Relationships are complicated. Terminology is important. Aunty, uncle, cousin, tūtū, hānai, makua (kāne or wahine). Lineal descendants, those relations in straight uninterrupted lines of genealogy, as in your kūpuna. “I am a Lineal Descendant of [fill in the name].” Those with ancestral ties to ʻāina, with relatives unnamed and unknown. “My family has lived at [fill in the name] for X generations.”

Plants, too, have complicated genealogies. Where are they found? Where did they come from? To whom are they related? When and how did they get here? These days, with help from geneticists, we can learn how groups of people, plants, or any thing living are related.

On Molokaʻi live two lāʻau kamaʻāina. They are in fact cousins, and are meakanu ʻāpaʻakuma. Both are endemic to Molokaʻi, and are found nowhere else naturally. Both are extremely rare in the wild, and one, Kokia cookei is likely extinct there, but survives cultivated. The other, a pure white, scented hibiscus, clings naturally to life in just a few locations. Sad, but all too true these days. Degraded habitats. Invasive species such as fire-hardy alien grasses, plant-munching deer, pigs, goats, all contributing to deadly population loss.

Please. Do your part to encourage their survival. Ask around for legally acquired keiki. Plant them. Nurture them. Cherish them.

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Sometimes, there’s nothing so lovely as a classic hapa haole song. For us oldies especially, in keeping with this month’s atikala, it’s Song of Old Hawaiʻi by Beecher & Noble, copyrighted in 1937. “There’s the perfume of a million flowers, clinging to the heart of old Hawaiʻi.” Not many endemics are scented. Puapilo, maile, hōlei, ʻōhai, all come to mind.

Then, too, there are our gardenia. All smell slightly different. Kiele haole makes me sneeze. A lot. Nānū, and its hybrids with tiare, I don’t care for. But tiare … tiare has an inimitable scent. Unique, evocative, sigh-causing. And monoi, the classic tiare-scented coconut oil of Tahiti … monoi always went beach with me. A thin coating lets kai bead off, avoiding that salted-skin itch when getting dressed, and it’s great for the hair.

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While nānū is a very rare endemic, we don’t know about tiare. Gardenia taitensis has long been emblematic of Tahiti. It apparently has origins on West Pacific isles, and may have been brought here very early. Both nānū and tiare provide dye for kapa and, of course, both, or all, are used in lei. Go! Go try smell! See if you can detect the subtle differences. And the real thing beats polymer clay any day!

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Current events concerning the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), repatriations, legal definitions, and processes, prompt this communication. Originally intended, I believe, to be a vehicle for the repatriation of iwi kūpuna taken from Hawaiʻi for various purposes by various means, it has now become something different.

As we know, Hui Mālama i nā Kūpuna o Hawaiʻi Nei deserves credit and aloha for their passion and successes in the repatriation of many iwi kūpuna. That organization was officially dissolved on December 20, 2014. Its successor, Hui Iwi Kuamoʻo (HIK), one of 190 Native Hawaiian Organizations listed with the Department of Interior Office of Native Hawaiian Relations (ONHR), has been very active in recent repatriations, though mostly with secrecy.

With the passage of an “updated” 2024 version of NAGPRA, it seems that the focus of HIK has shifted to repatriating everything with origins in Native Hawaiian cultural practices held in museums and other institutions in America. Definitions were changed, supplemented, and/or added to accomplish their apparent goal. This includes asserting that seemingly everything can be sacred and needed for religious ritual:

2024: Sacred object means a specific ceremonial object needed by a traditional religious leader for present-day adherents to practice traditional Native American religion, according to the Native American traditional knowledge of a lineal descendant, Indian Tribe, or Native Hawaiian organization. While many items might be imbued with sacredness in a culture, this term is specifically limited to an object needed for the observance or renewal of a Native American religious ceremony.

And that the Native Hawaiian people have a singular united voice:

2024: (2) A people comprise the entire body of persons who constitute a community, Tribe, Nation, or other group by virtue of a common culture, history, religion, language, race, ethnicity, or similar feature. The Native Hawaiian Community is a “people.”

Adding “a people” to define Native Hawaiians is problematic. To many of us, there is no singular “Native Hawaiian Community.” Rather, there are a plethora of communities, depending on lineage, residence, political views, age, etc.

And, unlike previously, when claimants needed to be unanimous on the details of repatriation, now the restoring institution must choose the best, most suitable claimant to whom objects must be repatriated. When there are competing claims, I am concerned that an institution outside Hawaiʻi might be challenged to decide the authority of various claimants.

2024: (e) Competing claims or requests. A museum, Federal agency, or DHHL must determine the Indian Tribe or Native Hawaiian organization with the closest cultural affiliation.

Hundreds of thousands of Native Hawaiians live outside Hawaiʻi. Wouldn’t it be a good thing for them to be able to go to nearby institutions and visit objects of their heritage to be able to appreciate and learn from them?

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ʻĀhinahina or hinahina, is ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi for grey (or gray). Several plants fit that descriptor, and they dwell in a variety of locations, from sea level to mountain heights. This particular ʻāhinahina (Artemisia mauiensis) is, if you noted its species name, indeed of Maui, ʻāpaʻakuma i luna Haleakalā.

On subalpine slopes (think 7,000 feet or so), fed by fogs and mists, Maui ʻāhinahina ekes out a living, managing to survive where many plants can’t. It’s impossible to miss, given its silvery-white, extremely delicate foliage, contrasting with dark lava or cinder. Though pua are small and pale yellow, what a beauty this is!

The white or silver color is an adaptation to very harsh sunlight. Thousands of minute hairs coat leaves, allowing the sun’s rays to bounce and not burn. Ditto for ʻāhinahina silversword, another denizen of the heights, as well as for coastal ʻāhinahina kahakai, with tight rosettes of leaves favored for lei on Molokaʻi.

Loveliness aside, it’s said that lau ʻāhinahina Maui were also used as insect repellent, thanks to a sage-like scent. Leaves were layered amongst stored ahu ʻula to make sure bugs stayed away.

Can you imagine a lei poʻo of these lau? And lucky for us, it requires hardly any precious water. It’s available in some plant nurseries, Go! Go buy and plant!! Help perpetuate our precious heritage!

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But … which one? Of our mea ʻāpaʻakuma, endemic things, those found only in our pae ʻāina, we have 50 species of Melicope. Fifty. According to geneticists, one propagule, a seed or plant, arrived here millions of years ago and evolved into our 50 different ʻalani, of which the mokihana (Melicope anisata) of Kauaʻi is one. Relatives are found on nearly all other islands.

Part of the citrus family, ʻalani are scented like anise, which make their lau a favorite for tucking into layers of kapa. I used to love picking up fallen lau and hand-crushing them to surprise walking companions.

As the floral “symbol” of Kauaʻi, lei are made with green, cube-shaped seed capsules of mokihana. Please remember to be frugal and take only enough so they are symbolic. Let most remain on the sprawling shrub or small tree so they can ripen and perhaps start new plants. Excessive use of resources, whether it’s 50 strands of lei pūpū, or 25 strands of pīkake, or 20 strands of maile draped to the floor does not help to conserve and preserve mea makamae.

Mokihana seed capsules contain a chemical, furanocoumarin, that, upon contact with perspiring sunlit skin, can cause a rash. Entwined with maile lauliʻi, as they often are, our skin is partially shielded from lei mokihana, but in any case, be aware, and be careful.

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Faith Nālani Kanakaʻole
March 19, 1946 – Jan. 3, 2026

mina.mina

1. nvt. To grieve for something that is lost; regret, sorrow.
2. To prize greatly, value greatly, especially of something in danger of being lost; to value, place great value on; value, worth.

Beloved Kumu Hula Nālani Kanakaʻole was born into an extraordinary hula lineage and ʻohana. The youngest of Luka and Edith Kanakaʻole’s six children, she was raised in Keaukaha on Moku o Keawe. She was brought up in the old way, immersed in nā mea Hawaiʻi and, like others in her prominent ‘ohana, she worked her entire life to preserve and perpetuate ‘ike Hawaiʻi.

At the tender age of 3, Nālani began rigorous hula training, initially under her grandmother, Mary Kekuewa Ahiena Kanaele Fujii, and later under her mother. By the age of 14 she was teaching.

Her mother founded Hālau o Kekuhi in 1953. Nālani always knew she would be a teacher and she eventually took on the kuleana as a kumu of Hālau o Kekuhi along with her sister, Pualani Kanakaʻole Kanahele, and later, with her niece Huihui Kanahele-Mossman.

Over the decades, Hālau o Kekuhi has staunchly protected traditional, pre-contact forms of hula, garnering international acclaim and helping to elevate respect and appreciation for ʻai haʻa (a vigorous, ancient style of hula performed close to the ground).

For a time in the 1970s, Nālani studied art history at UH Hilo. But it was through hālau that she met and later married artist Sig Zane. Their son, Kūhaʻoimaikalani, was born in 1983, and in 1985, the pair founded the eponymous Sig Zane Designs, known for its elegant clothing and inspired designs. Nālani later resumed her studies and graduated from UH Hilo with a bachelor’s degree in art in 2001.

In 1993, Nālani and her sister, Pualani, were named National Heritage Fellows by the National Endowment for the Arts and last November, the sisters were honored with lifetime achievement awards by the Hawaiʻi Academy of Recording Arts. Nālani also served for decades as a Merrie Monarch judge.

All of this serves as a prelude and backdrop to my own personal, unique remembrances of Nālani Kanakaʻole.

I first encountered Nālani when she was her motherʻs kākoʻo in my ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi class at Hilo College 52 years ago. More than half a century past.

Her mother, Aunty Edith, was a gem who welcomed any and all into her warm embrace. No matter age, ethnicity, or social standing. Her father, Uncle Luka, was also patient as he shared the how-to construction instructions to fashion ʻulīʻulī and pūʻili. We were all expected, it was assumed, that we would practice what they preached.

And then there was Nālani. Much more circumspect and to many, intimidating. She was her own woman. Thought-filled, grounded in that inimitable ʻai haʻa way, she didn’t cut much slack for anyone.

When asked a question in conversation, there was that inevitable pause. Sometimes short, often unnervingly long. One might think to one’s self, “OMG, does she hate me? Does she think I’m stupid?”

But no. She was thinking and forming an appropriate response. Mayhaps calculating one’s level of knowledge or degree of competence before saying anything.

We became close and sometimes went holoholo to Kīlauea or Pāpaʻi. Lots of lively talk story in the moonlight with our group of friends. And then one night I worked up the courage: “I can come hula?” Pause. “Yeah.”

I was a skinny Portuguese boy with thick glasses and a muʻumuʻu (paralyzed) arm. But I went, and sweated, and got scolded. Same like everybody else. For a season I immersed myself, worked hard, played hard. After a few years I moved on from hula. But she remained, always one of my kumu. Always accessible.

Much later in life, a good friend told me, “Get hula with Nālani! Come! Going be ‘Hula-Lite’ for us mākua and kūpuna types.” Again I worked up the courage, this time for ʻauana. “Can?” Smile. Nod. Still the commitment, carpooling to hula and learning new words every week.

Of course it wasn’t “lite” but we were hooked. “Secret” practices so we wouldn’t disappoint her. Older brains and bodies, but always with obedience to Kumu Nālani. We figured it out, using medical appliances for our wasted knees and ankles.

We were inspired to do our best because of our collective awe of, and aloha for, Kumu Nālani. Her voice, her intellect, her rigor, her absolutely incomparable choreography. She was unequaled.

We’d chuckle at the kāholo to the right, kāholo to the left styles, understanding, as she shared with us, that hula motions are based on life: swimming, digging, planting, paddling, surfing. “Move fluidly like that. Get outside and do it so you know how. But you folks know already. The young kids need help. Too many computers.”

The best, the very best thing, was just being in hālau and listening to Kumu Nālani inimitably strum and sing our old favorites. Her old favorites.

Ever-curious, always exploring and selflessly sharing. Making art, writing, composing, always busy, always inspiring, and always demanding excellence.

Those who lived times with Nālani truly lived them with enthusiasm, and that continued even when beers on the beach segued to white peach bellinis at restaurants, and outfits fashioned from Indian tapestry morphed into designer wear accented with pearls and jade. How exquisite are all our memories. Almost like a dream.

On the minds of many, each with their own very personal relationship with Kumu Nālani, we collectively grieve as, again, another fount of kūpuna knowledge is lost. Auē. . .

Kumu Hula Nālani Kanakaʻole is survived by her husband Sigmund Zane; son Kūhaʻoimaikalani Zane (Shaelene Kamakaʻala); grandchildren Loliʻi Kamakaʻala Barron and Naholowaʻa Zane; sister Pualani Kanakaʻole Kanahele; the extended Kanakaʻole, Kanahele, and Zane ʻohana; and the many haumāna and cultural practitioners who have learned from her. Her hoʻolewa and celebration of life was held on February 21 at Edith Kanakaʻole Stadium in Hilo.

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Being curious, we wandered paths at Ka Lae, and encountered billows of what turned out to be ʻōhai (Sesbania tomentosa) – another one of our variable endemic plants, ranging from shrubs to small trees, with pua of peach, salmon, red, and even yellow. And in the sun, the warm lau smell (depending on your preference) like peaches or nectarines.

Clusters of a few flowers hide under a canopy of silvery leaves, their white hairs helping deflect harsh sunlight. I couldnʻt resist and started picking. Carefully, one by one, till I had what turned out to be enough for a maunaloa-style lei. I wore it to campus, and no one commented. Did they know? I still wonder.

Unlike our cherished kumulāʻau ʻāpaʻakuma (endemic trees), ʻōhai have a preciously short lifespan; 10 years, more or less. But being averse to rainy weather, they are a perfect companion on leeward shores and slopes where conserving wai is critical.

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Ka hanana makana, hoʻokupu, ʻauhau paha i ke aliʻi no ka hoʻohanohano

Given the prominence of Pelehonuamea at Kaluapele o Kīlauea of late, some may wonder about appropriate “offerings” for her. The dictionary definition is noted above, with “the chief” in this instance being Pele, as we seek to honor and respect her.

Years ago, I asked the late Nālani Kanakaʻole, my kumu hula, about what would constitute appropriate traditional hoʻokupu and she provided this list: lūʻau, ʻawa, red fish, black pig, ʻōhelo, palapalai, liko lehua, ʻieʻie, ʻōlapa, palaʻa, lehua.

She and other Kanakaʻole people also note that nā mea must be deposited into the lua pele (crater), or near active pele (lava), and not simply left on the ground.

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Ka hanana makana, hoʻokupu, ʻauhau paha i ke aliʻi no ka hoʻohanohano

Me ka ʻike nui ʻia o Pelehonuamea ma ka lua pele ʻo Kīlauea i kēia mau lā, nūnē paha kekahi i ke ʻano “hoʻokupu” kūpono iā ia. Me ka ʻike o ka puke wehewehe no ia mea, ʻo Pele “ke aliʻi” a makemake kākou e hōʻike iā ia i ka mahalo me ka hōʻihi.

I kekahi mau makahiki aku nei, ua nīnau au iā Nālani Kanakaʻole, kaʻu kumu hula, i nā mea kūpono e hoʻokupu ai iā Pele mā, a nāna mai kēia papa helu: lūʻau, ʻawa, red fish, black pig, ʻōhelo, palapalai, liko lehua, ʻieʻie, ʻōlapa, palaʻa, lehua.

Wahi a ka poʻe Kanakaʻole, pono e hoʻokupu ma loko o ka lua pele a ma kahi paha a ka pele e kahe ana, ʻaʻole e waiho wale ʻia ma ka ʻaina.

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Meakanu; a thing growing, a plant. ʻĀpaʻa, “land one has lived on for a long time.” Meakanu ʻāpaʻakuma: a plant that has lived in a place for a long time. Of course “long time” is relative. Some say “Oh, I’m from here. I’ve lived here a long time.” But, how long is “long”? Ten years? Twenty-five? A lifetime? Generations? Millennia?

The science of molecular biology is relatively young, but entirely fascinating, at least to some. Genetic studies help us understand relationships. Like the popular “Ancestry DNA” tests. Who are we? Where did we come from?

Increasingly, delving into those molecules – infinitesimally tiny building blocks of life – can inform us: From here, or from there? And, excitingly, when?

When did ʻōhiʻa lehua, our iconic species, arrive in our pae ʻāina? Where did it come from? Some researchers tell us that ʻōhiʻa has been in Hawaiʻi for perhaps 3.9 million years. Most recently it came on the winds from Te Henua Enana (Marquesas), and apparently originated on Lord Howe Island, between Australia and Aotearoa. Many millions of years ago. Simply mind-boggling.

Endemic plants are indeed those that have been here a long time. Those that are not found anywhere else in the world, and evolved here into unique species.

Native (or Indigenous) are plants that got here by themselves, but are found in other places. They have not evolved into different species.

Polynesian introductions (canoe plants) are the 25 or so useful species brought by those who became Native Hawaiians.

Alien plants are those introduced with or after the arrival of Cook. Many are invasive, spreading and wreaking havoc on native ecosystems.

So much must be done to ensure survival of our meakanu ʻāpaʻakuma. Do what you can. Learn about them. Plant them. Share them. Pull invasives. Above all, cherish them!

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