At 5:45am my alarm went off and I thought I was going to throw my
phone out the window. My usual alarm singing, "Good morning!"
to me made it a very terrible morning. I literally rolled out of bed and
made myself walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth, because no one likes
morning breath. Then I put on some decent clothing, which included a
baggy white t-shirt, black sweats, a gray oversized hoodie, mismatched socks,
and Nike Frees 4.0. I dragged my cousin, who was my roommate, out the
door of our apartment and we made the long journey to the BYU Wilkinson Center.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize that it was snowing. We
trudged through the snow now 5:55am on our way to luau practice. The only
good thing about this whole situation was that we lived across the street in
the dorms so it was a fairly close walk to the Wilkinson Center. The
tricky part about this situation was the lights changing in our favor.
But at 5:55 in the morning on a Saturday we didn't really worry about
cars driving by so we made our way across the cross walk while we had a Do Not
Walk symbol. We walked a little further down the sidewalk until we got to
the doors of the Wilkinson Center.
That was always a glorious moment, stepping through the doors.
Warmth hit our bodies like a gust of wind. Our cheeks started to
get pink and rosy because warmth was returning to them. Our fingers
didn't hurt to move anymore because circulation was getting back into them.
We walked up one flight of stairs and down two hallways until we got to our
practice room, third door on the right side. Now the fun part was about to
begin. Hawaii section luau practice.
By 6:10am we started warming up. There were usually about 25 people there and little by
little more people would start to trickle in. To start our warm up, our instructor would put on
traditional Hawaiian music, which was usually a man chanting during major beats
of an ipu (which is a Hawaiian gourd dried out to become an instrument) and the
dancing would begin. I can always
remember being confident at the beginning that I was doing pretty well, but 10
minutes into practice, I could feel the burning sensation starting in my
legs. It would usually start in my
calves and lead up into my quadriceps and hamstrings. It was never the good burning sensation, but I knew I was
doing something right if my muscles were getting a good work out already.
By 6:30am we would break up into our smaller groups and start
practicing our specific dances. We
went over the specific chants we had to repeat at the right time. As we learned the different chants, our
instructor would explain to us what each line we were saying meant. Each time he would explain a line to
us, an appreciation for my culture and heritage would spark inside of me.
All those Sunday dinners at my grandparents house would flash
through my mind as these words sounded so familiar. I could remember the smell of my grandma’s cooking as we sat
around the table with my older cousins waiting for her to finish cooking. My grandpa’s Hawaiian records and CDs
all stacked so neatly against the wall, like he had them in some particular
order. My grandpa sitting at the
kitchen table taste testing the food before my grandma served it to
everyone. Everyone fighting over
saying the prayer to bless the food because whoever blessed the food would get
to go first, and who wasn’t hungry at this point. All of these memories would flood my mind every Saturday as
we would learn new chants and hula steps to make the perfect performance.
Two hours later, at 8am, practice would finally come to an
end. After two hours of dirty bare
feet, sweaty faces, and aching knees, we would get to walk back home just in
time to go back to bed. This
ritual continued on for the next three months every Saturday from 6-8am. If we were really lucky, we would get
to practice for an extra two hours after our allotted time and get home at
10am. During the extra two hour
practice, it was more relaxed and we were able to get to know each other better
as we sat on the hard carpet floor sewing our skirts, making our head dresses,
or practicing certain parts of the dances.
As the Saturdays came and gone, I realized
something was changing. I felt
more connected with my ancestors, my heritage. I was beginning to truly appreciate where I had come from,
which made me think of countless stories that I had been told as I was growing
up. Learning about a group of
people who forgot where they came from, but from a certain event changed their
perspective and helped them to remember what was really important in their
lives. This was one of those
events that helped me remember and appreciate everything my ancestors had done
for me. Bringing back to my remembrance
the important things and helping me get back on the strait and narrow path.
