At the pivotal moment of her story, Kolby Akamu Moser stepped away from the microphone. Something she didn’t expect was about to happen.

Kolby had made a request of the more than 300 people gathered at the Kahilu Theatre in Waimea for Civil Beat’s “Hawaii Storytellers: Where I Live —Kona and Kohala” event.

“Toward the end of my story, I asked the audience to say the name of a loved one who had passed, out loud — as a way to honor but also activate them,” Kolby would later write on Instagram.

“They SHOUTED their names. I felt like I could hear every single individual one. I can’t even explain the power in that moment but it took my breath away and I will remember it for the rest of my life,” she said.

When this happened, I was tucked away on the wings of the stage, watching Kolby tell the last story of the evening. Manu Powers had told a beautiful story about aloha overcoming fear, Boots Lupenui regaled the audience with two stories that were too good to be true, and Dagan Bernstein shared a heartfelt mele-based story.

As I watched, I thought of how Jen Hixson, the director of the Moth Mainstage show I participated in last October, said she fell in love with each of her storytellers. I also thought of something one of my favorite poets, Joy Harjo, recently wrote.

“We humans are story makers,” said Harjo, a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation and former poet laureate of the United States. “We become part of a matrix of stories when we accept breath. We are connected to the stories of every creature, plant, and other beings. We are each given the task to bring understanding and vnokeckv or harmony of deep caring to all that we do.”

When Kolby asked for a name to be said aloud, I knew my son would say his grandfather’s name, so I was free of filial obligations and could invoke the name of another member of my ohana, Aunty Violet Nathaniel.

I had been thinking of her after Kolby showed me the red-covered book that would be at the crux of her story.

Kolby’s book is her ohana’s genealogy stretching back to the 17th century. Our ohana has a similar book, with a green cover decorated with our family symbol, the green ti leaf. 

Our Nathaniel Ohana book is a collection of recipes and stories written by Aunty Violet. My dad encouraged her to write it to preserve our family’s history before it was lost. Aunty Violet wove stories about trips to secret burial caves amid recipes to feed the onaona (inebriated) and the struggles in the wake of tsunamis that struck her hometown of Hilo. 

The book isn’t full of nostalgia. Before Aunty Violet started her stories she had a stern message for her ohana.

“One of the beautiful things about being Hawaiian, and being brought up in the islands is that any older person than you is called ‘Aunty,’ ‘Uncle,’ ‘Tutu Lady’ or ‘Tutu Man,’” she wrote. “It’s a form of respect which some of my own blood nieces and nephews that live on the mainland don’t respect. I for one will not tolerate any of them for not calling me Aunty.”

I was very guilty of what she had written. As a teenager, I had once phoned her and didn’t refer to her as “Aunty.” She immediately hung up on me.

“My family, teach your children respect,” she continued. “If you don’t show respect now you never will. Remember, I am your Aunty! And I demand that respect from each and every one of you. If you don’t, you can call me Mrs. Nathaniel, then I will answer. Call me Violet, I will not answer. That is all I have to say to you.”

Her admonitions were from someone who wholly embraced the important role of matriarch. 

This time last year, my son and I were passing through Hilo and I told him I wanted to quickly stop by Homelani Memorial Park. As we came up Ponahawai Street. I saw Aunty Violet’s daughter, Roquelle Kahaloa, cleaning up our ohana’s gravesites. 

Rocki and I joked that although we live on the same island, we never make plans to see each other because we know we will bump into each other eventually.

I told Rocki that I’d be going to Kauai soon to paddle (she was a legendary steersperson for Kamehameha Canoe Club) and I needed to get in touch with her sister Cori who lived there.

Rocki said, “No need, she’s right over there,” pointing to the ball fields next to Homelani. Rocki called her sister and within moments Cori was there with her mo’opuna (grandchild.)

It was a joyous family reunion in the cemetery.

I happened then to glance down at Rocki and Cori’s mother’s grave marker.

Katherine Violet Nathaniel

August 6, 1934 – March 15, 2014

It was March 15, 2023. 

Long before, I told my son, “There’s no such thing as a coincidence in Hawaii.”

Aunty Violet always loved a pa’ina (gathering) and nine years after her passing, she had managed to arrange a small party with her daughters, mo’opuna, nephew and grandnephew.

Friday is the 10th anniversary of her passing. She’s still the matriarch of our ohana because she authored the book that our ohana turns to when we need to know how to make the foods that make us feel that we are a part of something greater than ourselves. 

In Waimea, before they told their mo’olelo, I introduced the storytellers by asking what foods made them think of Hawaii Island. For Manu, it was Super J’s laulau; Boots answered his mother’s beef stew; Dagan said Waipio Valley poi and Kolby told me it was her mother’s Portagee bean soup with the macaroni and ham hocks. 

I didn’t answer, but for me it would be the sweetbread recipe in Aunty Violet’s book. 

While Aunty Violet has been gone for a decade, I cling desperately to the markers of her generation. Their stories tell us how to live harmoniously and happily together in these islands.

It’s not about the places, it’s about the people.