Join 16-year-old high school student Jade Onaka in this animated video as she explores her family’s history to learn about the farming practices and Indigenous food systems that sustained Hawaiians for generations.
‘Ohana and ‘Āina: Connecting Family, Farming, and Freedom
Join 16-year-old high school student Jade Onaka in this animated video as she explores her family’s history to learn about the farming practices and Indigenous food systems that sustained Hawaiians for generations.
August 21, 2021
View transcript
My name is Jade Onaka.
I’m 16 years old, and I live in Kona, on the island of Hawai‘i.
Up alongside the steep driveway leading to my house, we grow ti-leaves, which we use to make lau lau, feed cattle, and make leis.
We’ve grown other vegetables, too. We even had kalo plants for a summer, but they’re not there anymore.
That’s my fault in a way.
Let me explain.
Chapter 1
I grew up in a family of ranchers.
My great-great-grandfather was the first person of Japanese ancestry to own a cattle ranch in Hawaiʻi, maybe even in the whole U.S.
He arrived here in 1905 to earn money on the island’s sugar plantations.
By 1914, he purchased his first cattle to feed his growing family.
Ranching became the family business, and they got pretty good at it.
My great-grandfather was known for herding cattle into the ocean and onto boats bound for O‘ahu.
No ranchers on the mainland had to drive cattle into the surf, I can tell you that.
On my mom’s side of the family, some of my relatives are Native Hawaiian.
While my dad grew up caring for cattle, my mom paddled outrigger canoes through ocean waves.
In both of their families, food brought people together after long days in the fields or on the water.
Still today, our family stands together in a line to make lau lau from the leaves of the kalo plant.
Chapter 2
When I was younger, my dad gave me some kalo for our garden. But I didn’t tend to it.
Back then I didn’t know how important kalo was to the Hawaiian people in the past, or that it might help us survive into the future.
The story goes that long ago two gods came together, Wākea and Papahānaumoku. They created Ho'ohōkūkalani.
Then, Wākea and Ho'ohōkūkalani came together and Ho'ohōkūkalani gave birth to a stillborn child.
They buried the child next to their house.
From the grave, a kalo plant grew. They named him Hāloanakalaukapalili.
Their second child, Hāloa, was the first Kanaka, and he cared for his elder brother, the kalo plant.
The kalo, in turn, provided nourishment.
It’s always been like that, when we care for the ʻāina–the land–the ʻāina cares for us.
In the Hawaiian language the words for the kalo plant are the same as those for family.
The plant that grows from a clipping is the mākua, or parent.
The offshoots are keiki, or children.
Together, the whole plant is ʻohana, or family.
Growing up, my parents taught me the value of providing for ourselves and sharing with our community. But I learned that Hawaiʻi, as a state, imports nearly 90% of its food.
Even though we live in a climate perfect for growing food year round, changes anywhere else in the world could leave us without enough to eat.
Chapter 3
During distance learning I decided to learn more about how my ancestors provided for themselves with the hope that we could begin to do the same.
I called Dean Wilhelm, a kalo farmer and educator, and Natalie Kurashima, a resource manager and researcher who studies native Hawaiian agriculture.
I learned from them that kalo was one of my ancestors’ main food sources and part of a complex agricultural system that provided for Hawaiians for almost 1,000 years.
Imagine, wedge-shaped divisions of land, called ahupua‘a, stretching from the mountains down to their base in the ocean. Within each ahupua‘a my ancestors cultivated the land based on its character: wood from the mountains, vegetables from the fields, kalo from the valleys, fish from the ocean. One ahupua‘a provided everything people living within it could need.
With this system, according to research, ancient Hawaiians produced more than 1 million tons of food each year. That’s enough to feed almost everyone who lives on the islands today.
100 years after my great-great-grandfather left work on the sugar plantations, the last one closed.
Today, it is estimated that 40% of Hawai‘i’s agricultural land is lying unused.
What if we cultivated that land again?
Food is freedom. A Hawai‘i independent of imported food is not just a dream - people are working hard to make it a reality.
Across the islands, farmers are restoring lo'i, communities are fighting to regain their water rights, people are rebuilding fields and other food systems based on ʻike kūpuna, schools, including mine, are teaching that knowledge to Hawaiian students.
I grew up the daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of ranchers. I learned how to work long days.
Now, I might put that to use in my own way. My kuleana goes beyond learning my history and about my family’s trade—it begins with growing some kalo once again.
I’m 16 years old, and I live in Kona, on the island of Hawai‘i.
Up alongside the steep driveway leading to my house, we grow ti-leaves, which we use to make lau lau, feed cattle, and make leis.
We’ve grown other vegetables, too. We even had kalo plants for a summer, but they’re not there anymore.
That’s my fault in a way.
Let me explain.
Chapter 1
I grew up in a family of ranchers.
My great-great-grandfather was the first person of Japanese ancestry to own a cattle ranch in Hawaiʻi, maybe even in the whole U.S.
He arrived here in 1905 to earn money on the island’s sugar plantations.
By 1914, he purchased his first cattle to feed his growing family.
Ranching became the family business, and they got pretty good at it.
My great-grandfather was known for herding cattle into the ocean and onto boats bound for O‘ahu.
No ranchers on the mainland had to drive cattle into the surf, I can tell you that.
On my mom’s side of the family, some of my relatives are Native Hawaiian.
While my dad grew up caring for cattle, my mom paddled outrigger canoes through ocean waves.
In both of their families, food brought people together after long days in the fields or on the water.
Still today, our family stands together in a line to make lau lau from the leaves of the kalo plant.
Chapter 2
When I was younger, my dad gave me some kalo for our garden. But I didn’t tend to it.
Back then I didn’t know how important kalo was to the Hawaiian people in the past, or that it might help us survive into the future.
The story goes that long ago two gods came together, Wākea and Papahānaumoku. They created Ho'ohōkūkalani.
Then, Wākea and Ho'ohōkūkalani came together and Ho'ohōkūkalani gave birth to a stillborn child.
They buried the child next to their house.
From the grave, a kalo plant grew. They named him Hāloanakalaukapalili.
Their second child, Hāloa, was the first Kanaka, and he cared for his elder brother, the kalo plant.
The kalo, in turn, provided nourishment.
It’s always been like that, when we care for the ʻāina–the land–the ʻāina cares for us.
In the Hawaiian language the words for the kalo plant are the same as those for family.
The plant that grows from a clipping is the mākua, or parent.
The offshoots are keiki, or children.
Together, the whole plant is ʻohana, or family.
Growing up, my parents taught me the value of providing for ourselves and sharing with our community. But I learned that Hawaiʻi, as a state, imports nearly 90% of its food.
Even though we live in a climate perfect for growing food year round, changes anywhere else in the world could leave us without enough to eat.
Chapter 3
During distance learning I decided to learn more about how my ancestors provided for themselves with the hope that we could begin to do the same.
I called Dean Wilhelm, a kalo farmer and educator, and Natalie Kurashima, a resource manager and researcher who studies native Hawaiian agriculture.
I learned from them that kalo was one of my ancestors’ main food sources and part of a complex agricultural system that provided for Hawaiians for almost 1,000 years.
Imagine, wedge-shaped divisions of land, called ahupua‘a, stretching from the mountains down to their base in the ocean. Within each ahupua‘a my ancestors cultivated the land based on its character: wood from the mountains, vegetables from the fields, kalo from the valleys, fish from the ocean. One ahupua‘a provided everything people living within it could need.
With this system, according to research, ancient Hawaiians produced more than 1 million tons of food each year. That’s enough to feed almost everyone who lives on the islands today.
100 years after my great-great-grandfather left work on the sugar plantations, the last one closed.
Today, it is estimated that 40% of Hawai‘i’s agricultural land is lying unused.
What if we cultivated that land again?
Food is freedom. A Hawai‘i independent of imported food is not just a dream - people are working hard to make it a reality.
Across the islands, farmers are restoring lo'i, communities are fighting to regain their water rights, people are rebuilding fields and other food systems based on ʻike kūpuna, schools, including mine, are teaching that knowledge to Hawaiian students.
I grew up the daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of ranchers. I learned how to work long days.
Now, I might put that to use in my own way. My kuleana goes beyond learning my history and about my family’s trade—it begins with growing some kalo once again.
