Body language

From the inimitable shared energy that can make 20 dancers’ voices ring out like one, down to the unseen knots that secure each hand-woven lei, hula is not only a form of dance but a physical manifestation of the Hawaiian language.

Long before foreigners adopted a portion of the English alphabet to express Hawaiian on the page, Native Hawaiians wrote many of their stories in dance. Centuries later now, the language of hula is a sacred link to Hawaiian culture.

“It’s not that hula can express more than words,” says kumu hula Māpuana de Silva, who founded the hālau Mōhala ‘Ilima more than three decades ago. “Hula can only express more than the words if you don’t understand the language. If you do understand the language, it adds to the words. It puts the story into present day. It becomes visual and not just intellectual. You can actually feel the emotion of a writer from the past, today.”

Today, and this time of year especially, de Silva’s students are immersed in hula. Along with practitioners at hālau across the state, her most advanced dancers are preparing for April’s Merrie Monarch Festival on the Big Island. But before Mōhala ‘Ilima travels to Hilo, they’ll present a technically and stylistically vast concert repertoire–which doubles as a fundraiser for their participation in Merrie Monarch–at the Hawaii Theatre this weekend.

Before the dance

“The concert is much harder than Merrie Monarch, and that’s the intent,” says de Silva. “They may dance anywhere from four to 14 dances in the concert, along with costume changes, hair changes, different things like that. After that, just only being able to focus on Merrie Monarch is a treat.”

Getting to that point, and participating at this level in the hālau in the first place, requires not just unwavering devotion to hula but the adoption of a lifestyle. Free time is spent dancing, studying Hawaiian and taking trips to the Wai‘anae Mountain Range, where students maintain a region of forest where fern for the lei they make grows.

On an afternoon in late January, some six weeks before the concert, the 20 women in what de Silva informally calls “the Merrie Monarch class” gather before practice–which regularly stretches seven hours across a Saturday–in the hālau’s one-room studio at the Kāne‘ohe YWCA, where natural light through the windows illuminates the room more than the fluorescents overhead.

The students–the youngest a junior in high school–form a lopsided circle. A few are twirling kala‘au, or hula sticks, made of PVC pipe, wood, even simple curtain rods. Others tell jokes and lift one another off the ground in playful stretches. When they’re not performing (or being photographed for the newspaper), the dancers wear T-shirts with practice skirts, colorful and mismatched, which they pull on over their heads. The vibe in the hālau is casual, relaxed as a regular family gathering. But the way the women move, even before class starts, is thoughtful and deliberate. They don’t carry themselves with the nose-in-the-air meticulousness of ballet dancers, but with a deeper, more rooted kind of grace. It’s a shared demeanor that studying hula both fosters and requires.

Beneath the dance

“Working on that deeper meaning and understanding culture better is something that you learn from the very first day of walking into this hālau,” says de Silva. “It’s not something that comes as you study, but is expressed in how you behave, how you treat people, how you treat things, how you speak. That’s where it starts, with the language.”

Every student in the hālau is required to take Hawaiian–those who are fluent are required to write essays demonstrating their proficiency–to study the meaning behind each dance in the language that first expressed it. Students are taught that the dance and the story behind it are one and the same.

“It’s kind of hard to describe because, in a sense, they are the same thing,” says de Silva’s daughter, Kapalai‘ula de Silva, who is among the most experienced dancers in the class. “To think of them as two different entities is outside of our view. If you dance hula, you can’t just do hula. You have to involve yourself in all kinds of things that are in the Hawaiian world, and try to change your perspective, and that starts with the language because that’s how our ancestors saw and understood what was around them.”

The emphasis on Hawaiian is a standard in hula training, but Mōhala ‘Ilima fiercely defends the inextricability of the hula from the language. What could be described as a purist approach has led the hālau to leave blank its section of the Merrie Monarch program where other groups offer short descriptions of what their dances mean.

“We’ve tried for about four or five years to present those in Hawaiian, but they won’t accept them because they want a translation into English,” says the elder de Silva. “We said, ‘Hawaiian or nothing.’ So they put nothing. It’s really sad. But we still have hope that it will be accepted in Hawaiian.”

The stance also highlights the seriousness of hula–too often misperceived by outsiders as a light, if lovely, art form.

All together

Back at the hālau, the first several hours of practice are devoted to mastering the technical aspects of one piece from Mōhala ‘Ilima’s kahiko set. The dance–kahiko refers to early Hawaiian compositions–demonstrates how hula, in its strength and solemnity, is akin to prayer. The chant is about Kailua and the Kawainui Marsh area that was once a huge fishpond, in honor of the goddesses who once oversaw it. Their absence, the kumu hula says, highlights the imbalance wrought by outsiders.

“We need to bring things back into balance to make things right,” she says. “We’re asking, if we do that, and Huawahine returns, who will recognize her? This dance is our statement saying we will. We’re here. We’re still learning about her. We’re still trying to do our part to maintain our balance.”

Māpuana de Silva has her dancers practice the piece again and again. She and another daughter beat drums and chant, while dancers call out kāhea of their own. The dance is both sweeping and precise, motions graceful but exact. When done properly, everything in the dancers’ voices and movements is absolutely essential. Energy is exerted perfectly, nothing wasted.

The result is first powerful, then beautiful. After each repetition, the women catch their breath as their kumu responds. She reminds them to breathe and to smile–“You can’t smile too much. Give it some cheeks”–she tells them to light up their faces with their eyes, instead of by raising their eyebrows. The students are silent as they listen, and remain quiet at first even when she asks them how the dance felt. Emerging from the oneness of the group takes time. The fan from a waterfountain clicks on, a breeze moves through the hālau’s open doors, a distant helicopter from the Marine base cuts the air.

One student finally speaks, and says she worries about losing her footing during one of the more challenging sequences. Her hula sisters laugh softly, nodding and agreeing with her. De Silva smiles knowingly. Forty years of hula, she says, and she still knows the feeling.

“Trust yourself,” she tells the class. “Don’t get so caught up in doing it right that you hold back.”

At this point in their preparation, the class focuses on technical aspects. But their connection with one another and the people who danced before them is never absent. It’s something students say they think about constantly.

“Like every single moment we’re here,” says Momi Ramolete. “It feels like 24/7, all the time, we talk about the meaning of what we dance–because that’s the most important thing. They’re not separate. They’re always together, the dance and its meaning. You’re giving someone your heart and when you give them your heart you have to understand what, of your heart, you’re giving them.”

‘Ōlelo kuhi kino

Na Adrienne LaFrance ‘Unuhi ‘ia e Carol Silva a me Kahikina de Silva

Mai ka ikehu lua‘ole a mahele ‘ia e ho‘okani nā leo o kō nā ‘ōlapa, he iwakālua, mau leo me he leo ho‘okahi ā i ka ho‘opa‘a ‘ana o nā hīpu‘u ‘ike maka ‘ole ‘ia ma nā lei hana lima pākahi, ‘a‘ole ka hula kekahi ‘ano hulahula wale, āka ‘oia kekahi ho‘okino ‘ana o ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i.

Mamua loa o kā nā kānaka ‘ē mai i kūkulu i kekahi mau hua palapala Pelekane i mea e hō‘ailona i ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i ma ka pepa, ua ho‘opa‘a nā Kānaka ‘Ōiwi i kō lākou mau mo‘olelo ma ka hula. I kekahi mau kenekulia mahope aku, he mea loulou hiwahiwa ka “‘ōlelo” o ka hula me ka mo‘omeheu Hawai‘i i kēia manawa.

“‘A‘ole paha na ka hula e halihali aku i ka mana‘o o ke mele a maopopo i ke anaina,” i ‘ōlelo mai ai ‘o Māpuana de Silva. “Pēlā paha inā maopopo ‘ole ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i i ke anaina. Inā na‘e i maopopo, na ka ‘ōlapa a me kāna hula e ho‘omōhala i kou ho‘omaopopo ‘ana i ke mele. ‘Ike ‘ia ka pilina o ia mele ma ka wā nei. Lilo ia mele i mea e ‘ike ai ka maka. Ola nō i ka na‘au a me ka hula o ka ‘ōlapa, a pā ka na‘au o kākou i ka ‘ōlelo walohia a ka haku i hala loa aku.”

I kēia lā a i kēia kau o ka makahiki noho‘i, ke lilo nei kā de Silva mau haumana i ka hula. E like me nā mea hula apau ma ka moku‘āina, ke ho‘omākaukau nei kāna mau ‘ōlohe no ka Ho‘olaule‘a Merrie Monarch ma ka Moku o Keawe i ka mahina o ‘Apelila. Eia na‘e, mamua o kā Mōhala ‘Ilima huaka‘i ‘ana i Hilo, e hō‘ike ana lākou i kekahi ‘aha hula maluhale me nā hula, he nui a hana pono ‘ia–he hana ho‘onui kālā ho‘i no ka Merrie Monarch–ma ka Hale Keaka Hawai‘i ma kēia hopena pule nei.

“Pa‘akikī loa ka ho‘omākaukau ‘ana a me ka lawelawe ‘ana i kēia ‘aha mele, ‘oi loa aku paha ma mua o ka Merrie Monarch. Akā, ma laila ka waiwai,” i ‘ōlelo ai ‘o Māpuana de Silva. “E hula kēlā me kēia ‘ōlapa i nā mele he nui i ka ‘aha mele–he ‘ehā paha, a he ‘umikūmāhā paha–a ‘oko‘a ka lole i kēlā me kēia hula ‘ana, ‘oko‘a paha nā lei, ka lauoho, a pēlā aku. Ma hope o laila, hū! He ihona pali ka ho‘omākaukau no ka Merrie Monarch, a he le‘ale‘a nō.”

Ā hiki i kēlā manawa, a e hula mau noho‘i ana ma ka hālau mai ka mua, pono nā haumana e aloha nui i ka hula a ‘apo i kekahi nohona ‘ē a‘e. I ka manawa ka‘awale, hula nā haumana a ho‘opa‘a ha‘awina lākou i ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i. Huaka‘i ho‘i lākou i nā kuahiwi o Wai‘anae a mālama mau lākou i kekahi ‘āpana ‘āina mauka, kahi e ulu ai nā kupukupu lei.

Ma kekahi awakea i ka hopena o ka mahina o Ianuali, ‘eono pule mamua o ka ‘aha hula, ua ho‘ākoakoa nā wāhine, he ‘iwakālua (kapa ‘ia ka papa Merrie Monarch e de Silva), mamua o ka ho‘oma‘ama‘a ‘ana (he mea ma‘amau–ka holo‘ana o ka papa no ‘ehiku hola ma ka Po‘āono) ma kō ka hālau lumi ho‘okahi i ka YWCA ma Kāne‘ohe. Ho‘omālamalama nui ‘ia ka lumi e ke ao mai nā puka aniani a emi iho ke ao mai nā kukui uila mai luna.

Hui pū nā haumana ma kekahi pō‘ai kapakahi iki (aia ka haumana muli loa ma ka papa he ‘umi-kūmā-kahi ma ke kula ki‘eki‘e). Wili kekahi mau haumanai nā kālā‘au–nā lā‘au hula hana ‘ia me nā paipu ‘ea, nā lā‘au a me nā poke kaola pale pukaaniani wale. Ha‘i kekahi mau haumana ‘ē a‘e i nā ‘ōlelo pa‘ani a hāpai kekahi i kekahi mai ka papahele a nanā lākou me ka ‘oli iki. I ka manawa o kā lākou hula ‘ole (a i ‘ole kā lākou pa‘i ki‘i ‘ole ‘ia ‘ana no ka nūpepa), komo nā mea hula i nā pālule-T me na pā‘ū hula ho‘oma‘ama‘a. He mau waiho‘olu‘u, he nui a like ‘ole kō na pā‘ū hula a lākou e komo iho ai maluna o kō lākou mau po‘o. ‘Olu‘olu ke ‘ano o na kanaka ma ka hālau me he ‘ohana ma kekahi pā‘ina paha. Āka, ‘o ke ‘ano o kā nā wāhine ne‘e ‘ana, mamua o ka ho‘omaka ‘ana i ka papa, ne‘e lākou me ka no‘ono‘o iho a me ka hana pono. ‘A‘ohe o lākou maka ki‘eki‘e me he mau mea hulahula pālē; he ‘olu kūli‘u kō lākou. ‘O ia ke ‘ano mahele ‘ia mai ka ho‘opa‘a like ‘ana i ka hula.

“Mai ka lā mua o ka hula ‘ana i ka hālau nei e ho‘omaka ai ka ho‘omaopopo ‘ana i ka no‘eau o ka po‘e Hawai‘i kahiko,” i ‘ī maila ‘o Māpuana de Silva. “Ma o ka noi‘i e loa‘a ai kekahi ‘ike, akā ‘o ke kuleana ha‘aha‘a kai ‘oi a‘e. ‘Ike ‘ia kou loea a me kou kūlana i ke ‘ano o kou pili ‘ana me nā kānaka, i kou mālama pono ‘ana i nā pono hula, i ka waipahē o kāu ‘ōlelo, no ka mea ma ka ‘ōlelo nō ke ola, ‘eā?”

Pono nā haumana pākahi ma ka hālau e ho‘opa‘a i na ha‘awina ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i–kākau nā haumana ‘ōlelo pahe‘e i na kumumana‘o e hō‘ike i kā lākou mākaukau–e noi‘i i ka mana‘o nui o kekahi hula ma ka ‘ōlelo i ho‘opa‘a mua ‘ia. A‘o ‘ia aku nā haumana ua like ka hula me kō ka hula mo‘olelo– ho‘okahi wale no laua.

“‘Ano pa‘akikī ka wehewehe ‘ana. ‘A‘ohe ka‘awale, ‘a‘ohe nō kū ‘oko‘a,” wahi a Kapalai‘ula de Silva. “Inā he haumāna hula ‘oe, inā pēlā, ‘a‘ole wale nō ka hula ‘o kāu mea e ho‘opa‘a ai. He haumāna ho‘i ‘oe no nā mea a pau pili i ka nohona Hawai‘i a me ka loina o ko kākou mau kūpuna. ‘O ka ‘ōlelo makuahine ke kahua o ia ‘ike.”

‘O ke kālele mana‘o ma ka ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i kekahi kūlana ma ke a‘o ‘ana i ka hula āka no na‘e, kūpale nui ‘o Mōhala ‘Ilima i ka ho‘oka‘awale ‘ole ‘ia ‘ana o ka hula mai ka ‘ōlelo. Ma ka Merrie Monarch, ua kākau a waiho na hālau i kekahi mau hō‘ike ‘ano pōkole o kā lākou mau hula a aia no lākou ma ka puke polokalama.

He no‘ono‘o huali paha kō hālau Mōhala ‘Ilima no kana ho‘owaiho ‘ana i na hakahaka ma kana pauku i ka puke polokalama.

Ho‘okuhi ua kulana nei i ke kūo‘o o ka hula–‘ike hewa pinepine nā kānaka mawaho o ke a‘o ‘ana i ka hula–he hana mālana a nani wale paha ka hula.

Ma ka hālau no kekahi mau hola, ho‘oma‘ama‘a nui nā mea hula i na mākaukau like ‘ole e pili ana i kekahi hula mai ka nui o kā Mōhala ‘Ilima mau hula kahiko. Hō‘ike ka hula kahiko (‘o nā hula kahiko nā hula i hana ‘ia ma na au i hala loa) i ka pilina o kō ka hula ikaika a me kona malu me ka pule. No Kailua, no ka nenelu o Kawainui (kekahi loko i‘a mamua) a no ka akua wahine i mālama iaia ka oli. Mea ke kumu hula–aia na pilikia me na hana a na kanaka ‘ē a ha‘alele loa paha ka akua wahine.

“‘O kā mākou kuleana ka ho‘oponopono ma o ka ho‘okō ‘ana i ka loina o ka Hawai‘i,” i ‘ōlelo mai ai ‘o Māpuana de Silva. “Nīnau ‘ia kākou ma o ke mele: ‘ho‘i mai nō lā ia [‘o Hauwahine], na wai e uē aku?‘ ‘O kēia hula ka pane a mākou. E mau ko kākou nohona. E mau ko kākou lāhui. E mau ho‘i ko kākou ho‘omaopopo ‘ana iā ia.”

Ho‘oma‘ama‘a hou a hou aku nā haumana a Māpuana de Silva i ka hula ma kana kuhi. Ho‘opa‘a ‘oia a me kana kaikamahine ‘ē a‘e i nā pahu hula a oli laua ‘oiai kahea aku nā mea hula. Kāhela a miomio ka hula ‘ana, kūlike loa a ‘olu na lawena. I ka hō‘ike pono ‘ana, he mea nui kō nā ‘ōlapa mau leo a me kā lākou mau ne‘ena. Lua‘ole ka ikehu i ku‘upau ‘ia, ‘a‘ohe mea i ho‘opau ‘ia.

He mea mana ā laila, he mea nani ka hopena. Mahope o nā hula pākahi i hana hou ‘ia, pūhanu nā wāhine i kō lākou mau aho ‘oiai lākou e lohe i kā lākou kumu. Ho‘omana‘o ‘oia ia lākou e hanu a e mino‘aka aku–“Hō‘ike mai i ka mino‘aka!”–Ha‘i akula ‘o ia, e hō‘ike i ka mana‘o i loko ma o ka mino‘aka a me ka nānā o ka maka ma kahi o ka pi‘i ‘ana o nā ku‘emaka. Ho‘olohe nā haumana me ka leo ‘ole a hamau no lākou i kana ninau ‘ana ia lākou pehea ka hula ‘ana. He mea ‘emo e puka aku mai ka lōkahi o ka hui ‘olapa. Kani ka mikini uila ma kekahi pua‘i wai, a pa ‘ia kekahi ahe makani mai nā puka hamama o ka hālau, puō kekahi mokulele helekopa mamao mai Mōkapu.

Hala ka manawa iki a ‘ōlelo kekahi haumana. Pīhoihoi ‘oia i kana mau hehi hewa ma na ka‘ina ‘ano pa‘akiki. ‘Aka‘aka iki kona mau hoahula me ka ‘ae pu ‘ana. Mino‘aka ‘o de Silva me ka ‘ike pono. Mea mai ‘oia–hula ‘oia no na makahiki he kanaha a ho‘omaopopo pono iaia ka mana‘o.

Ha‘i aku ‘o Māpuana de Silva i kāna mau ‘ōlapa, “E hilina‘i nō i kou kino, ua ma‘a. Mai nō a kāohi i kāu hula no ka hopohopo ‘ana i ka hana pololei.”

Ma kēia manawa o kā lākou ho‘omākaukau ‘ana, no‘ono‘o pono ka papa i na mea like ‘ole i pili i ka hula. Āka, aia kekahi ho‘ohui ‘ana hemo ‘ole o kekahi me kekahi a aia ia me na ‘olapa i hula mamua o lākou. Mana‘o mau nā haumana e pili ‘ana iaia.

“Kā! Kēlā me kēia minuke o ko mākou hui ‘ana,” i ‘ōlelo mai ai ‘o Momi Ramolete. “Lilo mākou i ka mana‘o o kēia mau mele i ka pō me ke ao, no ka mea i laila nō ka waiwai. ‘A‘ole hiki ke ho‘oka‘awale ‘ia–‘o ka ‘ōlelo a me ka hula, he mea pili hemo ‘ole. Ma o ka hula e hō‘ike ‘ia ai kou na‘au, ka na‘au ho‘i o ka haku mele. E ‘ole ka maopopo ‘ana o ke mele, pā ai ka na‘au.”