Sounds of Paradise: How Hawaiian Music Brought My Mom and I Together
Listening to Hawaiian music not only helped me get closer to my mother, but provided me with a new outlook on life.
Written by Mahina Adams
Illustrated by Micaela Galvez
Moving to my mother’s home of Hawaii from North Dakota when I was 10 years old introduced me to a lot of new things. I learned about the 50th state’s cuisine and how to pronounce words like “hauʻoli lā hānau” (happy birthday in the language of aloha). But most importantly, the move gave me a new appreciation for my mother’s identity, as I experienced the vibrant songs and sounds she grew up with and continues to pass down to me.
When most people think of Hawaiian music, the sounds of the ukulele come to mind or “Lilo and Stitch”’s “Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride,” but for me, it encompasses so much more. After my parents divorced in elementary school, my siblings and I moved with our mom all over the country. It seemed every nine months, a catastrophe struck where we lived: my mom lost her job, a flood ruined our apartment in Minot, ND, and we inhabited an unstable housing complex in California. We would always pack up our bags and go to the next destination that offered any sort of opportunity. After this seemingly endless cycle, my mom decided to take us to where she knew best, her birthplace of Hawaii.
Moving around so much put distance between my mom and I. She went to work early and worked late nights; in my young eyes, she didn’t really have an identity outside of “mom.” Living in Hawaii changed this. She took every chance to show us all the spots of Hawaii only the natives would know, and in the background of every car ride, the local Hawaiian music station always echoed Anuhea’s “Higher Than the Clouds.” Through music, we connected. Her face lit up as she taught us the traditional hula dances she learned when she was little, teaching us to pat our feet to the rhythm of the “Pua Olena” by the Lim family, and she made sure we all took the ukulele classes they offered at our middle school. On King Kamehameha day, a state-sponsored holiday in Hawaii, the parades were plentiful and the sun was beating on my siblings and me as we ate our shaved ice. On the streets of Kapolei, the sound of Israel Kamakawiwoʻole’s “Over the Rainbow” played, and it was that moment that I thought of my mom. I looked at her face as she hummed along, her fingers tapping the concrete as we sat on the sidewalk, and realized she was not just a mom, but a woman with her own struggles and past, hopes, and desires.
Living where my mom grew up, I felt a new connection to her. As children, I think we often forget that our parents had a life before we came into the picture. With each new day living in Hawaii, I was introduced to a new mother I hadn’t known before. Although she was still stressed trying to raise three children on her own, every night she would play for us her favorite Hawaiian songs from the ‘70s and ‘80s, my favorite always being “Honolulu City Lights” by Keola and Kapono Beamer. In those moments, I remember how the light would suddenly shine in her eyes. With each song, she always had a fun story from her childhood to go along with it. However, the story that most sticks with me is the bittersweet story of “Aloha ‘Oe,” known as a farewell song in Hawaii. This was when I learned of the sudden death of her mother in a house fire, the event that forced her to leave Hawaii years earlier. The day before moving to mainland U.S.A., her local community had come together for a vigil and draped my mom in flower leis as they all sang “Aloha ‘Oe,” embracing my mother with enough aloha to last until she could come back home.
When my family eventually left Hawaii to make the move to San Antonio, Texas, the lyrics of “Aloha ‘Oe” rang in my ears as I looked at my mom through new eyes and braced myself for a new world.
“Farewell to thee, farewell to thee / The charming one who dwells in the shaded bowers / One fond embrace / Ere I depart / Until we meet again.”