Growing up, my connection to my Hawaiian heritage felt distant and complicated. My father, a Native Hawaiian figure respected in his community, remained largely absent from my childhood. It wasn’t until I was twelve, after moving to Oahu, that I truly began to understand the chasm between my existence and the image he presented to the world. Learning that I, his daughter, was an omitted chapter in his life story was deeply disheartening. As I navigated my twenties, the weight of feeling like an unspoken secret lingered, even as I pursued my own path in writing far from the expectations he held.
However, amidst this personal struggle for identity, I discovered a powerful resonance with an ancient Hawaiian tradition: tattooing. I learned how early Hawaiians used ink etched into their skin as a profound expression of their origins and lineage. This resonated deeply with my own journey. As someone drawn to exploring new horizons rather than staying rooted, I began to collect tattoos as a way to document my travels and, more importantly, to forge a tangible link to my Hawaiian roots. These were not merely decorations; they were personal narratives inked onto my skin, a way to visually assert my heritage in a world where I often felt unseen.
Lush waterfalls cascade down cliffs between Waipio and Waimanu Valleys on the Big Island, Hawaii
Exploring the breathtaking waterfalls nestled between the verdant Waipio and Waimanu Valleys on Hawaii’s Big Island, showcasing the natural beauty that inspires native tattoo artistry.
By the time I reached thirty, my body had become a canvas adorned with nearly a dozen tattoos. Each piece marked a moment, a place, a step in my journey of self-discovery. An invitation from my father to a formal gala in Oahu, celebrating his contributions to the Native Hawaiian community, felt like a significant step towards acceptance. He presented it as a family affair, a chance to finally be seen and acknowledged. Yet, on the day of the event, the underlying tension resurfaced. I was asked to conceal my tattoos. “Not a tattoo crowd,” he explained, dismissing a significant part of my identity with those few words. Despite the sting of his request, I complied, draping a shawl over my art and even accepting the unfamiliar surname I was introduced with that evening. The feeling of erasure was compounded when I later discovered I had been digitally removed from the official family portrait. Even a stranger’s comment in the bathroom, remarking on decades of knowing my family without ever hearing of me, underscored my outsider status.
The rejection felt profound. Confiding in my brother, I articulated the deep sense of being unwelcome, of not fitting in. His response offered a crucial shift in perspective. He reminded me that our ancestors were not solely bound by rigid traditions as kāhuna (priests). They were also explorers, pathfinders who ventured beyond known boundaries to forge new lives. While upholding traditions, as my father did, is vital for cultural preservation, embracing the spirit of exploration and independence is equally inherent to our heritage. I realized then that my path, though different, was no less Hawaiian. Not being a kāhuna did not diminish my connection to my roots or make me a “bad Hawaiian.”
This realization sparked a desire to further deepen my connection to my heritage through a truly meaningful and traditional form of native tattoo. I decided to get a traditional Hawaiian tattoo, applied using the ancient hand-tapping method with sharpened bone. The specific design remains undecided, as tradition dictates the artist discerns the appropriate imagery in the moment of creation. This tattoo will serve as a constant reminder of my place within my heritage, a symbol that my father and I, despite our differences, are integral threads in the same rich tapestry. It will be my story etched into my skin, a story where I am present, visible, and undeniably included.
