My mom grew up in Chinatown, right on Hotel Street. Her Okinawan mother owned a restaurant called Millie’s Grill, and they lived upstairs. Her Hawaiian dad ran the projector at the American Theater somewhere around the corner—I believe where Maunakea Marketplace is now. My grandma grew up on a plantation on Hawai‘i Island, Pepe‘ekeo. My grandpa was from Waikapū, born on land that eventually became part of a sugar plantation there, but his roots also came from Kipahulu and Honua‘ula, all on Maui.
Mom would sit in her second story window as a child and look across the street to the twinkly lights of the popular Wo Fat Chinese restaurant, and watch the parties. Or she’d get a quarter, painted red with nail polish, and play some music on the restaurant’s jukebox. She sat at the counter, legs dangling, and ate potato chips with mayo for a snack. She spoke Japanese with her Okinawan family, and so did her dad. He did not teach her Hawaiian, and later, when I was born, he didn’t teach me either.
Those were easier and more abundant days in Chinatown. They knew all their neighbors. She, at the age of 5, could go up and down the street freely. During the day, she sometimes hung out at Glades, a famous māhū bar, or visited other shop owners who were family friends. Everyone was nice and knew her and took care.
Now that I work in Chinatown, literally next door to where she grew up, it’s hard to imagine those stories happening today. Chinatown is so different now. But I’m glad that my mom had that kind of freedom as a child, and that she shares those stories with us. On a recent long drive, I asked her all kinds of questions. My sister was so curious, she hadn’t heard any of this before.
Who we are, our lineages important. Our stories make us who we are, generation by generation. Who we are is passed down in our DNA, by our upbringing, by what is said (and unsaid), who we meet, how we are educated, our experiences and opportunities, our privilege.
When I was a kid attending public school, we generally learned that Hawaiian things were things of the past. This wasn’t that long ago. I remember my teachers teaching us about “old stuff” and our history. But the framing was never ours. The only thing left, really, was us. A ton has changed—we were on the cusp then. There’s so much reclamation and restoration and healing that has taken place. We are not just relics, but living embodiments of our past, present, and future. I love that, and we’re all a part of it. We have so many opportunities to live and be Hawaiian.
Besides learning about us, I love learning about other people, cultures, geographies and how they have been shaped over time. There’s so much richness and beauty in the world that comes from people and their land.
On Saturday, we celebrated Lā Kū‘oko‘a—Hawaiian Independence Day. The holiday commemorates the date in 1843, November 28th, when the Hawaiian Kingdom was formally recognized by Great Britain and France. There’s so much history attached to this day. Years ago, I loved learning about Timoteo Ha‘alilio and how he traveled across Mexico by donkey on his surreptitious journey to the east coast of the United States. What must that journey have been like? Who did he meet, how long did it take? And what sorrow in his passing, such a reluctant hero who helped us be recognized by some of the most powerful nations.
To celebrate this great day, an organization I volunteer with, Kauluakalana, puts on a wonderful event full of history, hula, music, vendors, and camaraderie. Patriotism for what it means to be a sovereign citizen of our place. Especially our place called Kailua, but also of Hawai‘i. To be proud to be Hawaiian. I saw kids running around, speaking Hawaiian, being free and safe, full of joy and belonging. Hae Hawai‘i were absolutely everywhere, our flags as symbols of pride waving in the breeze.
I’m learning a lot more these days about the nervous system, regulation, and embodiment. It makes me think what it must feel like in the body to be sovereign. Once, when traveling in the high mountains of Vietnam, we met aunties who showed us their weaving and used blades of grass to sing us beautiful songs. They were older, and they lived in the land of their ancestors. They had never been conquered or displaced, to their memory. There in that moment, witnessing their connection to their ‘āina, their traditions tied to the land, and their expressions of culture and what I would call aloha, I saw them sitting in their identity fully—not in opposition to another force, not in relation to a colonizer, but just being themselves in their beautiful place.
That’s something that I strive for, that I think we are all striving for and making and remaking every time we come together. It’s quite a journey.
Hope you have a great week. We are on the cusp of a new year, as the year of the horse gallops towards us. Can you believe it? Where has 2025 gone? Where will we find our own sovereignty next year? Perhaps the flip, the settling into that kind of freedom of mindset and embodiment is slender as a blade of (pili) grass, steeped in relationship, and belonging, celebration and joy.
Mahalo nui,
Dawn
Photo taken in Chinatown, Honolulu