Iʻve felt the pressures of church and culture first hand. I come from the generation that teetered the line of respecting the demands of religion and yet having the insatiable desire to know who I am, who I come from and why weʻve fallen from grace. My generation gave reverence to the Christian god the only one we had grown up knowing. We prayed each night, believed our good deeds would usher us to heaven and bad deeds meant weʻd burn in hell. I grew up reciting biblical scriptures and never uttered godʻs name in vain. I was a god fearing person. But, despite the rigors, discipline and the guilt that religion held on me. I had questions.
The generation previous never asked pertinent questions that would help in the fundamentals of acknowledging where we came from. They came from a generation where asking questions equated to lack of faith. It meant you had no respect for your elders or for god. They come from a generation where you learned life through observation, do as I do. Lifeʻs lows were always attributed to lack of faith. More faith, more blessings.
Tutu Pua though, his was a generation rooted in the foundational culture, ka wā kahiko (the ancient times). His was a time of grass huts, fishing, growing your own food, asking and praising the gods of old. Hula, his art form, was very much a religious practice. Hula was not Hollywoodʻs interpretation of fair skinned girls, with frizzy braided hair, breast cupped in coconut shells, wearing cellophane skirts, uncontrollably swaying their butts from side to side ukulele in hand. No. That was not hula. Hula instead was very sacred few were privy to actually seeing it and fewer still to actually practicing it. Hula was the voice between our physical world and that of the gods.
So as you can imagine, life as a kumu hula and life as a bishop of the Mormon church offered quite a bit of resistance. Neither should have been a part time devotion but both were. Papa found himself in church by day and practicing hula by night, unable to commit to either. We natives call this hukihuki. Tutu Puaʻs generation experienced this exponentially and it had its repercussions.
His futile attempts in stewarding his various worlds came with grave sacrifice. Before his passing Tutu Pua would lose his wife, his only daughter and 3 of his grand babies (all under the age of 2). These acts of devotion and the sense of responsibility stir up conflict in my personal belief system. What would cause a person who understood the fragility of both to dabble in either? Did he understand the consequence of his choices… actions? Or was he so invested in his purpose that he didnʻt take heed of his better judgement?
I ask only because I live with a curiosity. Iʻm cut from the same cloth a product of my ancestors. In an effort to understand myself I learn who they were. Because their past is relevant to my future, that of my keiki and theirs as well.
My Tutu Pua embodied strength, he was the epitome of rebellion with purpose. Tutu Pua was kūpaʻa (steadfast). He refused to give up his role as Kumu so the Mormon church instead withdrew his role as bishop. Upon realization that his clout meant community members would no longer attend church they decided to bend the rules and build him a small church in Kahana. There he was able to practice hula so long as membership remained the same.
In my youth, I allowed my mind to dissect the details of my Tutuʻs life to mean he was kūpaʻa in his culture, less in his religious exploits, a mistake I attribute to naivety. I am not from that faith so I have no knowledge of his contributions to the Mormon community. However, my culture I am fervently protective of. His cultural contributions are well documented and publicized. His truth not so much.
Today my ʻohana and I find contentment in attempting to translate Tutu Puaʻs truth with our limited resources. We use art, language, moʻolelo (stories), mele (songs), ʻoli (chant), dancing and ancestral recollection to paint a vivid picture of our past. We find other kanaka like ourselves who share the same insatiable thirst for connection and work collaboratively at piecing together the truth of our ancestors. Finding the humans in the legends. Gone are the days of being reprimanded for asking questions. Gone are the days of remaining voiceless. We ask, encourage our youth to question because in truth its the only way to keep our culture viable. To keep our past relevant and to find purpose for our future. We ask to finally quench our thirst.
Comments