The FestPAC Collective

Introduction
By Kristiana Kahakauwila

In a window-less conference room in the East-West Center at University of Hawai‘i Mānoa, we push tables together and re-arrange chairs. We are not here to look at a podium or a screen. We are here to look at one another, to be in conversation, to be in community. There are twelve of us from across Oceania. Some of us live where our ancestors before us lived. Some of us do not. We represent multiple island nations: Aotearoa, Fiji, Guåhan, Hawai‘i, Belau, Samoa, Solomon Islands, Tonga. When we introduce ourselves, we instinctively trace the migrations of our families. We name the villages on the islands within the nations that we call home. 

What has brought us together is the 13th Festival of Pacific Arts and Culture, which this June, 2024, was hosted by Hawai‘i. Several of us are literary arts delegates, though not all. Each of us, for our own reasons, have difficulty calling ourselves writers. We lead with other titles: Director, Teacher, Editor, Publisher, Professor, Organizer, Government Worker, Journalist. One of us says her students call her Queen B, like Beyonce, so for the rest of the morning we all call her Beyonce, and that makes us laugh. 

We bring a lot of laughter into this room. We bring snacks. Most of all, we bring our ancestors. We introduce them when we introduce ourselves, naming our grandmothers and mothers, our fathers and grandfathers. We look for overlaps and connections, routes to one another.

It is a rare and special occurrence to gather with other artists from the Indigenous Pacific. Our gathering is an essential aspect of FestPAC’s celebration. For audiences, we show off our dances and songs, our weaving and carving, our painting and storytelling. But in smaller groups, with one another, we share our techniques, our knowledge, our wishes, our fears. 

We share also our grief. We are meeting in the wake of Caroline Sinavaiana’s murder in Samoa at the hands of another writer. We are navigating, together, through tenderness. 

This past semester I have been teaching a favorite book of mine –Mohawk/Samoa: Transmigrations—by James Thomas Stevens and Sinavaiana. Published in 2006, the collection of poems reads as a series of bridges between cultures. The two authors are rooted in their distinct communities and geographical references, their individual voices and styles, but they find, via objects and animals with cultural resonance, ways to reach each other. 

I select a poem of Sinavaiana’s as the starting point for the day’s writing exercise. Barbara points out that the origin text from which Sinavaiana quotes is a popular song in Samoa. We find it on YouTube and play a recording. 

Each of us chooses a touchstone object or animal from our home and draws it. Then we share the drawing and describe our chosen object to a partner. After sharing and listening, we take to our notebooks and write a poem about what we chose. 

Manu chooses the koechu, a mythical bird from Guadalcanal that foretells future events. Pia writes about the hawksbill turtle and its shell. Lola describes the scent of the alangilang (or ylang-ylang) flower, while Matilda wonders who created the great Latte Stones of the Mariana Islands. Barbara and Kolokesa share images from a book they edited that showcases the Niuean craftwork of Falepipi he Mafola (Niuean Handcraft Group). Frances Mary writes of the rice field and Meked of the taro patch. Johanna, ever cheeky, writes about a Hello Kitty cup, a reminder that our homes are as contemporary as they are ancient. 

After we finish our first poem about our chosen object, we read our poem to our partner and listen to what our partner has written. Then we return to our notebooks and write about our partner’s object. A new set of poems comes forth. We call on each other to read our poems to the group and we carry our notebooks back to our homes, where we work on them a bit more to submit here. 

Not every writer-pair submitted both the pieces they wrote, and not every writer was able to submit at all. But taken as a whole, these poems and mini-essays reveal connection, affection, admiration, memory, vision, hope. Many have written in both their heritage language and English, a celebration of the tongues that have taught them to sing and story. In re-reading these pieces, I travel across the Indigenous Pacific but I also am brought back to that little conference room in Honolulu, where I was honored and humbled to share breath with these tremendous fellow artists. I hope you feel the same.

me ke aloha,
Kristiana

Famahåyan Få'i 
Rice Field
By Frances Mary Manibusan Sablan

Ayik i lugåt osino tånu para famahåyan
Choose the area or land for the rice field

Måtka i minedung i famahåyan
Mark the size of the rice field

Guaduk, na mañaña i eda
Dig, make the dirt soft

Fa'chachalåni i hanom para i famahåyan
Make a path for the water in the rice field

Gacha, gacha, gacha i eda
Step, step, step, the soil 

Gacha, gacha, gacha esta munåyan
Step, step, step until it’s finished

Pues tånom i fa'i lucha put lucha
Then plant the fa'i row by row

Bailayi, silebra enao na påtte
Dance, celebrate that part

An mandoku i fa'i
When the rice grows

Transplånta para i fa'fa'iyan
Transfer them into another section

Reflection
By Kolokesa Mahina-Tuai
Inspired by Frances Mary Manibusan Sablan

Through her stories, she gave me beautiful, valuable insight into what fa'i is from her lens. We walked forward into the past and backwards into the future as she talked me through the various steps of selecting the appropriate land, preparing the land, planting rows of the rice.

I also appreciate the wealth of knowledge and experience, and especially wisdom, that Frances shared with me in her capacity as a Guela Fa'i, a living treasure that references the lineage of people and knowledges that has informed her journey.

Nuebu na Ga'chung yan Bida
New Friend & Hobby
By Frances Mary Manibusan Sablan
Inspired by Kolokesa Uafa Mahina-Tuai

Umasuda yu yan nuebu na gachong-hu
I met a new friend
I na'ån-ña si Kolokesa
Her name is Kolokesa 

Ha ayik i alitus ni ha' u'usa
She chose the earring she was wearing
Para u tugi estoria-ña
To write about for her story

I alitus finatinas Toluma’anave
The earring was made by Toluma’anave
Unu ni fa'fatinas alitus yan estoria
A maker of earrings and stories

Fina'någuin Molima, ma'estra yan mågas
Taught by Molima, teacher and leader
Un bonitututututu na inetnon manåmko ni manestotoria
A beauti-ti-ti-ti-ful group of elders who tell stories

Manmamatitinas alitus
They make earrings
Puet ginen i estorian-ñiha
Especially for their stories (from stories shared)

Sen maguf yu na sumaonao yu guini na attista
I am very happy I joined this group of artisans
Sa' hagas hu guifi para bai hu fånggi estoria siha
Because I’ve dreamt of writing stories

Ya prisisu kumororuk i manåmko siha
It’s important to call the elders
Para u ma dokumentu i manbonitutu yan gef på'gu na estoria siha
To document the beauti-ti-ful and precious stories

Ya hu lokkui umeyak mamatinas
I would like to learn to make
Alitus ni uma'ya yan i estoria ginen i manåmko
Earrings that match the stories of the elders

Alangilang
By Victoria-Lola Leon Guerrero 

They say that when you smell the musky sweetness of the alangilang wafting by, the spirit of an ancestor is crossing your path. It attracts good spirits, they say, and protects you from ones who may not have the best intentions. It is one of my favorite smells. 

When my husband Josh and I were looking for our home, we pulled up to a house the color of dark, wet sand. The house was hidden at the end of a small, rocky path that ran along an overgrown front yard. It bore the scars of a man’s broken heart – empty bottles lining the top of the kitchen cabinets and counter, stained walls, aging photos in a children’s room full of toys, though you could feel there were no longer kids to play there. I instantly wanted to clean. 

“You need to look deeper,” his realtor, a descendant of the famous Agueda Iglesias Johnston, reminded me. “Don’t worry about things that are cosmetic. Look at the foundation. Look at the land,” she encouraged. We made our way to the back of the house where the glorious bright green and yellow canopy of a fragrant alangilang tree stretched toward us like open arms, offering shade from the unforgiving sun. And that is when I knew this was where our family belonged. Josh says he knew the minute we pulled in.

We made this house our home—painted the walls the bright colors of our dreams and filled the rooms with the laughter, singing, cries, and stories of our babies. And when the breeze was cool and the day ours to relish, we’d laze under that splendid alangilang. She was always in bloom, her branches so full of flowers that they’d hang all the way down to kiss the tips of the blades of grass, making a cave for us to cuddle in on a guåfak weaved of pandanus leaves from the Yapese store in Maite. I would finish whole books while lying beneath her, take long mid-day naps, sway in the wind on a hammock tied to her trunk. “This,” I would say to Josh, “is our slice of paradise.” 

Our alangilang became more than a tree; she was like a saina welcoming me home at the end of the day, her perfume greeting me when I’d pull into the driveway, breathing in and out a sigh of relief because I was home. 

But our alangilang sat dangerously at the edge of a cliff above the jungle. Her roots, while thick and powerful, did not have enough soil to ground them, were not deep enough to withstand the biggest storm to hit our island in 20 years: Typhoon Mawar. 

As we prepared our home for the storm’s winds the night before they struck, I had a feeling she was not going to make it and stayed a little longer outside to stare at her beauty, take pictures of her under the glow of the moon, and pray for a miracle. 

Our entire house was shuttered except for a tiny window in our bathroom that looked out into the yard, but it was not big enough to keep an eye on her. We’d climb a ladder to peek out the window and watch the big trees sway violently, like long-haired rockstars in a mosh pit. Watched as our enormous fig tree came tumbling toward the house. “There is no way she’s going to make it,” I said to Josh and the kids. And sure enough, when the winds finally stopped howling the morning after, and we braved our way outdoors, we found her fallen. While there was so much to mourn in that moment, so much to clean up that we didn’t even know where to begin, I stood frozen in her wake and shed the tears that could only come at the passing of a saina, the end of an era. 

But as with all good saina, she left her mark. Just below where she once rose so gracefully, she left behind a strong descendant more deeply rooted into the jungle floor. We kept her stump like a tombstone, and it is now shaded by the growing canopy of her offspring. And I wait patiently for the day when that small alangilang will be large enough to embrace me as I sleep. 

IRANG, IRANG
By Pia E. Morei
Inspired by Victoria-Lola Leon Guerrero

Irang looms over the valley
tall and majestic.
Irang lives in the valley
in the hamlet of Ngerkesoal.
Irang gives its beautiful scent 
reminding us that the jungle is
alive and well.
When I smell the beautiful Irang, 
I pause and praise the Almighty Creator for my life, my space, my being there at that moment
for I know that I am loved and treasured by my Ancestors.

Toluk ‘l Udoud
By Pia E. Morei
Inspired by Boisek Emaudion’s “Rebetii”

Here is the story of our treasured Palauan women’s money “Toluk,” a hawksbill turtle shell tray that is exchanged amongst Palauan women for the appreciation or payment of their services. This payment is especially common among in-laws. For example, I would give to my sister-in-law, my brother’s wife, for her services to our family or to assist her in her role of supporting her brother’s family during death settlement and other responsibilities.

The Chant tells the story of two lovers who met during a full moon. During their meeting, a turtle came to lay its eggs, and when it left it took the other half of the girl’s grass skirt. The girl had to quickly fashion a makeshift replacement! But she and her lover agreed to meet again in fifteen days. On their next meeting, while sitting on the beach, lo and behold, the same turtle swam ashore carrying on its arm the missing part of the girl’s grass skirt. And that’s how Palauans discovered the egg-laying cycle of the hawksbill. 

The hawksbill turtle was treasured for its shell that became the “Toluk el Udoud”: Turtle Shell Money.                       

Toluk 
By Victoria-Lola Leon Guerrero 
Inspired by Pia Morei of Palau

Made from the shell of a hawksbill turtle. 

A prized gift for women to show appreciation and mark the value of relationships in Palau, where women nurture and care for each other, each family, each island, each turtle. 

So much so that when there are no longer as many hawksbills left to make this precious gift, they say enough and ban the use of this turtle’s shell for the jewelry that has become a signature of Palau that visitors want to buy with dollars.

Enough so that this gift, which cannot be bought only given with deep gratitude, can carry on a tradition of what we in Guåhan know as inafa'maolek—to make good for all. 

Toluk reminds me of the guinahan famagu'on, a string of tiny-to-large turtle shell disks only given to someone who has saved the life of a child.  

It is the most prized alåhas and can elevate a person’s status from acha'ot to matua. 

It can also be given to someone who has passed on a rare or difficult-to-learn tradition to a child. 

For children and their practice of our traditions are truly the most prized gifts of our culture. 

The Seer’s Voice
By Manuscrypt

As the first light breaks through the canopies,  
I rise to greet the dawn,  
Perched high upon the Mamavua trees,  
My song begins, a herald's tune.

Cloaked in feathers that shimmer with twilight's hues,  
I watch the world below,  
Eyes that hold the mysteries of time,  
Reflecting secrets only I know.

With each note, I sing of futures untold,  
A blend of despair and hope,  
Creating a pattern of life's ebb and flow,  
Of change and constancy intertwined.

"Listen to my voice," I whisper,  
"For in it lies the truth.  
I am the voice of the timeless,  
A bridge between what was and what will be.

My melody carries the weight of ages,  
A gift for those who heed its call,  
A guide through the storms and sunshine,  
Through births and farewells, through it all.

In every ending, a new beginning,  
In every sorrow, a seed of joy,  
My song is the thread that binds them,  
The ever-turning wheel of life.

So listen with an open heart,  
And find the wisdom in my tune.  
For I am Koechau, the Seer,
And my song will always be.  

Ana Lepo Sei Ni Dona Moro

Manuscrypt translated “The Seer’s Voice” and “The Weaver’s Tale” (on page 17) into the Poleo dialect of the Tolo language, which comes from Tasimauri (Living Sea) in the south and east Guadalcanal Province.  

Na mararana na dani ni mai chapa tuhu na kopukopuna na ghai
Nau nu rerei manu lepo dou vania na dani
Totu tohu na kelana na ghaina Mamavua
Angu linge ni turiha, na linge na kori laba.
Saghe lia na rapongu ara marara sausuia na lavona na dani

Nau nu morosia na maramana lalo,
Na mata ni velesia na tutughunu na sau
Na tutughunu I nau soba dona
Pipi na linge, nau lingea, ni sauba laba

Na seko mana dou
Angosia na mauri dou se seko
Na taghu ni oli mani velesai
“Rongo mia angu lepo” Nau nu koria
“Rongo nau ni tamani na mana’

Inau na lepo na taghu ni puchi mana taghu ni mai
Na tete na muri mana naho
Angu linge ni velesia na ngoli-ngoli na uvi
Na dou vania sei ni rorongo
Na sala taghuna na leghai mana sina
Sana na bocha mana mate, sana pipi na malegho.

Sana pipi na sui, mana turigha
Sana pipi na saghavi mana mamaghela
Angu linge na lao ni velesaia
Na babana na mauri
Ia so, rorongo sausia na kosu
Mo kechea na sasagha lalona angu linge
Nau na Koechau, sei ni dona Moro

Ngara Diluches Ngebard
Across the Ocean
By Meked Besebes-Rdiall
Inspired by Manuscrypt

Meked translated this poem and “The Cultivator and Weaver” (on page 14-15) into Palauan.

Ngara Diluches Ngebard

Ke ngellitel e mesisiich e Koechau.  Ke klebokel e klou a ngerchelem.
A chiro ra bedengem a olchotel a mekedidai el ked el mkiei er ngii. 
Ngera ke melngot meng kmal ungil a bedengem?
Ak melcheluches er a uldesuek ra ungil cheluut, ma nguches er a mochu tutau
ra irechar el mei ra lomekerreu er kau.
A rebeldekem a milsebechakl er a cheremelem leng cheotelem. 
A klengar a ta besul ea cheliteklem a didichel a llomes el me ra rebek el chad. 
Ngara Diluches Ngebard er a Belau, a Ngira Olik a di kluoku a ngelkek
e dirkak el meterob. 
Ngara diluches ngebard er a Belau e te menga uduiud, e ngdi nga er ngii a kerrior;
A llel  uduiud a mla ruebt e ngii a medechel a chelchedal el uaia becheleleu chiuiis. 
Ma Ngira Olik a mo manga bebil ra rodech le ti el choiu a diak el mochib.
Me lebol meduch a rengum e Koechau, le Ngir Olik a diak le mad e daik el bol meterob el di uaikau el kmal mesisiich.  

Across the Ocean

You’re a fierce gem, Koechau. You stand out for your beauty and your role. 
The colors of your feathers reflect the beautiful high hill you live in. 
I wonder what feeds you, what gives you the beautiful hues of your feathers.  
I imagine the clean air, the mist in the morning, and your fragile body that has been protected 
for so many generations. 
Your forefather fought for the trees and water that created the haven. 
Your natural habitat works in a balance, but your singing is a guiding light for many.  
Across the ocean, your cousins who carry their young have
never given up. 
Across the ocean, they feed on the seeds of a uduiud plant, but the plant is threatened now; 
leaves have fallen, and the tree looks bare, like a gray skeleton. 
Your cousins will feed on other fruits to survive the impending wave of unknown threats. 
Be courageous, for your cousins across the ocean will survive just as you will.  

Dil Melalm & Dil Mengaus
The Cultivator & The Weaver
By Meked Besebes-Rdiall

Dil Melalm

A Dil Melalm a omkokl er a uchei ra lengasech a sils el mo er a mesei, e le ochil a meklechel. 
Ng melib, melangch, e melalm;
Ng melaml, meliuch, melkedek, e orolii a ralm e omes er ngii lomoach.
A ngesekel a mesei a nga er cheungel ochil. 
Ngmelt el engelakl er a sengchel, ng dmolch a meklechel. 
Ng dil ra omelalm el dait.

Ng melib el mo mesab er a mesisiich el klab
el ongulel bechil ma rechedal. 
A blungel a melmalt, leng ungil a remkel ma dekedekel.
Ngomekramk el olab llel a mesisiich el kerrkar. 

A meklechel a klebokel e betok a kakerous el charm er a chelsel.
Ng mekekerei el charm, ngelkel a dechedech, ma cherechur 
el mengeduch, melchesokl, e mesesilil.
Lolchotel el kmo ungil lukel a klengar.

A irechar el mei e a meklechel a blengur (deldimes) er a telungalek er ngii.
Ng chimal a delal, ng ochil a delal mechas, ng rengrir a rebeldekel.
A lemei cheluut e ng mes a llechekllir a rechad ra blil ma kleblilel. 

A tara klebesei e ng mlo er ngii a kerrior, 
a dita el ngelkel el redil a mlo smecher e mad. 
Ng dimlak el keltmokl el kirel tial teletael.
Meng mlora sechelil er a Dil Mengaus, e ongtir ta er a merames el chedecholl. 
Tial merames el chedecholl a mlo beldokel 
er a ngelkel a Dil Melalm.

Dil Mengaus

A Dil Mengaus a omus a such er a ked, e melilt a mesisiich el uang.
Ng mo okesiull a klisiich. 
Ng mengiut a oloched el ngar era such,
e meleak e mengoit a klikingelel.

A bek el sils e ng ta er a techall; chelii a mla mo merek.
A blo lak el sebechek er chelii, e ak mo melasm er chelechang,
ma chelechang, e ak mo er a tkul rebab el sebechek.   

Ng sebechek el mo ua Dil Melalm el omkokl el mo er a mesei.
Ma lengelt a sils ea kuba klebkngek el me remei.
Malechub e ngsebechek el di ngak: a kumkokl el mesa blik, ma chuklel ra uchei ra kbora mesei. 
Ak kurrechereched el mengaus leng betok a chiioll el urerek.  

A chuklek a merames a delongelel, e ngdi ngolechotel a urerek el kuruul.
Te melekoi el kmo a eaes a sebechel soiseb er a delongelel a chuklek, e ngdi ng morngii usbechellell.
Tial merames el chuklek a ngarngii belkuk, ng sebechel el omail e mengeald.
Te kmo ngdiak el klebokel e ngdi ng chedecholl el sebechel mo beldokel.  
Meng diak lungil er a ues, e ngdi diak mekreos er ngii.
Mak nguu el mesang a Dil Melalm meng kutmeklii a mla mad el ngelkel. 

Tia ollachitnger el belkul a kmo ngdiak el metengel a osenged er a ta ma ta el chad le ike loruul a sebechel mo ngosukid er a tara klebesei.  

The Cultivator

Early in the morning, she rises. She plans, plots, and plants;
she weeds, tills, and mulches, she diverts the water, she watches it flow.
Underneath her feet is the ngeasek, young clayish soil.
She sinks until her waist is no longer seen.
Through the layers, she feels the richness of the soil.
She’s a taro cultivator.

She plans for a hearty harvest of strong corms that will provide sustenance
for her husband, her relatives, and clan kinfolks.
The plots are aligned; she spends time meditating and dreaming of the best leaves from
strong trees to provide nutrients for her taro.

Dark, deep soil is filled with living organisms; she doesn’t know their names.
But she can see the tiny creatures, the tadpoles, the shrimp
swimming, hopping, and darting here and there, 
showing a bustling life under and around the taro.

For generations before her, the fields have fed her family.
Her mother’s hands, her grandmother's feet, her ancestors' spirit.
The wind blows, and she can see the faces of family and clan members.

A tragedy will befall her family,
her precious daughter will fall ill and die.
She had not prepared for this, with no mat to wrap her daughter.
She turns to a weaver, for even a loosened woven mat
can shield her daughter's body 
for her final resting place.

The Weaver

She watches ardently for the best pandanus leaves; she watches intently for opportunity.
The fallen leaves are thick and mature, she devotedly collects the brown leaves. 
Each will become strands of strength.
She carefully strips away the thorn, strips away impurities.

Each day is an opportunity; yesterday I did my best. 
What I couldn’t finish, I’m given another chance. 
Today, I will do my best.  

I can be her, who wakes early in the morning before the sun rises, to tend my taro patch.
After the sun sets, I bring a full basket of my harvest
Or I can be me: the one who wakes and tends to my home, my weaving is waiting.  
I weave but hastily, for I have many more things to do.  

My loosely woven mat, you are a symbol of work in progress. 
But you are needed; your maker may be mocked that even a fly can enter through the weave.  
When complete, the loosely woven mat is useful; it can hold and provide warmth.  
It’s not pretty, they say. But even a loosely woven mat can wrap a loved one in times of death.  
I may not weave a tight pandanus mat,
But I will gladly share it with those who are busy cultivating taro.  

The Weaver’s Tale
By Manuscrypt
Inspired by Meked Besebes-Rdiall

Na Tutughunu Na Sei Ni Voi Chambo

Pipi na koho
Ana tutughunu, agnosia sana na ango mana dou
Acha ara tahara na pako
Hira kori hinia na rongona 
Hira – na koho – ara velesai 

Chikai na dani, hira koho ana tara pako
Sauba aroho doua hira ana lepo tangapekea 
Sui na koria e sei ni ango sia na chambo 
Rongona na limana ni agnosia sola 
Luisia sava na mata ni morosia                 

Pipi na rauna, na tutughunu, na rota
Na kori laba na rapo mana suliha 
Acha na koho hira ni tara pako
Hira velesia na suligha sana na tutughunu ni popoi 

Na koho ni dona tavachua
Mara visu sausuia na bisi-bisi
Velesai suia na suliha 
Angosia na vaoluna
Suliha vaha na kosuna sei ni vovoi. 

The Weaver’s Tale

Each strand of leaves
Tells her story, woven with labor and love.
Though loosely intertwined—
A subject of ridicule from her neighbors—
They are connected.

One day, these loose leaves
Will carry those who once mocked her.
Judge not the weaver of the loosened mats,
For her hands have crafted more
Than what meets the eye.

In every thread, a tale, a struggle,
An embrace of nature’s dance,
A testament to patience and perseverance.
Though the weave may seem frail,
It holds the strength of untold stories.

Leaves may scatter,
Yet they return with the wind,
Gathering together,
Forming anew,
Resilient as the heart that wove them.

Waterfall Dreaming in Mānoa 
By Johanna Salinas
Inspired by Kristiana Kahakauwila

Johanna shan’t go chasing no waterfalls. She is scared of drowning, of being a bad daughter, of disrespecting the ancestors. And most certainly, she’s scared to run away and be free. Yet, her Chamorita determination comes bursting about at the quietest times, forcing her to be wild, be reckless, be careless, or rather be carefree. 

Tonight it is the dust under the dust beneath her bed that triggers her anger, her annoyance, her asthma. And so, she craves Chick Fil-A and being young. She listens outside her open window to fellow islanders on her porch tell stories of getting wiped out in Waikīkī and swimming with sea turtles in North Shore. She tries to dream of shaved ice and AC, but her fellow islanders talk about sacred jungles with rainbow waterfalls. What is she doing here in this island state where she doesn’t understand parking meters and taxes? 

Sensei Rick warned them this isn’t a vacation. This is a coming together of islands—a reawakening of kana. He said they must eat together, sleep together, suffer together in Hawai‘i. And yet, how do they get to runaway to Ala Moana and Zippy’s? Why do they get to go surfing and karaoke when Johanna must shower after dinner and be in bed by 9? 

Hawai‘i told her if you’re looking for disappointment, you’ll find disappointment. It appears disappointment has found her. But also she has found Kealani and her collection of Oceanic stories, Oceanic wisdom. Johanna has found the secret room behind the Papua hut full of sodas and candies for the event staff. She found she isn’t the only Pacific poet pretending to be a teacher sometimes. 

As the noise on her porch settles, Johanna throws her pillow off the mattress and kicks her blanket to the floor. She doesn’t need aircon—she needs to remember mahalo. She needs to remember guaiya. She needs to remember this is only two weeks and then she is back in her own bed. 

Say “Hello Kitty”
By Kristiana Kahakauwila
Inspired by Johanna Salinas

Say “Hello Kitty,” and I think of escalators. Enclosed in glass and running the side of the Beverly Center, a grand and glittering shopping mall off La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles. We lived 30 miles south, in Long Beach, but my mother took me to the Center a couple times a year when we were waiting out rush hour traffic after an appointment. 

The Beverly Center had a Sanrio, the only one in Southern California, or that’s what my mother told me. I’ve never bothered to fact-check. But perhaps, in the late ‘80s, this was the truth. Or perhaps this claim kept the requests for lavender-colored pencils and tiny star-shaped erasers to a minimum. We could not afford such extravagances.

Say “Hello Kitty,” and I think of the 110 or the 101 or the 405, or all of them at once. Freeways that looped, layered, interchanged.

In the Hawai‘i Convention Center the escalators are also glass enclosed. They don’t cling to the side of the building, however, but feature prominently in the entrance atria. From the intersection at Kapiolani Boulevard and Kalakaua Avenue, two streets always full at rush hour, one has the ideal vantage point to watch people glide up and down the building.

When we first arrive at the Convention Center for FestPAC, my four-year-old descends from parking to street level in wonder. She wants to know what all the aunties and uncles are wearing. Everyone in their finery, with their feather and shell jewelry, with their oiled hair and skin. She wants to ascend and ride again. Later, in the Festival Village, she is drawn to a projection of the night sky. She spins and twirls and dances among the stars. 

My mother has not known my daughter as a four-year-old. She did not know her as a three-year-old. My mother died eighteen months ago. To say time stopped when my mother died is a cliché. It’s also not true. Because my daughter was growing, because in her growth she needed her own mother, because she is a child and I am an adult, I could not stop even when it felt that my world could not bear to continue.

In Oceanic storytelling we sometimes talk about spiral time, time that layers the past and present and future, like a stackable interchange. We talk about looking to the past in order to move into the future. 

One day when I was eight and we were waiting out traffic at the Beverly Center, my mom told me I could choose one item from the Sanrio store. So, I chose a diary. Lavender, with a real lock and key. A Hello Kitty pen. All of it, extravagance.

In the Festival Village, the Hawaiian Star Compass is projected on the floor. My daughter does not know how to read this, or any, map, but she is fascinated with tracing letters. She traces the “A” in ‘ĀINA, the “I” in NOIO. Later, in the car, while we wait for the stoplight to change at Kapiolani and Kalakaua, she gazes through the center’s glass walls and wants to know who’s left in there.

I buy my daughter her first diary. Like my parents, my spouse and I run on a tight budget. But I let my daughter choose any she likes. She selects a pink notebook with walruses, her favorite animal. In it she draws loops and lines. She learns to write her name in all capital letters.

In my first entry in that Hello Kitty diary, I wrote about how it felt to be gifted a place to write. 

I am still learning to mother from my mother.

Say “Hello Kitty,” and I think of the dark surface streets we drove at night, navigating our way back home.

Latte Stones Wonderment
By Dr. Matilda Naputi Rivera

In whispers of ancient islands' lore,
Lie wonders from times of yore,
The Latte Stones, marvels rise,
Beneath sunlit and starry skies.

Pillars of homes from ages past,
These sturdy towers stand steadfast,
How did they come to grace the land?
Crafted by some unseen hand.

Massive stones, uniquely crowned,
In mounds, their secrets found,
Heavyweights placed, one atop one,
Beneath the endless, blazing sun.

Who chose their shape so distinct?
A link to the past, a subtle hint,
Who carved with such precision and might?
Creators lost in the mists of time’s flight.

Latte Stones
By Barbara Makuati-Afitu 
Inspired by Dr. Matilda Naputi Rivera

Latte Stones, you continue to inspire. 
Innovative and beloved ancestors, 
whose hands, minds and hearts created, 
we thank you for these lasting treasures.

Latte Stones, you enable us to walk 
forward into the past 
backwards into the future 
mediating this tā-vā.

Tupuna, these taonga continue 
to ground us 
remind us 
inspire us.

Weaving Legacy
By Dr. Matilda Naputi Rivera
Inspired by Barbara Makuati-Afitu

In threads of time our stories weave,
Legacies that we conceive,
Passed through hands both young and old,
In patterns rich, in colors bold.

From ancient looms to modern days,
The fabric of life gently sways,
With wisdom spun from softest thread,
And tales of yore gently spread.

We weave the dreams of those once here,
Their laughter, love, each hope and fear,
In strands that bind us heart to heart,
A tapestry of life, an art.