Last Updated on March 18, 2025
I opened the lid of the poi bowl and memories of my Tūtū washed over me[1]. Tūtū moved in with us when I was a teenager. Before that we only saw her every few years when she and Kūkū came to Utah to visit. They always brought poi with them and Tūtū expertly prepared it for us. She always stirred the poi until it was smooth; we never ate lumpy poi. Sometimes Tūtū prepared frozen poi, which is tricky because when it thaws it is very lumpy. But she had a technique for that too. She put the frozen poi in a bowl, placed the bowl over a pot of boiling water and slowly heated the poi gently stirring until it was smooth. She was so patient. She never rushed the process. My mom used the microwave oven to thaw the poi, but Tūtū always placed the frozen poi in a bowl over a pot of boiling water and slowly heated it until it was smooth. Watching her prepare smooth, silky poi taught me patience and that a task done well must be done thoroughly and completely. A perfectly prepared bowl of poi on the table was what love looked like. This past February when I got home from work and opened the poi bowl the smell of two-day old poi, the pungent sour yet sweet smell of the early stages of fermentation, carried me back to watching Tūtū prepare poi in our kitchen.
As a Hawaiian kid who grew up in Utah, poi was a luxury item. We only ate it when someone brought it from “back home.” Poi was so rare I wanted to hoard it, stretch it with water so it would last longer. But my dad rarely kept the poi for just our family, there was always enough to share. Aunties and uncles would be invited to our kitchen to eat poi served with sardines, sweet onions, and tomatoes marinated in shoyu, vinegar and chili pepper water. Laughter and stories filled our home as the poi and mea ʻai (food) filled our ʻōpū (belly). In those moments, we did not concern ourselves with how much poi there was or if there would be enough for tomorrow. We did not wonder about who was going to Hawaiʻi next and would they bring us a bag of poi? We did not worry about getting another bag before we were ʻono (craving) for it. For in that moment, with the ʻumeke (bowl) of poi in the center of the table, all that mattered was the love we shared with each other. I learned about waiwai (abundance) at the dinner table sharing poi with my family, aunties, uncles, and cousins. When I opened the lid of the poi bowl I was filled with aloha and waiwai.
Poi as Pedagogy
As a professor of Native Hawaiian and Indigenous politics, I strive to find new ways of decolonizing the academy. For the first time, I structured my graduate seminar to begin with a “aloha circle” and end with a “mahalo circle.” I learned this practice of hoʻowaiwai (creating abundance) from Hoʻoulu ʻĀina, a land-based community health care center that is part of Kōkua Kalihi Valley, a comprehensive health services center for the underserved community of Kalihi. The aloha circle reminds us that ʻāina is a co-participant in all that we do and it asks each person in the circle to set their intentions for the work ahead of the group. At the end of class we stand in a circle again, holding hands, for the mahalo circle. Here we each give thanks for something we learned or appreciated from our work together. These moments are powerfully and emotionally transformative because in this space we renew individual commitments to our families, communities and lāhui while also giving thanks for waiwai in all its forms.[2]
On February 18, 2015 class began with an aloha circle. We stood, clasped hands and went around the circle sharing our names, the person we brought with us to class, and our individual intentions for class. At its conclusion, the student in charge of discussion began her presentation and then led us in the discussion of the readings. During this class session, students began to answer a question they had been asking all semester, “How do we put these theories into practice?” The discussion finally focused on how each of us could put the ideas presented in our readings on Indigenous resurgence into practice on a daily basis. At the conclusion of class we decided to use the mahalo circle to commit to engaging in an everyday act of resurgence that we could enact over the course of the week. The following week we reported on how we did during the aloha circle. A Samoan student born and raised on Oʻahu’s North Shore committed to speaking Samoan with her younger sisters, two Kānaka ʻŌiwi students committed to speak ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi with their families who also speak ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. Another student committed to decolonizing his diet by giving up white sugar, flour and soda. I committed to having a bowl of poi on my table.
On my way home from work that night I drove by a local supermarket and looked for the poi. I found the iconic bag of Taro Brand poi stacked on a shelf between the refrigerated poke case and the local food case, I made sure to buy two bags, which would get me to Friday or Saturday when I could buy poi from small family run kalo farms.
I was so excited to arrive home with my bags of poi. But my kids were less enthusiastic. My three kids, all born in Honolulu and growing up in Mānoa valley, have a very different relationship to poi. Poi has been a part of their diet since they were babies; it was the first solid food we fed them. We buy poi on a regular basis. They can have it whenever they want. They can taste the difference between the sweetness of the Kāʻī variety used to make the Hanalei brand of poi from Kauaʻi and the Lehua variety used to make the poi in the Taro Brand that is manufactured on Oʻahu. They know the texture and taste of paʻiʻai (pounded kalo before water is added) and how it differs from poi. Hāloa, kalo, paʻiʻai, poi are an integral part of their lives and yet we do not keep a ʻumeke of poi on our table.
In committing to placing the ʻumeke of poi on my table I invited my Tūtū and Kūkū to the table to share stories and life lessons. Sitting around a table with the ‘umeke at the center is an opportunity for trans-generational learning, the knowledge of kūpuna (grandparents) is passed to children, where we are reminded that Hāloa is our elder brother. My Tūtū and Kūkū passed away before my children were born. Bringing the ʻumeke of poi to the table gave me an opportunity to pass on the stories and life lessons they shared with me when I was a child.
Kūkū said:
“Eat from the center, don’t dirty the side of the bowl.”
“Clean your spoon before you put it in the bowl.”
“Share! Keep the bowl in the center of the table where everyone can reach.”
“Clean the sides before you close the bowl after eating.”
“When the poi bowl is open [uncovered] we talk only about good things, we do not talk stink about others; this is the time to enjoy the food and the company of others.”
This commitment to an everyday act of resurgence forced me rethink how our family eats poi. We typically serve the kids poi in separate bowls. Since they do not have to share, they didn’t learn the lessons my Kūkū taught me. During the week the ʻumeke came to the table my husband and I were able to share our stories and teach our kids important lessons.
Committing to the ʻumeke of poi also made visible the challenges small kalo farmers face. When we returned to class the following week, I confessed that I fell short of my goal. I was not able to get to the local co-op in Honolulu in time to purchase poi made by small family run farms and I also did not make it to the farmers market to buy paʻiʻai and poi. Since my plan was to buy poi from small farmers over the weekend, I ran out before the week was up. The fact that I can only purchase homestead poi one day a week at the local co-op or drive thirty minutes to the windward side of the island is a reminder that eating poi it is still about availability and access—farmers’ access to land, availability of fresh water, and access to consumer markets. For one week in February, poi was pedagogy. Each time the ʻumkeke comes to the table we invite our kūpuna to join us.
[1] We called my paternal grandmother, Tūtū, and my paternal grandfather Kūkū. The difference is spelling does not reflect gendered differences in the Hawaiian words but my family’s use of the terms.
[2] Words cannot express my mahalo to Puni Freitas, the Director of Hoʻoulu ʻĀina, and the entire Hoʻoulu ʻĀina staff for their gifts of aloha and waiwai. For more information about Hoʻoulu ʻĀina see their website at http://www.hoouluaina.com/
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