, the chants to the gods, the well-timed movements, and the beauty of their dance all reflected the pride and revival of the Hawaiian culture. The prohibition was over. The hula was no longer illegal. The Hawaiian language was introduced to some schools, and Hawaiian immersion programs had allowed many young Hawaiians, whose parents had never spoken or learned Hawaiian in the days of the prohibition, to speak fluently and take in their culture with their whole bodies.
It was a spiritual and cultural revival. The Tahitian hula was no longer a substitute for the true Hawaiian hula. Pride and beauty shine at the performances. Hawaiian dances old and new graced our stages, teaching the populus of what had been and what could be. The hula is the dance of the spirit. It sustains a people who have undergone hardship and deprivation and replaces them with pride and vitality. Just as the hula of old, a form of giving to others allowed them to also receive from others and from the gods and nature, the hula of the present was a gift that all, not only those of Hawaiian descent, could receive--the aloha and the gift of ohana.
I grew up on Oahu, in the city of Honolulu, a very cosmopolitan city, where things were ever changing. The Hawaii I knew in the sixties had transformed. The twentieth century welcomed the twenty-first century. Hula in Honolulu had been fine-tuned and made into an art that was also for display. I did not know until going to the Big Island, Hawaii island, that was six times the size of Oahu, that pockets of pure Hawaiian people existed, performing their hula in the time-honored tradition.
It was on this island that the decades had passed them by. The abdication of Queen Lilioukalani, the transformation of the Hawaiian kingdom into the annexed land. The annexation of Hawaii by the United States, and eventually, statehood. World War II had also passed them by, not paying much attention to a remote island that was not of strategic location. The war had coveted Oahu and its harbors. The native Hawaiians lost their lands, scattered across the new state, and awaited lands that were promised to them.
Yet, on the Big Island, it seemed, the native Hawaiians lived in the old ways; in the ways that my grandparents had lived on Kauai. They fished, cultivated crops, and gave thanks for their blessings. They were connected with the super-energy of the active volcanic land and still kept their traditions. The ancient ghosts of the Hawaiian, the spirits of those who knew King Kamehameha, still lived and ruled the aina, or land. They gave to their descendants, the strong pride of their culture. The ancient Hawaiian language, mingled with the language of nature, spoke to them of what was truly good. And in the hula, ancient and new, the people of the Big Island brought forth the mana, or supernatural energy, in their movements, their chants, and with their spirits.
The hula brought healing to the people of the land. The prohibition ended and, once released from the lonely exile of the human-induced netherworld, it came to its people and spoke of what was good. It related to the new generation of what had been and what was possible. Who could not have pride for a people who braved the elements and sailed into ocean space, not knowing if they would survive or perish at sea? Who could deny the admiration for ancestors who were strong and adventurous, filled with faith and hope, to find a better world to settle in? Like all colonists of the Earth, it was the desire to find new lands that drove the ancient Polynesians, who became the ancestors of the Hawaiian people, to cross the perilous seas. They came, survived, and left descendants who were strong enough to overcome the obstacles of cultural change and poverty, of being a forgotten people, and come forth with pride.
When I finally joined a hula group, it was at this wonderful time, where Hawaiian cultural pride was at its height, and I felt the gods smile on me that I decided to start my clumsy attempts at dancing the hula. I dance the hula with my hula sisters. Our teacher is a kind, older sister to us. We share our daily lives before and after the dance. We move gracefully together and feel the energy of others. Some come from work that drains them, others have troubled family lives or experience loneliness, but when we come together to dance the hula, we feel only joy. My tired body from hours at the computer and unkind persons yelling on the phone ceases to bother me. Hula, like the hula of its people, is healing. It is a dance of the living, and a dance of those who wish to be blessed. I see the poetry of the hula. Our hands before us draw the images of the Hawaii I love. Like a silent language, similar to sign language, we shape the mountains, streams, rainbows, and waves with our graceful hands.
It is a world away from reality and yet embedded in true Hawaiian culture that is the world of hula. The stories of myths, of beautiful places, of a lost love, of yearning and passions all come forth in the land of the hula.
I recently moved from Hilo to Honolulu. It was not until I lived in Hilo that I was at last able to learn the hula without shyness. A clumsy girl with two left feet and the coordination of Gumby, I was at last inspired to learn the hula. "Is it okay?" I asked one of my friends. "Will your kumu (teacher) mind if I join when I am a slow learner and have problems learning dance?"
"We are all friends," my friend told me. "And she is patient and accepts all students."
True to my friend's description, my new kumu gladly accepted me as her student. I could see her suppress a smile as I clumsily tried to keep the rhythm. I knew that many times I moved to a different song. My hand movements were crude, and I stamped my feet like a small child. But I knew that she was trying to teach me the hula not only in movements, but also with the love she had for the dance. I learned, little by little, of her childhood and of her young students. I learned about a world I had forgotten.
When I danced the hula with my kumu, I was transported back to my remote childhood when I spent my days in the gentle sun, dressed in a muumuu and leather flip-flops with a small flower in my hair. I spent much of the time tossing off my flip-flops or shoes and walked barefoot on the soft earth and on the gentle sand. In the Waikiki of my childhood, hapa-haole (Hawaiian music sung in English) drifted into my consciousness. It spoke of a slower time, when palm trees waved in the wind, and the only concern of the Honolulu people was that coconuts fell on car roofs and left an unsightly dent in the shape of a coconut. The sunsets were always very long, and the beaches were deserted. The fragrant smoke of the hibachi (small iron barbecue grill) curled in the wind as families had their suppers on the beach. The highest buildings in Honolulu were the Aloha Tower and the Ilikai Hotel.
The hula is danced barefoot. One must feel with the feet the earth below to have a connection with the aina, or land. Clothing and shoes suppress the true hula, which was once danced with only the long hair of a Hawaiian maiden giving her modesty, and a simple skirt around her waist to emphasize the movements of the hips.
The adornments the ancients wore were of nature. Natural shells collected at the beach were strung into anklets and bracelets and leis, or necklaces. Some necklaces were fashioned of human hair that was braided intricately or from bird feathers. Some hair ornaments and skirts were made of plant materials, and leis were made of flowers gathered from the forests and the lowlands.
I marveled at the beauty that adorned the hula dancers. Not diamonds or gold, but treasures of true value; gifts from the gods above that were in the form of plants and flowers, of natural products, were used to give the dancer a connection with the earth.
I saw the dancers transform into creatures of nature. Some were graceful birds that flitted in the rainforests, others were waves of the vast ocean, and some were the ferns of the forest, soft and feathery. I knew that these adornments did not have permanence, and soon after the dance, flowers and leaves would be discolored or wilted. Feather leis would fade and grow moth-eaten with time. But who needed permanent decorations when these products were replenished by nature herself?
When a hula dancer and all those who support the art are able to obtain these riches, it means that the earth itself is rich and full of life. I would not wish to live in a day when rare but commonly used plants and flowers that have cultural significance to the native Hawaiians are no longer available for them to gather. I hope that the volcano goddess, Pele, will continue to supply her people with the beautiful products of the aina.
Finally, I joined the world of hula, never again an outsider, but someone who could carry the gift so that some day, when I could dance with true grace, I would give my gift to those who watched. It was here that I learned the traditional hulas that was not kahiko or the ancient hula, but the newer, well-loved hulas that the kupunas, or elders, knew as the hula auana. When I moved to Honolulu, I found a hula teacher who also continued to give me the gift. With her, I learned the modern hula that spoke of love and graceful maidens. I learned to use my hands with grace, like the fluttering of the olapa leaves that flashes and flutters in the forests. I use the movements with care, having better coordination to have the leisure to concentrate on my hands. My feet are steady, and I try to keep up with the rhythym so that I do not feel as though I will fall on my chin when I move my arms and legs at the same time, as I felt in the beginning.
I am not a fast learner. An elderly student once remarked, "Every time I learn the dance I forget it by the next lesson."
"Don't be ashamed," I told her, smiling. "I can't remember them either. Dance is a different type of discipline and a different type of learning takes place."
This Christmas, I am flying home to Hilo. It is still my home. It is there that I feel so much mana from the land. I miss the rains of Hilo; the soft misty rain. I long for the streams and ponds fed by the pristine springs. I sigh for the sunsets in Hilo bay, and the glimpse of snow on Mauna Kea. I weep for the Hilo nights, silent and loving with a blanket of dampness. I think of the lava fields, far away, that call to me when I am gone.
When I dance the hula of Hilo, I recall the images that I know so well. They are deeply embedded in my heart. My heart aches for my aina, the land of Pele who welcomed me at last. The black lava rocks, barren to the eye, are full of life. The forests on Mauna Loa, haunted with bird song and the soft hum of the crickets, tell me that they will be waiting for my return. I will never yearn for any land, not even for Oahu, as I do for the Big Island. It is so near and yet so far. I will practice my hula so that when I finally go back I can join my hula sisters and begin where I left off.
My hula sisters and I will dance again, the hula of our group, in the dining area of the Hilo Hawaiian Hotel, overlooking quiet Hilo bay. Perhaps the waiter will join us for a few numbers as he did last year, and kupunas will dance with smiles on their faces. It is never too late to dance the hula. Some learned years after the prohibition, being older and having missed the opportunity in their younger years. I will dance the hula until I am very old. Even if wheelchair bound, I will do the hand movements with grace.
It will be my special Christmas gift to myself, a trip to the Big Island to join my hula sisters. I will share my clumsy attempts at the hula and hope to become more graceful with the years.
The hula was a gift the gods gave to me in Hilo. It was in Hilo that I felt close to the land of the Hawaiians and surrounded by their aloha. I wanted to describe the love I had for the wonders of nature as the ancients did. I wished to show with the gestures of my hands and feet the beauty of the places I saw. It was only with the hula that I was able to speak of such wonders, of such blessings. It is when I dance the dance of the Big Island and of Hilo that I recall the images of the places I hold so dearly. The snows of Mauna Kea, the soft Hilo rain, the forests of Ohia come back to me, as they will as long as I live.
I will carry the gift of hula with me wherever I go. In hardship or in loneliness, I will remember the special joy that dancing the hula gives to my heart and those who witness it. It is a dance of giving, and a dance of joy.
I know that the hula has brought back the gifts of the ancients to the young Hawaiian population. It is a way to touch their ancestors who are close by but forgotten, until recently. Their ghosts stand by and watch the new generation, nodding in satisfaction as the young honor their traditions. The dance that the kupuna (elder) taught to the grandchild, the dance that was performed in small family gatherings, and the dance that was shared by those of the community, is alive and well once again. It is an art and a gift. To me, it is like a Christmas gift, a present that is given by the giver and yet gives back to the giver. How wonderful it is when a gift that is so intangible is yet so strong and everlasting. It is a gift, like the replenishable gifts of nature, the gift of hula. It is my own Christmas gift every day, to be able to dance the hula at last.
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