My name is Harley Kaualaniolinolinoho’ohulupua’alaokahekahawai Ceberano, but around here, everyone just calls me Lani. It rolls off the tongue, I guess.
I grew up in what most people call paradise, but it’s just home. I’m from Hawai‘i. Specifically, the island of O‘ahu, in the city of Kapolei. Many folks are surprised to learn that Hawai‘i isn’t just one island but a whole chain. Explaining that has been just one of many lessons I’ve had to learn since moving away.
Before I left, I was introduced to the idea of culture shock. Naive as I was, I thought I’d be fine. I’d already gone to what we call 'The White School' back home, so I figured I’d seen it all. Because of that, people loved to call me a coconut—brown on the outside, white on the inside—and I was a coconut surrounded by other fruits. Mostly blueberries, pineapples, and Kalo. Pineapples were the ones who grew up in Hawai‘i and acted the part, while blueberries were usually the ones who moved there and brought their mainland mindset with them. Kalo were the Native Hawaiians that were seen as Hawaiian, unlike the Coconuts. That being said, I thought I was ready for mainland fruit. I was used to blueberries, but I wasn’t ready for grapes. Twice as big, twice as sour, and full of attitude. Still, I eventually found my people and started settling in.
Being on the East Coast made me lean deeper into my culture. I held tighter to my roots, cooked the foods I grew up with, shared them with curious friends, and tried to explain things most people had only seen on postcards or in movies. It was a way of staying grounded, even when everything around me felt foreign. Funny enough, it was that craving for connection that led me to someone
My boyfriend at the time reminded me of home. His biological parents were from Hilo, and he also ended up out East. But I didn’t realize he was a Banana—yellow on the outside, white on the inside. He looked local and had the blood to back it, sure, but he talked and acted like a total haole.
We clashed a lot, but one argument still sticks with me: the Pledge of Allegiance. One day, at work I noticed it was just me and an international student who weren’t participating in the pledge. I found it funny, but he did not. He said this country gave him opportunities, and I shouldn’t take things so personally. He said I was disrespecting veterans and slaves by not participating. I told him I couldn’t respect a country built on cultural and actual genocide, especially one that still treats its Native people the way it does. He told me I was overthinking it.
That’s when I said, “I’ve never been American. I’m Hawaiian.” And he said, “That’s where we differ.”
So let me explain something real quick. On January 17, 1893, a group of American businessmen called the Committee of Safety and staged a coup against the Hawaiian Kingdom. Backed by U.S. Marines who landed from the USS Boston under the false claim of “protecting American lives and property,” they forced Queen Liliʻuokalani, the last sovereign monarch of Hawai‘i, to surrender under protest. They placed her under house arrest in her palace.
The key players were mainly wealthy white men, names like Sanford B. Dole, who would become the “President” of the illegal Provisional Government. Not to mention, yeah, that Dole. His name is still slapped on your pineapple products today. These men didn’t just want power, they wanted profit. The sugar industry, free trade, and avoiding tariffs were the real motivators.
In 1898, during the Spanish-American War, the U.S. saw strategic value in Hawai‘i as a military base. So they annexed the islands through something called the Newlands Resolution. This joint congressional resolution bypassed any kind of treaty or legitimate vote. No treaty. No consent. Just signatures and silence.
Even though over 21,000 Native Hawaiians had signed the Kūʻē Petition in opposition to annexation, their voices were ignored.
It wasn’t until 1993, 100 years later, that the U.S. government issued the Apology Resolution. In it, they admitted that the overthrow was illegal and that the U.S. had violated international law and the sovereignty of the Hawaiian people. But an apology doesn’t mean accountability and it certainly hasn’t meant action. The occupation continues. Hawai‘i is still treated like a tourist destination or a military outpost rather than the sovereign nation it once was.
That’s where my boyfriend at the time and I differed, and that difference runs deep. It’s not just a disagreement; it’s a history people like him can afford to ignore. Meanwhile, I still carry the weight of a stolen kingdom, as if it’s some family secret I’m not supposed to discuss.
That brings me to another thing: being Native Hawaiian on the mainland. I’ve told people I don’t wear a coconut bra. If I had a nickel for every time, I’d have two, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right? You’d think it’s 2025, people can’t be that dumb. Well, I did too. But ignorance can slip through the cracks, dressed up like curiosity or passed off as a joke. And after a while, it stops being funny. I had a classmate who would constantly call me Moana. First off, while Moana is voiced by a Native Hawaiian doesn't make her a native character. Second off, MOANA IS CLEARLY POLYNESIAN AND I AM HAWAIIAN??? HELLO? Its as a reminder that no matter how rooted I am in my identity, I’m still a costume to some people.
What’s been harder, though, is the disconnection I’ve felt from other Natives up here. Both Native Hawaiian and Native American. While people considered me a coconut back home, here? I was a purebred Kalo compared to them. Maybe it’s the distance from the land, perhaps it’s the survival mode we’ve all had to live in, or maybe it's just the way trauma shapes people. Whatever it is, I’ve met some who carry the name but not the kuleana. Who talk the talk, but don’t walk with honor. And that’s something I can't ignore.What it means to be Hawaiian is up for debate. I’ve been called a “Coconut” or“fake Hawaiian” or “not Hawaiian enough” more times than I can count. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s not about the blood quantum or how fluent your ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi is. It’s a status. A relationship with the land, the people, and the culture. And no one can take that away from me. No matter how far I am from home, I will always be Hawaiian. Not American.
Reflection - 12/15
One of my greatest disappointments this semester was not being able to fully utilize the script I wrote. I completed the script with the intention of having it translated into ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, as language was meant to be a central and intentional part of the project. Unfortunately, the individuals who had agreed to help with the translation fell through, and without that support, the plan became unsustainable.
I made the deliberate choice not to use AI to translate the script. For me, using ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi carries cultural responsibility, and I did not feel comfortable relying on a tool that lacks lived context, nuance, and accountability. As a result, I ultimately scrapped the idea entirely. While this was frustrating and disheartening, it reinforced the importance of respecting the language and my own values, even when doing so complicates the production process.
