Aunty, you know, usually when I am remembering someone who has passed on I do it in the way I learned while working at Joseph's House: I build a little altar with fresh flowers and a lit candle. But on the day you left us I had no flowers and I couldn't find the candle I usually use for these moments. So instead, I began playing music from The Brothers Cazimero. All night I listened to their songs and that felt right. I pictured Roland being there to greet you with all those who loved and went ahead of you. The aumakua got to welcome you home.
Aunty Deva, when I got the text that you were gone my body went into shock slowly and effectively until I found myself on my knees, palms to the 'aina, head to the floor. Crying. Aunty, I am so sad to see you go. I know the cancer was exhausting. I know you did everything you could to overcome it. I know you are at rest now. And I am grieving my loss even as I thank Ke Akua for all you mean to me.
Aunty, thank you for showing me by example the importance of being a life-long learner. The hours you spent in class with all your students studying the Hawaiian language with us, you always the first one to ask questions, the first to say you did not know but would love to learn. Aunty, you were curious and humble, always seeking knowledge from others even keiki. Thank you for teaching me about Pele and Hi'iakaikapoliopele, Kalākaua and Liliuokalani. You normalized my own search for answers.
Aunty Deva, thank you for hula, the dance and the hālau. I met you when I was 10 years old, before Kaleinani o ke Kukui was the influential Polynesian arts community that it is now. My family had just moved to Washington from Kentucky and you understood what that was like because of your years in Tennessee. You welcomed us with open arms, each of us, even me with my spinal cord injury that I could hide in other parts of my life. Not in hula. When I danced it was obvious that my body was different from my hula sisters. As the hālau grew and I became a teenager, more and more aware of how people stare when someone is different, stare but do not ask for clarity, I began to pull away from hula.
You never pulled away from me, though. Dancing for you was always like being hugged. You never made me feel that I was less of a dancer than my able-bodied hula sisters or that I was more special than anyone else. In those crucial formative years when girls are so often told false and damaging things about themselves and their bodies, you breathed life into me. You treated me like a whole person. You paid attention to me. You instructed me on life and dance like a mother, with love and honesty. You encouraged me to pursue my dreams even when it meant I would no longer be as active in the hālau. You showed me how to be grateful for what my body -- yes, even my fragile, broken body -- could do. You taught me that I was strong and smart. And that my smile and my mind, not my hips or my butt, were the most beautiful parts of my body.
Aunty Deva, you were the first person I ever saw play the ipu heke. You taught me how to sync my heart beat to its rhythms. Thank you for leaving this way to continue loving you.
Aunty, thank you for the years of training. The hours you spent teaching me the steps that come together to form a hula. The days spent in workshops, the late night trips to Walmart to buy fabric to sew pa'us, the times you hopped up from your spot in the front of the class to straighten my feet, my hips, my hands. Aunty, thank you for being patient with me even though my ka'os were always off beat. Why that step is so hard for me I will never understand!
You taught us hula in living rooms, backyards, parks and schools - and by doing so taught me that dreams are worth pursuing, no matter how impossible they may seem to others to reach. Look at the legacy you left us. I am honored to be one of your haumana.
Aunty, from you I learned to practice how I would perform, to sew hundreds of sequins by hand onto a costume, to pay attention to my hula family around me until all of us were dancing, breathing, beating as one. You taught me to greet everyone in the room with a kiss because that is part of the hula, too. That when the Kumu or Tutu asks you to dance, you dance - even if you don't know the mele and have to make the whole thing up. That you always oli for permission before you enter a space. That before it is entertainment, hula is an art form of resistance, the way Hawaiian people reclaim and preserve their culture and history despite generations of oppression and colonialization. Aunty, you taught me to use my body and heritage as my strongest, truest gift and protest.
Aunty Deva, thank you for loving my mother as your sister. She laughed hardest when she was with you. You created a village for her here in the Pacific Northwest in place of the one she left behind in the islands. Thank you because when you asked her to dance, I got to sit at your feet and watch her in awe. Is there any dancer more captivating than my mother? Thank you for showing me at a young age where my radiance comes from.
Thank you for loving my siblings as if they were your own children. You met them as babies and never forgot how precious they are. My sister blossomed under your care into a confident young woman. My brother was always most comfortable with you.
Aunty Deva, thank you for loving me. The last time I saw you was at my bridal shower. What a blessing to get to honi you, eat mochi together, tell you about my life. Aunty, it meant everything to me that you blessed not only my marriage but my work as well. You asked about my practice the same way you used to ask me what books I was reading as a child. You leaned in, listened intently and then nodded.
"Yes," you said, "this is what your whole life has prepared you for. Keep going."
Aunty, you would have been so proud of the hula I danced at my wedding. For the first time in 17 years, I danced as if I was not ashamed of my body. Even my ka'os were on beat! I followed the process you taught me: I researched the mele, translating it, looking up who and where it was created to honor. I choreographed it the way you taught me, verse by verse, feet first. And although the MC at the reception said the hula was for my husband, it was equally for you.
Aunty Deva, I love you. When I see you again we will dance with no sore knees, no achy backs, no heartaches. Until then, I will pass on everything you taught me. I will tell stories about you. Aunty, I will make you proud.
E ho'omaha me ka maluhia, Deva Leinani Aiko Yamashiro. A hui hou, Aunty.
