With excerpts from the poem “Hawai‘i Pono‘ī” by Aunty Pua
“On Friday, August 7, 1987
Forty-three kanakas from Wai‘anae,
In a deluxe, super-duper, air-conditioned, tinted-glass
tourist-kind bus,
Headed to Honolulu on an excursion to the Palace,
‘Iolani Palace…”
Aloha mai kākou e nā hulu manu like ‘ole, greetings amongst us birds of many feathers.
Today, the world burns and the presidential tectonics of North America shift again. Today, the sun rises, the tradewinds blow, and we remember the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Today, I reflect on sovereignty, on ea. Last week, we remembered that our kingdom was stolen, but that we are still here, and that every day we have the gift of remembering and being inspired by our Queen’s resilience, and her resistance. We are indeed sitting in a time of deep dissonance, and this dissonance is palpable. All of these things come together for me today as I think of Aunty Pua, who was deeply connected in her own ways to Dr. King and Queen Lili‘uokalani.
“…Through the polished koa wood doors, with elegantly etched
glass windows,
Docent Doris ushers us into another Time.
Over the carefully polished floors we glide, through the
darkened hallways: spinning, sniffing, turning,
fingers reaching to touch something sacred, something forbidden—quickly.”
Aunty Pua spent time in the mid-80’s at the Highlander Research and Education Center (Now the Highlander School) where Dr. King, Rosa Parks, members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) and other civil rights leaders had a safe space to plan for and exercise their ea. Every once in a while she spoke fondly of her time there in the Great Smoky Mountains, as we imagined a Hawaiian activist in the woods of Tennessee. Action. Aunty Pua also had an intimate relationship with our Queen, reading her words regularly in recent years, sitting in dialogue with her handwriting, her voice, her vision and ‘ike. Action.
“…Then into the formal dining room, silent now.
Table set: the finest French crystal gleaming; spoons,
knives, forks, laid with precision next to gold-rimmed
plates with the emblem of the King.
Silent now.La`amea `Ū.”
In Building Beloved Community circles, Aunty Pua invited us into a personal and collective act of becoming, of seeing and being seen, and heard. With curiosity, she asked us to share our gifts he alo a he alo, face to face, often on Zoom. Regarding ea, she recounted Aunty Pilahi Paki’s teachings, discussed with her and Uncle Pokā in the dark of the night: “Ua mau ke ea o ka ‘āina i ka pono. The deepest layer of pono is hope.” And hope is hard won, dug deep, hope is the foundation of a nation. Through the deep listening and witnessing of the circle process, Aunty helped us create safe spaces for our voices and stories to grow and transform, unfettered and free.
“…Portraits of friends of Hawai‘i line the dining room walls:
a Napoleon, a British Admiral … But no portrait of
any American President. (Did you know that?)…”
This is the practice of coming to the middle, something that sounds so simple yet is often so difficult. There, Aunty encouraged us to see ourselves and each other in new ways by telling our stories; going “below the piko” to our gut, our na‘au, and sharing the truth that could be found there. In the circle, there is no hierarchy, no jockeying for position, no power struggle—just a deep recognition of each other’s humanity through the equity that comes from sharing of time, space, voice, and prompt. This always begins with the practice of the Weather Ball as an old friend, a diagnostic tool, a ritual practice: naming how we feel in the moment, our joys and happenings, what weighs on us, mundane or profound, through the metaphor of a weather report. We also give voice to a Blue Sky moment, sharing even just a brief anecdote of a sliver lining we’ve experienced, especially in times when the horizon seems impossibly dark.
“…Slowly, we leave the King.
And walk into the final room to be viewed on the
second floor.
The room is almost empty; the room is almost dark.
It is a small room. It is a confining room.
It is the prison room of Queen Lili‘uokalani…Docent Doris tells us:
“This is the room Queen Lili`uokalani was imprisoned in
for eight months, after she was convicted of treason.
She had only one haole lady-in-waiting.
She was not allowed to leave this room during that
time;
She was not allowed to have any visitors or
communications with anyone else;
She was not allowed to have any knowledge of what was
happening to her Hawai`i or to her people.”Lili`uokalani `Ū.”
In the face of such despair, if our Queen could do the many things she did for her people, what can we do now with the resources at our disposal, with these circles and hands and na‘au?
In this reflective season, I think of what Aunty asked of us—to ask questions, to count what counts. “Who speaks for the trees?” she entreated. “What is the weather like in you today?” she really wanted to know. “Are you suffering from the disease of busy-ness?” she counseled. “Mmmmm…have you tasted natto on hot rice with shoyu? …as she smacked her lips. “What is ripe in this moment?” she pondered. Aunty Pua knew and believed in a sovereign Hawaiian Kingdom. She was a true citizen, approaching everyone with aloha, curiosity, and equanimity. She believed and knew the truth of kākou, that this n@tion of -all of us- includes more that just the two legged creatures. She loved and respected our Queen, who visited and talked with her.
So…what are you curious about in your world? What are you pondering? [How] do you stay tethered in times of despair and dissonance? What is a truth that you hold on to, real as anything, a truth that is planted in you like a resilient seed, a truth like a deep taproot crawling forth through time? Our truths may not be the same, but they are worth telling, and witnessing.
What do our kūpuna whisper in our ear, when we are able to sit quietly enough through the noise of our hectic world, and listen, deeply?
“…She stood with me at her window;
Looking out on the world, that she would never rule again;
Looking out on the world that she would only remember
in the scent of flowers;
Looking out on a world that once despised her,
And in my left ear, she whispered:
E, Pua. Remember:
This is not America.
And we are not Americans.Hawai‘i Pono‘ī.
Amene…”
Me ke aloha pumehana,
Dawn Mahi