Aloha Compadre: Latinxs in Hawai'i 9780813565675

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Note on Terminology and Accessibility
Introduction: The Deportation of Andres Magaña Ortiz
1. Vaqueros and Paniolos
2. Boricua Hawaiiana
3. Working Maui Pine
4. “Wetbacks” in Racial Paradise?
5. Mixed Race Identity, Localized Latinxs, and a Pacific Latinidad
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Notes
Selected Bibliography
Index
About the Author
Available titles in the Latinidad: Transnational Cultures in the United States series

Citation preview

Aloha Compadre

Latinidad Transnational Cultures in the United States This series publishes books that deepen and expand our understanding of Latina/o populations, especially in the context of their transnational relationships within the Americas. Focusing on borders and boundary-­crossings, broadly conceived, the series is committed to publishing scholarship in history, film and media, literary and cultural studies, public policy, economics, sociology, and anthropology. Inspired by interdisciplinary approaches, methods, and theories developed out of the study of transborder lives, cultures, and experiences, titles enrich our understanding of transnational dynamics. Matt Garcia, Series Editor, Professor of Latin American, Latino and Caribbean Studies, and History, Dartmouth College For a list of titles in the series, see the last page of the book.

Aloha Compadre Latinxs in Hawaiʻi

RUDY P. GUEVARRA JR.

Rutgers University Press New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey London and Oxford

Rutgers University Press is a department of Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey, one of the leading public research universities in the nation. By publishing worldwide, it furthers the University’s mission of dedication to excellence in teaching, scholarship, research, and clinical care. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Guevarra, Rudy P., Jr., author. Title: Aloha compadre : Latinxs in Hawaiʻi / Rudy P. Guevarra, Jr. Other titles: Latinxs in Hawaiʻi Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, [2023] | Series: Latinidad : transnational cultures in the United States | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022050893 | ISBN 9780813565651 (paperback) | ISBN 9780813565668 (cloth) | ISBN 9780813565675 (pdf ) | ISBN 9780813572710 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Hispanic Americans—­Hawaii—­History. | Latin Americans—­Hawaii—­History. | Immigrants—­Hawaii—­History. | Hawaii—­Race relations—­History. | Hawaii—­Ethnic relations—­History. Classification: LCC DU624.7.S75 G84 2023 | DDC 305.868/0730969—­dc23/eng/20221024 LC record available at https://​lccn​.loc​.gov/​2022050893. A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2023 by Rudy P. Guevarra Jr. All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. References to internet websites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. ♾ The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-­1992. rutgersuniversitypress​.org

In loving memory of my parents Angela Magaña Guevarra (1954–­2014) and Rudy Poscablo Guevarra (1950–­2015) Thank you for the many memories and life lessons and, most of all, your love. Ramón “Chunky” Sánchez (1951–­2016) My mentor, friend, and fellow Chicano activist Dawn Mabalon (1972–­2018) My friend, Filipina American historian, and fellow scholar activist G. Reginald Daniel (1949–­2022) My friend, mentor, and pioneer in critical mixed race studies And to the rest of my family and friends who have transitioned. Rest in Love, Light, and Power.

Contents Prefaceix Note on Terminology and Accessibility xiii

Introduction: The Deportation of Andres Magaña Ortiz

1

Vaqueros and Paniolos

26

2

Boricua Hawaiiana

65

3

Working Maui Pine

102

4

“Wetbacks” in Racial Paradise?

138

5

Mixed Race Identity, Localized Latinxs, and a Pacific Latinidad

183

Epilogue

1

217

Acknowledgments229 Notes235 Selected Bibliography 301 Index305

vii

Preface Before I share the story of the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi, I wanted to provide some context of my own personal history and ties to this project as well as my positionality in the writing of this book. I was born and raised in San Diego, California, where I grew up in communities that included not just Mexicans, Chicanxs, and Filipinxs but also other Latinxs, Chamorros, Native Hawaiians, locals from Hawaiʻi, Sāmoans, Tongans, Blacks, Asians, those who identified as mixed race, and some whites. These were all the friends I grew up with. We often went to one another’s houses, eating one another’s food and in some instances, being informally adopted into one another’s families. My parents also had longtime family friends who were Chamorro. Growing up in a multiracial space, I had been exposed to Pacific Islander cultures since I was in elementary school. It was not uncommon for me to call some of my Pacific Islander friends “cousins” and all our elders “aunties” and “uncles.” It was a similar practice in Filipinx and Mexican cultures. By my high school years, I had also become familiar with these same Pacific Islander cultures and had, to some extent, an elementary understanding of certain words and phrases in Hawaiian, Hawaiian Pidgin English, and Sāmoan. We were also exposed to one another’s cultures through our food. My Filipinx, Chamorro, Sāmoan, and Hawaiian friends came over to our house often because they agreed my mom made the best Mexican food they had ever had, and they enjoyed every burrito or taco she made for them. I often ventured to my cousin’s family store in National City off Euclid Avenue to indulge in Sāmoan food—­in particular, pani popo (coconut rolls baked and drenched in coconut milk). I also fondly recall attending Hawaiian family get-togethers and larger social events, such as the Hui O Hawaiʻi of San Diego, where the protocol of oli (chant) to bless a meal and the gathering of community were common. By the early 1990s, my friends and I were attending both the annual Chicano Park Day festival and ix

x  •  Preface

the San Diego Pacific Islander festival, which also had a noticeable Filipinx and Mexican presence because our communities were mixed. These relationships and experiences were further reinforced over the years during my senior year as an undergraduate, when I attended a summer research opportunity program at the University of Utah, where I met some friends from Hawaiʻi, Kuulei and Kanoe, who welcomed me as a hānai member of the Kaluhiokalani ʻohana (family), as well as in graduate school with my chosen family from Hawaiʻi who also attended University of California, Santa Barbara.1 They were a part of my larger community of hānai and chosen family and friends in Hawaiʻi, many who are Native Hawaiian and non-­Native locals. They oftentimes responded to my return to the islands every year by saying “Welcome home” and when I left with the words “a hui hou” (until we meet again). Geographically, growing up in San Diego also gave me a certain perspective that tied me and my Pacific Islander and Mexican families together, which was the ocean—­in particular, Oceania (the Pacific).2 I have lived close to the ocean most of my life, so I have spent a lot of time in the water body boarding, body surfing, and swimming, among other activities. I was truly happy being submerged in the water or riding a wave; I felt safe and at ease. For me, the ocean was also an extension of the Indigenous Kumeyaay lands we inhabited. I would like to think of this connection to the ocean as part of my own ancestral connections as a self-­identified Mexipino whose Filipino ancestors on my paternal side are descended from Pangasinan Ilokanos, Caviteños, and Baja, California, and whose Mexican ancestors on my maternal side are descended from the P’urhépecha people of Michoacán. These are water peoples as well, and I am linked to both ancestral oceans and lakes. It is the Pacific Ocean, however, that always calls me home. When I was working on my dissertation (which became my first book, Becoming Mexipino), I began visiting Hawaiʻi back in 2001, looking at a totally different topic. I was, however, fascinated when I ventured around the island of Oʻahu, visiting restaurants, shopping, or spending time at one of the many beaches on the island with my hānai and chosen family and friends. This fascination was over how frequently I heard Spanish being spoken around me. As I continued to travel back and forth between the continent and Hawaiʻi over the years, I noticed more and more Spanish being spoken and saw more Mexicans and other Latinxs around. We would give one another “the nod” when making eye contact, and I soon found myself in conversations with those I encountered. I wanted to understand the history and experiences of those with whom I share a cultural background in Hawaiʻi. One conversation that stood out to me was when I was at the local supermarket Don Quijote (then known as Daiei) in the town of Waipahu and came across a group of Mexican farmworkers. I started a conversation with them, and they told me they were from Zacatecas, Michoacán, and Jalisco, which told me they were Indigenous people from México and Mexicans of Indigenous descent.3 I asked them what they were doing in Hawaiʻi,

Preface  •  xi

and one of them mentioned they were hired to pick tomatoes. I wasn’t aware at the time that Hawaiʻi had a growing local vegetable industry, but to my surprise, the next day while driving down the H1, I saw a truck go by with a bed load of tomatoes. Other locals I encountered and befriended would also share with me their Latinx ancestry when they found out I was Mexican and Filipino. Those moments were to find a connection with one another but also revealed to me just how many people in Hawaiʻi who I met casually claimed their Mexican, Puerto Rican, or other ethnic Latinx background. I also fondly remember my first visit to the island of Oʻahu in 2001 and spending time in Lāiʻe on the North Shore with my uncle, Norman “Coach K” Kaluhiokalani. We spent the afternoon together driving around the island and talking story (conversing). During our conversations, he shared the history of the Hawaiian paniolo (cowboy) and the influence the Mexican vaqueros had on them. I had no idea about that history, and it compelled me to learn more. Those moments made me realize that there was a story to tell, and since I had not seen anything that was written at the time, I knew what my next book project would be. As I continued to finish my dissertation and revise it into my first book, I was already quietly gathering sources and interviews when I could every year I came back to Hawaiʻi. This painstaking process would take twenty years to complete (and eleven years during that time to write it). My interest in why Latinxs and Chicanxs were leaving their homes in the United States (particularly from the Pacific West Coast and Southwest), Latin America, and the Spanish Caribbean to come to Hawaiʻi, a faraway location, began my quest to answer these questions. What were they seeking across the Pacific that would make them leave their families and begin a new life? How was this experience different from migrating to the continental United States? How did they find and create community in the diaspora? How were they received by Native Hawaiians and other non-­ Native locals on the islands? Did they frequently intermarry with one another? How were their identities and those of their children (for those who had them) shaped in a Pacific Island context that had a very different multicultural dynamic than what they experienced at home or in the continental United States? These questions drove me to tell this story and shed some light on what it means to be Latinx in Hawaiʻi and, more so, within a larger oceanic migration that also includes Aotearoa (New Zealand) and Australia. These migrations across the vast ocean astounded me. The community narratives I gathered over the years provided some insights and answers to these questions. I was also left with more questions than answers, but I found joy in knowing I would continue to explore, learn, and grow from these experiences. During the course of this project, I collected more than eighty oral histories. A few of these interviews were also conducted by two of my peers back in Hawaiʻi during the times I could not physically be there to interview them (pre-­ Zoom years). At first, some of my interviewees were reluctant to speak, possibly

xii  •  Preface

because of their citizenship status or because they were not completely comfortable speaking to me because they did not know me. Fortunately, the vast majority of my interviewees were all gathered through word of mouth by friends, colleagues, and other interviewees who supported this project. Through them I was able to earn their confianza (trust) and have meaningful informal conversations about their lives and what it means to be Latinx in Hawaiʻi as locals and for others who migrated to the islands for a variety of reasons. Some of these oral histories were also located in the archives in Hawaiʻi, which provided additional historical context for this story. The vast majority of my interviewees chose the option to use their real names, while a few chose to use pseudonyms. For those whose citizenship status was not known (and I did not ask as part of protecting their privacy), either I have excluded their interviews or, in the event they were included, I used pseudonyms and other precautionary measures to protect their identities. Other interviews were not included because I was not able to reestablish my connection with them due to outdated contact information.4 Interviewees were all over the age of eighteen and included a diversity of Latinx cultural backgrounds, occupations, and time lived on the island, as well as those who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi across multiple generations. These informal conversations were done in the “talk story” form that is common in Hawaiʻi. Similar to both pláticas (Latin America and the Spanish-­ speaking Caribbean) and talanoa (Sāmoa, Tonga, and Fiji), this informal but richly layered method is based on storytelling and reciprocal dialogue that is intimate, personal, and lively. Our cultures are similar in that storytelling enables us to establish connections with one another in meaningful ways. Talk story is often done over food and drink, so my interviewees and I sat and shared our stories with one another, learning about one another while they opened up about their lives and the stories they wanted to share with me. I met a lot of kind and generous people who not only trusted me enough to share their stories with me but also invited me into their homes for meals and for kinship.5 These conversations were filled with laughter, tears, disappointment, and hope. It is this same hope for a better life for themselves and their loved ones that has brought Latinxs to Hawaiʻi for over 190 years. Their stories matter. And since they trusted me to retell these stories, I know that I am writing not only for an academic audience but also for a much larger one that includes those who shared their stories with me and the communities we are a part of. This collective narrative is for them and all those who wish to learn more about the Latinx experience in Hawaiʻi.

Note on Terminology and Accessibility When using non-­English words, I have also chosen to use specific methods. For example, I follow Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura’s use of not italicizing Hawaiian words, since ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian) is not a foreign language in Hawaiʻi. Similarly, for those who are native Spanish speakers or fluent in Spanish, I chose not to italicize the words too so that Spanish could be seen as a language that is not foreign to all readers. Italics are kept in citations or when the original source uses them to quote them accurately. This also applies to sources that did (or do) not use the diacritical marks Kahakō and ʻOkina when spelling Hawaiʻi or other words in Hawaiian.1 I use the terms Kanaka Maoli (and Kānaka Maoli in plural form), Kanaka ʻŌiwi, Native Hawaiian, and Hawaiian interchangeably to refer to the Indigenous people of Hawaiʻi. I use the term local to describe those who are born and raised in Hawaiʻi and share a multigenerational plantation history. At times I will include both groups in specific contexts when I am speaking about their interactions with the Latinx community. At other times I will use the term residents of Hawaiʻi to include Native Hawaiians, locals, haoles (whites), military personnel, and transplants from the continental United States. When necessary and depending on the context, I will refer specifically to each of these groups.2 I also use the terms migrant and immigrant interchangeably while also being mindful of their specific usage as it deals with temporary movement (migrant) and permanent residency (immigrant). I also choose to use the term Latinx as an umbrella/pan-­ethnic term to describe the various racial and ethnic groups that are from the United States, Latin America, and the Spanish-­speaking Caribbean. As author and journalist Ed Morales notes, the term Latinx can be seen as a “site of contestation” given its usage by Latinxs to self-­designate and redefine U.S. social categories.3 This term, however, is also contested by others or rejected for various reasons. These xiii

xiv  •  Note on Terminology and Accessibility

include, for example, its use of the x, its origins as “Latin” (an assigned social category), that it is a term only academics use, or that it will not remain a part of the lexicon.4 My purpose for choosing Latinx is to use it as a descriptive term that encompasses our collective experiences. This includes those who are gender nonbinary. I borrow from writer Paola Ramos and her use of the term Latinx: “That ‘x’ is simply an invitation for every one of those people that can’t fit into one identity, for people that want to challenge the norms, or for those that simply want to reimagine themselves.” For Ramos, it’s about “claiming our collective belonging to this country.”5 I also use this term intentionally to be inclusive of those who claim Indigenous, African, Asian, and/or Pacific Islander ancestries. When I am speaking about specific racialized ethnic groups, I will use those terms (e.g., Mexican, Cuban, Salvadoran). I am also aware that the use of Chicanx alongside Chicano or Chicana/o has similar critiques but specific to its use as a sociopolitical term born out of the Chicana/o movement. I acknowledge and identify with its origins, but I have also chosen to use the x in much the same way as in Latinx, which is intended to be inclusive of everyone in the Latinx and Chicanx communities of Hawaiʻi. It was important for me to honor how my interviewees self-identified, so I used their terms of choice. I also utilize these terms interchangeably, depending on historical or situational contexts. Accessibility also matters. I was concerned with making my language accessible in this book and relatable to my interviewees just as much as an academic audience. When writing about specific racialized ethnic groups or individuals, I used the terms they identified with. I only use Latinx when I’m writing from my perspective and analysis about the population as a collective. The purpose of writing something like this is to make it accessible beyond academia. I try to remain mindful of including the scholarship, theories, and ways of framing ideas that resonate with scholars and students, while at the same time I’ve always written from the position of “Can my parents or interviewees read this and understand what I am saying?” From my perspective, what is the point of writing something if it is not accessible to our own communities, especially if these are their stories? My study is a combination of archival sources, ethnographies, participant observation at various events and social gatherings, and as previously discussed, oral interviews. These sources reveal the rich, complex experiences of the Latinx communities and how their everyday lives were shaped by their interactions and relationships with other residents of Hawaiʻi and the social, economic, and political forces that led to their migrations and residency abroad. The archival sources also shed light on how individuals, politicians, employers, and local organizations saw themselves and one another within the context of specific historical and recent moments. I also understand that oral histories are the stories that people share with one another and how they remember those moments as focal points within the wider lens of history. As other historians have skillfully done, I also provide both the historical context and a critical analysis of events and personal interactions while at the same time honoring how these individuals

Note on Terminology and Accessibility  •  xv

understood those moments to be their truth and perspective. In doing so, I am reminded of what historian John Rosa instructs, which is “to value people more than books.”6 Indeed, the perspective of interviewees sometimes contradicted and even challenged other sources while also validating particular experiences that were shared by others. Archival sources were gathered in English, Spanish, and Hawaiian. Most of my interviews were also conducted in English and, in some instances, Spanish, depending on what language the interviewee felt most comfortable speaking. For archival sources in Spanish, I did some of my own translation with the assistance of colleagues who were more fluent in certain colloquialisms. Archival documents in Hawaiian oftentimes had English translations, which I know may not be the most accurate translations if done by non–­Native Hawaiian speakers. In those instances, I sought out the assistance of other colleagues who were Native Hawaiian and were either familiar with or native speakers of ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi. This approach to examining several language sources provides additional perspectives from the people and the events that occurred in the pages that follow.

Aloha Compadre

MAP 1.   Map of Latin American and Caribbean countries that have a population greater than

one hundred persons living in Hawaiʻi in 2019. (Source: Map created by Nicholas Goettl.)

Introduction The Deportation of Andres Magaña Ortiz On July  7, 2017, Andres Magaña Ortiz said goodbye to his wife and three children—­all of whom are U.S. citizens—­and boarded a flight bound for México, where he will remain separated from his family until he can be petitioned by his daughter Victoria to become a legal permanent resident. It is a process that could take up to ten years.1 Andres Magaña Ortiz is forty-­three years old, a Mexican immigrant who has lived in the United States for nearly thirty years. His family, community, and life’s work are all in Hawaiʻi. In 1989, at the age of fifteen, he was smuggled across the Arizona-­México border to reunite with his mother, who was working in California at the time. They eventually made their way to Hawaiʻi, where he picked coffee as a migrant laborer in Kona, on Hawaiʻi Island (Big Island).2 Within ten years he was able to save enough money to purchase six acres of farmland in Holualoa and begin his journey as a farm owner. He named his farm El Molinito (the mill), which had an old Japanese-­style coffee mill that he began renovating in 2008.3 According to the Washington Post, in the years that followed, Magaña Ortiz “rose to prominence in Hawaiʻi’s coffee industry. In 2010, he allowed the US Department of Agriculture to use his farm without charge to conduct a five-­year study into a destructive insect species harming Hawaiʻi’s coffee crops.” After that, he was the most sought-­after coffee grower for his expertise in ridding coffee farms in Kona and other areas of Hawaiʻi Island of 98 percent of the destructive borer beetles.4 In addition, Magaña Ortiz was also responsible for managing over one hundred acres of land among fifteen other small farmers, which included the elderly 1

2  •  Aloha Compadre

and those who were inexperienced and could not do the work on their own.5 His dream of continuing to live in Hawaiʻi was short lived, however. In 2011, under the Obama administration, the Department of Homeland Security began removal proceedings against Magaña Ortiz.6 He was informed that he would be deported to México, a place he is simply no longer familiar with. In response, Magaña Ortiz petitioned for legal residency and was granted multiple stays, yet his most recent request to gain legal residency was rejected by the Trump administration. Under the guise of cracking down on immigration, the Department of Homeland Security ordered Magaña Ortiz to leave in March 2017.7 It did not matter that he already had petitioned for legal residency as the husband of a U.S. citizen—­he had to go. As Magaña Ortiz noted, “I never tried to hide it. I always answered my phone when immigration called me and said come see us. . . . I come to each court on time. Everything, I tried to do all my best.”8 Given that Magaña Ortiz was a well-­known and respected member of the community and a leader of Hawaiʻi’s coffee industry, his case made national headlines. A team of attorneys assisted Magaña Ortiz by filing last-­minute petitions to grant him more time in the United States. Even Hawaiʻi’s congressional delegation supported his case, speaking on his behalf to Homeland Security secretary John F. Kelly to halt his removal. As the four-­member delegation wrote, “He is trying to do the right thing.”9 In addition, representative and onetime presidential candidate Tulsi Gabbard introduced a bill to make Magaña Ortiz eligible for legal, permanent residency. Senator Mazie Hirono also spoke on Magaña Ortiz’s behalf, stating, “Andres’ ordeal speaks to the very real fear and anxiety spreading through immigrant communities across the country.”10 Federal appeals court judges also supported Magaña Ortiz’s case, calling him a “pillar of his community” and criticizing the Trump administration handling of his case. For example, Judge Stephen Reinhardt of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit called Magaña Ortiz’s deportation “contrary to the values of the country and its legal system. . . . The government decision to remove Magaña Ortiz diminishes not only our country but our courts, which are supposedly dedicated to the pursuit of justice.”11 Despite having a strong case, the inhospitable climate proved too much. Magaña Ortiz decided to depart voluntarily ahead of the deportation order. When interviewed by Hawaii News Now at Kona International Airport during his departure, he regarded the circumstances of his case: “Very, very sad and very disappointed in many ways, but there’s not much I can do. . . . Just follow what I have to do and hopefully, in a little bit, things can get better.”12 His family has fared no better because of this. Magaña Ortiz’s eldest daughter, Victoria, almost had to withdraw from college at the University of Hawaiʻi to help support the family as they struggled to keep their father’s business afloat.13 She graduated a little later than expected but was able to finish her education online. As Victoria noted about this sudden responsibility for managing the family business,

Introduction  •  3

I think I would have liked to have my own business when I created it. You slowly go with it, but the thing was running and going full speed, and I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. So I think that was the pressure. My dad is now deported. My mom has had back surgery; she’s injured, so she doesn’t work. I have my brother and my sister, so I have all four of them on my plate all of a sudden. And my dad had always been the one to solve problems. My mom was always like, “We have a dentist appointment. Fill out these forms for me.” Normal Hispanic child, right? And my dad was always the one that I used to run to when I had issues. And suddenly my safety net is just gone. So I think it was really hard for me when that happened because suddenly I was the one to make the decisions and have all the responsibilities.14

Andres Magaña Ortiz’s journey took him to the municipal city of Morelia, México, to a village called El Rincon de Don Pedro, Michoacán, where he had once lived before coming to the United States. Magaña Ortiz will remain in México until he is reunited with his family back in Hawaiʻi, a place they consider home. As Magaña Ortiz shared before he left, “I love this country and I love these islands. If I have to leave, it’s going to be hard on everyone.”15 The separation of Andres from his wife and children left them with an urgent sense of fear and uncertainty. They said their goodbyes at home so that the younger children did not have to go to the airport and be further subjected to the trauma of seeing their father leave. For Victoria, it was all surreal. She shared, “After so much fight that we went through, for it to just end like this. I mean, it’s not necessarily the ending, but it is hard to see him go.” She added, “We’re still fighting to get him back here.”16

Political Context in Contemporary Hawaiʻi Andres Magaña Ortiz’s story and that of his family speak to the current political situation around immigration in Hawaiʻi and across the continental United States. What makes his story both powerful and tragic is that Magaña Ortiz was not the exaggerated racial stereotype of a “criminal” that Trump had suggested was invading the United States. Rather, he was a husband, father, and business owner who contributed to the social and economic prosperity of Hawaiʻi’s Kona coffee industry. Andres’s daughter Victoria was also disheartened at how her father was categorized as a criminal and deported because of a previous charge of driving under the influence (DUI). Under the law, his DUI was enough to start deportation proceedings, despite having an exemplary record as a longtime resident of Hawaiʻi. Victoria remarked, “If my dad, being so loved here and being a workaholic and he’s still justified as a criminal for a mistake that he did, who else are you putting into these things [categories]? Are they getting traffic tickets? They’re not supposed to just take your life away like that.”17 Despite the outpouring of legal and political support in Hawaiʻi and the aloha (love and inclusion) Magaña Ortiz received from the various communities

4  •  Aloha Compadre

mentioned, under the Trump administration, he was ordered to leave. There was no consideration of the benefit his contributions were making to the state and his local community. Rather, because he is Mexican and undocumented—­not by his choice—­and subject to the racism of the justice system, he was forcibly removed from his family, friends, and longtime home to a place he no longer knows.18 His story reminds us of how poorly the United States has treated its citizens, whether legally documented or not. It is likely there were many conservative settlers in Hawaiʻi who applauded his deportation because they deem Latinx people a threat. However, there was a huge outpouring of support and aloha from the larger community who understood the humanity of his case and sought to support Magaña Ortiz through calls, petitions, and other means. Although he had to leave Hawaiʻi, his story and legacy resonate with me in terms of what it means to be Latinx in Hawaiʻi today in a national climate of increasing xenophobia and racism toward immigrants. I say this as someone who has been privileged to come to Hawaiʻi for more than twenty years, spending that time living, building intimate ties with the Latinx communities, and nurturing my existing networks of hānai and chosen family, friends, and colleagues who identify as Native Hawaiian, local, haole, and/or transplants to the islands. My observations reveal that although Hawaiʻi has long been a place known for its aloha, this seminal Hawaiian concept is being tested by the growing racist, xenophobic tide that is washing upon Hawaiʻi’s shores from outsiders, both haole and non-­ Native settlers.19 It is here that I turn to what Magaña Ortiz’s story represents to the larger Latinx community in Hawaiʻi, which has been the growing xenophobia and racism that is being fueled by the larger national climate through popular discourse in the media, writers, pundits, scholars, and politicians. This sentiment reveals the ever-­present tension in Hawaiʻi that is now more visible because of the infectious nature of racism and white supremacy. At the same time, I am also mindful of the ways that Kānaka Maoli continue to be dispossessed and displaced from their homeland within a settler colonial system. They must also be included in this conversation, since Latinx migration is made possible through the suppression of Native Hawaiian self-­governance. Seen by most residents as recent migrants or newcomers, the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi is increasing in numbers, but that growth is also hidden in plain sight. Due in part to Hawaiʻi’s already historically mixed population that also includes Pacific Islanders and Asians among other racial and ethnic groups, the Latinx population is often mistaken as “local” in Hawaiʻi depending on the context.20 Though increasing with new migrations, the Latinx population is not new to the Hawaiian Islands. On the contrary, Latinxs have been voyaging to the Hawaiian archipelago for 190 years, yet their presence has been rendered invisible by the tourist industry and within the larger local population. Aloha Compadre demonstrates what historian Evelyn Hu-­DeHart also notes about Asians in Latin America, that these histories are hidden in plain view. There is no single,

Introduction  •  5

monolithic story to explain migration, and Latinx movements to Hawaiʻi and the larger Pacific region are as varied as the cultures that fall under the umbrella term Latinx.21 A small but steady flow of migration has occurred since the early 1830s; this has been both interrupted at times and inconsistent. Their roots, however, remain, as they were part of the first groups of foreigners who came during the reign of the Kamehamehas.22 As the first full-­length study of the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi, in Aloha Compadre I offer the following: (1)  I reveal how the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi is not a new phenomenon but a 190-­plus-­year journey of migration and intercultural community and identity building; (2) I expand our notion of how we understand and view la frontera (the borderlands) to include the ocean as a site of movement beyond terrestrial regions, which challenges us to see the continuous diaspora of Latinxs that spans globally across oceanic spaces; and (3) I explore how the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi has experienced both acceptance and aloha in their new home and also racism and “being racialized” in a climate that is increasingly becoming xenophobic. And precisely within this context, I explore how their acceptance or marginalization has occurred from the independent Hawaiian Kingdom to the twenty-­first century, which seems to be contingent on their contributions, including but not limited to economic and cultural ones. My project analyzes how these experiences complicate the dominant narrative of Hawaiʻi as a multiracial utopia, an image shaped by early and contemporary writers who visited the islands. Aloha Compadre also documents the changing political climate in Hawaiʻi up to the early twenty-­first century and how the Latinx population navigates the current tides of immigration policies, racism and xenophobia, and interracial relationships as they seek to build their communities and find a sense of belonging in the diaspora. This is the story of the predominantly Spanish-­speaking Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi and the social, political, and economic forces that influenced their migration thousands of miles across the Pacific for nearly two centuries. Similar to what anthropologist Sara V. Komarnisky has documented about the historical migrations of Mexicans to Alaska, the same can be said of Latinx migrations to Hawaiʻi in that “in some cases, the process of putting down roots requires mobility.”23 It is why there is both a large and rising Latinx population in Hawaiʻi. Rather than focus on a continual historic-­to-­contemporary timeline of migration and community formation, I will focus on four pivotal moments when the Latinx population came to Hawaiʻi, from the era of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom in the 1830s to the early 2000s. These four pivotal moments all center on the labor of specific Latinx communities throughout the islands: (1) Mexicans in the 1830s, (2) Puerto Ricans in the early 1900s, (3) Mexicans and Central Americans in the 1990s, and (4) Mexicans and Central Americans in the early 2000s. I suggest that Latinx migration in these four moments was vital to the continuing legacy of specific industries in Hawaiʻi, including cattle ranching, sugar cane, pineapple, Kona coffee, and macadamia nuts. Indeed, the need for labor was one of the primary

6  •  Aloha Compadre

reasons Latinxs came to Hawaiʻi, but it did not define them as such. Others came as small business owners, students, or the military. While labor was the impetus for Latinx migrations in these episodic moments, I look at the lives of my Latinx interviewees using a more complex approach to demonstrate that they are more than just workers.24 I focus on the stories I uncovered while doing archival and ethnographic research and the oral testimonies of individuals who were gracious enough to share their stories with me. Their stories are central to this study and bring to life the human element of these moments. For me, it is important to hear the stories of those who labored in these industries, humanize them, and examine how they adapted to their new home and found ways to develop their identities and communities in the diaspora within a Pacific Island context. Their stories illustrate the hopes, dreams, disappointments, and challenges of the Latinx population by providing insight into what we can learn about migration, adaptation and belonging, and cultural multiplicity in Hawaiʻi. These stories also provide meaningful interpretations of historical events from the perspectives of those who lived through them. They help us understand why those moments mattered to both the interviewees and historical figures who left behind a written record.

MAP 2.   Hispanic or Latino population in Hawaiian counties in 1990. (Sources: U.S. Census

Bureau, Hispanic Status 1990 and U.S. Census Bureau, Geography Division, County 1990, U.S. SL050 Coast Clipped Shapefile, prepared by Social Explorer; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 2020 and U.S. Census Bureau, Geography Division, County 2019, U.S. SL050 Coast Clipped Shapefile, prepared by Social Explorer. Map created by Nicholas Goettl.) Note: All figures using U.S. Census and/or American Community Survey (ACS) data do not use the term Latinx, so I have kept their designated terms, Hispanic or Latino.

Introduction  •  7

MAP 3.   Hispanic or Latino population in Hawaiian counties in 2020. (Sources: U.S. Census

Bureau, Hispanic Status 1990 and U.S. Census Bureau, Geography Division, County 1990, U.S. SL050 Coast Clipped Shapefile, prepared by Social Explorer; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 2020 and U.S. Census Bureau, Geography Division, County 2019, U.S. SL050 Coast Clipped Shapefile, prepared by Social Explorer. Map created by Nicholas Goettl.) Note: All figures using U.S. Census and/or ACS data do not use the term Latinx, so I have kept their designated terms, Hispanic or Latino.

This story ends in the late 2010s, when a new presidency ushered in another era of racial patriotism, xenophobia, injustice, and fear.25 Yet that new administration was also met with a continued resolve by Latinxs both in the continental United States and in Hawaiʻi to resist and make way for the possibility of a new society where racial justice can be achieved. I also end with the story of Victoria Magaña Ledesma, the daughter of Andres Magaña Ortiz. Her experience urges us to consider how she and others are coping with renewed political attacks and racism directed against the Latinx population. I encourage others to pick up where I have left off and continue expanding these community narratives and exploring what their collective experience means for the Latinx population as they continue to migrate to the Hawaiian Islands and find a place to call home. The Latinx population of Hawaiʻi in 2019 was estimated at 149,118 people, an increase of approximately 80  percent since 2000. The vast majority of this growth occurred between 2000 and 2010.26 This demographic spike reveals what sociologist Iris López notes about the rising growth of Latinx immigrants to Hawaiʻi, that it is “contributing to a more expansive pan-­Latino identity.” Indeed, as Hawaiʻi Hispanic News noted, the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi represents more than twenty-­two Latin American countries, and as other scholars have

8  •  Aloha Compadre

GRAPH 1.   Comparison of Hispanic or Latino growth to the overall population in Hawaiʻi.

(Sources: U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 1990; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 2000; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 2010; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 2020, prepared by Social Explorer. Chart created by Nicholas Goettl.)

observed, unlike the continental United States, there are no Latinx-­specific barrios in Hawaiʻi, which enables them to blend with the larger Native Hawaiian and local populations.27 Honolulu Civil Beat also reported that recent data from the U.S. Census suggest that by 2023, Hawaiʻi’s Latinx population will grow to an estimated 186,611, or just over 12.29 percent of the state’s residents.28 This steady growth ensures that the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi will be a major voting bloc in the not-­so-­distant future. Similarly, a Pew Research Center study highlighted that Hawaiʻi—­despite being the fortieth state in terms of total population—­is home to the twenty-­first-­largest statewide Latinx population share in the nation. As of 2014, Latinx people composed 8 percent of Hawaiʻi’s eligible voters.29 The rising population, however, is not without its opponents, which I will address in detail throughout this book. Aloha Compadre is not meant to be the definitive study on the presence of Latinx groups in Hawaiʻi. Rather, it is meant to initiate the conversation and to begin mapping out the intricacies of these migrations and the complexity of relationships that have developed both in cooperation and in tension with other groups in Hawaiʻi, particularly as they pertain to the “American Dream” narrative of Latinx immigrants, which can be at odds with Indigenous rights. This includes, for example, their relationship to Native Hawaiians and the ongoing issues of settler colonialism, since they (Kānaka Maoli) have been contesting U.S. occupation since 1893. This has led to the ongoing suppression of culture,

Table 1.

Hispanic or Latino population breakdown, 2019 North American and Caribbean countries

97,033

México Puerto Rico Cuba Dominican Republic

46,989 46,650 2,281 1,113

Central American countries

4,825

Guatemala Panama El Salvador Honduras Costa Rica Nicaragua Other Central American

1,752 915 786 517 501 350 4

South American countries

5,753

Colombia Perú Venezuela Argentina Chile Ecuador Bolivia Paraguay Uruguay Other South American*

1,825 948 899 835 515 478 129 48 9 67

Other ACS responses

41,507

Spanish Spaniard All other Hispanic or Latino*

24,018 10,916 6,573

Total Hispanic or Latino population Total overall population

149,118 1,422,094

SOURCES: U.S. Census Bureau, American Community Survey, 2019 American Community Survey 5-­Year

Estimates, Table B03001; Data.census.gov, https://​data​.census​.gov/​cedsci/. Table created by Nicholas Goettl. *Brazilians were not counted as Hispanic or Latino in the U.S. Census. See National Advisory Committee on Racial, Ethnic, and Other Populations, “2020 Census: Race and Hispanic Origin Research Working Group Final Report,” National Advisory Committee on Racial, Ethnic and Other Population, U.S. Census Bureau, June 10, 2014, p. 21, https://​www2​.census​.gov/​cac/​nac/​reports/​2014​-06​-10​_RHO​_wg​-report​.pdf.

10  •  Aloha Compadre

rights, access to land, and the displacement of Native Hawaiians, who never relinquished their sovereignty.30 I leave sufficient space for work on other periods, including World War  II, Latinxs who have served and continue to serve in the U.S. military, and various occupations that employed thousands of other Latinx workers outside of agriculture.31 Given the historical presence of Latinxs in the region, the collective narrative of voices and experiences is meant to shed light on the moments that facilitated significant migrations of Latinxs to Hawaiʻi. Be they social, economic, or political, these moments laid the foundation for future migrations. This study shows that the Latinx population comprises not just recent arrivals to the islands but historical actors who have witnessed many changes since the days of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. I hope this book will inspire others to continue this story and expand on these narratives that demonstrate the historical and cultural contributions Latinxs have made to Hawaiʻi and how they have also learned and benefited by being in an Indigenous space that is both similar to and also different from their home countries.32 This story is part of an expansive, living community archive waiting to be discovered—­one that will continue to grow and reveal the stories of Latinxs in the diaspora who have come to settle across Oceania.

Oceania and the Latinx Pacific “Boarder-­Lands” Named by explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1520, el Mar Pacifico (the Pacific Ocean) is a vast region encompassing over sixty million square miles, or 30 percent of the earth’s surface, making it the world’s largest and deepest ocean. It is also larger than the landmass of all the continents combined.33 Most academic and popular references to the Pacific discuss the island, atolls, and other land areas in the ocean as spread apart and tiny, even insignificant, compared to the continents.34 The Indigenous peoples of Oceania, however, saw it differently. As Tongan anthropologist and writer Epeli Hauʻofa notes, Oceania is a “sea of islands” where their ancestors lived for over two thousand years. The islands and its peoples were intimately bound to each other across this vast region where kinship and trade networks were linked globally.35 Moreover, historian David Igler describes the ocean as follows: “Neither a barrier nor devoid of humanity, the ocean allowed passage between innumerable settled islands. Native communities of the western American coastline—­or the eastern edge of the Pacific—­shared elements of the islanders’ worldview, especially in regards to the life-­sustaining nature of the sea. . . . The ocean represented a place of profound meaning and ancestral associations—­in short, water deeply etched with history.”36 In essence, the ocean was a vast seascape of human activity or a borderless borderland that was not confined to territorial boundaries, where early migrations of Indigenous peoples of Oceania facilitated the voyages of exploration and settlement across thousands of islands. Indeed, as historian Matt Matsuda

Introduction  •  11

notes, “The ocean was not simply a blue expanse, and waters were distinguished between those inside and outside of reefs, and those that lay over coral formations.”37 Rather, it was a vast network of peoples bound by ancestral kinship and relations. For Hauʻofa, the Pacific has always been a highway linking the various islands, peoples, and cultures to one another. This also includes the coastal regions of the continents. It has not been, as Native Hawaiian historian Isaiah Helekunihi Walker notes, “a border generating isolation and restriction.”38 It is within this context that I also draw from the work of Walker, who refers to this aquatic region as not the borderlands in the traditional sense but the “boarder-­lands”—­an ocean realm—­which reimagines and engages the ocean as a site of crossing, convergence, survival, and even resistance.39 For Walker, ka poʻina nalu (the surf zone) is a unique boarder-­land in the sense that it is both “a place where American control was uncertain” and a place “where differences converge and social norms are often fluid,” much in the way traditional borderlands have been viewed by other scholars.40 The ocean does not function in the ways that imperial borderlands do, which are often inundated with walls and barriers, but rather for its inhabitants, the ocean was where peoples and cultures moved and came together, mixing along the way. This mixing resulted in foreigners such as Mexican vaqueros, for example, taking oaths of allegiance to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom and becoming naturalized citizens. Their allegiance and the way the aliʻi (a person of noble or chiefly rank) structured their government sustained the kingdom by centering its Indigenous values.41 These oceanic borderlands can thus be seen as a site where mixed racial and Indigenous identities, cultures, and realities meet.42 Indeed, as the late Gloria Anzaldúa notes in her book Borderlands / La Frontera, “A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is a constant state of transition.”43 It is in this context that I use Walker’s boarder-­lands to distinguish the ocean as the site of crossing and converging, with moments of both tension and fusion. Thus, new locations in the diaspora of Latinxs across the Pacific—­or as I call it, the “Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands”—­are emerging in not only Hawaiʻi but also Aotearoa (New Zealand) and Australia.44 I utilize these Pacific “boarder-­lands” theories to reveal how the Latinx population navigated this sea of islands linked through an interconnected ocean highway, where through their migrations along these continuous ocean pathways, social networks, cultures, and peoples came together in intimate ways to create new homes and even identities for themselves. For centuries, Indigenous Pacific Islanders navigated these oceans and outlying connected land masses of the Western Hemisphere, retracing paths navigated by their ancestors and providing spaces today where new communities settle and forge their identities anew in the diaspora.45 It is in this context that subsequent migrations of other Indigenous peoples and non-­Indigenous groups make their way across these oceanic

12  •  Aloha Compadre

highways to travel, work, and find a new place to call home as they expand their familial and kinship networks globally. These Indigenous Oceanic routes were utilized by Latinx populations by ship in the nineteenth century and by air to the Hawaiian archipelago in the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries. One aim of Aloha Compadre is to use stories of Latinx migrants in Hawaiʻi as a prism through which we understand current constructions of borders and borderlands, both geographic and imagined. Indeed, a growing body of scholarship in Chicanx and Latinx studies has stretched the boundaries of la frontera from the historically centered U.S. Southwest to include the entire continental United States and its outlying states. Numerous studies have covered Latinx populations in the Midwest, the South, the Pacific Northwest, the East Coast, Alaska, and even Canada if one were to see it as a hemispheric movement.46 Aloha Compadre expands those boundaries even farther to move beyond hemispheric borderlands, which include the Americas and the Caribbean Islands, to expand la frontera from the terrestrial to deeper aquatic realms, where Latinxs are now making their way in recent years across Oceania. Similar to how Hämäläinen and Truett question how far scholars can stretch the idea of what constitutes borders in borderlands history, I also contend that these fronteras do not necessarily have to be terrestrial either but can also include the aquatic realm of vast oceans that link terrestrial regions.47 Ocean pathways connected everyone, which is why I suggest a larger oceanic approach to reimagining the borderlands beyond a terrestrial perspective.48 For the Latinx population, however, I will focus on their migration to Hawaiʻi as the central point of their larger migration into the Pacific, since Hawaiʻi was where their larger diaspora took place beginning in the early nineteenth century. By looking at the ocean as an expansive expressway for peoples, cultures, and trade, I echo David Igler’s notion that “suddenly Hawaiʻi becomes the central point of exchange in the Pacific’s commercial world.”49 Early Latinx migration to this region began with Spanish colonialism and presence in the sixteenth century, when Indigenous and mixed race Mexicans, Filipinos, and Chamorros traveled to, oftentimes escaped from, and found refuge in one another’s countries during the Manila-­Acapulco galleon trade.50 The cultural and racial blending that was facilitated and flourished under Spanish colonialism was most likely not what the Spaniards intended, but it happened. It continued to occur within the area known by scholars as the Spanish Lake, or Spain’s claims to the Pacific, where Spanish expansion as an empire was aided by trade in silver and merchandise through the Manila-­Acapulco galleon trade for 250  years, intertwining the Philippines, Guam and the Mariana Islands, and México to Europe, Asia, and other parts of Latin America and the Spanish Caribbean. Matt K. Matsuda notes that this imperial endeavor was “built by launching missions from colonies in Latin America.”51 This was their imperial domain until the early nineteenth century, when they lost control of their island possessions through local revolts and the rise of the United States as an imperial power to control the region through military conquest.52

Introduction  •  13

This era of U.S. imperialism and global conquest included México, the Hawaiian Islands, the Philippine Islands, Guam and the Mariana Islands, Sāmoa, Puerto Rico, and for a short period, Cuba.53 It is within this context that brown bodies from México, Latin America, and the Spanish Caribbean became forever entangled in U.S. imperial ambitions and migrated for a myriad of reasons but often with the same goal: to find a better life than what they had experienced to that point under the tutelage of colonialism and white supremacy, including racial, gendered, sociopolitical, and economic oppression. At the same time, as Native Hawaiian scholar Kēhaulani Vaughn notes, settler colonialism is also responsible for displacing Kānaka Maoli, leading to a growing diaspora. This accounts for why almost half of the Native Hawaiian population lives outside of Hawaiʻi, with the majority residing in California.54 As continued social, political, and economic instability plague some of the homelands of various Latinx groups, their migration continues deeper into the reaches of the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands, reshaping the original boundaries of la frontera, which can no longer be bound by terrestrial borders but rather connects lands in a continuous path across aquatic realms and island destinations. U.S. imperialism prompted migration due to dispossession of land, dislocation, racial violence, and oppression. These migrants, who are Indigenous and mestizos of Indigenous descent, circulate within these imperial territories, seeking to find a sense of home and belonging. Despite the move from terrestrial to aquatic spaces, now more than ever these interlocking and expanding fronteras demonstrate what Anzaldúa notes about la frontera as a geographic space: “The borderlands are physically present wherever two or more cultures edge each other, where people of different races occupy the same territory, where under, lower, middle, and upper classes touch, where the space between two individuals shrinks with intimacy.”55 The borderlands are thus not solely a geographic location but a discursive imagined space of interconnectedness and fluid mixing, tension, and fusion, and the ever-­growing boundaries of the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands allow us to reimagine just how far one will go to find and re-­create their identity and community in a newly adopted homeland in the diaspora. It is within this geographic and imagined space that a distinct and shared cultural identity, or Pacific Latinidad, also emerged.

A Pacific Latinidad Latinidad is a shared cultural identity that can also be influenced by geography. The stories I share in this book, and in particular those in chapter 5, encourage us to understand how Latinxs construct their Latinidad in the diaspora. For example, Latinx studies scholar Mérida Rúa defines the multiple meanings of Latinidad as “a shared sense of identity among people of Latin American and Caribbean descent.”56 I build on Rúa’s work as well as that of Frances Aparicio, who also explores how Latinidad functions with what she calls “Intralatina/os,”

14  •  Aloha Compadre

Latinxs who are of mixed and/or multiple nationalities. She writes that some of them identify as MexiRicans, SalvadoRicans, and MexiGuatemalans, among other mixes.57 These mixed identities force us to reconsider how Latinidad is shaped specifically within a Pacific Island context like that of Hawaiʻi, where the historical mestizaje (racial and cultural mixing) of Latinxs who come from Latin America, the Caribbean, and the United States also interacts within Hawaiʻi’s Indigenous and mixed race local population, which also has a long history of intermixing. These intertwined histories and the cultural blending of peoples in Hawaiʻi create what I call a Pacific Latinidad. This racial formation is grounded in the social relations constructed and nurtured by Latinxs in their new home environment in Hawaiʻi, which draws from Wendy Cheng’s use of regional racial formation as “place-­specific processes of racial formation in which locally accepted racial orders and hierarchies complicate and sometimes challenge hegemonic ideologies and facile notions of race,” where social interactions with Native Hawaiians and locals occur within small-­scale contexts. I build on Cheng’s regional racial formation in order to demonstrate how Pacific Latinidad is shaped and continually developing in Hawaiʻi as well as Kristen Renn’s use of a racial ecology theory to illustrate how mixed race Latinxs and their new home environment in Hawaiʻi are “shaped by one another” and produce a rich, layered multicultural identity that is reciprocally influenced by their social interactions with Native Hawaiians and locals.58 Their studies can be further employed in conversation with Rúa’s work and what Aparicio writes about in Chicago regarding the cultural and geographic place of Intralatina/os in that they “negotiate among and between those spaces, echoing the utopian self-­construction of mixed-­race individuals who see themselves freed from national boundary making. They have rejected labels of identity that do not completely capture their multiplicity, creating new labels and terms that better express who they are.”59 And much in the same way that Chicago is a city of Latinidad in the continental United States with a diversity of Latinx groups, so too is Hawaiʻi a geographic space where a Pacific Latinidad continues to expand across Oceania and into other places like Aotearoa and Australia.60 Further, I utilize Pacific Latinidad to show how culture among Latinx groups (including those of multiple ancestries) has been expressed through music, dance, food, and other cultural markers but has also mixed with their host culture in Hawaiʻi, both Native Hawaiian and local. This notion of Latinidad, however, is not without its own complications. I am also aware that Latinidad as a term has been problematized for neglecting to recognize Indigeneity and Blackness as well as histories of colonialism and racism. In many Latinx families, for example, Latinidad is complicated when looking at the romantic notions of mixture and mestizaje that privilege whiteness while also engaging in anti-­Blackness, anti-­Asianness, and anti-­Indigeneity. In particular, critics of Latinidad contend the term does not provide space for Indigenous sovereignty and Black liberation.

Introduction  •  15

I employ Pacific Latinidad in Hawaiʻi as a way to engage with and be inclusive of the various cultural contributions and the complex identify formations within the Latinx population that are forged in a Pacific Island locale that includes Indigenous, African, and Asian ancestries, among others. I also employ Aparicio’s use of Latinidad(es) “as a form of acknowledgement of the shared experiences of subordination, resistance, and agency of the various national groups of Latina American descent that comprise U.S. Latina/os.”61 It is one way the various Latinx groups in Hawaiʻi come together to support one another, especially within an environment of increasing anti-­Latinx sentiment, xenophobia, and racism that is weaponized against them. This, I suggest, creates a Pacific Latinidad that has been forged and blended over centuries to create something new in Hawaiʻi while also being very culturally specific to certain groups (e.g., Mexicans and Puerto Ricans). These moments of being Hawaiianized or localized Latinxs, as Rúa has also suggested with Latinidad, form “a situational identity and practice, simultaneously consisting of cooperation and competition, antagonism, and friendship—­put differently, the tangled relations of a grounded identidad.”62 My work seeks to further expand these culturally grounded identities, utilizing a Pacific Latinidad to include the greater area of Oceania as a site of Latinidad making while also expanding the parameters of these conversations in the fields of Latinx and Chicanx studies.63 In Hawaiʻi, for example, the migration of Latinxs to the islands and the continued relationships these migrants forge are part of an ongoing relationship that began in the early nineteenth century.

Early Hawaiʻi–­California Relations Hawaiʻi’s central location in Oceania has long made it a desirable site for competing imperial powers to control a stop-­off for trade, refueling, and other imperial desires. Indeed, as historian JoAnna Poblete writes, “Historically, Hawaiʻi functioned as a political, social, and economic borderland where United States and European traders, businessmen, and missionaries interacted with the island monarchy and people.”64 From the early explorations of those like James Cook in the 1700s to merchant and whaling ships in the 1800s and the militarization and stranglehold of tourism in the twenty-­first century, Hawaiʻi has been viewed as a strategic location to establish trade networks from the onset. For example, Hawaiʻi became the logical distribution point for trade and supplies, which linked it to an extensive Pacific trading network, with Alta California, México, being a key trading locale with the independent Hawaiian Kingdom.65 The relationship between the Mexican Republic and the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, however, was based more on trade and not tainted by imperial ambitions, unlike those of the United States. Cattle and their products (hides, tallow, and salted beef ) were valuable trading items, as were horses, which became “one of the most important items in the export trade from California to Hawaiʻi

16  •  Aloha Compadre

during the 1820’s.”66 In addition to goods, one of the most important aspects of this exchange was labor. At the request of King Kamehameha III, Alta California provided Hawaiʻi with vaqueros (cowboys) to manage its livestock and produce beef products, while Native Hawaiians voyaged to the California coast as sailors and laborers.67 Moreover, given the strategic locations of both the California coast and the Hawaiian Islands, as Kathleen Davis notes, “rather than isolated outposts, the two communities were part of a far-­flung trade network that depended on each other to enhance the quality of life on the frontier.”68 Contact between México and the independent Hawaiian Kingdom continued throughout the late nineteenth century. For example, in 1883, México sent a delegation to Hawaiʻi to celebrate the coronation of King Kalākaua and Queen Kapiʻolani.69 In addition, letters and other mail that circulated between Hawaiʻi and the United States were sent overland via México from 1842 to 1846, with Hawaiian mail “receiving Mexican postal markings as early as 1835.”70 In addition, due to a purported “lack of good schools in California,” Mexican children from Alta California, México, who came from well-­established Californio families were sent to Hawaiʻi for their early education during the early 1840s.71 The Alta Californian children were sent to Oʻahu Charity School in Honolulu, which was known as a “truly cosmopolitan” school.72 This was also not a one-­ sided voyage, as some Native Hawaiians also made their way to San Diego, Alta California, in the early 1830s. In his memoir Two Years before the Mast, Richard Henry Dana Jr. observed the existence of a colony of Hawaiians in San Diego in 1835. According to Dana, these “Kanakas” (Hawaiians) worked processing hides for shipping abroad.73 In addition to San Diego, Native Hawaiian historian David Chang maintains that Hawaiians were also living in the northern regions of Native and Mexican California.74 The movement between Alta California and Hawaiʻi continued well into the twentieth century, as laboring bodies were required to help build and sustain the cattle, sugar, pineapple, and Kona coffee and macadamia nut industries. Those who came included both Indigenous peoples and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent.

Race, Racialization, and the Discourse of Aloha To be honest, when I first started this project, I bought into the notion that Hawaiʻi was a racial paradise where the aloha spirit reigned as the dominant narrative of racial tolerance and a welcoming place where no racial group is the majority. It was a space where mixed race was the norm—­an estimated 25 percent of the population, one in four people—­identified with more than one racial, ethnic, or Indigenous identity.75 It was a place where I also felt comfortable because most of the people I encountered, befriended, or observed looked like me. I didn’t have to explain my existence. I am not alone in my initial view of Hawaiʻi. Indeed, these impressions of Hawaiʻi as a racial utopia have long been shaped by early social scientists, the tourist industry, and visitors alike, who

Introduction  •  17

observed the ways race and ethnic relations, interracial marriages, and mixed race children influenced the islands’ multicultural milieu.76 This trope still persists in contemporary writing on Hawaiʻi. However, as I continued to come back over the years for work and to visit family and friends, I observed my surroundings, had more and more conversations with people, and realized that it was much more complex than that. Essentializing race relations in Hawaiʻi as being utopian ignored the historical relations in which haoles were responsible for overthrowing the independent Hawaiian Kingdom and the settler colonial practices of dispossession and removal were a part of the Native Hawaiian experience. These historical and contemporary realities of haole economic and political control of Hawaiʻi continue to be buried under what Judy Rohrer calls the “racial harmony discourse,” which she writes is influenced by the Chicago school of sociology of the 1920s and ’30s, and continues to perpetuate the image of Hawaiʻi “as an idyllic paradise where everyone lives in peace, fellowship, and equality, regardless of race—­a sort of multiracial nirvana.”77 This racial harmony narrative continues to mutate through the hegemony of the tourist-­military-­ industrial complex, which masks these tense, ongoing racial and ethnic relations among groups. This of course perpetuates a status quo that reinforces white supremacist structures and institutions, including racial and ethnic hierarchies.78 As linguistic scholar and culture worker Akiemi Glenn writes, although racism still exists in Hawaiʻi, “it means that it functions somewhat differently.”79 Her words underscore an important point: race may function a bit differently in Hawaiʻi, but that fact does not mean that it is any less powerful or oppressive as a structure. Writers have debated what separates Hawaiʻi from the continental United States in terms of race relations. Scholars such as social anthropologist Jonathan Y. Okamura have written extensively on local identity and culture in Hawaiʻi, maintaining what makes it distinct is the development of a local culture where no group was the majority, and it was composed primarily of nonwhite ethnic groups. Ethnicity would be the key analytical tool to describe Hawaiʻi and the interactions of its diverse populations.80 Others, such as Glen Grant and Dennis Ogawa, have looked to the aloha spirit as being the binding glue in Hawaiʻi that functions at the individual level and as a state ideology, evoking the values of racial tolerance through “aloha kanaka” (the love of one’s fellow human beings), and how historical moments of integrating various groups into a local culture have helped establish Hawaiʻi as a multiracial state. Indeed, race relations worked differently under various levels of racial subordination in Hawaiʻi versus the continental United States, which included histories of not only conquest but also enslavement. Grant and Ogawa suggest that this history of racial mixing and integration has spared Hawaiʻi from having the kind of racial divisiveness that is present throughout the continental United States. For many locals and longtime residents of Hawaiʻi, this is also recognized as a hallmark of what makes Hawaiʻi distinct from the continental United States.81

18  •  Aloha Compadre

Scholars such as Keiko Ohnuma, Lori Pierce, Lisa Kahaleole Hall, and Stephanie Nohelani Teves, however, provide another critical perspective to complicate the “discourse of aloha.”82 Ohnuma adds that the discourse of aloha was used primarily by haoles in the formation of the tourist industry, where the aloha spirit is “that extra warmth that conveys a personal interest in satisfying the customer’s needs.”83 It also emphasized racial harmony in Hawaiʻi, and the tourist industry was quick to capitalize on this, making aloha a commodity that was expected by tourists and used against Native Hawaiians when they did not conform to said expectations. The aloha spirit was also used to ignore the political resistance of Native Hawaiians, masking it under a veil of multiculturalism. Sociologist Lori Pierce similarly notes that haoles utilized this discourse of aloha as a means to erase the Hawaiian nation and Native Hawaiians’ prior claim to control their own destiny.84 Stephanie Nohelani Teves also provides a compelling critique noting that although aloha is “a seminal Hawaiian concept of love and inclusion, aloha ironically serves to obscure the troubling lived realities that Kānaka Maoli experience.” For Teves, this includes its appropriation by the state of Hawaiʻi to undermine Kanaka Maoli grievances and delegitimize their social protests; they are expected to be friendly all the time and to continually perform aloha for the tourist industry (and to signify their worth), among other things. She does, however, also remark, “I still believe in aloha and feel that it is real.” This demonstrates that despite how aloha is used against Kānaka Maoli at times by the state, tourist industry, and would-­be residents who expect it with every encounter, as an ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian) word, Native Hawaiians embrace and defend it because they know it belongs to them.85 This is not to say that aloha is not an experience people—­myself included—­ encounter, but it needs to be used with caution when trying to suggest that Hawaiʻi is exceptional. In fact, there have always been racial tensions in Hawaiʻi, and more recently, there has been an increase in racial incidents and racism on the islands. This is evident as far back as the racist language white conspirators and their allies deployed in attacking Queen Liliʻuokalani when they overthrew the independent Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893, Hilo’s Ku Klux Klan chapter attempting to protest the visit of Mexican president José López Portillo in the late 1970s, and the most recent activities of the Euro-­chauvinist Proud Boys who use the argument of free speech to foster racial intolerance, intimidation, and hatred at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa.86 Simultaneously, my experiences and relationships with friends and those whom I consider my hānai and chosen family in Hawaiʻi (who are Native Hawaiian and/or local) do reflect this love and respect of others through aloha. Their example continually reminds me that this feeling is real. At the same time, the experiences of my Latinx interviewees have also revealed the complex realities of acceptance and aloha as well as marginalization and racism. Collectively, these personal examples and those that scholars have provided show how complex race relations are in Hawaiʻi.

Introduction  •  19

Indeed, despite studies and other recent efforts to shed light on the problem of romanticizing Hawaiʻi as a racial utopia and the need to pay attention to the complexities of race and racism in Hawaiʻi and “those most impacted by it,” there is a persistent effort to maintain the facade. This is best illustrated by the July 2019 New York Times article “Want to Be Less Racist? Move to Hawaii.”87 In all these efforts to promote the trope of Hawaiʻi as a racial paradise, these writers continue to ignore differences between race and ethnicity. Glenn responded to the New York Times article (and the research on which they had based their piece) by writing that unlike what the article suggests, race and ethnicity both exist as social constructions, with one being a mode of social identification and the other based on power relations. For example, as Glenn notes, ethnicity is based on cultural identity such as through food, language, and other cultural markers, while race is based on phenotype, which results in the oppression and discrimination of people based on these physical characteristics. Race also determines “who is deemed more valuable.”88 Thus, ethnicity cannot be applied equally to all groups in Hawaiʻi, despite it being the most common way people discuss group relations and experiences on the islands.89 Ethnic groups are subject to racism and are racialized, experiencing what geographer Laura Pulido calls “differential racialization.” Pulido writes, “Different groups are racialized in distinct kinds of ways. What this means is that a particular set of racial meanings are attached to different racial/ ethnic groups that not only affect their class position and racial standing, but are also a function of it.”90 Indeed, as Pierce also contends, “Many ethnic groups became ethnic groups only after passing through the crucible of race.”91 Racial hierarchies also ensure that not all groups are treated equally within the logics of white supremacy. Given how white supremacy and racial hierarchies function in the United States and all of its imperial territories and acquisitions, there is no denying that Hawaiʻi is also subjected to this logic, which has real social, economic, and political implications. One only has to look at the incident involving Honolulu city councilman Rod Tam using the term wetback in a public meeting in 2008 to describe Mexicans (see chapter 4), the harsh treatment and racial stereotyping of the Micronesian population in the state, and the most recent spectacle of an Asian American man wearing blackface in his court appearance to argue he was being “treated like a Black man.”92 These examples demonstrate that as a settler colonial state, Hawaiʻi is not a racial paradise but rather another racialized space that is a product of institutionalized white supremacy. This leads me to my next point. What I have come to understand about Hawaiʻi is that although there is a deep sense of aloha that comes from Native Hawaiian and local communities, it holds a very different meaning that is attached to reciprocity and Hawaiian cultural values. These values and sentiments are real and expressed daily. However, they have also been co-­opted by the tourist industry to serve the interests of tourism and profit-­making, while also being used to try to bury the continued struggle of Kānaka Maoli for sovereignty and the many

20  •  Aloha Compadre

forms of racial differentiation and racism that impact lesser-­known racial groups in Hawaiʻi, such as the Latinx population. Similar to Nitasha Sharma’s, Akiemi Glenn’s, and Joy Enomoto’s examination of the racialization of the Black diasporic communities in Hawaiʻi and the racial politics surrounding their representation, I explore how the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi experiences racism and being racialized and how their acceptance and/or exclusion has occurred from the era of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom to the twenty-­first century. The presence of discrimination and stereotyping in Hawaiʻi, according to what some of my interviewees have shared, urges us to acknowledge and confront the dangers of increasing racism and xenophobia and how this impacts not just the Latinx population, which also includes those who identify as Black, Latinx, and/or Afro-­Latinx, but also other diasporic Black communities, Micronesians, and other racialized groups.93 Just because Hawaiʻi has a population of 25 percent that identifies as mixed race does not mean that racism does not exist there. Rather, as other mixed race communities have argued, racial structures instituted by white supremacy rely on race and racism to continue the cycle of racial inequalities and violence. Hawaiʻi is no different. As home to the largest military base in the Pacific and an industry that is by all means conservative in nature, the military-­industrial complex is a structure of white supremacy and neocolonialism that continues to have a stranglehold over the Pacific and Latin America, among other parts of the world. I also contend that just as white supremacy and its ideas of race and acts of racism were transplanted to the Hawaiian archipelago by Europeans and white Americans since contact and throughout the era of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, so too does race and racism perpetuate through continued white settlement, tourism, and military occupation in Hawaiʻi. However, as Native Hawaiian scholar Maile Arvin observes, there are also those who fall under the “ascendant” ideology as it relates to whiteness. Borrowing from Rey Chow’s concept, she notes that this ideology folds others into it by “encouraging peoples to identify with the power/knowledge of whiteness even when they are individually excluded from identifying as white.” In other words, this can also include Americanist settlers of color and, in this case, local Asians whose participation in the institutionalization of racial hierarchies and political participation in the Asian-­led Democratic Party’s ascendancy to power post–­World War  II led to their economic and political dominance. This contributed to the ongoing suppression, displacement, and dispossession of Native Hawaiian land and self-­determination through the increasing militarization (e.g., the role of the late senator Daniel Inouye) and perpetual dependency on the tourist industry in Hawaiʻi.94 As the Latinx population navigates these racial encounters and avoids succumbing to the ascendancy ideology, there must also be a consideration of their presence in Hawaiʻi as settlers.

Introduction  •  21

Latinxs and Settler Colonialism Much has been written on settler colonialism in Hawaiʻi.95 This conversation was initiated by Haunani-­Kay Trask’s seminal article “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony,” which addresses how locals, who are part of the Asian settlement of the islands during the sugar plantation era, should also be considered as part of the settler colonialism project because of the economic and political power they have obtained over the years. Candace Fujikane notes, for example, that “the early Asian settlers were both active agents in the making of their own histories and unwitting recruits swept into the service of empire.” She also contends that the current Americanist ideologies and everyday practices of Asian settlers continue to “support a broader structure of the U.S. settler state.”96 I suggest we look at how these processes also impacted Latinx migration and their role, both past and present, in the U.S. colony of Hawaiʻi. According to Patrick Wolfe, settler colonialism involves the elimination of Indigenous people through invasion, war, and even genocide so that others can occupy and control their lands. Part of this elimination also requires replacement, which immigrant populations often provide in a settler colonial state, which Trask has noted in her scholarship.97 This paved the way for immigrant labor to settle on the islands. For example, as Poblete writes, “The sugar industry and the recruitment of non-­Hawaiian laborers to the islands furthered the colonization of Native Hawaiians, denying their rights to self-­determination and dispossessing these native peoples of their land.”98 In response to Trask’s article, Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Okamura released an edited volume, Asian Settler Colonialism, to discuss how Asian settlers and their descendants should acknowledge their positionality in the settler colonial narrative of Hawaiʻi and work to be allies in the cause for Native Hawaiian rights. Make no mistake: I acknowledge that as migrants and settlers to Hawaiʻi, Latinxs also occupy this position and must understand how their presence also encroaches on Kanaka Maoli land and their Indigenous rights to the ʻāina (the land, or that which sustains us), which they also inhabit with other settlers. Latinxs are also a part of this settler colonial project. As such, I want to invoke what historian Karen Leong has noted regarding these encounters: with new migrations and borders, there are also new interactions, categories of difference, and power inequalities, which are both systemic and complex yet all structured by settler colonialism, racism, and capitalism.99 I also want to suggest that Mexicans, for example, hold a complex experience in this discussion, since they were the first Latinx group who were invited by the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, an independent Indigenous government that was internationally recognized.100 Furthermore, the Mexican population in what is now the U.S. Southwest was essentially annexed to the United States after its war with México in 1848. They soon found themselves migrating across imperial territories and colonies to labor for the United States. As brown bodies who have and continue to participate

22  •  Aloha Compadre

in Hawaiʻi’s labor-­intensive industries such as agriculture and construction and as bodies of empire in the military, Mexicans, Central Americans, and Puerto Ricans have an entangled relationship within the empire. Puerto Ricans, for example, also hold another unique position. According to historian JoAnna Poblete, both Puerto Ricans and Filipinos have historically traveled within the United States and its territorial possessions as “intracolonials”—­“colonized people living in a second colonized space.”101 However, as settlers, Latinxs also have a responsibility to Kānaka Maoli given the political stakes involved against the settler colonial state. As Fujikane notes, “The identification of Asians as settlers focuses on their obligations to the indigenous peoples of Hawaiʻi and the responsibilities that Asian settlers have in supporting Native peoples in their struggles for self-­determination.”102 In what ways, then, can Latinx settlers also answer this call to solidarity with Kānaka Maoli?

Guests, Arrivants, and Settlers If one were to examine the history of colonialism, annexation, dislocation, and dispossession in México, Puerto Rico, and the rest of Latin America and the Spanish Caribbean, the idea of these colonized peoples who were once colonial subjects of other empires moving between locations of U.S. territories enables us to see the wide-­reaching global net of U.S. colonialism and empire. This global movement retraces many of the previous Spanish imperial movements across the Pacific. These processes have affected not only other Indigenous peoples in places like Hawaiʻi but the other brown, Indigenous, and mixed race Indigenous-­descended Latinxs who are forced economically and politically to migrate into the realm of U.S. empire and occupy other spaces like Hawaiʻi in order to survive. This demonstrates how empire and colonialism are forced upon multiple colonized groups and how they are impacted by this entanglement. This is all part of the settler colonial project.103 In thinking about this, I turn to the words of Jodi Byrd, who asks how we might “place the arrivals of peoples through choices and by force into historical relationship with Indigenous peoples and theorize those arrivals in ways that are legible but still attuned to the conditions of settler colonialism.”104 Given the various moments in time when Latinx immigrant laborers were welcomed by both the independent Hawaiian Kingdom and the post-­1893 settler colonial–­occupied territory and fiftieth state, is it possible to view them as “arrivants” or “guests” in these historical and contemporary contexts? How do these relationships function for Latinxs given the changing status of their hosts at the time, from Kanaka Maoli independence pre-­1893 to American occupation after the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom? Latinxs fall into all these categories, and each has been defined by a particular historical moment. For example, in some instances, Latinxs can be considered guests. This was the experience of the California vaqueros who were both

Introduction  •  23

Indigenous and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent.105 They came to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom at the invitation of King Kamehameha III in the 1830s to live and work with the Native Hawaiian population. I imagine the vaqueros of the early nineteenth century did not see themselves as participating in settler colonialism because at that time the Hawaiian Kingdom was an independent government, and they decided who would be welcomed as guests to their nation. Those who decided to stay showed their loyalty to the kingdom by becoming naturalized citizens and signing an oath of loyalty. The notion of “guest” in ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (malihini or hoʻomalihini [to be a guest]) can also be dependent on historical context. This leads my thinking toward what Tongva scholar Charles Sepulveda notes about the use of the term guest in California—­that it does not necessarily signify settler. Rather, as he suggests, in the context of the Tongva people of California, the concept of Kuuyam is the Tongva word for “guests.” It is “a relationship to the land itself, which contains spirit and is willing to provide.”106 This concept empowered the host to welcome their guests and form relationships that complicate issues of settler colonialism. Sepulveda writes, “The concept of Kuuyam is able to abolish hierarchical difference through the purposeful restoration of organic human-­land relationships and Peoplehood. Specifically, Kuuyam can assist in the abolition of white supremacist logics that demand domestication and submission.  .  .  . Kuuyam allows for a re-­centering of place, and instead of dividing peoples into categories (and binaries) it allows peoples to understand themselves as guests of the land—­either they behave appropriately or they do not.”107 Providing additional ways to see Latinxs as guests within their specific context opens up the opportunity for them to join with other non–­Kanaka Maoli settlers and resist the ways that the settler colonial state creates complicity and, as Indigenous studies scholar Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar notes, “rewards them for reproducing narratives of absolution from responsibility.”108 This means joining Kānaka Maoli in their struggle for sovereignty, self-­determination, and decolonization movements and, following what Fujikane mentions, playing “a critical role in bringing about the structural transformation necessary for Hawaiian national liberation.”109 For Latinxs, it means not becoming what Native Hawaiian scholar Kēhaulani Vaughn calls a “Native interloper.” By this, Vaughn refers to Natives as well as settlers of color who “do not acknowledge the responsibility to their Native hosts” or their genealogical responsibility to land and who are complicit in the erasure of Native Hawaiians from their homeland because these interlopers “view the land as no longer having any Indigenous connections.”110 When looking at both the Indigenous of Latin America and Latinxs of Indigenous descent, we must be mindful and acknowledge that these identities walk a tightrope among settler, guest, and/or arrivant depending on the context of their arrival. Although the Latinx population has experienced racial discrimination, this does not mean, as Nájera and Maldonado point out, that

24  •  Aloha Compadre

“they are not exempt from perpetuating contemporary settler logics.”111 At the same time, they remind us that “turning away from complicated and entangled conversations of the ways we (Indigenous and non-­Indigenous migrants) perpetuate settler colonial logics is not an option. Neither is discarding the crucial role that production and reproduction of race and racial hierarchies play within settler colonial regimes.”112 Latinxs must acknowledge their own positionality within the conversation of settler colonialism. We must, as Hōkūlani Aikau writes, think about “our responsibilities to the indigenous peoples upon whose land we live.”113 This means acknowledging that racist, oppressive policies and dispossession have fueled Indigenous migration, which in turn means that Latinx migrants have lived and worked on Kanaka Maoli lands shaped by settler colonialism.114 Those in Latinx studies and, in particular, those who work on Critical Latinx Indigeneities have also discussed the need to see the complexities of Latinx, Indigeneity, and the problematic notion of mestizaje while also examining how Latinx bodies are situated in these entangled discussions of race, racialization, and settler colonialism.115 Indeed, as Maylei Blackwell, Floridalma Boj Lopez, and Luis Urrieta  Jr. write, the diaspora of Latin American and Caribbean Indigenous peoples pushes disciplinary boundaries in ways that force Latinx studies to look at issues such as settler colonialism.116 As such, scholars such as María Josefina Saldaña-­Portillo ask, How can we see those who were enslaved, indentured, or experiencing mass annexation as arrivants and not merely settlers? Can they all be seen solely as the beneficiaries of the removal of Indigenous peoples, or can there be a more nuanced discussion of how the conversation surrounding settler colonialism needs to include dislocation, dispossession, enslavement, and even migration as consequences of settler colonialism?117 This also begs the question of whether this provides an opportunity for conflict, solidarity, or both. Blackwell and colleagues call upon scholars in Latinx studies to “follow the lead of Asian settler colonialism scholars in Hawaiʻi by recognizing that im/migrants arrive on the homelands of Indigenous peoples and that this awareness brings with it responsibilities and the possibility of new relationships of tension and solidarity.” This call reminds Latinx scholars that similar to the Black diasporic communities in Hawaiʻi that scholar Nitasha Sharma documents, we must live, as Kanaka Maoli scholar Hōkūlani Aikau notes, with kuleana (responsibility). Sharma further reflects that in order to live responsibly, “it is the actions of people—­not just their identities—­that determine whether we uphold or undermine racism and colonialism.”118 Scholars in this discussion also suggest that Latinxs, similar to Asian Americans, are framed under the term settlers. For example, Blackwell and colleagues assert, “Similar to Asian settlers in Hawaiʻi, Indigenous migrants from Latin America are also settlers on other Indigenous peoples’ lands, but like Fujikane and Okamura, we also simultaneously deny that all Indigenous migrants have the

Introduction  •  25

political capacity to colonize.”119 This also requires the Latinx population to self-­ reflect on what it means to be an ally in someone else’s land. For example, when looking at the experiences of Filipinxs in Hawaiʻi, Dean Saranillio notes that the United States pits non-­Native people of color against Indigenous groups in an effort to conceal its colonization of the islands. Thus, how can Latinxs who subscribe to the “American Dream” and “We are all immigrants” tropes realize that this is a divisive tactic that prevents them from standing with Native Hawaiians and makes them complicit and participate in their dispossession and erasure?120 As laboring bodies, Latinx peoples continue to enter and occupy a space that is both contested and complicated by Indigenous, settlers, guests, and arrivants alike. These discussions become more complex depending on who is requiring their labor throughout Hawaiʻi’s history, as the pages that follow will reveal.

1

Vaqueros and Paniolos Tradition holds that the word paniolo comes from paniola, which comes from Hispañola, meaning “Spain” or “Spanish related.” Others say it derives from the Spanish pañuelo or “handkerchief,” something the Mexican cowboys often wore around their necks. Others believe the name comes directly from the Hawaiian language. To us who lived this life of ranching, the word means pa, “to hold firmly,” and niolo, “to sway gracefully like a branch from the solid trunk of a tree.”1 —­Kumu John Kealoamakaʻāinana Lake

On May  27, 2012, the thirty-­fifth annual Nā Hōkū Hanohano Awards announced its list of award winners.2 One particular musician stood out: Big Island artist Kuana Torres Kahele. His debut solo album, Kaunaloa, garnered ten nominations. This was the highest among all the Hawaiian musicians who were also nominated for awards. Of the ten nominations, Kahele won six awards, including album of the year, Hawaiian album of the year, male vocalist of the year, song of the year for “Nā Vaqueros,” album liner notes, and graphics.3 Kaunaloa became the top-­selling Hawaiian album of 2011 and number 1 on the Billboard World Music charts, making Kahele one of Hawaiian music’s most popular musicians.4 26

Vaqueros and Paniolos  •  27

Born in Hilo, Hawaiʻi, Kahele was raised by his late hānai mom (maternal grandmother), Lulu Kelohilani Kahele, whom he lovingly referred to as Ma. She instilled hula, music, and ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (the Hawaiian language) as a part of his upbringing.5 Kahele’s talents include being a musician, singer, composer, songwriter, record producer, Kumu Hula (hula teacher), dancer, and cultural educator.6 Kahele is also part of the traditional Hawaiian music duo Na Palapalai (with Kēhau Tamuré). A prolific musician and composer, Kahele also has over one hundred original Hawaiian meles (songs) to his credit, including eleven of the twelve songs on Kaunaloa. Kahele released Kaunaloa as a promise fulfilled to his maternal grandmother, who first taught him Kaunaloa (the drive to carry on, to persevere). As Kahele shared, “With that thought in mind, I just kept it true and sang my butt off.”7 On September  23, 2017, Kahele was also honored by the Paniolo Preservation Society at their third biennial fundraiser, Na Mele O Paniolo. He was one of three musicians recognized for keeping paniolo music alive. Along with Kahele, the other two honorees included legends Ernie Cruz Sr. and the late Kindy Sproat. They were all honored because they “have composed, collected, recorded and, in their own way, perpetuated paniolo music.”8 For Kahele, this was a part of his genealogy. His patrilineal ancestry, the Awaa’s, includes paniolos who worked cattle at Kawahaeiuka on Big Island.9 It was a celebration that honored the legacy of Hawaiʻi’s paniolos and the musicians who kept their memory alive through music. It is here that I focus on one particular song that stands out in Kahele’s album Kaunaloa, “Nā Vaqueros,” which won the 2012 Nā Hōkū Hanohano Award for song of the year. The song, written in both Hawaiian and Spanish, pays tribute to his paniolo roots as well as the Mexican vaqueros (cowboys) in Hawaiʻi who were commissioned by King Kamehameha III to teach the Native Hawaiians cattle ranching techniques. The song also acknowledges the Mexican women who came to Hawaiʻi. As Kahele notes, “As told to me by my kūpuna [elders], the women were of great beauty and often talked about. This mele speaks for the Vaqueros and their beautiful women.”10 Kahele’s album Kaunaloa and the song “Nā Vaqueros” are a testament to the role his family and the larger Hawaiian community played in cattle ranching in the Hawaiian Islands. The Hawaiian paniolo is a cultural icon in Hawaiʻi’s countryside culture, and Kahele’s tribute to the paniolo is evidence of the cultural footprint that Mexican vaqueros left behind in the early 1830s. Indeed, it was the Mexican vaqueros and the Native Hawaiians whom they taught who gave birth to Hawaiʻi’s paniolo culture. This legacy is still present in the twenty-­first century with individuals like Kuana Torres Kahele, demonstrating the cultural impact that a small group of Mexican vaqueros had on Hawaiʻi. The foundational history of this cultural exchange in the pages that follow reveals why Mexican vaqueros remain such an integral part of Hawaiʻi’s ranching community and countryside culture throughout the Hawaiian Islands.

28  •  Aloha Compadre

This chapter does three things. First, it examines the role that both California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent played in Hawaiʻi’s cattle industry and the cultural impression they left behind.11 This legacy, however, was not just a historical moment in time. Rather, the ongoing migration of Mexican vaqueros to Hawaiʻi continues to be a part of the Hawaiian paniolo ranching community today. Second, I reveal how this relationship contributed to the prosperity of the Hawaiian Kingdom, an Indigenous nation that benefited tremendously from the labor Indigenous and Mexican vaqueros provided. This included training their Native Hawaiian apprentices in the skills and techniques necessary to manage their cattle herds and introducing their material culture and, to some extent, their language. Finally, I explore how Hawaiʻi’s paniolo took this cultural knowledge shared by their Mexican tutors and made it uniquely Hawaiian. Taken together, these interrelated moments reveal the ways that Mexican vaqueros shaped Hawaiʻi’s paniolo culture through cultural memory as well as their genealogy as part of the active cultural mixing of peoples in Hawaiʻi. Their presence also marked the beginning of what would become a Pacific Latinidad in Hawaiʻi, which would continue to take shape over the next 190 years.

Historical Antecedents On December 10, 1846, the sovereign Hawaiian Kingdom voted to lease Joaquin Armas, a Mexican vaquero, “suitable pasture lands for the raising of cattle in the lands of Kahuloa and Honokohau for the term of 25 years.”12 Armas served under the reign of King Kauikeaouli (Kamehameha  III). His contributions helped establish ranching and the management of the wild population of cattle on the islands. Those contributions enabled Armas to secure gifts of land under the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, which, as political scientist Lorenz Gonschor notes, was an internationally recognized power during the nineteenth century vis-­à-­vis trade, diplomatic relations, and international treaties.13 Armas was also the first documented vaquero to be hired by the Hawaiian Kingdom (1831) and was among the first group of vaqueros who were California Indian and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent. These vaqueros ventured to the Hawaiian Islands at the request of King Kamehameha  III in 1832.14 This story serves to illustrate the first presence of the Latinx population on the Hawaiian archipelago and how a small group of Mexican vaqueros with their Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) counterparts shaped an industry and one aspect of Hawaiian cultural life that remains to this day: Hawaiʻi’s paniolo (cowboy).15 The relationship between the Mexican vaqueros and their apprentices, the Hawaiian paniolos, however, has been a story largely unrecognized in the history of the American West. In fact, both the Mexican vaquero and the Hawaiian paniolo existed long before there was a white American cowboy.16 Descendants such as Kumu John Kealoamakaʻāinana Lake remember and continue to tell the

Vaqueros and Paniolos  •  29

story of the Hawaiian paniolos and their Mexican tutors. For example, Lake situates his own identity within this rich historical legacy: “In fact, my great-­great grandfather was a vaquero of México. And we only knew him as Hoke paniolo, Hawaiian for Spanish Jose.”17 Paniolo historian Billy Bergin highlights this historical oversight: In the late 1600s and into the 1700s, the people of Mexico were taking huge herds of cattle to different markets, even down into Louisiana. They started the brand book. They started the Cattlemen’s Association. And it has all Spanish names because that’s what they were. . . . We owe it to Mexico that you have Indian, you have Mexico, you have American cowboy. . . . So we’re much more sensitive to Mexico. Much more sensitive to the contribution of those people. You figure the Hawaiian Islands, we had our three [vaqueros]. Maui has two or three, Kauaʻi had two. . . . You’ve got to tell the truth and the Mexican community should be the insert between Native Americans, who I completely agree with what they contributed.18

As Bergin suggests, despite the role Mexican vaqueros played both in Hawaiʻi and in the U.S. Southwest, their contributions remain overlooked and should be recognized more. The story of Hawaiʻi’s paniolo and its Mexican connections are known in Hawaiian history and have been discussed by both scholars and observers of the time.19 This story, however, is not well documented in other fields, such as Chicanx and Latinx studies and U.S. Western and borderlands history. Indeed, as veteran paniolo Clyde “Kindy” Sproat noted, “Unfortunately, very little is known of the Mexicans that did come to teach the Hawaiian because at that time they were not record keepers, ya know. All their stories and their lore was preserved by word of mouth. Nothing was written down. . . . I have some ancestors that come from México and they were Ramón. They came as vaqueros.”20 This story also reveals an interesting moment in Hawaiian history: the apprentices who were the beneficiaries of the vaqueros’ skills and ranching techniques and the tutors who shared this knowledge were both Indigenous peoples. The first paniolos in Hawaiʻi were the Kānaka Maoli. The Mexican vaqueros comprised California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent.21 The cultural exchange that took place in Hawaiʻi intertwined and sustained these Indigenous identities. As Lake notes, it was “a time when young men of Indian and Spanish blood, vaqueros from the great haciendas of Mexican California, made their way to these islands to teach another native people, the Hawaiians, how to ride and round up cattle. It was a time when the ‘Indians were the first cowboys.’”22

Origins of the Hawaiʻi–­California Connection As previously noted, the Mexican vaqueros who came to Hawaiʻi from the territory of Alta California were both California Indians and Mexican mestizos

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of Indigenous descent. The racial and Indigenous backgrounds of these California vaqueros have been given much scholarly attention, particularly because it was primarily the Indian workforce of Alta California that was vital for the success of the early mission cattle economy during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.23 For example, American missionary Curtis J. Lyons, who was an observer of the time, describes these vaqueros as “Mexican Hispano-­Indians” and “full-­ blooded Indians of Mexican origin.”24 Historian and vaquero Arnold Rojas also notes the longer historical racial mixing that made up the vaquero: “He was a strange mixture of races, the blood of caballeros, bullfighters, Jews, Moors, and Indian heroes run in his veins.”25 This racially mixed identity was common among the early vaqueros. Several scholars have also pointed specifically to the Indigenous background of California’s vaquero. For example, according to historian Andrés Reséndez, although the Indigenous population declined in Alta California, Indians still composed the bulk of the vaquero labor force, particularly after the secularization of the missions and the establishment of the Mexican rancho system.26 As Native Hawaiian Studies scholar Kēhaulani Vaughn also writes, under the new Mexican government, “each rancho was assigned to have six hundred Indian laborers. California Indians largely became serfs in the rancho economy.”27 This was the result of California Indians being stripped of their ability to live a subsistence lifestyle, and thus they became dependent on the rancho system. In addition to California Indians, there were also vaqueros who were Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent. This group included a large segment of the mestizo (mixed race) working class who also worked as blacksmiths and leather craftsmen. As historian John Ryan Fischer points out, up to the 1840s, Indians were the majority of California’s vaquero laborers, “while many others were the products of Mexico’s mestizo past,”28 and both groups worked together as Alta California’s ranching labor force. After Mexican independence in 1821, new opportunities were available in foreign trade that would have a lasting impact on both California and Hawaiʻi. For example, in 1826, the independent Hawaiian Kingdom sent its first ships to visit the California coast as part of its interest in trade relations with México.29 For California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent, this was an opportunity to leave behind the racial caste system and economic exploitation they endured in Mexican California. They could earn a living as skilled vaqueros and find new opportunities abroad in the burgeoning Pacific world economy that was developing in places like Hawaiʻi. Let us now turn to the events of Hawaiʻi’s history that facilitated the call for these vaqueros from across the Pacific.

Hawaiian Cattle Ranching The story of the Mexican vaquero and the Hawaiian paniolo is intimately tied to the introduction of cattle to the Hawaiian Kingdom. Prior to the introduction

Vaqueros and Paniolos  •  31

of the California horse in 1803, cattle were introduced to the Hawaiian Islands during the reign of King Kamehameha I (King Kamehameha the Great).30 During his second voyage to the Hawaiian Islands aboard the Discovery, British captain George Vancouver anchored off of Kawaihae, Hawaiʻi island, on February 14, 1793.31 He presented a gift to King Kamehameha I to help restore goodwill and make amends for the previous violence that had occurred between the Hawaiians and Captain James Cook, whom they killed on February  14, 1779.32 This gesture to the king also laid the foundation of the cattle industry in Hawaiʻi. Archibald Menzies, the ship’s surgeon, noted the reaction the Hawaiians had when first seeing the remaining livestock come to shore: Captain Vancouver presented him [Kamehameha] with four cows, two ewes and a ram, which were all that remained of the stock we brought from Monterey for these islands. They were immediately sent on shore in the same canoes that brought off the hogs. When landed they ran up and down the country in the wildest manner to the no small dread and terror of the natives, who fled from them with the utmost speed in every direction, which was not at all surprising, as they were the first animals of the kind they had ever seen prancing about their country in a state so lively and vigorous.33

Vancouver came back to the Hawaiian Islands in January 1794, bringing with him additional cattle and sheep that he also obtained from Alta California, México. He arrived in Hilo on January  9, 1794, and successfully landed the cattle at Kealakekua on January 13, 1794. This included an additional bull, two cows, and two bull calves, as well as five rams and five ewe sheep.34 The new wild cattle that were introduced were known as puaʻa pepeiao hao (pigs with iron ears) but would eventually be called pipiʻāhiu (wild cattle).35 Given the uncertainty over the future of the livestock and with the hope of increasing the numbers of cattle in Hawaiʻi, George Vancouver advised King Kamehameha I to make a kapu (sacred law) forbidding the killing of cattle for ten years so they could multiply, except in the case that “the males should become too numerous.”36 Kamehameha  I did so not to accommodate a Western notion of animal husbandry but to follow the Kanaka Maoli relationship to the ʻāina (land) and the animals that inhabit it.37 Ultimately, they were able to increase in numbers given the lush environment of Hawaiʻi, which sustained ample natural feed, and the protection the king provided in prohibiting the killing of cattle. At the time, visitors to Hawaiʻi observed how fast the cattle had multiplied within just two years.38 In fact, the population of wild cattle overran the island of Hawaiʻi. They were environmentally destructive to Native Hawaiians’ lo’i kalo (taro fields) and gardens, also eating the thatching off their houses. Cattle were also destructive to the woods. They either ate up or trampled new trees in the forests, which affected the climate and rain in Waimea.39

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By 1809, cattle were so numerous that herds were transported to other islands in the archipelago, such as Maui, Oʻahu, and Kauaʻi.40 In fact, one observer summarized, “They rapidly increased and becoming a flock were removed to the Waimea plains, from whence breeding very fast, they spread inland and wandered off among the hills and valleys of Mauna Kea and became so numerous that when the tabu [sic] was removed about 1830, the interior plain and three mountains of Hawaii were full of them, and they were in some seasons hard pushed for feed, though generally very fat.”41 Pā pōhaku (stone walls) were built to protect the homes and gardens of Native Hawaiians as well as corral the wild cattle, yet this did not always dissuade them from roaming where they wanted. According to one account, “By 1815 roaming herds became a nuisance, destroying taro patches, potato fields, and other crops and plants. The cattle scoured the plains between the Kohala Mountains, Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa, and Hualalai. . . . The Hawaiian people build fences of stones, and where koa trees were abundant, their branches were woven and twisted to form enclosures around house sites and gardens.”42 The cattle were a threat not only to gardens and crops but also to the lives of the Native Hawaiians, who were also subject to being trampled or attacked by the wild cattle.43 The thought of being gored by a wild bullock was enough for them to avoid these animals. After the death of King Kamehameha I, his successor, Kauikeaouli (Kamehameha  III) saw the need to both control the cattle population and profit from it. As one source notes, “His son, the present King, had large herds on Hawaiʻi Island and Oʻahu. The King now sold beef to the whaling ship captains, then learned of the great profits from hides and tallow [to make candles and soap], and sold the rest of the cow in that manner!”44 He abolished the old kapu during his reign and allowed for the killing of wild cattle with his permission.45 Both the king and the aliʻi (noble or chiefly class) saw that much could be gained from trading and selling the products made from cattle and supported this new venture, since the previous sandalwood they had supplied to foreign merchants had exhausted most of the island’s forests.46 As willing participants in this Pacific basin trade network, Native Hawaiians demonstrated their agency and need to control their own resources.47 It is also within this context that Native Hawaiians and Indigenous and Mexican vaqueros came together, and found a mutually advantageous opportunity to exist within a colonizer-­driven, capitalist world economy. Those decisions urge us to reconsider how the complexity of this relationship might help us rethink the dichotomies and formulations of settler colonialism in the case of Mexican vaqueros in the independent Hawaiian Kingdom.48 Indeed, John Ryan Fischer’s study Cattle Colonialism found that “it was the royal family that began to market the animals. Almost as soon as the kapu ended, Hawaiian rulers rapidly began to harvest the population for profit in Pacific markets increasingly interconnected through maritime trade.  .  .  . Cattle came into a Pacific World alongside conquest, disease and expanding capitalism.”49 It was the need for the kings and the

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aliʻi class to find other sources of revenue to pay off their foreign debts incurred from the purchase of ships and other goods that facilitated their participation in the beef, hide, and tallow trade, which had tremendous commercial value.50 It was an industry that showed promise, and Kānaka Maoli would determine for themselves how it would be shaped.51 During the early years of the cattle industry in Hawaiʻi, only the hides were sought after, with about five thousand hides being exported each year between 1835 and 1840.52 Additional money, however, could be made from the production of tallow and the shipping of both fresh and salted beef to accommodate the growing demand by foreigners. For example, fresh and salted beef were produced to supply whaling and merchant ships with fresh provisions as well as vessels that were being refitted in Hawaiʻi.53 Given that the cattle were the joint property of the king and the Hawaiian government, other aliʻi also joined in on this highly profitable venture. The kingdom controlled all land in Hawaiʻi, which enabled it to establish its own ranches and lease agreements with foreigners. It seems clear that the economic advantages of cattle herding combined with the challenges inexperienced bullock hunters had in controlling wild cattle created the space and opportunity for Mexican vaqueros to be invited to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, since their expertise with cattle management, land use, and ranching were welcome skills that the aliʻi desired.54 Indeed, the independent Hawaiian Kingdom stood to profit most from foreign demand for cattle products. Of note, the potential of this new venture was so promising that in 1830, Governor Kuakini Adams took up residence in Waimea, Hawaiʻi Island, in order to participate in the wild cattle industry. He was responsible for having convict laborers build inland roads, which improved the infrastructure and the transportation of cattle.55 It was also under the authority of the king and the Hawaiian government that the right to slaughter wild cattle was leased to private parties such as bullock hunters in the 1820s. Although many of these early bullock hunters were a motley crew of white foreigners and some Hawaiians, there were those like Jack Purdy and John Palmer Parker, who went on to found a ranching dynasty in Hawaiʻi.56 While the bullock hunters achieved some success, the wild cattle ultimately proved to be too numerous. There was also the issue of the Native Hawaiian population decline, which left few—­and mostly inexperienced at that—­to hunt cattle.57 In 1830, King Kamehameha III both witnessed and participated in the catching of wild cattle with his party (which included a foreign vaquero) as they ventured to Mauna Kea on Hawaiʻi Island. In the words of one observer, “We witnessed several striking exhibitions of seizing wild cattle, chasing them on horseback, and throwing the lasso over their horns, with great certainty, capturing, prostrating, and subduing or killing these mountain-­fed animals, struggling in vain for liberty and life.”58 Experiences such as these led the king and ultimately his advisers to the conclusion that skilled vaqueros were required to manage the growing herds of cattle in his nation, since the current method of

FIGURE 1.   King Kamehameha III (Kauikeaouli; 1813–­1854) ruled when the first vaqueros from

Alta California, México, were invited to the Hawaiian Kingdom to teach Native Hawaiians cattle ranching skills and other aspects of vaquero culture. This began with the invitation of Joaquin Armas in 1831. Hawaiʻi State Digital Archives. Photo courtesy of Hawaiʻi State Archives.

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having bullock hunters chase down wild cattle was both dangerous and ultimately inefficient. The solution would be to hire Mexican vaqueros, who were renowned for their skills and cattle ranching techniques.59 The labor the vaqueros provided and the training of Native Hawaiians for King Kamehameha III and the Hawaiian Kingdom, and for private ranchers like Parker, proved to be valuable in more ways than anyone had anticipated.60 This was an opportunity for King Kamehameha  III and the aliʻi class to capitalize on the global beef, hide, and tallow trade. The independent Hawaiian Kingdom owned all the land and had the autonomy to exercise its political and economic control of this burgeoning industry. Through international treaties in the 1800s, the independent Hawaiian Kingdom became a globally recognized nation that established trade relations with other foreign governments.61 This was a moment when an independent Indigenous nation expressed its sovereignty by controlling its resources and deciding who could be leased land and hired for employment and ultimately who controlled the majority of profits from this promising endeavor. The potential of these economic ventures required the labor of their invited guests to make this possible. This moment also reveals the complex and intertwined histories Native Hawaiians had with Mexican vaqueros, since they were another mixed Indigenous group that included California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent from Alta California. Hawaiʻi’s paniolo was birthed from this mutual relationship between Indigenous Hawaiians and Mexican vaqueros that came to be part of Hawaiian culture.62 Rather than romanticize the role Mexican vaqueros played in Hawaiʻi’s cattle industry, I highlight the willing exchange of knowledge and skills that Mexican vaqueros shared with their Kanaka Maoli counterparts and how Native Hawaiians both adapted and developed a culture of cattle ranching that became uniquely Hawaiian. This relationship ultimately became a shared and beneficial mixture of Mexican and Hawaiian material culture, language, and cattle ranching methods, among other things.63 This story illustrates the autonomy and control that Native Hawaiians had in determining the course of this industry in its early years. As Benjamin Barna notes, they made it Hawaiian in every sense of the word, utilizing Kanaka Maoli concepts of ʻohana (family), pili (connection), and community to shape the paniolo cowboy culture into what it is in the twenty-­first century.64

Llegan los primeros vaqueros / The First Vaqueros Arrive No one knows exactly how many vaqueros came to Hawaiʻi between 1831 and 1859, which were the formative years of cattle ranching. For Mexican vaqueros working in Alta California during the early 1830s, new opportunities came from across the Pacific to make use of their skills and expertise in the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. They would also be considered the first imported workers

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for the Hawaiian cattle industry.65 According to Kyle Shinseki, there could have been as many as two hundred vaqueros, which included those who settled in Hawaiʻi and those who left after their jobs were completed.66 For those who stayed, many changed their names and became Hawaiianized Mexicans. They married Native Hawaiian women, learned ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian), and took an oath of allegiance to become naturalized citizens of the Hawaiian Kingdom. Others returned to México and other areas of Latin America, where subsequent vaqueros came from.67 The stories that have been retold as oral history are primarily what remains, though there is some scattered evidence of the lives of these vaqueros and where they ended up. A few stories have some documentation available that gives us a glimpse into what it was like to be one of the first Mexican vaqueros during the reign of King Kamehameha III. The stories I provide shed some light on the lives of these individuals and the Native Hawaiians they befriended and shared their knowledge with during the early nineteenth century.68 It is here that the first diaspora of Latinxs also arrived in Hawaiʻi, and the ongoing development of a Pacific Latinidad took shape. Although a lone vaquero made his way to Hawaiʻi of his own accord in 1831 and was hired by King Kamehameha  III, it was not until 1832 that the first request for vaqueros from Alta California, México, was made by the Hawaiian Kingdom. In 1832, King Kamehameha III sent one of his high chiefs as a royal emissary to Alta California to request the assistance of vaqueros who had been working on ranches in México to come to Hawaiʻi and teach Native Hawaiians all the techniques of ranching. Bergin asserts, “The year 1832 became a pivotal point in the Hawaiian cattle industry when by invitation, the aliʻi welcomed the arrival of the vaquero, whose mission involved not only bringing vast cattle herds under control but training the Native Hawaiian in the skills of the cowboy.”69 The arrival of the Mexican vaqueros signaled a dramatic shift in the way the cattle population was managed, both as a commodity for consumption and as a means to generate wealth for the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, and for private ranchers like John Palmer Parker. They all had a vested interest in the profits garnered from the labor of the Mexican vaqueros and their Hawaiian apprentices. Additionally, Hawaiians were said to have been fascinated by the vaqueros’ skill and methods for capturing and herding cattle as well as taming wild bullocks, which was quite dangerous work.70 The old and crude method of trapping bullocks in deep pits was just too risky. Joseph Brennan summarizes the dangers of this method: “People often fell into the pits in darkness and were gored or trampled to death by the trapped animals.”71 Shooting was also inefficient because it not only ruined the valuable hides but also required bullock catchers to butcher the animal immediately and carry the meat down to the shore to load on ships, which could spoil the products depending on how long the trip took.72 In comparison, the new method the vaqueros brought with them was vastly more efficient and would be taught to the Native

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FIGURE 2.   Mounted vaquero, n.d. According to paniolo historian Billy Bergin, this photo

would be the closest to what the early Mexican vaqueros may have worn and the equipment they used when they were in the Hawaiian Kingdom during the early 1830s. James Flanagan photograph collection (MS 259), New Mexico State University Library Archives and Special Collections. Photo originally provided courtesy of Dr. Billy Bergin, Paniolo Preservation Society.

Hawaiians, who were eager to learn their new trade. Their arrival also marked the end of the wild bullock hunter.73 Early reports of these initial vaqueros varied but always spoke of them in colorful language. The Mexican vaquero’s work clothes or style of dress included a red pañuelo (bandanna) tied around his neck; a sombrero (wide-­brimmed hat); pantaloons, a serape (poncho), which was used to protect him against the elements; and a red silk sash. They also brought their tools, such as the lasso or lariat, saddles, spurs, and other related gear.74 American missionary Curtis J. Lyons recalled, He was called “Paniolo” (Espangnol [sic]), the word that now means cowboy. He brought with him the Mexican saddle in all its rich adornment of stamped bull hide leather, and stirrups broad winged. He brought the hair rope, the strands of alternate black and white, and the hand whirled wheel for twisting it; also the hand whirled bit, not so crude as it looked to be, and a necessity in bullock hunting.75

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At a thatched store in Waimea, another observer explained the scene: A bright fire was blazing in a cavity in the earthen floor, displaying in strong light the dark features of natives gathered around it. . . . A group of fine looking men were leaning against the counter. They were all attired in the poncho, an oblong blanket of brilliant colors, having a hole in the middle through which is thrust the wearer’s head. The pantaloons are open from the knee downward on the outside, with a row of dashing gilt buttons down the seam. A pair of boots armed with prodigiously long spurs completed their costume. They are bullock hunters . . . just returned from an expedition of ten days.76

Another chronicler shared their story in one of Hawaiʻi’s leading newspapers, the Pacific Commercial Advertiser: As the first cattle were brought from California (Monterey), so the first bullock catchers came from there to teach the Hawaiians how to use the lasso, to jerk beef, and to cure hides. Their appearance was novel, and they attracted crowds of the wondering natives wherever they went. They belonged to a race once numerous enough all over California but now confined mostly to the lower country and Sonora.77

These accounts illustrate the wonder and awe this first group of Mexican vaqueros created when they first arrived in Hawaiʻi. Their presence would continue to inspire stories about their prowess and skill in handling cattle and how they acclimated to their new home. Although most of the first group of vaqueros would leave when a renewed kapu on hunting wild cattle was implemented in 1840, others stayed and also became Hawaiianized Mexicans by taking on the culture of their hosts and culturally blending into Hawaiian family genealogies that remain part of the lore of the Mexican vaquero in Hawaiʻi today.78 I suggest they became Hawaiianized to show that they wanted to stay and be a part of a nation that welcomed them with aloha. The Mexican vaqueros had the opportunity to make a new home for themselves and start their own families. It was likely far different from the racial and economic exploitation many vaqueros endured back on the ranches in Alta California. In the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, they found a new home as invited guests. Let us now turn to the stories of those early vaqueros who came at the request of King Kamehameha III.

The Life of Joaquin Armas One individual’s story worth mentioning in detail is that of Joaquin Armas. Given Armas’s intimate relationship with King Kamehameha III and the complicated experiences he had while working and living in Hawaiʻi, his story provides invaluable information about what life was like for a Mexican vaquero in

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the Hawaiian Kingdom. His story is also unique among the first group of vaqueros to come to Hawaiʻi because Armas was in all probability the first Mexican vaquero to come to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom to work for the king. In 1831, a year before the first group of Mexican vaqueros were invited from Alta California, México, Armas had already been working in Hawaiʻi. Armas lived in Hawaiʻi for seventeen years, spending nine of those hunting cattle for King Kamehameha III and other Hawaiian officials.79 Armas also lived his life as a naturalized citizen of the Hawaiian Kingdom before returning to California after the U.S.-­Mexican War and the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848.80 Unlike most of the subsequent vaqueros who came as laborers, Armas’s relationship with the king enabled him to acquire a great deal of land and a title and become a businessman in addition to being a vaquero. His presence has also been the most documented among the early Mexican vaqueros; in fact, he wrote frequently to King Kamehameha III as well as the British Commission. Archives of the Hawaiian monarchy and the British Commission records hold a number of his personal letters and court documents. Given the documentation that exists between Armas and the king, this is a rich and complex story worth retelling.81 Joaquin Armas (Huakini Paniolo), also known as “the Spaniard” by the haoles, lived on several Hawaiian Islands, including Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi Island, and Maui.82 Armas was of California Indian and Mexican mestizo ancestry. He was born in San Diego, California, in 1809, the son of Sebastian Armas, a Mexican soldier and native of Vera Cruz, México, and his wife, Maria Luisa Armas, an Indigenous woman of the San Diego Presidio.83 Joaquin was both a soldier and a vaquero by trade back in Alta California. He was raised in Monterey, the capital city of Alta California, where his brother, Felipe, was born in 1810.84 After Joaquin Armas worked with the cattle of California alongside neophytes trained by friars at the nearby missions, he shared useful cattle ranching techniques with Native Hawaiians.85 Armas was described as “probably mestizo” and was “five feet eight inches tall, with black hair and eyes, and a dark swarthy complexion.”86 In 1831, a rising population of white Americans arriving from the east alongside an increasing call to secularize the missions and break up the cattle herds affected the Armas family business, which had ties to a cattle operation for the church. According to authors Rossie and Locky Frost, “Whether the Armas family was involved in this political situation, or whether Joaquin just wanted to see something of the world, we do not know, but in 1831, Armas boarded a British whaling ship Harriet, intending to go to London.”87 Armas arrived in Honolulu on April  4, 1831. He was twenty-­two years old. Although Armas intended to sail on to London, he met King Kamehameha  III, who initially went on board the ship to hear some fiddle players (the king also played the fiddle). The king was notified that Armas was on board and was eager to meet the Mexican who had a reputation as an expert bullock catcher and skilled vaquero. Armas recalled the meeting in a letter dated February 13, 1843, to Alex Simpson, acting consul to King Kamehameha III:

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In the month of May 1831, I came to Oahu in the British Whale Ship Harriet, [with] Captain Reed. The King[,] hearing from the Captain of his having a man in his ship who was expert in catching wild Bullock[,] came on board and conversed with me on the subject and asked me to go on shore and live with him. I told him I had no desire to leave the ship as I wished to proceed on the voyage and go to England. In turn, the King then asked the Captain to aid him in persuading me to stop with him[,] promising at the same time to give me imployment [sic], his friendship and protection. The Captain then said as you have given your word to do so by him I will allow him to stop[,] otherwise I would not have done so, thinking this would be a good opportunity of getting a livelihood and having the King’s promise to befriend me[,] I assented and went on shore with him.88 I stopped at Oahu about seven months when I was sent by the King to Hawaii to catch wild bullock, which work I continued to perform for nearly nine years being in the mountain for four or five months at a time, exposed to cold and hunger, being frequently pressed by the King for a specific number of hides which was to be at Oahu by a stated time. I was frequently obliged to work at night running the risk of my life in capturing wild bulls and receiving great injury in body from the many falls I had from horses in the dangerous work during the time I worked for the King.89

As Armas’s letter and other sources have indicated, at the invitation of King Kamehameha  III, he remained on Oʻahu for the next seven months at the king’s royal residence.90 He then made his way to Waimea on Hawaiʻi Island at the request of the king, where he primarily worked alone, which resulted in a significant rounding up of cattle by January 1832. Armas also frequently made trips back to Honolulu to meet with the king to discuss their business together as well as purchase goods.91 Armas was also noted by the Polynesian to have worked with a small party of Californians, who were most likely other Indigenous and Mexican vaqueros, to conduct the business of catching and killing cattle for the king and the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. This may have also been the time that his brother, Felipe, came out to join him from California.92 For the next nine years, Armas provided a steady stream of cattle for the king to conduct his trade with other foreigners.93 Business seemed to be going well. Armas wrote a letter to the king on December 5, 1833: Your Majesty, I have sent on board the Brig Dolla 30 bullocks according to your letter and likewise 12 to trade for articles received for Captain Hart. I remain Your Majesty’s Humble Servant Hoakini94

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In addition to working for the king, Armas was also employed by Governor Kuakini ( John Adams) of Hawaiʻi Island, who “treated Armas well, and paid him handsomely.”95 During the nine years Armas worked rounding up wild cattle in Waimea, he also trained his Native Hawaiian apprentices. At times, some of those apprentices proved to be more of a hindrance than helpful, which frustrated Armas. He sought to inform the king of his dilemma, which was jeopardizing his work. His 1838 letter to King Kamehameha III notes, Most Gracious Sire, Agreeable to your order I have sent your schooner three yoke of bullocks and the horse. It was my intention to come down myself with them but I want to go in the mountain. I should particularly wish to see you concerning the Kanaka’s shooting. They go all about my pens shooting and frightened the bullocks away. If there is not a stop put to it I shant be able in a short time to get any this side of the mountain. Likewise they take away my Kanakas, on the Pooaloa [sic] days which prevent my going out till nearly half the week. I most sincerely wish you will be please to make an alteration in the affairs. It injures me a great deal by their shooting and taking my people from me the land you was pleased to give me. I did not except of it was no use to me as there was no grub on it. I am very short of provisions I can’t buy any as it is so scarce in this place. I hope you please to send up to the Governor and ask him to give me another land hoping that you are well is the sincere wishes of your Obedient and Humble Servant Wokene Armas P.S. While the Kanakas are working for me they are doing yours [your work] at the same time.96

As Armas’s letter indicates, his work was in jeopardy because the Native Hawaiians he was assigned to tutor were actually disruptive, slowing down his work for the king. Also, the land Armas had been given did not provide him with enough food to live off of. What this letter also seems to suggest is that Armas was in all likelihood not a very patient teacher. Since the king did not have cash on hand to pay Armas for his services, he gifted Armas land. In 1835, for example, the king provided Armas with his first land title in Kohala, known as Pualaulu.97 Armas worked diligently to enrich the king. According to his records, over the course of his time working for the king, Armas provided him with a sum of $60,600 in cattle, hides, and tallow.98 In order to clear his debts to Armas, the king promised Armas additional land and a house, which he honored. In 1837, King Kamehameha III gave Armas a

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house site named Moanui, and Armas was named konohiki (one who occupies land under a chief ) of an ahupua’a (land division) in Lahaina, Maui. The house, which would later be used as a hospital for seamen, would later be known as the “Hospital Place.” The estate included two leles (noncontiguous parcels of land) upon which there were existing kalo (taro) patches.99 According to Shinseki, Armas’s title of konohiki was “conceivably the first political position held by a Mexican in Hawaiʻi.”100 Armas did not immediately relocate to Moanui but continued to work in Waimea until around 1840–­1841. When he did relocate to the property given to him by the king, Armas became active in securing a livelihood. He immediately took out a provisioner’s license, established the seaman’s hospital, and had a contract with merchant William French to provide him with beef from Big Island. In order to do this, Armas also purchased a sailing vessel to transport cattle.101 Although Armas trained some Native Hawaiians in cattle ranching, most of the time he preferred to work alone. This was most likely because Armas felt he could get more work completed in time on his own to meet the king’s demands for a specific number of hides per month, which he was under pressure to produce. It could very well be that he also wanted to keep the commercial rewards to himself. An incident, for example, occurred when the king assigned him a worker but Armas refused. In the letter that Armas wrote to Alex Simpson, acting consul to His Majesty, on March 15, 1843, he described the incident where the king sent a Hawaiian to work under the guidance of Armas around 1839.102 Given that Armas had been working primarily alone and had endured many hardships in order to meet his quota, in his stubbornness and impatience as a tutor, he refused the help. Armas recollected in his letter, Some time ago there was a man sent by the King to Hawaii for the purpose of working with me. I objected to it as he knew nothing of the business and as he was a Native of these islands. From my objecting to him I offended the King, for in a short time afterward Kekauluohi came to Waimea and took everything from me, cattle I had raised, oxen I had broken into work and horses I had purchased with my hard labor and left me pennyless [sic]. Mr. Charlton is aware of the truth of my assertions and fidelity with which I served the King after spending a great portion of my life in enriching him and injuring my constitution in his service to be turned adrift as a vagabond in poverty. I consider my case to be hard indeed, had it not been for Governor Adams’s kindness in giving me employment with which he paid me handsomely for I should have been destitute for having contracted some debts in paying people I had imployed [sic] to do the King’s work I had to sacrafice [sic] the little I received from the Governor to discharge those debts. Kekauluohi refusing to pay them when her [sic] stripped me of everything.103

One could question whether Armas’s response was warranted because of the pressure he was under to produce a certain amount of hides per month for the king

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or if there were racial undertones to his refusal because the worker in question was “Native” and seen as unqualified to help him with the job. However, it was also Armas’s responsibility to tutor his Native Hawaiian apprentices to learn the vaquero trade. Either way, as Armas’s correspondence reveals, he not only fell out of favor with the king but also had a quarrel with another royal Hawaiian official. This dispute occurred in April 1839 with Kekāuluohi, the new Kuhina Nui (prime minister) of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. This incident likely stemmed from the fact that Armas was being mistreated and targeted because he was Catholic in a predominantly Protestant Hawaiian community that prohibited Catholicism from 1837 to 1839. This changed, however, when King Kamehameha III signed the Edict of Toleration on June 17, 1839, officially ending the persecution of Catholics in Hawaiʻi.104 As these sources also suggest, the anti-­Catholic prejudice and lingering animosity toward Armas may have been the reason his possessions were taken from him and he was terminated from service.105 The king may have also kept Armas’s religion hidden up to that point so that he could continue making money to pay off his debts.106 However, Armas’s refusal of the king’s request to hire the Native Hawaiian worker likely caused him to fall out of favor with the king. As a result, King Kamehameha  III did not support Armas during his conflict with Kekāuluohi, and Armas lost his possessions. After nine years of service to the king, Armas was sent adrift without pay for all his hard work. It seems that Armas’s stubbornness and religious affiliation worked against him despite what the king earned through his labor. To make matters worse, in 1840, the king and Governor Adams placed a new kapu on the killing of cattle, since they were being overhunted. At this point, Armas no longer had the means to make a living in Waimea, so he moved to Lahaina on the island of Maui to start over again.107 In 1841, Armas relocated to Lahaina, Maui, to reside at his property in Moanui; his brother, Felipe, also joined him. The Armas brothers soon befriended Joseph Mellish, a merchant in Lahaina. For a while, the Armas brothers worked as clerks for Mellish and supplied visiting ships with provisions. Joaquin, however, soon went back to working as a vaquero.108 The record books of Joseph Mellish demonstrate this by his active account from February 1845 to June 1846, where he received some large payments, which other scholars have suggested were more than the salary of a clerk. This indicates that Armas continued to work as a vaquero for the next few years. He also maintained his business ties to Waimea. In 1847, William French contracted Armas as his exclusive cattle agent. Armas was hired to pasture and butcher cattle and continue supplying beef, hides, and tallow to visiting ships.109 Armas continued to live and work in Hawaiʻi and eventually applied for citizenship. It appears that he was so invested in his work and life in Hawaiʻi that he chose to give up his Mexican citizenship in order to be a citizen of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. On January 25, 1845, Joaquin Armas, a native of México who had resided in California, became a naturalized citizen of the Hawaiian

FIGURE 3.   Naturalization record of Joaquin Armas, who became a naturalized citizen of the

Hawaiian Kingdom on January 25, 1845. This suggests his intention at the time to remain in Hawaiʻi as a loyal citizen of the Hawaiian Kingdom. Image courtesy of Hawaiʻi State Archives.

FIGURE 4.   Letter from Joaquin Armas to Keoni Ana, November 27, 1846, regarding the leas-

ing of land in Honokohau, Lahaina, Maui. Keoni Ana was Kuhina Nui under King Kamehameha III. This letter was written to Keoni Ana in Hawaiian, which suggests that Joaquin had learned to read, write, and speak Hawaiian since his arrival in the Hawaiian Kingdom in 1831. Original letter also includes an English translation by E. H. Hart. Image courtesy of Hawaiʻi State Archives.

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Kingdom, wherein he swore “upon his oath  .  .  . that he [would] support the constitution and laws of the Hawaiian Islands, and bear true allegiance to His Majesty, Kamehameha III the King, hereby renouncing all allegiance to every other Government, particularly that of México.”110 On November  27, 1846, Joaquin Armas applied for another land lease on the island of Maui. On December 10, 1846, a petition was granted by the Privy Council of Hawaiʻi that included “suitable pasture lands for the raising of cattle in the lands of Kahuloa and Honokahau [sic] for the term of 25 years at an annual rental of $500.”111 According to Shinseki, this amounted to over 1,911 acres of land, which made Armas “a well-­known and important figure in Lahaina in the 1840s.”112 Armas continued to rebuild his life and make a name for himself in Lahaina. However, some disputes concerning his previous land titles granted by the king forced him to court. According to Land Commission testimonies, Armas had disputes with some Native Hawaiians over land boundaries and a Chinese tenant/merchant from whom Armas collected rent. These lands and dwellings included “Hospital Place,” Moanui, and Kanaka Valley, all in Lahaina, Maui. There was a claim by one Nawaakoa, who received part of these lands from Governor Hoapili in 1823. As someone named Kaumauma testified in this case, “Joachin [sic] Armas the Konohiki took it away because he was konohiki.”113 There was also the conspicuous case of Ah Chon, a Chinese immigrant who ran a store out of a dwelling under an agreement with the king in 1833. Ah Chon was also informed to leave so Armas could move in after he relocated to Maui.114 These incidents reveal something worth noting. Armas’s labor on behalf of King Kamehameha III enabled him to acquire land, which, as court records show, put him in direct conflict with some Native Hawaiians and other foreign residents. Armas’s recognition and favor by the king no doubt led to certain class privileges over others, particularly Native Hawaiian commoners. This may have caused resentment toward Armas, who may have also felt that his years of service for the king and other royal officials afforded him these privileges, providing yet another layer of complexity to the discussion of settler colonialism, since he was an invited and, at times, favored guest. In his defense, Joaquin Armas disputed these claims, since the king had given these lands to him as gifts in return for years of service and enriching His Majesty. He was gifted them in 1837 and held them in “quiet possession” until he moved back to Lahaina.115 To back Armas’s claims, the king also testified as a witness to the effect that he did give him the land in Moanui but was not sure if that included the kalo patches, though it very well could have. On November 17, 1847, the board ruled in favor of Joaquin Armas, stating, “As kalo patches usually accompany gifts of land it was more than probable that the one contiguous to the Hospital Place had been given with it at that same time.”116 This decision followed a previous Land Commission ruling on December 25, 1846, upholding all Armas’s claims, noting, “His Majesty the Chief Witness to the Claimant states, that he gave this place to Armas . . . not in fee simple, but to hold during

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his life.”117 This life estate would be honored in exchange for a fee simple title, as prescribed by law. Prior to these legal troubles, Joaquin Armas was married to a Hawaiian woman after taking his oath of allegiance to the Hawaiian Kingdom on or after January 7, 1845. It apparently was an unhappy marriage that did not last long, though they did have one child named Luisa. They divorced on August 6, 1847, due to his wife’s misdeeds, which were published by the Interior Office of the Hawaiian Kingdom on August 6, 1847.118 Incidentally, Joaquin’s brother, Felipe, also married a Hawaiian woman of Hawaiian and English ancestry, Mary Richardson, and fathered two children, María and Lucía.119 After sixteen years, Felipe Armas and his children eventually left the Hawaiian Kingdom to return to Alta California on July 15, 1848.120 Joaquin soon followed Felipe, leaving on October 2, 1848, to also return to Alta California. It was possible he left to deal with the aftermath of the U.S. takeover of Alta California in their war with México. He also could have left because he wanted to return to California and be close to his family. Either way, Armas departed and brought his twelve-­year-­old daughter, Luisa, with him.121 Although Armas was in Alta California, he seems to have still had a holding interest in land, retail goods, and other wares, as noted in licensing notices published in the Polynesian dating to April 1849. The license was for a schooner, which he named Maria, that may have been used to ship cattle.122 Joaquin Armas’s life back in Alta California was short lived, though. Just one year later, on December 19, 1850, Armas died of cholera in Pajaro Valley, as recorded by Fray Filomeno Ursula.123 He died in Alta California, a citizen of the Hawaiian Kingdom. Felipe Armas, however, did well for himself in California. He became a justice of the peace under the new American government in 1850 and was also reported to have been an ex officio member of the court of sessions. A Santa Cruz County register in 1866 mentioned Felipe as being fifty years old and a farmer in Pescadero, California. Another source noted that Felipe lived until the 1870s and also prospered as a merchant and rancher in his final years during the American period, though he was “representative of a subculture that did not prosper and survive: the Californio merchant class.”124 Interestingly, just one week before he died, Joaquin Armas finalized his will. He formally mentioned his daughter, Luisa (presumably the sole legal heir of his estate), and identified his brother, Felipe, as the executor of his interests in Hawaiʻi. This included Joaquin Armas’s declaration that he had made the king an estimated $65,000, and “he should pay me a third part.” Armas signed his will at Rancho Trinidad on December 18, 1850.125 Armas was ordered to appear in Honolulu on January 6, 1851, but he died several weeks before his court date.126 After his death, the Polynesian published a notice of Joaquin Armas’s real estate put up for sale. This included his residence in Lahaina, known as Hospital Place, with all its belongings, and two pieces of kalo land (estimated at around two acres).127 In 1852, Richard H. Bowlin, attorney for the estate of Joaquin

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Armas, contacted John Young, the minister of the interior, and informed him that Armas’s daughter, Louise (Luisa), “a native of these islands,” was the sole legal heir to Armas’s possessions. Apparently one Jose Antonio, the agent who was in possession of Armas’s land, sought to purchase it directly from the Hawaiian government. Bowlin requested that the Hawaiian government delay this arrangement because he was “prepared to purchase any title the government may have in said land, for the behalf and benefit of Louise.” No further record was found that suggested she received anything from Joaquin’s estate, including the third of the $65,000 Armas felt he was entitled to for his years of service to the King.128 The life of Joaquin Armas reveals an interesting point. Despite working intimately with the king for numerous years and enriching him, his status as a relatively successful businessman and vaquero, being named a konohiki with gifted land from the king, becoming a naturalized citizen of the Hawaiian Kingdom, and even being married briefly to a Hawaiian woman, Joaquin Armas ultimately remained an outsider.129 This feeling of marginalization could have been partly due to his life circumstances and the many misfortunes he experienced (loss of employment, lawsuits, divorce, facing prejudice as a Catholic, etc.). He experienced some tension from Native Hawaiians and other foreign residents he encountered because he was occasionally favored by the king and received gifts of land, most likely at the expense of others. At other times, Armas felt abandoned by his friend and business partner King Kamehameha III. It might have been that Armas had always desired to leave Hawaiʻi for his home in México, where he had closer attachments to his family and community. It is hard to discern what he may have thought as he decided to board the ship back to Alta California in 1848. Nevertheless, he left Hawaiʻi behind and died in his native land of Alta California. His story, however, merits attention. Armas was the first vaquero to be invited in 1831 to stay as an invited guest in the Hawaiian Kingdom, had direct communication with the king, and had achieved a measure of success, even if short lived, as a vaquero, businessman, cattle agent, and merchant. He was a transnational foreign expert who relied on his business relationships with the aliʻi class and, at times, other elite businessmen for his livelihood. He could also be seen as an expert at his trade in cattle ranching, yet he was unwilling to train others when it didn’t suit him. In all likelihood, Joaquin; his brother, Felipe; and their Hawaiian wives may have also had the kingdom’s first mixed race Native Hawaiian/Mexican children. Armas’s disillusionment, however, seems to have been unique in its own right, as subsequent Mexican vaqueros who came to Hawaiʻi had different experiences, with many deciding to stay in Hawaiʻi. Indeed, Joaquin was not the only Mexican vaquero who ended up serving the independent Hawaiian Kingdom during the early years of the cattle ranching system in the 1830s. One source suggests that Armas may have put the king into contact with the missions in Monterey, Alta California, to secure additional vaqueros.130 Evidence of this is noted in a source that states, “Joaquin apparently came to Honolulu occasionally to discuss business with the King and buy

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a bottle of gin or a pig from Mr. French. Later he and other Mexicans traded at French’s stores in Kawaihae and Waimea.”131 These other vaqueros were also remembered as Huanu ( Juan), Hoke ( Jose), and Hoachina ( Joaquin), with two of them residing in Waimea in 1833. Unlike Armas, these other vaqueros went on to train most of the Hawaiian paniolos.132 According to the Sandwich Island Gazette, there was also reportedly a small “Spanish” community in the town of Waimea in 1836.133 One observer noted how foreigners were coming to reside in Waimea to work in cattle farms and other related industries.134 This could suggest there were more than a handful of Mexican vaqueros. The vaqueros were also dispersed throughout Hawaiʻi. According to paniolo historian Billy Bergin, twelve vaqueros initially came to the Hawaiian Islands. Of those, three went to the Big Island (Hawaiʻi Island), and other vaqueros went to Oʻahu, Maui, and Kauaʻi.135 The three men on Big Island were remembered as Kossuth, Louzada, and Ramón Baesa. Many sources also cite them as being among the first group of vaqueros to arrive in Waimea, sometime between 1832 and 1833.136 They also tutored their Native Hawaiian counterparts and brought with them “their richly adorned saddles and broad winged stirrups.”137 It is also possible that these were the other Mexican vaqueros mentioned who went to the same stores to trade as Joaquin Armas in Kawaihae and Waimea on Hawaiʻi Island.138 All the vaqueros mentioned were also active in Hawaiʻi and teaching Native Hawaiians how to herd cattle.139 In addition to the oral stories of the first vaqueros who came to Hawaiʻi, some historical evidence places both Louzada and Ramón Baesa on Hawaiʻi Island. For example, James (English for Jaime) Louzada is mentioned in an 1869 death notice. According to the Hawaiian Gazette, Louzada first came to Hawaiʻi in 1835 (a few years after the popular date of his arrival) and was considered at the time one of the oldest foreign residents in the Hawaiian Islands. Louzada lived for thirty-­four years in Hawaiʻi, where he worked for years in cattle ranching and trading in Waimea, Hawaiʻi Island. He engaged in other agricultural pursuits, such as cultivating sugar cane in Wailuku, Maui. He was known fondly as “a straight forward and honorable man, ever mindful of the rights of others, never turning his back upon those who appealed to his generosity.” He died November 4, 1869, at the age of fifty-­seven years.140 This very well could be the Louzada of the oral history memory that exists. Federico “Ramón” Baesa also came to Waimea with his Yaqui wife, Vincenta Romero, and his sons, Federico and José Ramón. Both sons married Native Hawaiian women. José Ramón is said to “have married Mary Kainoakupuna Kalahohina (born 1850 in Pololu, island of Hawaiʻi) and together they had nine children, seven boys and two girls.”141 This family was a part of the Bell/Kainoa genealogy, which remains an important family in the history of Hawaiʻi’s paniolos. For example, Peter K. Kainoa was a well-­known paniolo who was recognized as being a great roper on the range and in the arena. As Bergin notes, “He fathered fifteen children with Rose Caitano to make up the Mexican, Chilean,

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FIGURE 5.   This is a passenger list from the Florence, dated March 29, 1864, from the coast of

California (Loreto, Baja California), México to Honolulu, Oʻahu. Listed among the passengers is Ramón Baesa (written here as Baeso and also spelled Baeza). Ramón Baesa’s descendants would become part of Hawaiʻi Island’s early Mexican vaquero and Hawaiian paniolo genealogy. Image courtesy of Hawaiʻi State Archives.

Scottish and Hawaiian Kainoa line.”142 Baesa’s descendants are still a part of Hawaiʻi’s paniolo community and the island’s growing mixed race population that claims multiple ancestries. The famous paniolo Eben Low also mentions a Ramón Baesa who came to Hawaiʻi with two other vaqueros yet remained with his family on Hawaiʻi Island while other vaqueros returned after the renewed 1840 kapu on the killing of cattle.143 Finally, there was Miguel Castro, a Mexican vaquero from San Diego, Alta California. He was known as Kauaʻi’s first vaquero. Castro worked on a ranch at Kawaihae on Hawaiʻi Island. Castro’s reputation—­as a skilled vaquero and expert rope and saddle maker and rope hurler—­garnered the attention of G. P. Judd, the king’s minister of finance. Castro signed an agreement with Judd; in return for managing the kingdom’s cattle at Wailua, Kauaʻi, he would be provided a house to live in and an additional structure where he could store milk and pens for the cattle and calves.144 Given his reputation as a skilled vaquero, Castro not only worked on Kauaʻi but also had business ties in Waimea on Hawaiʻi Island. For example, on November 28, 1850, on Kauaʻi, Castro was approached by a vaquero named Huanu ( Juan) Paniola who sought employment to tend

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cattle at Waimea and requested his assistance.145 While on Kauaʻi, Castro also entered a contract with King Liholiho (Kamehameha IV) to work for two years in Waimea. In a letter written to William Webster on September 12, 1856, the king informed him, “He [Castro] is to go up to Waimea, and then to the mountains to catch all the cattle he can for hide and tallow.” In return for his services, Castro was given horses, thirty dollars a month, and a fifty-­dollar advance on his salary. The king also clarified, “It is not his idea, but quite my own, especially since our tame cattle are also up in Waimea.”146 While living on Kauaʻi, Castro married Kikila, a Hawaiian woman with whom he fathered several children. Castro also converted from Catholicism to Protestantism. As Shinseki also acknowledges, Castro taught his skills throughout Kauaʻi; he even spent his later years in Koʻolau, Kauaʻi. And sadly, in 1869, Miguel Castro drowned in Kauaʻi’s Lumahaʻi River—­the place would later be known as Miguel’s Valley.147 Mexican vaqueros who came to Hawaiʻi did not just come from Alta California. They also arrived from Vera Cruz, México. Consider the little-­known story of a Hawaiian paniolo who trained in México and was also responsible for bringing additional Mexican vaqueros with him from the Mexican state of Vera Cruz. This story involves William Malulani Kaleipaihala Beckley, whose father, Captain George Beckley, had been a close adviser to King Kamehameha the Great and had married Hawaiian chiefess Ahia Kalanikumaiki’eki’e. As Lake shared, since George Beckley owned a ranch in Vera Cruz, México, “Their son, William Malulani, was trained at the Beckley ranch in México and returned to become Konohiki of Waimea, and manager of all the King’s cattle. William also employed some of the finest Mexican vaqueros, eventually establishing his own ranch in Waimea, which he called Little México.”148 Since George Beckley had also been trained by Mexican vaqueros, it made sense that when he came back to Hawaiʻi, King Kamehameha III would entrust him to manage his cattle herds and be responsible for recruiting additional vaqueros to continue teaching Hawaiians the ways of cattle ranching. And since William was fluent in Spanish and familiar with Mexican customs, it also suggests that he would be involved in this endeavor.149 As konohiki and manager of the Hawaiian government cattle, William Beckley “took charge of a group of Spanish American [Mexican] and Hawaiian cowboys, branded all the cattle ranging on government land, and established himself as one of the most important men in the region.”150 As William French’s business ended due to bankruptcy, Beckley and his paniolos became the primary cattlemen in Waimea by 1845.151 Not only was Beckley active in maintaining Indigenous economic control over Hawaiian Kingdom matters, but his relationship to Mexican vaqueros both in México and in Hawaiʻi—­and what he learned from them over the decades—­demonstrates the unique relationship they had with one another. Although the stories of these early vaqueros are less documented than that of Armas, their lasting legacy through genealogy and the rootedness of these families to Hawaiʻi speaks volumes to this culturally rich, multilayered history.

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FIGURE 6.   Hawaiian paniolos (cowboys) and families at temporary quarters during shipping

of cattle, Hawaiʻi. Photographer unknown, circa 1890. Photo courtesy of the Bishop Museum Archives.

Collectively, these stories also demonstrate the impact of these early Mexican vaqueros in Hawaiʻi as well as how their apprentices, the Hawaiian paniolos, were now coming into their own.

From Mexican Vaquero to Hawaiian Paniolo When Native Hawaiians first met the Mexican vaqueros, they referred to them as paniolos. One paniolo assessed the Native Hawaiian interaction with the Mexican vaqueros: “Hearing the word espaniol [sic] constantly, they Hawaiianized it to paniolo or paniola. From that time on, these cowboys called themselves paniolos. Many of the current generation of paniolos are descendants of the original Hawaiian cowboys.”152 The Hawaiian paniolos soon called themselves by the same name, which has come to be synonymous with Hawaiian and Hawaiʻi-­born cowboys.153 It also connected them to this genealogy of Mexican vaquero culture.154 In addition to the name, the Mexican vaqueros shared their skills and cattle ranching methods as well as their material culture, which left a lasting cultural imprint on Hawaiʻi’s ranching community. Their Native Hawaiian counterparts then adapted what they learned to suit their own style and environment. This

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included learning from raw experience rather than what the vaqueros could teach them. For example, the wild cattle in Hawaiʻi were not like the more domesticated steers in México and the U.S. Southwest; they were far more dangerous. This was one way in which the Hawaiian paniolos held an advantage over their Mexican counterparts: “Once the Hawaiians learned the horsemanship and roping of the vaqueros, they became peerless in their work just because of their familiarity with the wild beasts and the terrain.”155 Sherwood Greenwell recalled, “These Mexicans taught the Hawaiian how to be cowboys, and the paniolo soon added their Indigenous touch to the vaquero style of horsemanship, riding gear and flamboyant dress. On their cowboy hats the paniolos placed wreaths of orchids and flowering leis. They changed the Mexican high horned saddles into horned saddles of their own design. And they trained the Mexican mustangs to hop and skip across the precarious lava flows, known in Hawaii as the ʻaʻā.”156 In addition to navigating the perilous lava landscape, Hawaiian paniolos also had excellent water skills, were able to guide and transport cattle in the ocean and onto the boats that would carry them to the waiting ships, and were expert fishermen.157 Native Hawaiians also adopted and altered the material and musical culture of the vaquero. As one observer recalled, the “Mexican designs linger in the tooling on saddles, the designs of bits, bridles and spurs.”158 The vaqueros not only taught the Hawaiians the skills and art of the Mexican vaquero culture; they also established a local leather industry that supplied the islands with leather goods.159 The vaqueros taught their Hawaiian apprentices how to tan leather, and they even inspired the Hawaiians to model their wagons after the stick-­framed Mexican carts.160 Hawaiians soon picked up this trade and eventually passed it down to future generations of paniolos. For example, John Kauwe was a Parker Ranch saddle maker who learned this trade from his grandfather, who was also taught by his father, and so forth, tracing this knowledge back to the early Mexicans who came to Waimea in the early 1830s.161 Paniolos also created saddles of their own. As one source described, “The early saddles (the noholio) were carved in the adder of wooden gods, in a single piece of wood, from the trunks of trees like sculptured works of art. And the Hawaiian saddle horn (the ōkumu) was attached by wooden pegs without nails or lacing. On these wooden frames, rawhide was stretched and decorated with Mexican-­Hawaiian motifs. So, too, the rawhide lariats [the kaula ʻili] of the paniolos were woven with symbols of Polynesian origin.”162 The vaqueros instructed Hawaiians on how to cut and braid lariats from a single hide, which was an important tool of their trade.163 The kaula ʻili was an item of extreme value because of the labor involved to make one. As longtime paniolo Yutaka Kimura recollected, “When you come cowboy, the kaula ʻili is very important for cowboys. It’s very hard to make one kaula ʻili. We used to take good care of them. Even nights we’d have them in our bedrooms.”164 The vaqueros also taught the Hawaiians how to lasso, tame wild cattle and horses, and jerk beef and cure hides. Eager to learn these new skills, the Hawaiians were exemplary students

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who quickly learned from their tutors and soon became equally skilled at their new profession.165 The paniolo uniform also took elements from the Mexican vaquero but Hawaiianized it. For example, the sombrero was made from lauhala (pandanus tree leaves) rather than felt. They also called their hat a papale and decorated it with leis made from local flowers, feathers, and shells. As one source noted about the use of leis on the papales, “Even the roughest, toughest, rowdiest, most rugged and most manly wear lei. We do it for the pure joy and pleasure of it and you cannot tell me that we don’t look handsome as men should.”166 This statement speaks to the way that Hawaiian paniolos visibly expressed their own form of masculinity through this innovative cultural exchange. Their use of flowering leis may be seen as unconventional for Mexican vaqueros and American cowboys, but for the Hawaiian paniolos, it was an important part of their cultural identity and an expression of their masculinity. Indeed, Koele, Lānaʻi, resident Clarence “Hoss” Richardson also recalled the leis he saw the paniolo make for their hats: “Maybe like on a Friday, on a Saturday, they pick up all the flowers, they know all the flowers in the mountain. All of Hawaiʻi. And they make leis. The cowboys. And they put them on their hat.”167 They also wore the pañuelo (bandanna), the palaka plaid shirt, boots, and jeans. Other material items of the paniolo that were adopted from the Mexican vaquero soon had Hawaiian names. This included likini wāwae (riding pants), noho lio (Hawaiian tree saddle), pale keehi (saddle fender), kaula keehi (stirrup leather), keehi (stirrup), ilihuki (to tighten cincha, made from rawhide), okumu (saddle horn), kaula opu (Hawaiian cincha), and palulukehi (taps or zapaderos).168 The guitar is another cultural item that some observers of the time and subsequent scholars have suggested was left behind by the Mexican vaqueros. Other scholars question the validity of this historical account. These competing narratives, however, urge us to see in what ways one group can leave a cultural imprint on another and to what extent this cultural influence manifests itself over time. Evidence of Mexican vaqueros leaving behind their guitars, for example, is suggested in an 1888 Paradise of the Pacific article: “It seems that the guitar was brought to the islands from Mexico at a time when there was considerable intercourse between the two countries, in the early part of the century.”169 Others, such as historian and steel guitarist John W. Troutman, for example, speculate whether the instrument could have arrived sooner on the islands and not with the vaqueros. Other writers have also suggested that guitars could have arrived as early as 1818 when King Kamehameha sent eighty Hawaiians to Monterey, California, or they could have arrived with early Spanish residents in Hawaiʻi. According to Troutman, one thing is for certain: “A paniolo tradition remains celebrated and strong in the islands, as does a tradition of paniolo songs.”170 This suggests that guitars from the territory of Alta California may have arrived before 1832, but the interactions with the Mexican vaqueros seemed to be the moment in which guitar playing among Native Hawaiian paniolos took root

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FIGURE 7.   Hawaiian paniolos eating lunch, Hawaiʻi. The third man from the right is James K.

Palaika (Brighter). Photographer unknown, circa 1930s. Photo courtesy of the Bishop Museum Archives.

and connected them to vaquero culture while they also created a style that was their own.171 Although skeptical that there was any real Mexican vaquero influence outside sharing the basics of guitar playing with their Hawaiian counterparts, music historian George Kanahele posits that “we can safely assume that the vaqueros played their guitars and sang their songs just the way they had always done on the ranges in Mexico and that the paniolos were intrigued by what they heard.”172 Ethnomusicologist Ricardo D. Trimillos, however, suggests another view. He posits that Mexican vaqueros left a musical imprint in Hawaiʻi: “There is quite a great amount of Spanish influence in the songs of the monarchy period of the 19th century. The monarchy was very much aware of the Spanish and Mexican heritage. Liliʻuokalani included Spanish words in her texts. The cowboy tradition also did this in one of the very famous songs ‘Adios Ke Aloha’ by Prince Leiliohoku. The idea of slack key, that is open tunings for guitar, was something that was found already both in Spain and in Mexico. Vaqueros came from the Vera Cruz area, which is famous for falsetto singing.”173 Indeed, the intercultural encounters between Mexican vaqueros and Hawaiian paniolos and Native Hawaiians’ exposure through vaquero music speak to what historian Tyina Steptoe calls “diasporic conversations,” where these interactions can suggest how Mexicans left a musical impression in Hawaiʻi.174 Others have

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also suggested, however, that outside of the guitars they left behind, Mexican vaqueros left almost no trace or imprint on Hawaiian music and songs. The exception to this would be the song “Adiós Ke Aloha.”175 Written by Prince Leliōhoku in the 1870s, “Adiós Ke Aloha” (Goodbye, my love) was a popular song that the Royal Hawaiian Band played frequently. As Kanahele notes about the possible Mexican influence, “The song is of particular interest because of its Mexican connection. The fact that it contains the word adios and that its setting is in Waimea, Hawaiʻi, where the Mexican cowboys or vaqueros first came to work, suggests Spanish origins.”176 Others, such as Samuel H. Elbert and Noelani Mahoe, have suggested that Mexican cowboys at Waimea added the Spanish words to the song.177 Kanahele, however, contends that despite some similarities, the Mexican vaqueros were no longer a presence in Hawaiʻi by 1860; thus their impact may not have been as pronounced as previously thought. For example, Kanahele notes, “How does one explain that there are also no recognizable Mexican tunes among the repertory of Hawaiian songs in or about Waimea? Or why there are no Spanish words or even references to Mexico in any of the lyrics of Hawaiian songs.”178 I would suggest that perhaps it’s not impossible to consider this lingering evidence as a cultural remnant given the influence Mexican vaqueros had on the countryside paniolo culture of Waimea, even if they were considered a thing of the past. For example, Queen Liliʻuokalani was said to have spent much of her childhood in Waimea and wrote songs in both Hawaiian and Spanish.179 Elbert and Mahoe also point out that “Spanish words such as bonito [pretty] were used in Hawaiian songs composed at the time that Mexican cowboys were in the islands.”180 One song that includes the word bonito is “Hālona” by J. Elia. Written to describe a specific gulch and mountain located in the Lahaina area of Maui, the words are as follows: “Me ʻoe ke aloha bonito / Aloha bonito to you.” “Pulupē nei ili I ke anu” [My skin is cold and wet] also has the word buenos, which can mean “goodnight” in the context of the song: “Buenos once more e ke hoa / Buenos, once more, my dear.” Other meles that pay homage to the Hawaiian paniolo include “Ka Paniolo Nui o Molokaʻi” and “ʻUlupalakua.”181 Indeed, these tiny but significant remnants were perhaps a way to remember those who left behind their cultural footprint. In fact, a number of vaqueros did remain in Hawaiʻi, and subsequent generations of Hawaiian paniolos who claim Mexican heritage are a testament to the idea that cultural influences can still blend into others if a group made a significant cultural impact. “Adiós Ke Aloha” also continued to be a part of the paniolo musical heritage, as seen by the 1997 compilation album Na Mele O Paniolo: Songs of the Hawaiian Cowboy.182 In addition, the influence of the Mexican vaquero continues to manifest in the twenty-­first century. As previously mentioned, Kuana Torres Kahele’s “Nā Vaqueros” pays homage to the Mexican vaqueros in a song that is in Hawaiian and Spanish. Other songs, like “La Canción de los Paniolos” and “Los Vaqueros Hawaiianos,” among others, also pay tribute to the Mexican influence

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on Hawaiʻi’s paniolo culture.183 Given the cultural influence the Mexican vaqueros had while they were in Hawaiʻi, I suggest that this would be one reason why “Adiós Ke Aloha” could have been influenced by Mexican vaqueros even if others during their time saw them as fading away into the sunset. It was a way to recognize and pay tribute to their cultural contributions to the islands and the special relationship they must have had as invited guests to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. Some vaqueros, like the Armas brothers, may have left Hawaiʻi after spending a number of years on the ranches, but for paniolo families who are descended from this first group of vaqueros, like Baesa, Castro, and Sproat, their genealogy—­both human and cultural—­remains a part of Hawaiʻi today. Subsequent songs in the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries, like those of Torres and others, also continue to give a cultural nod to the Mexican vaqueros and how they shaped Hawaiʻi’s paniolo culture. It also signifies for the vaqueros’ descendants an evolving Pacific Latinidad that is nurtured by Hawaiʻi. In addition to guitars and songs, there was also the cultural transformation of the style of guitar playing, which others have suggested the paniolos developed. As with the vaquero culture that was shared with them by their Mexican counterparts, Hawaiians adapted and reconfigured the guitar to suit their style. The style of guitar making and playing also became Hawaiianized. Native woods, for example, such as koa were used in making guitars.184 As Okihiro notes, “Perhaps the earliest Hawaiian guitar innovation was developed by the paniolos, like Ikua Purdy, who veered from their Mexican teachers in both ranching techniques and guitar playing.”185 This distinct Hawaiian style of playing the guitar and its sound, which was done through open tuning, became known as kī hō’alu, or slack key. As Kanahele notes, “Slack key can be defined, therefore, as the combination of loosening the strings, with the thumb playing the bass strings to produce tonic, dominant and sub-­dominant harmonies, while the other fingers pluck the melody on the upper strings.”186 This unique style, as Hawaiian slack key legend Ledward Kaapana shares, developed out of necessity: “Then they (Mexican vaqueros) left, they left their guitars, but forgot to teach the Hawaiians how to tune them. So, the Hawaiians created their own tuning.”187 This style of playing has continued to be a staple in the music of Hawaiʻi, is celebrated on the islands with slack key music festivals, and is also popular worldwide. In addition to Kaapana (who received the National Endowment for the Arts National Heritage Fellowship in 2011), other legends who continue to perpetuate slack key guitar music and inspire future generations include the late Cyril Pahinui, George Kahumoku Jr., and Sonny Lim, among others. These were just some of the ways that Hawaiʻi’s paniolo learned from the Mexican vaqueros and made this style of music uniquely their own.

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The Rise of the Hawaiian Paniolo By 1836, Native Hawaiians were saddling up and taking the lead as paniolos. As one chronicler observed, “The Hawaiians found this dashing outdoor life to be highly congenial, and soon mastered the ranch hand’s trade”188 Soon the Hawaiian paniolo would be the face of the ranching community, and the era of the Mexican vaquero would be seen as a thing of the past, as many departed with the 1840 kapu on the killing of cattle. It was suggested that the Mexican vaquero all but disappeared by 1860. One source reported, “The imported vaqueros of Hawaii have disappeared before the march of time, and their perilous adventures in pursuit of the wild cattle among the gulches and over the hills and plains of Mauna Kea are only remembered and rehearsed by some of the old residents. In their place has sprung up a class of Hawaiian mountaineers, equally as skillful horsemen as their foreign predecessors, but leading a vagabond sort of life, alternating between hardships and privation on the mountain and plenty and lavish expenditure on their return to the settlements.”189 I, however, contend that they did not disappear; rather, those Mexicans who remained blended into the active cultural mixing of peoples who make up Hawaiʻi today. They may have left the ranges to the Hawaiian paniolos, but their genealogy still exists, as does their cultural footprint. The paniolos of Hawaiʻi continue to remember their Mexican tutors, with whom they had forged intimate connections. Without a doubt, the Hawaiian paniolos took center stage in the countryside of the Hawaiian Islands, and they have inspired their own tradition of remembering. Kanahele assesses, “Just as the Western cowboy came to be romanticized by Americans, so did the paniolo come to be lionized by Hawaiians and transformed into the stuff of which legends are made.”190 These legends were made not only on the Hawaiian slopes but also on the rodeo scene. One such legend was Waimea resident and paniolo Ikua Purdy, who was the most famous paniolo of Hawaiʻi. He also worked for the Parker Ranch.191 Purdy went on to win the 1908 World Championship title in steer roping at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo in Wyoming, defeating Angus MacPhee, who had been the reigning world champion for five years. Two other paniolos who came with Purdy to Wyoming also placed—­Archie Kaʻauʻa won third place, and Jack Low won sixth. Then they traveled to Oregon and swept several events before making their way back to Hawaiʻi, where the newspapers applauded their victories.192 The triumphs of Purdy and his companions reveal an important point. Purdy was credited by the press for beating a white American cowboy at his own game. However, since both the Mexican vaquero and the Hawaiian paniolo existed long before the American cowboy, how could this be a white cowboy’s game when the first cowboys were actually Indigenous? Purdy’s victory in Wyoming was significant. Given the continental U.S. notions of white supremacy and imperialism and the attitude whites had toward their colonial possessions,

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white American manhood was at the center of the image of the cowboy. That a brown, Indigenous paniolo from Hawaiʻi won first place in the 1908 World Championship title in steer roping shattered those racial notions of global white supremacy in the white American West. The Hawaiian paniolos were a force to reckon with. Purdy would be the most famous paniolo and is even considered a folk legend. He inspired several beloved paniolo songs, including “Waiomina,” “Waimea Cowboy,” and “Hawaiian Cowboy.”193 Other famous paniolos would include Eben Parker Low, who was a direct descendant of King Kamehameha I from his matrilineal lineage.194 The paniolos of Hawaiʻi still maintain a strong presence in the countryside culture throughout most of the Hawaiian Islands. The paniolo is descended from not only the early blending of Kānaka Maoli and Mexicans but also a number of different mixed ancestries, such as Japanese, Puerto Rican, Portuguese, Filipino, Black, Chinese, haole, and other groups.195 The primary language used in the paniolo ranching community was Hawaiian in the material culture of the paniolo—­ranching methods, place names, native plants, food, and so on—­with Hawaiian Pidgin English to accompany it. As one ranch worker shared, “I work with them (paniolos). Cowboys, most they talk Hawaiian. Then I learn from them. I learn from what they talk. Most the Hawaiian word, they talk Hawaiian. All the cowboy. They no talk English too much.”196 Veteran paniolo Robert Kamuela “Sonny” Keakealani Jr. also revealed the use of Hawaiian language in paniolo life: “When we work cattle on Parker Ranch, we still use our grandma’s tongue. I do a lot and a lot of Parker Ranch boys do. Especially when we are working, identifying and use it, all the ʻŌlelo Kanaka. That’s talking in Hawaiian.”197 This demonstrates how Native Hawaiians and later paniolos of Hawaiʻi utilized Hawaiian as the primary language of paniolo ranch life and thus kept it distinctly Hawaiian. Paniolo culture, however, was not just a male enterprise. Women, for example, were also present in the early years of the paniolos and rode alongside them, though as historian Elyssa Ford notes, few women were hired outright as paniolas.198 Despite this, women engaged in horse riding. As one source noted, “They [women riders] would often decorate their horses with flowers and lei, even for short rides to the mountains, to the seaside for a picnic, or just for an afternoon of dalliance.”199 Some women also taught their male counterparts how to ride horses. Indeed, Hawaiian women were just as skilled in horsemanship as the men were.200 As paniolo Sonny Keakealani  Jr. recalled, “Grandma and them used to kauwale. Kauwale means rides bare back. Kauʻili ho, them the ones when teach grandpa and them how to ride. Yeah. That’s how she told me.”201 In later years, other women also participated as paniolas. For example, Kapua Heuer reflected on her work as a paniola in Hilo, Hawaiʻi: “I was the only one I ever knew; only female that ever participated in shipping cattle, that is roping them and taking them out.”202 Others, like Joelle Aki Barfield of Koele, Lānaʻi, shared, “My dad taught my sisters and I about horsemanship and it was

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really important to me because I knew that one day when I had a family, I would want my family to be brought up this way.”203 Native Hawaiian and mixed race women from long-­standing paniolo ranching families in Hawaiʻi also participate as pāʻū riders, a term to reference their wrapped or draped skirts. Pāʻū skirts were “worn by Native Hawaiian women from the early 1820s onward, to protect their garments as they rode on horseback.”204 The term, as Hawaiian studies scholar and Kumu Hula Jerald “Kimo” Alama Keaulana notes, originates from Hawaiian hula clothing.205 The women ride their horses astride rather than sidesaddle. According to the Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi traveling exhibition, “It is said that because Hawaiian women were agile, straightforward, and free from inhibitions they could not sanction the side-­saddle style of mounting a horse common to Western women. Thus, they would draw up the back end of their pāʻū and mount their horses astride.”206 Today pāʻū riders participate in numerous Hawaiian festivals, such as King Kamehameha Day and the Aloha Festival throughout the Hawaiian Islands.207 Although the Hawaiian paniolo culture has endured, some paniolos have mixed feelings about the future regarding their way of life. Some see it perpetuating but with some changes. For example, Willy Andrade, a Big Island rancher, posited, “There’ll always be ranching, cowboys, there’ll always be cowboys. . . . But lands are getting scarce, you know? Harder to get. And more and more people are moving in. It’s going to get smaller, let’s face it. With me, I feel that what [land] I have, I want to keep it for my children, you know? Because if I sell it, I’ll have the money but no land. They can’t afford to buy land later on. I hope that people will continue ranching, because ranching has been a good life.”208 This concern reinforces the importance of the ʻāina and what it means to have a continued presence and genealogical tie to the land. The paniolo ranching community continues to promote their traditions and way of life with rodeos throughout the Hawaiian Islands, such as the Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo and the Parker Ranch July 4 Rodeo (Big Island), Koloa Plantation Days Rodeo (Kauaʻi), Molokaʻi Stampede (Molokaʻi), Makawao Rodeo (Maui), and Hawaii All-­American Rodeo (Oʻahu), among others. There is also the Paniolo Hall of Fame. These events keep the paniolo tradition alive. In February 2019, for example, I was able to witness the rich cultural tradition of Hawaiʻi’s paniolo community with the Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo, held on Hawaiʻi Island. Contestants of all ages participated, as young as five years old. It was a competition and celebration of strength, agility, and skill to ride, rope, and tackle the steers (and sheep in the children’s competition), which left the audience in awe, myself included. The commentators would announce the various contestants, some of whom are fifth-­generation paniolos. This included paniolos (both men and women) from all different mixed Indigenous racial and ethnic backgrounds and an audience that was predominantly brown and local, something not seen in the continental United States. What was also interesting about the competition was that it was the women paniolos who took center stage and drew the most attention and applause from the audience because they

FIGURE 8.   A Hawaiian paniola getting ready to enter the ring. These events continue to

highlight the historical connection between Mexican vaqueros and Hawaiian paniolos in the twenty-­first century. Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo, Hawaiʻi Island, February 15, 2019. Photo courtesy of Jaimée Marsh.

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were as skillful, if not more so, than their male counterparts.209 They were the ones who stole the show and reinforced the historical presence and participation of women, particularly in the rodeo event scene in Hawaiʻi.

Contemporary Mexican Vaqueros of Hawaiʻi Hawaiʻi’s paniolo rodeo scene also continues to benefit from the knowledge and presence of Mexican vaqueros who are a part of Hawaiʻi’s paniolo ranching community in the twenty-­first century. Two such individuals who continue to be a part of the paniolo ranching community and participate in the rodeo circuit include José “Luis” Rincon and Jesús Gonzalez. Luis, who is the owner of Rincon Family Farm, was born in Jalisco, México, and lived in California for some time, working in Oxnard and Santa Clara. Luis recalled that after his in-­ laws decided to retire in Hawaiʻi, he and his wife joined them: “So finally we find what we wanted, find a piece of land. I want to continue farming. That was the whole deal to move over. And since I was working in strawberries, I figure we find the land and they help us purchase the land and prepare it for our parents and all that. So we moved over in 1988 to Hawaiʻi. We just came over, and we’re lucky. With all the help that we get from them, we settled pretty much. A house to live and have a place to start farming.”210 Luis, however, is more than a farmer. He is also a vaquero who teaches roping, which he would do on weekends and after working on the farm. Bergin described Luis: “His call to duty is from the rodeo community for roping. That’s more his strength. . . . Luis is more a working cowboy and team roper, that kind of thing.”211 Luis also shared about his roping experience, I started working in the community, and pretty soon I started knowing people by rodeo and horses. Of course, I grew up with horses all my life in México. Friends loaned me their horses. I started going to rodeos, and then pretty soon I teach all my kids to do it. . . . I teach all my kids to do the horseman deal, the rodeo, and they’ve all been real successful doing high school rodeo, which is pretty popular over here. Now it’s all over the U.S. They get to go to the mainland and do the national rodeo.212

Luis also first met Jesús Gonzalez in Waimea in 1988. Jesús was also born in Jalisco, México, and is a horse trainer. He was working with horses in Camarillo, California, when an opportunity came for him to work in Hawaiʻi. As Jesús shared, I was in Camarillo, California, working on a horse ranch. . . . I met a man who lived here in Hawaiʻi, but he was Mexican. His name was Miguel Ramirez, . . . and he offered me a job, and I decided to come over here, and that happened in 1980. The man who brought me over here, Miguel, he also had horses and a ranch,

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and I started working with new horses, and I was learning, and I went back to California to learn more because I saw that I had to learn more over there about horses, . . . and I came back and I started competing in shows here [Hawaiʻi], horse shows. I started doing well, and I decided to come here [Waimea].213

Jesús is widely known in the paniolo ranching community of Waimea as a well-­ respected horse trainer and is a regular in the rodeo and horse show scene in Hawaiʻi. As Bergin shared, Jesús “concentrates on taking a green broken colt, maybe a two-­or three-­year-­old, and by the time he gives it back to you, maybe an average of six months . . . takes a horse to where it is really trustworthy but can be used in performance.”214 Jesús has lived in Hawaiʻi for forty years and witnessed the continued growth of the small Mexican population in Waimea. As for how he feels about living in Hawaiʻi, Jesús noted, “A gusto, porque la gente de aquí es buena, muy buenas personas y es muy calmado aquí y me siento bien. Yo me siento como si estoy en México, en mi casa.” (Comfortable, because people here are good, very good people, and it’s very calm here, and I feel good. I feel as if I were in México, at home.)215 Jesús continued to speak on the ranching and rodeo community of Big Island: “Luis y yo conocemos muchas gentes de rancheros que tienen caballos y ganado, vacas y todo eso . . . aquí toda la gente se conoce cuando es una gente de Maui, de Kauaʻi, de Honolulu. Vienen a los rodeos y se conocen a donde quiera que van.” (Luis and I know a lot of people, ranchers who have horses and cattle, cows, and all of that. . . . All the people we know here know each other when it’s people from Maui, Kauaʻi, from Honolulu. They come to the rodeos, and they know each other wherever they go.)216 Jesús’s and Luis’s experience in the rodeo competition scene and the life they live in Waimea illustrate the continued presence and contributions of Mexicans to the paniolo ranching community. The experiences of both Jesús and Luis also demonstrate the unbroken bond that intertwines Mexican vaqueros and the Hawaiʻi’s paniolo ranching community and the knowledge they contribute, as well as the aloha they have received from the larger community in Hawaiʻi. Reflecting on the history of the Mexican vaquero and what Jesús and Luis have taught him regarding the material culture that was left behind, Bergin noted, They [Luis and Jesús] knew I had a great interest in the artifacts of old Hawaiʻi ranching, so collecting bits and spurs and saddle equipment became sort of a life passion from age nine. With that came very, very minimal reading on these three Mexicans, the vaqueros that came to this island. But it was so light and so superficial [a] history that I began to delve a little bit deeper into it. That’s when the arrival of people such as Luis and Jesús became to me a living bridge to those times. I think both will share with you that I always talked to them about equipment, and they share with me what their fathers and their grandfathers and their uncles did in Mexico and how they got to be the horsemen that they are. These two men are very respected horsemen.217

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Credit is due to the tireless efforts of local historians like Bergin and contemporary Mexican vaqueros like Luis and Jesús who are invested in the history of the Hawaiian paniolo and making sure the role of the Mexican vaqueros and their cultural contributions are not forgotten. Their presence also reinforces the ongoing migration of Mexican vaqueros who continue to come and participate in the shaping of paniolo culture in Hawaiʻi. They contribute their labor and share their expertise as trainers, cultural experts, and workers in the paniolo ranching community. As cultural brokers to the Hawaiians, the Mexican vaqueros who ventured from Alta California, México, shared their knowledge and tutored their Hawaiian counterparts. In return, Native Hawaiians welcomed their invited Mexican guests with aloha for sharing their knowledge and continue to remember them through moʻolelo (stories), meles (songs, poems), and music. Those who remained in Hawaiʻi witnessed the blossoming of a culture that they helped shape, which was woven together with that of their Hawaiian counterparts. However, it also evolved into a specific culture of its own as elements were Hawaiianized to meet the needs of the Native Hawaiians and those of mixed ancestry who took over and became legends in their own right, perpetuating a cultural fusion and a historical presence that existed fifty years before the American cowboy arrived on the scene. This transpacific connection expanded the Indigenous and Mexican influence on trade and culture as a result of their participation in the Pacific world economy. Their diaspora into the Pacific marked the beginning of a Latinx Pacific boarder-­land that continues to expand with the migration of Latinxs across Oceania. This moment also signals a Pacific Latinidad that took root and continues to evolve in Hawaiʻi. Although the Mexican vaqueros in the independent Hawaiian Kingdom were few, they left a cultural footprint on the islands that is present to this day. Even José “Luis” Rincon and Jesús Gonzalez, two Mexican-­born vaqueros who immigrated from California to Hawaiʻi, followed the same migration route approximately 150 years later to continue the historical relationship the original Mexican vaqueros had with their Native Hawaiian counterparts. Their memory is written into the music, instruments, language, and other material culture that they left behind. Their historical presence remains with the families who can trace their genealogy to the early vaqueros who married and blended with Native Hawaiians and locals in Hawaiʻi, expanding their compadre and comadre kinship networks as ʻohana y familia.218 This cultural blending continues today. Despite what the future holds for cattle ranching and the paniolo way of life in Hawaiʻi, one thing is certain. The genealogical ties that bind the early Mexican vaqueros to Hawaiʻi and the Native Hawaiian families who also trace their roots to México will forever accompany the memory of the first presence and lasting impact that California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent had on Hawaiʻi and the countryside culture where the Hawaiian paniolos continue to roam.

2

Boricua Hawaiiana I am a poor Hawaiian from the Hawaiian Islands And the pride that befalls me is being a son of Borinquen. —­Tanilaus Dias

In December 1985, the Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi (PRHSH) made a pilgrimage to the island of Puerto Rico. Among those who attended were the late Blase Camacho Souza, one of the cofounders of the organization. They were part of a delegation who worked with officials in the Township of Guánica, Puerto Rico, to erect the Guánica Monument, which was unveiled on December 23, 1985. This monument paid tribute to the first Puerto Rican migrants who left their homeland to embark on a journey to Hawaiʻi in 1900.1 Reflecting on her return to Puerto Rico to reestablish ties with the patria (motherland), Camacho Souza recalled, “What I had realized is that not only we, locally, didn’t know much about Puerto Ricans here [Puerto Rico], Puerto Rico didn’t know much about Puerto Ricans here [Hawaiʻi]. They felt like there was a puka (hole) in their history, and only of late is this story coming together.”2 Their visit made as much of an impact in Puerto Rico as in Hawaiʻi. For example, local Puerto Rican newspapers reported the interest that Camacho Souza and the PRHSH garnered among the audience, who were learning about the Puerto Ricans of Hawaiʻi for the first time.3 This trip held great significance in that it was the first formal visit the descendants from the first group of Puerto Ricans who migrated to Hawaiʻi between 1900 and 1901 made in order to reestablish ties with the motherland, Borikén.4 65

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Blase Camacho Souza’s story is particularly noteworthy. She was a descendant of one of the first groups of Puerto Ricans who came to Hawaiʻi. Born on February 3, 1918, Camacho Souza was raised on a sugar plantation in Kohala, on Hawaiʻi Island.5 Both sides of Camacho Souza’s family also came to Hawaiʻi, settling in Kohala. Her family worked in the fields cutting cane, weeding, and doing other tasks on the plantation.6 Camacho Souza said, On April 15, 1901, at the age of 7 ½ my father, Lorenzo, went on board the S.S. California at Guánica Bay and together with his father, Antonio Camacho[,] and mother[,] Leocaria Ramos Borrero[,] began a journey that takes him from Puerto Rico in the Caribbean to the Hawaiian Islands. On the same ship traveling with them were my maternal grandparents, Luiz Caraballo [a.k.a. Caravalho] and his wife Antonia and several other relatives. . . . They were part of the migration of the 5,203 men, women and children that migrated from Puerto Rico to Hawaii in 1900–­1901.7

Her recollections of plantation life as a child were filled with memories of family, community, and cultural traditions that included food, language, religious practices, and other customs. Camacho Souza continued, “The fellowship and gatherings of the members of the Puerto Rican community made a strong impression on me as a child. I looked forward to the gatherings, for whole clans would gather at such times. Men, women and children all came. Most of them walked to their destination. A few rode horses. Because my father worked for the railroad, we had one more mode of transportation. We could ride the flat cars, often on top of a huge mound of bags of sugar.”8 As a self-­identified Boricua Hawaiiana (Puerto Rican local from Hawaiʻi), Camacho Souza was also one of the first scholars of Puerto Rican descent in Hawaiʻi. She wrote extensively on the local Puerto Rican community of Hawaiʻi, whose first arrivals called themselves Borinkis (a term that comes from the local Pidgin English).9 Camacho Souza also noted, “As a descendant of Puerto Rican immigrants who came to Hawaii as contract laborers in 1901, I am the first of that ethnic group to graduate from the University of Hawaii, receiving a Bachelor of Education in 1939.” She also went on to earn a fifth-­ year certificate in 1940 and a master’s of library science from Pratt Institute in 1947.10 Camacho Souza’s family life, the community she grew up in, and her educational journey prepared her for what would come next: documenting and promoting the history, culture, and positive image of the Boricua Hawaiiana population in Hawaiʻi.11 Indeed, Camacho Souza’s life’s work was to document the shared experiences of the Puerto Rican population of the islands. Camacho Souza’s body of work has inspired other Puerto Rican and non–­Puerto Rican scholars and writers to continue telling these community narratives and reminding others that the Boricua Hawaiiana population is still very present and active today.12

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FIGURE 9.   Blase Camacho Souza was a second-­generation Puerto Rican Hawaiian (Boricua

Hawaiiana) who was trained as a librarian. She was also an educator who wrote extensively on the Puerto Rican experience in Hawaiʻi. Blase was also the cofounder and first president of the Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi. Photograph by Pat Souza, circa 1978. Photo courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, City University of New York (CUNY).

At the turn of the twentieth century, Puerto Ricans were part of a global migration under U.S. rule, which brought them first to the U.S. territory of Hawaiʻi as “colonial migrant farmworkers.”13 This first group of Puerto Rican migrants initiated what would later become subsequent waves of Puerto Ricans in the twentieth century. This was, as Eileen J. Suárez Findlay notes, “the long-­ standing survival strategy” of finding employment in the United States and its imperial outposts.14 This also made Puerto Ricans the second major Latinx group to immigrate to Hawaiʻi in the form of labor recruitment in one of the island’s largest agricultural endeavors: sugar cane. However, unlike their Mexican counterparts, who were invited by the independent Hawaiian Kingdom in the 1830s, Puerto Ricans were being welcomed by haole sugar plantation interests, which profited from the illegal overthrow of Queen Liliʻuokalani and the Hawaiian Kingdom. The treatment of Puerto Rican migrants would reflect the settler colonial structures that now controlled the Hawaiian Islands. This chapter examines the role that Puerto Ricans played in Hawaiʻi’s sugar industry, the racialized experiences they endured upon their arrival to the plantations of the Hawaiian Islands, and how they contributed to Hawaiʻi’s sugar plantation history.15 I also discuss the contributions Puerto Ricans made

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to Hawaiʻi through food, music, and language to some extent. This symbiotic relationship also reveals how Puerto Ricans both contributed to Hawaiʻi’s local identity and culture and were in turn also influenced by the larger multicultural environment that centered around Native Hawaiian culture and values. Because Puerto Ricans have also intermarried with other groups for more than one hundred years, the multiracial mixture of people who have Puerto Rican ancestry is quite evident in the pages that follow.16 As anthropologist Iris López notes, “Local Puerto Ricans will expand the meaning of what it means to be multiethnic while continuing to preserve certain parts of their Puerto Rican heritage.”17 Indeed, as a diasporic site in the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands, the cultural adaptation and multiplicity of Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi are distinct from other places in the continental United States because of the unique Indigenous racial and ethnic mixing and identity formations that occurred through Hawaiʻi’s colonial history. This chapter builds on the work of scholars of Puerto Rican diasporic communities, such as Ismael García-­Colón, JoAnna Poblete, Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vásquez-­Hernandez, and Eileen Suárez Findlay.18 These studies provide a glimpse into the sojourner tale of Puerto Rican migration in the realm of U.S. imperialism from the turn of the twentieth century to the postwar years. These diasporic Puerto Rican communities include large urban centers like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia but also the rural areas of Michigan, Ohio, Arizona, California, Washington, and Hawaiʻi, where they first ventured under U.S. rule. Many of these Puerto Rican communities worked in the agricultural sector and in turn protested their oppression in the fields in what Findlay describes as “the terrible conditions and pay they encountered”—­in essence, “the exploitation of colonial agricultural labor migration.”19 Similarly, my work extends beyond these studies by focusing on Hawaiʻi as the farthest location of these diasporic communities. This was a distinct experience within the diaspora of Puerto Rican workers, since they were the next major Latinx group to venture to Hawaiʻi. Those who arrived in Hawaiʻi came with their families and were submerged within a larger multiracial workforce and plantation community that provided a specific experience for Puerto Ricans outside the continental United States. It is here that my work is also in conversation with that of Camacho Souza, Carr, López, Poblete, and others who have written on the Puerto Rican community of Hawaiʻi.20 My work builds on their earlier studies in retelling the origins of their migration but also extends beyond them to illustrate in greater detail the relational experiences Puerto Ricans had with Native Hawaiians and other racial and ethnic groups on the islands.21 I reveal how over several generations, Puerto Ricans were able to forge intersecting identities as Boricuas Hawaiianas and locals from Hawaiʻi. What also makes this intervention in the literature distinct is the exploration of mixed race Puerto Ricans who navigate their multiplicity in a place like Hawaiʻi, where they have more than a century of racial and cultural mixing with other groups

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on the islands. This long-­standing multiracial environment added more depth to the Pacific Latinidad that was continuing to evolve in the early twentieth century, which now included Puerto Ricans. Over the next century, this process would also encompass Latinxs from Latin America and the Spanish-­speaking Caribbean. As a labor force under the realm of U.S. empire overseas, Puerto Ricans also held a unique position as U.S. colonial subjects, or as historian JoAnna Poblete calls them, “intracolonials; colonized people living in a second colonized space.”22 Both Native Hawaiians and Puerto Ricans were connected by U.S. imperialism as territorial possessions. As intracolonial subjects, Puerto Ricans were also free to travel within the boundaries of the U.S. empire. The illegal overthrow and occupation of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893 and the annexation of both Hawaiʻi and Puerto Rico in 1898 enabled haole sugar interests to advocate for the intracolonial transfer of labor between the two colonized territories.23 Puerto Ricans and Native Hawaiians are thus politically and economically connected to each other as colonial subjects. Poblete explains, “The concept of U.S. colonial also connects the imperial experiences of a vast range of subjected peoples to each other, exposing the long-­term and widespread imperial actions of the United States in multiple places over diverse peoples during varying eras.”24 As intracolonials, Puerto Ricans came as another wave of brown bodies to labor under U.S. empire, connecting colonized territories through oceanic highways that also shaped the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands. As the United States expanded its overseas empire in both the Pacific and Caribbean regions, it required laboring bodies to fuel its economic and political ambitions. In Hawaiʻi, the corporate sugar interests expanded their political and business dealings, which included their participation in the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy and, with the help of the U.S. military, the occupation of the Hawaiian Islands. They also sought to secure a substantial workforce to meet the labor demands of the burgeoning sugar industry. These actions laid the foundation for what Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura call a “settler plantation economy.”25 This intracolonial experience also gave birth to a distinct cultural and identity formation in Hawaiʻi, which Puerto Ricans had a hand in shaping over several generations. It is what makes the Puerto Rican experience in Hawaiʻi unique. This story begins with a traumatic event at home that became the catalyst that set their journey to the Hawaiian Islands in motion.

Hurricane San Ciriaco and the Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association On August 7 and 8, 1899, Hurricane San Ciriaco swept over Puerto Rico, devastating over half of the island. Its impact was both immediate and tremendous. As Camacho Souza wrote, it caused “more deaths and destruction than all other previous hurricanes combined. It was the one the Hawaiʻi emigrants remember.

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A record 3,369 persons died. Flooding destroyed crops and homes, towns.”26 The damage was felt all over the island—­in particular in the central mountain areas and coastal regions of the southwest. The San Francisco Call reported on the extent of destruction across the island, which included the following: Humacao saw complete destruction; the town of Ponce was almost completely destroyed, including a bridge that was swept away, and almost all framed houses were down; in the town of Aibonito, little remained save for the cathedral and barracks; orange and coffee crops in Las Piedras were in ruins; and El Caney was leveled to the ground, including two hundred houses that were demolished. Food supplies were also destroyed in many of these districts, with starvation threatening the population. Don Justino Andujar Saez was an observer of the aftermath of the hurricane’s destruction. As he recalled the devastation and hunger of the people, he said, “Soil is what they ate because there wasn’t anything else.”27 Bohios (small huts), homes and family crops were wiped out. Other towns, villages and districts demolished by the hurricane included Guayama, Juncos, Arroyo, Tallaboa, Yabucoa, Guayanilla, Coamo, Ajuntas, Aguadilla, Utuado, Lares, Arecibo, Peñuelas, Yauco, Ponce, and Mayagüez.28 Many more throughout the island were also under water.29 These were just some of the numerous atrocities reported out of San Juan, which also felt the hurricane’s impact. As López notes, “It left thousands of Puerto Ricans, who were dependent on subsistence farming, destitute and in search of work.” The Examiner reported that chronic starvation, disease, and death followed, which only worsened conditions.30 This led to an exodus of thousands of Puerto Rican laborers to work in other Caribbean and Latin American countries, such as Santo Domingo, Cuba, and México, among others. Puerto Ricans would also be recruited to work far away in the Pacific.31 Around the same time, the Hawaiian Islands were undergoing a demographic and economic transformation that required more workers. The population collapse of Native Hawaiians prompted the global recruitment of laborers who would be a “cognate and friendly race” to fill the labor shortage.32 The 1876 Reciprocity Treaty with the United States also enabled sugar production to increase dramatically. Hawaiʻi’s corporate sugar interests took advantage of this capitalist endeavor by consolidating to become the “Big Five.”33 Next, they formed the Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association (HSPA) in 1895, which coordinated the business activities of the Big Five, including the recruitment of labor.34 The HSPA began looking for a suitable replacement for Asian laborers on the sugar plantations because of restrictive immigration laws, such as the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. There was also fear from the sugar planters that the Japanese were too numerous and troublesome.35 Although there was documented evidence of Mexican workers in the sugar plantations as hired contract laborers in the early 1890s, they seemed to be few in number and proved to be troublesome to the planters by deserting.36 The HSPA thus saw the intracolonial status of Puerto Ricans as an attractive solution to their labor problem, since Puerto Rico was a U.S. territorial

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possession.37 With their economic and political influence, the HSPA persuaded Washington officials to allow Puerto Rican migrants to come to Hawaiʻi. The HSPA thus sought out non-­Asian laborers from another U.S. colonial territory who were also experienced in working with sugar cane.38 The HSPA trustees met to “set in motion plans for the recruitment, transportation, and distribution of Puerto Rican laborers among the sugar plantations.”39 Minutes from their meetings show that from May  11, 1900 to November  28, 1900, the HSPA trustees worked diligently to secure recruits from Puerto Rico to meet their labor needs.40 They also had recruiters drumming up interest in Puerto Rico. The Pacific Commercial Advertiser, for example, ran a notice that was posted in Puerto Rico on July 21, 1900, notifying potential recruits that the HSPA was looking for laborers to come work on the sugar plantations of Hawaiʻi.41 The HSPA and the Puerto Rican commissioner made a deal to address both the plight of Puerto Ricans who were desperate to make a living in the aftermath of the hurricane and labor demands on Hawaiʻi’s sugar plantations. Puerto Rican families would be sent to live and work in Hawaiʻi.42 With the help of Alberto Minville and other labor recruiters, the HSPA immediately organized eleven shipments of workers. In all, 5,203 Puerto Ricans left for Hawaiʻi between November 22, 1900, and August 1901 and arrived between December 23, 1900, and October  19, 1901.43 The HSPA emphasized their preference for married couples and families, which they presumed would equate to having a more compliant workforce that would not cause labor strife. This proved to be an issue for Puerto Ricans, who, according to scholars Silva and Camacho Souza, “had a high percentage of consensual marriages, which by tradition and durability, had acquired social legitimacy.”44 The desire to have legally married couples prevented some families from making the trip to Hawaiʻi. There were also bachelor groups of men and a number of boys who left without telling their families. However, most of the recruits were families.45 Seeking a better life, the Puerto Rican migrants who came to the sugar plantations of Hawaiʻi had hopes for greater economic stability and “visions of a better future.”46 As Camacho Souza shared about her family migration story, “My understanding was that they came for one thing. Dad always put it, we were looking for a better life. You know, they were looking for a place that would give them a job.”47 The HSPA outsourced their recruitment efforts to for-­profit employment agencies. This practice led to recruiters making verbal agreements with Puerto Rican migrants and what can be considered unreliable and misleading promises of a much better life to a vulnerable Puerto Rican population left in dire circumstances after the hurricane. As Camacho Souza noted, “Whether all information was given solely orally to the first emigrants by the recruiters, or whether they had access to written information, cannot be determined at this time.”48 What ensued as a result of these misleading promises and uncertainty surrounding these voyages was nothing short of a nightmare for those first groups who embarked for Hawaiʻi.

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Table 2.

Number of Puerto Rican recruits to Hawaiʻi, 1900–­1901 Date

Number of emigrants

Men and boys over 12 years of age

114 384 776 551 894 534 775 708 169 398 5,203

77 202 384 342 394 234 390 469 125 252 2,869

November 22, 1900 December 26, 1900 January 24, 1901 March 2, 1901 March 26, 1901 April 24, 1901 May 21, 1901 June 14, 1901 August 12, 1901 August 29, 1901 Total

SOURCES: Blase Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza—­‘ Work and Sorrow’: The Puerto Ricans of Hawaii,

1900–­1902,” Hawaiian Journal of History 18 (1984): 165; and History Task Force, Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, Sources for the Study of Puerto Rican Migration, 1879–­1930 (New York: Research Foundation of the City University of New York, 1977), 45. These sources did not provide the number of women, girls, and/or boys under the age of twelve years old.

Troublesome Voyages In 1901, Celestina Yambo de Caraballo wrote and sent a poem to her sister who lived back in Yauco, Puerto Rico. The poem detailed the extreme hardship she and other Puerto Rican passengers experienced on their voyage from Puerto Rico to the Hawaiian Islands: Comadre, I implored God When the ship rocked and rolled That He not let us drown That you may see your godchild When Pabín and Janito Say how the fierce winds blew And saw the ground swells That slowly and ominously rolled Then did Panchito say “A storm approaches!” Shouts were heard At that moment And I, with my thoughts Comadre, I implored God Celestina’s poem to her sister revealed not only the extreme hardship that Puerto Rican immigrants faced during their voyage to Hawaiʻi but also the fear

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that she and the other passengers had because they were at the mercy of the rising ocean waves and fierce winds caused by the storm. Celestina hoped that she and her children would survive this ordeal and not drown at sea. One can only imagine her terror, wondering if she would ever see her sister again and if she made the right choice by leaving home. This voyage would be the first of many terrible experiences that Puerto Rican immigrants faced coming to Hawaiʻi.49 Of the eleven voyages that transported the Puerto Rican recruits to Hawaiʻi, two in particular made headlines related to failed expectations, mistreatment, poor travel conditions, and resistance by the Puerto Rican recruits.50 The first group of 114 persons left the port of Guánica, Puerto Rico, on November 22, 1900, aboard the Arkadia. It was a long and difficult journey. After their arrival in New Orleans on November  29, the recruits were transported by railroad cars under heavily armed guard across the U.S. South and Southwest to San Francisco, California, where they boarded the S.S. Rio de Janeiro to Honolulu. When the ship finally arrived in Honolulu on December 23, 1900, only 56 of the original 114 recruits remained. More than half of the recruits either ran away while being transported by rail or refused to board the ship in San Francisco. It was also reported that more than 50 workers rebelled, and in their refusal to board the ship, they escaped and began walking in the opposite direction along the train tracks. Their decision to desert led to the formation of California’s first Puerto Rican communities.51 The recruits’ complaints and resistance to their treatment did not go unnoticed. The Examiner reported that the boarding of the last migrants was done by force.52 There were rampant complaints and numerous complications that arose during the trip. Puerto Rican recruits said that they were lied to or misled by recruiters and had no written contracts, which one reporter observed by stating that they were persuaded to leave by “gross misrepresentation.”53 They also charged the labor recruiters with malnourishment, poor and inadequate food and water, and lack of medical attention. One report detailed the testimony of two migrants who returned back to Puerto Rico from New Orleans after the first leg of their voyage to Hawaiʻi: “The two said they had been mistreated aboard ship and that because of this ill treatment six children and three women died on the way to New Orleans.”54 Other grievances included inadequate clothing for their trip through the continental United States, crowded and unsanitary conditions, and feeling that they were treated like prisoners. Some found they could be paid comparable or higher wages in the continental United States and deserted along the way.55 Once the Puerto Rican migrants arrived, recruits were transferred to Lahaina, Maui, aboard an interisland steamer, the Lehua, where the workers would be sent to Pioneer Mill.56 Almost immediately, one of Hawaiʻi’s leading newspapers, the Pacific Commercial Advertiser, began attacking the Puerto Rican migrants.57 They published articles with headlines like “They Are a Wretched Lot the Porto Ricans Who Are Coming to These Islands” and “Ways of Porto Ricans Topsy Turvy, So

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Say Americans,” among others.58 As Norma Carr notes, the paper was “the voice of the oligarchy. . . . During the following three decades the Pacific Commercial Advertiser would carry many harsh stories about Porto Ricans in Hawaii.”59 These stories eventually laid the foundation for an ongoing negative image and racialized stereotype of Puerto Ricans on the islands as violent, lazy, unreliable, and troublesome. This signaled the early racialization of future Latinx communities in Hawaiʻi. The second voyage on December  26, 1900, was more thoroughly planned and organized than the first trip to avoid travel disruption and negative headlines in the press. However, that did not prevent the continued mistreatment of the Puerto Rican recruits, which led to more resistance and defiance. In addition to similar complaints as the first voyage, other incidents occurred, including several deaths and a revolt by the Puerto Rican migrants aboard the ship. These incidents were reported in both U.S. and local Puerto Rican newspapers such as La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico.60 The revolt of Puerto Ricans is worth mentioning. According to the same news report, “Food for the entire lot of immigrants aboard had been dumped on the forward hatch where the cattle are carried when there are cattle going on the steamer.”61 One of the passengers took over the ship by taking hold of a crew member at knifepoint. As the Pacific Commercial Advertiser reported, “The Porto Rican who captured the vessel and compelled the captain to send for the police, said he represented the Porto Ricans on board and was carrying out the wishes of all when he held the vessel in port. He was not going to allow the vessel to go to sea until some understanding was reached with the authorities concerning food.”62 Although the Puerto Rican migrants were worn down and hungry from the sea voyage from San Francisco, they would not be treated like animals. They would protest their treatment and fight back. When the sheriffs arrived, they attempted to take the knife away and arrest the man, which prompted other Puerto Ricans on board to rally behind him. They told the interpreter that “if the knife wielder was taken off the vessel they would not allow the boat to go to sea, that they would stay right where they were if they had to fight.” They proceeded to tear off their bango tags, which identified them not only by numbers but also by the plantation to which they were assigned. Ultimately, the Puerto Rican man who captured the ship was not taken into custody, and the ship’s captain was held responsible for failing to provide the hungry recruits with proper food. The description of the Puerto Ricans as dirty, tattered, tired, and hungry may have been meant to further reinforce the negative stereotypes about them, but as Norma Carr notes, “Their sense of human dignity was intact. No reporter could rob them of that.”63 Subsequent voyages continued to have issues around the lack of food for the recruits and complaints of workers being misled to come to Hawaiʻi under false pretenses. For example, an account of two Puerto Rican laborers was published in La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico claiming that “they were told by the agent

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that upon arrival to the islands they would be employed as masons at five dollars a day.”64 However, upon their arrival in Honolulu, they were shipped to a neighboring island and made to work on a sugar plantation for fifteen dollars a month. Of that amount, they noted deductions were taken from their salaries, including medical and other expenses, leaving them with very little spending money. They fled Hawaiʻi, and upon their arrival to San Francisco, they were taken care of by a group of Mexicans who lived in the Italian quarter of town.65 According to another report in the New York Times, during the May 1901 voyage, “Inspection of the Porto Rican immigrants brought here [Honolulu] by the steamer Colon show that they are in such a state and need of food that they must be held at the quarantine station and fed until they regain strength sufficient to enable them to bear the journey to the other islands and to the plantations on which they will work.”66 Ultimately, the HSPA was responsible for providing adequate food supplies and drinkable water to ensure the migrants endured the journey and arrived in a healthier state—­healthy enough to disembark and begin their employment. The HSPA was also responsible for providing them with food and medical care given the state they were already in when they left Puerto Rico. Thus, the HSPA should not have been surprised that the Puerto Rican recruits rebelled against their conditions through physical resistance, verbal complaints, and desertion. As a result of their health conditions and the scrutiny of the press, once Puerto Rican recruits reached their final destination to their assigned plantations, the HSPA went to great lengths to properly feed, clothe, and provide medical attention to their new workers. Recovery was key to retaining a sustainable workforce. Puerto Rican recruits were also given a few additional amenities, including extra free food, bonuses, and new housing. The first group of Puerto Ricans to arrive were sent to Maui. In addition to being placed in Maui, subsequent groups were also distributed to plantations on other islands, including Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi, and Kauaʻi. By 1902, there were Puerto Ricans on over thirty-­ four plantations throughout these four islands.67

Plantation Life and Labor When Camacho Souza interviewed some of the first Puerto Rican migrants to Hawaiʻi, they generally recalled their experience was one of “trabajo y tristeza (work and sorrow).”68 Indeed, many of the first Puerto Rican migrants, once they arrived in Hawaiʻi, had to deal with numerous cultural differences, including a multiracial plantation population where Spanish did not predominate. HSPA clerks changed their names to Portuguese spellings or gave them new names altogether. Their employer, on the other hand, referred to them by bango numbers (etched on metal tags worn around their necks). “Mine was 9601,” Alfredo Santiago recalled of his bango number. “See  .  .  . if you get 6 [starting number], is Portuguese. And then nine is Puerto Rican. And 7, they were

FIGURE 10.   Puerto Rican family in Hawaiʻi. Father Juan Jose Caravalho, mother Claudina

Garcia Caravalho, son Eugenio Caravalho, and nephew (of Jose) Raymond Figueroa, circa 1905. The vast majority of Puerto Ricans worked in the sugar plantations of the Hawaiian Islands. Photo courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, CUNY.

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Filipinos, see. I don’t know the Japanese, under what number they came in.”69 In essence, their humanity was stripped away and replaced by numbers. Workers became mere commodities and tools of production for the plantations. Most of all, Puerto Rican workers dealt with employers who did not understand the role that dignidad (a sense of dignity) played in daily social interactions. Dignidad was fostered through interpersonal relationships centered around respeto (respect and expectations), relajo (joking in the context of a deep personal relationship), and confianza (mutual trust and confidence).70 These elements were central to interpersonal relations in Puerto Rican culture, and they were why the new recruits responded with various forms of resistance when they felt disrespected by the plantation management. The vast majority of Puerto Rican recruits who came to Hawaiʻi were field hands and worked in gangs based on their racial group. As Santiago recalled, “Well, they had different jobs. . . . The cut cane was most Puerto Ricans. And then the Filipinos had their own gang. And Puerto Ricans were their own gang. . . . And then, when they finish cut cane, they used to go make lines, like that, to plant cane. All Puerto Ricans, see.”71 Trinidad Marcella, whose father also worked in cane, said, “Well they used to call it hapai ko. It was carrying, loading the cars with cane.”72 A number of Puerto Ricans would eventually make their way to other positions, not just in the field but also in the mill. According to employment records from the Kilauea Sugar Plantation, by the late 1930s, Puerto Rican workers were not just limited to field work. They had also advanced to various positions in the sugar plantations. These included, but were not limited to, jobs as truck drivers, locomotive drivers, brakemen, firemen, reservoir men, stable men, tractor drivers, and mule drivers and positions in the boiling house, blacksmith shop, machine shop, crushing department, and roller department.73 Having worked numerous jobs on various plantations on Hawaiʻi Island and Maui since he was a child, John Santana recalled, “Well, I remember I was about 7 years or 8 years old, my father used to take me to the cane fields to work, he wanted to teach me how to work. So, of course it wasn’t every day, but at least two days a week I used to go with my father to work in the cane fields. This was during school vacation and I remember my salary was about 15 cents a day.”74 John eventually worked his way up to other positions away from the fields and into the mill. He noted, “In the mill I used to work from 6 to 6. . . . I used to get about 35 cents a day. Nighttime, maybe about a couple of hours, we no work, eh? Somebody watch the steam while we were resting. But we used to work at least 10 hours. At that time no more the kine 8 hours [chuckles], all 10 hours. . . . I used to work better in the mill, I used to feel better in the mill. All underneath the shade, no more hot sun.”75 Alfredo Santiago was forced to work when he was eight years old after his father died. He quit school after fourth grade and began working at the Waialua Sugar Company in 1923 to help contribute to the family income. As he shared,

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Then, I was a small boy here, see. And I started to work in the plantation. They was paying me twelve dollars and a half, a month. I was in the boy gang. They used to call ’em the boy gang. You know, you pick up the scrap of the cane and pile it up. With the womens. They had women with us together, see. And then we load the cane cars with the step ladder, eh. And from there, I rode up till I got into the harvesting. Driving mules. Hauling cane out, see. And I stood there for quite a while and then from there, I went to the locomotors as a brake man. I stood there for a while. I went back to the harvesting and that’s where I ended up.76

The plantation eventually sent him to night school, where he completed his education up to the eighth grade. It was hard life, but he felt obligated in order to help his family.77 Given that Puerto Rican recruits often came as families, it was not just the men who worked in the fields. As with other ethnic groups, Puerto Rican women also worked in the plantations and were separated into work gangs. According to one report, “In 1910 about 100 Puerto Rican women worked the cane fields. One woman cane loader made more than most men, $1.30/day.”78 Female labor extended beyond the fields to maintaining the households, serving as camp midwives, and finding other ways to make additional income for the family. Women took on the additional task of cooking, washing laundry, ironing, and sewing clothes in need of repair for many of the boarders (single men) in camp, since the men considered that “woman’s work.” Some women and young girls also did laundry for haoles, both on and off the plantation, and worked as domestic servants.79 They did what was necessary to make ends meet. As Camacho Souza noted, “In many instances it was the extra work done by the women that brought in the extra cash that made the difference in the household. It made possible the movement from plantation to plantation, from island to island, and even for some to move to California or other parts of the U.S., always in search of una vida mejor (a better life).”80 Indeed, it was the labor of women, both on and off the plantation, that often carried the family through financially, which is seldom recognized. Born and raised in Maui, Maria’s parents and grandmother were among the first migrants from Puerto Rico because of Hurricane San Ciriaco. Maria recalled her grandmother cooking for other plantation workers: “I remember when I was going to school, every weekend I had to go clean my grandmother’s house. I used to go in the afternoon, help her wash dishes. They used to cook outside, you know, on the plantation. She cooked for about six men. She was a smart lady.”81 Midwifery was another job and skill of Puerto Rican women on the plantation. These women provided birthing services when doctors or hospitals were not available. Maria, who had assisted her mom as a midwife on the plantation, proudly shared, “Many, many children were born under our care. Not one died, thank the Lord.”82

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Years later, as a Red Cross worker, Maria also served as an interpreter for the camp nurses. Her various jobs enabled her to be “the highest paid widow in the plantation.”83 This demanding workload was also something Rosa experienced. Born in Puerto Rico on October 23, 1899, Rosa left for Hawaiʻi with her mom at just twenty days old. Of her mother’s engagement in extra work to support the family, Rosa recalled, “My mother used to go work to the other neighbors and make little money to support us. Housework, cook, wash. Just to support us. Some people, they don’t give money—­they give food.”84 As an adult, Rosa, too, took on extra labor to provide for her family. She reasoned, “My husband used to work on the plantation. I was home and I used to do laundry, when they had the soldiers come over here from the Army. I used to make a little money. I used to iron those shirts, and they used to give only 75 cents for one.”85 In her recollection of growing up on the plantation, Kauaʻi resident Celesta reminisced about her mother, who worked as a plantation midwife, since there was no hospital: “I remember they used to come in horse and buggy to come and get her. There she goes. That’s what I remember from my mother. She was a very hardworking woman. Very hardworking woman. . . . She taught us. That’s one thing I am thankful [for].”86 Alfredo Santiago and all his siblings were also born at home with the help of a midwife, which was common: “They used to have midwives before. They didn’t have their doctors who used to come to the house. Most used to go midwives. No doctors. You know, they used to call her [the midwife] Doña Bruna. She was Puerto Rican. . . . She was the only one, see. Because one of my children or two were born with her, see. She was a midwife for my wife. She was still living yet.”87 The additional labor and wages of women in both the formal and informal economies of the plantation enabled Puerto Rican families to survive and be mobile when the situation required it. Their contributions were equally as important as the men’s on the plantation, since their efforts also enabled the family to survive in their new home and build a future for themselves. Plantation life was also regimented, with strict rules and regulations meant to govern the behavior of the workers. For example, one of the rules listed at Waihee Plantation in Maui noted, “Laborers are expected to be industrious and docile and obedient to their overseers.”88 The overseers of the field workers were called lunas, who at the time were primarily Portuguese. They were authoritative and harsh disciplinarians. As historian Ronald Takaki noted, “For many workers, the black snake whip, carried by the luna or overseer, was a symbol of plantation authority.”89 One Puerto Rican female migrant recalled of some plantation lunas, “They used to treat the workers very bad, ya.”90 Trinidad Marcella remembered them as “very mean. They wouldn’t let you talk, you see. Even with us, we couldn’t talk in the fields. We had to continue working. If you would stand up for one or two minutes, that foreman would jump on you.”91 Puerto Ricans were not singled out for this abuse either. Alma, a resident of Maui, reminisced about her childhood: “I remember when the Koreans

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came in. And if they didn’t work, I remember the foreman used to come in the morning and give them marks, hit them. The head policeman used to come and beat them up.”92 Others resisted the abuse by lunas and plantation bosses by responding with their own threats of violence, which ultimately led to the stereotype that they were troublemakers. Confessor Riveira, for example, recalled an incident with his father and the camp manager over an incident involving a broken window: “The guy came out of his house—­he had a mansion, y’know—­came out with a bullwhip in his hand. He told my father, ‘I’m gonna whip ’em.’ My father look at that man, he look at us . . . he say, ‘this is my son, me hit. You no papa. You touch my boy, I cut your hand. I cut your neck you sonavabitch.’”93 His reaction to the camp manager physically punishing his son was something that not only broke the rules of respect and dignity for Riveira’s father as the family disciplinarian but also showed how they were being mistreated as human beings. Puerto Ricans would respond with force if necessary. Conflicts such as this made Puerto Ricans leave their place of employment on the plantations. Given that Puerto Ricans were also not bound to individual contracts, they responded to unjust treatment and abuse by the lunas and plantation managers by packing their belongings and moving to other sugar plantations in search of better pay, improved living conditions, and more respect. According to Poblete, sometimes whole families, even larger relative and kinship groups, would leave together. Others also left to be reunited with family members who were assigned to different plantations. Their mobility, of course, led them to be stereotyped as lazy and unreliable and was not seen for what it was: a desire to be treated with a sense of dignity and respect and to be close to their family in this new environment far from home. The HSPA tried to discourage Puerto Ricans from leaving the plantations. This included using law enforcement to arrest them for so-­called vagrancy and use them as prison labor (when they were troublesome or looking for work elsewhere), creating negative stereotypes about Puerto Ricans to tarnish their reputation, and blacklisting them from working on other plantations. These methods ultimately did not prevent Puerto Ricans from leaving. Their refusal to stay was about keeping their dignity and humanity intact. It also demonstrated that the HSPA blacklisting policy and other measures to control their mobility throughout the islands were essentially ineffective.94 In dealing with a life of “trabajo y tristeza,” one way Puerto Rican recruits were able to have their voices heard was by sending letters back home to Puerto Rico, which were published in the local press. Their detailed writing about the trip and hardships on Hawaiʻi’s sugar plantations was enough to discourage others from coming. The newspaper La Correspondencia de  Puerto Rico also published letters mailed back home, providing firsthand accounts of life in the Hawaiian sugar plantations. For example, in a letter to his friend Don Gumersindo Acosta, Juan Drayton noted,

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I was to work under Manuel Bales who did not know how to read, write or speak a word of English. Since the landowners cannot speak Spanish I was given a job at a salary of $50 a month. But, dear God, this is a horrible place where one can find water only when it rains. . . . We are very badly off my friend. There is no pharmacy to buy medicine and the sugar mill has only one doctor for all the workers. If the medicine that he gives you doesn’t cure you, that’s your bad luck. The workers are making $15 a month but like me none will be able to return to Puerto Rico.95

Back in Puerto Rico, these actions disrupted recruitment efforts. In that way, the letters were effective. However, the Puerto Rican government claimed no responsibility for the recruits, since they had migrated to Hawaiʻi. For the most part, the exploitation of Puerto Rican workers and their complaints back home were met with ambivalence and even neglect by the Puerto Rican government. This was most likely due to Puerto Rico’s status as a U.S. colony. The passage of the Foraker Act in 1900 restructured the Puerto Rican government with its U.S. presidentially appointed governor and a legislature that had little power to intervene. Moreover, the Foraker Act also withheld citizenship to Puerto Ricans. They were, as historian Robert McGreevey notes, “people without a country.”96 The abandoned migrants were to remain in Hawaiʻi and find ways to make the best of their situation.

Fostering Interracial Divisions On the sugar plantations, the HSPA used various tactics to control their multiracial workforce. These tactics were used to separate the workers from one another in order to maintain systematic control. This was done by stratifying the plantation camps and work gangs by race such that by November 18, 1904, “the HSPA trustees adopted a resolution that in effect made racial discrimination a formal policy.”97 Although some work gangs were also multiracial, workers were further divided into their own housing or camps to keep them from fraternizing. The differential racialization and treatment of the HSPA toward Puerto Ricans, Filipinos, Japanese, and others was an intentional ploy to foster division and exploit their cultural differences. For example, the HSPA instigated tensions between Japanese and Puerto Rican workers by placing them in adjacent camps, which capitalized on their cultural differences, such as the Japanese use of public bath houses, which led to a couple small riots because Puerto Rican men saw the practice of Japanese men coming out in just their towels as disrespectful to Puerto Rican women. As López notes, “The plantation administrators were aware of what would happen if they placed these two ethnic groups together and do so intentionally.”98 Wages also differed according to race. Social anthropologist Jonathan Y. Okamura explains, “The stratification of Hawaiʻi’s groups were equally racialized with ethnic groups being subjected to differential racialization, which unequally

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distributed socioeconomic resources and rewards.”99 For example, to foster further tensions and divisions, Puerto Ricans were deliberately paid higher wages and provided better housing than other groups when they first came to Hawaiʻi. According to a 1903 labor report, on one sugar plantation, Puerto Ricans earned an average of $0.51 more per month than Japanese workers.100 These differential wages, however, fluctuated over time. By 1938, a study of Hawaiian plantations revealed that Puerto Ricans and Filipinos made the lowest wages of all the other major groups on the sugar plantations. As historian Dionicio Valdés notes, for example, the monthly earnings by race included the following: whites, $113; Portuguese, $66; Japanese, $54; and Puerto Ricans and Filipinos, $47.101 One of the most effective ways the HSPA fostered divisions was to use workers against one another as scabs, or strikebreakers. Puerto Ricans were intentionally recruited and positioned along with Hawaiians, Portuguese, Chinese, and Koreans to break up Japanese strikes in 1909 and Japanese-­Filipino strikes in 1920. During the 1920 strike, for example, scabs were paid three dollars per day in addition to their bonus in order to weaken worker solidarity. According to Moon-­Kie Jung, these practices “did not bode well for interracialism.”102 Corporate interests often play the same game: they provide a climate of competition and tension among workers in order to maximize profits while keeping their workforce divided. Despite the HSPA’s divisive tactics and differential racializing practices in the management of the plantation workforce, workers did come together and identified the HSPA as the source of their labor conditions and racial oppression.103 Eventually, the predominantly nonwhite workforce found ways to organize together, which led to a number of major strikes throughout the Hawaiian Islands. According to Poblete, these included strikes in 1900, 1905, 1906, 1909, 1917, 1920, 1924, and 1937. As Poblete also notes, “Between 1929 and 1932, more than fourteen thousand employees left plantation work.”104 Puerto Ricans would be among those initially used as strikebreakers, but eventually they were involved in striking against the HSPA, particularly in the 1920s. In 1920, for example, three hundred Puerto Rican and Portuguese workers joined Filipinos under the Filipino Labor Union and the Japanese under the Federation of Japanese Labor. Out of this interracial coalition of workers, on April 23, 1920, the Japanese Federation of Labor reorganized into an interracial union, renaming itself the Hawaii Laborers’ Association. As Takaki emphasized, it would emphasize class as its central point of organizing workers in Hawaiʻi to “effectively cope with the capitalists.”105 Although these interracial unions would have fragile alliances because of the racial divisions established by the HSPA, they continued to work toward sustaining these relationships. Greater interracial unionism did not take hold in Hawaiʻi until after World War II with the International Longshore and Warehouse Union.106

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FIGURE 11.   Some Puerto Ricans transitioned to owning their own macadamia nut farms

in Hawaiʻi. Here Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Velez are shown on their macadamia nut farm at Kapulena, Hawaiʻi Island, n.d. Photo courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, CUNY.

Puerto Rican Migration Ends The importation of Puerto Ricans to Hawaiʻi was suspended in 1901 due to the exorbitant cost and lack of success in recruiting workers. According to historian Edward Beechert, “Although the official movement ended quickly, a trickle of Puerto Ricans continued to move to Hawaii. The HSPA sporadically renewed its interest in Puerto Rico. By 1920, some 2,095 Puerto Ricans were employed on Hawaiʻi’s plantations. Informal immigration continued as workers persuaded friends and relatives to join them in Hawaii.”107 Many Puerto Ricans wanted to return home to Puerto Rico. As Rose Garcia, a Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi, recalled, “I remember that on Saturdays the men that had gone to Hawaiʻi got together with my father to listen and talk about Puerto Rico. It seems like they always remembered their country and they would have liked to travel back to their country.”108 However, for most of the Puerto Rican migrants, their dreams of returning home would not materialize. In fact, as Camacho Souza has shown in her work, few ever returned to Puerto Rico, and most of those who stayed in Hawaiʻi lost contact with relatives back home. Others left Hawaiʻi for better opportunities in places like California.109 Those who stayed decided to build their new lives in the diaspora and expand their familial and kinship population. Puerto Ricans

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back home also read their loved ones’ letters from Hawaiʻi detailing their experiences and warning them about leaving Puerto Rico. The conditions and treatment Puerto Rican workers experienced discouraged subsequent migrations of Puerto Ricans to Hawaiʻi, which proved to be a problem for the HSPA. Without additional workers, they sought out labor from the Philippines, which also provided another intracolonial workforce. Up until 1917, Puerto Ricans were still colonial subjects living and working in another colonial territory without compulsory U.S. citizenship. However, with the passage of the Jones Act of 1917, Puerto Ricans were granted immediate U.S. citizenship with limited benefits.110 The same year the Jones Act was passed, Hawaiʻi instituted the draft for all male citizens. When Puerto Ricans went to vote in their local elections, the county clerk denied their participation, stating that Puerto Ricans in the Territory of Hawaiʻi who were residents and had left Puerto Rico prior to March 2, 1917, were not covered by the Jones Act and thus not entitled to vote. In response, Manuel Olivieri Sanchez, a court interpreter and advocate for Puerto Rican rights, told Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi, “If you are not allowed to vote, don’t answer the draft call.”111 Sanchez also brought a mandamus suit, and on October 23, 1917, the Hawaiʻi Supreme Court reversed the lower court decision, ruling that all Puerto Ricans were U.S. citizens.112 This enabled many Puerto Ricans to experience greater socioeconomic mobility as they started moving in greater numbers to Honolulu to seek other forms of employment in local, territorial, and federal government positions and the defense industries as well as serving in the military.113 There was less of a need to find employment in the sugar plantations. In 1921, 683 Puerto Ricans arrived in Hawaiʻi, the last groups of migrants from Puerto Rico recruited by the HSPA. The high cost of transportation signaled the end of recruiting Puerto Ricans to Hawaiʻi.114 With the majority of Puerto Ricans choosing to make a permanent home for themselves in Hawaiʻi, they decided to form social organizations that replicated those back in Puerto Rico and new ones that were specific to Hawaiʻi. Early Puerto Rican social organizations, for example, were initially established as mutualistas (mutual societies) for benevolent purposes and mutual support, such as helping pay for burial costs. They also sponsored “civic, educational, athletic, cultural, religious, and social activities.”115 For example, La Sociedad Civica Puertorriquena de Hawaii (the Puerto Rican Civic Club) was founded in 1931 and the Puerto Rican Independent Association in 1933. Both were mutualistas that provided assistance to their members. Merging in 1973, they formed the United Puerto Rican Association of Hawaiʻi, the largest Puerto Rican organization of the time.116 Other islands also had their own organizations, such as the Kohala Puerto Rican Social Club on Hawaiʻi Island, which was involved in preserving Puerto Rican cultural roots.117 There was also the Maui Puerto Rican Association and the Kauaʻi Puerto Rican Social Club. The newest organization to form at the time was the Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi.

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Cofounded in 1981 by Blase Camacho Souza and Faith Evans, its purpose would also differ from other previous organizations. As Camacho Souza noted, “Its basic purpose is the conservation and preservation of our heritage, and the dissemination of information on our history and culture.”118 Between 1980 and 1990, the Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi, under the sponsorship of the Hawaiʻi Heritage Center, was very active in hosting numerous cultural events, exhibitions and publications to promote and preserve Puerto Rican history and culture on the islands.119 In addition to social organizations, Puerto Ricans also formed sports teams and leagues and continued to observe their religious holidays and attend church services (which were predominantly Catholic). These activities enabled them to experience a sense of home and belonging in Hawaiʻi. Cultural and religious events were also combined at times. For example, the Kona Branch of the Kohala Puerto Rican Social Club at St. Paul’s Church hosted a program that offered a Spanish-­language Mass and activities to learn about Puerto Rican culture and honor the first group of Puerto Ricans who arrived in Hawaiʻi.120 López summarizes, “The Puerto Rican organizations have contributed to improving the social image of Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi by strengthening ties with other civic groups, and making Puerto Ricans, as a social group, visible in a positive way. . . . As Carr aptly observes, the Puerto Rican Civic Club and the Puerto Rican Independent Association represented a turning point in the way the Puerto Rican community in Hawaiʻi viewed themselves and the way other locals perceived them.”121 These efforts were in response to the HSPA in order to combat the negative stereotypes and social images of Puerto Ricans up until the 1930s. Puerto Rican organizations and clubs throughout the islands continue to gather to celebrate the anniversary of the arrival of the first Puerto Ricans to the islands. Larger celebrations take place every five to ten years, with the centennial in the year 2000 being the largest to date.122 As López describes, “The Centennial Celebration highlighted the many contributions and social activities that were held throughout the year in Oʻahu, Maui, Kauaʻi and the Big Island. The Hawaiian Puerto Rican Centennial thus served as a consciousness-­raising event, reminding Puerto Ricans and others that they have been in Hawaiʻi for 100 years and are still a vibrant and active community.”123 The centennial celebration was also significant because it attracted Puerto Ricans not only across generations but also across oceans. As previously mentioned in this chapter, the delegation of Boricuas Hawaiianas to Puerto Rico reestablished ties with the motherland and brought forth a new sense of pride for local Puerto Ricans while educating the larger local population of Hawaiʻi. These cultural activities and daily interactions between Puerto Ricans and the larger multiracial population of Hawaiʻi since the plantation era enabled a collective, blended culture and identity to develop over time that was specific to the islands.

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Puerto Rican Cultural Identity and Local Culture The vast majority of Puerto Ricans who stayed in Hawaiʻi became part of the larger multiracial society that was developing. For subsequent generations, the continued interracial mixing and cultural blending of Puerto Ricans with other racial and ethnic groups contributed to what many scholars in Hawaiʻi call the development of a local culture and identity. For Puerto Ricans, their cultural identity intersected with the larger local one so that as subsequent generations were born and raised in Hawaiʻi and continued to marry interracially, they saw their multiplicity as both Boricua Hawaiiana and local simultaneously and interchangeably. At the same time, their racial ambiguity through mixing enabled them to blend in and be indistinguishable from other local mixes in Hawaiʻi, a topic that I examine in further detail in chapter 5. Puerto Ricans have been part of the racial and ethnic mixing in Hawaiʻi since the early 1900s. Given that Puerto Ricans were among the early plantation groups that established a local identity and culture and due to the high rates of intermarriage, they are not always visibly distinguishable from other local mixes in Hawaiʻi. In fact, according to Camacho Souza, Puerto Ricans are the most intermarried of all the groups in Hawaiʻi. Given their contributing role to the creation of what is known as local culture and identity in Hawaiʻi, local Puerto Ricans are often mistaken for Native Hawaiians or one of the numerous intergenerational local mixes on the islands. Let us now turn to the formation of their identity within the larger framework of Hawaiʻi’s local culture. Years of working and living in close proximity provided various local ethnic groups the opportunity to intermingle with one another and share their customs and traditions. For example, workers not only shared and blended their foods together but also ate at one another’s foods at parties and festivals, and women shared recipes and other cultural practices. Their children also went to school together, played, and became familiar with one another’s languages and cultures. Taken together, these continuous moments of interracial interactions and community building created the foundations for what would be known as “local culture.” Local culture, as Okamura notes, includes a set of cultural practices and values and a common identity that is practiced by local people in Hawaiʻi.124 In essence, local identity and culture have become a way of living. Okamura continues, “Although it cannot be said to represent all the people of Hawaii, the term ‘local’ is increasingly used to refer to people born and raised in Hawaii. However, the meaning and salience of the notion of local have implications that extend far beyond birth and upbringing in Hawaii.”125 Historian John  P. Rosa further observes that “local identity has changed over time and is always in a state of flux.” Rosa views local identity as becoming more place based in its orientation; it can also go beyond race or ethnicity, is situational to one’s location in Hawaiʻi, and makes room for diversity within local culture and identity.126

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Local culture and identity are part of a unique cultural experience influenced by place. The formation of a new and shared creole language from the multiple languages spoken on the plantation is one example. This new language was developed primarily by the children of the plantation workers and was spoken by the majority of them. It would come to be known as Hawaiian Pidgin English, or as locals referred to it, “Pidgin English.” This language was heavily influenced by ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian). It was the lingua franca that defined the multiethnic population that grew out of the plantation era. Despite efforts by white educators to eradicate it, Hawaiian Pidgin English remains a part of the local culture to this day.127 As Camacho Souza pointed out, “Because ‘Pidgin’ English made for cross-­communication among all the different peoples, they soon began to understand and respect each other—­their traditions and customs. With this closeness they began to develop a consciousness of being the working class.”128 Spanish would be included in Hawaiian Pidgin English through the localized naming of Puerto Rican dishes, such as pateles and arroz ganduri, which are a part of Hawaiʻi’s multicultural cuisine. Another key Hawaiian element of local culture would be the influence of Native Hawaiian cultural values, such as the practice of aloha, which, as López notes, “is one of the building blocks of local culture.”129 This—­along with celebrating cultural diversity, being humble and respecting others, showing deference for one’s kūpuna (elders and ancestors), having a shared sense of community and pride, respecting the ʻāina (land, or “that which sustains us”), and other values rooted in Hawaiian culture—­defined local culture and identity. This, I contend, is also something that makes a Pacific Latinidad unique in its cultural multiplicity in a place like Hawaiʻi. Although local identity was also distinct from being Native Hawaiian, there were local Puerto Ricans whose multiplicity at times intersected with their Native Hawaiian and other racial and ethnic ancestries. Others claimed a local identity that was not tied to Indigeneity. In addition to having a shared local identity and culture, local Puerto Ricans also maintained their own cultural identity. As Honolulu resident Luana Rivera Palacio noted, “My mom’s family is Filipino and Kanaka Maoli. My dad’s is Puerto Rican. I realized there were differences in Puerto Rican culture in Hawaiʻi versus in Puerto Rico. They’ve [Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi] been so many generations here [Hawaiʻi] but still strongly identify as Boricua. I mean, Puerto Ricans are proud wherever we go, right?”130 Self-­identifying language was one way to assert their identity. It was also generational. Some local Puerto Ricans, for example, referred to themselves as Borinki, a term that comes from the local Pidgin English, while others also self-­identified as Boricua Hawaiiana.131 For López, one’s generation played a significant role in their identity formation: “All first-­and second-­generation Puerto Ricans I interviewed considered themselves both ‘Borinki’ and local. . . . Although most of the younger people with whom I spoke recognized and were proud of their Puerto Rican heritage, they

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identified either strongly or more strongly with local culture.”132 Later generations of Puerto Ricans did not really identify with the term, while others were familiar with it. It all depends on who you ask and what island they may be from. Luana Rivera Palacio, for example, who is of Puerto Rican / Filipina / Hawaiian ancestry, commented on the use of the term Borinki: “I’m like, ‘Ho, that’s not even a word!’ But Puerto Ricans from Puerto Rico, they have words for that, like Nuyoricans and stuff. Because here they [haoles] couldn’t pronounce Puerto Ricans or Boricuas, so Borinkis is what they called themselves. Well, what they were called and they adopted it, right? It’s funny, like, if someone mispronounces your name, wouldn’t you correct it?”133 Hawaiʻi Island resident Kurt De La Cruz, however, saw it differently: “So even the term Boricua, brah, is not a readily embraced term by Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi. But the word Borinki is, and I think that’s the Pidgin version, you know? Maybe some other person used that to describe Puerto Ricans, ‘Borinkis.’ It’s definitely related to Boricua. And I remember the first time I ever heard the term Boricua, I was kinda weirded out. ‘What the hell is that?’ You know, because I heard Borinki.”134 The first generation of Puerto Ricans, who came between 1900 and 1901, also noted that they were largely descended from the jíbaros, poor farmers from the mountains. These migrants also came from the coastal areas of Puerto Rico and other communities that were primarily of African descent, as documented by photographs of plantation workers as well as passing references in newspapers, oral histories, and other sources. For example, as one newspaper remarked about a group of Puerto Rican recruits on their way to Hawaiʻi, “All talk good Spanish with a sort of Chinese twang to it, and most of them are dark and look like negroes [sic].”135 Alfredo Santiago recalled knowing Afro–­Puerto Ricans when he was growing up on the sugar plantation who also lived in the Puerto Rican camp in Ewa: “Yeah, they had in Ewa. . . . They were nice people. Nice to get along with. Very friendly. In fact, I met some in Ewa. And then when we came to Waialua, I met the same people. They were here up [in] Kawailoa working. . . . Yeah, well in Ewa it was a big camp.”136 Santiago’s comment suggests the long-­standing existence of Afro–­Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi since the initial migrations and that they lived in the same camps as lighter-­skinned Puerto Ricans. The presence of Puerto Ricans of African descent did not go unnoticed by scholars at the time, who observed the community through the lens of race and colorism. Sociologist Romanzo Adams, for example, remarked about the presence of the Black population of Hawaiʻi, The Negroes of Hawaii are now nearly all part Negro, but most of the part Negroes have been classified as Hawaiian or part Hawaiian or as Puerto Rican since 1900. . . . The Puerto Ricans who came to Hawaii mainly about 1902 were in the main of Negro descent—­also of American Indian descent and in smaller

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FIGURE 12.   Photos of early Afro–­Puerto Rican children in Hawaiʻi illustrating the racial and

geographic diversity of Puerto Ricans who immigrated to or were born and raised in Hawaiʻi, including those of African descent. Both were photographed by Ray Jerome Baker. The photo on the left is of an unknown Puerto Rican girl (circa 1912). Photo courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, CUNY. The photo on the right is of a young Puerto Rican girl in Lahaina, Maui (circa 1912). Photo courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, CUNY. Original photo located in Hawaiʻi Lantern Slides, Hawaiian Collection, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Hamilton Library.

measure of Spanish descent. Under the usual census rule that a person of Negro descent is classified as a Negro, all or nearly all of the Puerto Ricans in Hawaii would have been classified as Negroes, but, in fact, they were classified as Puerto Ricans and the Puerto Rican group was one of the four groups under the general title, “Caucasian.”137

Adams’s statement suggests that not only was the classification of Puerto Ricans incorrect because of the phenotype of many Puerto Ricans of African descent who came to Hawaiʻi around 1902, but due to the legacy of the one-­drop rule in the United States, even those who identified as Puerto Rican were classified as Black by the U.S. Census and racial standards.138 Although Puerto Ricans were classified as white by the United States (due to their Spanish blood), their mixed ancestry and phenotype as visibly of African descent and mixed race ancestry did not prevent them from being racialized or experiencing racism and anti-­Blackness in Hawaiʻi, a topic that I engage further in chapter 5.139 Honolulu resident José Villa, for example, grew up in Spanish Harlem in New

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York. His parents were from Santurce, an Afro–­Puerto Rican section of San Juan. Villa came to Hawaiʻi in 1986 via the military (air force) and has lived there since. Villa shared his view as someone who identifies as an Afro–­Puerto Rican in Hawaiʻi: I’m Puerto Rican. Yeah, because I’m a descendant of the African slaves that the Spanish brought to Puerto Rico. So I also identify as African American. . . . I experience prejudice here like I do anywhere else. It’s a little more subtle. Being a Black man here, I’m still a Black man and I still walk and I see people that would just kinda shy away. Part of it is because for a lot of the local people here, the only experience they’ve had with Blacks is TV shows and movies and the crime and that kind of stuff. That tends to just mark everybody until they get to know you.140

Villa’s identity as an Afro–­Puerto Rican also enabled him to be actively involved in both the Black and Latinx communities in Hawaiʻi, where he built his network and found a place to call home. He was involved in the effort to establish Martin Luther King Jr. Day as a state holiday and served as president of both the African American Chamber of Commerce and the Hawaii Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, among other accomplishments. For other Puerto Ricans, their identity became more local over time because of the disconnect from their culture. Rudy Mendez, a Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi, remarked about his identity, “I feel like I’m Hawaiian really, because I was born and raised here. I know Hawaiʻi ya know, but my background is Puerto Rican. I’ve never been to Puerto Rico. I suppose if I learned the language, if I learned it, I would feel more Puerto Rican. But I feel more Hawaiian. Hawaiʻi is my home.”141 Rudy’s comment is telling. As a Puerto Rican who was born and raised in Hawaiʻi, he felt more connected to Hawaiʻi’s local culture, which, as previously mentioned, is very rooted in Native Hawaiian cultural values. There have also been Puerto Ricans who have strongly identified with and are reclaiming their Indigenous Taino past and identity. Some scholars suggest that this is to escape their Blackness.142 While this may be true for some, others I have interviewed saw it as a means to embrace their Indigenous identity. For example, Kurt, who is of Puerto Rican and Filipino ancestry, viewed his connection to his Taino past as a means to explain his connection to his Native Hawaiian counterparts and where he was born and raised (Kāʻu, Hawaiʻi Island), both in terms of an Indigenous identity and as a political act. He elaborated, “I identify first and foremost, still today, I still local boy, Hawaiʻi Kāʻu. Ethnically speaking, I must say Puerto Rican, and to a larger context nowadays, I think It’s been more Taino, more of that native side. I found myself throughout my whole life being very close to Native Hawaiian causes. And a lot of Puerto Ricans actually are close to Native Hawaiian causes. I think that was the closest manifestation to a lot of the questions I had about my Taino heritage.”143 In seeing a connection between his Indigenous Taino past and Native Hawaiian culture, Kurt went further to

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discuss the naming of his firstborn child: “I have a three-­year-­old daughter, she got a Hawaiian name. And I ain’t got a drop of Hawaiian blood in me, . . . [but] I am absolutely from the same fabric of Kanakas, of Hawaiians, of Sāmoans, of Filipinos, [who] are from that same fabric [and] who were colonized.  .  .  . So for me, when we named our daughter a Hawaiian name, ‘no kekahi wahi o ka poe maikaʻi,’ which translates to, ‘from the place of good people.’ If you look back, the term Taino meant ‘the good people.’”144 Indeed, it is important for some Puerto Ricans to see how their Taino past and identity are also being shaped in an Indigenous place like Hawaiʻi and how the colonialism and the military-­industrial complex link Hawaiʻi and Puerto Rico together in the web of U.S. colonialism and militarization, as witnessed with the bombing of both the Vieques and Kahoʻolawe islands for military exercises. The bombings had a devastating environmental impact on the islands’ inhabitants and their lands and oceans. It also prompted their demand to demilitarize both islands.145 To be Puerto Rican, or Boricua Hawaiiana, meant not only having Puerto Rican heritage but also being familiar with Puerto Rican food, music, cultural and religious celebrations, and even language when possible. As Raymond Pagan, former president of the United Puerto Rican Heritage Association, noted, a local Puerto Rican was “anyone who was born in Hawaiʻi and had Puerto Rican heritage.” Even among ethnically mixed Puerto Rican families, as López observes, “it appeared that Puerto Rican culture predominated.”146 Given these intersecting identities of Boricua Hawaiiana and local, Puerto Ricans have not only contributed to local culture in Hawaiʻi, but they have also been impacted by it through “freely integrating other groups’ food and customs into their own.”147 There are two ways that this occurs: cultural syncretism and cultural synthesis. López adds, “Cultural syncretism [is] a form of mixing where original characteristics are not lost in the process of transculturation [cultural merging]. Cultural synthesis on the other hand, is a blend of many cultural elements that creates something new. In Hawaiʻi, syncretism and synthesis coexist, whereas in the mainland there is less tolerance of syncretism.”148 As both exist simultaneously in Hawaiʻi, it allows local Puerto Ricans to feel pride in their culture, which includes customs, language, musical heritage, and food.149 Let us now observe how Puerto Rican identity is shaped through both cultural syncretism and cultural synthesis.

Food and Cultural Identity Food is a visible contribution that Puerto Ricans have shared with the local culture and cuisine of Hawaiʻi. It still remains one of the primary ways that Boricuas Hawaiianas identify with their Puerto Rican culture. It is also something that other groups in Hawaiʻi enjoy eating. For example, as Lokelani Rios detailed, “Pateles, it’s embraced by a lot of people [in Hawaiʻi]. I mean everybody likes pateles. Can be Japanese, you can be Puerto Rican, Filipino, Hawaiian, you

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can even be Marshallese. They all embrace that dish. It’s a very popular dish.”150 Some of the main Puerto Rican foods known in Hawaiʻi include pateles (similar to Mexican tamales),151 guisados (stews), arroz ganduri (arroz con gandules / rice and pigeon peas), arroz con pollo (chicken and rice), sofrito (a sauce made with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and various herbs and spices and colored with achiote seeds), and lechon (pig roasted on a spit).152 As José Villa shared about his experience with Puerto Rican food on the island of Oʻahu, “You can drive all over the island and you’ll see it. Over in Waiʻanae, on the west side, . . . there’s a food truck that says, pateles and poke.”153 Camacho Souza also recalled how the dishes she cooked were the same as what her family made in Puerto Rico. She did her best to use the same ingredients to ensure the cuisine was traditional in taste.154 Outside of the home and the highway stands where people sell pateles and arroz “ganduri” (a creolization of the word gandules), some Puerto Ricans have opened restaurants and food shops. The Pastele Shop, for example, was the first Puerto Rican food shop in Honolulu (Oʻahu island) that exclusively sold Puerto Rican food. Elizabeth Souza Ross (a Hawaiian-­Chinese-­Portuguese woman and Maui native) and her family run the business, which sells 1,500 pateles per week. As the story goes, “when she [Ross] was a little girl, her ‘aunty’ married a Puerto Rican man and moved to the Puerto Rican quarter of the plantation, and whenever Elizabeth went to visit her aunty, she watched and learned how to make pasteles [pronounced “pateles”]. Later in life she sold them door-­to-­door until her and her daughters opened the shop in Kalihi (Honolulu) in 1983.”155 Ross’s daughter also remembers the process of making pateles from her mom: “I remember watching her grate bananas. . . . In Wahiawa, she grew her own bananas.”156 The Pastele Shop is still a cultural institution of the Boricua Hawaiiana and larger local community. There have been other early restaurants that served Puerto Rican food. One is Joe Ayala’s Tavern (established in the 1930s), which also provided kachi-­kachi music for its patrons. Joe Ayala’s Tavern was considered a Puerto Rican cultural institution that catered to Puerto Rican locals and Puerto Ricans in the military who were stationed in Hawaiʻi. There was also Aunty’s Puerto Rican Kitchen in Honolulu’s Chinatown.157 Restaurants that currently sell Puerto Rican food also include Kai’s Pastele Shop, Teixeira’s Pasteles, El Sofrito de Luby, MJ’s Cocina, and Coquito’s Latin Cuisine on the island of Oʻahu. On the island of Kauaʻi, there is JC’s Puerto Rican Kitchen; on the island of Maui, there is Da Puerto Rican food truck; and on Hawaiʻi Island, there is Wat Get Kitchen.158 Food remains one of the strongest identity markers among Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi, who may not speak Spanish fluently but consume their culture and are reminded of family and friends back home in Puerto Rico through their culinary genealogy.

Music and Entertainment Puerto Ricans also introduced their music to Hawaiʻi, which remains a staple of the island’s musical mosaic. This includes music that has evolved as part of

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Hawaiʻi’s larger local culture and that which is specific to the Puerto Rican and the larger Latinx population. Given that most of the early Puerto Rican migrants who came in the 1900s were from the mountain region, they brought their jíbaro music traditions with them. Other musical styles, such as bomba and plena, which are traditional to the coastal regions of Puerto Rico with larger Afro–­Puerto Rican populations, and later salsa, which was an amalgamation of many styles, were also carried over during the twentieth century.159 The jíbaro music tradition includes the introduction of kachi-­kachi music. According to musicologist Ted Solís, the term kachi-­kachi originated in the early twentieth century on the island of Kauaʻi with Japanese plantation workers, who referred to the “dry” or “scratchy” sound from the güiro instrument used in Puerto Rican dance music.160 What is interesting about this music style is that it also became an isolated phenomenon specific to Hawaiʻi that was not typically perpetuated back in Puerto Rico in the way that it is in Hawaiʻi. Kurt commented about this musical style, I’ve heard a lot of different theories on why they call it kachi-­kachi, but someone said it sounds like all the scratching from the güiros and maracas and stuff. But at these kachi-­kachi dances, you would have almost this time capsule kind of music that I don’t believe they play a lot in Puerto Rico anymore. If someone from Puerto Rico was to hear that, they would probably think, “That’s what the old people listen to . . .” Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi continue to be a very proud people, but especially for their music. Jíbaro music kind of defines them. A lot of them play amazing music, and if you go to the kachi-­kachi dances, you see all ages, and you see people eighty to eighty-­five years old out there. They got sore ankles and knees, but they’re out there spinning on that floor for three to four hours. So we’re pretty proud of those things.161

Puerto Ricans also brought their instruments to Hawaiʻi. These included the cuatro (a small four-­stringed guitar that is also the national instrument of Puerto Rico), traditional guitar, güiro (gourd instrument), mandolin, clave (sticks), and maracas (small gourd instruments with beans or seeds inside). ʻUkeleles were introduced through their interactions with the Portuguese and other groups on the plantations. Congo drums and bongos were later added by Puerto Ricans in the post–­World War II years who came via the military from the Afro–­Puerto Rican coastal areas of Puerto Rico.162 By bringing their instruments and playing their traditional music on the plantations, Puerto Ricans were able to perpetuate a part of their culture as well as share it with other racial and ethnic groups in Hawaiʻi who came to their dance parties and other family functions in the early twentieth century. Dance parties were also never by invitation only; all were welcome to enjoy the music and dancing. These were some of the ways that culture was also retained—­by perpetuating musical styles and exposure to the Spanish language. Lokelani

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FIGURE 13.   Musicians Charley Figueroa, John Agao, and Tony Dias (right), circa 1980s. Photo

courtesy of the Center for Puerto Rican Studies, Hunter College, CUNY.

also recalled a story her mother used to tell her about the plantation days and the dances the Puerto Ricans hosted. She noted, “I remember my mom telling stories about things like the different plantation people, like the Filipinos, the Portuguese. They would all get together, and they would all go to the Borinki dances. And they would partake in that, and it was normal.”163 For Lokelani, the stories of the various ethnic groups commingling at Puerto Rican dances resonated with her in terms of what it meant to grow up in Hawaiʻi. In addition to kachi-­kachi music, Puerto Ricans have also been heavily involved in creating a cultural footprint with other forms of music for years, such as bomba, plena, and in particular, salsa.164 Radio personality and Puerto Rican DJ Ray Cruz, the assistant director of operations at Hawaiʻi Public Radio and host of the popular music show Tropical Taste, shared his view on the introduction of other forms of Puerto Rican music to Hawaiʻi during his time on the air: When I got here we started playing, and most of those influences were all military guys. And we started doing salsa music, and all of a sudden, the only experiences that a lot of the local Puerto Ricans had here was kachi-­kachi music. But now they were hearing salsa and all this other stuff that they had never heard before. Some embraced it, some rejected it. “That’s not my thing.” Partly because they didn’t

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know the language or partly because they felt intimidated by it. I don’t know. . . . And what I did was I wanted to educate the local Puerto Ricans to that type of music. Why? The music that they were used to was the musica typica that the original Puerto Ricans brought with them here [kachi-­kachi], which is different. It’s typical; it’s not salsa. Salsa to them was almost foreign. . . . What that meant was I had to really pay attention to the guys like Tito Puente, Machito, Tito Rodriguez, all these guys who were the first guys to talk salsa. Which is what they call now salsa, but back then it was more mambo, more traditional.165

These musical expressions have enabled Puerto Ricans to contribute some cultural elements to Hawaiʻi’s music scene. As López notes, music has also played a significant role in maintaining Puerto Rican cultural identity.166 It was a way to be connected to their family, culture, and musical rhythms that reminded them of Puerto Rico. A number of local groups and musicians were also popular in Hawaiʻi. These included Los Compadres, the Jaricans, Augie Colón of Molokaʻi (who was known as the “Grandfather of Percussion” in Hawaiʻi), Latin Gentlemen (directed by Tony Dias), and Second Time Around (led by John Ortiz). As Hawaiʻi Island resident and longtime Puerto Rican activist and musician Tony Dias recalled, “Most of my life I’ve been exposed to playing Puerto Rican music, and I can play Mexican music and Hawaiian music.  .  .  . First group I played with was Los Compadres. And then I played with Second Time Around. Then I played with Latin Gentlemen, and I played with Boricuas Hawaiianos.”167 Music groups were established on other islands as well. Some of these include Los Hawaiianos, Las Señoritas, Los Kauaianos, Son Caribe, Rolando Sanchez y Salsa Hawaiʻi, Kauaʻi Amigos, and others.168 Women also participated in groups such as Eva and Her Rumba Queens and as lead vocalists of men’s groups. These included Jeannie Ortiz Bargas, lead vocalist of El Leo Jarican Express, and Joanna Mokiha, lead vocalist for Second Time Around. Chickie Dias was also at one time a main vocalist for Second Time Around. These groups played at social events such as house parties, luaus, and cultural celebrations.169 There was also the “Jolly Ricans,” composed primarily of the Pagan family, in the 1940s, Silvia’s Rhumba Kings, in the 1950s, and the Puerto Rican Orchestra (Torres family musicians and friends) also during the 1950s.170 In addition to bands and dance groups, Puerto Ricans have also played a role as radio personalities and DJs in Hawaiʻi, contributing to the exposure of Puerto Rican and other Latinx music genres. Alma Latina, for example, which airs on Hawaiʻi Public Radio, was created more than forty years ago by Puerto Rican music pioneer Nancy Ortiz. As López notes, Alma Latina “has also played an influential role in maintaining and perpetuating Puerto Rican identity in Hawaiʻi among local Puerto Ricans.”171 Ortiz provided a platform not only for Puerto Ricans but also for other Latinx musicians to be heard. She opened the door for other radio personalities to have various types of Latinx music played and shared with the larger local population of Hawaiʻi. Veteran radio personality

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DJ Ray Cruz and other DJs and radio personalities have also been instrumental in ensuring that these forms of Latinx music are given attention in Hawaiʻi, such as through DJ Franky, DJ Margarita, and others.172 As a result, there has been an increased interest in salsa, merengue, cumbia, and bachata, among other Latinx music genres. In the last ten years, for example, there has been a rising interest in the Latinx music scene among the larger multiracial local population in Hawaiʻi, particularly with salsa and bachata. Annual festivals on Oʻahu—­such as the Salsa in Hawaiʻi Annual Salsa & Bachata Festival, the Hawaiʻi Afro-­Latin Dance Festival, and the Maui Salsa Bachata Congress, among others—­highlight the growing interest and involvement of non-­Latinx locals and visitors who participate in Puerto Rican and other Latinx music and dance genres.173 The influence of Puerto Rican music on Hawaiian musicians is also evident. Legendary Hawaiian musician Willie K., for example, has incorporated some Puerto Rican and other Latinx musical styles in what historian Tyina Steptoe calls “diasporic conversations” through the intercultural blending of Puerto Rican and Hawaiian musical sensibilities that continue to be a staple of Hawaiʻi’s music scene today.174 For example, Willie K. highlights such Puerto Rican (and other Latinx) musical conversations with songs like “Katchi Katchi Music Makawao” and “Los Hawaiianos.”175 Hawaiian musician and local legend Sonny Chillingworth also pays homage to the Latinx musical influences that have engaged in these diasporic conversations. He and his friends came together in the 1960s to record Los Hawaiianos with Puerto Rican singer Jesús Vásquez on lead vocals. These examples demonstrate the influence Puerto Rican music has had on Hawaiʻi.176

Language Language is a major cultural factor tied to identity and why local Puerto Ricans have felt either a part of or disconnected from their culture. Given that the use of the Spanish language began to diminish after the second generation, subsequent generations primarily spoke Pidgin English and/or standard English. As López notes about the local Boricuas Hawaiianas, “Most Puerto Ricans in contemporary Hawaiʻi do not speak Spanish and are unfamiliar with Puerto Rican history.”177 Some local Puerto Ricans like Blase Camacho Souza remember navigating several languages growing up: “Well at the time, I used to speak Spanish to my grandfather. But then we spoke Pidgin English. And I really learned Standard English in school. . . . But you had to speak Pidgin in order to communicate with everyone else.”178 In her own research during the early 1980s, Camacho Souza and her colleagues conducted surveys on language proficiency and found that over half of the local Puerto Rican population surveyed did not understand Spanish well and that within households, it was not spoken much at all.179 As Kathy Montalbo Guzman, a Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi, noted about her

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Spanish-­language proficiency, “I really try to pick up the language. That’s very important to me. As a part of being Puerto Rican, to learn the language, it’s a beautiful language. And Spanish, I feel very fortunate to be able to learn it. Now I guess I’m bilingual. ‘Yo hablo bastante bien’ [I speak quite well].”180 Later migrations of Puerto Ricans to Hawaiʻi, particularly after World War II, have been more fluent in Spanish given their cultural upbringing, particularly if coming from Puerto Rico, which had very different cultural dynamics than those in Hawaiʻi. For most of the Puerto Ricans after the first generation, their ties to local identity and culture seemed to prevail, particularly when it came to language proficiency in Pidgin English versus Spanish. This illustrates the ways that Puerto Ricans have successfully adapted to being culturally local while also acknowledging their Boricua ancestry. For subsequent generations of Boricuas Hawaiianas—­who are the descendants of the first migrants who came to Hawaiʻi—­music, dance, and food were ways to access their cultural identity and history when they lacked language fluency. For many local Puerto Ricans, Spanish-­language retention is key and is oftentimes a point of contention with and even rejection from other Puerto Ricans. For example, one Boricua Hawaiiana shared, “They ask, ‘Are you Puerto Rican?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m Puerto Rican.’ Then they start rattling off in Spanish. You say, ‘No, no. I don’t speak Spanish.’ ‘You just said you’re Puerto Rican.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I am.’ ‘Well, you don’t speak Spanish.’ ‘No, I don’t.’ ‘Ah, then you’re not Puerto Rican!’ That’s when I start to boil.”181 This is an issue faced by other racial and ethnic groups who do not speak the languages of their homelands, and they can sometimes experience marginalization from those who speak their “native” language as a marker of cultural authenticity. However, given the numerous generations of local Puerto Ricans who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi, their fluency would be in other languages, like Pidgin English or even Hawaiian. Kurt, for example, reflected, I am a Latino in Hawaiʻi, but I don’t speak Spanish fluently. I speak Pidgin English fluently, and I probably know more Hawaiian words than I know Spanish words. But I noticed that that don’t make us un–­Puerto Rican or un-­Taino. If we say Taino, goodness where is that language now? Right now it’s 2011, and I’m a local Hawaiʻi boy with Puerto Rican, Taino, and Filipino bloods, man. That’s about it. And being in Hawaiʻi, your identity is Hawaiʻi, so you embrace a bunch of different things. You’re not going to hang out with other Puerto Ricans. You’re going to hang out with a lot of different people. You gain this real cross-­training with people and cultures and stuff. So that’s pretty much where I am with my identity, I believe.182

For Kurt, his lack of Spanish-­language fluency does not make him any less Puerto Rican. Rather, he sees this as a reflection of being multigenerational, born and raised in Hawaiʻi, and having a different kind of language proficiency—­in

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this case, Hawaiian Pidgin English. Lokelani Rios has a similar story. She is of Puerto Rican and Mexican ancestry but identifies as a local Puerto Rican. Although she was born in Colorado, Lokelani lived most of her life in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu and Honokaʻa). Although her grandparents spoke Spanish, the loss of language fluency occurred by the time of her generation, since her mother (who also grew up in Hawaiʻi) was also experiencing a loss of Spanish-­language fluency. She noted, “The generation now are forgetting their roots.  .  .  . They should value the language. They should learn more of the Puerto Rican culture from Puerto Rico. Here in Hawaiʻi, for my generation, all I know is what I’ve learned from hearing stories of our culture back in Puerto Rico. But the culture I lived mostly was the Hawaiian culture. It’s a combination of the Hawaiian culture with what little we gathered from our grandparents.”183 For Lolekani, the loss of language and cultural identity is something that concerns her, especially since her children identify more as local because they were born and raised in Hawaiʻi. However, it doesn’t diminish her pride in being a local Puerto Rican. Other local Puerto Ricans were able to retain or relearn their language, such as Tony Dias. As he shared, “I’m Boricua. I’m Puerto Rican. I’ve been most of my life playing music, so being raised by my grandparents, I learned the language early in my childhood. But I forgot it when I went to school, but I regained it when I became the director of the Spanish choir here in Kona.”184 Luana Rivera Palacio was raised speaking Spanish because of her father. She noted, One of the most important things for my dad was that he wanted us to speak Spanish. That was what he felt was a very important part of his culture [he was born and raised in Puerto Rico]. He wanted my brother and I to speak Spanish. And I remember as a kid we had this whole rule where we’d speak Spanish to each other in the house and then we’d speak English outside. But my mom, hula was important to her. That was what she thought of as the thing that she definitely needed to give to me. So wherever we moved, she would try to put me in a hula class.185

Palacio was able to retain Spanish as well as learn other cultural elements from her Hawaiian and Filipina backgrounds. Yet she also recognized the importance that place made in cultural identity and growth, particularly with Indigenous language and culture: “I feel like the Native Hawaiian identity here is stronger. I’m just talking about Puerto Rico. That the Native identity here is stronger than the Native identity in Puerto Rico, the Indigenous. . . . Here you see hula all over. Hula, Hawaiian language is spoken. We don’t have a similar thing. So right now, I’m doing a Hawaiian language program called Kealaleo that is bringing conversational Hawaiian language back to adults. I think that would be an amazing thing for Puerto Ricans to have a revival of these languages.”186 Palacio’s recognition of Indigenous languages and how it was important for Puerto Ricans to also revive their Taino culture and language speaks to how

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languages can change or be lost over time while being replaced for others who are in the diaspora and have created home abroad—­in this case, in Hawaiʻi. For Kathy, her journey illustrates how she navigated her multiple cultural identities: “Now I can really compare myself with being Puerto Rican. I consider myself fortunate because [of ] being born and raised in Hawaiʻi of Puerto Rican ancestry. . . . As far as being Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi, I feel even more stronger about being Puerto Rican. I never say I’m Hawaiian–­Puerto Rican or Puerto Rican–­Hawaiian. I always say, ‘Yo soy una Puertorriqueña de Hawaiʻi’”187 (I’m a Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi [her emphasis]). Kathy’s pride and intentional way of saying she is a Puerto Rican from Hawaiʻi enabled her to retain her Puertoricanness while also acknowledging where she was born and raised (Hawaiʻi), which also shaped her identity. As my interviewees and others have noted, the varying degrees of language proficiency may have made some feel insecure about their identities, but it did not make them feel any less proud of being Puerto Rican. Rather, their sense of place as local to Hawaiʻi and the cultural elements they do continue to use, including music, language, food, dance, and history, help them maintain their identities as Boricua Hawaiiana and local.

Conclusion Puerto Ricans’ recruitment to plantation work signaled the second significant historical migration of Latinxs to Hawaiʻi and made a vital cultural contribution to the islands. As laborers, Puerto Ricans contributed to the success of the sugar plantation economy. Their migration was forced by an environmental catastrophe in Puerto Rico and welcomed by Hawaiʻi sugar interests, who stood to profit from their predicament. These early recruits left Puerto Rico to start a new life and to escape the trauma they experienced as a result of the hurricane and its aftermath. One option was to leave the island altogether and find a way to earn enough money to come back home and rebuild. They would rebuild not only for themselves but for their families and friends—­their communities back home. For many, though, the tragedy was that they were misled by the recruiting agents and ultimately could not go back home. Some deserted en route to Hawaiʻi and remained in California, where they found a more familiar cultural environment.188 For those who decided to try their luck in Hawaiʻi, since they did not have the means to return to Puerto Rico, they sought to rebuild their communities with other Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi. They maintained their connection to family and friends through their letters back home. Remembering, however, would be key to maintaining their ties back home and, for some, the opportunity to go back and visit the homeland. Their memory would be the catalyst to hold on to those cultural elements that made them Puerto Rican: their music, dances, food, cultural and religious traditions, and language. This would define Puerto Ricans as Boricuas Hawaiianas.

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At the same time, Puerto Ricans were also a part of the multiracial plantation community that came together to create a culture all their own—­local culture—­rooted in Hawaiian values and a blend of other ethnic and racial cultures’ food, music, and other elements. They would lose some things like language (Spanish) in varying degrees along the way while contributing to and forming a new language within the larger multiracial plantation population—­ Pidgin English. As subsequent generations of Puerto Ricans either were born and raised in Hawaiʻi or arrived after the first migrations through the military and other occupations in the late twentieth century and beyond, they added other cultural elements that continued to feed and maintain Puerto Rican culture and identity in Hawaiʻi. Puerto Ricans are still one of the largest Latinx groups in Hawaiʻi and the most racially mixed. This cultural rejuvenation in later years, along with the cultural syncretism and cultural synthesis that influenced what it means to be Boricua Hawaiiana and local today, reflects the experiences that the Puerto Rican migrants from the early 1900s sought to remember and perpetuate through their descendants. It was Puerto Ricans who became the first Latinx group to completely culturally blend with the larger multiracial local population and culture, and they are a reminder of how one balances cultural identities in all their complexities in a place like Hawaiʻi. This cultural adaptation and the multiplicity of Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi are also distinct from other places because of the unique Indigenous racial and ethnic mixing and identity formations that occurred due to Hawaiʻi’s colonial history. It is what defines Boricuas Hawaiianas within the Puerto Rican diaspora. The experiences of Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi during the twentieth century, I suggest, contributed to the ongoing development of a Pacific Latinidad that began in the 1830s. The continued mixing of cultures and people further reinforced the multiplicity of an evolving identity and place that makes this experience distinct. As Puerto Rican migration all but came to a halt in the early 1900s, there would not be a resurgence until the defense industry and military service during and after World War II provided additional opportunities for Puerto Ricans to migrate to Hawaiʻi. This new flow of Puerto Rican bodies serving the U.S. empire would also complicate the territorial relationship that existed between Puerto Rico and the United States and the quasi-­citizenship status of Puerto Ricans continued to receive despite their contributions through military service. By the late twentieth and early twenty-­first centuries, Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi not only have situated themselves as a part of Hawaiʻi’s multicultural fabric but have also recently been one of the primary groups who have advocated on behalf of their Mexican and Central American counterparts on the islands, particularly in the 1990s and early 2000s. Being familiar with not having any political representation as a racialized ethnic group and experiencing racism and discrimination when their descendants first arrived,

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their involvement has been centered around the issue of immigration, citizenship, and belonging, which in some ways is also influencing Hawaiʻi’s local perception of its Latinx population. Let us now turn to the following chapters to see how these issues unfolded for the next two significant waves of Latinx migration—­Mexicans and Central Americans—­and their role in Maui’s pineapple industry in the 1990s and the Kona coffee and macadamia nut industries in the early 2000s.

3

Working Maui Pine Without them, I don’t know what we would do. —­Lori Tokunaga, Wailuku Agribusiness

When César Flores Gaxiola first came to Hawaiʻi Island in 1989, he came with the hope of making a better life for himself. Originally from Nogales, México, César was working in Arizona in the late 1980s through an agency called Centro Del Progreso, located in San Luis, Arizona. At the time, he was earning two dollars an hour, but work was inconsistent. Due to the oversupply of workers, César and the other agricultural laborers could only work twenty hours a week, rotating the number of days worked per week. As work became more uncertain, César and the other laborers soon learned of another job opportunity far from Arizona. According to César, the agency was recruiting people to work in Alaska, Hawaiʻi, other regions in the United States, New Zealand, and Australia. They were recruited to entry-­level positions in agriculture, meat packing, apple picking, and the fishing industry. For César, Hawaiʻi was especially appealing. As he recalled, “When they told us Hawaiʻi, full time, forty hours, with the possibility of working overtime. And then $5.25 an hour. . . . We’re like, ‘Oh boy! We’ll be rich! We’ll go make a lot of money!’”1 When he arrived in Hawaiʻi, he found work easily, particularly in agriculture, which in the late 1980s lost workers to more lucrative opportunities in hotels and restaurants. The tourism industry not only paid more but also promised work that was less labor intensive.2 César was first recruited to work on Hawaiʻi Island for six months harvesting tomatoes, cucumbers, and macadamia nuts in Keleakekua (Kona side). 102

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After his six-­month contract, César started working on a pineapple farm on the island of Maui. As he remarked, “I learned [through the employment agency] that there was a job in Maui. . . . So I said, OK, I want to go to Maui.”3 Through the 402 Migrant Assistance Farm Worker Program, César stayed and worked with Maui Economic Opportunity (MEO), a nonprofit private agency responsible for the employment of hundreds of Latinx workers in Maui and other parts of the Hawaiian Islands. César was part of the first cohort of Mexican workers who came to Maui in 1989, working for Maui Land and Pineapple Co. (also called Maui Pine) in Kahului. César advanced to a truck driver, harvester operator, irrigation worker, staff trainer, and dormitory supervisor for the male workers in their assigned houses. After his contract ended in 1990, César decided to stay in Maui.4 César worked with MEO for eleven years, first as a client, a volunteer, and then an employee. He worked as an employment adviser and case manager for the other migrant workers and as director of community programs for MEO, which included being program director for MEO’s Enlace Hispano (Hispanic Network).5 He was also responsible for overseeing MEO’s offices in Lānaʻi and Molokaʻi.6 His work included advocating for immigrant workers in the United States who are legal residents but are not eligible for social services and benefits despite paying taxes.7 César became a naturalized citizen in 1997. He married a local woman from Hawaiʻi and raised a family. He currently works as the director of the J. Walter Cameron Center in Maui.8 In addition to his career, César was also responsible for co-­organizing the Somos Amigos (We Are Friends) Festival, Maui’s first Latinx cultural festival. This chapter focuses on the migration of Mexicans and Central Americans in Maui’s pineapple industry in the 1990s. Their presence in Maui is significant because the pineapple industry in Maui was one of the largest employers that relied primarily on Mexican and Central American migrant workers. The shifting labor demands and supply of local workers from agriculture to tourism in the late 1980s and a series of severe labor shortages in the early 1990s affected the agricultural industry of Hawaiʻi and, in particular, the island of Maui. As the stories that follow will demonstrate, it would be Latinx labor that enabled the pineapple industry to survive on the island of Maui. Under the auspices of MEO, which was responsible for the recruitment and retention of migrant workers, growers were able to secure a labor force that enabled Maui’s pineapple industry to survive and even thrive for a period. MEO was also responsible for the continued relationship that facilitated the growing Latinx population in Hawaiʻi. This chapter examines why Latinx migrant workers were recruited once again in another pivotal moment in Hawaiʻi’s agricultural history and set in motion a path for Mexican and Central American workers and their families to live and work in Maui. This eventually led to another generation of Latinxs calling the islands home as they contributed another layer to the multigenerational Pacific Latinidad

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that continued to develop in the late twentieth century. It also marked the arrival of another group, Central Americans, who became a part of this process as they embarked on their own journey across the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands to Hawaiʻi. The efforts of Hawaiʻi’s pineapple industry to hire Mexican and Central American workers reveals a stark similarity to how Puerto Ricans were recruited to work in Hawaiʻi’s sugar plantation economy at the turn of the twentieth century. In other words, it would be not Native Hawaiians who welcomed these new Latinx migrant workers to Hawaiʻi’s shores but rather the pineapple growers and the state. In collaboration with Hawaiʻi state agencies, Latinx workers primarily immigrated during this time period to help with another aspect of the settler plantation economy. Similar to how Puerto Ricans were enticed to come with their families, Mexicans and Central Americans were also invited to stay in Maui and were provided assistance with bringing their families over (for those who had them). This gesture ensured that this group of Latinx workers would not only be welcomed by the state of Hawaiʻi to contribute their labor to Maui’s economy but also acculturate and be part of the larger local community. Although the larger Native Hawaiian and local population was less interested in and even resistant to the coming of these workers at first, eventually the Latinx migrants who stayed began intermarrying with them and were soon part of Maui’s larger multiracial population. It was a process that took time and one that continues to evolve.

Maui’s Pineapple Industry and MEO Although hala kahiki, or piña (pineapple), is Indigenous to Latin America, it is now synonymous with Hawaiʻi.9 Foods labeled as “Hawaiian” oftentimes are accompanied by pineapple in their recipes (e.g., hamburgers, pizza). This, of course, is misleading given the Latin American origins of pineapple, though the importance of pineapple in the local and tourist imagination of Hawaiʻi cannot be overstated, since the pineapple industry has been a leading force in the state’s settler plantation economy. This was fueled by a fierce marketing campaign and control over the local workforce to ensure that pineapple became another profitable crop for the haole-­controlled plantation economy in Hawaiʻi, but the pineapple industry was also responsible for the dispossession of land and the displacement of Native Hawaiians from their homeland ever since haole missionaries and business interests first came to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom.10 Foreigners, seeing the potential of Hawaiian soil, first introduced pineapple to the Hawaiian Islands in 1813, and it soon became one of Hawaiʻi’s largest and most profitable export crops so that by 1915, “pineapple was second only to ‘king sugar’ in Hawaiʻi’s economy.”11 According to one report, pineapple’s success was made possible through land investments on the island of Oʻahu by Del Monte and Hawaiian Pineapple Co. (also known as Dole Food Co.).12 Pineapple was

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soon planted throughout many of the Hawaiian Islands and became yet another cash crop tied to haole settler colonizers. Many of the plantation owners were the children of former missionaries, some of which were also involved in the sugar industry in Hawaiʻi. In addition to the haole oligarchy that controlled sugar in Hawaiʻi (known as the Big Five or the Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association), some of these same companies were also involved in pineapple production.13 James Dole (cousin of Sanford Dole, one of the co-­conspirators who overthrew Queen Liliʻuokalani), for example, is credited for establishing pineapple as a major cash crop in the Hawaiian Islands. When James Dole found that the soil of Hawaiʻi was conducive to growing pineapples, he focused his attention on this crop. As historian Gary Okihiro notes, pineapple canneries most likely began in Kona on Hawaiʻi Island in 1882.14 Aided by the annexation of Hawaiʻi as a colonial territory to the United States, Dole found that he could profit from canned pineapple, since it would not be subjected to a tariff, which made it more appealing than pineapple imported from the Bahamas and the West Indies.15 Okihiro writes, “In 1903, Dole was elected president of his Hawaiian Pineapple Company, and set out to build, ‘the largest and most complete pineapple cannery in the world.’”16 The increased consumer demand for canned pineapple led to a cannery being built in Honolulu on the island of Oʻahu. Other canneries and the agricultural production of pineapples spread throughout the Hawaiian Islands. In 1922, for example, James Dole purchased almost the entire island of Lānaʻi from Baldwin Maui ranchers, thus controlling 45 percent of Hawaiʻi’s best pineapple lands, and as Okihiro notes, he “proceeded to transform Lanaʻi into the ‘Pineapple Isle.’”17 The continued expansion came at the expense of Lānaʻi’s Native Hawaiian population, who were dispossessed of their land and their rights to them. By 1930, Dole had over 25,143 acres of pineapple under cultivation.18 Although Dole was a major pineapple producer on islands like Oʻahu and Lānaʻi, on the island of Maui, however, the pineapple industry had its origins with the Baldwin family. The origins of pineapple in Maui began in 1890, when the Baldwin family planted their first crop in Haʻiku on Maui’s northeastern shore.19 In 1903, Henry and David Baldwin (sons of missionaries Rev.  Dr. Dwight and Charlotte Baldwin) established Haiku Fruit & Packing Company, which laid the foundation for the pineapple industry in Maui. After expanding their acquisitions of land and holdings, the Baldwin brothers eventually combined their eastern and western Maui pineapple operations in the 1920s. Under their company, Baldwin Packers, they eventually merged with Maui Pineapple Company in 1962. In 1969, they were operating as Maui Land and Pineapple Co., Inc.20 By 2008, Maui Land and Pineapple Co. became the largest pineapple grower in Hawaiʻi, producing more than ninety-­two thousand tons under its Maui Gold brand.21 Although mechanization was key to pineapple production, workers were still required to plant and harvest the fruit as well as maintain the cannery assembly lines. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, as

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early as 1915, the pineapple workforce in Hawaiʻi included employees who were Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Filipino, Native Hawaiian, Portuguese, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Spanish, Indian, Irish, German, Russian, and American and those reported as “race unknown.”22 Over time, the workforce whose children were born and raised in Hawaiʻi and identified as local (see chapter 2) composed the vast majority of Hawaiʻi’s pineapple harvesting and canning operations. This would be the case until the late 1980s.

A New Migration Begins The survival of Hawaiʻi’s agricultural industry during the late twentieth century once again relied on the assistance of Latinx migrant workers. They were recruited primarily from California and other U.S. states as well as México and Central America. The labor shortage of local workers, who were diverted from agriculture to the tourist industry, resulted in an increasing demand for workers to help ensure Hawaiʻi’s major crops—­such as pineapple, macadamia nuts, coffee, papayas, and other vegetables—­would thrive. By 1990, Latinxs in Hawaiʻi numbered 81,390, or 7.3 percent of the total population. This included U.S.-­born, naturalized citizens and immigrants from México, Central and South America, and the Caribbean. Of that percentage, the Mexican population saw a significant increase in its numbers. For example, in his 1997 thesis survey, writer Kyle Shinseki documented that the Mexican population grew by 66 percent from the previous decade (1980) and indicated the biggest population increase of Hispanics to Hawaiʻi.23 Shinseki found that within the Mexican population of Hawaiʻi, 86 percent of those he interviewed had arrived in Hawaiʻi since 1990.24 Within this increase, 43 percent of the Mexican population were U.S. citizens born and raised in Hawaiʻi, while another 10 percent were foreign born and growing.25 These numbers are similar to those represented in Census reports, which indicated that in 1990, for example, the Mexican population was 15,490, a 64.7 percent increase from 9,404 since 1980.26 Additional sources also revealed similar population growth, such as a 1997 study conducted by Shinseki for Angulos Hispanos, a local Latinx community newspaper. Shinseki’s survey, for example, also revealed that the majority of those who migrated to Hawaiʻi followed economic opportunities, which were available through labor recruitment agencies, information provided by relatives and friends, or directly from a company.27 Beginning in 1989, the large-­scale recruitment of Mexicans, followed by Central Americans, arrived in Hawaiʻi from the continental United States and their home countries. They were dispersed throughout the various islands. Their employment continued throughout the early 1990s, which brought in thousands of migrant laborers. These early efforts to hire Latinx labor did not go unnoticed. They were so successful that local Hawaiʻi newspapers such as the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, for example, called the recent phenomenon “A New Mexican

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Migration.” The Honolulu Star-­Bulletin noted how Mexican migrants were fast becoming the state’s next major ethnic group.28 The island of Maui witnessed a significant increase in Mexican and Central American workers, and this was in large part due to the efforts of MEO.29

MEO and Latinx Migration As previously mentioned, local workers in Maui and elsewhere in Hawaiʻi chose employment opportunities in the tourist industry over agricultural jobs.30 This shortage of local labor was also attributed to a rise in people moving from Hawaiʻi to the continental United States due to increasing job opportunities as well as the economic impact on housing, which made living in Hawaiʻi less affordable. Outward migration of Native Hawaiians and locals began in 1991 and increased significantly by July 1995 through July 1996. According to local newspapers such as the Honolulu Advertiser, “Much of Hawaii’s domestic out-­ migration can’t be attributed to the relocation of military people and their families. . . . But there also is a heavy out-­migration of civilians—­many of them in search of jobs that Hawaii no longer offers.”31 The exodus of many locals—­in particular, Native Hawaiians—­only contributed to the ongoing settler colonial process of Native Hawaiian displacement as new migrants came to replace those who were economically pushed out. This also contributed to severe labor shortages in numerous labor-­intensive industries, primarily agriculture. As a result, Hawaiʻi’s agricultural interests began recruiting labor from the U.S. Southwest and México, among other locations, to help sustain the island’s agricultural industries. For example, as the New York Times reported, “Mexican workers are finding new frontiers, responding to a demand for cheap labor in parts of the United States far from its Southwestern border.”32 The initial group of migrant workers who came to Hawaiʻi were part of a larger recruiting effort by MEO.33 Federal funding for MEO was made possible under Title IV, Section 402 of the Job Training Partnership Act ( JTPA). This provided job training, employment opportunities, and support services for chronic seasonal unemployed and underemployed individuals and their families in agriculture.34 Through this program, MEO first recruited migrant workers from the continental United States and México to plant and harvest macadamia nuts in Waikapū and tend onions, zucchini, and other crops in Kula, Maui. Overseeing the migrant programs for the state of Hawaiʻi was MEO executive director Gladys Baisa, a third-­g eneration local of Portuguese descent from Paia, Maui, who was hired in 1984. In 1990, she coordinated the first recruits under MEO’s reorganized migrant worker program, which included over two hundred workers who were hired to labor in pineapple and other agricultural pursuits. In addition to working on the island of Maui, other jobs included working for Del Monte Corporation in Honolulu on the island

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of Oʻahu, while other laborers were sent to work on Lānaʻi and Hawaiʻi Island. Under Gladys’s leadership, MEO became the catalyst that provided the farmworkers needed to save Maui’s pineapple industry as well as usher in another significant migration of Latinx workers and their families to Maui and other Hawaiian Islands. Workers were already in demand. Doug McClure, who was head of operations at Maui Pine, reached out to Gladys for assistance. He was in dire need of farmworkers, since there was a severe shortage of local labor, and he was concerned the pineapple would rot in the fields. Gladys shared the arrangement she made with McClure at Maui Pine: I said, “I want you to be sure that if we’re gonna bring them, that they are not gonna be treated the way farm labor is treated on the mainland. They have to be treated like you treat local farmworkers.” Locally, our farmworkers are all unionized—­mostly all of them—­and they’re all ILWU [International Longshore and Warehouse Union]. And they earn wonderful, competitive salaries and benefits. So I wanted to be sure that Maui Pine was prepared that they were not going to get a steal here if we brought in farmworkers from the mainland. So we negotiated a contract with them, a very hard one.35

MEO was tasked with placing workers into year-­round employment so that they had a steady income and higher standard of living. Part of Gladys’s responsibility was to ensure that the workers had the proper documentation so they could qualify for the federal program. She made a deal with Maui Pine that provided workers with a minimum six-­month contract. She negotiated an $8.47  hourly wage, airfare provided by employer, housing, transportation, medical care, bilingual staff, culturally familiar meals, and recreation for the workers. Gladys ensured that the workers were treated well and felt welcomed in Maui.36 Once the contract was negotiated, Gladys and her staff at MEO began working with their continental U.S. networks in Washington State, California, Arizona, Idaho, Oklahoma, and several other states to recruit over four hundred farmworkers. San Diego, for example, was one area where MEO recruited workers. The majority of the workers who were hired out of San Diego County were placed at Maui Pine, while others were employed at Wailuku Agribusiness and with other smaller independent growers.37 The need to recruit laborers to Hawaiʻi was Gladys’s top priority. Gladys recalled the situation that was occurring in Hawaiʻi: “Everybody’s sitting around the table crying [in the continental United States] because they can’t find jobs for people they’re serving. We have just the opposite problem. We have jobs and can’t find people who qualify.”38 Fred “Skip” McDonnell, employment program administrator and foreman for Maui Pine, echoed Gladys’s statement. As he remarked, “It’s tough. There’s been a labor shortage for a long time. . . . This is meeting our needs.”39 For Gladys Baisa and McDonnell, the efforts to recruit Latinx migrant labor constituted a larger investment over time by the state of

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FIGURE 14.   The first group of Mexican migrant workers recruited to work at Maui Pine (Maui

Land and Pineapple Co.) through the efforts of Maui Economic Opportunity (MEO). The vast majority of pineapple employees were Mexican and Central American. Photo taken March 19, 1990. Photo courtesy of Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Archives.

Hawaiʻi and illustrated the need for a permanent labor pool to fill the demand for agricultural workers. This was because, as one newspaper noted, “picking pineapple is grueling work that most Hawaiʻi-­born workers avoid.”40 Despite the strenuous job involved in pineapple work, César noted that there were around one thousand migrant men who worked in Maui’s pineapple industry.41 To achieve their hiring goal, MEO recruited the migrant workers and ensured that they not only had steady employment and were paid a fair wage but also considered the possibly of settling permanently and bringing their families to Maui. As Gladys explained, “When they are ready to bring the family . . . we will assist that family in moving into the community, getting the children in school, helping them with immigration. . . . Our goal is that they will stay here and become part of our permanent workforce.”42 Part of this plan included assisting workers to eventually move out of migratory and seasonal work and into long-­term employment, whether in agriculture or other occupations. According to an article in the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin that explored the experiences of the early recruits, workers were also assisted with housing, childcare, English classes, and other services.43 These efforts ensured that the Latinx workers who were recruited would be enticed to stay and become part of the larger local community and call Hawaiʻi home.

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The First Recruits In 1989, fifty-­one Mexican migrant workers (all men) were recruited to Wailuku’s macadamia nut and pineapple fields on the island of Maui.44 In 1990, additional workers were hired by MEO through the Rocky Mountain HI Coalition, a group of recruiting agencies. Mexican migrant workers who arrived in Maui were from Arizona, Oklahoma, Montana, New Mexico, and Idaho. The recruits also included sixty women who labored in the pineapple cannery. Although Maui absorbed the largest number of Mexican migrant workers, they were hired throughout the Hawaiian Islands. This included, for example, Del Monte Corporation on the island of Oʻahu, which employed sixty workers, and Dole Food Co., which hired field workers on the island of Lānaʻi.45 In Maui, the Mexican population was scattered throughout the island but concentrated in specific areas. For example, as one worker noted, there are a lot of Mexicans who reside in Haliʻimaile, Kahului, and Honolua, which are close to the pineapple fields and canneries. Other agricultural workers also reside in Makawao and Kula, while most service, construction, and landscaping workers reside in Lahaina.46 Migrant workers who were recruited to Maui had an opportunity to improve their economic condition and help their families back home. Rafael Galaz, for example, a Mexican American naturalized citizen, saw working in pineapple as an opportunity for a better life for himself and his family. Galaz migrated to Hawaiʻi as part of several waves of Latinx migrant workers who came to pick pineapple in Maui and find employment on the islands’ other agricultural and service industries. As reporter Edwin Tanji noted, for Galaz and others, “picking pineapple or tomatoes, washing dishes, or cleaning hotel rooms is mostly low-­paying, menial work. But Hawaiʻi’s bottom-­tier jobs are drawing workers willing to offer hard labor and sacrifice in return for a better life.”47 Ramon Soto’s story is also compelling. At fifty-­three, Soto was one of a group of ten veteran farmworkers who arrived at Los Angeles International Airport with nothing but their duffel bags and dreams of making a better life for themselves and their families back home. Wearing baseball caps or cowboy hats, worn coats, and boots, they boarded for Hawaiʻi. As a father of six who had been living in a San Diego County migrant squatters’ camp, this new opportunity gave Soto hope. As he shared, “We’re going into the unknown. . . . If what they say is true, we are going to live well with all the comforts. We shall see.”48 Although the initial group of workers experienced some issues regarding their salary and benefits through independent labor contractors and in one case went on strike because they were dissatisfied, once MEO got involved, those discrepancies were resolved to the workers’ satisfaction. Those who did not leave found a place to work, learn new skills, create community, and for some of them, marry and remain in Hawaiʻi.49 Mexican women were also recruited to work in the pineapple canneries, which made local news in Hawaiʻi. In October 1990, for example, sixty women

FIGURE 15.   Women were also recruited to work in Maui’s pineapple industry, primarily in the

canneries. The workforce was predominately Mexican and Mexican American women. Photo circa early 1990s. Photo courtesy of Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Archives.

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were recruited to participate in a four-­month program to work for Maui Pine in Kahului. MEO would facilitate the process. Similar to the continental United States, the division of labor on the pineapple plantations of Hawaiʻi were, for the most part, gendered. As historian Vicki Ruiz and other Chicana scholars writing on labor have noted, there was often a racialized and gendered work structure in agriculture.50 Maui’s pineapple industry was no different. For example, women worked primarily in the canneries, while men worked in the fields harvesting the pineapples. Some women engaged in fieldwork, while men also worked in other occupations, such as truck drivers, for Maui Pine. As Ruiz writes, this racial and gendered workforce created what she called a “cannery culture” for women that was often primarily Mexican or Chicana. A similar cannery culture was also fostered in Maui’s pineapple canneries among the Mexican women, who were the largest ethnic group.51 The women who were recruited came from western states in the continental United States, including Idaho, Arizona, Oklahoma, Montana, and New Mexico. The opportunity to work in Hawaiʻi for the first time created a sense of excitement for the women. For many, it was also an improvement from the strenuous working conditions back in the continental United States. In time, many of the women preferred work in the pineapple canneries. The women woke up at 4 a.m. to leave by 5:30 a.m. via company vans that transported them to the Kahului cannery to begin work at 6:30 a.m. They worked until the afternoon hours. They received $5.50 per hour after living expenses, which was more than what they earned in the continental United States. This also provided them the opportunity to send money back home every two weeks. As Maria Ortega, one of the workers, noted, “The job’s not hard and the working conditions are good.” Another worker, Claudia Mora, also commented on the improved working conditions. She previously worked the potato fields of Idaho. As she shared, “This is nothing compared to the work we have done. We have worked in the fields fourteen, fifteen hours a day. Here we are working in the cannery, we don’t have to be out in the fields getting burned. It’s a pretty easy job.”52 Not all the women, however, were satisfied with the working and living conditions in Maui. White women who also came to work in Maui, for example, were expecting to live in condos and not dorms, despite the house dorms being excellent accommodations. As MEO staff member Rudy Esquer noted, “They were a little more on the ritzier side.”53 There were also racial tensions between the Mexican and white women, particularly due to the racial prejudice of the white workers against their Mexican counterparts. As Gladys Baisa noted, white women who were also recruited disliked the work and did not get along with the Mexican women. The white women thought they were going to be on vacation and did not expect to work hard. Gladys elaborated, “They didn’t get along with the Mexican women, and they didn’t get along with the job either. I don’t know what they thought they were coming to do. But field work was not their usual and customary jobs. . . . I think they

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lied to come, thinking they were going to Hawaiʻi and they were gonna [have it easy]—­I remember Rudy [Esquer] said last night they would ask him, ‘So where’s the condos?’ They didn’t want to stay in a dorm. They wanted to stay in a condo. They wanted to be on the beach.”54 Their expectations of being on vacation were quickly dispelled, and those who thought they were going to be on vacation returned home.55 For those who stayed and continued to work and live in the dormitory houses, they also had to contend with adjusting to living in their new environment. The first migrant recruits also had an adjustment period coming far away from home to be in Hawaiʻi. There were growing pains along the way for both the recruits and the larger local community, which was not that welcoming at first. Gladys Baisa discussed some of the initial challenges the first recruits faced when they came to Maui—­namely, the topic of language: I think one of the biggest challenges we had was most of them were monolingual. They spoke Spanish or some other language. And in some cases, we’re not sure what that was, because we had people come from Oaxaca and places where they came from, I guess living in the mountains, and they were more Indian Mexicans, and they didn’t speak Spanish. And they had a very difficult time living in the dorms with the Spanish-­speaking folks. But we got through it all. And everybody made it. That was one of the hardest things, I think, was the language barrier.56

Being far from home and their families and culture was also difficult. Given that they were also living close to the pineapple plantations, they did not have much mobility around the island and at times felt isolated. Gladys noted, “The other thing was they were away from home, and so they didn’t have the support of family. We, on Maui, were not ready for them. We had no ethnic Mexican restaurants, no taquerias. Because they lived in dorms, they didn’t have their own cars, and so they had to be transported. We had many vans that the company made available to us. And we had trained drivers we would choose out of our ranks. . . . And because of that inability to get around and being isolated from home and everything that was familiar, we had to provide recreation.” As Gladys also remarked, this included a host of activities, such as barbecues, dances, house parties, excursions, outings, and recreational sports like soccer. Workers were also provided with Spanish-­language movies, TV, pool tables, and other items to keep them busy.57 In order to help integrate into the larger local community, workers also had to learn English. Being a part of a federal workers’ program like MEO, the recruits were required to upgrade their skills, which included language. This would also provide them with more opportunities outside of field work, as well as the opportunity to navigate social, legal, and educational services. Initially, it proved to be a challenge because of their work schedule. As Gladys commented:

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And so after a long day of work they were required to attend English classes in the evening. That was tough for them, ’cause they would be tired. But they would go. They were game. And they also—­many of them would attend company training to also upgrade skills. They would want pickers and planters to learn how to be truck drivers. Or they would learn more skills and go into the cannery and be machine operators and those kinds of things. So part of the program, of course, was to teach. We had to be able to show that we were teaching them more skills.58

Proficiency in English also enabled the workers to better engage and acculturate with the larger local community of Hawaiʻi. In addition to what MEO provided, as one newspaper also reported, outreach programs such as Los Amigos de Maui and La Familia Unida were also available to assist the Spanish-­speaking community in Maui.59 Gladys also took it upon herself to learn Spanish so she could better communicate with the workers. She recalled, “Some could speak to me [in English], some couldn’t. And I had to learn [Spanish] because I couldn’t talk to them.”60 Culturally integrating into Hawaiʻi was also something that the migrant workers had to adjust to. Gladys Baisa remembered fondly her time working with the first groups of Mexican migrant workers. She also recalled how the workers first started integrating to their new local environment. As she noted, Well, they changed the way they dressed. You don’t see César [Gaxiola] dressed up now in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and jeans. He’s in his shorts and his shirt like everybody else. You put on an aloha shirt, or a T-shirt and shorts, and you passed [as local], because you look like us. Most of the Mexicans are tan. They look Hawaiian. They fit perfectly because they look like us. . . . But they had to learn that. When we used to take them to the beach, they couldn’t figure out why everybody would stare at them. But they were dressed like they were going to a rodeo [laughs]. They didn’t have flip-­flops. So it was really funny.61

Recreation Life for these initial recruits was well planned by MEO. Workers were assigned houses for the duration of their stay. Each dorm house had small groups of men or women. Men and women were assigned separate housing. Each house also had a team leader that was responsible for maintaining organization among the groups of workers housed in each dorm. César was one of the dorm leaders. Gladys noted the first recruits’ initial experience when they first came to Maui was loneliness. This prompted Gladys and her MEO staff to organize recreational activities for the workers. Recreational trips also helped create community among them, as Gladys recalled:

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And we know that it was lonely for them, and it was isolation. They were in a totally different environment than they’re used to. And so we tried hard, and we had a lot of social activities for them. We’d take them to the beach. We’d have cookouts, so they could make carne so that they were happy. They spent their Sundays at the park and the beach . . . anything to try to make them feel like, “This is OK. I can stay here. I can do this.” And most of them made the six months. And many did more. Many did the year to two years.62

For Gladys, doing all these recreational activities also meant that the idle time of the workers would not be spent drinking, as most people would do during their time off from work if feeling isolated and lonely. César further elaborated on this point: “So more activities started coming in. So people started getting distracted. And even though [some] people continued to drink, it’s less and less and less because now, ‘Oh I gotta play volleyball so I need one shirt.’ And some of them want to look good. So that changed the thing. It was just activities, the games, the competition.”63 Entertaining one another through music and dancing was also a way they came together. César remarked that when the workers got together, they found out about one another’s skills outside of picking pineapples: “Oh this guy knows how to dance this kind of music, and this one knows how to play the drums. That guy plays the guitar, and we have a singer.”64 These various activities not only provided community for the workers through sports and other activities but also enabled them to feel less isolated in their new environment. By September 1991, Maui Land and Pineapple Co. was said to have hired hundreds of Latinx workers to harvest pineapple and work in the canneries.65 While those who fulfilled their contracts went back home with their airfare covered by their employer, other recruits decided to stay and continue working in Hawaiʻi. In an interview with the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, Gladys Baisa acknowledged the essential role of Latinx migrant labor: “If the canneries and the fields did not get the migrant laborers, I believe they probably would have had to shut down. Right now the situation is critical.”66 Gladys predicted that Mexican and Central American workers would become the next group to settle in Hawaiʻi because they filled the positions that were left vacant by local workers who went into other industries to seek better opportunities. Other employers also understood the importance of Latinx migrant workers to the agricultural industry. According to Wailuku company employee relations manager Lori Tokunaga, “Without them, I don’t know what we would do.”67 Tokunaga’s statement demonstrates the vital role that the Latinx migrant workers made to the state’s agricultural industry—­and for Maui, pineapple. Although Mexicans made up the majority of the workforce in the MEO farmworker program (about 70 percent), workers also arrived from Central American countries like Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Honduras.68 For Central Americans, voluntary migration was not always an option. Jose Castellanos, for

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example, fled his home in Guatemala in the 1970s and found refuge in Hawaiʻi. As his story was written, “He was involved in a political syndicata (syndicate) that was out of favor with the military government. Three close friends were kidnapped and killed. Castellanos fled.” As Castellanos further shared, “I know about liberty of expression here. . . . In Guatemala, if they don’t like what you say . . .” His comment was made to let you conclude for yourself that it would mean certain death. For Castellanos, fleeing was the only option for him and his family (his two youngest children are also U.S. citizens). He first settled in California but then moved to Hawaiʻi. He also secured a job at Maui Pine, which provided him with the opportunity to earn money and bring over his family, which he had left behind. He found life in Hawaiʻi to be better and more peaceful, especially with regards to raising his children.69 There was some initial tension when Central Americans became part of the program. As Gladys recalled, Well, the Guatemalans came shortly after the Mexicans. It was really interesting, because we started with Mexicans. And within a year, we had all the Guatemalans coming. They were having their own problem in their country. And so they came to America for amnesty. Now, how they wound up here in Maui, I don’t know. We didn’t bring them. They came on their own. And they quickly became part of our program and partnered with the Mexicans. And there was a little bit of trouble in the beginning, because the Mexicans resented them coming. But they all got together, and it worked out really well.70

This statement suggests that the initial tension between Mexicans and Central Americans stemmed from their experiences back in their home countries and even California, where Mexicans make up the majority of the Latinx population. The experiences of many of the Central American migrant workers who fled their home countries due to political violence speak to the diversity within the larger Latinx population and are seldom spoken about. However, recent scholarship has addressed the experiences of Central American workers in the larger story of the Latinx labor history in the United States.71

Laboring in Pine Working in pineapple required intense labor both in the fields and in the canneries. As César noted, “A lot of people would come in, work for like a month, and they would leave because the job was just too hard. It was a lot of physical [labor]. So we have folks that actually work for two hours, and they faint, and you had to pick them up, send the ambulance. And they just wasn’t built for that type of work. A lot of people couldn’t handle it. Because of that, we had a lot of turnover.”72 Despite the turnover, hundreds of Mexican and Central American migrant workers were able to endure the working conditions. As Rudy Esquer noted, “We

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had three hundred ladies in the cannery, and we had seventy-­five in Wailuku. And then we had about fifty or sixty in Haliʻimaile, and we had fifteen in one house, ten in another. Maybe like two hundred guys and three hundred women.”73 What also helped the workers to endure was the fact that they created a community among one another and with MEO staff. Their recreational activities on their days off provided opportunities to get together and find normalcy outside of work and acclimate to their new environment. What enabled the workers to also feel connected to home was their meals. For example, as Gladys Baisa noted, “They had their own Mexican cooks in the dorms. That was part of the deal. Because I know how they treat Mexican workers on the mainland. No! We treat them nice. They have nice dorms; they have their own cooks. They had laundry equipment. They had César to take them wherever they wanted to go. They had a van. They had recreation. They had packed lunches, everything.”74 Some of the cooks ended up coming from MEO’s workforce. For example, Maria Olivido Encinas, fifty-­four, from Caldwell, Idaho, was the women’s house dorm cook. She planned the women’s daily meals, including sack lunches for thirty-­two women. This also included her eighteen-­year-­old daughter and niece, who also work for the cannery. A seasonal worker in Arizona, Idaho, and Oregon, Encinas had steady work as part of Maui Pine’s migrant worker program.75 Rudy Esquer also shared, “We’d have the cooks at the dorms, but sometimes the women from the cannery program would work in the houses to cook for the guys. A lot of times they went to work in the restaurants in town, and that’s how the cantinas (restaurants) started. They worked there, and then some of them started their own. Like Artie’s started then.”76 Gladys also noted that other Mexican-­owned cantinas like La Piñata were established by and employed women who were former cannery workers. This was the eventual transition for a number of pineapple workers. Gladys continued, “They made the transition from working for the pineapple company to working in private business and starting their own businesses. So that’s where we’re at now. Many of them are businesspeople themselves.”77

Discrimination, Stereotypes, and Building Bridges Being a newcomer to Hawaiʻi was difficult for some of the migrant workers. Although MEO provided a welcoming environment for the first recruits to Maui, the migrant workers were also filled with anxiety and uncertainty, since their reception by locals was initially unwelcoming.78 As some of my interviewees noted, not everyone was pleased with the Mexican and Central American workers who came to work in Maui. As Gladys noted, for example, both Mexicans and locals had a hard time with one another at first: Initially it was traumatic. The local people were not used to the Mexicans. They seemed different. They dressed different. They looked like cowboys.79 They spoke a different language. They had heard all the stereotypes: “Oh, they’re all involved in

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drugs. And they’re gonna use all of your social services. They’re gonna be a drain, a bad thing in your community.” And they threatened me [called her house]. They said, “You know, we’re gonna burn your house down for bringing this trash into our community.”80

Letters, for example, were also written to one of the local newspapers, Maui News. As Gladys recalled, “We have a page in the Maui News called [the] opinion page. And they would write in and say, ‘How could MEO be doing this, bringing this element in our community? If you look in California, there’s all these problems with these Mexicans, and you’re bringing these people to Maui, and they’re gonna cause us nothing but trouble.’”81 These initial reactions demonstrated not only the racial anxiety of Hawaiʻi’s local residents toward the migrant workers but also how these views were influenced by and reproduced racist continental U.S. media depictions of Mexicans (regardless of citizenship status) as both a social and economic threat to the country. This also had an impact on the larger Latinx population in Hawaiʻi. I suggest these stereotypes led locals to believe that Mexicans were dangerous and a threat to their community despite not knowing them personally. Social tension between the migrant workers and local men also led to violence. While I was interviewing former and current MEO staff members, Gladys noted how it took a while for the Mexican migrants to be accepted: “I think a lot of it was local boys. The local boys were afraid the Hispanic boys were going to steal their girls.” Rudy Esquer responded, “Well, they did! [laughs].” Gladys continued, “But that was a big part of the problem was jealousy. They would fight.”82 One incident in particular was shared by both Gladys and César, since he experienced violence by some local men. Gladys recalled the altercation: There’s a ball field right next to where the dormitory was. And one night they were crossing the ball field. And it was the middle of the night. And it was César and Joel. I’ll never forget. I got this call in the middle of the night. So I got in my car and went running down there because there was an ambulance at the dorm. They were crossing the field. They weren’t bothering anybody. And these local kids had jumped on them and had beaten them really bad. César had his teeth ruined. And they were beaten around the head and whatever. And the ambulance took them to Maui Memorial. They were pretty badly beat up. Well, we knew who the kids were. And so when the police asked me, I gave them all the names. And we prosecuted the kids. And their parents were very unhappy. But that was only one time. It never happened again. . . . If we had not pressed charges, it would have continued. But it happened only once.83

When I asked César about the incident, he shared his opinion about what occurred and how everything was resolved. César noted that it was a case of mistaken identity:

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I got beaten up by four guys. . . . So there was a guy there, kind of looked similar to me. . . . Apparently, what this guy did, he wanted to go out with one of the boy’s sisters. And I guess with his broken English or few words in English, instead of asking nicely, he didn’t sound nice. So she got offended, she called her brother, and the brother got his friends together and basically that’s what happened. They thought this guy was me. . . . The next day, I was back and actually, I talked to the guys and asked, “What happened? Why?” Actually, I never met them before. But once they met me and everything, they were like, “Sorry, we thought you were somebody else.” It’s just a misunderstanding.84

Gladys Baisa, however, felt differently about the incident, given that as a local herself, she felt responsible for the well-­being of the workers and had formed strong bonds of friendship and familiarity with them. She viewed them as family, so she ensured that an incident like that would never happen again. I suggest that what César and Gladys experienced over this unfortunate incident stemmed from locals not actually knowing who these migrant laborers were personally but rather relying on continental United States’ racist tropes of Mexicans and other Latinxs that depicted them as not only social competition but hypersexual, drug dealers, criminals, violent, and so on.85 Despite what César experienced, his perspective was one of acknowledging the mistaken identity and showing compassion and aloha by forgiving his assailants. This incident also reveals an important point about xenophobic nationalism. As historian Erika Lee and others have written, although the United States has been depicted as a “nation of immigrants,” as Lee notes, “the United States is also a nation of xenophobia.”86 Hawaiʻi is not immune to this xenophobia, as documented by its own history of white supremacy by haoles in the racist justification of the illegal overthrow of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom and its subsequent treatment of previous immigrant groups, such as the Chinese, Japanese, Filipinos, and Puerto Ricans during the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries.87 This xenophobia is now being weaponized by the U.S. media and racist settler transplants from the continental United States, which I suggest influenced how Hawaiʻi’s residents perceived more recent Mexican and Central American migrants. These were very similar to experiences earlier Puerto Ricans faced in Hawaiʻi during the early 1900s (see chapter 2). Xenophobia is also intimately tied to racism. Lee contends this form of racism is also responsible for people’s irrational fear and hatred of foreigners (whether they are foreign or not). As Lee writes, “Xenophobia has also been an inextricable part of race making in America; it has shaped how Americans classify people by race and rank them in America’s racial hierarchy. Lastly, xenophobia has become an institutionalized form of racial discrimination and racial domination.”88 It is an exported ideology that has a ubiquitous influence that is far reaching, even in Hawaiʻi. This is demonstrated by the vast majority of the interviewees who noted the way they were perceived and received by locals,

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which was based on common misconceptions and racialized stereotypes about Mexicans and other Latinxs. It was also a reason for some initial problems when they first came and started working in Maui. As Gladys observed, I think they began to realize that they’re not all drug dealers. . . . And that’s what I had to deal with in the beginning, because they [locals] said, “If you look in California, you’ll see that that’s the history there. And you’re bringing that to Hawaiʻi. Shame on you.” And I said, “Not the group I know. They’re coming here to work!” And I’ve learned over the years that most Mexicans who are in the U.S. are here because of work. Not because they don’t love México and their families. They want to go home! But they need a job, and they need to put food on the table. That’s why they come. They come for opportunity, not because they don’t like their roots and their culture and all that. But they need to be here out of necessity.89

Francisco Palencia, president of La Voz Hispana (The Hispanic Voice), a community group whose goal is to educate Maui about its Latinx population, noted, “Just because some Hispanics have been arrested for drugs [a thing not uncommon with all other racial and ethnic groups on the islands], it doesn’t mean everybody is involved in that. We need to break the gap between our cultures.”90 Latinx workers are also concerned about the stereotypes they are facing. As reported in the Honolulu Advertiser, workers noted that “people seem to think all Hispanics are ‘illegal workers.’” These stereotypes also extend to the perceived criminality of Mexicans. The Honolulu Advertiser further pointed out, “The same stereotypes apply to crime . . . a perception that is heightened by media reports that focus on race.”91 This includes media headlines that focus on the arrest of Mexicans and other Latinxs, including Central Americans. For the Latinx population, these racist stereotypes that focus on the criminality of Mexicans are deeply harmful. As Francisco Mora, who is a Mexican American coach of the Latinos Amigos soccer team, remarked, stereotypes label all Latinxs as criminals.92 Ted Flores also experienced frequent discrimination firsthand. A retired railroad mechanic, he came to Maui with his wife, who was hired as a cook for the migrant workers at Maui Pine’s Honolua plantation. Flores was later a liaison for Maui Pine. As he shared regarding his practice of wearing jewelry and the racialized assumptions, “I’ve been told I’m a drug dealer. People look at me and they tell my friends that I’m a drug dealer.”93 This only made it more difficult for migrants who wanted to come to make a better life for themselves and their family and be a part of their local communities. For example, Rafael Garcia’s story illustrates what many immigrants seek when moving to a new country. Originally from Guadalajara, México, Rafael lived in San Francisco for sixteen years before migrating to Hawaiʻi. He worked in Maui as a chef at Compadres Bar & Grill in Lahaina. For Rafael, his goal was like many other immigrant parents—­“to send my kids to college and give them an education.”94

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Racial stereotypes and assumptions are often influenced by film and television. For example, César remarked, At the beginning, yeah, it was a little bit harsh. I think it was just because of being misinformed. Like I shared with you, the media back then, every single movie of Mexicans, they portrayed us one way, and people thought it was the only way. And actually, it’s funny. One of the things that used to happen to me was when people used to see me in the stores or whatever and they see me speaking Spanish or something. “Oh, so you speak Mexican?” Because they just couldn’t relate that I was from México, because they used to see my [colored] eyes and everything. . . . And then over time, once we started talking to people, they change.95

These stereotypes and prejudice toward new migrants is nothing new. What is ironic is that, according to writer Edwin Tanji, “the stereotypes that Hispanic immigrants face parallel those faced by earlier waves of immigrants—­people who, in turn, are now sometimes hostile to the latest newcomers.”96 This is ironic given the settler status previous immigrants and their descendants in Hawaiʻi also share with more recent Latinx migrants. Indeed, As one Latinx worker noted, an immigrant from an earlier migration taunted him and said, “[You] should go back to where [you] came from.” Rather than respond to the ignorant comment, the worker explained, “I want to tell him, what about his family, where did they come from? But I didn’t. Better not to say nothing.”97 The tension between Hawaiʻi’s residents and Latinx migrants has not gone unnoticed. For example, there are Latinx migrants who are sympathetic to the concerns of Native Hawaiians. Abraham Pena, for example, owns the Casa Aztec shop in Kahului, which sells Latino products. As he remarked, he understood the resentment “that we’re invading their island.” Abraham’s acknowledgment of this fact gave him a perspective of self-­reflection and the hope that Native Hawaiian resentment would one day turn into acceptance and that the new Latinx immigrants would, in turn, “be absorbed into the local culture and economy.”98 These experiences were by no means limited to the island of Maui. Although some of the interviewees I spoke with in Maui experienced some form of racial prejudice and/or discrimination, not everyone had a negative reception. Rather, they felt welcomed and a sense of aloha from their local neighbors. Others, like César, saw it as more complex. For example, the Honolulu Advertiser shared a story about Rafael Galaz, who remarked that when he first signed on as a worker for Maui Pine in 1989, he had a mixed race–­identifying Native Hawaiian roommate who introduced him to friends who made him feel welcome. He didn’t feel any resentment on their part despite him being a newcomer to Hawaiʻi. His experience made him feel secure in his new home with his wife, Irene, and their son.99 The Maui News also reported on a Latinx community meeting in West Maui where they wanted to “say mahalo [thank you] to their good neighbors.” In the article, César Gaxiola spoke to those in

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FIGURE 16.   Gladys Baisa (center), executive director of Maui Economic Opportunity (MEO);

her husband, Sherman Baisa; and César Gaxiola (right) at the Somos Amigos Festival, Wailuku, Maui, circa September 2002. Photo courtesy of Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Archives.

attendance, stating, “The local community really isn’t against us. . . . I still feel Mauians give us a better reception than on the Mainland. I think it’s because there are so many different cultures here and there really isn’t a majority group.” His words captured the sentiment of those in attendance who wanted to thank their local friends and neighbors not only for their aloha but also for their desire to be a part of the larger Maui community and give back.100 In time, the relationship between the Latinx workers and locals eventually improved. As both groups got to know each other better and even intermarried, the racism Latinxs once felt from locals diminished significantly, as some interviewees shared. Gladys, for example, noted, “It’s amazing how that has evolved. Today there’s none of that. And it is very common that I will go into a store and I’ll be looking at the clothing or something, and I will hear people speaking Spanish. And nobody thinks that’s strange anymore. We have all of the Mexican restaurants. We have sections in our grocery stores. We have grocery stores that are Mexican, and it’s accepted. And nobody raises an eyebrow over it anymore.”101 Gladys makes an important point. The initial suspicion and prejudiced views of Mexicans and other Latinx groups seem to have, for the most part, given way to acceptance, mutual respect, and aloha. Those views also changed because locals and migrant workers got to know one another over time and proved that those racialized assumptions about Mexican and Central American workers were false, and their relationship improved. In fact, when César first met his wife, Kimberly, her family was very welcoming. As César

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recalled, “The family was very open and stuff. I think the first thing everybody wanted to do was, ‘OK, teach us Spanish.’”102 This anecdote illustrates the progress Latinx migrants were making by demonstrating their commitment to contributing to their new home, learning about their host culture, and being a part of the larger local community. Another way they did this was to share their culture on a grander scale with their local neighbors with the Somos Amigos (We Are Friends) Festival.

The Somos Amigos Festival The Somos Amigos Festival was an annual event from 2000 to 2007 that became a Maui tradition every September around Fiestas Patrias (Mexican Independence Day). Conceived as a community festival that “celebrates Maui’s diverse Hispanic and Portuguese cultures,” Somos Amigos was organized by members of MEO. As the festival’s key organizer, César and his co-­organizers (some of whom were also part of La Voz Hispana), wanted to ensure that Maui’s Latinx population, local residents, and visitors “came together to share food, music, and the spirit of friendship.”103 For César, Gladys, and the others involved with Somos Amigos Festival, this was a way for them to pay homage to Maui’s growing Latinx population and long-­standing local Portuguese community as well as share their diverse cultures, aloha, and appreciation for their neighbors and newly adopted home. It was also an opportunity to learn, celebrate, and build better relations with one another. César also felt this would demonstrate to locals that they were not much different and in fact shared many cultural similarities. From the initial festival, it was a much needed and welcomed event. As one attendee noted, “It’s a release. I love it [the celebration].”104 Gladys had fond memories to share about the festival, particularly the dance contest: “[It was] my favorite. I won a contest. Danced for three hours. I’m surprised I didn’t die. Me and Manuel. And that bugga could go! I was dying but I wasn’t gonna sit down, I wasn’t gonna let him win! It helped keep me young.”105 Within the span of a couple of years, the results were apparent for the Latinx community. As Aurturo Ramirez commented, “We feel like they care for us, and they make us feel like we are part of the country.” Other migrants also testified to the welcoming reception they received from Maui’s residents.106 It was, as the Maui News also reported, “Designed to break down barriers and dissolve prejudices that have kept many Hispanic residents at arm’s length from the rest of island society.” For Kimberly Gaxiola (César’s wife), this was a personal issue for her as a multigenerational local: “Even though my girls are local, they’re Hispanic too. We’ve got to get the locals more involved. We’ve got to stop the prejudice.” This outreach effort seemed to work at bringing the communities together. For example, as Maui mayor James “Kimo” Apana noted, “Many times we have different connotations of people just because we

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FIGURE 17.   Dr. Nat and Rio Ritmo band performing at the Somos Amigos Festival, Old

Kahului Shopping Center, Maui. Photo circa September 2004. Photo courtesy of Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Archives.

don’t understand each other’s cultures. The more we know about each other, the better we understand and have less friction.”107 The Somos Amigos Festival did just that.

Bringing the Latinx Community Together Social spaces that brought together the various Latinx groups around Maui to celebrate cultural, recreational, and religious events included churches, sports, and other recreational activities. Leo Sequeira commented, for example, that outside of the church and other sociocultural events such as baptisms, weddings, quinceañeras, and other familial events, one of the main things that brought people together was soccer (fútbol). As a referee, Leo witnessed firsthand its importance: “It’s a big thing among the Latino community. They have soccer leagues for adults, co-­ed, and they’re always playing. They have all these leagues and tournaments happening. I myself, I don’t play no more, but I’ve been a soccer referee for fifteen to sixteen years. . . . That’s fun, especially for the kids, the Little League.”108 The soccer leagues formed by the first migrant workers also had their own tournament, the Angulos Cup, which was sponsored by local Latinx newspaper Angulos Hispanos.109 For César, recreational sports were more than a community experience. He saw this as the beginning of a larger bonding experience between the workers when they first came to Maui. As he observed,

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Everybody was interested in soccer, and from the beginning they were playing soccer as a way to bond together. But in the beginning, only a few were playing because they only were forming, like, two teams or whatever. So I said, “You know, everybody wants to play. Let’s just make whatever teams we have to make.” So we made up to, like, seven teams. And then soccer only last[s] so much. Some guys didn’t want to play then. So let’s play volleyball, so we started playing volley ball. And I started playing with them. I was playing soccer too.110

Recreational sports like soccer provided another opportunity for Latinx migrants to mingle and form relationships with Maui locals. As Raul Cuatez, who was a member of one of the Maui soccer teams, commented, “The soccer league helped them become involved in the [local] Maui community.”111 Jose Castellanos, a pineapple cannery worker, also noted how soccer was a way he could be involved with the larger local Maui community. He plays in the adult league, Latinos Amigos. His children are also involved in soccer.112 Leo also remarked how soccer was an important social and recreational activity that brought the Latinx and local communities together. This includes Latinx soccer leagues, which are now more common and are also more mixed with local players. As some of the interviewees also shared, the thing that they found amusing were the names of the teams. Many had Hawaiian names, while others were used to provoke laughter. The names of the soccer teams included Latin Hawaii, Kihe Fire, the Jalapeños, Malahia, the Surfers, and the Ass Kickers, to name a few. Churches also provided a social space for Latinxs to gather in their shared culture and worship. For example, Spanish-­language Masses at Roman Catholic Churches and Lahaina Christian Fellowship drew in crowds of Latinx migrants. In addition to the Masses, the churches also provided outreach programs that included health care, nutrition, and English classes, as well as assistance for undocumented migrants (more on this later in the chapter).113 Leo remarked on the presence of religious institutions in Maui: There are three major Catholic churches. Here in Wailuku, that would be Christ the King. Actually, it’s in Kahalui. That’s called the Central, which is Wailuku and Kahalui. That would be Christ the King. And Kihe would be St. Theresa’s. And Lahaina would be Maria Lanakila. That’s the three major Catholic churches on the island. They have some other Christian churches, a small group of fifty to sixty here and there. Most of them are in Lahaina side. Some of them, they meet on the beach in Kihe as well. There’s a nice church in South Kihe Road; as a matter of fact, they have a taco booth and all that right in front on the street, brah. And it’s good food, by the way!114

Recreational sports and churches were not the only spaces that provided various forms of social and economic support among the Latinx migrant population. For example, as Maui County specialist John Tomoso shared, cultural

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societies and economic support groups were formed to help each other. Others engaged in entrepreneurial activities. These include Mexican restaurants and markets, for example, which enable migrants to buy tortillas and other products “just like the ones we get at home.” Lorena Gomez is one such entrepreneur. In 1994, she opened Commercial Mexicana, a Mexican market at the Lahaina Square Shopping Center. As she shared, “This was the first place to have real Mexican stuff. . . . Mexican immigrants taste the difference, so everything has to be authentic Mexican—­it cannot be anything but Mexican.” Because of the increasing migration of Mexicans and other Latinxs to Maui, other major local markets began noting the opportunity to cash in on selling those products, which ultimately, as she noted, cut into her sales.115 Latinxs also left agriculture and other occupations for entrepreneurial opportunities, including establishing small businesses. Some of these Latinx-­owned businesses in Maui and other islands in the 1990s included restaurants and food suppliers such as Banditos Cantina, Compadres Bar & Grill, El Burrito, El Charro, Maria Bonita, Jose’s Mexican Restaurant, La Bamba, Mama’s Mexican Kitchen, Azteca Mexican Restaurant, Jose’s Taqueria, Quintero’s Cuisine, Rosie’s Cantina, Salsa Kahala, Salsa Rita’s, Arturo’s Tortilla Chip and Salsa Factory, and It’s Chili in Hawaii, among others.116

Community Newspapers and Media Part of providing a sense of community and networking within the Latinx community was through print media, such as ethnic community newspapers. Some of the early Latinx newspapers came out in the early 1990s in order to provide a voice, information, and sense of community for the Latinx population throughout the Hawaiian Islands.117 Not only did these periodicals provide a platform for the Latinx population to know what was going on within the communities throughout the Hawaiian Islands, but they also provided a way for non-Latinxs, primarily locals and Native Hawaiians, to get a glimpse into the cultural life of the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi. These periodicals provided an insight into the social, cultural, historical, and political activities of the Latinx population and gave a voice to what they experienced in an effort to work and be a part of the larger local population of Hawaiʻi. These bilingual (Spanish/English) newspapers included Angulos Hispanos, Hola Hawaii, Hawaii Hispanic Newsletter (now Hawaii Hispanic News), and Mahogany/Latin Hawaii, among others. These news sources also provided information for the Latinx community throughout the 1990s and 2000s, such as new and/or updated immigration laws and legal services, medical services, English language classes, bilingual translation services, and more.118 The Hawaii Hispanic Center (El Centro Hispano de Hawaii), for example, was a service center mentioned in these periodicals. Founded by José Villa, Nancy Ortiz, Martha Sánchez, and Mary Lou Brown, it was “the state’s only non-­profit, bilingual Hispanic information and referral

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center.”119 Their service, as Villa wrote, “is a bilingual resource and referral clearing house. Individuals and families will now have a central location they can turn to for help.”120 Beginning in the early 1990s and throughout the 2000s, the Mexican consulate in Hawaiʻi also began advertising its mobile services in periodicals such as Hola Hawaii, Que Pasa Hawaii, and Hawaii Hispanic News so that Mexican citizens could have their documentation (e.g., passports) and other consulate issues resolved.121 Newspapers also provided information on cultural, religious, and musical events. This included advertising where Spanish-­language Masses were offered at the various Catholic and Christian churches; Latinx cultural and religious events, such as Fiestas Patrias (Mexican Independence Day) on September 16, Día De Los Muertos, December 12 (Virgin of Guadalupe Day), Latin music festivals, Puerto Rican salsa and other Latin dance festivals, and the Miss Latin America Hawaii Pageant; and various performers visiting from the continental United States and Latin America, such as dance groups like Ballet Folklórico “Quetzalli” and Grammy Award–­winning artist Pocho Sanchez.122 Newspaper advertisements such as those in Angulos Hispanos and Que Pasa Hawaii were also good resources to find all the local Spanish-­language television and radio programming throughout the Hawaiian Islands. Some examples of radio programming included Alma Latina con Nancy Ortiz, Hawaiʻi’s first Hispanic DJ on KIPO FM 89.3; La Onda Latina con Luis Ortiz on KNDI AM 1270; Con Sabor con Yolanda McDonald on KTUH FM 90.3; and Sabor Tropical con Ray Cruz on KIPO FM 89.3. Television programming included Al Dia Noticias con Anamaria Melo on Oceanic Cable Channel (OCC) 53, Angulos con Luis Ortiz on OCC 52, Destinos Telenovela on OCC 53, and Que Pasa Hawaii con Pedro Valdez on OCC 52, among others.123 Pedro Valdez’s television program Que Pasa Hawaii is worth noting. Que Pasa Hawaii aired on the network Ōlelo Hawaiʻi. It gave a voice and recognition to the diverse Latinx population in Hawaiʻi and the issues that concerned them both in Hawaiʻi and back in their home countries.124 Indeed, the various ways that the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi could come together was important for establishing a shared sense of cultural identity and the fostering of a Pacific Latinidad in the diaspora, illustrating the diversity of those who come from the United States, Latin America, and the Spanish-­ speaking Caribbean. Moreover, given the similarities of familial and kinship networks and cultural sensibilities with their Native Hawaiian and local neighbors, the Latinx population also sought ways to highlight these commonalities as a means to reciprocate mutual respect, friendship, and aloha.

The End of Pine By 1993, the large-­scale efforts to recruit Latinx migrant labor to Maui came to an end. This was the result of several overlapping factors. First, there was a

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change in Hawaiʻi’s labor market for local residents. As the United States experienced an economic downturn from 1990 to 1992, there was a sharp decline in the state’s tourism industry. This in turn led to a labor surplus in Hawaiʻi by 1993 where locals were now seeking employment in industries they previously shunned. Gladys Baisa noted the demand for these jobs: “Now there are local people who do those jobs.”125 Andy Aguillon, program director of Hawaiʻi Human Development Agency, also noted the new desirability of jobs in agricultural work. As he shared, there was “some resentment from local people, who said they’d pick coffee and mac nuts too if we gave them housing, three meals a day and transportation to the fields.”126 This sentiment reveals an important point. Aguillon’s statement suggests that agribusiness in Hawaiʻi did not seem to provide the same resources and pay at the time for local workers, which was why many left for other occupations that promised more economic mobility. As the economic situation of Hawaiʻi became more vulnerable and jobs in the tourist and other related industries faced a decline, jobs in agriculture were now needed for local residents. As employment opportunities began to diminish in the pineapple industry by the mid-­1990s, Mexican and Central American workers also began to look elsewhere for economic stability. This occurred not only in Maui but also on other islands in the archipelago, such as Hawaiʻi Island.127 Despite these changes, MEO continued to provide employment assistance to Latinx and other migrant workers. In 2000, they changed the name of the Migrant and Seasonal Farmworker Program to the National Farmworker Jobs Program.128 Although formal recruiting of migrant workers came to an end, the Latinx migrant population continued to seek employment opportunities in Hawaiʻi and join family and friends who had previously settled there. According to César, by the early 2000s, only about 10 percent of Maui’s Latinx population were employed in agriculture. What he witnessed instead was a move into other employment opportunities, such as the tourist-­related service industry. Maui Pine was now hiring contract laborers from Micronesia.129 Leo also observed a similar trend, with a lot of Latinx migrants now working in construction and landscaping, while some owned their own landscaping businesses. Other Latinx-­owned businesses included domestic and commercial cleaners, drywall contractors, entertainers, web page designers, and restaurants. These businesses in turn employed other Latinx community members, including family, friends, and other relatives.130 MEO was vital to the growth of Maui’s Latinx community. Since their initial program of recruiting migrant workers to labor in the pineapple industry, Gladys and her staff witnessed the growth of those who participated in the program and sought out other options to expand their occupational opportunities and call Hawaiʻi home. As she noted, “They had fallen in love with Maui, and so they stayed. Many of them had married local girls, people like César Gaxiola and many others. And they opened businesses. They opened a masonry firm, the carpentry, electricians, taquerias, just so many different things. A lot of them did

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drywall. And they brought their relatives over. And in no time, they comprise now almost 10 percent of our state’s population. So it’s an interesting way how all this happened.”131 MEO was successful in proving a welcoming space for the workers and eventually their families, who came to labor and help the pineapple industry in Maui survive. Without the labor of the first Mexican and Central American migrant workers, Wailuku Agribusiness manager Steve Knox commented, “We just wouldn’t be here.”132 As Latinx workers were adjusting to the changing labor environment and moving into other occupations, there was also the added challenge of trying to stay up to date with their documentation, and they ran into additional problems. For some of the workers who were already in Hawaiʻi and had overstayed their visas, there was now the issue of navigating life in Hawaiʻi as undocumented immigrants.133

Overlooked Perspectives: Undocumented Immigrants As the number of Mexicans increased in Hawaiʻi during the mid-­1990s, various agencies reported conflicting statistical data both statewide and per island. However, one thing is certain: the growth has been noticed by state and local officials and other labor and nonprofit social service agencies assisting the Mexican and larger Latinx populations throughout the state. The mid-­1990s also witnessed a minor increase in the undocumented segment of the population.134 One thing to note is that although U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) officials suggest there was a large segment of undocumented Mexicans in Hawaiʻi, others, like Gladys Baisa, contend otherwise. As she noted, given the process by which workers must apply through MEO’s migrant farmworker recruitment program she directs, “It’s much more difficult to work here illegally than in California and other places.”135 Although there is the generalized assumption by immigration officials and the general public that all undocumented workers came to Hawaiʻi with fraudulent documentation, that is not the case. Rather, the vast majority of migrant workers come to Hawaiʻi with documentation. Many overstay their working visas due to a lack of consulate services and employer assistance, so they have issues maintaining their employment as documented workers.136 The Mexican consulate and its limited capacity to help its citizens is worth nothing. In the early 1990s, it opened a mobile office to serve the estimated fifteen thousand Mexican nationals working in Hawaiʻi. Mr. Ayala, for example, is one such worker who benefited from the consular services in Hawaiʻi. In an interview with the New York Times, Mr. Ayala, who was in Maui at the time, noted that “after migrating between his hometown in Ocotlan and Hawaii for six years, he had obtained American residency documents.” Although Ayala was not certain where he would reside, he shared, “That depends on whether I get married in Mexico or Hawaii.”137

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Ayala’s experience is not the norm. A number of Mexican migrant workers could not get assistance in a timely manner, which in turn led to their undocumented status and posed additional problems. Most workers were in fact hired with temporary work visas, yet those who extended their stay in Hawaiʻi after their work visas expired were now relegated to living in the shadows for fear of being deported. For example, Jesus Sanchez, a resident of Hilo, shared his experiences of the undocumented: “They lead a very secret life.”138 One of the main issues, according to the Migration Policy Institute, was that no permanent Mexican consulate services were available throughout the state of Hawaiʻi to assist Mexican nationals with staying current with all their required identification documents, travel, and other forms of assistance.139 Moreover, the Honorary Consulate of México’s mobile service, which visited the islands at least once per year, was severely limited due to a lack of resources and the timeliness of their arrival for those who needed immediate documentation updates.140 The inability of Latinx workers and their families to file their documents on time, thereby overstaying their visas, has led to them becoming undocumented. This in turn made them more prone to exploitation by their employers, including having their pay withheld, having their wages lowered, and other labor abuses, which they could not file a complaint over, since they were in fear of being deported or further exploited.141 Although Latinx migrants have remained a small segment of the overall undocumented population in Hawaiʻi, they hold an interesting status tied to continental U.S. immigration politics and racialized stereotypes. As Leo pointed out regarding the statistics of the undocumented, “They [Filipinos] had a big undocumented Filipino population. Very rare you hear that. They have a huge Tongan undocumented population, and you very seldom hear that. You have another portion of a Korean/Vietnamese population that is undocumented, but you don’t hear that. You don’t hear any other incidents, only the Hispanic. Why is that? Is that because we’re too many? Or because [we’re] easier to spot? Why is that?”142 Although Filipinxs, for example, were the largest group of undocumented immigrants being apprehended in Hawaiʻi at the time, John O’Shea, district director of what was then the INS, remarked, “What bothers me is the fact that we are finding a few Mexicans, not that I want to single out Mexicans.”143 His statement is telling. Despite O’Shea’s excuse of not wanting to “single out Mexicans,” he did just that. His remark illustrated the perceived threat undocumented Latinx migrants—­and in this case, Mexicans—­posed in his imagination no matter how small their numbers were compared to other groups. Mexican immigrants were still singled out, adding to their racialization and the presumption of their illegality and criminality. They do not belong, despite the state’s dependence on their labor. These attitudes demonstrate what scholars such as Erika Lee, Mae Ngai, and Natalia Molina posit, which is that both xenophobia and white supremacist notions of nativism144 have not only been “instrumental in creating the terms of permission” but, as Ngai also notes,

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“produced new categories of racial difference,” as the racialization of Mexicans and other Latinxs is synonymous with “alien citizens” regardless of citizenship status. Rather, it is based on their national origin or ancestry. Indeed, as Molina has also remarked about these processes, they are all part of a long legacy of what she calls an immigration regime that “remade racial categories that still shape the way we think about race, and specifically Mexicans.”145 For example, Leo Sequeira commented, “Unfortunately, the more racial things that I hear from our clients is from some authorities, like the police. . . . The myth is because you’re Hispanic, you’re illegal, undocumented, which is nuts. Not true. It’s a lot of us that either you see this person and this permanent resident and all that. We’re conducting classes for citizenship and helping people that are immigrants or permanent residents to become new citizens. Not only Hispanic but Tongans and Filipinos, Canadians, Europeans.”146 Regardless of their citizenship status, Latinxs in Hawaiʻi were racially profiled by the INS in the 1990s, which paved the way for INS raids at both businesses and homes throughout the Hawaiian Islands.147 These actions thus reflected continental U.S. discourses about undocumented Mexicans and the Latinx population at large, which were more pronounced throughout the 1990s and into the twenty-­ first century. During the mid-­1990s, for example, Maui experienced high-­profile raids by the INS. Undocumented Latinx migrants were arrested and deported from Maui, which began making headline news in the Honolulu Advertiser and the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin. This impacted not only Mexican nationals but also U.S. citizens of Mexican descent, Chicanxs, and other self-identifying Latinxs. For example, the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin reported that in 1995 on Wailuku, Maui, federal immigration agents arrested thirty-­one undocumented Mexican laborers at local restaurants and hotels who worked as dishwashers, cooks, and waiters. They were eventually flown to California for deportation.148 These raids were conducted not only in Maui but throughout the Hawaiian Islands. Mexicans would be the target of these raids and the rhetoric surrounding undocumented immigrants. For example, according to Donald A. Radcliffe, district director of the INS, “Maui has the fastest growing illegal Mexican population in the state.”149 Radcliffe also noted that Mexicans are second only to Pacific Islanders in terms of ethnic groups with the highest number of undocumented persons in Hawaiʻi, yet Mexicans were oftentimes the targets of INS officials. For example, as correspondent Gary Kubota noted, the complaints filed at Radcliffe’s office from Maui residents led to more than one hundred undocumented Mexican migrants being arrested in 1995 out of the three hundred to five hundred total undocumented who were arrested in Hawaiʻi that year.150 Radcliffe further noted that Latinx workers found jobs in hotels and restaurants and agricultural fields on the islands of Maui, Hawaiʻi Island (Kona side), and Oʻahu. He commented, “Most [Latinxs] are US citizens, but there are illegal workers in the mix.” This includes an estimated three hundred complaints involving Latinx

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workers out of the one thousand cases involving other immigrant groups that are under investigation.151 Maui was not the only island to experience INS raids. Shinseki also chronicled how Mexican immigrants—­both documented and undocumented—­were often the victims of human rights abuses by law enforcement officials, citing the activities of local police who were involved with the INS in California, which suggests he saw many parallels to what was going on in Hawaiʻi during the 1990s.152 This xenophobic and inhumane treatment was tied to the racist stereotypes about Mexicans and other Latinxs. For example, in December 1995, Shinseki reported on the treatment Mexican immigrants received because, as one article claimed, “Mexicans only came to Hawaii to sell drugs.” Shinseki went on to report the activities of the INS, which included raids on hotels on Hawaiʻi Island (including the Hyatt Waikoloa), at Kona Amigos, Pancho & Lefty’s in Kailua, and on an egg farm in Waimea. INS raids also occurred at social gatherings, such as a dance club in Kona that played Mexican music. Two people were detained. As was reported, “Since then there have been no more Mexican dances.” Shinseki further noted how this impacted the community: “Immigrants have been afraid to leave home and some have even lost their jobs because of this. In one case, a legal immigrant, an employee of a coffee plantation, was detained, handcuffed, and interrogated. According to INS agents, they were only undertaking the detention of the individual so that he would not leave, but they would not even allow him to take out his papers. Only when the immigrant’s brother arrived was he allowed to present them.”153 Reading of this particular incident, one would assume it occurred not in Hawaiʻi but rather in the continental United States, where, as Shinseki and many other immigrant rights scholars have noted, this is a common practice and experience for immigrants. This also lends to the racist assumption that because the individual was Mexican, he was automatically judged as undocumented and treated with a level of disrespect that denied him his humanity and right to be heard by agents as to his status. This treatment of being accused of being undocumented by default and detained regardless of citizenship would later resurface again in the 2000s as documented by similar incidents occurring with the highly publicized anti-­Latinx treatment and racial terrorism by Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Arizona under SB 1070 in 2010.154 For the Latinx community, word spread of INS activity, and they mobilized to protect themselves. As Leo noted, “Luckily, the word spreads so quickly, and everybody is aware and say[s], ‘Hey, the migra is here, the migra is coming.’ And it only takes one to be taken away and everything, bam! People call in sick, people just disappear.”155 These means of communication are used to ensure that not everyone becomes a racial target for harassment and deportation. After the arrests, a community meeting was held in Lahaina, where residents voiced their concern over how the arrests would affect the families of those who were deported. As Rev. Michael Hill of Maria Lanikila Church

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commented, “The families are left not only without a bread winner, but also without a father. . . . The issue is the way it’s done and what effect will it have upon the family. Is this the way we treat even aliens? I hope not.”156 Churches’ criticism of immigration policies and the inhumane treatment of the Latinx community, regardless of citizenship status, is also worthy of note. For example, in an open letter to the Catholic Church and the “People of Good Will” in Hawaiʻi, Rev. Francis X. DiLorenzo, bishop of Honolulu, urged readers to look at immigration policy and the treatment of immigrants, noting that the xenophobic backlash continued to separate families through inhumane and traumatic practices and ignored the role companies have in the economic and social instability of the country and how immigrant and local workers are exploited and pitted against one another. As he noted, “Our actions towards immigrants must not be motivated by racism and xenophobia. Too often immigrants are treated as scapegoats for our own country’s economic hardships. Rather than harm our economy, the opposite has and continues to be true: immigrants past and present enhance the health of our economy. . . . The Church vigorously opposes the violation of human dignity and worth. Whether the person is documented or not does not matter.  .  .  . We stand in solidarity with our brothers and sisters, ready to defend them and to insist that their God-­given dignity be respected.”157 This statement echoes what scholars like historian Felipe Hinojosa have argued, which is that in moments of human rights abuses and issues around social justice, churches have been sites where both clergy and social activists have rallied to defend the rights of those being targeted and oppressed.158 As Hawaiʻi’s economy maintained its reliance on cheap labor to fill specific labor-­intensive industries, Mexicans, Central Americans, and other Latinx migrants continued to come and seek employment well into the next century. As a result, the Mexican and larger Latinx community continued to rise in tandem with a now increasing hostile anti-­immigrant attitude that was no doubt influenced by continental U.S. racialized tropes about Mexican and Central Americans, which affected the larger Latinx population of Hawaiʻi. Although Radcliffe’s comments on undocumented Mexican immigrants in Hawaiʻi cited minuscule numbers, his views demonstrate what anthropologist Leo Chavez calls the “Latino Threat Narrative” to not only mark Latinx bodies as “illegal” but also sound the alarm regarding their presence as a growing racial threat (more on this in chapter 4).159 Mexicans were thus racialized as a threat to national security and subject to racial profiling, harassment, and unwarranted detainment. For the undocumented segment of the population, there was the added fear of deportation. Gladys understood the traumatic experiences Latinx workers and their families faced with immigration raids and deportations, which led many to stay at home, avoiding contact with any government authorities. She shared, They still have that fear. They carry that fear of la migra. And I understand. I understand it 100 percent. We’ve had some real bad immigration experiences here.

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Latinos that have been here for the whole time, but for some reason their paper work is screwed up or whatever. And we’ve had immigration show up in Lahaina, in a dining room in the middle of serving, and [they] round up whoever they can find and take them. Their families are at home, don’t know where they went. They just disappear. And they take them to the federal detention center in Honolulu and many times will deport them. . . . Nobody knows what happened. And that’s extremely disruptive. If they have legal issues, they have legal issues. But let’s be a little kinder about resolving them.160

Individuals like Gladys, César, Leo, and others involved in MEO who worked closely with the Latinx community understood the precarious and fallible nature of a broken and outdated immigration system that allowed individuals to fall through the cracks and become undocumented not by neglecting their responsibility to stay current on the paper work but rather due to the lack of resources and support to maintain their legal status. When asked if she noticed racial profiling going on among the Latinx workers in Maui, Gladys noted, “I believe so. I don’t think that it’s as common as you would see maybe like in a state like Arizona, where we don’t stop people and ask them for their IDs or whatever. But they have targeted restaurants where they know they work. . . . They have targeted farms where they know they work.”161 César also commented that between 1994 and 1998, there was a lot of misinformation among immigration officials regarding the different immigration worker programs each Latin American country had (e.g., the Simpson-­Rodino Act). This confusion ultimately led to unnecessary traumatic experiences for the Latinx community when law enforcement began conducting unlawful raids. This led César and other advocates outraged by these injustices to call on the governor, senators, and others in the Latinx and local communities of Maui and the continental United States to intervene. César noted, There was one guy from Honolulu to Maui . . . from immigration, and he would stop at the Maui police department and get a ride, and two or three cars from the Maui police department, and get like four or five police officers to follow him or her and go to the apartments and houses and do the raids. These officers are totally misinformed. They didn’t know what the hell they were doing. They [are] just coming along with you. And this guy from Honolulu, he doesn’t know what he’s doing himself ! It was a mess for a good three years.162

César raises an important point. Given the lack of information immigration and law enforcement authorities had about the various programs for Latinx migrants who came through to work in Hawaiʻi, as well as their own racial assumptions of the automatic illegality of migrant workers, agents of the state conducted unnecessary raids and inflicted trauma throughout the Latinx community in Maui. These complex issues of race, xenophobia, and belonging

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would continue to surface in the 2000s as new debates occurred over immigration and the place of Latinxs in Hawaiʻi.

Conclusion In November 2009, it was reported that after over a century of growing pineapple, Maui Land and Pineapple Co. was ending its operations in Maui by the end of that year. The company was reportedly restructuring its operations on West Maui’s Kapalua Resort, leaving 285 local employees (almost half their workforce) without a job. The departure of Maui Pine now left Dole Food Co., in central Oʻahu, as the only company in Hawaiʻi that produces pineapple. Hawaiʻi is also the only U.S. state that grows pineapple.163 Despite the end of pineapple production in Maui, the importance of Mexican and Central American labor to this industry, as well as the impact of MEO on the lives of those Latinx workers who decided to stay and form roots in Maui, cannot be overstated. Their work was critical in keeping the pineapple industry operational and thriving during the early 1990s. Leo reflected on this issue when he shared the following: “As Doug McClure [manager of Maui Pine] says all the time—­and he’s absolutely right—­we [Latinxs] preserved pineapple for Hawaiʻi, or it would have been gone.”164 Gladys also reflected, There were, altogether, thousands of them. Some came and did a good job and fit. Many of them still live here, today. And he [Doug McClure] frequently will talk at agriculture meetings about this. And he is not afraid to say that this [MEO migrant farmworker program] saved pineapple for the state of Hawaiʻi. He also says that the Hispanic workers that [were] brought to Maui broke every record that they had of the amount that could be picked, the amount that could be planted. And he was just so impressed with their ability to work in the kind of conditions that you get in the field. It’s hot. It’s dusty. And it’s backbreaking work.165

Beyond the fields and canneries, Gladys and her staff provided an avenue for Latinx workers to seek a better life while also ensuring that one of Hawaiʻi’s agricultural industries survived the economic uncertainty of the time. This work and the welcoming of Maui’s first pineapple plantation recruits also created the opportunity for cultural understanding and exchange between the Latinx migrant workers and Hawaiʻi’s local residents. Because of this, many Mexican and Central Americans intermarried and started families with locals, expanding the ancestries that were already mixed in Hawaiʻi. Their children, many of whom are also mixed race and learning what it means to be Latinx in the diaspora, represent the ongoing development of a Pacific Latinidad that has continued to grow with another generation of Mexican and Central American migrants who followed their dreams along the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands. Although their economic and cultural contributions are seldom

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noticed in the larger scope of Hawaiʻi’s history, they are recognized in Maui by those who worked with them in MEO and their employers in the pineapple industry. Part of MEO’s legacy are the opportunities that enabled individuals like César and others to move beyond agricultural work. Through support and mentoring by Gladys and others in MEO, former migrant farmworkers like César demonstrated the positive impact their programs had for him and his peers who decided to stay and build a life in Hawaiʻi and contribute to the larger local community in Maui.166 For Gladys and the migrant workers, spending time together ensured that they got to know more about one another. This dispelled the stereotypes Gladys heard about México, and she gained a second home in México through the friendships she made among the migrant workers in her program.167 Gladys Baisa retired from MEO in 2005. She then ran for and was elected to serve as a council member for Maui County Council on January 1, 2006. Gladys continued to serve on the council until her retirement in 2020, which was celebrated with a resolution in her honor on July 10, 2020.168 When reflecting on her community work and public service after MEO, Gladys noted, It’s funny because twenty-­three years ago, I never thought of them as being future voters. [Laughs] You’re not thinking that far ahead. But it’s funny, because they are. They’ve become citizens, and they’re voters. And they’re not embarrassed to come up to me and say, “Do you remember me? I’m voting for you. You were always so good to us. And we haven’t forgotten, and you want us to do anything for you, you just let us know, because we want to help you.” And it hasn’t changed anything [their relationship]. We don’t have as much inclusion in their lives as we did then, because they’re more independent too. And they have their own lives now. People like César. César has his own life; heading the Cameron Center takes up a lot of his time. . . . We don’t spend as much time together as we did. But we still will always be close. And I know that any one of them, [if ] I call[ed] and said I needed help, they would be here.169

What Gladys, César, and the other interviewees in this chapter shared speaks to the impact the aloha meant to the migrant workers who were a part of MEO and were eventually welcomed into the larger local community of Maui. The workers became a part of it by recognizing that they were a recent generation of newcomers that contributed to a larger history of Latinx migration to the Hawaiian Islands. Mexican and Central Americans came to labor in one of Hawaiʻi’s major agricultural endeavors and were welcomed because of it. In return, they sought to acculturate to their new environment and be a part of Maui’s local communities. As the dawn of the twenty-­first century approached, Latinx workers continued to migrate, live, and establish businesses, building a life for themselves and their families. They were also

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instrumental in two other major crops: Kona coffee and macadamia nuts (to a lesser extent) on Hawaiʻi Island. Yet despite their role in enabling these industries to also thrive and their contributions to their local communities, they continued to face animosity, xenophobia, and racism—­as well as aloha, support, inclusion, and friendship. Let us now look to the next chapter to see how they responded to this moment and continued to strive to be a part of their adopted home.

4

“Wetbacks” in Racial Paradise? The next time you munch on a macadamia nut or sip a cup of Kona coffee, instead of imagining sunny beaches and coconut trees, think of the hard-­working Latinos who picked these delicacies. —­Kyle Shinseki, National Council of La Raza Techniques that have capitalized on the complex issue of “immigration” to race bait, scapegoat, and demonize persons of Mexican ancestry, have now crossed the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii. Hawaii’s reputation as a progressive, multiethnic culture, diverse, and racially tolerant state appears now to have either been a facade or never existed. —­Herman Baca in a letter to Marie Villa, June 10, 2008

I first met Angela Dean in 2013, when she was working at West Hawaiʻi Community Health Center (WHCHC) as a caseworker and advocate for the local 138

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Latinx community in Kona. A local of Puerto Rican, Portuguese, Spanish, and Filipina ancestry, Angela identifies as Latina. I remember first meeting up with her mom, Herlinda, who was referred to me by another colleague. Herlinda met me at WHCHC, walked me to the front desk, and introduced me to Angela, telling me, “Talk to her. She can help you with your project,” before walking away. Angela and I just looked at each other for a moment, bewildered at the quick introduction, before she took the time to show me around the health clinic and share her story. From that day forward, I’ve worked closely with Angela over the years, watching her develop her activist skills and build up an incredible amount of trust in the Mexican and larger Latinx communities in Kona. Some of the work Angela engaged in included assisting clients at WHCHC with health services and resources, conducting community needs assessments, and advocating outside of work for others in the community. She’s worked as a legal assistant, translator, and interpreter pertaining to legal, health, and immigration issues. We also had the opportunity to conduct workshops and presentations together based on our mutual work and community activist interests. In 2015, Angela also founded Comunidad Latina de Hawaiʻi, a nonprofit organization dedicated to providing a wide variety of resources for the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi. They also hosted a Hispanic cultural festival for several years on Hawaiʻi Island.1 Angela also recently established her new business, Hawaiʻi Agricultural Labor Solutions, and continues to work with coffee farmers and farmworkers, recruiting labor for Hawaiʻi’s agriculture.2 When asked what motivates her to do this work, she replied, “For one, I think it’s because I cannot stand racism or discrimination. I hate the intolerance that our immigrant communities have to deal with, especially after hearing their struggles and their personal stories of why they are here. I hate knowing that our immigrant communities feel that they are not welcomed or included in our communities. I hope to continue to work at changing that perception, to promote and encourage education on these topics as well as to promote immigrant inclusion in Hawaiʻi. I hope that our immigrant communities feel that not everyone [in Hawaiʻi] is intolerant.”3 Angela’s story both inspires and reminds us that immigration issues are still unresolved in the twenty-­first century even in a place like Hawaiʻi, particularly since the Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi are a major economic force behind the Kona coffee industry. In an effort to serve the Latinx population and bring greater understanding and aloha between them and the larger local population on Hawaiʻi Island (Big Island), Angela has herself experienced both the support and aloha of other locals and Native Hawaiians who see her intentions and the good she does for her community. At the same time, she has been a victim of harassment by other Hawaiʻi residents, threats, and loss of income from time to time because of the advocacy and activism she is involved in. Nevertheless, Angela is committed to both the Latinx and larger local communities she is a part of. As someone who is a second-­generation community advocate and labor activist

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for coffee farmworkers in the Kona region, Angela has earned a reputation for her work that centers around social justice and immigrant and labor rights. Her story and those of the many people she introduced me to over the years provide a complex look into the relationship between the Latinx communities and their Native Hawaiian and local neighbors as they came to labor in construction, restaurants, domestic work, and for a large segment of the workers, coffee. This chapter explores the lives of Latinx workers primarily on Hawaiʻi Island, which is a major agricultural island that produces most of the state’s coffee, macadamia nuts, and papayas.4 The agricultural industries that welcomed them also speak to another moment in Hawaiʻi’s history in which their contributions enabled these crops, especially coffee, to thrive. I will at certain points intersect various events that also impacted the islands of Oʻahu, Maui, and Kauaʻi, but the focus of these stories will be on Hawaiʻi Island and Kona coffee, the state’s most valuable export product, and the impact the Latinx community has on this industry. Latinx workers remain virtually invisible to the rest of the world despite their vital contributions to its survival, expansion, and success. This chapter also looks at how their population growth in Hawaiʻi did not go unnoticed by Hawaiʻi’s residents. As another wave of new Latinx migrant workers continued to come and expand their communities and the evolving Pacific Latinidad that was taking shape in Hawaiʻi, this also led to the ongoing frustration of Native Hawaiians, who continue to be dispossessed of land and rights to those lands and face displacement by the settler colonial state. Recognizing them as the original inhabitants of these islands, we must always be mindful of their presence and voice in the struggles that arise from these interactions, which, although tense at times, are not always unfriendly. In fact, as many of my interviewees shared, their experiences were of welcoming and aloha. The relationship is a bit more complex between Latinxs and locals, mostly of immigrant descent themselves with a long plantation-­era history on the islands, who over time have also been influenced by the racialized tropes of Mexicans and other Latinxs in this country. As some of my interviewees also shared, this has caused some locals to react in negative and sometimes hostile ways toward the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi. In those unfortunate moments, locals are also adopting and reproducing the same racial ideologies and performing the same animosity and stereotyping that are enacted through the logics of white supremacy. This is further exacerbated by haole settler transplants who feel entitled to act in racist ways toward Latinxs in Hawaiʻi as they also reproduce the same racist rhetoric that they enact in the continental United States. There is an audacity to this logic given their (haoles’) own history with and relationship to both Native Hawaiians and locals, which is teeming with violence and racism.5

Origins of Kona Coffee Kona coffee in many ways owes much of its success in the twenty-­first century to Latinx labor and ingenuity. It is also another major agricultural crop that

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enticed many Latinx workers to migrate. Indeed, the arrival of Latinx farmworkers in the coffee industry is another example of the way in which the state of Hawaiʻi and its agricultural interests welcomed them to harvest this popular export product. These interests also relied on the tradition of U.S. labor importation programs. Many Chicanx and Latinx scholars, such as Lilia Fernández, Mario Sifuentez, Zaragosa Vargas, Dionicio Nodín Valdés, and Ismael García-­ Colón, for example, have remarked on the United States’ colonial relationship with its imported Latinx workers. As Fernández notes, for example, “Their [Mexicans and Puerto Ricans] migrations to the US mainland [and by extension its colonial outposts] have also been the result of the economic, social, and political dislocations that such imperialism and colonialism have produced.”6 The exhaustive need for migrant labor was also vital to agricultural profits. Indeed, similar to how Sifuentez examines the way Mexican labor turned the Pacific Northwest into “one of the most productive regions in the country” post–­World War II, I also explore how Latinx labor contributed to the success of Hawaiʻi’s most valuable crop in the twenty-­first century.7 Coffee is one of the world’s most beloved beverages. In fact, over a billion pounds of coffee are consumed every year in the United States alone. Its value cannot be overstated. As one study noted, “Coffee is one of the most extensively traded legal commodities in the world, ranking second to oil in the early twenty-­first century.”8 Of the numerous varieties on the market, Kona coffee is one of the most popular and recognized coffees in the world. Kona coffee is also another crop that is synonymous with Hawaiʻi. Although coffee is grown in other districts on Hawaiʻi Island—­such as Kāʻu, Hamakua, and Puna—­and on the islands of Maui, Kauaʻi, and Molokaʻi, Kona remains the most recognized and famous of Hawaiʻi’s coffees. Hawaiʻi is also currently the only U.S. state that commercially grows coffee.9 Only coffee grown on the western slopes of Mauna Loa and Hualalai in the Kona district on Hawaiʻi Island at an elevation between eight hundred and two thousand feet can be legally called Kona coffee. This area is recognized as the Kona belt.10 As with pineapple and macadamia nuts, coffee is not native to Hawaiʻi. In fact, coffee’s origins can be traced back to Ethiopia, the “center of origin and diversity of arabica coffee,” the most widely consumed species of coffee globally, while macadamia nuts are indigenous to Australia.11 Growing coffee requires patience and care. Coffee trees, for example, take two years before they produce their first “fresh fruit” and four years before they reach full maturity to produce enough for commercial consumption.12 Coffee’s introduction to the Hawaiian Islands dates back to the early nineteenth century. Spanish physician Don Francisco de Paula Marin was the first to attempt to plant coffee in Hawaiʻi in 1813, without much success. However, his attempt prompted others to follow his lead. Agriculturalist John Wilkinson, for example, was commissioned by Governor Boki to develop and manage a small coffee farm in Mānoa Valley on the island of Oʻahu in 1825. Others followed suit with seedlings from those coffee plants, including American haole missionaries Joseph

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Goodrich in Hilo and Samuel Ruggles, who was noted as the first person to plant coffee in Kona. Ruggles obtained cuttings from the plants Wilkinson introduced in Mānoa Valley on Oʻahu and successfully planted them in Nāpōʻopoʻo, South Kona.13 As writer Gerald Kinro notes about the introduction to these cuttings, “What Ruggles had done, perhaps without knowing, was to introduce coffee to an area ideal for cultivation.”14 Native Hawaiians had an early role in the development of what would become the Kona coffee industry. However, they were never really acknowledged for their contributions. For example, according to Kinro, Chief Boki, the governor of Oʻahu, played a significant role. As a member of King Kamehameha II’s entourage to England in November 1823, Boki had the opportunity to visit several coffeehouses. Enjoying his experience with this beverage, Boki saw the potential of coffee being grown in Hawaiʻi. To start, he procured some plants. As Kinro writes, “On the return trip [to Hawaiʻi], Boki had their ship, H.M.S. Blonde, stop in Rio de  Janeiro, Brazil, to buy coffee seedlings for the project. In May 1825, H.M.S. Blonde arrived in Hawaiʻi.”15 As previously mentioned, Boki commissioned Wilkinson to establish a coffee orchard on Oʻahu. Some Native Hawaiians also had their own small fields of koppe (coffee). According to John Gaspar, an early migrant to the Hawaiian Kingdom in the 1870s and the first to build a coffee mill in Nāpōʻopoʻo, he saw coffee growing wild in the area. His son John Machado’s eyewitness account also noted, When I arrived here 65 years ago, there were many patches of coffee both in North and South Kona. They were growing under the kukui trees and were not planted regularly. . . . In those days, Kanakas [Native Hawaiians] were the only coffee planters. They lived down on the beach and went up to the coffee patches only to pick coffee. Coffee trees grew wild without being hoed or pruned. . . . The Kanakas used to pack the coffee on their back from the patches to the beach to dry. . . . I used to buy the coffee from them but never paid cash. We always exchanged parchment coffee with merchandise. This was a profitable business.16

Since Native Hawaiians had no formal training or equipment to properly process coffee themselves, Machado noted that the quality of coffee eventually deteriorated. This was because, as his father observed, systematic methods of planting only occurred after the Japanese began growing coffee in Kona.17 Land, however, was key to the expansion of coffee and other settler plantation crops (e.g., sugar, pineapple, macadamia nuts). The illegal overthrow of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893 enabled haoles to gain greater access to seized lands for their economic interests. This allowed the coffee industry to survive and expand in Hawaiʻi.18 As scholar Baron Goto noted, a number of ethnic groups in addition to haoles and Native Hawaiians also began growing coffee. This included other Europeans, such as Hermann A. Widemann, a German immigrant who introduced

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the Guatemalan coffee variety to Hawaiʻi in 1892, which is known today as “Kona Typica.” The Guatemalan variety, which Kona farmers called Meleken koppe (American coffee), produced more coffee per acre than the Kanaka koppe (Hawaiian coffee) initially introduced by Wilkinson. Kona Typica would become the most popular coffee grown in Hawaiʻi and the basis of the Kona coffee industry.19 English immigrant Henry Nicholas Greenwell, a Kona coffee merchant and exporter. is best known for establishing Kona coffee as a superior variety, garnering an award for excellence at the 1873 World’s Fair in Vienna. Other groups also left their imprint on the development of the Kona coffee industry. Beginning in the early 1850s, for example, the Chinese also operated coffee farms in both North and South Kona. They were involved in all stages of coffee production. After the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, most moved to rice production in Hawaiʻi. The Portuguese were involved in coffee farming, but primarily on the island of Maui. Japanese immigrants, followed by Filipinos, looking to escape the confinement and drudgery of working in the sugar plantations in Kona, began harvesting and eventually operating their own independent coffee farms in the early 1900s. The Japanese, for example, formed cooperatives and were highly successful in Kona to the point that, as Goto noted, “they produced the world’s best quality coffee, averaging in the neighborhood of 10  million pounds per year.”20 During the 1990s, the lack of laborers hindered the expansion of the Kona coffee industry, since previous decades saw a loss of acreage. As Kinro notes, harvesting costs equated to about 60 to 90 percent of total costs. Similar to how Maui experienced a decline in workers in pineapple, locals on Hawaiʻi Island were also moving away from coffee and into other less labor-­intensive jobs such as the service-­related industries and tourism. On Hawaiʻi Island, for example, as Japanese Americans sought other employment opportunities outside of their family coffee farms, Latinx migration was increasing in the 1990s and again in the early 2000s when coffee prices soared and the demand for Kona coffee increased worldwide. Batalova, Das Gupta, and Haglund note that it would be Mexicans, other Latinx groups, and later Micronesians in the early 2000s who came in to fill the void. Mexican workers who were hired directly from México were recruited through the H2-­A visa program, while others came from the continental United States and other parts of Central and South America. Those from Central America came as refugees fleeing political violence or through existing kinship networks, seeking the same opportunities to provide a better life for their families.21 The stories I share in this chapter provide some insight into the workers who make it possible for us to enjoy this popular beverage and shed light on the labor that sustains this cash crop. Interviews and other published reports note, for example, that at any given time, an estimated 80 to 90 percent of all coffee workers are Latinxs, particularly in coffee picking. Latinx labor has been vital to the survival of the Kona coffee industry since the 1990s. For example, in 1997, Norman Sakata, a coffee farmer and chairman

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of the Kona Coffee Cultural Festival, remarked in the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin about the Latinx workers in Hawaiʻi Island, “They’re really hard workers and really, when you come down to it, they’re saving our coffee. Who else will harvest the coffee? Our young generation [locals] wants clean work; they’re not involved in coffee. That’s why our acreage is decreasing, because our young [locals] are not interested in carrying on coffee farming.”22 Given the need for more laborers to harvest the coffee bean, family-­run growers began to rely on the importation of foreign workers to recruit harvesters and expand their operations. Workers from Latin America and those already in the continental United States became the major source of labor on Kona coffee farms.23 Rolando Hidalgo, for example, is a U.S.-­educated agronomist and farm manager who was formerly undocumented but was able to earn his legal status under the 1986 immigration amnesty law. As the unofficial leader of Kona’s Latino community in the late 1990s, Hidalgo was able to procure a steady seasonal immigration of workers to Hawaiʻi Island by placing ads in California newspapers for employment that offered round-­trip airfare, food, good wages, and bonuses for interested workers.24 About 150 to 200 workers from México, Chile, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, many of whom have previous experience working with coffee back in their home countries, come to work the coffee fields from around August to March, earning thirty to forty dollars per day, with some workers picking as many as eight bags a day (this was an amount Hidalgo was able to negotiate with the growers).25 Latinx labor would continue to be a key factor in the success of the Kona coffee industry in the twenty-­first century. By the early 2000s, Mexicans, Hondurans, and other workers from Central America became the largest groups employed on coffee farms. Magdalena García and her husband, Hector Valenzuela, for example, came to Hawaiʻi Island from Honduras in 2011. When asked who made up the bulk of the coffee workforce, Magdalena replied that it was Mexicans, Hondurans, and Salvadorans. Other workers also noted that among Mexican nationals, those from Michoacán were the largest group.26 Their numbers ensured that this labor-­intensive crop would continue to be sought after globally and would remain one of Hawaiʻi’s most lucrative specialty crops along with macadamia nuts.27

Working in Coffee Working in coffee takes patience, since trees do not mature until their fourth year. The process of tending the trees and preparing them for harvesting requires a lot of work. Magdalena, for example, is involved in the trimming and pruning of coffee plants. She also mentioned that after the coffee season ends, the workers do other jobs, like cleaning the coffee, fertilizing it, and other responsibilities tied to coffee production.28 Her husband, Hector, has been involved in various jobs related to the growing and production of coffee

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plants. He described his various roles in coffee production: “Yo viene solo al café. Al pasar las piscas del café, seguimos trabajando: limpiando, fertilizando, podando.” (I came just for the coffee [work]. After picking coffee, we continue working: cleaning, fertilizing, pruning.)29 Ángel Cancino Garza is also a longtime coffee worker in Kealakekua (Kona region). Originally from Michoacán, México, Ángel has lived in Hawaiʻi since 1997. He works at a coffee mill and also as a farmworker at the same location. He came to Hawaiʻi Island at the invitation of his father-­in-­law. Ángel shared his experience working in all aspects related to coffee harvesting and production: “Desde piscar café hasta procesarlo. He piscado café y lo he procesado lo que es aquí el windmill. Y también en un tiempo estuve trayendo café al dry mill y mandando para-­, porque hacían pedidos.” (From picking coffee to processing it. I have picked coffee and I have processed it here at the windmill. And one time I also brought coffee to the dry mill to send mail orders.)30 I had the opportunity to meet other workers in the Kona coffee industry. Gloria Calamaco, for example, is originally from San Antonio, Texas, but moved to Captain Cook on Hawaiʻi Island in 2007. She is the owner of A Touch of Carlota Cleaning Services. She and her employees clean houses and vacation rentals. Prior to establishing her cleaning business, Gloria used to work as a tour guide for Greenwell Farms in Kealakekua. As a tour guide on Greenwell Farms, Gloria was familiar with the coffee production process and the labor required. She noted that Greenwell had twenty-­five to thirty employees year round, which includes staffing, tour guides, farmworkers, maintenance people, and the distribution center. Sometimes during the summer harvesting season, however, there are around forty to fifty pickers. Right before workers leave or take their hiatus for the summer, they also prune the coffee plants.31 Although many established workers reside close by their places of employment, due to the high cost of rent in Hawaiʻi, migrant workers who are recruited through labor programs often tend to live in employee housing provided by the coffee farms they work in.32 Filipinxs also work on the farm as coffee roasters and landscapers. I had the opportunity to meet a master coffee roaster. Juanita Pagente is from Mindanao, Philippines. She is a master coffee roaster in Kealakekua. She initially came to Hawaiʻi in 1994 and resides in South Kona on Hawaiʻi Island. Prior to becoming a master coffee roaster, she worked a variety of jobs in agriculture, construction, landscaping, and housekeeping. In addition to her current position, she also owns a landscaping company. Juanita shared her experiences working with Latinxs at her previous and current places of employment: “When I worked at the resort, it’s kinda like working in a hotel. So I’ve been around with Latino people, and they’re my good friends too. And we somehow get along. There was no problem. We shared at lunch. And we talk together. And coffee business, picking coffee, I have some people, friends, that pick coffee with us. And when I used to live at this coffee farm, owned by this Filipino guy—­he hired pretty much Filipinos and Mexicans.”33

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Since coffee work is seasonal for most of the farmworkers, it’s been a challenge to keep a steady workforce, as seasonal workers are paid depending on their contract. Some are paid per pound harvested, while a few get paid an hourly wage to maintain the farms. Others get both hourly and per-­pound wages. For some growers, this also poses a dilemma. For example, I had the opportunity to talk story with Rainoldo Cancino, a coffee mill owner in Hōnaunau, Hawaiʻi Island. Originally from Michoacán, México, Rainoldo migrated to California, where he worked with different crops, and then moved to Hawaiʻi in 2004 with his wife and young children. His wife’s family were already in Hawaiʻi. They initially wanted to come only for a season but decided to stay after being on Hawaiʻi Island for a year. Rainoldo first started off as a coffee picker, then soon found himself managing farms and other coffee workers. His efforts enabled him to earn a small commission while he and his family were working in the coffee fields. Eventually Rainoldo purchased a small coffee farm from a woman he was working for in Captain Cook, and he named it Hinalani Farm. He began making improvements and expanding his equipment. After this, Rainoldo began leasing more land and purchasing more processing equipment and farms to expand Cancino Family Farm, which currently has six hundred acres. Cancino Family Farm expanded to include a number of farms; his own coffee label, Kona Super Coffee; two mills; and a coffee-­roasting business. Rainoldo is currently one of the largest coffee producers on Hawaiʻi Island, processing an estimated four million pounds of coffee per year.34 Rainoldo is known by his peers in the Latinx and larger local community for his generosity and willingness to help others succeed as coffee farmers as well, which has garnered him a lot of trust and respect. He is now known as the go-­to person when someone wants to learn the business and helps newly arrived workers find housing, jobs, and so on. When crop harvests are good, workers can earn good money picking coffee and getting paid per pound harvested, but the hours are long. For example, Gloria observed the productivity of the workers, stating that an average coffee picker can pick up to one hundred pounds per day, which is a huge burlap sack filled with coffee fruit and cherries. She also commented on how they work from sunup to sundown and that she has witnessed them using headlamps before the sun comes up or when the sun is going down. The most productive pickers can actually pick up to two hundred to three hundred pounds in a day. Gloria remarked that workers are also paid an hourly wage in addition to the weight they pick.35 With the predominance of Latinx workers in coffee and their incentive to make more per pound harvested, there can at times be competition between other groups and even tension on the job. Juanita, for example, noted the tensions at times among Mexicans, Filipinos, and Micronesians. She commented that when Micronesians came, there were tensions with Mexicans due to competition: “The Mexican and Micronesian, they’re having trouble with competing, who’s gonna get more, and I want that side there. . . . As

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a Filipina, I know they’re hard workers. And they work so hard; the same [with] us too. There’s jealousy or competition. I think there’s a tension. But when we see each other on the road, whatever, we say hi and talk. . . . The Mexican, as I said, they’re a hardworking people, really.”36 Juanita’s comment reveals that although there can be competition and tension among workers because they have to work hard in order to earn more money to support their families, it is not something that goes beyond their place of employment, and for the most part, they do get along. Their competition is fueled by their desire to support their families financially. As growers seek more viable sources of labor for their coffee farms, some locals have also been involved intimately with both Latinx workers and coffee farmers in the Kona coffee region. Angela Dean, for example, utilized her immigrant and labor organizing experience to establish her own business, Hawaiʻi Agricultural Labor Solutions. She works closely with Kona coffee businesses, creating partnerships that benefit both the Latinx community and coffee farmers. Angela noted, “My heart has always been in coffee and agriculture, so I opened up my own business, where I do foreign labor recruiting. So I work[ed] with Greenwell Farms the last two years and helped them with that. Now I’m helping Rainoldo, and we’ll see where he goes in the next two to three years. That’s my goal because we need to find a way to fix this issue with the shortage of labor.”37 Angela also noted the changing labor conditions for coffee farmworkers given the economic factors of living in Hawaiʻi. She shared, “The cost of living is very expensive. Agriculture is one of the lowest-­paying jobs. What I’ve seen over the last six or seven years is a decline in agricultural workers and a shift from agriculture to construction because that’s the highest-­paying job here. . . . Over the last three years, I’ve seen a shift. The funny thing is that the folks that are reporting that they’re working in agriculture, we still have a large group of Mexicans, but we have a lot more Hondurans. A lot of Central Americans in agriculture.”38

Managing Farms Similar to Andres Magaña Ortiz (see the introduction), a number of Latinx farmworkers shifted from picking coffee to managing farms for other owners. Juanita also noted the opportunities where some of her Mexican counterparts found work managing other coffee farms. She remarked, I have hundreds of customers, Filipinos and Mexicans, from Honduras, from Panama. It gives them opportunity. If they come from México and they happened to work in the biggest big company and that’s where they were often introduce[d] themselves and they know people. So by now they say, “Oh this farmer here, my friend who owns a farm, needs to take over the farm, can you do this?” So while working here, they have their own farm to take care of ! My co-­workers who are

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Mexican, they [are] tending probably five or six coffee farms. And they come here and bring the coffee, and then I roast it. They are moving up!39

In addition to managing farms, some Latinxs also come with coffee experience from their home countries. Gloria commented, “Working on that farm, I interacted with quite a few Latinos, some from Panama, Costa Rica, Colombia, Peru. . . . All were well educated in a crop that is grown all over the world and that they were very familiar with. So they come here and they actually will help educate some of the growers who are new to it, like these generation gaps that are filling the void up, who didn’t know what their grandparents did, and they want to take it over. Or they come and they resolve the issues of maintaining farms that are no longer maintained.”40 As more Latinxs moved on to managing farms, the changing workforce also demonstrated that Latinxs were not the only farmworkers in both coffee and macadamia nuts. Gloria, for example, commented, “I think the farming community as a whole in Kona is very dependent on not only the Latinos but a lot of Polynesians. Micronesians, Marshallese. They do all of the picking. Like I said, they come seasonally, so it’s not only Latinos.”41 As a farmer of both Kona coffee and macadamia nuts, Tony Dias remarked on the importance of Latinx workers in both industries: “They contribute so much to the coffee industry. They’re all our main pickers and the nuts and everything else.”42 Tony also noted the extent of the Latinx workforce in coffee and macadamia nuts: “I think on the mac nuts and the coffee, you’ve got more Latinos than anybody else. I cannot put a number on it but know they must have more.” Tony’s wife, Chikis, also responded, “The mac nut is where a lot of Filipinos used to work, before the Mexicans came.” Tony continued, “Right now we’re getting more Marshallese.”43 As Tony’s comment suggests, demographic shifts are occurring among the farmworkers. This has also enabled other Latinxs to either transition to or enter as first-­time owners of their own coffee farms.

Owning Farms Latinx-­owned farms have also been increasing on Hawaiʻi Island. Victoria Magaña Ledesma, for example, manages their family farm, since her father, Andres, had to voluntarily leave Hawaiʻi due to his undocumented status (see the introduction). Their operations at El Molinito (the mill), include a coffee mill, their farm, and a number of other farms they continue to manage. She shared what her father accomplished before he left Hawaiʻi: “When they came, my dad and my mom picked coffee for a lot of years. He was doing well because he worked for this company called Koa Coffee Plantation, and so he was the manager of the farm. He was always outside. He was the guy who took care of the farms. That’s when my dad started doing that, and he started making money. He slowly started building his mill. That was the thing. He wanted to have a

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coffee mill.” Victoria also shared how her father expanded his business: “My dad bought a lot of coffee from small farmers. And he maintained the farms for a lot of people too. All he did was run around in his blue truck and just go look at the farms and see what they needed, order the stuff. My dad was very proactive. He wasn’t just there, ‘We’re gonna make your farm produce. We need this. Your trees need to be cut down here. This needs to happen there. Do you wanna pay irrigation?’ He was always very proactive with his farms he managed for the people.”44 Despite her father’s absence, Victoria continues to run the family business, utilizing her degrees in sociology and business administration from the University of Hawaiʻi in 2018 to make sure her father’s hard work and dreams continue to be realized. In addition to Victoria managing the coffee operations that she and her father own, other Latinxs also own their own farms. For example, Armando and Karina Rodriguez are the owners of Casa Blanca Farms. They sell 100 percent Kona coffee under their label, King’s Cup. Armando is originally from Sonora, México, but grew up in Phoenix, Arizona. He’s been going back and forth to Hawaiʻi Island for over twenty years but in 2013 made the permanent move with Karina and their family. Armando owned a construction company in Phoenix but is a coffee farmer and landscaper on Hawaiʻi Island. Armando experienced a lot of racism in Phoenix, and life was too fast for him there. He wanted a slower pace of life, so he moved to Hawaiʻi.45 Karina is from Barahona, Dominican Republic. She originally came to start selling Mexican food as part of their new business venture. This business did not work out as expected, which is when Armando and Karina got into the coffee business. Armando shared his experience in and introduction to the coffee industry in Hawaiʻi: “I wanted something different [from construction work], so we were gonna sell Mexican food. I had never done that, so I tried it for three months. Didn’t like it, so I started doing landscaping. That’s the easiest thing to do here. Then I met a coffee farmer from down in Kāʻu called Alfredo Miranda. They have a little coffee farm, and he told me I should start planting coffee. I started doing that, and I met Rainoldo, and he’s been one of the inspirations for me. He doesn’t like the attention, but he helps a lot of Latinos.”46 Karina also shared how their coffee business took root after they met the Miranda couple, Fred and Matilda. They encouraged Armando to go into the coffee business, since Kona coffee was becoming more lucrative and a good way to make a living. Karina commented, “Armando followed their advice, and even at the beginning, Alfredo gave Armando the keiki [baby] coffee trees for free, just to help him out. And that’s something that you don’t find in the mainland easily. It’s true that everywhere there is racism and discrimination, but as Arturo [Ballar Ortiz] said, it also depends on our actions. There’s people always willing to help out.”47 During my visit with Armando and Karina, I also was able to meet with Arturo Ballar Ortiz. Originally from Costa Rica, Arturo is known by others as the “coffee guru.” He comes from a long line of coffee family farmers (fifth

FIGURE 18.   Armando and Karina Rodriguez, owners of Aloha Star Coffee Farms, Captain

Cook, South Kona District. Their farm also has a macadamia nut orchard. Photo circa December 2020. See http://​www​.alohastarcoffee​.com. Photo courtesy of Armando and Karina Rodriguez.

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generation). He is a soil biologist and a coffee expert and consultant, and he owns a coffee farm in Hōnaunau. His coffee farm is called El Cafetal (the coffee farm), and his coffee business is called Generations Kona Coffee. Arturo also has a coffee consulting company called Biosoils Hawaiʻi. For both Armando and Arturo, starting their own coffee farms was not easy at first, particularly since they are located in a largely local area. Armando described his experience: “We bought a farm down here back 2007, November. I bought a couple cows because my dad’s always been a rancher, and he’s always wanted cows. So somebody came along and shot them just to kill them. Didn’t take the meat or nothing. We had trouble with the police. They wouldn’t do anything. We went all the way to the mayor.”48 Although the incident remained unresolved, Armando still felt that at least his complaint was heard. Arturo also shared his initial experience when he first started. He recalled some problems with a group of locals who were stealing from and vandalizing his farm. To his frustration, the police did not do anything about it. The incident intensified to the point that he felt threatened.49 Reflecting on that incident with the leader of the men who were harassing him and his decision to be open and welcoming to defuse the situation, Arturo also shared with the men that he knew other locals in the area who could vouch for him, which not only helped his situation but more so demonstrated he was already being accepted by their neighbors. Arturo showed no animosity for what happened but rather saw it as an opportunity to connect and find common ground with his local neighbors and show them he came with respect and love for his new home. He did this by listening to the locals, inviting them to his farm, and showing them that he meant no harm to the land but rather took care of it while making a living for him and his family. Arturo remarked that after the incident and reconciliation, he no longer had any issues.50 One of the things Armando, Karina, and Arturo mentioned was how they were helped by others in the Latinx community. Arturo, for example, described how when he first came to Hawaiʻi, it was the Mexican community that helped him out, which he appreciated, since he was a recent arrival and didn’t know that many people. All three mentioned Rainoldo Cancino, who also assisted them when they first started to grow coffee. Being a coffee grower, as my interviewees noted, took a lot of work to maintain. Karina, for example, shared the challenges of working their new business: We get up at 4:30 in the morning almost every day. Armando sometimes works seven days a week in the farm. And I work here at the house helping him, developing the website, learning about marketing and strategy. How to market our coffee brand. Homeschooling our son. And trying to learn something new, different ways to do things better and working hard. Because the key is that if we had a goal, a target, we need to keep working on that. It’s going to be challenges and inconveniences, but if we give up, then nothing is going to be achieved.51

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Armando and Arturo also continued to seek ways to improve their businesses and in turn help the larger Kona coffee industry. However, their vision was not always met with the support they hoped for. As just two of a few Latino members who are farm owners and members of the Kona Coffee Farmers Association, Armando discussed some of his frustration with the resistance he and Arturo faced from their peers when they shared their ideas for the future of the Kona coffee industry. As Armando commented, “We’re asking for different varieties [of coffee beans]. . . . We’re afraid of rust. But these people are fighting that it’s gonna change the taste of Kona coffee.”52 Armando knew the dangers of having just one variety of coffee, which would leave it susceptible to disease, such as coffee leaf rust, which according to the State of Hawaiʻi Department of Agriculture and local news reports, had reached Hawaiʻi in October 2020.53 In order to address this issue, Arturo has also been involved in assisting other coffee farmers in the “prevention over cure” of rust by testing their soils in order to prepare the coffee trees to survive the rust infections.54 As to the issue of introducing new coffee varieties, Armando also commented, But I think other varieties are improving because other varieties are winning the contest. Like Asia, they’re first place in most of the coffee contests. All over the world, they’re planting different varieties. The variety they’re using now, they’ve been using for 150 to 200 years because that’s the only variety that was available. The world has to change, and they have to change with it. There’s me and him [Arturo] and this guy Gino, we’re the ones that are kind of outspoken. For a while, I thought that they were gonna throw us out. But now we’re getting more support because we’re talking about the rust. Karina is from the Dominican Republic, and they got hit with the rust. It’s a fungus that kills the coffee. So I think it’s gonna come here one day, and we have to prepare for it.55

Arturo shared his thoughts on the future of Kona coffee in Hawaiʻi as it pertains to introducing new varieties from Latin America that are rust resistant. He commented that it provided “the opportunity to offer new products, so it [the Kona coffee industry] is going to evolve.”56 When asked about the number of Latino coffee farmers on Hawaiʻi Island, Armando commented, “We’re not the only Latinos. There’s probably one hundred Latino coffee farmers. I think we’re the first ones that are on the board [Kona Coffee Farmers Association], trying to do a little bit more thinking than most of the workers. They are just hands. But they [employers] don’t know that we have a brain too. So I think we’re one of the first that are thinking like that. I don’t know a whole lot about coffee. He [Arturo] knows a whole lot about coffee, and he’s a blessing. We should take advantage.”57 Karina followed up to provide additional information. She noted there were about fifteen to twenty key players that were Latino-­owned coffee farms. Some even had their own mills. Arturo noted that most of the Latino farmers, however, managed other coffee

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farms and that Latinos made up the vast majority of laborers (he estimated 90 to 95 percent on Hawaiʻi Island). He observed, “So they [the Kona coffee industry] really depend on Latinos.”58 As a coffee grower, Rainoldo is also committed to seeing the expansion of his operations. Rainoldo commented that in addition to his coffee farms and mills, he is also expanding into the roasting business, buying coffee from other farmers and selling it along with his to different brokers, who then sell the products under their own labels. At the time of the interview, Rainoldo shared that he had processed about three million pounds of coffee cherry in one season.59 Other coffee growers I met also sell to other companies. For example, Tony Dias is the owner of Dias Produce, a Kona coffee and macadamia nut farm in Kailua-­ Kona. As the lead trustee of his family trust and farm operations, Tony noted that he has sold his macadamia nuts to Hawaiian Host and his coffee beans to the Captain Cook Coffee label.60 These Latinx coffee growers are helping shape the diversity and future of Kona coffee. Kona is not the only region on Hawaiʻi Island that produces coffee. The Kāʻu region is also becoming famous for its coffee, particularly among Latinx coffee growers. Juanita, for example, observed the following: “And now I have a lot of friends who are Latinos who have their own farm. And they are selling their own coffee. I have Latinos here that roast coffee from Kāʻu.” As a master roaster, she has coffee farmers who also go to her to have their coffee roasted. She shared, “Every Saturday at the [Oceanview] swap meet, they’re selling their own coffee label. I talk to them because they’re my customers. They come here [Greenwell] and I roast their coffee.”61 One example of a Latinx-­owned coffee label is Miranda’s Farms Kāʻu coffee, a Salvadoran family-­owned coffee label from Kāʻu, which was established in 2006.62

Impact of Latinx Workers on the Kona Coffee Industry When talking story with my interviewees and gathering additional testimonies on the impact Latinxs have had on the Kona coffee industry, all of them agreed that the Latinx contributions are invaluable.63 In fact, the industry could not have survived or even expanded the way it has without their participation. This is also true of their participation in macadamia nuts. Rainoldo, for example, provided some perspective on the increasing impact Latinxs have had on the Kona coffee industry over time: I don’t know how many Latinos own their own farm, but it’s starting to be more every year. They are definitely growing more every year by starting to do what I did, which was leasing farms from other farmers. The opportunity to lease a farm arises from local farmers who want to retire off the farms and their children and relatives who do not continue farming. When there is no one to take care of the farm, the farm is recommended to us. Over the past decades, more Latinos have

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been engaging in the farm labor, such as pruning, picking, spraying, planting, et cetera. Many farmers are now Latinos.64

Rainoldo also noted that because Latinxs in the Kona coffee industry participate in every stage of coffee production, they have more involvement in coffee farming in Hawaiʻi, which has allowed them to become growers themselves. Angela also mentioned the vital role that Latinxs in Hawaiʻi have in the Kona coffee industry: If the Mexicans or los Latinos are not picking our coffee, you can kiss Kona coffee goodbye. No joke. That is something that I don’t think a lot of people see, and that’s why I get so defensive and so upset with the comments and everything. Because these folks work. I mean, they work from five o’clock in the morning, they’re picking coffee until 6–­7 p.m. And they work all day just to pick their three bags of coffee, one hundred–­pound coffee bags. Or they pick seven, depending how good of a picker you are. But you will not see a local picking coffee. You will not see a white person picking coffee. There’s a few Filipinos, and well, my mom’s neighbors across the street. Their whole family picks coffee, but you’re not going to see our locals picking coffee. No way.65

Armando shared his observation about the impact Latinx labor has had on the Kona coffee industry in Hawaiʻi: “Without us, the coffee would rot in the ground. They need us, and we just need to start to change a little bit. We also have a brain, and we can think. We just need to unite more Latinos and get the respect and appreciation that we deserve. Without us, the Kona coffee would have died out a long time ago.”66 As someone who has been a leader and well-­ respected member of the Kona coffee industry, Rainoldo had similar views on the impact Latinxs have made: “Well, without the participation of Latinos, this industry won’t survive. I may be the largest Latino coffee bean processor in the Kona coffee industry. But I tell you that a great percentage of the coffee gets harvested by Latinos. I believe Hawaiʻi has grown significantly in the amount of acres in coffee production from the first time I remember being in Hawaiʻi. When I first came here to Hawaiʻi, there were very few farms [each approximately five acres or fewer] with planted coffee. Since then, more and larger coffee farms have been opened. It has truly grown a lot.”67 Angela provides another perspective to this story, which is the near invisibility of the workers despite their impact. She observed, I think it’s because they [the general public] don’t see it. Not many folks see that. You can drive on Holualoa during coffee season, and you won’t even notice that there’s folks picking until you drive up the road, and then you’ll see all the bags of coffee, and you’ll see everybody’s hats, and you’ll see everybody up in the fields. It’s out of the city where traffic is and where everybody is coming through. Holualoa

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is up in the mountains, so I don’t think folks really realize. I don’t think the locals realize how large of a Hispanic population we actually have here until there’s Hispanic cultural month or something or a Mexican party [laughs].68

Exploitation of the Workforce Despite the impact Latinxs have had on the Kona coffee industry and what appears to be a good working relationship between farm owners and farmworkers, not all employers treated their workers well. In fact, some farmers even took advantage of their workers. They were known to withhold wages, provide poor living and working conditions, deny medical attention if workers got injured, and even hold their legal documents to keep workers from leaving their farms. Angela also recounted how some growers handled physical injuries on their farms, particularly when they involved undocumented workers. She shared, “There are a few. It’s really unfortunate. I don’t know how they [businesses] slide their way out of situations. One guy got his finger chopped off trimming hedges, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do for him. What did he [the grower] do? He paid him off. Gave him $10,000. The guy lost his frickin’ finger. Just paid him off. They didn’t provide insurance for him or cover his medical expenses. They just paid him off. There are about three individuals that I have come across so far that have lost fingers while performing work.”69 The 2016 Farm Worker Needs Assessment Report by the Legal Aid Society of Hawaiʻi also found that “workers are generally reluctant to raise these issues [being sick or injured on the job] with employers for fear of losing their jobs . . . many farm work related injuries or illnesses may go unreported due to farm workers’ fear of being retaliated against, losing their jobs, or being deported.”70 Not all growers operated in the same manner. Angela also worked with some coffee growers for years who took care of their workers and treated them with dignity. She helped interpret for workers and even intervened on their behalf in those moments when they felt they were being taken advantage of. She was also able to get some growers, like Greenwell Farms, to provide contracts and other paper work in Spanish for Latinx workers. A former co-­worker of Angela, Claudia Hartz, was also involved in assisting with the translation of labor contracts and general rules for workers.71 When coffee farms were short on coffee workers, Angela also helped pick coffee. She noted the special skills needed to care for and harvest the crop and how grueling this work can be for the farmworkers: “They pick coffee under all the elements (rain or shine), they strip the trees, prune the trees, they plant the coffee trees. That’s hard work. Planting seedlings is like sticking your fingers in fricking gravel all day long. It’s literally bags of gravel that you’re poking your fingers in and planting these little trees. Processing. They carry 125-­to 150-­pound bags of coffee and take them to the purchaser, where coffee is weighed, washed, pulped, and then dried. After that,

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it gets roasted. I mean, they do everything. They’re not just picking coffee.”72 This knowledge inspired Angela to continue to work on behalf of the Latinx farmworkers and ensure that they would be treated fairly and with dignity. As Kona coffee continued to experience fluctuating growth and profits over the twentieth century and into the twenty-­first, the ability to acquire labor was essential for sustained growth and success. This was possible with the labor of Latinx migrants and an increasing growth of Latinx coffee farm owners who have continued to take the Kona coffee industry into a profitable period. Their participation, although not fully recognized today, has been instrumental to the continued prosperity and expansion of the Kona coffee industry. These Latinx workers and growers, along with the previous generations of other family farm growers, have been responsible for the legacy that is Kona coffee and the continued resilience that has kept this valuable crop alive and thriving. As Kinro remarks, “It has been Aloha—­love for the land and the coffee—­that kept Kona coffee going.”73 This aloha is something that coffee workers also wanted the general public to be mindful of given their treatment and near invisibility. For example, Luis Magaña noted the blissful ignorance of the process to get coffee into the hands of consumers, who are not aware of the vital role Latinxs, locals, and other immigrant groups play in this product despite their mistreatment. He remarked, “To think before they eat, where it’s coming from, who is harvesting it? When they drink a cup of coffee, who picked it so they can have it? Who processed it? Not just machinery. To operate the machinery, there has to be somebody there.”74 Indeed, his reflection was a sobering reminder about the history, contributions, and impact of Latinx workers in the Kona coffee and, more recently, the Kāʻu coffee industry. Despite the opportunity for growth in the coffee industry, some coffee workers wanted to pursue another path. Working in coffee is hard work that requires not just seasonal but also full-­time laborers. For seasonal migrant workers and some who ended up living in Hawaiʻi permanently, picking coffee was their only option. As a number of my interviewees noted, for the Latinxs who decided to stay in Hawaiʻi, or for migrant farmworkers who were in the off-­season of coffee work, many of them pursued other professions, including construction, landscaping, rock wall building, service work, cleaning services, and their own businesses, such as Latin American–­themed restaurants and markets.75 These other pursuits ensured that the Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi would continue to grow and be a part of their newly adopted home.

Latinx Migration in the 2000s The Latinx population in Hawaiʻi continued to grow in the twenty-­first century. Currently, Latinxs compose 16 percent of the total U.S. population, increasing in size by 43 percent between 2000 and 2010. This growth was four times that of the total population, which was 10 percent. This demographic shift is being

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felt in states that have large Latinx populations. In 2014, for example, Latinxs surpassed whites as the largest racial/ethnic group in California. They were the second state to do so, following New Mexico in 2003.76 The Latinx population of Hawaiʻi also witnessed an increase. By 2010, the Latinxs numbered 120,842, or 9.7 percent of the total population. This was an increase from 2000, when Latinxs accounted for 7 percent of Hawaiʻi’s population with a total of 87,699. Of those, 19,820 were of Mexican descent, making them the second-­ largest Latinx group behind Puerto Ricans.77 Recent Census data estimates show the Latinx population now at 138,923, a 15 percent increase from 2010.78 The increase in Latinx immigration to Hawaiʻi and in particular Mexicans and Central Americans alarmed conservatives in the state who feared an uncontrolled undocumented population. According to a report by the Pew Hispanic Center in 2008, undocumented immigrants made up 4  percent of Hawaiʻi’s workforce—­approximately 25,000 people.79 The undocumented Mexican population was estimated at 4,000, or 10  percent of the 40,000 undocumented migrants living in Hawaiʻi as of 2005. This was an increase from 2000, when the overall undocumented population was estimated at 25,000, and 1990, at 5,000. The report also indicated that the largest industries undocumented workers labored in were farming, building, and groundskeeping, maintenance/cleaning, construction, and food service.80 Statistics from the Migration Policy Institute in 2019 showed that there were an estimated 51,000 unauthorized immigrants in Hawaiʻi. Of that number, Mexicans and Central Americans accounted for 6 percent of the total with 3,000. The largest undocumented immigrant groups by countries of birth were from the Philippines (23,000), Micronesia (9,000), and China / Hong Kong (3,000).81 Although the number of undocumented immigrants in Hawaiʻi is small in comparison to the total state population, the economic recession of 2007–­2009, the constant media airtime devoted to undocumented immigrants, and the politics around border security in turn fueled immigration policies and law enforcement practices that mimicked the racial profiling, arrests, and harassment occurring in Arizona, Ohio, and other continental U.S. states. As a result of the growing economic insecurity, fear, and the perceived threat of the undocumented Latinx population, Hawaiʻi’s local newspapers regularly reported on a series of high-­profile immigration raids by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). These raids occurred on farms, construction sites, homes, and service-­ related locations on the islands of Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi, and Maui between 2007 and 2008. As Jeanne Batalova, Monisha Das Gupta, and Sue Patricia Haglund note in their report Newcomers to the Aloha State, these high-­profile raids at worksites and residential homes and what they noted as the “arrests and apprehensions of pedestrians, drivers, and even passengers who ‘look’ Mexican” not only traumatized the Latinx communities in Hawaiʻi but also exposed the undocumented population and influenced public sentiment toward them in ways that were not welcoming because the narrative around their presence signaled a threat.82

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The Latino Threat to Hawaiʻi’s Racial Paradise Racism and an unwarranted fear toward Mexicans and the larger Latinx population are not new phenomena. It has been an ever-­present narrative in the continental United States since the U.S.-­Mexican War of 1846–­1848. Although this same sort of racial animosity and fear has also existed in Hawaiʻi since the early 1900s, it did not become a major issue until the mid-­1990s and well into the 2000s as spikes in the growth of the Latinx population occurred. These events also occurred at a time when immigration policies were becoming more draconian and the rhetoric of fear around Black and brown immigrants, documented and undocumented, meant they were seen as terrorist threats. This leads to the notion that the Latinx population is not part of Hawaiʻi’s multiethnic fabric despite their historical presence since the 1830s.83 Rather, their recent migrations are seen as part of this larger “Latino Threat Narrative” now surfacing in Hawaiʻi, which anthropologist Leo Chavez has documented extensively in the continental United States. It is a phenomenon that other scholars, such as Yalidy Matos and Beth Caldwell, also point to when looking at the ways the U.S. government has worked to criminalize and marginalize Latinx communities.84 According to Chavez, the Latino Threat Narrative assumes that “Latinos are unwilling or incapable of integrating, or becoming part of the national community. Rather, they are seemingly part of an invading force from south of the border that is bent on reconquering land that was formerly theirs—­the US Southwest—­and destroying the American way of life.”85 Regarding Mexicans, Chavez further notes, “Mexicans in particular have been represented as the quintessential ‘illegal aliens,’ which distinguishes them from other immigrant groups. Their social identity has been plagued by the mark of illegality, which in much public discourse means that they are criminals and thus illegitimate members of society undeserving of social benefits, including citizenship.”86 Chavez also points out that although Mexican immigrants and U.S.-­born residents, including those who identify as Chicanx, are the focus of the Latino Threat Narrative, those from other Latinx groups (immigrant and U.S. born) also feel the impact of this narrative.87 This narrative continues to be promoted constantly by the media, writers, scholars, pundits, and politicians who shape the racialized social imaginaries of the Latinx population. What makes it so powerful, as Chavez notes, is that it is “so pervasive precisely because its basic premises are taken for granted as true. In this narrative, Latinos, whether immigrant or US-­born, are a homogeneous population that somehow stands apart from the normal processes of historical change.”88 Legal scholar Beth Caldwell also observed the impact of these racial tropes through popular discourse: “Language informs subconscious beliefs, and labels applied to immigrants shape how people are treated.”89 For locals and other residents of Hawaiʻi, this Latino Threat Narrative influences their public perception of their Latinx counterparts. For example, those

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who are undocumented are marked with criminality in Hawaiʻi without an understanding of the larger sociohistorical, political, and economic forces that have brought workers to cross continental borders and Hawaiian shores. Indeed, the trope of a Mexican invasion was part of U.S. political fearmongering following the U.S. war of aggression against México in 1846–­1848, during the Mexican Revolution of 1910–­1930, and resurfacing with greater intensity during the recession of the 1970s and again in the 1990s as a result of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).90 This was further exacerbated by the fear of terrorism on U.S. soil and increased militarization and surveillance of the border, which took center stage in the 2000s during the post-­9/11 era. This reinforces what American studies scholar Camilla Fojas calls the “borderveillance” of the immigration regime that continues to see Latinxs as a threat and justifies the use of surveillance, racial profiling, and deportation as tools to discourage migration. As political scientist Yalidy Matos also notes, “Ultimately, the conflation of immigration and national security through discourse masks ‘a slippage between racism and patriotism.’”91 The recent yet steadily increasing images and negative portrayals that primarily targeted Mexicans in Hawaiʻi’s news media during the 2000s—­the Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, Maui News, and the Honolulu Advertiser, among others—­have portrayed these populations as being undocumented and, by default, involved in other criminal activities. Through these portrayals as social parasites, larger anti-­Latinx discourses closely resemble those found in the continental United States. These stereotypes in Hawaiʻi not only have portrayed the larger Latinx community in a negative manner but, more so, have led to people overlooking the significant sociohistorical, cultural, and economic contributions Mexicans and the larger Latinx population have made to Hawaiʻi, which many now consider their home.92 These racialized tropes, I suggest, are manifested through federal and state immigration practices and racial baggage brought over primarily by what political scientist Alfonso Gonzales would call “the modern nativist Right,” including white American settler colonial transplants and military personnel as well as nonwhites who subscribe to and have internalized white supremacist racial ideologies. In addition, the impact of news media and others who peddle these tropes influences how the larger local population in Hawaiʻi views them regardless of citizenship status and despite the fact that recent studies show that 86 percent of the Mexican population in Hawaiʻi, for example, is actually U.S. born.93 As such, the discourse over their status as well as their place in Hawaiʻi has steadily become determined by the need for cheap labor in the agricultural, construction, and service industries and the state’s economic (in)security. Indeed, as early as the 1990s, Shinseki noted how his own interviewees saw haoles as a big part of the racial tensions in Hawaiʻi. For example, one of his interviewees, Juan Lugo, noted that “the hard-­core prejudicial ones were . . . the haoles from the mainland.” Shinseki went on to remark, “Lugo believes that

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haoles would bring their prejudices of Mexicans from the mainland United States and would ‘want to poison the local mentality by saying, Well, over there all the Mexicans that we know, for example, all they do is work in the fields and breed children.’”94 Other racist ideas that have made their way from the continental United States to Hawaiʻi include the idea that Mexicans are taking jobs way from people (despite the fact that many of those jobs are usually the ones locals do not want to do, like picking coffee).95 This has led some locals to resort to violence against Latinx migrants. For example, Javier Méndez, who is from Michoacán, shared an incident: “A un muchacho en Holualoa, lo asaltaron nomás porque oyeron que habló español.” (They [locals] assaulted one guy in Holualoa just because they heard him speak Spanish.)96 There were also other Latinx residents in Hawaiʻi who made it clear that these racist actions were unacceptable and that they would make their voices heard. For example, when interviewing Martha Sánchez Romero, owner of Mercado De La Raza (The People’s Market), I noticed she had a sign painted on her store window that said “Boycott Arizona” and a cancel sign over the word “SB 1070.” This was in regard to the racial profiling and terrorizing of the Latinx community with the draconian law SB 1070. When I asked Martha about her window sign and what prompted her to have it, she remarked that as a self-­identifying Mexican, she was upset with how the Mexicans and other Latinxs were being treated in Arizona. She recalled, Yeah, that was the biggest concern, that’s the reason I had that poster for Arizona. That’s why I had so many calls. And the funny thing is, none of the local people called us. It was mainly people from the mainland, especially from the military: “Get the hell out of here. Who are you to put that in your market? I’m gonna stop coming to your market.” I would tell them, “Well, that’s your choice. It’s a free country. You can do that, yeah. I have a right to go back there; you have the right not to come to my store.”97

When I asked who was calling and harassing her, she answered, No, no, just people from the mainland. I can tell because a lot of the people have their own accent. It’s different. Some customers will say, “Good for you, I’m glad.” But a lot of people who I knew, they were not even my customers. “Oh, I’m not coming into your store because you really say F this and F that.” I would tell him, “You know, I’m the owner, that’s why I put up the sign. I’m the owner. I have the right. . . . But don’t tell me what not to do. I know my rights. This is why I came to this country, because I know I have rights.” . . . And then, you know, they were not local. None of them were local. That was the thing.98

Martha made it clear that those who held those beliefs and tried to intimidate her were not locals but rather continental U.S. transplants and those in

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FIGURE 19.   Mercado De La Raza Latin American Market, Honolulu, Oʻahu. Owned and oper-

ated by Martha Sánchez Romero and her son Reynaldo Minn. The Mercado De La Raza was established in 1994. It remains one of the largest and longest-­operating Latinx markets in Hawaiʻi. Photo provided by author, circa August 2013.

the military, which illustrates the ways racial ideologies imported by outsiders continue to fester in Hawaiʻi and poison the public perception of Latinxs. Martha’s observation also demonstrates what historian John Rosa has observed about the ongoing white racial ideology that was carried over to Hawaiʻi by white settlers and transplants. As Rosa notes, “A language of white dominance, brought by the planters in the nineteenth century, meshed well with the sentiments of southern military personnel who came to Hawaiʻi during the 1920s and 1930s.”99 Martha’s experience illuminates how these ideologies continue to persist in Hawaiʻi. Martha’s resolve in standing up for her beliefs, however, regardless of whether she might lose customers, demonstrates the resistance that she and other Latinxs in Hawaiʻi have participated in through demonstrations or individual acts to ensure that those who held racist beliefs about them would not go unchallenged. As this example also reveals, the increasing animosity toward those of Mexican descent demonstrates that even in Hawaiʻi, the debate and fear over Latinx migration in the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries—­particularly toward the undocumented—­can challenge even one of the most diverse places in the United States, where racial and ethnic inclusivity was thought to be the norm. But as a recent article in National Geographic noted, that is not necessarily the case for Latinxs and other racialized groups in Hawaiʻi.100 This was further demonstrated by the increasing presence of ICE and their harassment of the Latinx

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communities and a highly publicized incident that occurred on the island of Oʻahu, which served to only fuel this tension between locals and their Latinx counterparts.

Racism in Local Politics: The Tam Incident Growing racism toward Mexicans and other Latinxs was not solely confined to Hawaiʻi Island or Maui. An incident occurred that was an important turning point not just for the Latinx communities of Oʻahu but for the entire state of Hawaiʻi. Known as the Tam incident, the events during and after were part of a pivotal moment for the Latinx population for several reasons and require some attention. First, it was a defining moment that brought together the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi and other non-­Latinx groups that supported them. Second, it revealed the underlying racism and xenophobia that exist in Hawaiʻi and how these are intimately tied to continental U.S. racial ideologies that are being reproduced on the islands. Finally, it enabled the Latinx population to come together and advocate for themselves in ways not done so before. This incident made headlines not only in Hawaiʻi but nationally among the ethnic community newspapers in the continental United States.101 On May 13, 2008, Honolulu city councilman Rod Tam—­a Chinese American—­ used the term wetbacks twice during a city zoning meeting when calling attention to undocumented Mexican migrants working at the then proposed University of Hawaiʻi West Oʻahu campus. Tam stated nonchalantly, “The concern from [labor unions] is basically they [the developers’ workers] have to be skilled, licensed workers. We don’t want any, uh, wetbacks basically . . . OK. We’ve been receiving [reports about] developers or contractors been bringing in wetbacks from New Mexico, uh, Mexico. I’m sorry.”102 Tam’s use of the word wetback at a public meeting ignited a media firestorm as well as outrage and protests by the Latinx community. They saw his use of a racial slur as not just a Mexican issue but one that affected the whole Latinx community.103 Two key individuals who brought this incident into the spotlight were Marie and José Villa, who were Latin Business Hawaii (Hispanic Chamber of Commerce) members and owners of the Hawaii Hispanic News. According to Hawaii Hispanic News, Marie and José Villa were at Soul de Cuba restaurant when Leila Fujimori, a reporter from the Advertiser, called José for a comment regarding Tam’s racist remarks. José recalled, “She said, ‘Hey, what do you think about what the city councilman said about Mexicans?’ I said, ‘What did he say?’ She replied, ‘Well, he called them wetbacks.’ That led [to] Marie and I speaking to the Hispanic community. They [the community] said, ‘We’ve gotta do something.’” They decided to protest at Honolulu Hale (City Hall).104 Marie soon became the main voice for the Latinx community, speaking to reporters and doing interviews. As José recalled, “This put Latinos on the map. It was the first [Latino] protest in the state. We put people on notice that there is a Hispanic community [in Hawaiʻi].”105

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After their comments made local news in the Honolulu Advertiser and Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, José noted that they were asked to go testify at the city council meeting as part of an official reprimand of Tam that included a censure resolution. José recalled, “We explained our side of the issue, and they [councilmembers] asked, ‘Well, what do you think we should do?’ And I said, ‘Well, he should come to our community and apologize. That’s what he needs to do. That’s the way it’s done in the Hispanic community.’”106 José reported that not only did Tam laugh at the suggestion, but he dismissed their request and stated with disdain that he would not come to the community to apologize yet had the nerve to ask for Latino support for his community center project.107 Marie and José Villa followed up by organizing a demonstration on June 12, 2008, at Honolulu Hale. According to José, demonstrators who came out represented a wide range of supporters, including Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Panamanians, Cubans, Argentineans, and Dominicans, among others, as well as Native Hawaiians, locals, African Americans (including representatives from the NAACP), and some haoles. Protestors also represented a wide range of people from all walks of life.108 José remarked, “What happened was every major news station came out because of this protest. So the newspapers recorded it.”109 News of the demonstration also made its way to Latinx and other ethnic community newspapers in the continental United States and Hawaiʻi, such as La Prensa San Diego and the Hawaii Filipino Chronicle.110 In response to Councilman Tam’s racist remarks, Marie responded during interviews, “Being born in Mexico, I found that derogatory remark insulting.”111 Appalled by Tam’s comment—­and more so by the local media’s lack of coverage of the incident—­Marie Villa criticized the media for letting this story go unreported for three weeks.112 The Latinx community demanded that Tam also be removed as chairman of the Zoning Committee. In response to his public relations debacle, Councilman Tam issued an unconvincing, halfhearted apology stating that he had no idea that the term was a racial slur used toward Mexicans. He backpedaled, stating, “Over here in Hawaii, we’re so liberal we don’t think in the same terms of the mainland. People look at it different. I learned something, and I apologize if I offended anybody.”113 Yet as one spectator observed about his derogatory remarks at the city council meeting, Tam laughed, and “it was as if he was playing to the crowd.”114 Marie was not convinced of his sincerity. In responding to his excuse that “people interpret it differently now  .  .  . it’s a terminology used in the past,” Marie commented. “How ignorant is that? That’s an excuse, not a reason to say that. . . . As a politician, to say something like that, are we so far away from the mainland that we can get away with saying stuff like that?”115 What made his excuse and apology completely unacceptable is the fact that Tam also stated he had spent time in California and was at times mistaken for a Chicano. If that was the case, then Tam was well aware of the racial politics and implications of using a racial slur to denigrate those of Mexican ancestry.116 Rather, Councilman

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Tam’s statement suggests that by using this racial slur, he participated in reproducing the very same white supremacist racism toward Mexicans that can be found in California. Moreover, Tam’s assertion that Hawaiʻi racial politics differed from the U.S. mainland—­and could thus be perceived as “liberal”—­was a pathetic excuse to justify his racial slur about Mexicans. As the events of this incident unfolded, Marie kept her friends and colleagues informed. For example, in an email message to her colleagues, Marie shared that they testified at the Honolulu City Council to support a resolution by City Councilman Djou to officially reprimand and censure Councilman Tam “for his use of a derogatory term for Hispanics.”117 Given the responses the Villas also received, it was clear that the Latinx community was overwhelmingly in favor of censure. For example, one local Mexican resident commented, “His remark only perpetuates negative stereotypes about Hispanics.”118 As Marie shared, their lengthy discussion with other councilmembers over this incident was initially dismissive. She wrote, “Councilman Cachola asked, ‘Since Councilman Tam has already apologized publicly, can’t you do the ‘Christian thing’ and accept his apology?’” Marie responded, “In our community when a wrong of this magnitude is committed—­especially by an elected official—­the proper ‘thing’ to do is to meet with the community and apologize face-­to-­face, not through a daily newspaper or when the media cameras are rolling. . . . We invited Councilman Tam to attend a meeting with our community. He said he would not, but . . . would be happy to work with the Hispanic community in future programs and projects.”119 Marie demonstrated how as a local politician, Tam’s racial slurs and refusal to meet in person with the community to make amends revealed his lack of remorse and disrespect for the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi that was affected by his derogatory remarks. Ultimately, as Marie noted, all nine councilmembers (including Tam) agreed he should be censured. Marie also mentioned that Hawaii Hispanic News received one hundred phone calls or emails from the local Latinx community. As she remarked, “Only two [of the one hundred messages] thought our community was ‘overreacting.’ You do the math.” In addition to the local Latinx community messages, Marie shared, “We have also received letters of support from non-­Hispanics who were equally appalled by the Councilman’s remark.” These included support and outrage over Tam’s remarks from Hawaiian, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, Black, white, and other people, which demonstrated to Marie that “this is not just a ‘Hispanic thing.’ It’s a ‘people thing.’”120 In order to assist her with the aftermath of Tam’s racist remarks and their organizing efforts to address them, Marie also sought the counsel of veteran Chicano rights activist Herman Baca, president of the Committee on Chicano Rights (CCR) in National City, San Diego, to assist her with how to best deal with the situation.121 Herman recalled his conversation with Marie when she sought his advice and support:

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When she asked for help, we said, We’ll try to help get it out to the news media, in order to get it out to our community. To give it definition, like I said, to present another side. And to counter aggressively that type of proclamations or statements from so-­called public officials. The other thing was to share with her the experiences we had had over the decades, being here in San Diego. Like I told her, “The rest is up to the community that’s being affected. You’re getting the word out. Hopefully other people will initiate action that will be publicized again and a position.”122

In a letter to Marie Villa, Herman Baca and the CCR also commended her and the Latinx community of Hawaiʻi for organizing in response to Tam’s racist remarks and offered their support regarding their stance to “not tolerate any politician who facilitates or causes a Hawaii ethnic group to become the target of bigotry, racism or just plain prejudice.”123 Herman was also concerned about the silence of Hawaiʻi’s political leaders after this incident. He urged Marie and the Latinx community of Hawaiʻi to demand that the state’s political leadership publicly denounce Tam for his derogatory comments.124 Herman and the CCR sent out letters to politicians in Hawaiʻi, California, New Mexico, and Washington, D.C., condemning Tam for his racial slurs against Mexicans. These included, for example, members of the California Latino Legislative Caucus, then senator and presidential candidate Barack Obama, Senators Daniel Inouye and Daniel Kahikina Akaka of Hawaiʻi, and Hawaiʻi governor Linda Lingle, informing them of the incident and requesting that they also publicly condemn and denounce Tam’s racist remarks. As he noted in his letters, “It appears that the race baiting, xenophobia, and nativist Mexican bashing, witnessed in the U.S., and especially in California has now crossed the Pacific Ocean into Hawaiʻi.”125 Herman was aware that the racist ideology that white supremacy weaponized against Mexicans and other Latinx groups in the continental United States had also reached Hawaiʻi and made its way into local politics and race relations.126 The CCR also notified local news media in California as well as the National Council of La Raza, making sure this incident would be known outside of Hawaiʻi. The lack of support from local and state politicians was disappointing, which was addressed by Hawaii Hispanic News. José reported, “They are our representatives too. They come to our community every two years when they need campaign workers, sign waivers, or votes. But on this issue, the only time the Hispanic community has taken a public stand, where are our representatives when we need their support?”127 This lack of any tangible support from public officials demonstrated to the Latinx community that although they are welcomed to labor for the state and even politically support state officials through their votes, Latinxs were still in many ways a marginalized group in Hawaiʻi.

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The Tam incident was a moment that revealed the ways in which continental U.S. racism and xenophobia had made their way into local communities and politics within the context of the economic recession. This was something that was not lost on individuals like the Villas, who remarked, “We understand the fragility of Hawaii’s island economy and do not condone employers bringing undocumented workers here to lower their job costs in Hawaii. That was not our community issue. . . . Our issue was with [the] Councilman’s use of the racial slur and lack of an official government response other than the meaningless slap-­on-­the-­wrist, in-­house censure resolution.”128 Not only did Tam’s debacle expose his own racial prejudice (whether he wanted to admit it or not), but his blunder called attention to the underlying racism and tensions that existed in Hawaiʻi. This incident also set in motion the coming together of the Latinx population throughout the Hawaiian Islands and, in particular, on the island of Oʻahu, where the Latinx community not only collectively joined together but were also supported by their non-­Latinx friends, family, and neighbors to denounce his words and inaction to make amends.129 Furthermore, it exposed the deep-­seated racism that others felt about Latinxs—­specifically the Mexican community. Local opinions in the papers as well as individuals from the continental United States took it upon themselves to engage in more hostile racism across the pond and expose locals to the virus that is continental U.S. racism. Although that type of racism is nothing new and just part of a long history of what it means to be Latinx in the United States regardless of how far away the state may be, a consciousness of being proud to be Latinx and invested in Hawaiʻi as home was more profound for many. This was reinforced by the aloha and support they received from their local non-­Latinx friends and neighbors. The Tam incident, however, revealed the racism that was already festering in Hawaiʻi. This event was further compounded by increasing ICE raids and deportations of Latinxs in Hawaiʻi and the ensuing trauma and fear that it produced.

ICE, Immigration Raids, and Deportations The increasing ICE raids targeting Hawaiʻi’s undocumented community—­ and the larger Latinx community, for that matter—­from 2007 to 2009 became the subject of criticism and protests by clergy members and the larger local community.130 The continued racial profiling, harassment, apprehension, and deportation of Latinx immigrants and its impact on the larger population regardless of citizenship status ushered in during the twenty-­first century under the Bush and Obama administrations expose what Chicano historian Jimmy Patiño calls “deportation regimes”—­immigration policies based on deportations, which were also tethered to the continued transnational circulation of Latinx workers.131 Despite an article in Pacific Business News in January 2010 that noted there were no reported arrests of undocumented workers in 2009, the harassment and

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trauma of the Latinx community continued. This was in part due to the Obama administration’s Secure Communities being enacted in 2010 on the islands of Oʻahu, Maui, and Hawaiʻi. As the report Newcomers to the Aloha State noted, “Secure Communities has been used to carry out the removal of many immigrants with minor criminal offenses or without any criminal convictions at all.” According to the report, the program followed a series of high-­profile raids at worksites on the islands of Oʻahu and Maui as well as traffic checkpoints and home raids, which resulted in a number of people being taken into custody simply because they did not have their proof of legal residence on them. The report noted, “The incidents that community leaders, service providers, and survey participants discussed highlighted the shared feeling of racial profiling in immigration on all three islands.”132 The issue of surveillance and deportation did not go unnoticed. While exploring this issue further, I had the opportunity to talk story with Carolina Torres Valle, a student who identifies as Peruvian, Latina, and local. At the time of our interview, Carolina was a senior at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, on the island of Oʻahu, where she is on fellowship and works as a teaching assistant. Originally from Peru, her family migrated to the continental United States and then eventually made their way to Kona on Hawaiʻi Island in 2008. When asked if immigration issues affected her or anyone she knows, Carolina commented, There’s a lot of checkpoints on Hawaiʻi Island, and in Maui there’s so many as well. My dad’s friends, a couple of them have been deported because they’ll just check their papers and then, like, immediately they say, “OK you don’t have any papers so deportation automatically.” We were working with a young man in Maui whose family was in deportation proceedings as well, but because he was able to apply for DACA [Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals], he now has his temporary Social Security card that they give them now. So at least within the youth I know there is opportunity to at least change your immigration status. But within the older group, not so much. I see them that are most affected.133

These policies only prolonged the anxiety around being undocumented, apprehended, and deported at any time, creating what sociologist Joanna Dreby calls “a culture of fear among immigrants.” This culture of fear, as she notes, causes undocumented immigrants to “withdraw from community events because of their fears of deportation.”134 This led them to stay at home, reluctant to eat out at restaurants or attend social and religious events. Others even stopped going to medical appointments and utilizing social services. This level of fear, anxiety, and distrust impacted entire families due to separation and economic and familial instability.135 This culture of fear led others to act on behalf of their undocumented neighbors. The Honolulu Advertiser, for example, published a story in April 2009 about a group of clergy from Maui and Oʻahu who organized a protest at the

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regional office of ICE in Honolulu, pointing out the aggressive measures federal ICE agents were using to apprehend undocumented residents. In Maui, for example, this included entering people’s homes without consent or search warrants and pulling people over for no reason. In September 2009, local police collaborated with ICE agents in Maui to set up traffic checkpoints, taking anyone into custody who could not show proof of legal residency.136 According to Pastor Susana Arvizu of Maui, “They’re stopping people’s cars . . . just because they look Hispanic. . . . They don’t even ask for license or insurance card. They just ask: Do you have papers? Do you have a green card?”137 Carolina also noted how it was obvious that racial profiling was the reason Latinxs were being stopped by local law enforcement: “Yeah, definitely racial profiling. I mean who else would they see and be like, ‘OK.’ They’re not gonna stop a local person and be like, ‘Show me your Social Security card.’”138 Validating Dreby’s culture of fear, Carolina also observed how it has made people scared to go out: “Personally, for our family, we don’t have to go through that anymore because we were able to change our immigration status a couple years ago. But within the community, I can see that people are not out as much as they used to be.”139 Luis also shared a personal experience with racial profiling by ICE: “Yeah, I’ve seen lots of them actually here [on Hawaiʻi Island]. . . . I’ve seen it. I’ve had immigration at gas stations ask me for my green card. Yeah, they see that [baseball] cap is on your forehead, and they’re right after you.”140 Luis’s comment demonstrated that it was not only physical features but also how a person also dressed that made them susceptible to questioning. When talking with Luis, he also observed the similarities between what happened in Arizona during SB 1070 and what is happening on Hawaiʻi Island. He commented, “So the people that get taken from here, they lose their homes, they lose their belongings, they lose their cars, they lose everything. . . . And the kids who are left behind . . . that’s what people should start thinking about now before they call immigration on somebody.”141 These testimonies prompted others to advocate on behalf of the Latinx and larger immigrant community. Rev. Milton “Stan” Bain, for example, is a retired United Methodist pastor who works as a community organizer with the organization Faith Action for Community Equity (FACE). He and his wife were missionaries in Malaysia and Borneo before coming to retire in Hawaiʻi. During their first ten years in Hawaiʻi, he was a pastor at the federated church in Lihue on the island of Kauaʻi. Rev.  Stan then went on to Kolumana (Caring Place of the Spirit) in Kailua on the island of Oʻahu. During his retirement, Stan went to Maui to be a startup organizer for FACE in 2008.142 It was then that he first began interacting with the Latinx community of Hawaiʻi. His first experience in Maui revealed the impact that immigration raids had on them. As he recalled, during their second training session, there were raids at several restaurants in Lahaina: “People were just taken off the island and didn’t have a chance to inform their children at home or their family members [of ] what

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was happening. So people were afraid to come [to the training sessions] whether they were documented or not, because of their being profiled and stuff.”143 In response, Rev. Stan noted that one of FACE’s objectives was “to make sure the public was informed [of ] what ICE was doing and with the local police. But then we began to hear about it on the Big Island. Less so here, I’d say, on Oʻahu. I don’t hear a lot from Kauaʻi. I understand there may be some of it.”144 In addition to protesting the ICE sweeps across numerous Hawaiian islands in 2008, Stan noted that FACE and clergy from other denominations also came together in 2010 to demonstrate at the Department of Homeland Security and ICE headquarters in Honolulu against Arizona’s draconian SB 1070.145 One incident during this time, however, put things in perspective for Rev. Stan as it related to the issue of Native Hawaiians and settler colonialism. The frustration of Native Hawaiians due to the growing presence of Latinxs in Hawaiʻi was something that Rev. Stan experienced during their presentation of a resolution at the state Democratic convention that would allow undocumented immigrants to obtain driver’s licenses. He shared, “Our resolution into the floor was challenged by a Hawaiian woman saying, ‘Hey, they’re illegal! Why should we be giving illegals driver’s licenses? And they’re taking our jobs.’ So our response to that was, ‘Immigrants are not the cause of lack of jobs. Instead of making scapegoats of immigrants, let’s get at the real thing. Let us try to address job creation as a party.’ Secondly, why pit one discriminated group against another? Let’s get at the real enemy, the superrich, who are holding us captive.’” Rev. Stan was informed as to the cause of the woman’s frustration and that of other Native Hawaiians who continue to be displaced because of settlers moving into their land. She remarked, “Hey, we have welcomed everybody here. Now we’re the ones who are pushed out.” Rev.  Stan’s interaction with the Kanaka Maoli woman made him realize what was at stake, which was that the Native Hawaiian voice was being lost in this issue involving immigrant rights in Hawaiʻi as their dispossession of land and rights and displacement from Hawaiʻi continued. He reflected on immigrant rights activists’ participation in being more mindful of their role in settler colonialism and being stronger advocates in support of Native Hawaiian rights.146 When asked if what they were doing made a difference in bringing greater attention to the situation of the Latinx communities in Hawaiʻi, Stan remarked on how FACE’s involvement did have an impact: “I hear that the sweeps have decreased here.”147 Although the immigration sweeps decreased, the Latinx communities affected by them found ways to alert one another and protect themselves when “la migra” were coming. Angela Dean, for example, shared, “When immigration is in town, everybody knows. Folks communicate via the ‘coconut wireless’ [word of mouth] [laughs]. My phone blows up with texts and calls. They think they’re spotting the Hispanics, but the Hispanics are spotting them.”148 Their various forms of communication and use of social media provided protection when they felt threatened by the presence of immigration officers regardless of their immigration status.

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For many Latinx migrants, their undocumented status was not a matter of overstaying their visas but rather a failure to renew these and other legal documents. The limited capacity or availability of their consulates to provide the services they required, loss of income, and other factors left many vulnerable to overstaying their visas and becoming undocumented. This left them unable to return to their home countries, particularly if they had families with them in Hawaiʻi. The Honorary Consulate of México, for example, had a limited capacity to help the large number of Mexican nationals who required their services, since they are under the jurisdiction of the San Francisco Consulate. Their Honolulu office opened in the late 1990s to accommodate the then fifteen thousand Mexicans working in Hawaiʻi, but they had limited mobile consulate services.149 The consulate advertised their services in many of the local ethnic Latinx newspapers throughout the 1990s and early 2000s and informed citizens of any changes in consulate leadership.150 However, in response to the growing demand for their services and the inability of many Mexican nationals to travel to San Francisco, Batalova, Das Gupta, and Haglund note that in 2002, mobile consulate services were established throughout several of the Hawaiian Islands. As their study notes, “The mobile consulate, which visits each island at least once per year, allows residents of Hawaiʻi to locally apply for or renew documents issued by the Mexican government.”151 The demand continues to be tremendous. In September 2008, for example, the mobile consulate came to Hawaiʻi Island and assisted several hundred Mexican citizens in one day with their documents. As Batalova, Das Gupta, and Haglund’s report also share, the majority of Mexican nationals that they surveyed utilized the consulate services even if they had to travel to another island to renew their legal documents (e.g., apply or renew passports, obtain or renew matrícula consular, register children’s births, apply for dual citizenship). The participants also wanted to see a permanent consulate in Hawaiʻi, since as Consul General Carlos Felix noted, it is the only state that does not have a permanent office representing the Mexican government.152 Other Latin American countries had even less access to services. Angela Dean, for example, noted how it was hard at first for Honduran nationals to renew their legal documents because they had to travel to the continental United States to do so. In order to assist the Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi Island, for example, locals like Angela networked and advocated in order for the consulates to come to Hawaiʻi and provide those services for their citizens. Angela also shared the following regarding the difficulty of getting consulates from various Latin American countries to assist nationals working in Hawaiʻi: “The Mexican consulate comes every year and usually to Maui, Honolulu, Big Island. The Honduran consulate has come once to the Big Island because we have the largest Honduran community. That visit was a success, especially with taking people’s passports. We’re trying to see if we can get the Honduran consulate to make annual visits to Hawaiʻi. The El Salvadoran consulate has been here twice within the last two years. We’re trying to make sure that they’re having

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annual visits because the community is growing so quickly.”153 Angela’s dedication to assisting the Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi has led her to become one of the go-­to people on Hawaiʻi Island that the community can trust, since she has built a large network of resources. In addition, she also works with farm owners who help their workers with their legal documents. Even with these obstacles, according to Pew Research Center’s director of race and ethnicity research, Mark Hugo Lopez, there have been fewer than five thousand undocumented immigrants from Latin America in Hawaiʻi every year since they have been collecting data, from 2005.154 Despite this consistently low number, the racial bias of ICE continues to be focused on the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi. Although these various forms of community assistance, activism, and even consulate services were meant to keep the Latinx community legally protected, informed, and safe as much as possible and exposed the larger public to what was happening with ICE raids, this did not completely stop ICE’s actions, which caused even more anxiety and fear for Latinx families, especially the children, who worried about being separated from their parents.155 ICE agents continued to conduct raids at residential homes using “knock and talk” tactics to enter peoples’ homes without warrants or other “legal” documentation.156 These tactics were found to be problematic from a legal standpoint. For example, sociologist Tanya Maria Golash-­Boza notes, “ICE home raids, over the past decade, have involved a series of violations both of people’s constitutional rights and of ICE’s own policies.” This was based on a report Golash-­Boza cites, which found that “ICE agents routinely fail to observe constitutional rights during home raids.” Golash-­Boza further states that what made these incidents more egregious was the fact that “ICE refers to these literally ‘unwarranted’ arrests of suspected undocumented migrants as collateral arrests. Because you cannot tell whether someone is undocumented simply by looking at them, many U.S. citizens and legally present people of Latin American origin have been arrested in these raids.”157 It is precisely because of these abuses of authority, blatant racial profiling, and ignorance of the constitutional rights and civil liberties of the Latinx community in Hawaiʻi that ICE and local law enforcement working under the cover of Secure Communities continue to be criticized.158 Two stories illustrate this point. Herlinda Jacobo Roque, for example, is a local who identifies as Puerto Rican, Filipino, and Spanish. Among many of her occupations, she serves as an immigrant rights advocate and manages a coffee farm with her husband. Herlinda assists families in Hawaiʻi with immigration issues, law enforcement problems, and translation and works as a liaison between parents and social/medical services. She shared her experience with ICE agents who entered her home without her permission: I’m a local girl who has lived in Hawaiʻi my whole life, and sometimes I don’t feel welcome here. This is because of the work I do. I’ve had immigration come to my house because they know I’m an advocate. One day, immigration was doing their

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raids, and somebody told them that there was Mexicans living at my house. I’m Puerto Rican. I play Puerto Rican music, and I play my music loud when I’m at home and also when I’m working picking coffee. ICE came here early one morning. The sergeant was on top of my driveway; two guys came down to the house. I was in my bedroom. I heard a knock at my door. I said, “I’m coming.” Before I reached the end of my hallway, an immigration officer opened my front door and stepped into my house. I said, “What are you doing in my house?” He said, “I want to see your papers.” I told him, “What papers? I don’t have to show you any papers. In the first place, you have no right coming into my house.” I started raising my voice because I was a woman and in my pajamas. I told him, “You have no right stepping into my house without me opening my door and inviting you in. I know my rights.” And he kept insisting he wanted to see my papers. I told him, “I don’t have to show you nothing. You are trespassing. I have a private property sign posted at the entry of my driveway. I can call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.” He’s telling me no, I can’t, because he’s here because he was told that there were illegal aliens living here. I said, “I was born and raised in the state of Hawaiʻi, so how can you say there’s illegal immigrants? Because there’s Latin music playing? If you listen, it’s Puerto Rican music that I’m listening to. It doesn’t matter what type of music I’m playing. And even if I was playing Mexican music, what’s the problem with that? That’s the problem with people nowadays. They hear Latin music, [and] first thing they think Mexican or illegal aliens!” The agents at the top of the driveway, they heard me yelling, [and] the sergeant came down and I told him, “You better reeducate your workers because they have no right coming into my property.” On the top of that driveway it says, “Do not enter. Private Property.” And who is he to enter my house without being invited in? The sergeant just told the guy, “Let’s go.” And they left.159

This incident illustrates how federal ICE agents not only were ignorant of the diversity of Latinx cultures but generalized them all as Mexican and by default undocumented. As Herlinda mentioned, ICE assumed they could interrogate her because of the music she was playing. She remarked, “Yeah, and that’s what they do. They drive around looking and trying to find where the Mexicans are.”160 Herlinda’s daughter, Angela, also noted about her mom’s incident, “Just because someone is playing salsa music does not make them Mexican or undocumented. You would think they [ICE agents] could tell the difference between salsa music, which is Puerto Rican, and Mexican music like banda.”161 This was not an isolated incident. Candy Mendoza Soria also shared an experience in 2007 that was similar in that ICE agents disregarded her constitutional rights and civil liberties when entering her property without her consent: It was a horrible experience. We were coming from work, and we see these two cars parked in our driveway, and we were shocked to see these officers were there. We thought they were police officers. We didn’t know it was INS [ICE].

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I got really upset. I just started mouthing off, and I said, “Where do you have a paper that says you can come into my house and you’re looking for this person? Where are your papers?” I was so upset. And for them to hear me being upset, saying, “Hey, we don’t want to attack you, but we want to know, are you legal here or not?” Who am I supposed to respond to? Are you going to show me something that identifies you, what you are? Because if you show me who you are, then I might answer you or not. And he was like, “Oh, look, we’re INS.” I’m like, “OK. Who are you looking for? There’s nobody here that’s illegal in my house. We live here.”162

Candy proceeded to explain how they were looking for someone, and there was a man inside who did not want to come out. It could have been the fact that he was in fear regardless of his immigration status. That is the kind of terror the Latinx community feels when ICE agents show up. Candy again requested that the agents show her paper work that they could enter her home, which they didn’t do. She proceeded to call the local police, ambulance, and fire department, fearing for the safety of her children because they came with weapons, and one of the agents was acting aggressively toward her. As she recalled, “They ended up leaving and saying, ‘We’ll come back.’ I said, ‘You come back with a court order, and then I’ll let you in my house.’”163 Both Herlinda’s and Candy’s experiences illustrate the ways ICE agents tried to use intimidation and threats of deportation to instill fear into Latinx communities. Only in these particular cases, Herlinda and Candy resisted those tactics and stood their ground. They were not going to be intimidated.164 In response to the allegations of racial profiling and ICE agents abusing their authority with the local Latinx population, an ICE agency spokeswoman stated in an email to the Honolulu Advertiser, “We do so professionally, humanely and with an acute awareness of the impact enforcement has on the individuals we encounter. . . . ICE expects its officers to uphold the highest standards of professional conduct and personal integrity.”165 Despite their improbable response, according to the examples provided by my interviewees, ICE has certainly abused its authority. In order to inform and assist both the Latinx and larger immigrant communities of Hawaiʻi, FACE instituted the “Know Your Rights” campaign to help immigrants understand their civil rights and be aware of what questions agents are allowed and not allowed to ask a person who they “suspect” to be undocumented.166 Rev. Stan noted, for example, “On Maui it became one of our primary issues to target. So we did education around immigrant rights [Know Your Rights]. We brought in a woman from New Mexico who did some training around immigrant rights.”167 As the need to inform immigrants of their rights in order to protect their civil liberties continued to be an issue, others, like Angela Dean and Claudia Hartz, worked with the Latinx communities on Hawaiʻi Island to provide that service well into the 2010s.168 These workshops and the continued activism and advocacy of individuals and of my interviewees

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demonstrate both the complexity and frustration surrounding what many have called a broken immigration system. In conjunction with the American Civil Liberties Union, FACE also organized about two hundred people at Ala Lani United Methodist Church to rally for U.S. immigration reform in May 2011. As Terri Erwin, lead organizer of FACE, explained, federal ICE agents in Maui were targeting “single mothers, parents and people who are going about their business” rather than focusing their efforts on dangerous criminals as they are ostensibly supposed to be doing.169 According to the Maui News, those in attendance at the rally shared stories of “families torn apart, of people trying for decades to get family visas and of indiscriminate enforcement of illegal immigrant laws.”170 These issues affected not only the Latinx immigrant community but also Filipinxs, Tongans, and Micronesians living and working on the islands. For many Latinxs, the Obama administration’s policies were disappointing, to say the least, and created a complex and mixed relationship with the Latinx population, particularly for those who reside in Hawaiʻi, where President Barack Obama was raised. Although the Latinx population in the United States overwhelmingly voted for him in both the 2008 and 2012 elections, they were let down in many ways by his immigration policies. As author Stephen Balkaran notes, “Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, the election and re-­election of President Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012 was primarily due to the Hispanic vote.”171 His remark served to highlight that despite the support of the Latinx population in the United States, many of President Obama’s promises were left unfulfilled when it came to immigration reform. This complex legacy of immigration reform and the failure of the Senate to pass the DREAM Act enabled his administration, through an executive order in 2012, to provide 1.76 million DREAMers nationwide with protection from deportation as well as work permits, Social Security cards, and driver’s licenses (although they still do not have a path to permanent residency or citizenship) under the DACA program. This enabled many DREAMers to get a reprieve from their situation. For example, as one DREAMer noted, “One of the happiest days of my life is when I applied for DACA. From that day on, my days got easier. I was finally able to get a job and start taking more classes and living without fear of getting deported.”172 On the other hand, during President Obama’s tenure in office (2009–­2017), over three million people were deported, which caused concern and fear not just for the Latinx community but also for other groups who were removed from the United States. As writer Amanda Sakuma reported, this led Janet Murguía, president of the National Council of La Raza (NCLR), to remark at their March 2014 gala, “For us, the president has been the deporter-­in-­chief.”173 Her comment spoke to the disappointment and frustration that she and others in the Latinx community felt over Obama’s promise of immigration reform, which was far from being fulfilled, and his administration’s mixed legacy on immigration.174

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Despite these efforts, the situation regarding the treatment of the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi, due in part to ICE’s specific targeting of the Latinx community, continued. The situation deteriorated to the point that according to the newspaper Latina Lista, for example, the Mexican government issued a travel advisory for its citizens traveling or working in Hawaiʻi. As the government advisory detailed, “They have been detained in airports and handed over to immigration authorities. The majority of the cases have dealt with workers in construction and the tourist industry who have traveled to the Hawaiian Islands for seasonal employment.”175 The Los Angeles Times and the New York Times also reported that this and other factors led to a gradual decline of Mexican immigrants coming to the United States in 2009. By 2012, this trend continued to the point that the Pew Research Center noted that net migration from México was zero. By 2015, they reported that more Mexicans were leaving than arriving to the United States, citing family reunification as the main reason for their return.176 For those who remained, their stories shed light on an experience that was not solely defined by racism and marginalization but also aloha and acceptance.

Being Latinx in Hawaiʻi: Complex Experiences of Aloha and Racial Prejudice Personal testimonies from my interviewees and other sources I consulted also reveal a welcoming environment for Mexican and other Latinx migrants and residents.177 These experiences varied depending on economic times, length of residency, and whether the growing number of white settlers from the continental United States were the instigators of this racial discord. Despite the challenges Latinxs faced with regards to moments of animosity and racism, nevertheless they also found love, aloha, and acceptance in Hawaiʻi. When interviewing various Latinxs from all walks of life in Hawaiʻi, there was always a diversity of experiences when it came to their reception by Native Hawaiians and locals. I sought to understand how, over time, the Latinxs who came to Hawaiʻi were welcomed, even invited by the Hawaiian monarchy, and how settler plantation economies also welcomed and tolerated them, so long as they didn’t question or challenge their oppression. Once Latinxs voiced their opinions and resisted their mistreatment, did white supremacist mechanisms of racism and discrimination follow, reinforcing racial and ethnic hierarchies in Hawaiʻi, as Jonathan Okamura and other scholars have noted?178 As more settler transplants and military personnel from the continental United States came to Hawaiʻi (particularly haole settlers), they brought their racist baggage with them. Along with prevailing stereotypes about Latinxs—­and particularly Mexicans and Central Americans—­by the twentieth century, their racial ideologies, I suggest, began to infect the larger public perception of Latinxs, especially immigrants, who came to Hawaiʻi to live, work, and build

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new lives for themselves and their loved ones. This racist ideology, which acts more like a disease, arrived on Hawaiʻi’s shores with settler colonial transplants and military occupants who held these beliefs. Unfortunately, some locals were influenced by continental U.S. racism, employing this rhetoric against Latinxs, for example, as they competed for jobs in a capitalist system. Mexicans have also been the most visible and largest Latinx group both in the continental United States and increasingly in Hawaiʻi, which has led to similar stereotypes and discrimination in Hawaiʻi as social and economic tensions have increased. Hawaiʻi’s Latinx residents, however, have also resisted these efforts with the assistance of locals and other Hawaiʻi residents and have utilized both local and continental U.S. strategies to counter those acts of racism and discrimination. Despite these experiences, the Latinxs I interviewed also spoke to the love and aloha they received from their neighbors and friends (Native Hawaiians, locals, and other residents), which made them feel welcomed and happy to find a place to call home. The following stories highlight this particular experience, showing how many of those I spoke with felt the genuine love and aloha they encountered in Hawaiʻi and how they felt at home because of the welcoming reception they experienced. For example, Gregoria Reyes is from Oaxaca, México. She has lived in Hawaiʻi for twelve years, but prior to coming to Hawaiʻi Island, she lived in Kauaʻi for four years. Her occupations include working as a coffee picker and as a nanny and house cleaner. She came to Hawaiʻi because she wanted to know what it was like there and needed to find employment. For Gregoria, living in Hawaiʻi has been a wonderful experience. She appreciates being in Hawaiʻi because of the diverse cultures she is surrounded by. She remarked, “Me he sentido mejor con gente de otra cultura, porque no me han menospreciado, y saben valorar la gente, saben agradecer.” (I have felt better with people from another culture, because they have not looked down on me, and they know how to value people; they know how to be grateful.) Gregoria’s comment is important because in her experience, the racism she has felt was not in Hawaiʻi but rather back in México. She shared, “Me da pena decirlo, pero me he sentido mejor aquí que en mi propio país. En mi propio país yo sufrí desprecios y todo porque soy indígena. Y aquí no, aquí la gente me ha tratado bien, al contrario, me valora la gente, y me ayuda mucho.” (I’m sad to say it, but I’ve felt better here than in my own country. In my own country, I suffered contempt and all because I am Indigenous. And not here, here people have treated me well; on the contrary, people value me, and they help me a lot.)179 Gregoria’s experience speaks to the aloha she has felt and received from locals and her employers, which made her feel seen as a person. Since she is here alone with her children, that has made a difference in her life. In fact, she has been able to help her children with their college education. One of her children graduated from college and is studying to be a chef, while the other one is applying to go to the University of Hawaiʻi. Other interviewees, like Jesús Aguilar, also shared

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their thoughts on their reception in Hawaiʻi: “Sí, sí me siento a gusto . . . Me siento bien recibido.” (Yes, I do feel comfortable. . . . I feel welcomed.)180 In many ways, these experiences demonstrate an environment of aloha and acceptance that has carried on since time of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. Many of my Latinx interviewees appreciated learning about their host culture as well as sharing theirs with others. A number of Latinxs not only respect and admire Native Hawaiian culture but also seek to learn about it as they acculturate to their new home. Noelia Solano, for example, commented on how beautiful the language, dancing and music are to her. In fact, her children are learning these aspects of Native Hawaiian culture. She shared, “Están aprendiéndolo. Bailar el hula hula y tocar el ukulele. Y les gustaría aprender el hawaiano y japonés.” (They are learning it. Dancing the hula and playing the ukulele. And they would like to learn Hawaiian and Japanese.)181 She also noted that her children are bilingual (Spanish/English), and they are also learning Hawaiian in school. Ángel also shared the following: “Bueno, aquí Hawái está hecho de gente de donde quiera. Entonces lo bonito de-­, cuando hay eventos, lo que más puede mostrar la gente latina aquí y que le gusta mucho a la gente de aquí o de otro países pero que viven aquí, es la cultura. La cultura es muy bonita, la cultura latina les gusta.” (Well, here Hawaiʻi is made up of people from everywhere. So the beautiful thing is, when there are events, what Latinos can show people from here or from other countries who live here is the culture. The culture is very beautiful; they like Latin culture.)182 Although life has been good for many of the interviewees I spoke with and they felt welcomed, some still felt the loneliness of being away from their family. Maurilio “Don Mario” Lopez, for example, is from La Paz, Baja California, México. He has lived in Hawaiʻi since 1999. He initially left México because life was difficult, but he made a commitment to support his children’s education, so he moved to Hawaiʻi. When he arrived he did not know any English. However, some friends that he had in Hawaiʻi helped him find employment on an orange grove. He started to learn English. He then went on to work numerous jobs, including washing dishes at a restaurant, landscaping, and gardening. He found steady work for nine years with a painting company until the recession in 2008. He then went to work as a cook, in food preparation, in gardening, and in picking coffee. He is now the proprietor of a business in Kailua-­Kona. Don Mario shared his feelings of loneliness in Hawaiʻi: “Lo que pasa es que ahorita ya me quiero regresar a mi país, porque desde que me vine voy para 16 años, de manera que no veo a mis hijos, solamente platico con mi familia por computadora. Y me siento solo.” (What happens is that right now, I want to return to my country, because since I came here, I have been going for sixteen years, so I do not see my children. I only talk with my family on the computer. And I feel alone.)183 Don Mario noted now that his children are older, and they have asked him to leave Hawaiʻi to be back with his family. For many immigrants who live far away in Hawaiʻi for years at a time, being separated from family is a difficult situation.

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Being accepted is a meaningful experience when you are in a new place. Other interviewees reflected on their experience of feeling welcomed and what that meant for them as newcomers. For example, when Israel Gonzales moved to Hawaiʻi from Texas, he immediately felt welcomed: You come here—­there’s parts of this place—­you’re local. You’re Hawaiian. Mexicanos blend in real good here in Hawaiʻi. And it feels good. Everybody just takes you in. It’s like, “Wow.” It’s like being back home before there was anybody else. This is what it was like, before [laughs]. So you get a little bit of that here in Hawaiʻi. Everybody—­and then when you do tell them you’re Mexicano, “Oh, Mexican.” They get happy. “Oh, cool. I got a Mexican friend, amigo” [laughs]. It’s real open here. There’s not a lot of discrimination in Hawaiʻi. If you came from somewhere that you had—­sometimes you felt like you were too brown. You go into a place, “Oh, man. I’m the brownest guy in here.” Here, you come here, and you’re proud of that. You’re like, “Oh, I’m hanging out with everybody.” It’s cool to be brown here.184

Israel’s comment reveals a comfortability in being brown and the welcoming he received because of his physical appearance (a topic that I examine further in chapter 5). Although he gets mistaken a lot for a local, he always lets people know he is Mexicano and Chicano yet proud to live in Hawaiʻi. For Israel, this experience of aloha and acceptance had a positive impact on him. He shared, I’m really proud of that [being Mexicano and Chicano]. And it’s shaped me a lot. Like I said, I’ll hold my head up real high. I’m constantly telling my kids, “Hey, be proud of who you are.” When you come here to Hawaiʻi, you’ll see a lot of Hawaiian pride here. You’ll see the Hawaiian flag flowing. You’ll see a lot of tattoos. They take it real serious. They’re proud of that. I’m the same way. It’s like, “Hey.” I’m very proud to be here in the islands. And because of how open it is here and how accepting it is here, it helped shape the way I am.185

As someone who also moved to Hawaiʻi from Texas, Gloria Calamaco also reflected on her experience with Native Hawaiians and locals, which has been one of welcoming and acceptance: But it’s more of a way of fitting in and being more loving and accepting. Because the Hawaiians that I know are that way, we fit right in. So the adaptive side of our culture is adapting to their culture. It fits. It fits great, I think. . . . I’ve just been very enlightened to the acceptance. That’s the one thing that I will always sing about living on this island. As much as our cultures assimilate, we still don’t see everything eye to eye. But just the idea that the consideration is there. But for the most part, acceptance and aloha are the biggest, and they go hand in hand. That’s the biggest experience of my life here. I have been met with open arms.186

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Although Gloria is aware of the aloha she has experienced as a Latina and being both accepted and embraced, she is also mindful of the reasons Native Hawaiians and locals would be apprehensive, even resentful, of outsiders in personal interactions given the history of Native Hawaiian dispossession and displacement. She remarked, “I think, unfortunately, that falls hand in hand with malihini [stranger or newcomer], the visitors, the tourists. So there are some people who still hold onto us malihini, the visitors, as being disrespectful, arrogant, pompous and we know it all. But I don’t see that very much.” Gloria also made the distinction between haole tourists and newcomers versus Latinxs who come to live in Hawaiʻi. For Gloria, it is a matter of not feeling entitled in the space you occupy but having a relationship of gratitude that separates Latinxs. She noted, “I think Latinos are very accepting and very appreciative of being able to be here. That’s my outlook.”187 This echoes the response of other Latinxs I have interviewed who not only are appreciative of being in Hawaiʻi but want to learn from and acculturate to their host culture as opposed to trying to shape it to suit their own needs and comfort. During our interview, Gloria reflected on our discussion and also shared a conversation she had with her friend who identifies as Native Hawaiian from Kona. Gloria’s friend witnessed negative feelings in her family toward Latinxs and tried to explain why there would be such animosity toward the Latinx communities living in Hawaiʻi. Gloria commented, She [her friend] grew up with the hate that came toward Latinos when they started showing up for the production of agriculture on the island. She remembers her aunts and uncles being frustrated and being angry, saying, “Those dirty Mexicans took all our jobs.” And that kind of lingo going on in her home. She remembers that as a child. . . . She would get into arguments with her cousins because they would complain about the Mexicans coming to take all their work on the coffee farms. She would back it up by saying, “Wait a minute. What would you do? You gonna go pick the coffee then? You’re gonna go do this?”188

Gloria’s retelling of her friend’s story situates their animosity within the context of the pervasive stereotype that Mexicans steal jobs from Native Hawaiians, particularly in agriculture, which is an occupation most Native Hawaiians and locals will not do. Deeply rooted racism was observed by her friend, who challenged her own family to see beyond the prevailing stereotypes about Mexicans. This example highlights the complex relationships Latinxs have with Hawaiʻi’s residents. As a local Boricua whose family were among the first Puerto Rican migrants to arrive in the 1900s, Tony Dias shared an important point about other locals and transplants to Hawaiʻi who have an issue with recent immigrants. For them to

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discriminate against other immigrant groups who also have come to be a part of Hawaiʻi and adopt their host culture denies them the same acceptance that they were able to experience as part of a multicultural majority in a settler colonial state that unfortunately continues to dispossess and displace Native Hawaiians.189 What Tony and other locals seek to do in this case is to provide a welcoming place for immigrants who continue to contribute to the economic growth and well-­being of their newly adopted home and acculturate to their host culture. One way to honor this relationship is through understanding what it means to listen to and support their Native Hawaiian hosts. I was able to talk story with other Latinxs in Hawaiʻi who had particular experiences in regard to expressing an awareness of settler colonialism. Kenny Lopez was born in San Bernardino, California. His parents are from Jalisco, México. Although Kenny is sometimes read as local, he makes it clear he is not from Hawaiʻi and that he identifies as Mexican American. At the time of the interview, he had been living in Hawaiʻi for five years. He currently works at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, as an assistant director of resident life. For Kenny, part of his ability to navigate a largely local and Native Hawaiian population and be accepted has been his acknowledgment that he is not from there. As he shared, “I understand that I’m not from here, and I have made that very clear from the beginning. ‘I am not from here. This is not my space.’ In acknowledging that, and honoring the space of the people whose space I am in, I think [that] has allowed me to be able to get into that group and feel more comfortable, if that makes sense.”190 Kenny further explained how his knowledge of concepts like settler colonialism enables him to see himself as an ally in supporting Native Hawaiian sovereignty: I acknowledge and I’m very open that I understand, but I don’t know all the history. I know that I am not from here, but guess what? I’m an ally, and I’m here to fight the same battles of how we can get our people into higher education, how we have been colonized, and all the other things that have happened. So I think coming in with that perspective and not just talking it but actually walking that has allowed me to build that circle of support network, friendship, with folks who are fighting those battles, who are from here and are fighting the Native Hawaiian battle, to feel much more aligned and connected and helpful. . . . Because I look like them, but I’m not them. I think because I’m alongside them, fighting that same battle, and I understand the issues, I think they have been very receptive.191

The following testimonies also provide some insight into these positive experiences that made the vast majority of my interviewees feel like Hawaiʻi was their home. For example, Arturo shared his feelings about living in Hawaiʻi: “Actually, when I went to Costa Rica to visit, I experienced, how do you call it in English? Homesick? I am ready to go back to my home [in Hawaiʻi]. Here is my

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home. When we arrive, oh my God, it was a blessing. You feel you are home already. I am very happy over here.”192 Despite the complicated relationship Luis felt growing up in Hawaiʻi as a local Mexican, he also considered Hawaiʻi home: “I’ve been here, I was raised here. Yeah, I consider it my home. I don’t have plans to leave soon. If I leave here, it’s en un pinche caja [in a damn box] [laughs].”193 Ariel Velasquez shared her thoughts on growing up and living in Hawaiʻi: I think that maybe Hawaiʻi is the best place to grow up. I think everybody here is really loving. I’ve experienced a lot of love and aloha the whole time that I’ve been here. Versus, like, living in the mainland. I can’t imagine all the racism that happens over there, just because I don’t see it every day. I know it happens, but I don’t see it. I guess I don’t see how people could hate on somebody for being different. On something they can’t choose, like where they’re from. I think Hawaiʻi is just a beautiful place, [with] beautiful people that are really loving.194

Conclusion During the early twenty-­first century, new migrations of Latinxs, primarily Mexican and Central American, came to Hawaiʻi to work in another major agricultural industry that the state benefited from: Kona coffee. Latinx labor was welcomed as they helped this industry expand and thrive. In return, they sought for themselves and their families a better life than what they experienced back home. This new wave of migrant workers continued along the path of the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands that previous generations of Latinxs made. They arrived at a time when a larger series of events had occurred, such as the economic recession of 2007–­2009, that resulted in negative experiences for some Latinxs in Hawaiʻi, particularly for more recent arrivals whose numbers have grown in recent years. Some of these experiences came out of the economic insecurity that pitted them against local workers in Hawaiʻi. As the recruitment of Mexican and Central American workers increased, their reception by some within the local population changed to reflect continental U.S. racist stereotypes about Mexicans and other Latinx groups. In that moment, Latinx workers were not seen as vital contributing members to the various agricultural industries that they worked in, such as coffee and macadamia nuts. Rather, they were viewed through the lens of settler colonial transplants from the continental United States as invaders and foreigners who did not belong. Local news media also promoted these stereotypes in how they deployed terminology in their reporting. These incidents only reinforced the feeling among some Latinx immigrants that they are not always welcomed. And although there were tensions at first and even conflict when Latinx immigrants came to Hawaiʻi, ultimately their neighbors and the larger communities got to know them and see their sincere intent to acculturate to their host culture and

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become a part of these existing multicultural communities that they’ve interwoven with at various times over generations. These realities were reinforced by intermarrying and cohabitating and the ability of others to see Latinxs with empathy and friendship. Latinxs experienced and reciprocated aloha, and in return, they became part of the larger multicultural environment of Hawaiʻi. Ultimately, these experiences prevented this racist disease from fully taking hold in Hawaiʻi. And although the underlying tension and racism continue to percolate under the surface and the complex relationship with Latinxs and other groups in Hawaiʻi may continue to witness high and low moments of racial tensions, the larger collective experience that was shared with me was positive. They feel the aloha. The next chapter explores how the friendships and personal interrelationships Latinxs experienced with locals and Native Hawaiians developed and fostered the multigenerational development of a Pacific Latinidad that is reflected in mixed Latinx families and identities. Their stories help us redefine what it means to embody the multiplicity of being local Latinxs of mixed ancestry, a process that has been ongoing for the last 190 years.

5

Mixed Race Identity, Localized Latinxs, and a Pacific Latinidad Reynaldo Minn is your typical “local” guy. Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Reynaldo and his mother, Martha, run Mercado De La Raza, a Latin American grocery store in Honolulu on the island of Oʻahu. Upon first meeting Reynaldo, one would not be able to distinguish him from any other local in Hawaiʻi. He visibly reads as local, particularly when speaking Pidgin English. As previously mentioned in the introduction, being local is a marked cultural heritage and identity formed from generations of mixing that defines the plantation history of Hawaiʻi. It is also marked by phenotype—­in this case, being brown. Further, it is an identity that is culturally tied to place—­in this case, Hawaiʻi. Although Reynaldo identifies primarily as local, he also acknowledges his Mexican and Korean ancestry.1 Reynaldo was raised by his Mexican mother and grandmother. It was growing up in Hawaiʻi that his local identity took shape. As he shared with me, “I can say with all certainty, I’m a local boy to the core, no doubt about it. But I was raised with a lot of Mexican values.”2 Indeed, Reynaldo’s mixedness is a big part of him being local, and he embraces his multiplicity. His mother is from México, and his father is third-­generation local Korean. As Reynaldo noted, he did speak Spanish when he was younger, but he learned to speak English, and particularly Pidgin English, which is part of the local culture he was raised in. Given his upbringing in Hawaiʻi’s local culture on the island of Oʻahu, Reynaldo felt acceptance as someone who also identified as Mexican and Korean: “Mainly the fact that I can speak Pidgin has 183

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just made me readily accepted by most people because that’s like a telltale sign of a local Hawaiian right there. . . . Most local Asians don’t really mind either way. You just speak to them in Pidgin and that’s it. It’s all good.”3 Reynaldo’s story is not uncommon in Hawaiʻi. As a self-­identified local of Mexican and Korean ancestry, his experience provides a glimpse into what it means to be mixed race Latinx and, more specifically, what I am also calling “localized Latinx.” Building on local identity, this term includes Latinxs who were born and raised or grew up in Hawaiʻi and are accepted as such by other locals.4 His story and those of others I interviewed for this chapter reveal two important points. First, the mixed race Latinx population in Hawaiʻi is hidden in plain sight. They are often overlooked because of how the already ambiguous identity of Latinxs, shaped by historical processes of mestizaje (racial and cultural blending), enables them to blend into both the larger local and Native Hawaiian populations.5 As more children of Latinx parents are born and raised in Hawaiʻi and as more interracial and interethnic mixing is occurring with Latinxs and other groups on the islands, this segment of the population will continue to grow and reveal the complex ways that mixed race and localized Latinxs are identifying, and how they are contributing to the island’s long-­ standing multiracial population. It also demonstrates how this experience is distinct to Hawaiʻi. Second, mixed race and local Latinxs, particularly those who also share a Native Hawaiian background (which is also seen as separate and at times intersecting with local identity), illustrate the complex way that Latinidad (a shared sense of cultural identity) is formed in Hawaiʻi within an Indigenous and mixed race population. It is precisely this culturally blended experience that creates a Pacific Latinidad for Latinxs in Hawaiʻi, which I contend is the result of generations of Latinxs who migrated to, lived in, and have been central to the archipelago’s labor force and economy over the last 190 years. This process contributes to both the ever-­expanding mixed race population in Hawaiʻi and the diversity of Latinxs that navigate multiple identities within this geographic locale. Pacific Latinidad also encompasses the larger Pacific region as the Latinx diaspora reaches beyond Hawaiian shores and into other locales across Oceania, such as Aotearoa (New Zealand) and Australia.6 This chapter explores the ways that mixed race identity functions in Hawaiʻi, paying attention to how those who are of Latinx descent also share Native Hawaiian, Asian, Black, Pacific Islander, and other intersecting identities.7 By tracing how both individuals and their children identify, I demonstrate how those who fall under the term Latinx and claim multiple identities help us understand what it means to be Latinx outside of the Western Hemisphere. For those who also identify as Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian), this Indigenous identity ties them to the ʻāina (land, also translated as “that which sustains us”) and their multiple ancestries. These include families who have ties to early Mexican vaqueros in the Hawaiian Kingdom; those who have ties to the sugar plantation era (e.g., Puerto Ricans); and others who either were born and

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raised in Hawaiʻi or spent a significant part of their lives there, contributing to the development of the local culture and identity (see chapter 2). These stories illustrate how the Latinx population of Hawaiʻi has been and continues to be woven into the larger histories of other Indigenous, racial, and ethnic groups in the Hawaiian Islands. Moreover, these mixed race identities demonstrate how race, Indigeneity, and phenotype also impact the ways that Latinxs are accepted and/or marginalized in Hawaiʻi. For those who phenotypically are brown and look “local,” there is usually no question of belonging. Rather, they are accepted. This chapter, however, will also explore how those who also identify as Afro-­ Latinx and are read as Black by others also have to deal with the ways that continental U.S. anti-­Blackness and racism affect them and their sense of belonging in Hawaiʻi.8

Mixed Race in Hawaiʻi According to the U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey and the Pew Research Center, the multiracial population in the United States accounted for 9.3 million (3 percent of the total population) in 2013. In Hawaiʻi, that number was significantly larger. In 2015, nearly 25 percent of residents in Hawaiʻi identified as multiracial, the largest percentage per population total in the United States. The Pew Research Center noted that Hawaiʻi is also the only state to have a triracial group as its largest multiracial group.9 These numbers speak to Hawaiʻi’s history of racial mixing, which has made it the state where there is no single majority group. Because of the long-standing intermixing that occurred with Native Hawaiians and other Indigenous, racial, and ethnic groups, it is not uncommon to find families that have multiple generations of mixing and a wide variety of ancestries within their genealogy.10 This lends to a largely brown state that sees mixed race as the norm. For visitors and nonresident mixed race individuals (myself included), coming to a place like Hawaiʻi also makes one feel at home—­a place where almost everyone looks similar and where one could blend in easily because of our multiplicity. It is the opposite experience that BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, people of color) and mixed race individuals encounter in the continental United States, where white is the norm and being anything other than white marks you as different and subject to increased prejudice, discrimination, xenophobia, and racism.11 This feeling of acceptance and inclusion has also been the experience for many mixed race Latinxs who were born and raised in or lived a considerable part of their lives in Hawaiʻi. The Hawaiian Islands have been a place where people could affirm their whole selves by acknowledging all of their ancestries and expressing their multiple cultures freely.12 One’s identity was not questioned but rather, as historian Paul Spickard notes, was a starting point to find a sense of connectedness with others in Hawaiʻi. These points of connectedness can include ancestry, family, practice, and place.13 For example, as cultural

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scholar and multiracial Filipina/Pakistani activist Farzani Nayani notes about her experience when she lived there, “Hawaiʻi was not a surreal utopia to me; it was a real experience of belonging as a multiracial person, connection to the ʻāina, my ancestors, and my community, and finally feeling a sense of being able to hold my head up with pride in my identity in a way I had never done before.” She also writes, “One could have many identities acknowledged and still be accepted as a person, as who they are.”14 As previously mentioned in the introduction, these observations should not be used to embellish Hawaiʻi as a racial utopia, since structural racism, racial tensions, and the persistence of colorism and anti-­Blackness among those of mixed ancestry have long existed on the islands. Indeed, Nayani is also careful to not romanticize Hawaiʻi. She also acknowledges that there was colorism and the marginalization of some groups over others: “The sharing of my story is not to paint an idyllic picture of the islands as a paradise of racial equity; it is to acknowledge my personal experience of what it is like to be in a space where being multiracial is seen, accepted, understood, and not categorized as different, exotic, or other.”15 As Nayani points out, it is a common feeling for those who felt completely seen and accepted for the first time because everyone shared an experience where being mixed was not an anomaly but rather the norm. Author Sharon Chang and other scholars have also written about their experiences, noting that Hawaiʻi was a site where one could racially blend in and become invisible versus being racially marked in the continental United States. For local Hawaiʻi authors such as Kathleen Tyau, growing up in a multiracial family and being of mixed ancestry in the Hawaiian Islands informs how she writes her novels.16 Collectively, these narratives provide some insight as to what it means to be of mixed race in Hawaiʻi as either a local, a resident or a visitor. Since the early formation of the Hawaiian Kingdom (1795–­1893), Hawaiʻi has been recognized as a site where interracial mixing and mixed race ancestries have been part of the island’s long-­standing and complex multicultural story. As Native Hawaiian anthropologist Brandon C. Ledward writes, “Hawaiians have a longstanding history of being comfortable in their mixedness.”17 This includes foreigners who visited and/or stayed in Hawaiʻi, such as explorers and crew members, traders, merchants, and laborers who were white, Tahitian, Chinese, Black, Mexican, California Indian, and Spanish, among other groups.18 These intercultural relationships, however, did have differential meanings of power between groups due to colonialism. For the Native Hawaiian aliʻi (people of noble or chiefly rank), these relationships were navigated to benefit them and the independent Hawaiian Kingdom.19 Many Native Hawaiians and locals acknowledge this history and can trace several generations of mixing, which demonstrates the multiplicity that defines much of Hawaiʻi’s past and present, including some Native Hawaiian royalty who were also of mixed ancestry (e.g., Queen Emma Kalanikaumakaʻamano Kaleleoālani Naʻea Rooke and Princess Victoria Kaʻiulani).20 Indigenous studies scholar Iokepa

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Casumbal-­Salazar, who identifies as Native Hawaiian and Mexican, also noted that during the Hawaiian Kingdom period, Hawaiʻi had been multicultural: The Hawaiian Kingdom was a very multicultural place. I feel like today if this was not a U.S. colony or what they call the fiftieth state, there would be a different social order here. An independent Hawaiʻi would be way more accommodating than we’re able to be now as a state of the union. First of all, when the United States began treating Hawaiʻi as a territory, the islands were forced to be accommodating, as population transfers were no longer controlled by the kingdom government, and second, I think the people who were impacted by the American occupation of Hawaiʻi, the descendants of those who were citizens of the country [the independent Hawaiian Kingdom] . . . and those who would give their allegiance to any future independent Hawaiʻi, feel like they would agree that there’s a place for Latinos as well as Asians, as well as people of African descent or from any other part of the world. The model is there. Look at the nineteenth century, look at our ancestors. There’s no reason to fear difference in otherness among Hawaiians. And the local people also adopted that [philosophy] too.21

Iokepa’s point is that although white American racial hierarchies have informed contemporary race relations, the kingdom was an early example of a site where multiracial mixing occurred. Early monarchy records, for example, reveal a steady influx of foreigners from all over the world to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. Some of these foreigners also became naturalized citizens, contributing to the early formation of a multicultural citizenry that pledged allegiance to the Hawaiian monarchy.22 That said, as Iokepa noted, “racial formations during the Kingdom era point to a multicultural possibility that is currently impossible under American occupation.”23 Scholars who examined the early racial mixing in Hawaiʻi during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries also noted how the islands were not marked with the same racial prejudice and tensions that existed in the continental United States. Rather, Hawaiʻi had more amicable racial encounters. This led to high rates of intermarriage and mixed race children. For these intellectuals, this made Hawaiʻi the perfect “racial laboratory” to study race relations because interracial mixing and mixed race children were an avenue of assimilation toward whiteness. They contributed to the romanticization of Hawaiʻi as a racial paradise. These scholars included early sociologists such as Robert E. Park, Romanzo Adams, Andrew Lind, William C. Smith, and others from the Chicago school of sociology.24 However, their perspectives were misguided based on their own assimilationist views. As Asian American studies scholars Shelley Sang-­Hang Lee and Rick Baldoz point out, “The belief endorsed by these intellectuals that interracial marriage and race-­mixing signify progress in race relations both overlooks the ways that interracial sex and marriage can perpetuate

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racial and gender inequality and continues to influence the discourse of intermarriage in Hawaiʻi and other parts of the United States.”25 Racial mixing and intermarriage were also seen by some as a sociopolitical and economic arrangement. This began with early high-­profile interracial marriages during the Hawaiian Kingdom period. As Lee and Baldoz note, this occurred between “Native Hawaiian elites and ambitious white foreigners.” Indeed, as Lee and Baldoz suggest, these interracial unions were, for white settlers, strategic moves to gain access to fictive kinship ties, land, political influence, status, and wealth.26 The migration of various racial and ethnic groups who came to labor in Hawaiʻi’s sugar and pineapple plantations (1850–­1930) formed the bulk of these early interracial unions and mixed race children. Those who immigrated include Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Filipinos, Puerto Ricans, Black southerners from the United States, Portuguese, Spanish, and whites.27 Given that Kānaka Maoli suffered a population collapse due to white European and American diseases, during his reign, King David Kalākaua promoted the concept of “Hoʻoulu Lāhui” (Increase the Race/Nation) and other acts of resistance to empower his people.28 This increase of the Hawaiian Nation was inclusive of those who were considered to be of full and mixed ancestry, since Native Hawaiians saw identity as tied to one’s genealogy or ancestry, not blood quantum.29 Indeed, as Ledward notes, “Previous Indigenous perspectives of identity were rooted in expansive connections made through genealogy, place, rank, and ability rather than deductive and individualized notions of race.”30 This mixing would inevitably occur with the various immigrant groups in Hawaiʻi, most notably the Chinese, who at the time were the first group to come en masse during the sugar plantation era beginning around 1852. Mixed race Native Hawaiian / white individuals would also be privileged because of their proximity to whiteness and elite status versus Native Hawaiian / Chinese mixed individuals, who composed the largest nonwhite dual minority (Chinese father / Native Hawaiian mother) and, as Lee and Baldoz note, were racialized differently because of the lack of social mobility due to parental lineage. However, it would be the Native Hawaiian / Chinese mixed race population that formed the foundation for local identity in Hawaiʻi, which was predominantly mixed and nonwhite.31 Interracial mixing and race relations in Hawaiʻi, however, are not a process of total acceptance. These layered histories of mixing in Hawaiʻi are deeply entangled with issues of settler colonialism, white supremacy, the political economy, race, and immigration. This impacts the various ways people engage with one another in Hawaiʻi. According to Paul Spickard, for example, “Hawaiʻi is far from an interracial paradise. Every interpersonal encounter in Hawaiʻi is calibrated in ethnic terms.”32 As Spickard notes, this means, for example, that an interaction between a haole and a local would be much different from one between two locals of different ethnic or racial backgrounds. This can also apply to the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi who are mixed, as well as those who grew

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up in Hawaiʻi and identify as local. Their interactions with Native Hawaiians, locals, and other groups depended on how they were visibly read. Edgar Ayala, for example, identifies as Guatemalan from Vallejo, in the Bay Area of California. He moved to Hawaiʻi in 2004, working in sales and delivery for natural food companies. He later started his own company, Flavor of Ayala, making salsas and guacamole. His products are now sold in Foodland, Safeway, and other markets on the islands of Oʻahu and Hawaiʻi. Edgar shared his experience with how locals would read him upon meeting: “I never had any problem from the locals. They let you know they have history here, but they’re nice. They’re always curious about my ethnicity. . . . They think I was Sāmoan; they thought I was Puerto Rican–­Portuguese. They thought I was a mix of Hawaiian and who knows. They’re always thinking I’m a mix of something.”33 Once Edgar was in conversation with locals he encountered, and they noticed an accent and commented on how differently he spoke. They assumed he was Mexican. He responded by letting them know that he was Central American and specifically Guatemalan. This assumption could have to do with his growing up in California in a largely Chicanx-­and Mexican-­dominated region where the nuances of language and phenotype are marked as Mexican. However, for the Latinx interviewees I spoke with, being mixed enabled them to find a place of belonging because they embraced their multiplicity and could freely express it in a place like Hawaiʻi.

Being Mixed Race Latinx Although the term mixed race is not a category in Hawaiʻi that most people identify with versus the continental United States, when sharing one’s ancestry, it is clear that the long legacy of racial mixing is a part of the island’s history. For example, when having discussions regarding someone’s racial multiplicity and how one identifies in Hawaiʻi, everyone I encountered and spoke with (including my interviewees) stated, “I’m Native Hawaiian, Puerto Rican, and Filipino,” “My mix [or ancestry] is Mexican and Korean,” or something along those lines.34 All my interviewees for this chapter identified with their specific Latinx group, such as Mexican, Puerto Rican, Guatemalan, Peruvian, Panamanian, and Brazilian, while the vast majority who were also mixed race noted the other multiple ancestries they were mixed with, which included Native Hawaiian, Filipino, Black, Portuguese, Korean, Chinese, Navajo, Spanish, English, German, Scotch Irish, French-­Italian, and white. To outsiders, many of my interviewees were read as local or a mixture not of their own (e.g., Mexican mistaken as Pacific Islander), while others were seen as just Latinx. Most of the interviewees were born and raised in Hawaiʻi and also identified as local (including some who moved to the continental United States) transplants from the continental United States or Latin America who lived in Hawaiʻi for a number of years and/or locals who left the islands then returned home.

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Throughout the interviews, an array of experiences were revealed. For example, some were rediscovering certain aspects of their identity in Hawaiʻi, especially those who were mixed with Native Hawaiian and had the opportunity to connect with and learn about and practice their culture. Others were adapting to being in a local community and trying to fit in. Still others were multigenerational locals from Hawaiʻi, yet they also acknowledged their other ancestries, including that of their specific Latinx group (e.g., Puerto Rican). As chapter 4 previously reminded us, at times their Latinx identity also left them vulnerable to the racism and xenophobia of other settlers from the continental United States (usually white Americans) as well as locals who had been influenced by the racist ideologies white settler colonials brought with them and what they saw in the mainstream media. The issue of anti-­Blackness was another layer of Latinx identity that some who were mixed with Black were noticing and/or learning to confront. Throughout all the interviews, a common thread emerged, which was their ability to live in a place that welcomed their multiplicity. They had the space to be all intersecting identities at once because of their ancestral ties to those genealogies. They were not bound by the limitations of a quantified mixture. Simply put, these experiences teach us that within a multiracially dominated geographic location like Hawaiʻi, one could be this and that and not be pressured to choose. By and large, my interviewees shared that they were also welcomed by their host culture and able to eventually be seen as local over time. My interviewees reciprocated the humility, love, and aloha they received while also immersing themselves in the Native Hawaiian cultural values that are the foundation of local culture in Hawaiʻi. It is why the vast majority of those I interviewed consider Hawaiʻi home. The mixed race Latinxs and those who came as children with their parents when they moved to Hawaiʻi had experiences similar to those Latinx parents and children face in the continental United States—­that is, they learn to adapt and be a part of their host culture. Over time, the second generation and beyond identify somewhat differently than their parents, adding to the complexity of their identities. Though these children identified with the cultural backgrounds of their parents (e.g., Native Hawaiian, Mexican, Peruvian, Puerto Rican, Filipino, Korean), they also formed new identities that were specific to their generation and geographical space. For example, being born and raised in Hawaiʻi, or having lived most of their lives there, many of the Latinxs I interviewed—­including those who identified as mixed race—­also developed a local identity that tied them to the larger local community within Hawaiʻi. This, I suggest, is what also makes Pacific Latinidad unique. For those who also held a strong attachment to their Native Hawaiian ancestry, this added yet another layer to how they saw themselves in relation to their family, community, and cultural backgrounds. Being mixed, they did not separate this identity from their Hawaiian background, though many were conscious of how settler colonialism, Indigeneity, and race function in Hawaiʻi. For the most part, they seemed to

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find a middle ground or balance where they navigated their multiple identities and saw this as an advantage because they could be in multiple spaces and open to other groups.35 For example, Marilia “Lia Live” Ledezma, a music recording artist on the island of Maui who identifies as Panamanian, Brazilian, and local, noted the following: “It’s really funny because when you are not stuck to one culture, you are able to experience all of them, and I feel lucky that way. I didn’t just grow up with one culture, so I got to experience a little bit of everything, and because of that I feel like I’m more open to other cultures, and I’m more open to learning about cultures.”36 Their multiplicity of identities, geographies, and lived experiences allowed room for that. This is not to say that it is the experience of all mixed race and/or local Latinxs in Hawaiʻi, but it was a common narrative that was shared by most of my interviewees. The majority of the Latinxs I interviewed and those who have been researched the most, however, were those who identified as local Puerto Ricans of mixed ancestry.37 Historically, Puerto Rican intermarriage rates were among the highest in Hawaiʻi because they have been mixing for well over one hundred years. For example, according to Puerto Rican scholar Blase Camacho Souza, Puerto Ricans were intermarrying as early as 1902.38 Many Puerto Rican scholars have also noted that local Puerto Ricans have the highest rates of intermarriage, and as a result, the subsequent generations have been primarily mixed of various Indigenous, racial, and ethnic groups. For example, as Camacho Souza notes, “Intermarriage started early among Puerto Ricans and others. The races they first married were Hawaiian, Portuguese and Filipino. Marrying outside of the group has made for tremendous change as today [1988] over 80% of Puerto Rican men and women marry persons of other ethnic groups.”39 Camacho Souza also writes, “It is interesting to note that often the light-­skinned Puerto Ricans tended to marry the Portuguese, Spanish and other light-­skinned persons, while the darker-­skinned Puerto Ricans tended to marry Hawaiians, Filipinos or other dark-­skinned people.”40 This pattern suggests the role colorism may have played in the early marriage rates of the Puerto Rican community. Even into the twenty-­first century, the Puerto Rican community of Hawaiʻi was one of the most racially mixed. As Iris López writes, “One of the main concerns among first-­and second-­generation local Puerto Ricans is the continuity of Puerto Rican identity in the younger generations. A principle reason for their concern is that Puerto Ricans constitute just 2.5 percent of the population in Hawaiʻi and have one of the highest rates of intermarriage according to the 2000 Census. ‘We’re chop suey,’ many of Puerto Rican heritage say, referring to their mixed heritage.”41 This was also observed by one of my interviewees, Cheka Diaz. Cheka is a professional Polynesian dancer who identifies as Mexican, Navajo, and Spanish. As she remarked about local mixed race Puerto Ricans and Mexicans on Oʻahu, “When I go to Waiʻanae side, there’s a lot of Mexican, there’s a lot of Puerto Rican. Everybody is like half Puerto Rican, half Hawaiian when you go to the Waiʻanae side.”42

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For some of my interviewees, it was easy to embrace both cultural backgrounds as Latinx and Native Hawaiian. Curtis Morris reflected on his identity as “chop suey” (mixed), which includes Puerto Rican, Portuguese, Native Hawaiian, Filipino, French, Italian, and Spanish. His primary identities, however, are Native Hawaiian and Puerto Rican. Being raised on the island of Oʻahu and in Boyle Heights, California, Curtis was able to navigate both of his identities. His mixed background made him a curiosity to his Chicanx peers in Boyle Heights, who embraced him. As he shared, “Because I was from Hawaiʻi, it made people more curious. ‘What’s it like there?’ It allowed me to be social. I didn’t really have to try to be social.” While he spent time in California, Curtis noted, “Growing up in L.A., I was very proud to be from Hawaiʻi. So I was very strongly identifying with Hawaiʻi. But now as I’m older and I moved back to Hawaiʻi, I miss L.A. and the Latino culture there. So now it’s funny. I also identify with Latino culture here. . . . It’s a trip. I never thought moving back to Hawaiʻi, I would miss that culture.”43 As someone who is mixed, Curtis also experienced what many multiracial people face due to outside social pressure and/or the personal need to belong, which can influence how one identifies. As he shared, “It’s weird because growing up, I always thought I had this fear of not having an identity because I had so many. ‘Oh, what do I identify with?’ . . . So for a while I was like, ‘Shit, who am I, man? What do I choose?’ I felt like I had to choose. It was a very short time in my life. I remember telling my parents, ‘I feel like I’ve gotta choose who I am. Because everyone seems to have an idea of who they are.’”44 Yet as our conversation continued, he shared with certainty, “I identify with my Hawaiian culture, my Latino culture. I identify with both. I cannot separate it. I can combine it, which is what I do. I show people different parts.”45 These experiences were no doubt influenced by his upbringing in East L.A. and Hawaiʻi. These were the cultures he was most familiar with. Given his racial ambiguity, Curtis was often also racialized as just Mexican or Chicano, with others speaking Spanish to him immediately. This also influenced how he identified with Chicanx culture.46 Though he did not know much Spanish growing up as a child, he learned it to navigate his use of Spanish in Boyle Heights and in Hawaiʻi when he met other Latinxs on the islands. He shared an experience he had in California: “It wasn’t forced; it was a necessity to communicate, to order food, to fit in. I wanted to go to a taco truck and sound like I knew what I was ordering, right? I mean a burrito or carne asada. Come on, man! And I think with anywhere I go, I adopt the culture. . . . If you’re there for a long enough time, you adopt the culture. For me, that means adopting the phonetics about how people say things, their language, their customs, everything. I’ve always been adaptable.”47 This lesson enabled Curtis to take his cultural adaptability back to Hawaiʻi, since it is his first home. There, his mixed background also enabled him to blend in with other locals. His local friends were equally fascinated by the specific type of Latinx cultural upbringing Curtis brought back home with him, which was just as much Chicanx as it was Puerto Rican.

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Luana Rivera Palacio was also able to embrace all her cultures. She identifies as Puerto Rican, Filipina, and Native Hawaiian. Luana was fortunate to be able to practice her Hawaiian culture through hula and ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language), eventually becoming a Kumu Hula (hula teacher / source of knowledge) herself. As she noted, “You join a hālau (school) basically for life. That’s your community. . . . I’m profoundly grateful that she [Kumu Sylvia] entrusted me with the knowledge. So that’s what I do. In that way, I’m a keeper of the Hawaiian culture in that she entrusted me with her hula knowledge and her lineage, and it’s for me to carry on, to keep that strong. And then also to create, to innovate, but to remain true to the core of her kumu knowledge.”48 With regards to her Puerto Rican and Filipino cultures, Luana noted that she had a lot of Puerto Rican and Filipino family in Hawaiʻi, so that was one way to connect. However, she also ensured that she would be connected to her Puerto Rican family back in Puerto Rico. As she shared, “I think it’s more of a connection with my [Puerto Rican] family. My brother and I try to get back to Puerto Rico every year, especially since my father passed away. . . . So coming together for him helped my brother and I reestablish those bonds.” Another way she connected with her Puerto Rican and Filipino identities was through college. When Luana attended De Anza College in California, she joined the Latino Leadership organization, where she felt there was more accessibility and connection with the Latinx community. When Luana was a student at the University of California, Santa Barbara, she joined Kapatirang Pilipino (a student Filipino club) because she sought out a similar connection to that part of her identity. As she shared, “There I felt really welcomed. That’s where I met my husband, who was born and raised in the Philippines.”49 Her involvement in her cultures and communities helped her find balance. More importantly, Luana felt her name was an important aspect that embraced all her ancestries—­Native Hawaiian, Puerto Rican, and Filipino—­and was something she would carry through her life that bound her to those genealogies: “My name is important, especially because my name now, Luana, is Hawaiian. Rivera is my Puerto Rican last name, and Palacio is Filipino. Even in my name I carry it [her cultures].”50 Some of my interviewees who saw the link between their Puerto Rican and Native Hawaiian identities could also see how the history of colonialism and militarization intertwined their communities through the bombings of Vieques Island in Puerto Rico and Kahoʻolawe in Hawaiʻi. These were moments in which they developed their own social and political consciousness. Others also pointed to their Indigenous background as Taino, which connected them to their Native Hawaiian counterparts. Kurt De  La  Cruz, who identifies as Puerto Rican and Filipino, shared the following: “My identity, first and foremost, still today, I still local boy, Hawaiʻi, Kāʻu. Ethnically speaking, I must say Puerto Rican and to a larger context nowadays, I think it’s been more Taino, more of that native side. . . . So far as I know, I am Boricua, I am Puerto Rican, and I am also Cebuano, Filipino. Anything else in there can be debated.”51

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When Kurt was in spaces outside Hawaiʻi, and particularly in the continental United States, he was racialized as Hawaiian. Yet he knew the difference between being from Hawaiʻi and being Native Hawaiian. As he shared, “I’m from Hawaiʻi, so a lot of people said, ‘Hey, a Hawaiian guy.’ Why not? Sure. But as I’ve come back [from being away at college], I’ve realized, ‘No, I’m not Kanaka Maoli, I don’t share that blood. I share a kinship, but that’s different from having the blood.’”52 Some interviewees didn’t know much about one of their cultural backgrounds, but because they were invested in knowing all aspects of their identity, they took it upon themselves to learn and experience that part of their identity. Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar, for example, at the time of this interview, was a faculty member at Ithaca College. Born and raised in Santa Maria, California, Iokepa’s ancestry is Native Hawaiian, Mexican, Scots-­Irish, and French-­Italian. Culturally, Iokepa identifies as Native Hawaiian and Mexican, but politically, he identifies as Kanaka Maoli. Growing up in Santa Maria, he identified primarily as Mexican, but part of his journey to reconnect with his Kanaka Maoli identity stemmed from a close bond with his Hawaiian grandmother in Santa Maria, who encouraged him to reconnect with his family on the islands. As he shared, “My grandmother always really practiced being Hawaiian from Santa Maria. And I say ‘practiced,’ even though she didn’t have all the things that she could have done, such as the foods, the community, the very Hawaiʻi activities, including just Sunday beach paʻinas, potlucks, or gatherings, get-­togethers. But she wore the clothes. She talked the talk. She made white rice. She did cook some foods. Always reminded us that we’re Hawaiian. We didn’t know what it meant, but she said it’s something to be proud of—­ always be proud that you’re Hawaiian.”53 With that foundation, Iokepa moved to Hawaiʻi in 1995, enrolling in Kapiʻolani Community College, which enabled him to strengthen his connection to his Native Hawaiian culture and identity. As Iokepa recalled, I didn’t know the depth of what it meant to be Hawaiian. And it’s a learning process. I can’t say I had all the depth of knowledge that I have now. But I do know it’s a lot more interesting to be Hawaiian today than it was then. . . . When I found Hawaiian studies, Hawaiian language, it was over. It was just exactly where I needed to be. . . . I continued learning a lot about Hawaiian identity, history, culture, [and] language through academia, through the community of people who are affiliated in one way or another with the university system So it was really through all that, that I started to find my Hawaiian identity. And it was mainly that education that made me really love being in this place.54

For Iokepa, seeking out his Hawaiian culture as a young adult enabled him to eventually identify more with that than his Mexican culture, though he does acknowledge he is both Native Hawaiian and Mexican.

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Other interviewees saw the increasing numbers of mixed race Latinxs in Hawaiʻi as a promising sign. Reynaldo Minn, for example, noted upon meeting others who also shared his Mexican and Korean mix, “I’ve seen so many Korean/ Mexican couples lately, and kids and stuff, and other people just like me. I think we’re starting to bridge, we’re starting to come closer together, like Asians and Hispanics, and I think that’s good too.”55 Angela Dean, who was born on Hawaiʻi Island and is of Puerto Rican, Portuguese, Spanish, and Filipina ancestry, also remarked on the mixed race people she knows: “Oh yeah. We have a lot of Mexican/Hawaiian, Filipino/Hawaiian, even Marshallese/Mexican. We have that too. . . . There’s a couple Mexican/Filipino, Mexican/Portuguese. There’s a lot of us.”56 As the number of mixed race Latinxs continue to grow, those who claim Hawaiʻi as home because they were born and raised there or have lived there for a significant period of time become localized Latinxs. Being mixed race thus enables them to embrace all aspects of their multiple identities and find comfort in a place where they can experience and express their multiplicity.

Becoming Localized Latinxs For Latinxs who were born and raised or spent a significant part of their lives in Hawaiʻi since childhood, being local was also a part of their identity, if not their primary one. For example, Ariel Velasquez noted about her identity, “I think I consider myself more local. I love being Mexican. That’s who I am, but I feel like my ideas have changed. Maybe because I don’t know much about my culture, it’s hard for me to identify myself with being a Hispanic.”57 She noted that language has a lot to do with her retaining that part of her Mexican identity, though as she remarked, “But I choose to speak English, if that makes any sense. I speak Spanish well, I can write it and I can read it, but I choose English.” Her father remarked in the background, “When she’s really upset she speaks Spanish!” to which Ariel yelled back, “Yes, I yell in Spanish! [laughs].”58 For Ariel, her ability to speak both languages keeps her connected to both her Mexican and her local identities. The vast majority of the interviewees were also able to see the multiplicity of their lived experiences and be both local and Latinx simultaneously. There was also a diversity of how one’s multiplicity played out in everyday life. As previously mentioned in chapter 2, some interviewees had been raised since birth or childhood in Hawaiʻi, so they identified primarily as local. Their use of Pidgin English was one cultural marker that validated their localness. Others would do what some scholars refer to as “code weaving” with their use of Pidgin English and Spanish.59 This included maintaining a Spanish accent when speaking Pidgin English. It would be another layer of blending their languages to identify themselves as Latinx, local, and/or Native Hawaiian. Others embraced their Native Hawaiian background more, since they were raised in the culture and grew up primarily with Hawaiian values and language.

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Hawaiʻi is also home for many of the Latinxs I interviewed. Alejandra Alexander, for example, was born and raised in San Diego, California, and Alaska and lives in Honolulu. She is the owner of Juega Tamales and works as an app developer. Alejandra’s identities include Afro-­Latina and Afro-­Mexicana, queer, and nonbinary. Alejandra has lived in Hawaiʻi for thirteen years. She shared her connection with Hawaiʻi in this way: Hawaiʻi is definitely home to me. . . . But then I also don’t ever say I’m from Hawaiʻi. I say I live in Hawaiʻi and have lived here for a very long time. That’s intentional because I’m not of this land. My ancestors are not of this land, and I think when it comes to a place like Hawaiʻi, that’s important to acknowledge whenever you have the opportunity. Because this is not my home. I have ties to it. I have emotional and spiritual connections to it, but my ancestors are not from here. So I don’t ever say I’m from Hawaiʻi. To me that’s misleading.60

For Alejandra, her sense of Hawaiʻi as home also was layered with her acknowledgment of settler colonialism and how her presence on the islands is also a part of these larger conversations. Mindful that it is home but she is not from there, Alejandra still felt a connectedness to Hawaiʻi in a meaningful way that allowed her to be part of it because she was invested in learning and being a part of the local community that welcomed her. For Lia, she sought to learn more about the host culture she lived with. As she remarked, My ear is more open to learning languages because since I was little, I knew different languages. For example, reading Hawaiian is really easy to me because the vowels are pronounced the same as they are in Spanish. So those are things I picked up on early on, a common thread that we have in Hawaiian and Latinos. First of all, how we pronounce vowels, that was a big one for me. So I took a Hawaiian class in high school, and I got to know my Hawaiian classmates, and I always made sure that to me, it was about respect.61

Lia’s desire was to learn more about Native Hawaiian culture and language while also being mindful of her role as someone who is a guest but who also became accepted as local over time. In addition to recognizing Hawaiʻi as home, many of my interviewees acknowledged that being raised with Hawaiian cultural values was just as important as their own Latinx cultural practices (e.g., Mexican, Puerto Rican). They might have been exposed to one culture more than the other, even if they were not Hawaiian. This provided the opportunity for my interviewees to express their sense of pride in being both local and Latinx. For example, Cheka Diaz remarked that her cultural upbringing was very much Hawaiian. However, Cheka is of Mexican, Navajo, and Spanish descent and was born and raised in Hawaiʻi. As she shared, “I feel like my culture is Hawaiian because it’s all I know, and it’s what

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I was raised [as]. I can speak a little Hawaiian, I can understand a little of it. I was raised by Hawaiian people.”62 Cheka appreciated her multiplicity but wished she was exposed more to her Mexican culture. It would have given Cheka more of a connection to that part of her identity. Because she was raised in Hawaiʻi, she feels and is culturally connected more with Polynesian cultures.63 During our conversation, Cheka continued to reflect on her upbringing in Hawaiʻi: I loved growing up here. I wouldn’t have changed it. I feel like in a way I’m a little bit . . . even though Hawaiian is my culture, I’m not Hawaiian. So I feel a sense of belonging. I’m accepted as a Hawaiian person; I feel like that’s my culture. But by blood, I feel bad at the same time because I don’t know my other cultures very good, and I want to know them. But I have had a good experience growing up here. As far as the future goes, I want to learn at least Hawaiian, and then I really want to learn Spanish. That way I can speak it to my daughter, and then I’m able to do at least one thing that’s of my culture.64

Cheka’s desire to know more about her Mexican culture and learn Spanish was an important part of her mixed identity that she wanted to learn and embrace as well as pass down to her child. For others, speaking Pidgin English and Spanish (even if not fluent in it) was a part of their layered identities. Kurt, for example, shared his thoughts about his multiple identities: “I am a Latino in Hawaiʻi, but I don’t speak Spanish fluently. I speak Pidgin English fluently, and I probably know more Hawaiian words than I know Spanish words. But I notice that, that don’t make us un–­Puerto Rican or un-­Taino. . . . I’m a local Hawaiʻi boy with Puerto Rican, Taino, and Filipino bloods, man. And being in Hawaiʻi, your identity is Hawaiʻi, so you embrace a bunch of different things. You’re not just going to hang out with other Puerto Ricans. You’re going to hang out with a lot of different people.”65 Kurt saw the value in his multiplicity in being able to experience a local lifestyle where everyone he knew was mixed. Interracial relationships only further solidified the place of Latinxs in the larger local community. These interracial couplings were also a factor in creating a sense of being localized Latinxs. For example, Kurt observed the following about Mexicans dating and marrying local women and how that has impacted their identity and language: I see a lot more Mexicanos; of course, a lot of men come and work here. I see a lot of the men hooking up with women from over here. You know, so I don’t think the women are discriminating. A lot of these brothers who come over, they’re good-­looking brothers, man! But they’re not from here. It’s funny because they look like local boys, but they’re not. . . . I’ve [also] seen these Mexicanos who haven’t spoken a word of English; their English becomes socialized in a Pidgin way. So they speak Pidgin English with a Mexican type of accent. They would be like, “Eh, brah!”66

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Their adoption of Pidgin English over time is the result of them living in Hawaiʻi and being a part of the larger local culture through their relationships with local women. Luis Magaña also has an interesting story to share. Originally from Michoacán, México, Luis has been living in Hawaiʻi since 1999. He identifies as both Mexican and local. Growing up, Luis experienced varying degrees of discrimination and conflict with some locals, but he also recognized that not all of them were prejudiced against Mexicans. In fact, many of his friends are and continue to be local. He also noted that they see him as local: “Yeah, people tell me, ‘You’re local.’” When asked if he feels like he’s local, Luis noted, “Yeah because sometimes I have the accent [local]. Yeah, I’m one of those kine [type] braddahs.” In addition to speaking Spanish, Luis also speaks Pidgin English frequently. Ultimately, his status as being recognized as a local Mexican makes him, in a sense, identify with being mixed. As Luis stated, “Soy mixed plate [I’m a mixed plate]” [laughs].67 Luis’s experience speaks to his own pride in being Mexican and also being immersed in and engaging with local culture while growing up in Hawaiʻi, which ultimately led to his acceptance by other locals. Some of my other interviewees embraced their Latinx identities while also recognizing how being raised in Hawaiʻi with Hawaiian cultural values such as the practice of aloha (reciprocal love, kindness, and respect), kuleana (responsibility), ʻohana (family), and respect for one’s kūpuna (elders/ancestors) and the ʻāina (land) was vital to their upbringing. Growing up in Hawaiʻi provided a specific cultural space to learn, adapt, and accept these values as part of their everyday lives, much in the same way these values have permeated local identity and culture on the islands. Victoria Magaña Ledesma, for example, was born in Santa Paula, California. Her family is originally from Michoacán, México. She came to Hawaiʻi when she was two years old and has lived in Hawaiʻi ever since. When asked about Latinxs who also consider themselves local, she noted that there were a lot of them in Hawaiʻi: I know a lot of Hispanics that do consider themselves local and have that Pidgin [language]. I had it at some point and then lost it. . . . I love Hawaiʻi, and Hawaiʻi is my home. I love the aloha. I think that most of my values come from here. Taking care of the land and all of that. But at the same time, I am very, very proud of my Latino background, and I consider myself predominately Latino. I’m very proud of where I come from. I’m very proud of the island that raised me, but I’ve never wanted to overstep and say, “I’m an islander” when I’m not. I grew up on the island, I do have that, but I’m Latino. I love my culture.68

Alexis Schultz, who has Mexican and white ancestry but identifies as Mexican, had somewhat of a different experience growing up. As she recalled, People would ask me, “You from here?” And I’d be like, “No, actually, I’m Mexican.” They’d be like, “What? You look so local.” I said, “Thank you!” I like being

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told that I look local. . . . It felt good because I was like, “Oh yes, I’m blending in really well.” That was nice. But then I had to remind myself, “But you’re Mexican. Don’t forget that.” [laughs]. When I was younger, it was easier for me to just be like, “I want to be local.” But then when I started getting older, I was like, “No, I’m proud to be Mexican, so I’m gonna say I’m Mexican.” I started embracing it more instead of just pretending to be local.69

These stories reveal the importance of belonging and how one tends to navigate this terrain in reflective ways. Victoria was careful not to claim an identity that she wasn’t, which in this case was Native Hawaiian. Rather, she identified with her Mexican ancestry while also appreciating the Native Hawaiian culture and values that she was raised with. In many ways, this made just as much, if not more, of an impact than her Mexican culture. For Alexis, her desire to be seen and accepted as local over being Mexican when she was younger may have stemmed from wanting to fit in, which influenced the performative nature of her local identity. Her ability to blend in made this process easier. Yet as she got older, Alexis saw the value in being both local and Mexican. Her ability to situationally shift her identity over time and blend in and be read as local by other locals speaks to the racial ambiguity that many Latinxs experience in Hawaiʻi.

Ambiguous Identity and Belonging Being mixed in Hawaiʻi enabled those who came from the continental United States to find a sense of belonging that did not necessarily racialize them as outsiders. For Latinxs, this was no different. Being mixed race in Hawaiʻi also created some varying experiences for the Latinxs who shared their stories and leveraged their multiple identities in various ways. Growing up, Iokepa Casumbal-­ Salazar shared his mixed identity in the following way: “I think one of the ways that I had to be called to identify as Hawaiian or Mexican-­Hawaiian was in workplaces. When I identify as Mexican-­Hawaiian, as if saying I’m Mexican is not surprising enough to people who don’t know Mexicans of mixed race, to say I’m Mexican-­Hawaiian is even a little bit more over the top.”70 His insight into sharing his identity with others suggests that his particular mix was not common, particularly in Santa Maria, California. This identity, however, enabled him to navigate both Native Hawaiian and Mexican identities. On other occasions, Iokepa is also sometimes read by others as haole. As he noted, “I think maybe when I surf, there’s a politics of skin color in the ocean, in the lineup. . . . I think because on certain days I can’t be as good of a surfer as I’d like to be, it’s obvious that I’m learning. . . . So they might think because I’m also phenotypically white [they think], ‘Oh. Dumb haole.’”71 For Iokepa, his racial ambiguity at times depended on where he was in Hawaiʻi, and in this instance, it was ka poʻina nalu, or the surf zone, where locals read him more as haole and not local or Hawaiian of mixed ancestry. This oversight, as Ledward

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posits, ignores the ancestral and phenotypical diversity of Native Hawaiians.72 Further, for some of my other interviewees who identified as Afro-­Latinx and were visibly read as Black, their experiences also differed because of skin tone not only with locals and Hawaiians but also within the Latinx community. This will be addressed shortly. The ability to blend in with the larger local and Native Hawaiian population enabled mixed race Latinxs to be welcomed more, as they were oftentimes read as local (myself included). This acceptance was no doubt based on skin color, which oftentimes meant being brown in its many shades. This came with certain privileges, such as being given a kamaʻāina (child of the land, local) discount in Hawaiʻi, because other locals assumed we were locals too.73 For example, one day when I was shopping at a store in Honolulu, the cashier told me the price, which reflected the discount. I informed the cashier that I was not local but rather from California. The cashier looked at me with a smile and said, “Eh, you look local; that’s good enough, brah,” and proceeded to give me the shaka (local hand sign). I walked away thinking about how my body was read in a place like Hawaiʻi, where multiplicity was the norm. I was conflicted. I felt uncomfortable because I am not from Hawaiʻi and did not deserve that discount. At the same time, I was also humbled to be accepted as local and given this acknowledgment by the local cashier with the kamaʻāina discount. Over the years visiting and living in Hawaiʻi, I continued to experience this cultural nod of acceptance and solidarity as a person of color. This experience was echoed by others I interviewed, who shared similar stories in which their ambiguous identity allowed them to not have to explain their existence as Latinx because they were in a space where brown was not marked but rather white or haole was. Iokepa, for example, shared a story about his friend who experienced something similar, since he was read by other locals as a Pacific Islander: “My buddy John, when he surfs, they think he’s Sāmoan ’cause he’s got really dark, Polynesian-­looking, Pacific Islander features. And we always laugh because he’s got Mayan tribal tattoos on his arms and the word Mexican tattooed across his stomach. So they think he’s Sāmoan when he’s in the water. But when he’s walking to the shower, they’re like, ‘Hey, you’re Mexican?!’”74 As Iokepa recalled, once his friend shared that he was Mexican, he was still accepted by the locals. Iokepa also noted how Mexicans in Hawaiʻi often blended into the larger local population because they are also people of color. As he pointed out, “Who knows what their mix is? And most people don’t ask until you have reason to get to know them. The Mexicans that I know, they’re all good. I could introduce them to any of my Hawaiian crew or friends. And, in fact, they probably know a lot of Hawaiian and local people.”75 These intercultural relationships reveal one way in which the physical ambiguity of some Mexicans and other Latinxs in Hawaiʻi can foster closer relationships between groups because they are not considered outsiders and can be mistaken as locals because of shared class, work, and other spatial geographies.

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This was not an uncommon experience. Cheka Diaz, for example, noted, “When I grew up over here, everybody thought I was Hawaiian because I look Hawaiian, but it was actually because I’m Latino. So I blended in easily.”76 For others, like Reynaldo Minn and Luana Rivera Palacio, their ambiguous identity at times led them to also be called “chino” (Chinese) by other Latinxs based on physical markers, which was not an issue with locals because of the long history of mixing with Asians. Reynaldo had to correct other Latinxs in Hawaiʻi who called him “chino” because of his physical appearance. This was something Luana also experienced when she was in Puerto Rico. As Luana recalled, when she asked her dad why she was being called chino, he replied, “Oh, because your eyes. . . .” She answered, “What about my eyes? I don’t understand.”77 For Luana, others read her physical features (e.g., eyes) as Asian and not Puerto Rican. Her phenotype was a marker of her Filipina identity. She continued, “I think that most people perceive me as some sort of Asian, maybe mixed. I always say I have an Asian face and a Latino body. It’s ridiculous. Even my hair. So I think people see me as something else. They’re not quite sure what it is.”78 Luana had to choose, because at the time, there was no option to choose all of who she was. As she noted, “You had to choose. Again, I usually just chose Hispanic/Latino because in my mind I was like, ‘That’s what I’m most.’ But my family is really mixed, so I never felt, like, in my family they ever forced me to do one or the other.”79 These experiences informed the way some mixed race Latinxs had to navigate physical characteristics that made them stand out within the Latinx community but not as much within the larger local Hawaiian population. For Lia, her multiplicity was something that she would express unapologetically: Basically, you are not just one thing. You are many things. It’s hard sometimes for mixed people like me to feel like we belong anywhere. You’re not just Latina, and you’re not just Portuguese; you’re not just Brazilian, not just Panamanian, you’re not local. . . . You have to remember, you are all of it. So embrace that. I would say to take what you like out of each culture and find how that fits into your life to make you unique. Whatever it is you’re working on—­if you’re a teacher, a musician, whatever it is—­find how to take all of your culture and fit it into the work that you’re doing so that other people recognize you as part of them. . . . So embrace all of your cultures and take them all with you wherever you go. That’s what I would say.80

These experiences reveal what many mixed race individuals encounter. Their ambiguous identities may provide them with instances in which they blend into different communities, which, depending on the situation, can work to their advantage. There is also the social pressure of having to choose one racial identity over others, which can leave individuals distressed at no fault of their own. Rather, many prefer to embrace all their identities at once but are also coerced to choose by others who can’t make sense of their multiplicity and, in their own confusion, find discomfort in that. Those choices, however, do change over time

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in one’s multiracial journey. For example, as critical mixed race studies scholar Maria P. P. Root notes in her famous Bill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage, one can identify differently in different situations: “I have the right to change my identity over my lifetime and more than once.”81 It is the individual’s choice when and where to navigate their multiple ancestries and no one else’s. At the same time, as scholars of critical mixed race studies have also noted, the social pressure to choose and the desire to are tied to moments of cultural policing and proving one’s cultural authenticity based on phenotype, especially within your specific community (e.g., Latinx). In Latinx communities, for example, despite the long history of mestizaje, this antiquated idea is not historically representative or inclusive. This leads to those having visible Black, Asian, or Indigenous features with distinct physical markers, such as eye color, skin tone, and/or hair texture, creating a sense of confusion for those who have a narrow idea of what it means, for example, to be Mexican.82 In Hawaiʻi, however, there seems to be less social pressure to choose. Rather, one can embrace their multiplicity in Hawaiʻi, which, as I have previously noted, has a long history of Indigenous, racial, and ethnic mixing that allows for inclusivity within and between communities. As historian John Rosa notes, “The history and geography of Hawaiʻi compels its residents to make sense of their place in relationship to one another.”83

Shared Cultural Values and the Aloha Spirit As previously mentioned in the introduction, although the idea of the aloha spirit has been contested because of the way it has been co-­opted by the tourism industry and marketed heavily in Hawaiʻi, the vast majority of the Latinxs I interviewed did see this cultural value as something real and wholly experienced within their own communities. They interacted daily with Native Hawaiians and locals and not only acknowledged their shared cultural values but also recognized the impact Native Hawaiian cultural values had on their lives in Hawaiʻi. Lia noted this when reflecting on the values she shares as a Latina with others in Hawaiʻi: I feel like it is because some of the values of the Hawaiian culture are the same as the Latin culture. They value family a lot, and that’s one of the things—­I see my fellow Hawaiians as—­they’re my family. We are all family. Yes, I might be Latino, and you might be Hawaiian, but culturally, we’re similar, and we’re all family. So as long as I care for them and I show my respect, I feel like that’s why they let me in and they show respect to me. . . . My Hawaiian friend from Haiku, he was like, “We’re like family, we have the same values,” and that’s why I feel like they accept me. We value family, and we want the best for our people and our ʻāina in our life.84

When we first met, Carolina Torres Valle was an undergraduate senior at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa. She identifies as Peruvian and local. Her family

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migrated from Virginia to Hawaiʻi for better work opportunities. She noted the difference between living in Hawaiʻi and the continental United States: “I prefer living in Hawaiʻi over the mainland, mostly because I felt like in the mainland, the people are different than here. People are more friendly here, like they say the aloha spirit is over here. I can trust people more in Hawaiʻi than I can on the mainland. . . . Over here, I feel more accepted than I did on the mainland. Honestly, I like Hawaiʻi so much better.”85 Carolina’s comment echoes what many other Latinxs have noted about being more accepted in Hawaiʻi than in the continental United States, which can be attributed to Hawaiʻi being a space of brownness. For those like Lia and Carolina, understanding the value of aloha was not an intellectual or theoretical argument to consider, since they lived this experience on a daily basis with their friends and neighbors. For them, the aloha spirit was their invitation to be a part of Hawaiʻi’s local community and be welcomed as guests, and they reciprocated accordingly. Indeed, many of the mixed race and localized Latinxs saw the connection between their cultural values and those that are Hawaiian and local. This included the importance of family (both immediate and extended), kinship with nonblood relatives, a reciprocal kuleana (responsibility) to one another, respect for elders, and the practice of aloha. Aloha is a principle Latinxs embraced because it resonated with their own cultural values of love and respect for others and a shared sense of community. Iokepa remarked on the importance of aloha, “All of that, I think, is radiated—­[it] comes out of the Hawaiian culture. And I think that, knowing the history too, the plantation migrant labor system that brought so many people to Hawaiʻi, they also start to adopt that aloha.”86 Beyond the concept of aloha, the idea of the “aloha spirit” was a topic that some of my interviewees brought up as central to their experiences as localized Latinxs in Hawaiʻi.87 Victoria, for example, noted the impact the aloha spirit has had on her upbringing: I definitely believe there is an aloha spirit here. People are so nice here. I hope that it’s not just because I’m local and I just see it. But people are so nice, and I’m not even gonna say on the island, because downtown you don’t get it as much as you do up here [Kona side]. I think it’s the people that are here that teach you to be nice to others, who always help take care of your surroundings, of your environment. I think it’s that, and they really show you humility. Growing up here, there’s been people that have shown me humility.88

This Hawaiian value left a cultural imprint on Victoria and connected her to Hawaiʻi and the larger local community she is a part of. For Iokepa, the aloha spirit was also a very real and lived experience: In terms of the “aloha spirit,” it’s actually distorted and used against Hawaiians all the time, but there’s also a very genuine way of understanding what that thing

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is. To me, [aloha is] a critical ethos. It’s a way of understanding your place with humility, with self-­reflection about community, knowing your genealogy, having a commitment to learning, and making a genuine move toward difference with all the vulnerabilities that might imply. And I think that if Latinos, just like anybody else, make that commitment and embody that and practice that, there’s a place for them in Hawaiʻi. That’s how I feel as a Hawaiian.89

It was here that many found their connection to the larger Native Hawaiian and local culture, and the bonds they shared. They found it was an important link that bound them to their adoptive home and was why they were invested in Hawaiʻi. For Iokepa, his Hawaiian family spoke volumes to him regarding their multiplicity: “We have always been the kind of people who not only willingly give; we can see the good in people to such [a] degree that we actually make babies with them and have descendants. To me that’s really special. I have Chinese ancestors. I have Tahitian ancestors. I have Irish and English ancestors through my grandmother who’s Hawaiian. And that’s not an uncommon story.”90 Luana noted the commonalities that Caribbean Latinxs and Native Hawaiians have, for example, and how it shapes their worldview as people who come from an island culture: “I do see there’s a lot in common. One is because I think it’s an island culture. When you’re from an island, you have this sense of scarcity. I think on both sides of my family, everything they have, they take care of. And they’re very attached to their land. Very attached to this place where I’m from, which I think I’d say happens to other people, but particularly island people.”91 Alexis observed some shared Latinx and Hawaiian cultural values: We’re not so different. We come from different places, but a lot of our values and a lot of our family upbringings are the same. We both have really big families, and we both love food [laughs]. We both have history with ancient cultures. All kinds of different cultures in México, and then we have here the Native cultures. And we need to know that we both respect each culture and their history in our backgrounds. I mean, I learned a lot about Hawaiian culture and the gods like Pele. So I hope that people would do the same in México. Try to learn the backstory.92

Although Latinx groups may have some specific cultural differences between them, Alex’s comment speaks to common cultural values that include an Indigenous history, familial and kinship practices, and the cultural importance of food. In many ways, their racialization as brown people who are phenotypically indistinguishable by whites also provides another shared experience among Latinxs in the United States. It is what motivates them to settle in a faraway place like Hawaiʻi and away from the xenophobia that is entrenched in the continental United States. Curtis also commented on the Native Hawaiian / local practice of calling everyone “auntie” or “uncle,” which was a sign of respect but also expressed an

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extension of the entire community as a family, which in many ways was similar to Latinx culture, in which children refer to adults as “tío” and “tía”: “I think it’s the diversity that makes a difference, and the acceptance of diversity. This is just my opinion. As you grow up, everybody is your auntie and uncle—­everybody, related or not. So you already grow up thinking everyone is your family. It’s instilled. . . . So you can have that immediate respect. The Latino community, it’s the same thing, but it’s just for Latinos.”93 Some mixed race Latinxs who also identified as Native Hawaiian and/or local recognized the way the Latinx community practiced the value of malama ʻāina (to care for the land). As Curtis noted, I tell you this, the Latinos that are here, they respect the island, boy. They do. Sometimes more than the locals themselves. That’s why I’m proud of them when they come here. They know. When we’re at the beach, about to paddle, the Latino family is out cleaning the beach area before everyone else. Nobody told them to. If we’re out in the ocean and they see trash, they pick it up. Nobody told them to do that, but they respect. Maybe it’s cultural. You’re in a new place. It’s like someone’s home. You go to someone’s home, you ask, you take care of the place like it’s your home. It’s very simple. You don’t just do what you like.94

His observation illustrates the humility and respect he witnessed that Latinxs show for their host culture. Lia also had some thoughts on the responsibility of those who come to Hawaiʻi, which includes understanding and respecting Native Hawaiian and local culture: “You come to a place, and even if you’re not from here, you want to be able to adopt the culture and practices without insulting the people who take that really seriously, and that’s their everything, you know? So I want to make sure I know ‘Hey, I respect you, and the place, and everything that’s here before me.’ I also bring a little bit of my culture with me, but I’m totally bound to represent yours too.”95 Lia provides interesting observations. Their testimonies demonstrate that within the context of being a guest in Hawaiʻi, Latinxs are willing to be a part of their host culture and community, whereas white settler colonials want to change where they move to so that it will be more like where they came from in the continental United States. This sense of entitlement also demands that locals adapt to them. Luana also noted how Mexicans have integrated into the larger Native Hawaiian culture. During her participation in the Merrie Monarch hula festival on Hawaiʻi Island, she noticed that one of the (local) ladies assisting her hālau had a Mexican husband. He was driving the hula dancers around during the festival. When Luana heard him speak, she recalled, “I was like, ‘Whoa, that is Mexican-­Mexican.’ His accent was not like California Mexican or Texas Mexican. So I was talking to him and I said, ‘How did you get here?’ He was like, ‘I came for work.’”96 This anecdote is just another example of how Mexicans and

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other Latinxs in Hawaiʻi have blended in and continue to blend in and acculturate to the larger Native Hawaiian and local cultures of Hawaiʻi.

Racism and Colorism Let me be clear. These stories do not suggest that there is no racism, discrimination, or colorism on the islands, even within particular groups. Nor do these testimonies try to support the illusion that Hawaiʻi is a racial paradise, because many are aware of the underlying racial tensions and have experienced them personally. Rather, these stories illustrate Hawaiʻi as a place where multiplicity is the norm, and one is not marked as different for being a person of color and mixed. Of course, this depends on the type of mix one may be. However, what these stories tell us is that being mixed or identifying as part of the larger multiracial local population provides a space for interviewees to contribute to this tradition of intercultural relationships and mixing that provides a sense of belonging and safety that is not found in the continental United States. Though they may have experienced incidents of racism or colorism, it was nowhere near what they experienced on the continent. Yet the discussion of anti-­Blackness and colorism needs to be addressed. Indeed, for some of the mixed race Latinxs I interviewed, especially those who identify as Afro-­Latinx, blending in as local was not always as easy as it was for lighter-­skinned Latinxs. Rather, some experienced issues related to anti-­Blackness and various forms of racism in Hawaiʻi—­something that scholars such as Nitasha Sharma and Akiemi Glenn have written about and that has impacted those of the African diaspora in Hawaiʻi.97 Some interviewees experienced racism personally or knew others who had. Alejandra noted how her Blackness was subject to discrimination and racism in Hawaiʻi. She shared one of her experiences: I’ve observed random expressions of anti-­Blackness that really surprised me. I used to go to Kauaʻi on a yearly basis to go camping. One year I was with my partner at the time, and we were driving, and we passed this auntie who looked of Hawaiian descent, and she was holding a big sign that said . . . I can’t remember exactly what the wording was, but basically, [it said] “This is not a place for n-­-­-­-­-­s.” . . . I went like, “Wait, what?!” But it stayed with me, and I think after that is when I started to be aware of it.98

Alejandra relayed another experience that a colleague shared with her that was also problematic: I used to work at this real estate firm down the street here, and the broker was telling me about this one instance where he was at some park on Oʻahu, and there were tourists waiting for the bus on the edge of this park. And one of the

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tourists was a Black male, and I guess there was a local family having a barbecue nearby, and one of them in particular was really inebriated and started challenging the Black guy that was there and spewing racial epithets at him. Same thing on the sign but out loud in your face. And really trying to goad him into a fight. And apparently, the guy wasn’t taking the bait.99

As an Afro-­Latinx, this awareness that locals were the ones engaging in this type of behavior led Alejandra to be more conscientious of the various types of anti-­ Blackness that also exist in Hawaiʻi. Some of this racial tension may originate from the fact that the military is the reason for a significant percentage of the Black population being in Hawaiʻi. This sentiment may also stem from racial stereotypes and representations of anti-­Blackness that continental U.S. media have ingrained in society.100 Regardless, these experiences demonstrated to Alejandra that Hawaiʻi was not immune to racism and anti-­Blackness. This opened up a conversation about where those of the African diaspora fit within Hawaiʻi’s multicultural society. For some of my interviewees, particularly those who were mixed and also identified as Black, there was the racialization associated with darker skin but also the ability to find a sense of place in both the Black and Latinx communities in Hawaiʻi. For some, there was a sense of disconnection. Alejandra, for example, came to Hawaiʻi in fall 2006 to attend the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa to complete her undergraduate degree in Asian studies. She reflected a lot on her intersecting identities and what it meant to be queer and an Afro-­ Latina in Hawaiʻi who was read mostly as mixed Black. Alejandra also spoke about her connection, or lack thereof, with both the Latinx and Black communities in Hawaiʻi: “I was harboring a lot of resentment toward my communities. I still hadn’t grappled with my queerness. This was a place that I could just be without explanation. So I didn’t really seek out community until three or four years ago, when I started connecting with other Black folks on the island. But specifically other queer Black folks on the island. . . . I never really sought out the same thing in the Latinx community here, as far as making connections with any queer Latinx folks or anything there.”101 Her success in finding community in a Black queer space and not a Latinx one reflects the complicated ways that Latinidad impacts Afro-­Latinx people and her identity as queer. She was able to respond to her complicated relationship with being a queer Afro-­Latina by becoming a part of groups that enabled her to express those identities, which happened to be in Hawaiʻi. One was the Cocoa Collective. As she shared, “The relationships I formed in that collective, we formed our own organization with three other women who are also mixed. We started doing retreats for Black women here on Oʻahu. Doing workshops and holding space for things like trying to teach tools for autonomy on a basic level. . . . We were called the Four Women Radicals.”102 Alejandra’s journey to embrace the all-­ness of her multiplicity was also nurtured in spaces where she could find a sense of

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belonging and engage with others in the African diaspora in Hawaiʻi. These included the Pōpolo Project community programming and events like Salt Water People on Oʻahu, both operated by Akiemi Glenn, who is a linguist and cultural worker. Glenn works to inform the larger Native Hawaiian and local population about the history and contemporary presence of the Black community in Hawaiʻi.103

Language, Food, and Cultural Identity One way that the Latinx population has been able to maintain their culture and identity in Hawaiʻi is through their culinary traditions. Food connects them to their countries of origin, to one another, and also to the larger local population of Hawaiʻi. In addition to food, music and dance were other ways that mixed and/or localized Latinxs expressed their multiplicity. Although language is another aspect of cultural identity, being proficient in Spanish was an issue that was more sensitive to navigate while living in Hawaiʻi. Some interviewees also spoke on their experience with their proficiency in Spanish and how that impacted the way other Latinxs viewed them. Alejandra, for example, noted that being in Hawaiʻi, she did not have to qualify being Black or Mexican, since there was no right or wrong way to be either: There aren’t that many of us here, so we can do whatever we want. Which was refreshing, having come from other spaces where it just seemed like there were a lot of things about my values and my belief systems that weren’t normal ways to be Black or to be Mexican. More so with the Black side, initially, but also it was a relief not to have to explain to everyone why I don’t speak Spanish here. And that whole engagement that I usually have with other Latinx people. I introduce myself, my name is Alejandra. There’s a natural assumption that I am fluent. And having to explain that my mother is one of those immigrants that came here and tried to protect me through assimilation. And part of that is getting rid of the language. I didn’t have to have that whole discussion here, and I didn’t have to deal with that kind of cultural ostracization. Because in my experience, when you’re not fluent, there’s a lot of messaging around that.104

Iokepa also shared the frustration of not being proficient in Spanish, but he found other ways to connect to the Latinx community: I’m endlessly frustrated that I don’t speak Spanish and only have a really novice understanding of some words or parts of the hooks that I hear in the songs. But because I used to dance salsa and all the various Latin music dances, I’d go to the clubs and stuff. When I was dancing salsa, there was a lot of Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, and Cubans that come out for those things. We would cruise with all these Latinos as a group and go to salsa on Tuesday nights or Thursday nights.

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So I know there’s a [Latino] community here, and I liked it and enjoyed it all the time. This is before I got really into my Hawaiian identity, just before.105

Dancing salsa with his Latino friends rather than speaking Spanish connected Iokepa more to his Latinx identity. It also provided him an opportunity to meet others in Hawaiʻi’s local Latinx community through music and his engagement in the movement of dance. For others, food was an important way of engaging with their Latinx cultural identity. Alejandra, for example, utilized her culinary knowledge of food and cooking as one way to express her cultural multiplicity and what it meant to be an Afro-­Mexicana in Hawaiʻi. Food was, for her, a powerful expression of her identity: What I think I did in my earlier years is just try to reject it altogether [her cultural background]. But I think I’ve grown to a point where I understand that there’s value in my story, in my heritage, in the way that ancestors have interacted with the land that they were on. In the same way that Hawaiians are trying to reclaim their land and their ties to their land here and now. . . . It’s not really about ownership; it’s about what the land gives you. Because what the land gives you is what shapes your culture. That’s why lately I’ve been trying to figure out what our family’s migration patterns from México have been, just to understand geographically where they came from and what they were maybe experiencing and eating. . . . So I’ve come away with this whole racial ethnic identity thing that is highly fluid, and there’s no right or wrong way to be anything. And that everyone has a right to claim their ancestors.106

Alejandra’s cultural journey of understanding her identity as Afro-­Latina and Afro-­Mexicana is intimately connected to these narratives of migration and food, particularly with her Mexican side as she continues to find a place in the Latinx community as someone who embraces both her Blackness and her Mexicanness.107 Alejandra’s mixed identity revealed how complex identities can be for the Latinx community, and how she has started to connect to them through food. She shared, I really want to explore the theme of diasporic food and what happens to our food when we move and mix. . . . That’s why it’s called Juega [her business name]. It comes from the idea of playing with your food, but playing with it on a conceptual level. I make tamales and flan, and I don’t make any of the traditional iterations of those. And people ask for them all the time, and I’m like, “We don’t do that.” We’re not doing anything traditional. We’re challenging the idea itself of what is traditional. . . . And just because the flavors are different doesn’t mean that it’s not a catharsis for your soul. It’s still anchored in something that we’ve been pulling through the threads of time.108

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As a result, she noted that by selling her tamales and flan at some of the local farmers’ markets and events, her engagement with the Latinx community on Oʻahu increased exponentially: “I’m interfacing more with the community than I ever have before.”109 Alejandra’s own mixed identity seemed to be one influence on her idea of purity and tradition when it comes to Mexican food. Her multiplicity has enabled her to both challenge and reimagine what traditional Mexican food and identity mean for newer generations of mixed race Latinxs. Her tamales and flan received a lot of positive support and affirmations from the Latinx community. It also provided her with a great sense of satisfaction. As she shared, “You’re nourishing people from the inside. It’s very rewarding. So that’s how it started, this whole obsession of cooking for people.”110 Indeed, the act of consuming your culture enables Latinxs one way to find a sense of belonging to their cultural identities’ ancestral foodways, particularly if they are of multiple ancestries. As Alejandra also noted, being able to connect to a knowledge base vis-­à-­vis food enabled her to “trace the stories of [her] ancestors, one recipe at a time.”111 Cooking continues to be a meaningful way for her to engage with her multiplicity—­in particular with her Mexican identity. With the increasing migration of Latinxs to Hawaiʻi from all over Latin America, the United States, and the Spanish-­speaking Caribbean, their contributions to the culinary landscape of Hawaiʻi are also evident. For example, numerous Mexican and Puerto Rican restaurants can be found on almost every Hawaiian Island. Other Latinx food spots, such as Cuban and Colombian, are also present, but on a much smaller scale given that Hawaiʻi’s two largest Latinx populations are Mexican and Puerto Rican. As previously mentioned in chapters 2 and 4, some of these restaurants that sell Latinx food have been around for decades, while others are new establishments that include brick-­and-­mortar restaurants, food trucks, and roadside stands that seek to find a place among the growing Latinx food scene in Hawaiʻi. By and large, the majority of restaurants have been Mexican because of the popularity of Mexican food both in Hawaiʻi and among visitors to the islands who come from the continental United States, where Mexican food is an extremely popular cuisine, particularly in the Southwest. Cultural festivals such as the annual Hawaiʻi Hispanic Heritage Festival and Health Fair also highlight the various Latinx food options to attendees. As previously discussed in chapter 4, these include food from México, Colombia, Puerto Rico, and Haiti, among others.112 In other instances, Mexican, local, and/or Native Hawaiian foods are combined to create a specific localized food mashup. For example, the Tako Taco Taqueria in Kamuela on Hawaiʻi Island has some interesting tacos. Some of these include the wonton taco with poke and mahi-­mahi fish tacos. There is also Acevedos Hawaiiano Café in Kahului in Maui, which advertises “Local Kine Grinds with a Mexicano Twist.” This includes both Mexican and local-­style plate lunches.113 One of the main ways that Mexicans, Hawaiians, and locals also

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come together is through the fish taco. Although Mexican in origin (Baja California), fish tacos in Hawaiʻi are extremely popular with almost every Mexican or Mexican-­inspired eatery offering fish and other seafood tacos, oftentimes made with locally sourced seafood from Pacific waters. Indeed, food is one way that a shared sense of cultural identity is developed and maintained in the diaspora for the Latinx population. Simultaneously, it is also how they situate themselves as part of Hawaiʻi’s larger multicultural community and its culinary blending.

Music as Cultural Multiplicity The formation and expression of mixed Latinx cultural identities in Hawaiʻi are also shared through music. This avenue of cultural production includes not just the blending of musical traditions as Latinx, Native Hawaiian, and/or local but the connection of these cultural identities to larger musical genres of the African diaspora that continue to influence those who have roots in Latin America, the Caribbean, and Hawaiʻi. These mixed identities and the music that is created are a reflection of one’s multiplicity. Music recording artists from Hawaiʻi who have Latinx ancestry, for example, include Grammy Award–­winning singer Bruno Mars (Puerto Rican / Filipino), Marilia “Lia Live” Ledezma (Panamanian/Brazilian), and Hāwane Rios (Native Hawaiian / Puerto Rican), to name a few.114 Hawaiian recording artist Marilia “Lia Live” Ledezma is a great example of how these narratives of multiplicity are illustrated through music. Lia was born in Panama City, Panama. She is of Panamanian, Brazilian, Portuguese, Indigenous Panamanian, and English ancestries, but identifies culturally as Panamanian, Brazilian, and local from Maui. Lia first came to Hawaiʻi in 1992 to visit her sister on the island of Maui when she was eleven years old. Lia and her mom eventually moved to Maui in 1995. As she noted, “The reason [they migrated] being my sister came here first, so the reason she came was because of surfing. . . . The waves originally brought my family here, and I stayed because it felt like home [Panama].”115 Lia’s musical background also has a rich history. She grew up in a musical family, with her father being the conductor for the National Symphony of Panama for more than thirty-­eight years. She recalled, “I guess my very first memories of music would be singing in the car with my dad and my sisters on trips. We had this song that we[’d] sing, it’s like a round where you start, and then the next person starts, and we just keep it going and going. Singing harmonies. Also singing with my family. Every Sunday we had family gatherings, all my uncles came to my grandma’s house, and we had big meals, lots of music. I have lots of cousins, so we would put together little plays and dances.”116 Lia would accompany her father to his orchestra and choir rehearsals, learning how to vocalize in various scales. She also lived in Río Abajo (within Panama City), where she was exposed daily to dancehall and reggae music, since the area

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had large Jamaican and Haitian communities. As she recalled, “Also, lots of reggae roots music around Panama because of the Jamaican influence. During the summer, we would go visit this place called Isla Grande, which is in Colón, where a lot of the biggest Latin-­African population lives in Panama. So we would go to the social gatherings, musical gatherings. They were called congos.”117 All these musical influences came together for Lia in Maui. At first, Lia was not interested in pursuing music because one of her sisters was trying her hand in the music industry in Panama, and she saw how hard life was. Lia eventually returned to music after she graduated from high school. Lia auditioned and made it into the group Sugar. They recorded an EP and performed all over Oʻahu between 2001 and 2002. Lia then decided to try a solo career and moved to Los Angeles. She eventually grew tired of the L.A. music scene and made her way back to Hawaiʻi to focus on reggae music. It was back home where she got her first major break by working with Leylani, a local music artist in Hawaiʻi: “I did the first collaboration with ‘Meant to Be’ [2011] with Leylani, and then I did a ragga [raggamuffin] verse in that. That song came out great. I loved my part in that.”118 Lia’s collaboration with Leylani and her use of ragga led her to do one of her most famous collaborations, “It Can’t Get Better Than This” (2012), with Tongan music artist Kalisi, who heard her performance on Leylani’s record and wanted to work with her. As Lia recalled, Kalisi heard that song with Leylani, and she said “Oh yeah, I want to feature you in my next song too.” So that’s how Kalisi and I got together. She said, “Let’s try to write a song together.” So we got together, and we were trying to think about what to write. I said, “What was your last song?” She said, “Tell Me This Is Real.” I was like, “Yeah, that’s a great song. So in your last song, you said, ‘Tell me this is real,’ and you wonder if the guy loves you. In this song, you can say how the guy loves you, and how great it is. So we can call it ‘It Can’t Get Better Than This,’” and I gave her the idea. So you write the chorus, and I’ll write my verses. So she went her way, and I went my way, and then she came back with the chorus, and I came back with the rest of the words and we put it all together and recorded it really fast.119

The use of Spanish in “It Can’t Get Better Than This” was a way for Lia to express her Latina identity and culture and share who she is as Panamanian/Brazilian and local in Hawaiʻi. Coming together with Kalisi is also reflective of the multicultural blending of styles that are a part of Hawaiʻi’s music scene. Reflecting on her decision to do her verses in English and Spanish, Lia remarked, I’m glad that I chose to put a little bit of Spanish in there, because at first I wasn’t sure about it. . . . I knew the radio was very predominantly Polynesian, and I didn’t want them to not accept me or not play the song because of the Spanish. Actually, in some Oʻahu stations, they actually cut the Spanish part off and the radio

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FIGURE 20.   Marilia “Lia Live” Ledezma, Hawaiian recording artist, October 2019. http://​www​

.lialivehi​.com. Photo courtesy of Marilia “Lia Live” Ledezma.

aired it without Spanish. But in a lot of them, they just played it. You feel like sometimes people just want to stick to Polynesian, you know? And they promote that because it’s where they’re from. And I totally get that. But I think also some people realize how Latinos have been a big part of Hawaiʻi culture already. I feel like it was accepted.120

The success of the song created a new genre of music in Hawaiʻi that enabled Lia to be part of the foundational sound and diasporic conversation that blended together Latinx, Pacific Islander, and Jamaican musical sensibilities. The public response to “It Can’t Get Better Than This” also far exceeded Lia’s expectations, which inspired her to do more of this cultural music blending. She shared the following: It was really cool to see the reaction of people. I didn’t know how well it [the song] was going to do. It was like all of a sudden it was number one all over Hawaiʻi, and they were calling us to come perform at the Hoʻolauleʻa, come perform in Oʻahu. It was really fun. So after that I decided to follow up with the genre and do a little bit more island pop. Now what I’m working on is I’m going even deeper into my roots. Especially because since then, up until now, the music industry—­it’s so influenced by Latin music now, it’s like reggaeton is pop now! Everybody has the reggaeton beat in their pop songs. And because of that, I’m feeling like it’s time for me to come out with my full-­on Spanish/English mix EP. So that’s what I’m working on right now. An EP or an album, slowly an album,

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but a few songs first that are a little bit of—­mostly reggaeton-­influenced pop and urban with some English and some Spanish. I’m going to feature some artists from Hawaiʻi and some reggaeton songs and feature some Latin artists in some English songs, and mix it up a little bit.121

Lia followed “It Can’t Get Better Than This” with several of her own songs, including “So Nice” (2012), “411” (2013), and “Step It Up (Feat. Chisa)” (2017). As Lia continues to develop her sound, she sees how her life experiences growing up as a Latina in Maui have influenced her evolving musical style. She discussed the title of her next album, which would reflect her identity as a Latina in Hawaiʻi: I think I’m going to go with PanaMaui Flow, or PanaMaui Queen. . . . To me, it says a lot. I feel like “PanaMaui,” the way I say the word, it’s like cut-­in-­half Pana-­ Maui, and it’s like two parts of me that come together. The fact that the ending of Panama and Maui starts with that, I feel like it’s meant to be. Right. . . . Another thing I think about is my first name, Marilia, I’m named after a Brazilian singer who’s called Marilia Pera. Marilia is not the correct spelling. But mar and ilia in Portuguese mean “ocean” and “island.” The fact that I ended up in an island means a lot. So that word means a lot because it brings my culture. And it’s a word that a lot of people in the music industry use now to refer to a friend, you’re my pana, “Hey, pana, how’s it going?” But pana is what we use in Panama to refer to a friend because we’re all Panamanian, pana. So it has [the] meaning of friend, it has [the] meaning of my culture, my identity, where I’m from, my ethnic background. And then it flows together with Maui, so I feel like my life from Panama to Maui flows together.122

This statement reveals the way Lia has developed her sense of identity over the years as a localized Latina of mixed ancestry in Hawaiʻi. Lia’s blended music is her way to share her Panamanian culture with Hawaiʻi and be true to her roots as a Latina of Panamanian and Brazilian descent and the musical styles of the African diaspora that shaped her development as an artist. It also demonstrates the ways that Hawaiʻi’s local island sound influenced her music. It’s this rich cultural mix that she shares with the world today. In essence, it’s the blending of these diasporic conversations through music and cultural sensibilities that enables Lia to share her distinct style with the world as a localized Latina of mixed ancestry from Hawaiʻi who expresses this multiplicity as PanaMaui. Lia’s story shows us the importance music has to expressing one’s cultural multiplicity, which also incorporates multiple languages. As subsequent generations continue to intermix with the larger local and Native Hawaiian populations of Hawaiʻi, these cultural markers are some of the ways my interviewees and others weave themselves into a larger mixed and localized Latinx culture. Ultimately, it reinforces their multiple identities as mixed race, localized, and/or diasporic

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Latinxs in Hawaiʻi. In doing so, these processes demonstrate the continued development of a Pacific Latinidad in Hawaiʻi. Indeed, living in a place like Hawaiʻi has enabled mixed race Latinxs to question, challenge, and further explore their multiple cultures and layered identities within a Pacific Latinidad. Some of my interviewees who had children or were considering the possibility of having them understood how these identities can take on even more meaning. For example, as Alejandra shared, “If I have children with my own body, . . . I want them to have the same, if not more, melanin content. I want them to be at least as Black as me or Blacker. Whether that comes from being with someone who is an Afro-­Latino dad or someone who is just Black or whatever, that part doesn’t matter to me. But it’s important to me to perpetuate melanin.”123 It was important for Alejandra, should she choose to have children, to teach them to embrace not only their multiple identities but also the skin they are in. Kurt also shared his thoughts on the intercultural relationships between Latinxs and locals and how being in Hawaiʻi will influence how their children will one day identify: “I think that what I’ve found is that Mexicans get aloha. They have aloha for each other of their style and their culture. Very proud. And I think that allows for that synergy between Hawaiʻi’s people, Hawaiʻi’s culture, and the Mexicans who come and work over here. I think their assimilation into Hawaiʻi has been super easy. But again I think their kids who are going to school over here are becoming less and less Mexican and more and more local.” However, Kurt noted that the children are also proud to identify their ancestry: “I guarantee you, they’ll say, [for example,] ‘My father is Mexican.’”124 Angela also shared the ways her children identified: They say some days they’re Mexican, some days they’re Portuguese. But they consider themselves Mexican and try to disown our Portuguese, Puerto Rican, and Filipino sides based on blood quantum [eye roll]. My children don’t really identify with being Puerto Rican, Spanish, or Filipino. They consider me to be gringa [white] and them just to be Mexican . . . because their dad is Mexican. My ex-­husband is Mexican. So I think they identify more with that ethnicity. I’m Puerto Rican, but I cook Mexican food. I listen to more Mexican genres of music than anything because that is what I grew up eating, cooking, and listening to.125

Angela’s comment reveals the interesting ways that her children identified, how they viewed her based on white racialized notions of phenotype rather than how she personally identified with her various ancestries, and how she adopted aspects of Mexican culture into her own life because her ex-husband and step­ father are Mexican. She also noted that her children’s identity was based on how she raised them. This acknowledgment reveals all the complex ways that mixed race and localized Latinxs navigate their multiplicity within a Pacific Latinidad context, and

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how their acceptance and/or marginalization within the various communities they are a part of are also subject to the way U.S. and Latin American racism and colorism still impact racial formations in Hawaiʻi. It also teaches us how the Latinxs interviewed in this chapter and throughout this book assert their identities in ways that have been distinct in shaping a Pacific Latinidad in Hawaiʻi, where culture, language, and people continue to form relationships, mix, and shape new generations of mixed race and localized Latinxs who are invested in being a part of Hawaiʻi. It also demonstrates how despite the negative experiences some faced as a result of anti-Latinx sentiment, xenophobia, and racism, Latinx migrants and their descendants continue to embrace Hawaiʻi as their home whether they are multigenerational locals or recent arrivals. They are part of a 190-­year history that has left its cultural footprint on Hawaiʻi, and the islands have also left an imprint on the Latinx population. As the experiences of mixed and localized Latinxs continue to reveal, their multiplicity enabled them to forge new identities and weave their various ancestries together in ways that provide meaning as they continue to pave new ways of being in Hawaiʻi and the larger Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands.

Epilogue I started this book with the story of Andres Magaña Ortiz and his daughter Victoria Magaña Ledesma. I would like to leave you with where they are now since his deportation in 2017. Since Victoria took over the family business, things have continued to grow. She shared with me that despite the COVID-­19 pandemic, their coffee operations were not affected, since the demand for coffee did not decrease. Rather, the price of coffee had increased in previous years, so they have been able to manage well. Her father, Andres, also recently received approval for his visa application, but given that he has to reapply for admission based on two waiver forms—­the I-212 (Application for Permission to Reapply for Admission) and I-601 (Application for Waiver on Grounds of Inadmissibility)—­his application is pending on these approvals. If the waivers are also approved, Andres will be reunited with his family in Hawaiʻi. Until then, all they can do is wait and hope that his particular circumstances will enable him to come home.1 In writing this book, I wanted to uncover historical and present-­day examples that reflect how the migration of Latinxs across oceanic borderlands and the development of a Pacific Latinidad are intimately tied to the ways Latinxs have been central to Hawaiʻi’s labor force and economy. These industries, whose employers included the independent Hawaiian Kingdom as well as various settler plantation interests and small farms, ensured that episodic moments of migration and interrelationships developed. Consequently, Latinx labor migration wove together cultures, peoples, and genealogies that were a product of not only Hawaiʻi’s Indigenous and multiracial legacy but also an intergenerational Pacific Latinidad that was nurtured in a specific island context that had its own multicultural history, which is distinct as a place in Oceania and as a diasporic journey across the Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands. This Pacific Latinidad 217

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is contextual in that it enables Latinxs to navigate their multiplicity as their specific ethnic background, multiraciality, sense of localness, and common cultural identity as Latinx in Hawaiʻi all at once or in situational circumstances. I suggest that this is what makes being Latinx in Hawaiʻi a unique experience and one that will continue to evolve in the twenty-­first century. In sharing the story of Andres and Victoria, I also sought to show the impact Latinx labor has had on Hawaiʻi and, in the case of migrant workers—­especially the undocumented, such as Andres—­the many ways that deportations impact families and alter their dynamics in the aftermath. Victoria reflected on this experience and shared the following with me: Over the last year, I have done much thinking and really looking at our Latino/ Hispanic culture here in the U.S. Our young people have suffered through a lot, and for the longest time I thought this was a normal part of life. Never did I stop to think that our lives could be different, with less plight. I think I’ve said this before, but deportation is not just the physical separation of the family member. It’s not that exact moment when they boarded a plane and left. It’s the pieces that are left for the family members to assemble back together. How to figure out family functions without that member. It’s the everyday things that pass by that we don’t get to experience together, and slowly without realizing it, we begin to grow apart. It’s also the big events that are joyful and simultaneously painful because your family is never complete. My brother’s wrestling matches where he didn’t have his dad to cheer him on, my sister’s quinceañera where she didn’t have her father to dance with, or my college graduation that was supposed to be something so special because I was the first generation to go to college. It’s my father’s hardship he went through trying to find a life and meaning in a world he no longer knew [México]. Deportation affects the family in such a way that even if he came back, things would never be the same. Our dynamic has changed so much. In a way, I try to be grateful because it’s made me so much stronger, but it’s a pain I don’t think anyone should live through.2

As Victoria reflected, this experience was traumatic for her family, but in the process of finding her way through it, not only did she become stronger, but it also revealed her resilience and commitment to take care of her family, run their business, and see the potential that the future held for them. This meant taking the family business beyond where her father had left it. Victoria decided to move on and find a new direction for their family business. She remarked, “For so long, I held and wanted to keep the business in the same position my father had left it. So that when he came back, something would be the same or at least give myself a sense of stability. It was time.” With the assistance of an incredible team of women, Victoria recently launched Misma Lani Farms, which is also their coffee brand that can be purchased online.3 As Victoria noted, Misma is Spanish for “the same,” and Lani is

FIGURE 21.   Andres Magaña Ortiz and his daughter Victoria Magaña Ledesma during her visit.

El Rincon de Don Pedro, Michoacán, México. Picture taken at “La Manga,” a milpa (cornfield) owned by Andres passed down to him by his grandfather Filimon Magaña Arizagá, January 20, 2020. Photo courtesy of Victoria Magaña Ledesma.

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Hawaiian for “sky.” It was important for her to link these two words together to honor the Hawaiian culture and the ʻāina (land) their family has embraced and the aloha they’ve received from their neighbors while also honoring their Mexican culture. This brand is also a testament to what her family has gone through since her father’s deportation as well as how they have survived and continue to move forward. Victoria commented about the purpose of this business endeavor: “[It is] a tribute to all immigrants that are separated from their family geographically but continue to live under the same sky. In the times I missed my dad, I would look up at the moon and at least find comfort. He could look at the same thing as me at that exact moment.”4 Victoria hopes to create the opportunity to bring their coffee directly to customers, and she intends to work hard to make sure they are successful. This new venture has made her hopeful and excited for the future. This leaves us now to reflect on what it means for the Latinx population to form community in the diaspora. In No Separate Refuge, historian Sarah Deutsch notes, “Migration diversified the village economy and stretched the village into a regional community consisting of migrants and villagers with bonds crossing hundreds of miles.”5 I would like to expand that idea to highlight how a larger collective Latinx experience from villages, barrios, cities, suburbs, and rural areas across the United States, Latin America, and the Caribbean weaves together many Latinx groups across time and geographically in an even more expansive network of communities that are linked both culturally and through loved ones to their respective homelands. And in a place like Oceania, in the Hawaiian archipelago, thousands of miles away, these networks expand even farther across ocean realms to create a distinct experience for Latinxs in the diaspora. In Hawaiʻi, these networks further web out across the various islands where friends and family live, work, and visit one another through interisland trips and communication. These networks demonstrate what Kyle Shinseki notes: “Chicanos and Mexicanos in Hawaiʻi clearly are not dependent on geographical concentrations to form community. . . . The fact that Mexican culture continues to thrive in a place as far from México as Hawaiʻi is proof of how culture knows no limit.”6 So too does this apply to the larger Latinx experience in Hawaiʻi, revealing the complex ways communities, culture, and evolving identities blend with Native Hawaiian, local, and other cultural groups into a Pacific Latinidad. In turn, our Pacific Latinidad reminds us this experience is diverse and expansive, and we are fortunate to receive the aloha that Hawaiʻi and its people have shown to the Latinx population. During one of my visits to Hawaiʻi, I had the opportunity to talk story with ku’ualoha ho’omanawanui, who is a full professor of Hawaiian literature at the University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa. Born in Kailua, Oʻahu, she was raised between there and Wailua, Kauaʻi. She identifies as Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) while also recognizing her Tahitian, German, English, Spanish, Chinese, and French ancestries. When asked about how Native Hawaiians view the growing

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FIGURE 22.   Misma Lani farmworkers and Victoria Magaña Ledesma (holding dog). Hōnaunau,

Hawaiʻi Island. El Molinito Farm (which got its name from the five-­acre lot where the mill is located), October 14, 2021. The picture was taken for the Misma Lani website, launched November 2021. See http://​www​.mismalani​.com. Photo courtesy of Victoria Magaña Ledesma.

presence of the Latinx population in Hawaiʻi, she shared her perspective on some of those concerns: There’s many unknown factors and questions that remain, and only time will tell how things [a new Latinx population] will work out. I think the short answer is, while I don’t think we like to see ourselves in general as unwelcoming, the political climate has really shifted where Latino migration to Hawaiʻi is not because Native Hawaiians specifically invited you, but migration to Hawaiʻi by anyone in the U.S. and U.S. possessions is allowed through our dispossession by someone else [the settler colonial state]. And I think the sovereignty movement is to address issues of self-­determination, including having a say in migration, among other concerns, and to tell the settler colonial state, “You don’t have the authority to determine who can come here,” rather than kicking out individuals or communities and saying, “You Latino person, you Micronesian person, don’t belong here.” There are increasing tensions over mass tourism, climate change affecting Hawaiʻi’s capacity to support the current and estimated higher population load, and sustainability. These are general concerns not linked to any specific community migrating to Hawaiʻi. How new Latinx communities are welcomed and to what degree by Native Hawaiians will depend in part on the political system in power, how Latinx communities may embrace Hawaiian political issues in solidarity with us, as has happened in the past, of who rises to power on behalf of Native Hawaiians.7

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Ku’ualoha makes an important point about the increasing presence of nonNative settlers and those who are in a position of power to welcome them (in this case, the state of Hawaiʻi). Yet we must continually acknowledge that the presence of settlers is at the expense of Native Hawaiian dispossession and displacement. However, kuʻualoha also made the distinction that Latinxs in Hawaiʻi have a more historical and positive relationship with Native Hawaiians due to the cultural influences, for example, that Mexican vaqueros left behind through Hawaiʻi’s cattle ranching culture (e.g., guitars, music, and other material culture) and the Puerto Rican influence on the island’s food and music (e.g., pateles on plate lunches and kachi-­kachi). She also noted the cultural similarities both groups share that center on the importance of family and similar dispositions that are warm, generous, and engaging. She also noted, “There’s a similarity, at least in grammar, between Spanish and Hawaiian. So there’s these recognized connections that are not just really old; they’re intermediate [recent] as well. And there’s that ongoing presence that will be a factor. And what it’s going to depend on is how the new communities position themselves with that.”8 This involves the active participation of the Latinx population, which not only acculturates to the larger Native Hawaiian and local communities but also actively supports Kanaka Maoli social movements. These stories continue to evolve. As I sit here finishing this epilogue, I am reminded of other personal encounters and stories I came across toward the end of this journey that confirm why I chose to write this book. For example, on August 30, 2019, actor Moses Goods debuted his original two-­man play, Paniolo: Stories and Songs from the Hawaiian Cowboy at Hilo Palace Theatre on Hawaiʻi Island. Born and raised in Maui and currently based in Honolulu, Goods, who is of Native Hawaiian and Black ancestry, is one of Hawaiʻi’s most prominent theater artists. (I also had the pleasure of watching him perform in Honolulu around 2012).9 As Goods’s bio notes about his body of work, it is strongly rooted in Native Hawaiian culture.10 Some of his plays, for example, include Duke, about the legendary surfer and Olympic gold medalist Native Hawaiian athlete, Duke Kahanamoku, and the kupua (demigod) Kamapuaʻa, among others. He is also the founder and artistic director of the Inamona Theatre Company, which reintroduces Native Hawaiian–­based stories to the larger Hawaiʻi community. As Goods notes, “It’s dedicated to reintroducing the stories of Hawaiʻi to the people of Hawaiʻi. It’s a way of digging up stories that people don’t necessarily hear and a way of connecting the generations of today with our stories of the past. . . . I think that’s part of my kuleana, my responsibility as a Native Hawaiian artist, to tell these stories, embrace these stories, learn from these stories.”11 Goods does this with his play on the Hawaiian paniolo, (re)introducing Hawaiʻi to the story of México’s relationship with the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. In Paniolo, Goods and his co-­star, Kapono Nāʻiliʻili, share the history of the Hawaiian paniolo and its roots in the vaquero culture of México, which

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created a rich cultural exchange between early Native Hawaiian paniolos and Mexican vaqueros (chapter 1). As Paniolo illustrates, “not only did the vaqueros teach their Native Hawaiian apprentices about their skills in roping, riding, saddle making, and cattle ranching, but Native Hawaiians also taught their Mexican counterparts traditional fishing skills and how to paddle a canoe.”12 The inspiration for this play came from an interview Goods also conducted with longtime Parker Ranch veterinarian and paniolo historian Dr. Billy Bergin on Hawaiʻi Island in 2018. Goods summarized, “It is a bit of a dying culture and people don’t really understand to the full extent what the culture means to Hawaiʻi in general. I, for one, wanted to know more about a culture that I knew about, but didn’t necessarily grow up in.”13 Although Goods suggests this was a culture somewhat on the decline, what he has actually done with his amazing storytelling skills is perpetuate this moʻolelo (story) along with that of the current generation of Hawaiʻi’s paniolos whom I speak about, who continue to carry on this tradition so that it remains an integral part of Hawaiʻi’s history. Some of my recent encounters also demonstrate this point. For example, toward the end of my research and interviews for this book in 2019, I spent the summer in Hawaiʻi on the islands of Oʻahu and Kauaʻi. While resting on Oʻahu in June, I was able to reflect on the past twenty years of doing this research and meeting all the wonderful people who not only took the time to share their stories with me but also trusted me to retell them so that others could learn from their collective experience. I was in Waimanalo, swimming in the water and feeling a profound sense of gratitude not only for those years of talking story with folks and making new friends along the way, but also for the moment I had in the ocean to thank the kūpuna of this ʻāina I was reconnecting with, and the Latinx ancestors who came to these shores for various reasons and decided to live out their lives here in this beautiful, sacred place. As I was giving thanks, I heard a family in the water close by talking in Spanish. I looked over and saw them and made eye contact with a man who had a “Mexico” tattoo on his body. We gave each other the nod of recognition, and then he initiated a conversation with me. In that exchange I learned that he is a paniolo from Hilo, Big Island, and that although he was born in México, he was raised in Hilo. He was excited about going back to visit México with his partner, since they had not been there for some time. We talked story about the paniolos while the small waves moved us around in the water. Eventually he said goodbye and left to go back to his family who were waiting on the beach. Although he did not share his name with me, I appreciated our exchange and that even in that brief moment, he wanted to tell me a part of his story, since we have a shared Mexican ancestry. It also demonstrated to me the continued presence of Mexican vaqueros in Hawaiʻi, who also embrace the Hawaiian name paniolo.14 Other recent encounters also reveal more depth to this collective story. The following month, I departed for Kauaʻi. Since I had not yet visited the island of Kauaʻi, I went there to meet with archivists I had previously contacted at

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the Kauaʻi Historical Society as well as to see if there was still a visible presence of Latinxs since the days when Mexicans came to the island to assist with the rebuilding efforts after Hurricane Iniki devastated the island in 1992. Although I could not find any mention of the Mexican workers who came to help rebuild, the stories I heard from others, including interviewees and archivists I met, were a testament to the fact that Mexicans had been there, but many went back after their work was done. As with previous labor recruitment efforts, perhaps a number of them also stayed behind to make a new life for themselves in Kauaʻi.15 While there, I stayed in the town of Kapaʻa. During one of my outings, I came across a small taco truck, El Taco Feliz. It was located in a lot right next door to El Mariachi’s Authentic Mexican Cuisine. I decided to eat there, and to my surprise, they had not only the best carnitas I have had in Hawaiʻi but also ones rivaling those in the continental United States. I would dare suggest that these were the best carnitas tacos that I’ve had outside of Michoacán, México. Everything was authentic, even the homemade corn tortillas. I spoke with the family, who ran the business together. They are originally from Guererro, México, have been in Kauaʻi for nine years, and opened their business six years ago. Their food was so good that I went back every day because all the various tacos I tried reminded me of the ones I had while growing up eating in San Diego.16 I also noticed that their clientele were locals and some visiting tourists. During my stay, I also noticed a number of Mexican restaurants, which suggests a sizable Mexican community in Kapaʻa. I went to a few other establishments because in my quest to learn about the experiences of the Latinx communities of Hawaiʻi, food was one thing that drew me to particular areas to find out if the food was authentic, Latinx owned and also to talk story with the owners and even the clientele when the opportunity arose. One of those establishments I also visited was Paniolo in Kapaʻa. I noticed the sign said, “Santa Maria–­style BBQ (Mexican).” There was a place in Santa Barbara when I was a graduate student at the University of California, Santa Barbara, that served a similar BBQ-­style tri-­tip. When speaking with the owner (who is Mexican), he shared with me that he had been living in Kauaʻi for eighteen years and was married to a local woman. He is originally from Santa Maria, California, and actually used to cook the BBQ tri-­tip at the Goleta, California, Albertsons (which I had bought many a plate from). The owner also noted that he was one of the few Mexicans in Kapaʻa when he first moved there, but he had seen a lot more now. While talking with him, I also noticed how his clientele were also mainly locals with some tourists. I could tell he was well known and liked by the local clientele. After our conversation, he invited me back that night to Paniolo to attend a Latin jazz group that was performing for their First Saturday block party event. The crowd was primarily locals (including local Latinxs) and some visiting tourists. At the event I also visited a couple of other Mexican food stands, including Raphael’s Aloha Tacos and Nixtamal Kauaʻi. It was a night filled with music,

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good food, and informative conversations. During my drive down Kuhio Road the next morning, I also noticed a truck that passed me by that had a Mexican flag. These were just some of the indicators that there is a sizable Mexican community in the town of Kapaʻi, Kauaʻi, and that recent Mexican immigrants are continuing to balance not only their own culture but also that of the larger Native Hawaiian and local communities of Hawaiʻi that they are now a part of.17 Finally, during my last visit to Hawaiʻi prior to the COVID-­19 pandemic in October 2019, my friend Ghia and I had the good fortune of being able to attend and document the 2019 Hawaiʻi Hispanic Heritage and Health Fair Festival in Honolulu on the island of Oʻahu held on October 6. Coordinated by veteran radio personality Nancy Ortiz, the event included food trucks and food booths from various cultural groups from Latin America and the Caribbean (e.g., Mexican, Puerto Rican, Columbian, Haitian, Jamaican), DJs, health and other organization information booths (e.g., Miss Latina Hawaiʻi Scholarship Pageant), and a stage that included performances by both local and out-­of-­town performers, including a Native Hawaiian hālau (hula school), Ballet Folklórico Mexicano de Carlos Moreno from Oakland (California), Grupo Folklórico de Panama, and a variety of contemporary musical artists, such as Agua Dulce Salsa Band and Eddie Ortiz & the Son Caribe Band, among others.18 Attendees included the Latinx community, Native Hawaiians, locals, and visiting tourists. When Ghia and I were walking around we noticed something that reminded us of our hometown of San Diego: lowriders. Parked along the end of the main street that sliced through the festival were a row of lowriders from Lowriders Pride and Block Life Car Clubs. I walked up to one of the guys who was standing there wearing a car club shirt. His name was Charlie Alejandro, president of Lowriders Pride Hawaiʻi Car Club. Charlie identifies as local Filipino. According to Charlie, he was introduced to lowrider culture in the early 1980s by his cousin, who was visiting from Carson, California. He commented, “I asked him [his cousin], ‘What’s lowriding?’ And he told me, ‘It’s a car that’s lowered with hydraulics.’ But at that time, hydraulics wasn’t really . . . we didn’t know about hydraulics at that time. All we knew was low cars. So that was kind of interesting.”19 Charlie, however, didn’t really get involved in lowriding until a few years later. He shared, When my cousin got me involved, I found out after a couple of years there were lowriders in Hawaiʻi. Come to find out, one of my classmates was, like, the vice president of a club of Lowriders Pride Car Club. It was started in 1979. But I didn’t get myself involved until 1984. That’s up in Wahiawa, where a bunch of Mexicans, Chicanos in the military, and locals got together and started forming a lowrider club.20 That’s how I got involved at that point, just signing up. I seen the culture of it, and I got to know lowriding more, the hydraulics, aiming a car, and upholstery and so forth.

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FIGURE 23.   Lowriders Pride Car Club members, October 5, 2019. The influence of Chicano

culture through lowriders continues to be visible among locals in Hawaiʻi (author is kneeling, center of photo). See http://​www​.ghialarkins​.com. Photo courtesy of Ghia Dulcia Larkins.

When asked about the racial and ethnic makeup of his car club, Charlie noted, “Yeah, there were some local Mexicans as well too. At that time, it was Mexicans, Hawaiians, and some Filipinos and some Asians. So it had all kind of mixture besides just the Hispanic culture. But there were more Hispanics just because of the lowriders.”21 As we continued to talk story and I met other members of Lowriders Pride Car Club, I witnessed how much this aspect of Chicano culture from the late 1970s and early 1980s had influenced locals in Hawaiʻi, particularly since both Mexicans and Chicanos who were stationed on Oʻahu introduced this cultural lifestyle of customizing their cars and cruising in them. Lowrider culture continues to resonate with locals in Hawaiʻi today. Stories like these illustrated not only how much Hawaiʻi’s culture impacted Latinxs but also how much they in turn contributed to it as well. This, for me, was another example of the Pacific Latinidad that has developed in Hawaiʻi. Reflecting on the Latinx experience in Hawaiʻi and as someone who self-­ identifies as Chicano, Mexican, Filipino, and Mexipino, I couldn’t help but think about a conversation I had with César Gaxiola when I interviewed him in Maui. He shared a fascinating story with me about the plumeria of Hawaiʻi, which he mentioned is actually Mexican in origin. In México, it is called frangipani. The frangipani is also found in Central and South America and the Caribbean. I was both surprised and fascinated to learn this fact. This beautiful flower adorns not only the giant flowering tree but also the ground where the flowers fall and the

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people who wear it in their ears and around their necks as leis in Hawaiʻi. I found this to be a wonderful metaphor for the Mexican and larger Latinx experience in Hawaiʻi. In much the same way that this flower has crossed the Pacific to become a part of Hawaiʻi, so too have Latinx migrants over the last 190 years, who also crossed the ocean and learned to adapt to a new environment and a familiar climate and culture. And much like Latinxs, the plumeria flowers can be seen as a commodity—­they are part of the tourist economy and island culture. Throughout the years, both the frangipani and the Latinx population grew, thrived, and became a part of the colorful landscape of Hawaiʻi, contributing their own beautiful and rich culture to the larger collective of communities both Native Hawaiian and non-­Natives who call Hawaiʻi home.

Acknowledgments Writing a book can be a solitary process, but it is by no means an individual endeavor. So many people are a part of these labors of love, and this book is no different. This book represents all the years I have invested in this project, but more so, my community of family, friends, and colleagues who have always been there to support me in multiple ways. I would like to give thanks and gratitude to everyone who has had some part in the making of this book and walked with me at various points along this journey. First, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read earlier drafts of parts or the entirety of my book manuscript during writing retreats and individual reviews. The discussions we had and all your insightful comments were instrumental in helping me shape the major ideas for this book and helped me think through a lot of complex ideas, which I am grateful for. This was also a great lesson on learning more about the importance of listening and being mindful with my writing. These individuals include Felipe Hinojosa, Michelle Telléz, Alexandrina Agloro, Gina Garcia, Kari Kokka, Amanda Tachine, David Torres-­Rouff, Akiemi Glenn, Francisco Beltrán, Lilia Fernández, Robert Chao Romero, JoAnna Poblete, Emir Estrada, Mérida Rúa, Joyce Pualani Warren, Kēhaulani Vaughan, Ersula Ore, Desiree Vega, Angelica Pesarini, Camilla Hawthorne, Mathew Sandoval, Camilla Fojas, Nitasha Tamar Sharma, Charles Sepulveda, Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar, Tyina Steptoe, Jerome Dotson, Billy Bergin, Karen Kuo, Karen Leong, and Lisa Magaña. To my copyeditor extraordinaire, Jordan Beltran Gonzales, thank you for your generosity of time and patience in editing my manuscript and for all our insightful conversations that made this a wonderful experience. More book projects will be coming! Thank you to my friends and colleagues at Arizona State University (ASU), who have supported me along this journey with encouraging words and kinship over a meal, coffee, or adult beverage. These include Brandon Yoo, Kathy 229

230  •  Acknowledgments

Nakagawa, Aaron Bae, Wei Li, Aggie Yellow Horse, Marianne Kim, Carlos Vélez Ibáñez, Marivel Danielson, Eileen Diaz McConnell, Francisco Lara-­ Valencia, Chandra Crudup, Kelly Jackson, Marlon Bailey, Mako Ward, Helen “HQ” Quan, Crystal Griffith, Kimberly Scott, Elsie Moore, Rashad Shabazz, Myla Carpio, Elizabeth Swadener, Lisa Anderson, Alejandro Acierto, Grisha Coleman, Eleanor Seaton, Marisa Duarte, Nilanjana Bhattacharjya, Edward Vargas, and Juliam Lim. I would also like to thank Tami McKenzie and Tanya Williams, who always made sure my trips to Hawaiʻi were without incident. Thank you to my mentors, friends, colleagues, and academic homies who have always provided their encouragement and support over the years. Many are also among those whom I consider my chosen family. These include Chris Knaus, Cyndy Snyder, Lisa Marie Rollins, Paul Spickard, Zaragoza Vargas, Elizabeth Sumida Huaman, Carlos Santos, Tracy Lachica Buenavista, George Sánchez, Jason Oliver Chang, Iesha Jackson, Joanne Rondilla, Micere Keels, Luis Alvarez, David Gutiérrez, Catherine Ceniza Choy, Keith Camacho, Wendy Cheng, Raquél Casas, Tessa Winkelmann, Lauren Hirshberg, Vicki Ruiz, Lily Anne Welty Tamai, Ingrid Dineen-Wimberly, Reg Daniel, Kip Fulbeck, Robyn Rodriguez, Cathy Schlund-Vials, Jimmy Patiño, Rick Bonus, Fuifuilupe Niumeitolu, April Henderson, Wesley Ueunten, Vika Palaita, Alfred Flores, Catherine Sue Ramírez, Mary Romero, José Alamillo, Matt Garcia, Linda Trinh Võ, Mary Danico, Evelyn Hu-­DeHart, Kevin Nadal, Judy Patacsil, Felix Tuyay, Andrew Jolivétte, Dennis Childs, Angélica Yañez, Daniela Sow, Natalye Harpin, Mychal Odom, Martin Manalansan IV, Anita Mannur, Cindy Sangalang, Tad Nakamura, Mark Padoongpatt, Mario Sifuentez, Theo Gonzalves, Steve McKay, Sefa Aina, Melissa Ann Nierva, Charlene Martinez, Natchee Barnd, Shonda Buchanan, Faye Caronan, Lisa Covington, Oscar Fierros, Mary Margaret Fonow, Diane Fujino, Toka Valu, Konrad Ng, Makerusa “Mak” Porotesano, Kathy Jetñil-­Kijiner, Marc Johnston-­Guerrero, Caroline Kieu Linh-­Valverde, Rasmia Kirmani, Pablo Landeros, Daryl Maeda, Raúl Ramos, Noel Voltz, Raquel Monroe, Sam Museus, Anthony Ocampo, Farzana Nayani, Alyssa Newman, Victor Viesca, Melany De La Cruz-Viesca, Paul Espinosa, Laura Kina, Zelideth Rivas, Janet Stickmon, Rosina Serrano, Lily Ann Villaraza, Myra Washington, Rafael “Papo” Zapata, LeiLani Nishime, Natalie Santizo, Xuan Santos, Karie Gaska, Asena Taione-­Filihia, Lisa Uperesa, and Lauren Araiza. I would also like to send a shout-­out to my friends who contributed to this book in additional ways. This includes Ghia Dulcia Larkins and Jaimée Marsh for taking photographs and sharing in these adventures, Luana Rivera Palacio, Makana Kushi, and Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar for their assistance with ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, Mariko Iijima for providing additional contacts to interview, and Claudia Hartz, who assisted me with additional interviews and translation of documents. Family and friends who also assisted me over the years in various ways to enable me to complete this project include my brother Ben Guevarra,

Acknowledgments  •  231

Vagana Maka, Claire Abidog, Annabelle Atkins, Abigail Gabriel, Liʻo Lubanski, Johnsie Braxton, Dionne Haynes, and Jimaya Gomez. I would like to thank Cherie Potts and her staff for their assistance with transcribing services, Nick Goettl for designing the maps and tables for my book, and Thomas Lopez for assistance with additional Census data. Thank you to all my friends, colleagues, and chosen family in Hawaiʻi—­Jeff and Nikki Moniz, Isaiah and Rebekah Walker, Matt and Summer Kester, John Rosa, kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui, Ty Kāwika Tengan, Noelani Goodyear-­ Kaʻōpua, Jonathan Okamura, Roderick Labrador, Lorraine Lucrecio, Sharleen Nakamoto, and Aaron Levine—­who have always shown me aloha and kinship when I have come back to Hawaiʻi. I would also like to give a special thank-­ you to Monisha Das Gupta, who assisted me with some of my first contacts to interview for this book. Your generosity and collegiality are appreciated. I also want to send a heartfelt mahalo nui loa to the Kaluhiokalani ʻohana on Oʻahu for all your love and aloha over the years, and to Auntie Claudia and Uncle Ted Kaercher for continuing to provide family and community in Arizona. A special shout-­out to my sister from another mister, Alexandrina Agloro, who has worked closely with me and helped me envision this work reaching an even wider audience. Because of her encouragement and our shared interest in this topic, we started the Latinx Pacific Archive (LPA), a digital humanities project to further expand these collections of stories and archival sources across Oceania. I also want to thank Angela Dean, who has been so supportive of my work over the years and instrumental in providing me with numerous contacts and other resources, particularly within the coffee industry on Hawaiʻi Island. She also collected additional oral histories for me and always took the time to answer my questions when I needed to clarify a particular point in telling this story. Gracias hermana. Additionally, I send a sincere thank-­you to all the individuals and families who took the time to share with me their stories, photographs, and other items from their own personal or family archives. I was honored to meet them and earn their confianza (trust). I appreciate them taking the time out of their busy lives to sit down with me over a meal and talk story about their experiences. These stories are what make this book come to life. Although I could not include everyone’s story in this book, my hope is to continue sharing these stories through other publications and the LPA. I do, however, list everyone who took the time to share their story with me. They are listed by last name, since some families had multiple members interviewed, while other nonrelated interviewees shared the same last name. These individuals and families include Magaña Ortiz, Magaña Ledesma, Dean, Villa, Alexander, ho’omanawanui, Casumbal-­ Salazar, Velasquez, Rodriguez, Ballar Ortiz, Minn, Sánchez Romero, Cancino, Magaña, Rivera Palacio, Calamaco, De La Cruz, Mendoza Soria, Bergin, Aguilar, López families, Palau, Ledezma, Rios, Jacobo Roque, Gonzales, Rincon, Alejandro, Ayala, Reyes Cruz, Ruiz Lopez, Velasquez De La Cruz, Morris, Bain,

232  •  Acknowledgments

Tuttle, Sequeira, Gaxiola, Baisa, Schultz, Pagente, Dias, Camacho, Baca, Diaz, Cruz families, Torres Valle, Gonzalez families, Solano, Macias, Martinez, Pulido, Padilla, Estrada, Zavala-­Perez, Escajeda, Arellano, Boné, Cancino Garza, Esquer, Garcia (pseudonym), and Valenzuela (pseudonym). I would also like to thank staff members at the numerous libraries, archives, research centers, and historical societies that I visited or worked with virtually. Their generosity of time and patience with all my requests and the many conversations we have had over the sources they gathered for me have been much appreciated. This includes Pedro Hernández and Janeen Schiff at the Center for Puerto Rican Studies Archives, Hunter College, City University of New York; Joan Hori, Dore Minatodani, and Jodie Mattos at the Hawaiian and Pacific Collections at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Hamilton Library; Donna Stewart and Delia Akaji at the Kauaʻi Historical Society Archives; the staff at the Maui Historical Society Archives; Dean Smith at the Bancroft Library; Mary Louise Haraguchi at the University of Hawaiʻi, Hilo, Mookini Library; Kevin Kiper at the Diocesan Archives, Diocese of Monterey in California; Vicki Lau and staff at the State of Hawaiʻi Department of Labor and Industrial Relations; Billy Bergin at the Paniolo Preservation Society; Elizabeth Villa at the New Mexico State University Archives; Krystal Kakimoto and staff at the Bishop Museum Archives; Ju Sun Yi and staff at the Hawaiʻi State Archives; Mark Hugo Lopez at the Pew Research Center; and the staff at the San Diego Historical Society Archives. This book could not have been completed without the support of various grants and fellowships, which provided me with the vital time and resources necessary to do this important work. This includes the Ford Foundation, the Reed Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, ASU Institute for Humanities Research, ASU Program for Transborder Communities, the School of Social Transformation at ASU, the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences at ASU, and the Comparative Border Studies Program at ASU. I want to thank my former editor, Leslie Mitchner, who always had faith in this project since I first pitched the idea to her. Although she is now retired, I have been blessed to work with my current editor, Nicole Solano, who continues to share this same faith and support in my book project. Nicole, the series editors, and the rest of the staff at Rutgers University Press have been a pleasure to work with as we see this book to its completion. Most of all I want to thank my family, who continue to provide me with the love, encouragement, and support necessary to complete this book even from afar and during the COVID-­19 pandemic. Every meal we shared together during small family gatherings, the conversations we had, the laughter, and the beautiful moments we spent together sustained my soul. These moments also remind me of why I do this. Our stories matter, and we must remember them, write them into existence if they are not known, and share them with others. I love you all dearly. To Natalie Scott and Anya Mack, who have also shown me

Acknowledgments  •  233

love, encouragement, and joy along this journey, I appreciate you both. Finally, I want to thank my son, Robert, for choosing me to be your father in this lifetime. You are one of my life’s greatest blessings, and you continue to inspire me to be a better man, father, and human being. There may have been a few people I forgot to thank who have also been a part of this journey and assisted me along the way. If I have done so, my sincerest apologies. Your support is appreciated. Much love, respect, and aloha.

Notes Preface 1 Hānai is the Hawaiian cultural familial practice of welcoming and adopting someone into a family but not in a Western sense. It means to raise, care for, support, and sustain, which expands the family through lifelong bonds and relationships. Phone discussion with Kuulei Kaluhiokalani, February 17, 2021; Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-­English/English-­Hawaiian (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1986), 56. 2 Given the similar Indigenous cultural ties Filipinxs share with other groups in Oceania, I include them when using the term Pacific Islanders. For more on these shared cultural ties, see Lane Wilcken, The Forgotten Children of Maui: Filipino Myths, Tattoos, and Rituals of a Demigod (Scotts Valley, Calif.: CreateSpace, 2013). 3 I make a distinction between those who are Indigenous (e.g., Kumeyaay, Navajo) versus those who are of Indigenous descent (e.g., Mexicans, Puerto Ricans) in order to differentiate the diversity of Latinx groups who share a history of racial multiplicity, which includes Indigenous ancestry among others. 4 This applied only to individuals who I wanted to follow up with regarding specific information I intended to use but they either moved out of the country or were no longer reachable through their current contact information. 5 I borrow Indigenous studies scholar Andrew Jolivétte’s use of kinship as “the active engagement with all of our relations in a life-­long commitment building of a better world. In contrast to allyship, which is transactional and often temporary, kinship is about the deep relational bonds we make across time, space, and place.” Discussion with Andrew Jolivétte, September 5, 2021. For more on “talk story,” talanoa, and pláticas, see John P. Rosa, The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014), 105–­108; Timote M. Vaioleti, “Talanoa Research Methodology: A Developing Position on Pacific Research,” Waikato Journal of Education 12 (2006): 23–­26; and Cindy O. Fierros and Dolores Delgado Bernal, “Vamos a Pláticar: The Contours of Pláticas as Chicana/Latina Feminist Methodology,” Chicana/Latina Studies 15, no. 2 (Spring 2016): 102–­107.

235

236  •  Notes to Pages xiii–1

Note on Terminology and Accessibility 1 See Samuel H. Elbert and Mary Kawena Pukui, Hawaiian Grammar (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2001); and Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-­English/English-­Hawaiian, rev. ed. (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1986). 2 Local identity is a marked cultural heritage and identity formed from generations of mixing of non-­Native locals that defines the plantation history of Hawaiʻi. It can also include those who are also mixed with Native Hawaiian and self-­identify as such. See Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura, eds., Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008); Isaiah Helekunihi Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth-­Century Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 173; Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Defiant Indigeneity: The Politics of Hawaiian Performance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018), 31–­42; Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010); John P. Rosa, Local Story: The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014); and Haunani-­Kay Trask, “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony: ‘Locals’ in Hawaiʻi,” Amerasia Journal 26, no. 2 (2000): 1–­24. 3 See Ed Morales, Latinx: The New Force in American Politics and Culture (New York: Verso Books, 2018). 4 I’ve had the opportunity to engage in conversations with nonacademic Latinxs about the use of the term and for some, it was unfamiliar and odd, while others I spoke with heard of and actually used the term, particularly among the current generations. The recent trend of its use in news media, film, and TV (e.g., Netflix, Hulu) shows a growing acceptance and use of the term. I do however recognize that not everyone uses it. 5 Paola Ramos, Finding Latinx: In Search of the Voices Redefining Latino Identity (New York: Vintage Books, 2020), 16–­17. For more on the use of Latinx as a gender inclusive term, see Maylei Blackwell, Floridalma Boj Lopez, and Luis Urrieta Jr., “Special Issue: Critical Latinx Indigeneities,” Latino Studies 15, no. 2 ( July 2017): 129; and Carlos Santos, “The History, Struggles and Potential of the Term Latinx,” Latina/o Psychology Today 4, no. 2 (2017): 7–­14. 6 See Rosa, Local Story, 99; Lilia Fernández, Brown in the Windy City: Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in Postwar Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014); Felipe Hinojosa, Apostles of Change: Latino Radical Politics, Church Occupations, and the Fight to Save the Barrio (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2021); Mario Jimenez Sifuentez, Of Forests and Fields: Mexican Labor in the Pacific Northwest (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2016); JoAnna Poblete, Islanders in the Empire: Filipino and Puerto Rican Laborers in Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017); and David Torres-­Rouff, Before L.A.: Race, Space, and Municipal Power in Los Angeles, 1781–­1894 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2013).

Introduction 1 Email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 26, 2021; Cristian Farias, “‘Pillar’ of Hawaii’s Coffee Industry Given Last-­Minute Reprieve from Deportation,” Huffington Post, June 8, 2017, accessed April 13, 2018, https://​www​.huffpost​.com/​entry/​magana​-ortiz​-trump​-hawaii​-kona​-coffee​_n​ _5938c84ee4b0b13f2c66ee0b.

Notes to Pages 1–3  •  237

2 Each of the islands in the Hawaiian archipelago is known by several names. For example, the names of the southernmost Hawaiian island include Hawaiʻi Island, Moku O Keawe, the Big Island, and Hawaiʻi nui a Keawe. In this text, the eight main islands will be referred to as Hawaiʻi Island, in order to distinguish the island from the state; Maui; Kahoʻolawe; Lānaʻi; Molokaʻi; Oʻahu; Kauaʻi; and Niʻihau. Discussion with Luana Rivera Palacio, Kumu Hula of Hālau Nāpuaokamokihanaoha, February 5, 2022. 3 Although the article regarding Magaña Ortiz says twenty acres, his daughter verified that it was six acres. See email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 26, 2021; Rosey Alvarez and Peter Rothberg, “Andres Magana Ortiz’s Deportation Is Indefensible. Help Reverse It,” Nation, August 11, 2017; and Farias, “‘Pillar’ of Hawaii’s Coffee Industry.” 4 Allyson Blair, “Smuggled into US as a Teen, Respected Kona Farmer Now Faces Deportation to Mexico,” Hawaii News Now, May 31, 2017, accessed April 13, 2018, https://​www​.hawaiinewsnow​.com/​story/​35561956/​smuggled​-into​-us​-as​-a​-teen​ -respected​-kona​-farmer​-now​-faces​-deportation​-to​-mexico/; Farias, “‘Pillar’ of Hawaii’s Coffee Industry”; Derek Hawkins, “Facing Deportation, Hawaii Coffee Farmer, Father of Three Returns to Mexico after 28 Years,” Washington Post, July 10, 2017, accessed April 13, 2018, https://​www​.washingtonpost​.com/​news/​morning​-mix/​ wp/​2017/​07/​10/​facing​-deportation​-hawaii​-coffee​-farmer​-father​-of​-three​-returns​-to​ -mexico​-after​-28​-years/. 5 According to Magaña Ortiz’s daughter, he managed between 120 and 150 acres. See email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 26, 2021; Farias, “‘Pillar’ of Hawaii’s Coffee Industry”; and Hawkins, “Facing Deportation.” 6 Ironically, Barack Obama is also from Hawaiʻi. Magaña lived in Hawaiʻi from 1998 to 2017. See email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 26, 2021. 7 Alvarez and Rothberg, “Andres Magana Ortiz’s Deportation”; Hawkins, “Facing Deportation.” 8 Blair, “Smuggled into US as a Teen.” See also HNN Staff, “Big Island Farmer Who Rallied Kona Community Loses Deportation Battle,” Hawaii News Now, July 7, 2017, accessed April 13, 2018, https://​www​.hawaiinewsnow​.com/​story/​35836079/​time​-runs​ -out​-for​-respected​-kona​-farmer​-in​-deportation​-fight/. 9 Hawkins, “Facing Deportation.” 10 Hawkins. For more on how deportations are affecting immigrant families in Hawaiʻi, see Alvarez and Rothberg, “Andres Magana Ortiz’s Deportation”; Jeanne Batalova, Monisha Das Gupta, and Sue Patricia Haglund, Newcomers to the Aloha State: Challenges and Prospects for Mexicans in Hawaiʻi (Washington, D.C.: Migration Policy Institute, 2013); and Randy Capps, Rosa Maria Castañeda, Ajay Chaudry, and Robert Santos, Paying the Price: The Impact of Immigration Raids on America’s Children (Washington, D.C.: National Council of La Raza, 2007). 11 Hawkins, “Facing Deportation.” 12 Hawkins. 13 Hawkins. See also email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 26, 2021. 14 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 2, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 15 William Cole and Susan Essoyan, “Kona Coffee Farmer Says Goodbye to Family ahead of Deportation,” Star Advertiser, July 8, 2017, https://​www​.staradvertiser​.com/​ 2017/​07/​08/​breaking​-news/​kona​-coffee​-farmer​-says​-goodbye​-to​-family​-ahead​-of​ -deportation/. 16 As of now Andres Magaña Ortiz is still waiting to come back home to Hawaiʻi. See Cole and Essoyan; and Hawkins, “Facing Deportation.”

238  •  Notes to Pages 3–6

17 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma. 18 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma. 19 For a discussion of the Hawaiian concept of aloha, see Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Defiant Indigeneity: The Politics of Hawaiian Performance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018), 23–­45. 20 Local identity is a marked cultural heritage and recognition formed from generations of mixing that defines the plantation history of Hawaiʻi. It was also used historically for the first time in a public setting (newspapers and court) to distinguish between Native Hawaiians and “local” Asians versus haoles during events surrounding the Massie-­Kahahawai case during 1931 and 1932. See John P. Rosa, Local Story: The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2015). The term local, however, has been critiqued by scholars of Indigenous studies and Asian settler colonialism such as Haunani-­Kay Trask, Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Candace Fujikane, Jonathan Y. Okamura, Dean Saranillio, and others who note that the use of the term is problematic in that it signifies predominantly Asian settlers, who have been and continue to be responsible for the continued colonization of Hawaiʻi and the undermining of Kanaka Maoli sovereignty and decolonizing movements. See Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura, eds., Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008); Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Why There Are No Asian Americans in Hawaiʻi: The Continuing Significance of Local Identity,” Social Process in Hawaii 35 (1994): 161–­178; Haunani-­Kay Trask, “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony: ‘Locals’ in Hawaiʻi,” Amerasia Journal 26, no. 2 (2000): 1–­24; Dean Itsuji Saranillio, Unsustainable Empire: Alternative Histories of Hawaiʻi Statehood (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2018); and Teves, Defiant Indigeneity, 31–­42. 21 I utilize Paola Ramos’s use of the term Latinx, which as she notes is not a new phenomenon with the use of x, and as with language, it also evolves over time. She views it as encompassing the “uniqueness and diversity that had defined sixty million Latinos living in the United States.” Despite its acceptance or rejection and various critiques, it remains a word that includes “every single one of us.” This includes but is not limited to the diversity of racial and ethnic and gender identity expressions, including nonbinary and nonconforming genders, disabled, and so on. Although individuals may identify in various ways, such as Latina, Mexican, Honduran, Chicano, and so on, my use of Latinx as an umbrella term is to be inclusive of all racialized ethnic communities with roots in the United States, Latin America, and the Caribbean. See Paola Ramos, Finding Latinx: In Search of the Voices Redefining Latino Identity (New York: Vintage Books, 2020), 5; Maylei Blackwell, Floridalma Boj Lopez, and Luis Urrieta Jr., “Special Issue: Critical Latinx Indigeneities,” Latino Studies 15, no. 2 ( July 2017): 129; and Carlos Santos, “The History, Struggles and Potential of the Term Latinx,” Latina/o Psychology Today 4, no. 2 (2017): 7–­14. 22 Billy Bergin, Loyal to the Land: The Legendary Parker Ranch, 1750–­1950 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004), 32–­40; Rossie Frost and Locky Frost, “The King’s Bullock Catcher,” Hawaiian Journal of History 11 (1977): 175–­187. 23 Sara V. Komarnisky, Mexicans in Alaska: An Ethnography of Mobility, Place, and Transnational Life (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2018), 14. 24 I want to thank Nitasha Tamar Sharma for urging me to consider why labor was a primary factor of Latinx migration but did not define who they were as individuals and communities. For more on studies that examine the lives of Latinxs beyond laborers, see José M. Alamillo, Making Lemonade Out of Lemons: Mexican American Labor and Leisure in a California Town, 1880–­1960 (Chicago: University of Illinois

Notes to Pages 7–10  •  239

Press, 2006); Lilia Fernández, Brown in the Windy City: Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in Postwar Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014); Felipe Hinojosa, Latino Mennonites: Civil Rights, Faith & Evangelical Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014); George J. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity, Culture and Identity in Chicano Los Angeles, 1900–­1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993); and Zaragosa Vargas, Labor Rights Are Civil Rights: Mexican American Workers in Twentieth-­Century America (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2005). 25 Carolina Moreno, “9 Outrageous Things Donald Trump Has Said about Latinos,” Huffington Post, November 9, 2016, https://​www​.huffpost​.com/​entry/​9​-outrageous​ -things​-donald​-trump​-has​-said​-about​-latinos​_n​_55e483a1e4b0c818f618904b; Anthony Rivas, “Trump’s Language about Mexican Immigrants under Scrutiny in Wake of El Paso Shooting,” ABC News, August 4, 2019, https://​abcnews​.go​ .com/​US/​trumps​-language​-mexican​-immigrants​-scrutiny​-wake​-el​-paso/​story​?id​=​ 64768566. 26 Although writer Damian Davila reported in Honolulu Civil Beat that Hawaiʻi’s Latinx population was estimated at 159,737 in 2018, ACS data from the U.S. Census in 2019 showed a slightly smaller number (149,118). This number decreased again in 2020 (138,923). This discrepancy could be based on different sets of data or even a decline in population due to an increased anti-­immigrant backlash during the Trump administration that led to a return migration of Mexicans and other Latinx groups back to their home countries. See U.S. Census Bureau, 2019 American Community Survey 5-­Year Estimates, Table B03001, Data.census.gov, https://​data​.census​.gov/​ cedsci/; U.S. Census Bureau, Hispanic Status 1990, 2000, 2010, and 2020, prepared by Social Explorer; and Damian Davila, “Hawaii’s Growing Latino Population,” Honolulu Civil Beat, January 2, 2019, https://​www​.civilbeat​.org/​2019/​01/​hawaiis​ -growing​-latino​-population/. 27 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 6; Iris López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey: Puerto Rican Identity in Hawaiʻi, 1900–­2000,” in The Puerto Rican Diaspora: Historical Perspectives, ed. Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vázquez-­Hernández (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005), 66; Lisa Sánchez-­Johnson, “The Hispanics,” in People and Cultures of Hawaiʻi: The Evolution of Culture and Ethnicity, ed. Johan F. McDermott and Naleen Naupaka Andrade (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 165; Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano de Hawaiʻi: Comunidades en Formación / The Mexican People of Hawaiʻi: Communities in Formation” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1997), 2; José Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal to Apologize Sparks Hispanic Community Activism,” Hawaii Hispanic News 7, no. 3 ( July 2008): 8. 28 Davila, “Hawaii’s Growing Latino Population.” 29 Davila; “Latinos in the 2016 Election: Hawaii,” Pew Research Center, January 19, 2016, accessed April 15, 2019, https://​www​.pewhispanic​.org/​fact​-sheet/​latinos​-in​-the​ -2016​-election​-hawaii/. 30 I utilize Isaiah Helekunihi Walker’s use of Kanaka Maoli to refer to those who are Indigenous to Hawaiʻi. The term refers to Kanaka (person) Maoli (real, true). I will also interchangeably use the terms Native Hawaiian and Hawaiian with Kanaka Maoli, which in this book is the same, including those who are Native Hawaiian of mixed ancestry but are still recognized as Indigenous in Hawaiʻi. For more on this, see Isaiah Helekunihi Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth-­ Century Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 173n2; and Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-­English/ English-­Hawaiian (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1986), 127, 240.

240  •  Notes to Pages 10–12

31 See Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano.” 32 I capitalize Indigenous to acknowledge and pay respect in the same way that English, Spanish, and other languages are capitalized. See “Indigenous Peoples Terminology Guidelines for Usage,” Indigenous Corporate Training Inc., July 20, 2016, accessed January 12, 2019, https://​www​.ictinc​.ca/​blog/​indigenous​-peoples​-terminology​ -guidelines​-for​-usage. 33 Sarah Gibbens, “The Pacific Ocean Explained,” National Geographic, accessed March 7, 2019, https://​www​.nationalgeographic​.com/​environment/​oceans/​ reference/​pacific​-ocean; “Ocean Explorer,” National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, accessed March 7, 2019, https://​oceanexplorer​.noaa​.gov/​facts/​ pacific​-size​.html. 34 Epeli Hauʻofa, We Are the Ocean: Selected Works (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008), 27–­40. 35 Hauʻofa, We Are the Ocean, 32; David A. Chang, “Borderlands in a World at Sea: Concow Indians, Native Hawaiians, and South Chinese in Indigenous, Global and National Spaces,” Journal of American History 98, no. 2 (September 2011): 397. 36 David Igler, The Great Ocean: Pacific Worlds from Captain Cook to the Gold Rush (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 5. 37 Matt K. Matsuda, Pacific Worlds: A History of Seas, Peoples, and Cultures (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 21. 38 Hauʻofa, We Are the Ocean, 33; Walker, Waves of Resistance, 12. 39 I utilize Walker’s concept of “boarder-­land” to signify an ocean realm and his use of “board” in “boarder-­land” in reference to the surfboard. See Walker, Waves of Resistance. 40 Walker, 10–­12. 41 By giving their allegiance to the independent Hawaiian Kingdom, naturalized citizens recognized the independent kingdom, which also was engaged in foreign affairs and had worldwide recognition. This made it possible for foreigners to come in while Native Hawaiians ventured out to explore themselves, all the while maintaining their ties and allegiance to the Hawaiian Kingdom. Thank you to Kēhaulani Vaughn for the conversations and suggested changes recommended to discuss this in further detail. For my use of the English translation of the term aliʻi, see Lorenz Gonschor, A Power in the World: The Hawaiian Kingdom in Oceania (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2019), 8. 42 Chang, “Borderlands in a World at Sea,” 385. 43 Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 1987), 3. 44 For more on this, see the Latinx Pacific Archive, http://​www​.latinopacificarchive​.org. 45 Vicente Diaz notes that recent scholarship that utilizes Epeli Hauʻofa’s work both minimizes and tokenizes Oceania and the vastness of what this region means to its Indigenous peoples. I situate my work within the conversation to highlight how Latinx migration both acknowledges and illustrates the expansiveness of Oceania and what Diaz calls the deep roots and routes of migration. See Vicente M. Diaz, “Oceania in the Plains: The Politics and Analytics of Transindigenous Resurgence in Chuukese Voyaging of Dakota Islands, Waters, and Skies in Miní Sóta Makhóčhe,” Pacific Studies 42, nos. 1/2 (April/August 2019): 30–­35; and Hauʻofa, We Are the Ocean, 60–­79. 46 For some of the scholarship in these regions in the United States and Canada, see Tanya Basok, Tortillas and Tomatoes: Transmigrant Mexican Harvesters in Canada (Montreal: McGill-­Queen’s Studies in Ethnic History, 2003); Fernández, Brown in the Windy City; Mario Jimenez Sifuentez, Of Forests and Fields: Mexican Labor in the Pacific Northwest (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2016);

Notes to Pages 12–15  •  241

Komarnisky, Mexicans in Alaska; Dionicio Nodín Valdés, Barrios Norteños: St. Paul and Midwestern Mexican Communities in the Twentieth Century (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000); Mary E. Odem and Elaine Lacy, eds., Latino Immigrants and the Transformation of the U.S. South (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2009); and Robert Courtney Smith, Mexican New York: Transnational Lives of New Immigrants (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 47 Pekka Hämäläinen and Samuel Truett, “On Borderlands,” Journal of American History 98, no. 2 (September 2011): 339. Scholars in literature also speak of the boundaries of landlessness and aquatic space (terra nullius, aqua nullius). I would like to thank Joyce Pualani Warren for bringing this to my attention. See Elizabeth DeLoughrey, Routes and Roots: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2009). 48 See also Igler, Great Ocean, 11. 49 Igler, 27. 50 Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., “Filipinos in Nueva España: Filipino-­Mexican Relations, Mestizaje, and Identity in Colonial and Contemporary Mexico,” Journal of Asian American Studies 14, no. 3 (October 2011): 389–­416; William Lytle Schurz, The Manila Galleon (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1959); Rainer F. Buschmann, Edward R. Slack Jr., and James B. Tueller, Navigating the Spanish Lake: The Pacific in the Iberian World, 1521–­1898 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014); Roger F. Roberts, Destiny’s Landfall: A History of Guam (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011). 51 Matsuda, Pacific Worlds, 65. The term Spanish Lake was originally coined by William Lytle Schurz. See Schurz, Manila Galleon; and Buschmann, Slack, and Tueller, Navigating the Spanish Lake, 5–­10. 52 See Jason Oliver Chang, “Four Centuries of Imperial Succession in the Comprador Pacific,” Pacific Historical Review 86, no. 2 (2017): 193–­227; Guevarra, “Filipinos in Nueva España”; and Buschmann, Slack, and Tueller, Navigating the Spanish Lake. 53 This was after the Indian Wars, in which the United States had broken its treaties with the numerous Native American nations and seized and occupied their lands. 54 T. Kēhaulani Natsuko Vaughn, “Sovereign Embodiment: Native Hawaiian Expressions of Kuleana in the Diaspora” (PhD diss., University of California, Riverside, 2017), 31–­32. 55 Anzaldúa, Borderlands/Frontera, 19. 56 Mérida Rúa, A Grounded Identidad: Making Lives in Chicago’s Puerto Rican Neighborhoods (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), xv; Lorena García and Mérida Rúa, “Processing Latinidad: Mapping Latino Urban Landscapes through Chicago Ethnic Festivals,” Latino Studies 5 (2007): 317–­339. 57 See Mérida Rúa, “Colao Subjectivities: PortoMex and MexiRican Perspectives on Language and Identity,” CENTRO Journal 13, no. 2 (2001): 117–­133; and Frances R. Aparicio, Negotiating Latinidad: Intralatina/o Lives in Chicago (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2019). 58 See Wendy Cheng, The Changs Next Door to the Díazes: Remapping Race in Suburban California (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 10–­11; and Kristen A. Renn, Mixed Race Students in College: The Ecology of Race, Identity, and Community on Campus (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2004), 28–­29. I would like to thank Robert Chao Romero for his insight into how these authors contribute to the larger scholarship of my work on Pacific Latinidad. 59 Aparicio, Negotiating Latinidad, 2. 60 Aparicio, 7. 61 For more on the concept of Latinidad and the various ways it is constructed, see Aparicio, Negotiating Latinidad, 31; Frances Aparicio, “Reading the ‘Latino’ in

242  •  Notes to Pages 15–17

Latino Studies: Towards Reimagining Our Academic Location,” Discourse 21, no. 3 (1999): 3–­18; Frances R. Aparicio, “Jennifer as Selena: Rethinking Latinidad in Media and Popular Culture,” Latino Studies 1, no. 1 (2003): 90–­105; Frances Aparicio and Suzana Chávez-­Silverman, eds., Tropicalizations: Transcultural Representations of Latinidad (Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1997); García and Rúa, “Processing Latinidad”; Jennifer A. Jones, “Afro-­Latinos: Speaking through Silences and Rethinking the Geographies of Blackness,” in Afro-­Latin American Studies: An Introduction, ed. Alejandro De La Fuente and George Reid Andrews (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 569–­614; Miguel Salazar, “The Problem with Latinidad,” Nation, September 16, 2019; Keara K. Goin, “Marginal Latinidad: Afro-­Latinas and US Film,” Latino Studies 14, no. 3 (2016): 344–­363; Tanya Katerí-­ Hernández, Multiracials and Civil Rights: Mixed-­R ace Stories of Discrimination (New York: New York University Press, 2018), ix–­xiii; and Deborah Paredez, “Remembering Selena, Re-­membering Latinidad,” Theatre Journal 54, no. 1 (2002): 63–­84. 62 Rúa, Grounded Identidad, 87. 63 I want to thank Camilla Fojas for our discussions that led me to explore in greater detail the ways Pacific Latinidad expands current ways of thinking in the larger field of Latinx studies. 64 JoAnna Poblete, Islanders in the Empire: Filipino and Puerto Rican Laborers in Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 10. 65 See Kathleen Davis, “Economic and Social Connections between the Hawaiian Islands and the California Coast Prior to 1848,” manuscript, May 15, 1987, California Department of Parks and Recreation, 1–­41; and Ralph S. Kuykendall, The Hawaiian Kingdom, vol. 1, 1778–­1854 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1938), 92–­99. 66 Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 93. 67 Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 8. 68 Davis, 10. 69 Hector Venegas, “Cowboys from Mexico First Hispanics in Isles,” Honolulu Star-­ Bulletin, February 19, 1985, A12. 70 J. F. Westerberg, “Hawaii: Overland Mail via Mexico, 1842–­46,” Philatelist 34, no. 1 ( January 1955): 3–­16. 71 One of these students, Romauldo Pacheco, went on to serve as state senator and lieutenant governor of the state of California. See W. D. Alexander, “Papers of the Hawaiian Historical Society,” Hawaiian Historical Society 1 ( January 28, 1892); and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 13. 72 Edward Joestrig, Hawaii: An Uncommon History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1972), 111–­112. 73 Richard Henry Dana Jr., Two Years before the Mast: A Personal Narrative of Life at Sea (New York: World, 1946), 131–­178; Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 31. 74 David A. Chang, The World and All the Things upon It: Native Hawaiian Geographies of Exploration (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016), 157–­194; Chang, “Borderlands in a World at Sea,” 386–­400. 75 See Nicholas A. Jones and Jungmiwha Bullock, The Two or More Races Population, 2010: 2010 Census Brief (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, September 2012): 1–­23. 76 See Romanzo Adams, Interracial Marriage in Hawaii: A Study of Mutually Conditioned Processes of Acculturation and Amalgamation (New York: Macmillan, 1937); Lawrence H. Fuchs, Hawaii Pono: A Social History (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1961); Sidney L. Gulick, Mixing the Races in Hawaii: A Study of the Coming Neo-­Hawaiian American Race (Honolulu: Hawaiian Board Book Rooms, 1937); Andrew W. Lind, An Island Community: Ecological Succession in Hawaii (Chicago:

Notes to Pages 17–19  •  243

University of Chicago Press, 1938); Andrew W. Lind, Hawaii: The Last of the Magic Isles (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969); James A. Michener, Hawaii (New York: Random House, 1959); R. E. Park, “Our Racial Frontier in the Pacific,” Survey Graphic: East by West—­Our Windows on the Pacific 9 (1926): 196; Lori Pierce, “Creating a Racial Paradise: Citizenship and Sociology in Hawaiʻi,” in Race and Nation: Ethnic Systems in the Modern World, ed. Paul Spickard (New York: Routledge, 2005), 69–­86; and John Chock Rosa, “‘The Coming of the Neo-­Hawaiian American Race’: Nationalism and Metaphors of the Melting Pot in Popular Accounts of Mixed-­Race Individuals,” in The Sum of Our Parts: Mixed-­Heritage Asian Americans, ed. Teresa Williams-­León and Cynthia L. Nakashima (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001), 49–­60. 77 The term haole was initially used to describe foreigners. It is now commonly used to refer to white people in Hawaiʻi. See Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010); and Paul Spickard, “Local Haole? Whites, Racial and Imperial Loyalties, and Membership in Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 178–­192. For more on the racial harmony discourse, see Judy Rohrer, Staking Claim: Settler Colonialism and Racialization in Hawaiʻi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2016), 77–­104. 78 See Jonathan Y. Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2008). 79 Akiemi Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi? Center Those Most Impacted by It,” July 2, 2019, accessed July 5, 2019, https://​akiemiglenn​.net/​blog. 80 Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Aloha Kanaka Me Ke Aloha ʻAina: Local Culture and Society in Hawaii,” Amerasia 7, no. 2 (1980): 119–­137; Okamura, “Why There Are No Asian Americans in Hawaiʻi”; Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi. 81 Glen Grant and Dennis M. Ogawa, “Living Proof ? Is Hawaii the Answer?,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 530 (November 1993): 137–­154; Keiko Ohnuma, “‘Aloha Spirit’ and the Cultural Politics of Sentiment as National Belonging,” Contemporary Pacific 20, no. 2 (2008): 365–­378. 82 Lisa Kahaleole Hall, “‘Hawaiian at Heart and Other Fictions,” Contemporary Pacific 17, no. 2 (2005): 404–­413; Ohnuma, “Aloha Spirit”; Lori Pierce, “‘The Whites Have Created Modern Honolulu’: Ethnicity, Racial Stratification, and the Discourse of Aloha,” in Racial Thinking in the United States: Uncompleted Independence, ed. Paul Spickard and G. Reginald Daniel (South Bend, Ind.: University of Norte Dame Press, 2004), 124–­154. 83 Ohnuma, “Aloha Spirit,” 370. 84 According to Pierce, the discourse of aloha was a form of social control that undermined Native Hawaiian sovereignty by also including them as an ethnic group that “asserted the equality of ethnic groups through assimilation. Every group in Hawaiʻi was equally welcome and had an equal claim on the right to be in Hawaiʻi.” Pierce, “Whites Have Created Modern Honolulu,” 144–145; Ohnuma, “Aloha Spirit,” 378. 85 Teves, Defiant Indigeneity, 23–­47. 86 Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi?”; “KKK Member Says He Was Held,” Honolulu Advertiser, circa 1979; Noenoe Silva, Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004); Noe Tanigawa, “Proud Boys in Hawaiʻi,” Hawaiʻi Public Radio, January 16, 2018, accessed July 5, 2019, https://​www​.hawaiipublicradio​.org/​post/​proud​-boys​-hawai​-i​ #stream. 87 See Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, eds., Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press,

244  •  Notes to Pages 19–22

2018); Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi?”; “Is Hawaii a Racial Paradise? Races, Ethnicities, and Cultures Mix More Freely Than Elsewhere in the U.S., but There Are Limits to the Aloha Spirit,” Zocalo Public Square, September 15, 2015, accessed September 16, 2015, https://​www​.zocalopublicsquare​.org/​2015/​09/​15/​is​ -hawaii​-a​-racial​-paradise/​ideas/​up​-for​-discussion; and Moises Velasquez-­Manoff, “Want to Be Less Racist? Move to Hawaii,” New York Times, June 28, 2019, accessed June 30, 2019, https://​nyti​.ms/​301ykyl. 88 Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi?”; Lori Pierce, “The Continuing Significance of Race,” in We Are a People: Narrative and Multiplicity in Constructing Ethnic Identity, ed. Paul Spickard and W. Jeffrey Burroughs (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000), 223. 89 See Fojas et al., Beyond Ethnicity. 90 Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States, 3rd ed. (New York: Routledge, 2015), 109–­112; Laura Pulido, Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left: Radical Activism in Los Angeles (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 24. 91 Pierce, “Continuing Significance of Race,” 223. 92 Hannah Knowles, “Man Wears Blackface to Court, Bizarrely Claiming He’s Been Treated ‘like a Black Man,’” Washington Post, July 2, 2019, accessed July 4, 2019, https://​ www​.washingtonpost​.com/​crime​-law/​2019/​07/​02/​man​-wears​-blackface​-court​ -prosecutor​-says​-its​-just​-bizarre/​?utm​_term​=​.a36ee0f6cbd5. For more on the response to this, see Ken Lawson, “Court Should Never Have Allowed Offender’s Wearing of Blackface,” Honolulu Civil Beat, July 9, 2019, accessed July 9, 2019, https://​www​.civilbeat​ .org/​2019/​07/​court​-should​-never​-have​-allowed​-offenders​-wearing​-of​-blackface. 93 For more on the diasporic Black population of Hawaiʻi, see Fojas et al., Beyond Ethnicity; Akiemi Glenn, the Pōpolo Project, https://​www​.thepopoloproject​.org; Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi?”; Miles M. Jackson, ed., They Followed the Trade Winds: African Americans in Hawaiʻi, Social Process in Hawaiʻi 43 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004); Nitasha Tamar Sharma, Hawaiʻi Is My Haven: Race and Indigeneity in the Black Pacific (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2021); and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, “Pacific Revisions of Blackness: Blacks Address Race and Belonging in Hawaiʻi,” Amerasia 37, no. 3 (2011): 43–­60. 94 I would like to thank Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar for the discussions that helped me think through these ideas. Maile Arvin, Possessing Polynesians: The Science of Settler Colonial Whiteness in Hawaiʻi and Oceania (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2019), 27. See also Rey Chow, The Protestant Ethnic and the Spirit of Capitalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002); and Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi. 95 See Fujikane and Okamura, Asian Settler Colonialism; Saranillio, Unsustainable Empire; and Trask, “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony.” 96 Fujikane and Okamura, Asian Settler Colonialism, 6–­7. 97 For more on settler colonial logics, see Arvin, Possessing Polynesians; Roxanne Dunbar-­Ortiz, Not a Nation of Immigrants: Settler Colonialism, White Supremacy, and a History of Erasure and Exclusion (New York: Beacon Press, 2021); Haunani-­Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1999); Trask, “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony”; and Patrick Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (December 2006): 387–­409. 98 Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 11. 99 Notes on conversation with Karen Leong, Phoenix, Arizona (n.d.). 100 See Gonschor, Power in the World. 101 For more on the term intracolonials, see Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 6.

Notes to Pages 22–25  •  245

102 Fujikane and Okamura, Asian Settler Colonialism, 7. 103 Iyko Day, “Being or Nothingness: Indigeneity, Antiblackness, and Settler Colonial Critique,” Critical Ethnic Studies 1, no. 2 (2015): 105–­107. 104 Jodi Byrd, The Transit of Empire: Indigenous Critiques of Colonialism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), xxvi; Rohrer, Staking Claim, 72. 105 By Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent, I refer to those who identify as Mexican who have been historically racially mixed with an Indigenous background. I use the term Indigenous peoples of California to refer to those who were also labeled as California Indians who did not identify as Mexican but were entangled in the history of Indigenous lands, becoming part of México, which included the territory of Alta California. I use Mexican vaquero and other related terms interchangeably to include both California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent. See Romario Bautista, “Thoughts on Indigeneity, from the Perspective of an Indigenous Person,” Dichosdeunbicho.com (blog), February 24, 2019, http://​ dichosdeunbicho​.com/​my​-thoughts​-on​-indigeneity​-as​-an​-indigenous​-person/​?fbclid​ =​IwAR3rxuj3JqyslGZJ9​_r8mPMN8TTrfx8​-nr18c6MXEA4Qq8H2VXsqHDm​ _KAM; Blackwell et al., “Special Issue”; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism; Laura Pulido, “Geographies of Race and Ethnicity III: Settler Colonialism and Nonnative People of Color,” Progress in Human Geography 42, no. 2 (2018): 309–­318; James K. Rawls, Indians of California: The Changing Image (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1984), 20–­21; Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America (New York: Mariner Books, 2016); and María Josefina Saldaña-­Portillo, “Critical Latinx Indigeneities: A Paradigm Drift,” Latino Studies 15, no. 2 ( July 2017): 138–­155. 106 Charles Sepulveda, “Our Sacred Waters: Theorizing Kuuyam as a Decolonial Possibility,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 7, no. 1 (2018): 54. 107 Sepulveda, 54–­55. 108 Discussion with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 109 I would like to thank Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar for the discussions that helped me think through the complexity of settler colonial relationships in Hawaiʻi. See also Fujikane and Okamura, Asian Settler Colonialism, 8. 110 Vaughn, “Sovereign Embodiment,” 27–­30. 111 Lourdes Gutiérrez Nájera and Korinta Maldonado, “Transnational Settler Colonial Formations and Global Capital: A Consideration of Indigenous Mexican Migrants,” American Quarterly 69, no. 4 (December 2017): 812. 112 Gutiérrez Nájera and Maldonado, 818. 113 Hōkūlani Aikau, “Indigeneity in the Diaspora: The Case of Native Hawaiians at Iosepa, Utah,” American Quarterly 62, no. 3 (September 2010): 478; Byrd, Transit of Empire, xxx; Eve Tuck, Allison Guess, and Hannah Sultan, “Not Nowhere: Collaborating on Selfsame Land,” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, June 26, 2014, 3–­4. 114 Tuck et al., “Not Nowhere,” para. 25. 115 This discourse is not as evident in the field of Chicanx studies, which geographer Laura Pulido discusses at length. For more on this, see Pulido, “Geographies of Race.” 116 See Blackwell et al., “Special Issue,” 129. This article is part of a special issue dedicated to the topic of Critical Latinx Indigeneities. 117 Saldaña-­Portillo, “Critical Latinx Indigeneities.” 118 Blackwell et al., “Special Issue,” 127; Sharma, Hawaiʻi Is My Haven, 27. 119 I suggest that this can also be applied to the diverse population of Latinx migrants of Indigenous descent who are often referred to as mestizos and Afro-­Latinxs of the African diaspora. See Blackwell et al., “Special Issue,” 127.

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120 Dean Saranillio, “Colonial Amnesia: Rethinking Filipino ‘American’ Settler Empowerment in the U.S. Colony of Hawaiʻi,” in Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawaiʻi, ed. Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008), 257.

Chapter 1  Vaqueros and Paniolos 1 Although Kumu John Kealoamakaʻāinana Lake begins this quote, the last sentence is told from what appears to be a Hawaiian woman’s recollection. There was no information on how to identify who the other narrator is. See Edgy Lee, dir., Paniolo o Hawaiʻi: Cowboys of the Far West, DVD (Honolulu: FilmWorks, 1997). 2 The Nā Hōkū Hanohano Awards are the Hawaiian music industry’s equivalent to the Grammys. 3 Album of the year includes his role as artist and coproducer with Dave Tucciarone, and the graphics award is for designers Kuhao Zane and Kamele Eskaran. See Maureen O’Connell, “Big Island’s Kuana Torres Kahele Wins Big at Na Hoku Hanohano Hawaii Music Awards,” Hawaiʻi Magazine, May 29, 2012, accessed April 3, 2017, https://​www​.hawaiimagazine​.com/​blogs/​hawaii​_today/​2012/​5/​29/​ Hawaii​_Honolulu​_music​_awards; and John Burnett, “‘I Just Kept It True and Sang My Butt Off,’” Hawaii Tribune Herald, June 1, 2012, accessed April 5, 2017, https://​ www​.hawaiitribune​-herald​.com/​2012/​06/​01/​entertainment/​i​-just​-kept​-it​-true​-and​ -sang​-my​-butt​-off/. 4 Burnett, “‘I Just Kept It True.’” 5 Noe Tanigawa, “Kuana Torres Kahele: In His Prime,” Hawaiʻi Public Radio, accessed April 5, 2017, https://​www​.hawaiipublicradio​.org/​post/​kuana​-torres​-kahele​-his​ -prime​#stream/​0. 6 In addition to recording music and performing, Kuana Torres Kahele also runs his own Hawaiian Music and Culture Schools in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, Japan. His schools have an estimated two hundred students. See Tanigawa, “Kuana Torres Kahele.” 7 Hānai is the Hawaiian term for being taken in and raised by others who may not always be blood related but have close familial, kinship, and cultural ties. See Kuana Torres Kahele, “Nā Vaqueros,” Kaunaloa, CD liner notes (Honolulu: Mountain Apple Company, 2011), 10, 20, and 23; Burnett, “‘I Just Kept It True’”; and Bill Mossman, “A Promise Fulfilled,” Midweek, July 20, 2011, accessed April 6, 2017, http://​archives​.midweek​.com/​content/​columns/​musicalnotes​_article/​a​_promise​ _fulfilled/. 8 Jan Wizinowich, “Voices on the Wind: Paniolo Preservation Society Celebrates Songs of the Hawaiian Cowboys,” West Hawaii Today, September 15, 2017, accessed September 16, 2018, https://​www​.westhawaiitoday​.com/​2017/​09/​15/​north​-hawaii​ -news/​voices​-on​-the​-wind​-paniolo​-preservation​-society​-celebrates​-songs​-of​-the​ -hawaiian​-cowboys/. 9 Wizinowich. 10 This mele is one of a few sources that speak to the presence of Mexican women during this time period. See Kahele, “Nā Vaqueros,” 8; and O’Connell, “Big Island’s Kuana Torres Kahele.” 11 I want to clarify that the presence of the California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent as vaqueros who immigrated to Hawaiʻi occupied two separate labor groups based on how they were treated. Mexican mestizos were part of a working-­poor/working-­class segment on the secularized ranches, while the California Indians were enslaved under Spanish rule and then continued to experience slave labor–­like conditions on the mission ranches after secularization for the most

Notes to Page 28  •  247

part. However, it was under secularization that both California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent had some agency in their decision to leave California for the Hawaiian Islands for better work opportunities. I would like to thank Kēhaulani Vaughn and Charles Sepulveda for the comments that helped me further make these distinctions. See Billy Bergin, Loyal to the Land: The Legendary Parker Ranch, 1750–­1950 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004); James K. Rawls, Indians of California: The Changing Image (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1984), 20–­21; John Ryan Fischer, Cattle Colonialism: An Environmental History of the Conquest of California and Hawaiʻi (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015); and Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America (New York: Mariner Books, 2016). 12 Meeting of the Privy Council, Hawaiian Palace, December 10, 1846, 103, Privy Council Records, vol. 2, August 21, 1846–­June 28, 1847, Hawaiʻi State Archives (hereafter HSA). 13 According to Lorenz Gonschor, the independent Hawaiian Kingdom held an exceptional and privileged status globally due to its quality of governance and influence across Oceania. See Lorenz Gonschor, A Power in the World: The Hawaiian Kingdom in Oceania (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2019), 16–­40. 14 The vaqueros who came to Hawaiʻi were not Spaniards despite early accounts that labeled them as Spanish. They may have spoken Spanish, but it was the ranch hands who were primarily California Indians and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent who were the vaqueros. The “gente de razón,” or Spanish-­leaning Californios, oversaw the ranches and did not necessarily engage in this kind of work, which they left to their ranch hands. I also acknowledge that the term California Indian encompassed more than five hundred groups prior to European contact. See Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 32–­40; Virginia Cowan-­Smith and Bonnie Domrose Stone, Aloha Cowboy (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1988); Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; and Barry M. Pritzker, A Native American Encyclopedia: History, Culture, and Peoples (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 112–­161. 15 The term paniolo was what Native Hawaiians first called the Mexican vaqueros, most likely because they spoke Spanish. This is one theory of how the term came into being. Now the term is used to describe the Hawaiian or Hawaiʻi-­born vaquero. Depending on one’s generation, the word paniola can also refer to paniolo. I primarily use the term paniolo, since it is the most widely used form in Hawaiʻi that is not linked to the Spanish gendered usage of a or o with women and men. I do however, use paniola on occassion to highlight the role of women in paniolo culture. There are also several additional theories on the origin of the word, as noted by historian and Kumu Hula John Lake in the opening quote. Finally, I choose to use the Spanish word vaquero as the translation of paniolo, since the American cowboy had not yet come into existence. It was also the traditions and culture of the Mexican vaquero that the Hawaiian paniolo adopted and learned from, not the American cowboy. For more on this, see Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-­English/English-­Hawaiian, rev. ed. (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1986), 315; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; and Lyn J. Martin, dir. and ed., Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi: A Traveling Exhibition Celebrating Paniolo Folk Arts and the History of Ranching in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: State Foundation on Culture and the Arts, Honolulu Academy of Arts, 1987), 15, 21. I also use the terms Kanaka Maoli (and Kānaka Maoli in plural form), Native Hawaiian, and Hawaiian interchangeably to refer to the Indigenous people of Hawaiʻi. For more on this term, see Isaiah Helekunihi Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth-­Century Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 173n2.

248  •  Notes to Pages 28–30

16 The Mexican vaquero existed more than eighty years before the white American cowboy, who became popularized in Texas (1845), the Pacific Northwest (1846), and California (1848). The Hawaiian paniolo also existed more than fifty years before them. There were also Black cowboys, whose presence remains overlooked when discussing the cowboy of the West. See Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 32–­40; Joseph Brennan, Paniolo (Honolulu: Ku Pa’a, 1995); Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 16; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; Bruce A. Glasrud and Michael N. Searles, eds., Black Cowboys in the American West: On the Range, on the Stage, behind the Badge (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2016); and Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 20–­21. 17 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 18 Lee. 19 See Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian Ranching Community: An Historical Archaeology of Tradition, Transnationalism, and Pili” (PhD diss., University of Nevada, Reno, 2013); Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Billy Bergin and Brady Bergin, The Hawaiian Horse (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2017); Brennan, Paniolo; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; and Peter R. Mills, Carolyn L. White, and Benjamin Barna, “The Paradox of the Paniolo: An Archaeological Perspective of Hawaiian Ranching,” Historical Archaeology 47, no. 2 (2013): 110–­132. 20 Clyde Kindy Sproat’s genealogy comes from one of the first Mexican vaqueros to come to Hawaiʻi, Ramón Baesa. This was also verified by paniolo historian Billy Bergin. See interview with Billy Bergin, February 17, 2019, Kamuela, Hawaiʻi; Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 67–­71; and Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, “Album Liner Notes.” 21 See Romario Bautista, “Thoughts on Indigeneity, from the Perspective of an Indigenous Person,” Dichosdeunbicho.com (blog), February 24, 2019, http://​ dichosdeunbicho​.com/​my​-thoughts​-on​-indigeneity​-as​-an​-indigenous​-person/​?fbclid​ =​IwAR3rxuj3JqyslGZJ9​_r8mPMN8TTrfx8​-nr18c6MXEA4Qq8H2VXsqHDm​ _KAM; Maylei Blackwell, Floridalma Boj Lopez, and Luis Urrieta Jr., “Special Issue: Critical Latinx Indigeneities,” Latino Studies 15, no. 2 ( July 2017); Fischer, Cattle Colonialism; Laura Pulido, “Geographies of Race and Ethnicity III: Settler Colonialism and Nonnative People of Color,” Progress in Human Geography 42, no. 2 (2018): 309–­318; Rawls, Indians of California, 20–­21; Reséndez, Other Slavery; and María Josefina Saldaña-­Portillo, “Critical Latinx Indigeneities: A Paradigm Drift,” Latino Studies 15, no. 2 ( July 2017): 138–­155. 22 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 111. 23 Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 3. 24 Curtis J. Lyons, “Traces of Spanish Influence in Hawaii,” The Friend, February 1925, 34 (reprinted from Paradise of the Pacific [1893]); Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano de Hawaiʻi: Comunidades en Formación / The Mexican People of Hawaiʻi: Communities in Formation” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1997), 13. 25 This also suggests the early presence of Black cowboys, another group not recognized for their contributions to the vaquero/cowboy culture of the West. Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; see also Glasrud and Searles, Black Cowboys. 26 Mora, Californios, 52; Reséndez, Other Slavery, 249–­250. 27 Vaughn, “Sovereign Embodiment,” 24. 28 Albert Camarillo, Chicanos in a Changing Society: From Mexican Pueblos to American Barrios in Santa Barbara and Southern California, 1848–­1930 (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1996), 12; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 130–­132; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 10. Many of the mestizo working-­class Mexicans were colonists and soldiers who came from México to settle in Alta California. They were seen as distinct from the Californio Dons, who prided themselves in having Spanish ancestry.

Notes to Pages 30–32  •  249

See also Jo Mora, Californios: The Saga of the Hard-­Riding Vaqueros, America’s First Cowboy (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1949), 55–­56; and Martin W. Sandler, Vaqueros: America’s First Cowmen (New York: Henry Holt, 2001), 16. 29 See Ralph S. Kuykendall, The Hawaiian Kingdom, vol. 1, 1778–­1854 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1938), 93; and Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 14. 30 Horses were first introduced to Hawaiʻi by Richard J. Cleveland in 1803; he brought them from Alta California, México. See Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse; and L. A. Henke, A Survey of Livestock in Hawaii, cited in the Honolulu Advertiser, February 5, 1927. 31 See W. D. Alexander, A Brief History of the Hawaiian People (New York: American Book Company, 1891), 136; and Cummins E. Speakman Jr. and Rhoda E. A. Hackler, “Vancouver in Hawaiʻi,” Hawaiian Journal of History 23 (1989): 31–­65. 32 Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 18–­19; Speakman and Hackler, “Vancouver in Hawaiʻi,” 44; Stan Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos: Ranching in Paradise,” American West 19, no. 4 (1982): 22; Bud Wellmon, “Frontier Traders and Pioneer Cattlemen: An Hawaiian Perspective,” Hawaiian Journal of History 2 (1973): 49. 33 Archibald Menzies, Hawaiʻi Nei 128 Years Ago (Honolulu: Hana Press, 1920), 69. 34 Another source noted that George Vancouver presented a bull and five cows to Kamehameha I, while another stated that one of the cows was with calf. See Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from account by Mr. Wyllie, address delivered before the Royal Hawaiian Agricultural Society, August 12, 1850, reported in Royal Hawaiian Agricultural Society 1, no. 1 (1850): 46; Alexander, Brief History, 138–­139; Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from Stephen Reynolds, Royal Hawaiian Agricultural Society 1, no. 1 (1850): 51; Ilima Loomis, Rough Riders: Hawaiʻi’s Paniolo and Their Stories (Honolulu: Island Heritage, 2006), 13; and Speakman and Hackler, “Vancouver in Hawaiʻi,” 57. 35 Ricardo D. Trimillos, “He Moʻolelo,” Nā Mele Paniolo: Songs of Hawaiian Cowboys, album liner notes (Honolulu: Hawaiʻi State Foundation on Culture and the Arts, 2004), 4; Sarah Rose, “The Last Roundup,” Hana Hou! 18, no. 3 ( June/July 2015), accessed December 12, 2017, https://​hanahou​.com/​18​.3/​the​-last​-roundup. 36 Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from account in Advertiser, August 11, 1859; Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from Reynolds, Royal Hawaiian Agricultural Society 1, no. 1 (1850): 51; Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 41; Alton Pryor, Cowboys: The End of the Trail (Roseville, Calif.: Stagecoach, 2005), 121. 37 ʻĀina can be translated as “that which sustains and feeds us,” which is more than just a Western concept of land. See Kawena Pukui and Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary, 11. For Kanaka Maoli concepts of animal husbandry, see Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian.” 38 William Robert Boughton, A Voyage of Discovery to the North Pacific Ocean (London: T. Cadwell and W. Davies, 1804), 34, 69. 39 Cattle were part of what Alfred Crosby Jr. called the “Columbian Exchange” that spread from México to Hawaiʻi. See Alfred W. Crosby Jr., The Columbian Exchange: Biological and Cultural Consequences of 1492 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1972); Alfred W. Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, 900–­1900 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986); “The Influence of the Cattle on the Climate of Waimea and Kawaihae, Hawaii,” Sandwich Islands Monthly, February 1856, 46–­47; Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 40; and Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo.” 40 By the late nineteenth century, other Hawaiian Islands had working ranches, including Lānaʻi, Molokaʻi, and Niʻihau. Today the islands of Hawaiʻi, Maui, Kauaʻi, Oʻahu, and Molokaʻi still have active ranches. See Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 6–­15; and Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 112.

250  •  Notes to Pages 32–33

41 Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from account in Advertiser, August 11, 1859; Richard W. Slatta, Kuʻulani Auld, and Maile Melrose, “Kona: Cradle of Hawaiʻi’s Paniolo,” Montana: The Magazine of Western History54, no. 2 (Summer, 2004): 2–­19. 42 Larry Kimura, “Old-­Time Parker Ranch Cowboys,” Hawaii Historical Review 1, no. 9 (October 1964): 161. 43 Joseph Brennan, Parker Ranch: The Saga of a Ranch and a Dynasty (New York: John Day, 1974), 45; Mackinnon Simpson, “Paniolo: Way Out West in Hawaii,” Spirit of Aloha, September/October 2001, 36; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 20. 44 Kauikeaouli (Kamehameha III) succeeded the throne after his older brother, Liholiho (Kamehameha II), and his wife, Kamāmalu, died of measles while visiting England. See Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 76–­79; and Roy Nickerson, Lahaina: The Royal Capital of Hawaii (Honolulu: Hawaiian Service, 1978), 45. 45 Accounts differ on when King Kamehameha III lifted the kapu, with dates including 1819, 1824, and 1830. For that reason, I will just note that it was during his reign. For more on this, see Henke, Survey of Livestock, 9, cited from account in Advertiser, August 11, 1859; Jiro Nakano, Parker Ranch Paniolo: Yukata Kimura (Honolulu: United Japanese Society of Hawaii, 1992), 41; and Nickerson, Lahaina, 45. 46 For more on the sandalwood trade, see Marshall Sahlins, “The Political Economy of Grandeur in Hawaiʻi from 1810–­1830,” in Culture through Time: Anthropological Approaches, ed. Emiko Ohnuki-­Tierney (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1990), 26–­56. 47 Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 112. 48 I want to thank David Torres-­Rouff for the comments and discussions that helped me address this issue. 49 Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 201. 50 This coincided with the supply of the sandalwood trees that Hawaiians exhausted in order to trade with foreigners. See Marie D. Strazar, “Ranching in Hawaii,” originally published in Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi: A Traveling Exhibition Celebrating Paniolo Folk Arts and the History of Ranching in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: State Foundation on Culture and the Arts, Honolulu Academy of Arts, 1987), xiv, Hawaiian Collection, Mookini Library, University of Hawaiʻi, Hilo. 51 I also recognize how this is still within the context of a haole-­driven capitalist economy. 52 Each hide was valued at up to two dollars each. See Bernice Judd, “Early Days of Waimea, Hawaii,” in 40th Annual Report of the Hawaiian Historical Society for the Year 1931 (Honolulu: Hawaiian Historical Society, 1932), 19; Ralph S. Kuykendall and A. Grove Day, Hawaii: A History, from Polynesian Kingdom to American State (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1961), 96; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 114; and “Waimea,” Sandwich Island Gazette, September 24, 1836, 2. 53 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 31; Art Halloran, The Hawaiian Longhorn Story (Hilo, Hawaiʻi: Petroglyph Press, 1972), 3, Hilo Public Library; Simpson, “Paniolo,” 37; “Wild Cattle Roamed Ranch in Early Days of Hawaii,” Paka Paniolo 18 (May 1963): 4, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa (hereafter UHM), Hamilton Library. 54 I would like to thank David Torres-­Rouff for the discussion to help me develop these ideas. 55 Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 318; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 114; Bernard Brian Wellmon, “The Parker Ranch: A History” (PhD diss., Texas Christian University, 1969), 45–­46; “Wild Cattle Roamed,” 4. 56 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 93; Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos,” 27; “Wild Cattle Roamed,” 4. John Palmer Parker received a royal grant from King

Notes to Pages 33–36  •  251

Kamehameha III to start a ranch in 1836, which eventually became the Parker Ranch. Parker Ranch would go on to become one of the largest privately owned ranches in the United States, with an estimated thirty-­five thousand cattle (twenty-­five thousand wild and ten thousand tame) grazing the quarter million acres of land on Hawaiʻi Island. Parker’s business also stretched across the Pacific, where he shipped livestock and beef products to Tahiti and other Pacific Islands. For more on John Palmer Parker and the Parker Ranch, see Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Brennan, Parker Ranch; Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 28–­29; Kathleen Dickenson Mellen, Hawaiian Heritage: A Brief Illustrated History (New York: Hastings House, 1963), 103; Halloran, Hawaiian Longhorn Story, 3; and “South of the Border,” Paradise of the Pacific, June 1962, 17. 57 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 93. 58 Given that the foreigner mentioned in Hiram Bingham’s account had the training to lasso and capture the wild cattle he hunted with King Kamehameha III, he (the foreigner) was most likely a visiting Mexican vaquero and not a bullock hunter, who often used guns to kill cattle. See Hiram Bingham, A Residence of Twenty-­One Years in the Sandwich Islands, or The Civil, Religious, and Political History of Those Islands (Canandaigua, N.Y.: H. D. Goodwin, 1855), 377–­379; and Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 114. 59 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 28; Brennan, Paniolo, 52–­53, 61–­62; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; Strazar, “Ranching in Hawaii,” xiv. 60 Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Brennan, Parker Ranch; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 13. 61 Kēhaulani Natsuko Vaughn, “Sovereign Embodiment: Native Hawaiians and Expressions of Diasporic Kuleana,” Hūlili: Multidisciplinary Research on Hawaiian Well-­ Being 11, no. 1 (2019): 234. 62 Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 111–­114. 63 I also agree with Benjamin Thomas Barna’s critique of “The Vaquero Triumphant” narrative where foreigners (in this case Mexicans) were seen as the saviors of Hawaiʻi’s cattle dilemma. See Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 70–­73; and Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 110–­132. 64 Barna describes pili as a metaphor that “provides a way to see networks of relations in ranching traditions, personal relationships, and social interactions, all of which contribute to the identity formation of occupational communities.” Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 6. See also Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 110–­132. 65 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 97. 66 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 13. 67 In a list of passports granted in 1848, which was published by the Polynesian on November 11, 1848, there appear to be passports granted to three Mexican citizens and one Chilean citizen. These include J. Armas ( Joaquin), M. Gonzalvo, R. Alvarado, and A. Alvarez. One observer at the time also noted the presence of Chileans on Hawaiʻi Island. See “Passports 1848,” Polynesian, November 11, 1848, 103; S. S. Hill, Travels in the Sandwich and Society Islands (London: Chapman and Hall, 1856), 155; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; and Wellmon, “Parker Ranch,” 80n11. For an example of a Mexican vaquero who learned Hawaiian, see Joaquin Armas letter to Keoni Ana, November 24, 1846, Department of Interior Records, box 62, item 4, Hawaiʻi State Archives (hereafter HSA). 68 The individual who left behind the most documentation of their time living in Hawaiʻi was Joaquin Armas. 69 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 28. 70 “Waimea,” Sandwich Island Gazette, September 17, 1836, 2. 71 Joseph Brennan, “Hawaiian Cowboys,” American West 11, no. 2 (March 1974): 15.

252  •  Notes to Pages 36–39

72 Jean Fortune Hobbs, “Our Fourth Industry Is Livestock,” Hawaiian Annual for 1939: The Yearbook of Hawaii; a Comprehensive Digest of Information on the Territory of Hawaii (Honolulu: Printshop Company, 1939), 97; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 114. 73 Brennan, Paniolo, 52–­53, 61–­62; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 21. 74 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 97–­140; Brennan, Paniolo, 55–­60; Shelby V. Candland, “How the Paniolo Came,” Américas 22, no. 1 ( January 1970): 8; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 21, and 26–­27. 75 Lyons, “Traces of Spanish Influence,” 34; Curtis J. Lyons, “Influence of Spanish Remains on Ranch,” Paka Paniolo 18 (May 1963): 4, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Mānoa Library; Emma Lyons Doyle, “Cattle Took to Hawaii and Vice Versa,” Honolulu Advertiser, June 23, 1959, section X-B, 30. 76 Although these men were referred to as bullock hunters, they were in fact the Mexican vaqueros who came with their ranching skills and techniques that separated them from the previous bullock hunters in Hawaiʻi. See Emma Lyons Doyle, ed., Makua Laiana: The Story of Lorenzo Lyons, Lovingly Known to Hawaiians as Ka Makua Laiana, Haku Mele o Ka Aina Mauana (Father Lyons, Lyric Poet of the Mountain Country), compiled from manuscript journals 1832–­1886 (Honolulu: Advertiser, 1953), 46–­47; Doyle, “Cattle Took to Hawaii,” 30–­31; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. 77 “Cattle Hunting on Hawaii,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, August 11, 1859, 2. 78 Between 1845 and 1871, six Mexican nationals and one Mexican from California (now part of the United States) were naturalized under the sovereign Hawaiian Kingdom. This also included Joaquin Armas. See Index to Naturalization Records, Series 234, 1844–­1894, HSA; and Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 79 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 97; Rossie Frost and Locky Frost, “The King’s Bullock Catcher,” Hawaiian Journal of History 11 (1977): 175–­187. 80 The signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848 ended the war between the United States and México, which also resulted in the United States acquiring what is now most of the U.S. Southwest. For more on the Mexican-­American War of 1846–­1848 and the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, see K. Jack Bauer, The Mexican War, 1846–­1848 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1974); Richard Griswold del Castillo, The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo: A Legacy of Conquest (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990); and Zaragosa Vargas, Crucible of Struggle: A History of Mexican Americans from Colonial Times to the Present Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 79–­111. 81 See Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian”; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175–­187; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 110–­132; and Gary Okihiro, Island World: A History of Hawaiʻi and the United States (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 169–­180. 82 Haole initially meant foreigner, but over time has come specifically to mean white American or European. See Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010); and Paul Spickard, “Local Haole? Whites, Racial and Imperial Loyalties, and Membership in Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 178–­192. 83 Maria Luisa Armas’s Indigenous ancestry was most likely Kumeyaay given that the San Diego Presidio was built above a Kumeyaay village known as Kosa’aay (Cosoy). See Armas, Jose Juaquin [sic] Nestor, Biographical File, San Diego Historical Archives. Files for the Armas family are located in this collection; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175; San Diego History Center, http://​www​.presidiosd​ .org; and Kumeyaay, http://​kumeyaay​.com.

Notes to Pages 39–42  •  253

84 Alta California was the name of California to distinguish it from Baja California during the time it was part of México. See Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175–­176; Michael J. González, This Small City Will Be a Mexican Paradise: Exploring the Origins of Mexican Culture in Los Angeles, 1821–­1846 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005), 67; Okihiro, Island World, 172; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 10. 85 The vast majority of California’s vaqueros were California Indians and also Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent. See Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 128. 86 Camarillo, Chicanos in a Changing Society, 12; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 130–­132; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 10. Many of the mestizo working-­class Mexicans were colonists and soldiers who came from México to settle in the northern Mexican territory of Alta California. They were seen as distinct from the Californio Dons, who prided themselves in having Spanish ancestry. See also Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 130–­131; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175; Mora, Californios, 55–­56; Sandler, Vaqueros, 16; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 10. 87 For more on this, see Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 176; and Nickerson, Lahaina, 45. 88 See also Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 176–­177; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 10. 89 Letter from Joaquin Armas to Alex Simpson, February 13, 1843, Department of Interior Records, Series 402-­8-­193, HSA (calligraphy translation by author); Shinseki, 10–­11. 90 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 91 It is also possible that during this time Armas trained Hawaiian paniolos and worked with other Mexican vaqueros who were on the island. See William French Account Journals (M-­312), vol. 21, December 15, 1832, and January 3, 1833, HSA; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 177; Okihiro, Island World, 172; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. 92 Although there is no arrival date available for Joaquin’s brother, Felipe, Frost and Frost note that he could have also possibly arrived in 1832, as there was also mention of a second “Spaniard” in October of that year. See Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 177; and R. S. Kuykendall to Leon Rowland, April 23, 1940, Biographical File U171, HSA; “Supreme Court Ruling, George Davis vs. William L. Green,” Polynesian, April 6, 1861, 1. 93 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 178. 94 Letter from Hoakini ( Joaquin) Armas to King Kamehameha III, December 5, 1833, Department of Interior Records, box 140, HSA (calligraphy translation by author). 95 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 177. 96 Letter from Wokene ( Joaquin) Armas to King Kamehameha III, August 22, 1838, Department of Interior Records, box 140, HSA; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 178. 97 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 178. 98 According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics Consumer Price Index, that amount in 1843 is the equivalent of $1.97 million in 2019. See letter from Armas to Simpson, February 13, 1843, HSA; and Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 178–­179. 99 The land disputes seem to have occurred between 1846 and 1847. See Claim No. 962—­Joaquin Armas (Huakini Paniolo), Land Commission Awards (LCA) Records (288-­1), vol. 1, 567–­571, HSA; Native Testimony (NT) LCA Records (287-­9), vol. 2, 378, HSA; Foreign Testimony (FT) LCA Records (287-­2), vol. 2, 66–­67, HSA; Claim No. 2762, FT LCA Records (287-­3), vol. 7, 161, HSA; Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 29; and Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179.

254  •  Notes to Pages 42–46

100 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. 101 Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 29; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher.” 102 Alex Simpson was the British consul to the Hawaiian Kingdom. Although the exact date of the incident was not provided, it most likely occurred around 1839, when Kekāuluohi confiscated his possessions. See letter from Armas to Simpson, February 13, 1843, HSA; Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 35; and Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179. 103 Letter from Armas to Simpson, February 13, 1843, HSA; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179–­180. 104 Kekāuluohi (or Auhea) was the Kuhina Nui of Hawaiʻi Island from 1839 to 1845, a position she held as a relative to King Kamehameha III. Kekāuluohi and King Kamehameha III cosigned Hawaiʻi’s first constitution in 1840. As Kuhina Nui, her duties also included the following: she served as special councilor to the king and signed all official documents with him, she conducted all official business on behalf of the monarchy, she was responsible for receiving and transferring government land titles, and she had exclusive veto power over his decisions. Kekāuluohi also served in the House of Nobles since its founding. She was also the mother of King Lunalilo. See Kekauluohi, Miriam Auhea Office Record, HSA Digital Collections, https://​web​.archive​.org/​web/​20110721042855/​http://​archives1​.dags​.hawaii​.gov/​ gsdl/​collect/​governme/​index/​assoc/​HASH1240/​35aa4df1​.dir/​Kekauluohi​%2C​ %20Miriam​%20Auhea​.jpg; “Kekāuluohi,” HSA Centennial Collection, accessed January 9, 2021, https://​ags​.hawaii​.gov/​archives/​online​-exhibitions/​centennial​ -exhibit/​kekauluohi/; Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 163–­166n164, n263; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 115; and Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. 105 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 80; Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 23. 106 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 180. 107 Frost and Frost, 180; Kuykendall, Hawaiian Kingdom, 318. 108 Joaquin Armas also had a provisions store and applied for a retail license, and his house on Moanui may have been used as the site for his short-­lived business. See Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 180–­181; and letter from R. S. Kuykendall to Leon Rowland, April 23, 1940, Biographical File U171, HSA. 109 Entries for Joaquin Armas are from 1845 to 1846. See Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 180–­181, 183; Edna E. Kimbro, Mary Ellen Ryan, Robert H. Jackson, Randall T. Milliken, and Norman Neuerburg, “Como la Sombra Huye la Hora”: Restoration Research Santa Cruz Mission Adobe (Davenport, Calif.: Santa Cruz Mission State Historic Park, 1985), 166; and J. Mellish Co. Account Journals (M-­272), 1845–­1848, HSA. 110 Joaquin Armas Naturalization Record, book A, 51, HSA. 111 In this letter regarding the leasing of land in Lahaina, Maui, Armas wrote in Hawaiian, which suggests that since he lived there for fifteen years at that point, in all probability he was trilingual in Spanish, English, and Hawaiian. In this letter he also notes that he is a naturalized citizen of the kingdom and is married to a Hawaiian woman. English translation is also provided by E. H. Hart. See Joaquin Armas letter to Keoni Ana, November 24, 1846, Department of Interior Records, box 62, item 4, HSA. See letter from Joaquin Armas to Keoni Ana, November 27, 1846 (translated by E. H. Hart), Department of Interior Records, box 62, HSA; Privy Council Records, vol. 2, August 21, 1846–­June 28, 1847, 102–­105, HSA; and Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 97. 112 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 182–­183; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 12. 113 The land disputes in question seem to comprise two different claim numbers but reference the same area. Frost and Frost also seem to write about them as one dispute.

Notes to Pages 46–47  •  255

See Claim No. 962—­Joaquin Armas (Huakini Paniolo), LCA Records (288-­1), vol. 1, 567–­571, HSA; NT LCA Records (287-­9), vol. 2, 378, HSA; FT LCA Records (287-­2), vol. 2, 66–­67, HSA; Claim No. 2762, FT LCA Records (287-­3), vol. 7, 161, HSA; and Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179. 114 Nickerson, Lahaina, 42–­45. 115 Joaquin’s absence from the land he was gifted by the king and his eventual return no doubt caused conflict with Native Hawaiians and his Chinese tenants/merchants who saw this as being favored at their expense, particularly for the Native Hawaiian claimant, whose own claim to the land was superseded by the king’s testimony on behalf of Joaquin Armas. This added to the already complex relationship he had with his Hawaiian host toward the end of his time living in Hawaiʻi. 116 In 1845, King Kamehameha III established the Land Commission in Hawaiʻi for the purpose of awarding land claims. The Land Commission Awards (LCA) were issued by the Board of Commissioners for Quiet Land Titles from 1846 to 1855 to individuals who filed claims to those lands from 1846 to 1848. However, this also created issues with some Native Hawaiians who at times were already in possession of and cultivating lands. See Claim No. 962, FT LCA Records (287-­2), vol. 2, 66–­67, HSA; Paul F. Nahoa Lucas, ed., A Dictionary of Hawaiian Legal Land-­Terms (Honolulu: Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation, 1995), 65; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 179; and “Land in Hawaiʻi,” Hawaii.gov, accessed May 3, 2021, https://​files​ .hawaii​.gov/​dcca/​reb/​real​_ed/​re​_ed/​ce​_prelic/​land​_in​_hawaii​.pdf. 117 Claim No. 2762, FT LCA Records (287-­3), vol. 7, 161, HSA; Claim No. 962, FT LCA Records (288-­1), vol. 1, 567–­571, HSA. 118 Keoni Ana to J. Y. Kanehoa, Governor of Maui, August 6, 1847 (translated by E. K. A.), Interior Department Letter Books, vol. 2, 100, HSA; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 182. 119 Letter from R. S. Kuykendall to Leon Rowland, April 23, 1940, Bibliographical File: Armas, Felipe & Joaquín, HSA; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 12. 120 This included Felipe’s daughter Lucía Concepcion, who was later baptized in Santa Cruz, Alta California, on April 29, 1851. Her baptismal record also noted her mother, who was not named but only described as “a Hawaiian of the Islands of Sandwich.” This suggests that Felipe baptized Lucía without the presence of her mother, Mary Richardson, who may have died, or they were granted a divorce. See Certificate of Baptism, Lucía Concepcion Armas, Baptism Book 1, 214-­2887, Diocesan Archives, Diocese of Monterey in California. 121 Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 30; “Felipe Armas Notice to Depart the Kingdom,” Polynesian, July 15, 1848, 35; “Notice of Passports Granted, Felipe Armas,” Polynesian, August 4, 1848, 47; Passport No. 54, Felipe Armas, July 15, 1848, and Passport No. 160, Joaquin Armas, October 2, 1848, Passport Book 1848, HSA. 122 Since Joaquin Armas left Hawaiʻi to return to California in October 1848, it is possible he had someone else running his business for him and overseeing his land. See “Department of the Interior, Licenses Ending in February 1849,” Polynesian, February 3, 1849, 151; “Department of the Interior, Licenses Ending in March 1849,” Polynesian, March 31, 1849, 183; “Department of the Interior, Licenses Ending in April 1849,” Polynesian, March 31, 1849, 183; and Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 183. 123 Santa Cruz Death 02177, December 19, 1850, Early California Population Project Database, Huntington Library, San Marino, California; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 128; Leon Rowland to R. S. Kuykendall, May 1, 1940, Biographical File U171, HSA. 124 Davis, “Economic and Social Connections,” 30; Kimbro et al., “Como la Sombra Huye la Hora,” 163; Rowland to Kuykendall, May 1, 1940, HSA; Leon Rowland to R. S. Kuykendall, May 25, 1940, Biographical File U171, HSA.

256  •  Notes to Pages 47–49

125 Rowland to Kuykendall, May 1, 1940, HSA. 126 Asher B. Bates, Esq., to Chief Justice of the Superior Court, November 22, 1850, 1st Circuit Court (hereafter 1CC), Series 006-­22, Law Case File 768, HSA; Chief Justice of the Superior Court William L. Lee to William L. Parke, Marshal, Court Summons for Joaquin Armas, November 30, 1850, 1CC, Series 006-­22, Law Case File 768, HSA; letter verifying served Summons for Joaquin Armas, December 6, 1850, Summons for Joaquin Armas, November 30, 1850, 1CC, Series 006-­22, Law Case File 768, HSA. 127 “Notice of Sale,” Polynesian, August 18, 1855, 58; “Notice of Sale,” Polynesian, August 25, 1855, 63. It is probable that this sale could not have happened unless Armas was able to purchase or secure title to the land from the independent Hawaiian Kingdom during what was known as the Great Māhale of 1848, which for the first time allowed foreigners to own land in Hawaiʻi. For more on this, see Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 141; Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, Dismembering Lāhui: A History of the Hawaiian Nation to 1887 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002); Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa, Native Land and Foreign Desires: Peha Lā E Pono Ai? (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1992); and Sally Engle Merry, Colonizing Hawaiʻi: The Cultural Power of Law (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). 128 Richard H. Bowlin to John Young, 1852, Department of Interior Records, box 59, document 68, HSA; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 187. 129 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 98. 130 Slatta et al., “Kona,” 7. 131 Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 177. 132 Frost and Frost, 177–­178; Lyons, “Traces of Spanish Influence,” 34; Okihiro, Island World, 172; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. The other Mexicans mentioned could have also been the other three vaqueros (Ramón, Kossuth, and Louzada) who came at the request of Governor Adams and worked for John Palmer Parker, since they were the only other known vaqueros to be on the island of Hawaiʻi at that time. 133 The vaqueros who were Indigenous and Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent were often referred to as Spanish, most likely because of the language they spoke and the trade they acquired from the Spanish friars, not because they were from Spain. 134 Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 114; “Waimea,” Sandwich Island Gazette, September 24, 1836, 2. 135 It is possible that the first group of twelve Mexican vaqueros also went to the islands of Molokaʻi and Niʻihau, since there are also paniolos and cattle ranching. See interview with Billy Bergin; and “South of the Border,” 18. 136 Brennan, Paniolo, 51; Sandler, Vaqueros, 22; Richard W. Slatta, Cowboys of the Americas (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1990), 24; Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos,” 27. 137 “Wild Cattle Roamed,” 4; “Will Hawaii Hold Her Own?,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, December 9, 1907, 12; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 13. 138 The names of these other vaqueros were spelled differently in various sources. For example, Ramón Baesa was also spelled Baisa and Baeza. Louzada’s name is also spelled as Louzeida, Luzada, and Lozuida in other sources. According to historian John Ryan Fischer, the origin of the vaquero name Kossuth is unknown. As he notes, “He may have been Hungarian or of Hungarian descent, he could be an Indian with a coincidently Hungarian-­sounding name, or folk traditions have misremembered his name.” I have found no contemporary records of a Kossuth to clear up this matter. See Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 34, 67–­71; Brennan, Parker Ranch, 51; Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 15–­16; Fischer, Cattle Colonialism, 228n91; Hobbs, “Our Fourth Industry Is Livestock,” 95; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11; “South of the Border,” 18; and “Descendants of Ramon (Baesa) Baeza,” January 2, 2004, accessed

Notes to Pages 49–53  •  257

September 2, 2011, https://​freepages​.rootsweb​.com/​~wgidir/​genealogy/​docs/​ raymond​.pdf. 139 “South of the Border,” 18; “Will Hawaii Hold Her Own?,” 12. 140 Although no documents describe if Louzada was of California Indian ancestry and/ or Mexican mestizo of Indigenous ancestry, given the predominance of both groups who came to Hawaiʻi, it is likely that his ancestry was one, if not both. All other discussions about Louzada also reference the last name Luozida or Don Luzada. This is the first document I have come across that mentions him by his full name. See Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 72; Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 15–­16; and “Death of an Old Resident,” Hawaiian Gazette, November 10, 1869, 3. 141 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 67–­69; Frost and Frost, “King’s Bullock Catcher,” 175; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 11. 142 Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 98; Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 68–­70. 143 There appears to be a slight discrepancy in the genealogy Barna has pointed out with the Raymond family tree with a competing genealogy that also cites Ramón Baesa. One of the Raymond branches provides an 1864 passenger manifest from the Florence, which arrived to Honolulu from Loreto, Baja California Sur, México, on March 29, 1864. In addition to Ramón, there were five other passengers on board, including his wife, Vicenta (Maria Vicente Gastelum), and son, José Baesa, who arrived with him, though it appears that Vicenta’s name was misspelled as Bicento Castellon on the passenger list. See Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian,” 98; “Passenger List Florence,” March 29, 1964, HSA; “Descendants of Ramon (Baesa) Baeza”; and Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 68–­69. 144 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 12–­13. See also letter to G. P. Judd, minister of finance (translated from Hawaiian), Koloa, August 1, 1848, HSA. The Bishop Museum Archives in Honolulu had an audio recording of a descendant of Miguel Castro but I could not gain access, since I was not a relative. 145 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 13. 146 Letter from Liholiho to William Webster, September 12, 1856, 1, William Webster Papers (M-­152), box 1, folder 1, HSA. 147 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 12–­13. 148 Part of this portion of Little México in Waimea is now part of the Parker Ranch. See Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; and “Fleming Family History—­Person Sheet, William Charles Malulani Beckley,” RootsWeb, accessed May 14, 2018, https://​sites​.rootsweb​ .com/​~barbpretz/​ps01/​ps01​_118​.htm. Sources also point to William Beckley’s parents voyaging to México. See Bob Dye, Merchant Prince of the Sandalwood Mountains: Afong and the Chinese of Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1997), 70. 149 “Fleming Family History.” 150 Wellmon, “Parker Ranch,” 73. 151 Wellmon, 74. 152 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 33; Nakano, Parker Ranch Paniolo, 42; Herbert Ishizu, “Roping Wild Cattle,” Paka Paniolo 18 (May 1963): 3, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM; Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 153 Trimillos, Nā Mele Paniolo, 4. 154 “South of the Border,” 42. 155 Brennan, Parker Ranch, 56; Hobbs, “Our Fourth Industry Is Livestock,” 98. 156 Brennan, Paniolo, 61–­63, 83–­86; Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos,” 27. 157 Brennan, Paniolo, 87–­92; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 15; Slatta et al., “Kona,” 2–­19. 158 “South of the Border,” 18; Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse.

258  •  Notes to Pages 53–56

159 George S. Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians: An Illustrated History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1979), 292. 160 Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse; Brennan, Parker Ranch, 47; Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 292. 161 Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse, 19–­29; “Close of 1966 Marks Start of Retirement for Several Oldtimers,” Paka Paniolo 60 (December 1966): 2, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 29–­37. 162 Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos,” 27. 163 Judd, “Early Days of Waimea,” 17–­18; Simpson, “Paniolo,” 37. 164 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 165 Brennan, Paniolo, 69–­71; Ishizu, “Roping Wild Cattle,” 3; Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 36–­40. 166 Pryor, Cowboys, 12; A. Grove Day, Hawaii and Its People (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1960), 174; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49–­56, 73–­86. 167 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 168 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 97–­139; Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse; “Hawaiian Names Given Cowboy’s Riding Gear,” Paka Paniolo 31 ( June 1964): 3, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM. 169 “Native Music in Honolulu,” Paradise of the Pacific, July 1888, 3; Okihiro, Island World, 174. For additional theories on how the guitar came to Hawaiʻi, see Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 351–­353. 170 Musician and writer Mikaʻele McClellan notes that the possibility that guitars came as early as 1818 is also a speculative theory, since “there were no guitars (or ethnomusicologists) in the islands during the early 1800s.” See Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 92; Mikaʻele McClellan, “Slay Key History and Speculation,” in An Advanced Workbook for the Hawaiian Slack Key Guitar (Chicago: Bartlett, 1992); and John W. Troutman, Kīkā Kila: How the Hawaiian Steel Guitar Changed the Sound of Modern Music (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2016), 14. 171 As slack key guitarist George Kahumoku Jr. noted, “Our culture is based on borrowing and incorporating things from many visiting cultures to the islands. . . . We wouldn’t have the guitar if this didn’t happen.” See Bret Lueder, “Hawaiian Slack Key Guitarists Bearers of ʻAloha,’” Musical Buzz, January 17, 2002. 172 Okihiro, Island World, 174. 173 These also could have very well been the Mexican vaqueros that William Beckley brought with him from Vera Cruz to Hawaiʻi. Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi; Trimillos, Nā Mele Paniolo, 6–­7. 174 Tyina Steptoe, “Soul Salsa,” American Historian, February 2019, 36–­42n3. 175 Okihiro, Island World, 174; Hector Venegas, “Cowboys from Mexico First Hispanics in Isles,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, February 19, 1985, A12. 176 Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 1. 177 Samuel H. Elbert and Noelani Mahoe, Nā Mele o Hawaiʻi Nei: 101 Hawaiian Songs (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1970), 28. 178 George Kanahele, “Hana Hoof,” Haʻilono Mele 1, no. 2 (February 1975): 2; Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 1; Venegas, “Cowboys from Mexico,” A12. 179 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 14; Okihiro, Island World, 260n24. 180 Elbert and Mahoe, Nā Mele o Hawaiʻi, 40. 181 Elbert and Mahoe, 40–­41, 86–­87; “Hālona” was most likely written in the late 1800s or early 1900s, since it was published in 1902. See A. R. Cunha, Famous Hawaiian Songs (Honolulu: Bergstrom Music, 1914), 24; and “Ka Paniolo Nui o Molokaʻi” (translated by Kimo Alama) and “ʻUlupalakua” (translated by Kimo Alama), Kimo Alama Keaulana Mele Collection, MS Group 329, box 3.31, Bishop Museum Archives, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi.

Notes to Pages 56–59  •  259

182 Gary Haleamau and Nani Lim Yap, “Adiós Ke Aloha,” Na Mele O Paniolo: Songs of the Hawaiian Cowboy (Warner Western, 1997), CD. 183 George Kahumoku Jr. et al., prod., The Spirit of Hawaiian Slack Key Guitar (Los Angeles: Daniel Ho Creations, 2008), CD. The album was recorded live in Maui; Dennis and David Kamakahi, Paʻani (Dennis Kamakahi Productions, 2007), CD. 184 “Taro Patch Talk,” Haʻilono Mele 2, no. 6 (1976): 6; Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 92; Okihiro, Island World, 175; Troutman, Kīkā Kila, 19. 185 Okihiro, Island World, 175. 186 Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 350 and 363; Lynn J. Martin, dir., Musics of Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: State Foundation on Culture and the Arts—­Folk Arts Program, 1996), 19. Joseph Kekuku was the first one noted by the press to have mastered this technique in the early 1890s. Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 92–­93; Troutman, Kīkā Kila; Okihiro, Island World, 175–­176; Trimillos, Nā Mele Paniolo, 7; “Taro Patch Talk,” 5–­6. 187 Kaapana quoted in Sean Baker, “Slack-­Key Guitar with Ledward Kaapana,” Smithsonian Folklife Festival, accessed May 22, 2019, https://​festival​.si​.edu/​blog/​legend​ -and​-legacy​-hawaiian​-slack​-key​-guitar​-with​-ledward​-kaapana; Okihiro also notes several other stories of the origins of slack key technique. See Okihiro, Island World, 178–­180. 188 Day, Hawaii and Its People, 173. 189 “Cattle Hunting on Hawaii,” 2; Okihiro, Island World, 172–­173. 190 Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 292. 191 Bergin, Loyal to the Land, 90–­92; Brennan, “Hawaiian Cowboys,” 15. 192 Although MacPhee tried to win back his title the following year in Hawaiʻi, Ikua beat him once again. See Brennan, Paniolo, 76–­79; Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 31–­34; Halloran, Hawaiian Longhorn Story, 7; Okihiro, Island World, 173; “Hawaii Out Throws World’s Cowboys,” Hawaiian Star, August 24, 1908, 6; “Lanakila na Keiki o Waimea!,” Kuokoa Home Rula, August 28, 1908, 1; and Steiner, “Land of the Paniolos,” 27. 193 Kanahele, Hawaiian Music and Musicians, 292. 194 Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 117. 195 Loomis, Rough Riders, 10. 196 Ernest Samson Richardson, interviewed by Mina Morita and Warran Nishimoto, June 27, 1988, Lānaʻi Ranch: The People of Kōʻele and Keōmuku, vols. 1–­2 (Honolulu: Center for Oral History, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, 1989), 757; Slatta et al., “Kona,” 19. 197 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 198 I utilize the Spanish gendered form of using a for women when referring to the term paniola. For more on women and paniolo culture, see Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 106; and Elyssa Ford, “Paʻu Riding in Hawaiʻi: Memory, Race, and Community on Parade,” Pacific Historical Review 84, no. 3 (2015): 283. 199 Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49. 200 Most sources I found on the paniolos in the early nineteenth and twentieth centuries primarily chronicled the lives of men. This could be due to the gender dynamics, where males were the ones who were involved in staying out all day, even days and weeks at a time, to round up cattle in the mountains and valleys. There were some paniolo camps that did have women who assisted, but by and large it was usually small groups of men who did this work. It was also men who usually told the stories, which could also have been gender biased. When Hawaiian women were mentioned, it was more often as pāʻū riders, named for how they mounted their horses astride with their skirts versus sidesaddle mounting like Western women did. Photographic

260  •  Notes to Pages 59–65

evidence also shows paniolo men, women, and children at some of the camps. For more on the early Hawaiian women horse riders and early paniolo camp life, see Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49; Barna, “Ethnogenesis of the Hawaiian Ranching Community”; “Hawaiian Cowboys and Families at Temporary Quarters during Shipping of Cattle, Hawaiʻi, Circa 1890” (Image ID: SP_39173), Photograph Collection, Folder: Agriculture. Ranching. Cowboys, Bishop Museum Archives, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy, 106; and Mills et al., “Paradox of the Paniolo,” 110–­132. 201 Lee, Paniolo o Hawaiʻi. 202 Lee. 203 Lee. 204 Pāʻū riders are accompanied by paniolos in parades. They all are adorned with leis, including their horses. It is a practice that continues to be passed down to each generation. See the Pāʻū website, https://​www​.paurider​.com; and Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49. 205 See Jerald Kimo Alama, Wahine Holo Lio: Women on Horseback (n.p., 1986); Christina Zarobe, “Perpetuating the Historic Paniola Ride across the Hawaiian Range,” ʻAoʻao Umikumakolu, October 1991, 12–­13, Subject File: Paniolos, Kauaʻi Historical Society Archives; and Ford, “Paʻu Riding in Hawaiʻi,” 283. 206 Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49. 207 I would like to thank Akiemi Glenn, who brought the pāʻū riders to my attention. For more on this topic, see Cowan-­Smith and Stone, Aloha Cowboy; Ford, “Paʻu Riding in Hawaiʻi”; and Martin, Nā Paniolo o Hawaiʻi, 49. 208 Loomis, Rough Riders, 19. 209 The Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo took place February 16–­­18, 2019, on Hawaiʻi Island. There was even an introductory section that paid homage to the Mexican vaquero influence on the Hawaiian paniolo. Rudy Guevarra Jr., field notes, February 18, 2019, Hilo, Hawaiʻi; 27th Annual Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo, program, Hawaiʻi Horse Owners, 2019. 210 Interview with José Luis Rincon, February 17, 2019, Kamuela, Hawaiʻi. 211 Interview with Billy Bergin. 212 Interview with José Luis Rincon. 213 Interview with Jesús Gonzalez, February 17, 2019, Kamuela, Hawaiʻi. Quote translated from Spanish. 214 Interview with Billy Bergin. 215 Interview with Jesús Gonzalez. 216 Interview with Jesús Gonzalez. 217 Interview with Jesús Gonzalez; Bergin, Loyal to the Land; Bergin and Bergin, Hawaiian Horse. 218 Compadre and comadre (godparents) are Spanish-­language terms that refer to the practice of compadrazgo, or godparenthood. This practice is common among Mexican Catholics and extends their familial and kinship networks with both family and nonrelated family into a collective familial identity. See Robert R. Alvarez Jr., Familia: Migration and Adaptation in Baja and Alta California, 1800–­1975 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 42–­43; and Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., Becoming Mexipino: Multiethnic Identities and Communities in San Diego (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2012), 142–­145.

Chapter 2  Boricua Hawaiiana 1 “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza: Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaii,” Oral History Recorder 7, no. 1 (Spring 1988): 3, box 1, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza

Notes to Pages 65–66  •  261

Collection, Archives of the Puerto Rican Diaspora (hereafter APRD), Centro Estudios Puertorriqueños, Hunter College, CUNY; “Blase Camacho Souza Biography,” 1988, p. 2, box 1, folder 3, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Viente Preguntas / 20 Questions: Facts and Figures about Hawaii’s Puerto Ricans,” box 4, folder 4, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 2 See “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza: Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaii,” Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 3 Carmelo Rosario Natal, “Temas Históricos de Puerto Rico,” El Mundo, April 15, 1984, 6-­B, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Temas Históricos de Puerto Rico,” El Mundo, March 25, 1984, 14-­C, box 3, folder 8, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 4 According to Tony Castanha, Borikén (Puerto Rico) is “the indigenous ancestral homeland of the Boricua [Puerto Rican], wherever they may be.” See Tony Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity Centering on Resistance, Survival and Presence in Borinkén (Puerto Rico)” (PhD diss., University of Hawaiʻi, 2004), 255. 5 “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza by Norma Carr,” June 27, 1978, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi, p. 5, box 1, folder 12, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 6 Kohala remains a large local Puerto Rican community on Hawaiʻi Island. “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza by Norma Carr,” 5. 7 Blase Camacho Souza, “La Familia: Emigrating to Hawaii,” box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 8 Blase Camacho Souza, “Reminisces of a Second Generation Child Growing Up in a Plantation Community,” 1975, p. 2, box 19, folder 12, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 9 Scholars such as Tony Castanha and Ronald Arroyo contend that the term Borinkee or Borinki is the Pidgin English pronunciation and spelling of Boricua, and that is how they were referred to by others. Other scholars, however, such as Iris López, have noted that Borinki was a term that first-­and second-­generation Puerto Ricans almost exclusively self-­identified with along with being local. Blase Camacho Souza, however, has used the term Boricua Hawaiiana to identify local Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi. Other terms also include Boricua Hawayano and Local Ricans. For the purposes of this chapter, I will use Boricua Hawaiiana when describing local Puerto Ricans. For more on the use of these varying terms, see Ronald D. Arroyo, “Da Borinkees: The Puerto Ricans of Hawaiʻi” (PhD diss., Union Graduate School, 1977), 2–­3; Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity,” 256; Iris López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey: Puerto Rican Identity in Hawaiʻi, 1900–­2000,” in The Puerto Rican Diaspora: Historical Perspectives, ed. Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vázquez-­Hernández (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005), 59–­60; Lisa Sánchez-­Johnson, “The Hispanics,” in People and Cultures of Hawaiʻi: The Evolution of Culture and Ethnicity, ed. Johan F. McDermott and Naleen Naupaka Andrade (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 155; Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, pp. 4–­5, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Cristina Verán, “Puerto Rican Hawaii,” Latina, August 1998, p. 110, box 1, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; and Gloria Borrás, “Una Boricua-­Hawaiiana en la Tierra de Sus Mayors,” El Mundo, April 1, 1984, 12-­B, box 1, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 10 “Blase Camacho Souza Biography,” 1988, p. 2, box 1, folder 3, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 11 For an extensive list of Blase Camacho Souza’s publications, see “Blase Camacho Souza Bibliography,” n.d., box 7, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. She was also involved in developing several major exhibitions, such as Boricua Hawaiiana (Puerto Ricans of Hawaiʻi) and De Borinquen a Hawaii: Nuestra Historia (From Puerto Rico to Hawaiʻi: Our Story).

262  •  Notes to Pages 66–69

12 See Arroyo, “Da Borinkees”; Norma Carr, “The Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi, 1900–­1958” (PhD diss., University of Hawaiʻi, 1989); Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity”; Daniel M. López, California and Hawaii’s First Puerto Ricans, 1850–­1925: The 1st and 2nd Generation Immigrants/Migrants (National City, Calif.: Valmar Graphics & Printing, 2012); López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 43–­67; and JoAnna Poblete, Islanders in the Empire: Filipino and Puerto Rican Laborers in Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017). 13 Ismael García-­Colón, Colonial Migrants at the Heart of Empire: Puerto Rican Workers on U.S. Farms (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2020); Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vázquez-­Hernández, eds., The Puerto Rican Diaspora: Historical Perspectives (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005), 8. 14 Eileen J. Suárez Findlay, We Are Left without a Father Here: Masculinity, Domesticity, and Migration in Postwar Puerto Rico (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2014), 7–­8. 15 Although they also labored in the pineapple plantations, for the purposes of this chapter, I will focus on the sugar cane industry, which employed the vast majority of Puerto Rican workers in Hawaiʻi. 16 As Puerto Rican scholar Blase Camacho Souza noted, “The records show that the Puerto Ricans who arrived here in the early 1900s found themselves a small minority on the plantations. They quickly intermingled with members of other ethnic groups. They started marrying out of their group as early as 1902, as outmarriage was an accepted practice in their motherland.” See Blase Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza—­‘ Work and Sorrow’: The Puerto Ricans of Hawaii, 1900–­1902,” Hawaiian Journal of History 18 (1984): 157; and López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 60. 17 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 67. 18 See Suárez Findlay, We Are Left without a Father Here; García-­Colón, Colonial Migrants at the Heart of Empire; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire; and Whalen and Vázquez-­Hernández, Puerto Rican Diaspora. 19 Suárez Findlay, We Are Left without a Father Here, 4–­5. 20 See Arroyo, “Da Borinkees”; Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza”; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi”; Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity”; López, California and Hawaii’s First Puerto Ricans, 1850–­1925; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 43–­67; Iris López and David Forbes, “Borinki Identity in Hawaii: Present and Future,” CENTRO Journal 13, no. 1 (2001): 110–­127; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire; and Milton N. Silva, Blase Camacho Souza, Elvira Caraig De Silva, and Cristobal S. Berry-­Caban, “Puerto Ricans of Hawaii: Immigrants and Migrants,” Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences 6, no. 1 (1984): 83–­88. 21 Scholars such as JoAnna Poblete and Dean Saranillio explore the relational experiences of racialized ethnic groups such as Filipinos and Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi. See Poblete, Islanders in the Empire; and Dean Saranillio, “Colonial Amnesia: Rethinking Filipino ‘American’ Settler Empowerment in the U.S. Colony of Hawaiʻi,” in Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawaiʻi, ed. Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008), 256–­278. 22 As one-­time nationals under U.S. rule, Filipinos would also be considered intracolonials in this discussion. See Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 6. 23 Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity,” 254. 24 Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 3. 25 Fujikane and Okamura, Asian Settler Colonialism, 17; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 16.

Notes to Pages 70–71  •  263

26 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 160; Joyce Chapman Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi: The Voices of Women, 2nd ed. (Honolulu: Goodale, 1999), 200; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 17. 27 Saez was 112 years old at the time of the documentary interview. See Ramón H. Almodovar, dir., Al Hawaii (Puerto Rico: Fundación Puertorriqueña de las Humanidades, 1985). 28 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 162, 169; Blase Camacho Souza, “Hawaii’s Puerto Rican—­the Forgotten Immigrant,” 1974, p. 3, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 29 “Hurricane Destroys Porto Rican Towns,” San Francisco Call, August 11, 1899, 3; “Hundreds Were Killed and Thousands Became Destitute,” San Francisco Call, August 12, 1899, 2; “Terrible Havoc Wrought by the Hurricane in Porto Rico,” San Francisco Call, August 13, 1899, p. 1, box 21, folder 6, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 30 “Dying of Starvation by Scores in Puerto Rico,” Examiner, December 23, 1900, 20; Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity,” 260. 31 See Almodovar, Al Hawaii; Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 5. 32 Gary Y. Okihiro, Pineapple Culture: A History of the Tropical and Temperate Zones (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 118. 33 The “Big Five” included Alexander & Baldwin, Ltd.; Castle & Cooke, Ltd.; American Factors, Ltd.; C. Brewer & Company, Ltd.; and Theo H. Davies Company, Ltd. By 1946, the Big Five controlled 96.5 percent of all sugar production in Hawaiʻi. See Edward D. Beechert, Working in Hawaii: A Labor History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1985), 16–­39; Carol A. MacLennan, “Hawaii Turns to Sugar: The Rise of Plantation Centers, 1860–­1880,” Hawaiian Journal of History 31 (1997): 97–­99; Carol A. MacLennan, Sovereign Sugar: Industry and Environment in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014); Dionicio Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture and the Labor Movement before the UFW: Puerto Rico, Hawaiʻi, California (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 109; Okihiro, Pineapple Culture, 115–­118; and Ronald Takaki, Pau Hana: Plantation Life and Labor in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1983), 16–­18. 34 Since the Native Hawaiian population experienced a collapse due to disease brought by Europeans and white American explorers, traders, and missionaries, outside laborers were imported to meet the demands of the plantation economy. This led to the recruitment of Chinese, South Pacific Islanders, Japanese, Portuguese, Norwegians, Germans, Spanish, Russians, Koreans, Puerto Ricans, Italians, Filipinos, and Blacks from the U.S. South. See Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 16–­39; MacLennan, Sovereign Sugar; Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture, 109; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 16; and Takaki, Pau Hana, 25. 35 See Erika Lee, America for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States (New York: Basic Books, 2019), 10; Shelley Sang-­Hee Lee, A New History of Asian America (New York: Routledge, 2014), 136–­139; and Takaki, Pau Hana, 25. 36 Takaki, Pau Hana, 195n19. See also M. McLennand to Theo H. Davies and Company, June 18, 1894, Laupahoehoe Plantation Records. 37 Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 200. 38 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 44. 39 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 164. 40 These meeting notes extended to October 14, 1901, which included the call for the discontinuance of Puerto Rican laborers. See “Puerto Rican Migrants,” Excerpts from

264  •  Notes to Pages 71–73

Minutes of Meetings, Trustees, HSPA, pp. 1–­3, box 19, folder 12, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 41 “Seek Porto Ricans for Hawaii Plantations,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, August 2, 1900, 1, c. 6. 42 Milton N. Silva and Blase Camacho Souza, “The Puerto Ricans,” Social Process in Hawaii 29 (1982): 83. 43 According to Souza, it was Alberto Minville who was responsible for the recruitment of Puerto Rican workers to Hawaiʻi. He was of Puerto Rican and white American descent and considered a loyal advocate for the interests of the Puerto Rican community in Hawaiʻi. See Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 129; Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration to Hawaii,” box 1, folder 4, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, in the APRD; Blase Camacho Souza, “75 Years—­Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” Hawaii Heritage News, February 1976, box 3, folder 7, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, in the APRD; and Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 151–­160. 44 Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 84. 45 See also Blase Camacho Souza, “La Mujer Puertorriqueña de Hawaiʻi,” in Montage: An Ethnic History of Women in Hawaiʻi, ed. Nancy Foon Young and Judy R. Parrish (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1977), 63; Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 84; Kum Pui Lai, “Fifty Aged Puerto Ricans,” Social Process in Hawaii 2 (May 1936): 25. Photographic evidence I uncovered showed primarily Puerto Rican families in Hawaiʻi during the early 1900s. See various photographs of Puerto Rican migrant families in Hawaiʻi, box 1, folders 4 and 11, in the APRD. 46 Borrás, “Boricua-­Hawaiiana.” 47 “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza by Norma Carr,” June 27, 1978, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi, p. 2, box 1, folder 12, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 48 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 162. 49 Blase Camacho Souza, “Boricua Hawayano: The Puerto Rican Born in Hawaiʻi,” Change and Continuity: Puerto Rico and Hawaiʻi: A Viewers Guide (The Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi), n.d., p. 9, box 3, folder 8, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. Poem translated by Blase Camacho Souza. 50 Although a number of the reports from both the Examiner and the Pacific Commercial Advertiser were sensationalized and represented the agenda of specific interests, such as anti-­HSPA (Examiner) and pro-­HSPA views (PCA), I have tried to provide more specific details that were consistent with other newspapers and with what Norma Carr has provided in her analysis of the first two voyages. See Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 92–­114. 51 Carr, 103; “Dash for Liberty by Porto Ricans,” Examiner, December 14, 1900, n.p. See also Almodovar, Al Hawaii; “Porto Ricans Go to Hawaii,” New York Times, December 7, 1900; Daily Picayune, December 1, 1900, 6, c. 4; “Kidnapping Slaves from Porto Rico,” Examiner, December 7, 1900, 1, c. 6; “Porto Ricans for Plantations,” San Francisco Call, December 7, 1900, p. 5, box 21, folder 1, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Edward J. Livermash, “Porto Ricans Enticed from Their Homes by Promises of Luxury and Wealth and Kept Prisoners by Threats of Violence,” Examiner, December 11, 1900; “Threats and Force Put 66 Porto Ricans on Rio, but Fifty Others Escape,” Examiner, December 15, 1900; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” pp. 2–­3, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 166; and La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, January 13, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977). 52 “Threats and Force Put 66 Porto Ricans on Rio, but Fifty Others Escape,” Examiner, December 15, 1900, 1; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 3,

Notes to Pages 73–75  •  265

box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Whalen and Vázquez-­ Hernández, Puerto Rican Diaspora, 8. 53 Livermash, “Porto Ricans Enticed.” 54 “Emigrados Que Regresan,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, April 17, 1901, in Sources for the Study of Puerto Rican Migration, 1879–­1930 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1982), 31. 55 These desertions led to Puerto Ricans living in New Orleans, Arizona, and other cities along the South and U.S. Southwest. See “Government Blind to Trade in Labor,” Examiner, December 9, 1900, n.p.; “Porto Ricans Are Prepared to Resist,” Examiner, December 12, 1900, n.p.; Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 166; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 96, 99–­100; and López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 44–­45. 56 Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, pp. 3–­4, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 106; Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 164–­165; Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 201. 57 The Pacific Commercial Advertiser incidentally was owned by Lorrin P. Thurston, the leading conspirator in the illegal overthrow of Queen Liliʻuokalani and the Hawaiian Kingdom and a board member of the HSPA. He had his own agenda regarding how the Puerto Rican migrants would be portrayed. See Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 107. 58 Pacific Commercial Advertiser, December 11, 1900, 1, c. 5; Pacific Commercial Advertiser, December 12, 1900, 2, c. 1; “Porto Ricans Are Public Charges,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, December 27, 1900, 3, c. 3; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” pp. 4–­5, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. The early newspapers and documents from this era sometimes use the spelling Porto rather than Puerto. 59 Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 5, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 107. 60 “Los Emigrantes Puertorriqueños en New Orleans,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, January 13, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 21; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 108; “Islanders Arrive Starving and Sick,” Examiner, January 3, 1901, n.p.; “Cablegrams Special Service,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, January 26, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 22. 61 “Ship Captured by Porto Ricans,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, January 17, 1901, 1. 62 “Ship Captured by Porto Ricans,” 1; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” pp. 5–­6, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 108–­111. 63 “Ship Captured by Porto Ricans,” 1; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 6, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 108–­111. 64 “Dos Puertorriqueños Que Se Fugan de Hawaii,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, December 5, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 41. 65 “Pennyless Porto Ricans in Town,” Examiner, November 13, 1901; “Dos Puertorriqueños Que Se Fugan de Hawaii,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, December 5, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 41.

266  •  Notes to Pages 75–80

66 “Porto Ricans in Hawaii,” New York Times, May 29, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 37. 67 Almodovar, Al Hawaii; Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 129; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 33; Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 85. 68 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 167. 69 Center for Oral History (hereafter COH), Waialua & Haleiwa: The People Tell Their Story, vol. 2, Koreans, Puerto Ricans (Ethnic Studies Oral history Project: University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, May 1977), 125. 70 Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 201–­202; Blase Camacho Souza, “Culture Considerations When Interviewing Puerto Rican Elders,” paper presented at HMCC Oral History Conference (1978), pp. 3–­4, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Takaki, Pau Hana, 55. 71 COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 146. 72 COH, 80. 73 Puerto Rican employment files, 1936–­1938, Kilauea Sugar Plantation Company Records, box 45, folder 12, File: Personnel, Puerto Rican Laborers—­Wages and Minimum Wages, 1931–­1939, Kauaʻi Historical Society Archives (hereafter KHS). 74 COH, A Social History of Kona, vol. 1 (Ethnic Studies Oral history Project: University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, June 1981), 108. 75 COH, 117. 76 COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 122. 77 Some Puerto Ricans like Alfredo Santiago advanced to the position of luna (foreman or overseer) because of their experience working various jobs on the plantation, such as mule driver, locomotor, brakeman, and eventually foreman. However, they were considered more like work gang leaders, since they supervised both men and women work gangs. See COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 115; and D. Ladd, “Work in the Early Years,” Waipahu, March 6, 1982, taken from Hearings, U.S. Congress 67, 1st Session H.R. (192), Serial 7, Pt. 1; and Labor Problems in Hawaii (1921), box 4, folder 4, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 78 Ladd, “Work in the Early Years.” 79 Camacho Souza, “La Mujer Puertorriqueña de Hawaiʻi,” 65; Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 203–­217; “New Idea in ‘Help,’ Porto Rican Girls for Domestic Servants,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, May 2, 1901, 6; Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture, 113. 80 Camacho Souza, “La Mujer Puertorriqueña de Hawaiʻi,” 65. 81 The women interviewed in this article are only mentioned by their first names. This may have been for privacy purposes. See Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 207. 82 Lebra, 208. 83 Camacho Souza, “La Mujer Puertorriqueña de Hawaiʻi,” 65; Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 208–­209. 84 Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 211. 85 Lebra, 212. 86 Lebra, 218. 87 COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 158–­159. 88 Takaki, Pau Hana, 67. 89 Takaki, 74 and 66–­75. 90 Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 215. 91 COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 83. 92 Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 214.

Notes to Pages 80–82  •  267

93 “The Hawaiian Experience: Exploitation and Survival in Paradise,” Update: The Newsletter of the Puerto Rican Diaspora Documentary Project 1, no. 3 (August 1981): 2, box 5, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 94 Because of Puerto Ricans’ status as intracolonials, Congress prohibited contract labor. Puerto Ricans were technically free to move between plantations. However, according to Edward D. Beechert, in order to control the movement of Puerto Rican laborers, “the HSPA adopted a resolution in 1901 which specified that ‘employment be given to Puerto Ricans after this date except such as reach the plantations directly through the Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association or except those who present an honorable discharge in writing from the plantation where previously employed.’” Puerto Ricans were also arrested and imprisoned for vagrancy when they left for Honolulu or other parts of the island. Once imprisoned, they would be used as convict labor. Negative stereotypes would also be utilized to instill public fear of Puerto Ricans as violent and deviant. See Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 131; A. M. Brown, “Analysis of Tables of Arrests and Offenses of Puerto Ricans, Circa 1902,” box 19, folder 10, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 6, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Lebra, Shaping Hawaiʻi, 202; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 46; Robert W. O’Brien, “Hawaii’s Puerto Ricans: Stereotype and Reality,” Social Process in Hawaii 23 (1959): 61–­64; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 88–­92; Takaki, Pau Hana, 72–­73; and “Thieves on Maui Isle: New Laborers Are Suspected,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, March 26, 1901, 6 and 14. 95 “Una Carta del Hawaii,” La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, December 4, 1901, in Documentos de la Migración Puertorriqueña (1879–­1901) / Documents of the Puerto Rican Migration, No. 1 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1977), 40. 96 I would like to thank Merida Rúa for bringing this to my attention in an earlier draft of my chapter. For more on the Foraker Act of 1900, see Sam Erman, Almost Citizens: Puerto Rico, the U.S. Constitution, and Empire (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 27–­46; Robert C. McGreevey, Borderline Citizens: The United States, Puerto Rico, and the Politics of Colonial Migration (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2018), 6–­7; and Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 30, 36–­38. 97 Takaki, Pau Hana, 24, 75–­76, 189n31. See also HSPA resolution, November 18, 1904, Grove Farm Plantation Records; and Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture, 112. 98 Andrew W. Lind, “Community Types in Hawaii,” Social Process in Hawaii 23 (1959): 13–­14; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 47–­48; Takaki, Pau Hana, 58. 99 Jonathan Y. Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2008), 55; Takaki, Pau Hana, 77, 189n36. See also U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), Report of the Commissioner of Labor on Hawaii (1910), 20; and BLS, Report of the Commissioner of Labor (1916), 122, 124, 143. 100 “Report of the Commissioner of Labor on Hawaii, Bulletin of the Department of Labor, No. 47 (Washington, D.C.: Department of Labor, July 1903),” in Sources for the Study of Puerto Rican Migration, 1879–­1930 (New York: Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños, 1982), 62; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 46. 101 Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture, 114. 102 See Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 209; “Hawaiian Experience,” 1; Moon-­Kie Jung, Reworking Race: The Making of Hawaii’s Interracial Labor Movement (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 78; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 48; and Takaki, Pau Hana, 170. 103 Jung, Reworking Race, 163. 104 Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 17.

268  •  Notes to Pages 82–85

105 Takaki, Pau Hana, 174–­175. 106 This was realized with the long strike of 1946. See Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture, 107; and Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 94. 107 Beechert, Working in Hawaii, 131. 108 Rose Garcia lived in Puerto Rico at the time of the documentary interview. See Almodovar, Al Hawaii. 109 “Hawaiian Experience,” 1. 110 I would like to thank Merida Rúa for bringing these discussions of U.S. citizenship for Puerto Ricans to my attention as they related to the pre-­1917 community of Hawaiʻi. As Robert McGreevey also notes about the passage of the Jones Act of 1917, “Congress granted Puerto Ricans U.S. citizenship, a legal status that entitled them to more rights than nationals but still fewer rights than full U.S. citizens.” See Nelson A. Denis, War against All Puerto Ricans: Revolution and Terror in America’s Colony (New York: Nation Books, 2015), 139; Erman, Almost Citizens, 121–­143; Suárez Findlay, We Are Left without a Father Here; García Colón, Colonial Migrants at the Heart of Empire; and McGreevey, Borderline Citizens, 95. 111 Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 9, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Porto Ricans Here Not Entitled to Vote in Territory,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, May 2, 1917, 7, c. 3. 112 Norma Carr, “Image: The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” p. 5, box 18, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Porto Rican Held American Citizen,” Pacific Commercial Advertiser, October 23, 1917, 7, c. 3; Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 85. 113 Critics of the Jones Act of 1917 also noted that the passage of this act was a means to draft Puerto Ricans into the U.S. military. Despite being granted citizenship, Puerto Ricans still cannot vote in U.S. elections, and Puerto Rico remains an unincorporated territory of the United States. For more on the Jones Act, see Rick Baldoz and César Ayala, “The Bordering of America: Colonialism and Citizenship in the Philippines and Puerto Rico,” CENTRO Journal 25, no. 1 (Spring 2013): 76–­105; Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, p. 9, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; García Colón, Colonial Migrants at the Heart of Empire; Suárez Findlay, We Are Left without a Father Here; and Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 15. 114 “A Brief History of the Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” Puerto Rican Centennial Program, 1900–­2000, December 23, 2000, p. 1, box 3, folder 18, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 115 “A Brief History of the Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” Puerto Rican Centennial Program, 1900–­2000, December 23, 2000, p. 2, box 3, folder 18, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 116 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 61; Raymond Mendez, “Puerto Rican Organizations in Hawaii,” box 18, folder 23, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 87. 117 Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 88. 118 Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, pp. 10–­11, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 119 Blase Camacho Souza, “Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaii (a Brief History),” box 3, folder 17, and “Boricua Hawaiiana: In Commemoration of the 80th Anniversary of the Puerto Ricans’ Arrival in Hawaii” (program), box 4, folder 4, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Highlights of Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaii Activities and Projects” and “Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaii Program,” box 3, folder 3, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Alan Yonan Jr.,

Notes to Pages 85–87  •  269

“Traveling Exhibit to Trace Puerto Rican History Here,” Sunday Star Bulletin & Advertiser, May 3, 1981, box 3, folder 9, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 120 “Puerto Ricans to Honor Ancestors,” West Hawaii Today, December 20, 1991, 17B, box 3, folder 2, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 121 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 60. 122 Blase Camacho Souza, “Hawaii’s Puerto Ricans—­100 Years,” box 3, folder 18, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Yonan, “Traveling Exhibit”; “Brief History of the Puerto Ricans”; “Kohala Puerto Rican Centennial Celebration,” United Puerto Rican Association of Hawaiʻi (UPRAH), “The Puerto Rican Cuatro Festival: Sueños y Recuerdos—­Cien Años en Hawaii (Hopes and Memories—­100 Years in Hawaii),” box 3, folder 18, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Puerto Ricans to Celebrate 75th Anniversary in Islands,” Hawaii Tribune Herald, January 4, 1976, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaii Program,” Wailoa Center, 1976, box 3, folder 7, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 123 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 65. 124 Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi, 113. 125 Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Aloha Kanaka Me Ke Aloha ʻAina: Local Culture and Society in Hawaii,” Amerasia 7, no. 2 (1980): 119–­120. 126 For more on the construction of a local identity and the racial implications of this term, see John P. Rosa, “‘Eh! Where You From?’: Questions of Place, Race, and Identity in Contemporary Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 86–­89; Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1998, p. 8, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 49; Ines M. Miyares, “‘Local Culture’ in Hawaiʻi,” Geographical Review 98, no. 4 (October 2008): 513–­531; Okamura, “Aloha Kanaka Me Ke Aloha ʻAina”; Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010); John P. Rosa, Local Story: The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014); Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Why There Are No Asian Americans in Hawaiʻi: The Continuing Significance of Local Identity,” Social Process in Hawaii 35 (1994): 161–­178; and Paul Spickard, “Local Haole? Whites, Racial and Imperial Loyalties, and Membership in Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 178–­192. 127 Although Native Hawaiians were also a part of this burgeoning cultural mixing, they also maintained their Indigenous identity as Kanaka Maoli. Depending on the context, I will also use Hawaiian Pidgin English and Pidgin English interchangeably. For more on the discussion of Hawaiian Pidgin English, Pidgin English, and local identity, see Miyares, “‘Local Culture’ in Hawaiʻi,” 518–­519; Georganne Nordstrom, “Pidgin as Rhetorical Sovereignty: Articulating Indigenous and Minority Rhetorical Practices with the Language Politics of Place,” College English 77, no. 4 (March 2015): 317–­337; Eileen H. Tamura, “Power, Status, and Hawaiʻi Creole English: An Example of Linguistic Intolerance in American History,” Pacific Historical Review 65, no. 3 (August 1996): 431–­454; and Michael Tsai, “Pondering Pidgin,” Honolulu Weekly, January 4, 1995, 4–­6. 128 Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1998, p. 8, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 129 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 49. 130 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 9, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi.

270  •  Notes to Pages 87–91

131 Scholars such as Tony Castanha and Ronald Arroyo contend that the term Borinkee or Borinki is the Pidgin English pronunciation and spelling of Boricua, and that is how they were referred to by others. Other scholars, however, such as Iris López, have noted that Borinki was a term that first-­and second-­generation Puerto Ricans almost exclusively self-­identified with along with being local. Blase Camacho Souza has used the term Boricua Hawaiiana to identify local Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi. For more on this, see Arroyo, “Da Borinkees,” 2–­3; Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, pp. 4–­5, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Borrás, “Boricua-­Hawaiiana”; Castanha, “Adventures in Caribbean Indigeneity,” 256; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 59–­60; and Verán, “Puerto Rican Hawaii.” 132 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 59. 133 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 9, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 134 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 13, 2001, Hilo, Hawaiʻi. 135 Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza,” 169; Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 96; “Photographs of Boricuas,” Blase Camacho Souza Collection, box 16, folder 2, APRD; Ted Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much’: Diasporic Values and Hawaiʻi Puerto Rican Dance Culture,” Ethnomusicology 49, no. 1 (Winter 2005): 75. 136 COH, Waialua & Haleiwa, 168. 137 Romanzo Adams, “Census Notes on the Negroes in Hawaii Prior to the War,” Social Process in Hawaii 9–­10 (1946): 25–­26. 138 Adams, 25–­27. 139 Mexicans in the continental United States would face a similar experience, as they were also labeled legally as white at one point in the U.S. Census. However, history has shown that this label also did not prevent them from experiencing racism, racial discrimination, and violence, because they were still considered brown and racialized as perpetual foreigners. See Poblete, Islanders in the Empire, 14; and Carr, “Puerto Ricans in Hawaiʻi,” 394–­435. 140 Interview with José Villa by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 15, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 141 Rudy Mendez was a resident of Hawaiʻi at the time of the documentary interview. Rudy saying he is Hawaiian referred to where he was born and raised and not his actual cultural background, which is not Native Hawaiian. There is a distinction between being a local from Hawaiʻi and being Hawaiian, which usually is synonymous with being Native Hawaiian. See Almodovar, Al Hawaii. 142 Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much,’” 83. 143 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 144 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 145 Prior to the bombing activities in Vieques, the island of Culebra was used for similar purposes, which led to antinavy protests and the move of the U.S. Navy to bomb Vieques. It was a similar experience to the one Native Hawaiians faced with the navy using the island of Kahoʻolawe for military exercises, such as bombing. This was something both Puerto Ricans and Native Hawaiians saw as similar struggles in their demilitarization efforts. For example, as Maritza Stanchich notes, in the 1970s, social activist groups like the Young Lords recognized the connection and participated in the efforts to end the bombings in Kahoʻolawe. See Katherine McCaffrey, “Forging Solidarity: Politics, Protest, and the Vieques Support Network,” in The Puerto Rican Movement: Voices from the Diaspora, ed. Andrés Torres and José E. Velázquez (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 329–­331; “Trouble in Paradise: Native Hawaiian and Puerto Rican Sovereignty,” in American Cultural Pluralism and Law, ed. Jill Norgen and Serena Nanda (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2006), 21–­42; and

Notes to Pages 91–94  •  271

Maritza Stanchich, “‘Borinki’ in Hawaii: Rodney Morales Rides the Diaspora Wave to Transregional Imperial Struggle,” in Writing Off the Hyphen: New Critical Perspectives on the Literature of the Puerto Rican Diaspora, ed. José L. Torres-­Padilla and Carmen Haydée Rivera (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2008), 210. 146 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 58. 147 López, 54. 148 López, 53. 149 López and Forbes, “Borinki Identity in Hawaii,” 117–­119; Silva et al., “Puerto Ricans of Hawaii,” 49. 150 Interview with Lokelani Manalo Rios by Angela Dean, October 27, 2013, Honokaʻa, Hawaiʻi. 151 Puerto Ricans and other locals in Hawaiʻi refer to pasteles as pateles, a word influenced by Hawaiian Pidgin English. It is also pronounced as “pateles.” 152 Although similar to a Mexican tamale, the Puerto Rican pastele’s masa (dough) is made with grated green bananas or yucca versus corn. They are wrapped in banana or ti leaves and steamed, similar to Hawaiian laulau. For more on this, see Blase Camacho Souza, “The Puerto Rican House: La Casita,” Hawaii Plantation Village brochure, 2001, pp. 6–­7, box 20, folder 10, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Blase Camacho Souza, “A Bit of Puerto Rican Cookery,” 1978, pp. 1–­4, box 20, folder 8, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; “Puerto Rican Menu: Pasteles,” 1995, pp. 1–­2, box 20, folder 8, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Evelyn Cook, ed., West Kauai’s Plantation Heritage: Recipes and Stories for Life from the Legacy of Hawaii’s Sugar Plantation Community (Waimea: West Kauai Community Development Corporation, 2002), 140–­158, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa Library; Nadine Kam, “Sofrito: The Heart of a Puerto Rican Meal,” paper unknown, April 15, 1998, C-1, box 21, folder 3, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 53; Rod Ohira, “Maui Woman Realizes Dream in Savory Pasteles,” Honolulu Advertiser, May 18, 2002; and Silva and Camacho Souza, “Puerto Ricans,” 86. 153 Interview with José Villa. 154 Almodovar, Al Hawaii. 155 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 55. See also López and Forbes, “Borinki Identity in Hawaii,” 118–­119; Ohira, “Maui Woman Realizes Dream.” 156 Ohira, “Maui Woman Realizes Dream.” 157 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 56. 158 Restaurants that currently serve Puerto Rican food on the various islands of Hawaiʻi were located through Yelp.com. 159 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 53–­54. 160 Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much,’” 86. 161 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 162 Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, p. 10, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; Blase Camacho Souza, “The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” in A Legacy of Diversity: Contributions of the Hawaiians, Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, Koreans, Filipinos and Samoans in Hawaii (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Ethnic Resource Center for the Pacific, 1975), 65; Blase Camacho Souza, “The Puerto Rican House: La Casita,” Hawaii Plantation Village brochure, 2001, p. 6, box 20, folder 10, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 163 Interview with Lokelani Manalo Rios. 164 López and Forbes, “Borinki Identity in Hawaii,” 115–­116; Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much’”; Juan Flores, From Bomba to Hip Hop: Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000).

272  •  Notes to Pages 95–98

165 Other scholars have also noted the initial distancing local Puerto Ricans had from newer forms of Puerto Rican music introduced by Boricuas who came from Puerto Rico or the continental United States. These included salsa, bomba, and plena. See interview with Ray Cruz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 8, 2011, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; and Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much.’” 166 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 63. 167 Interview with Tony Dias by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 21, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 168 Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa (hereafter UHM), Hamilton Library; Susan Manuel, “Puerto Rican Sound Frozen in Time,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, January 10, 1981, C1; “Rolando Sanchez y Salsa Hawaii Advertisement,” Que Pasa Hawaii, May 1, 1995, 10; “Las Señoritas,” Que Pasa Hawaii, February 4, 1995, 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM Hamilton Library; “Son Caribe Album Release Advertisement,” Hola Hawaii, July 2004, 14, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM Hamilton Library. 169 Chris Cook, “Kauaians Celebrating Puerto Rican Centennial,” Garden Island, October 17, 2000, n.p., Subject File: Puerto Ricans, KHS; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 63. 170 For more examples of these groups and individuals, see box 15, folders 7 and 14 and box 17, folder 18, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD; López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 64; and Solís, “‘You Shake Your Hips Too Much,’” 84–­86. 171 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 64. 172 López, 64; López and Forbes, “Borinki Identity in Hawaii,” 117–­118. 173 Information on these festivals was gathered through Google searches. 174 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 54; Tyina Steptoe, “Soul Salsa,” American Historian (February 2019): 38. 175 For more on this and other recordings of kachi-­kachi music, listen to “Katchi Katchi Music Makawao,” audio track on Willie K., The Uncle in Me, Vol. 1 (Honolulu: Mountain Apple Company, 2000); “Los Hawaiianos,” audio track on Willie K., The Uncle in Me, Vol. 2 (Honolulu: Mountain Apple Company, 2001); and the album Puerto Rican Music in Hawaiʻi (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Folkways, 1989). 176 According to Jean Sullivan in the album liner notes, Sonny Chillingworth and his friends “become, for this recording, ‘Los Hawaiianos’ . . . and why, even with a lead voice direct from Puerto Rico and songs from there and elsewhere in the Spanish speaking world, the group still sounds local” to the islands. See Sonny Chillingworth and Jesús Vázquez, Los Hawaiianos (Honolulu: Lehua Records, 1965). I would like to thank Jason Oliver Chang for introducing me to Los Hawaiianos during our conversations on Latinxs and Hawaiian music. 177 López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey,” 59. 178 “Interview with Blase Camacho Souza by Norma Carr,” June 27, 1978, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi, p. 16, box 1, folder 12, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, APRD. 179 In 1984, Camacho Souza and her colleagues documented that 54.8 percent of local Puerto Ricans surveyed did not know Spanish well, while 45.2 percent reported that they understood Spanish well or very well. It was also reported that nearly 70 percent of households rarely spoke Spanish at home, if at all. See Silva et al., “Puerto Ricans of Hawaii,” 48–­49. 180 Kathy Montalbo Guzman was a resident of Puerto Rico at the time of the documentary interview. See Almodovar, Al Hawaii. 181 “Hawaiian Experience,” 3. 182 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 183 Interview with Lokelani Manalo Rios.

Notes to Pages 98–105  •  273

184 Interview with Tony Dias. 185 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 186 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 187 Almodovar, Al Hawaii. 188 Puerto Ricans would also leave Hawaiʻi to join some of their family and friends who remained in California. See López, California and Hawaii’s First Puerto Ricans, 1850–­1925.

Chapter 3  Working Maui Pine 1 Interview with César Gaxiola by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 4, 2013, Wailuku, Hawaiʻi. 2 Interview with César Gaxiola. 3 Interview with César Gaxiola. 4 Interview with César Gaxiola. 5 Although newspapers translate Enlace Hispano as “Hispanic Link,” the more appropriate term is Hispanic Network. See César Gaxiola, “MEO Celebrates Cesar Chavez, a Man with an Uncommon Vision,” Maui News, March 31, 2001, A10, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive; and Harry Eagar, “Gaxiola’s Efforts to Help Hispanics Adjust to Life on Maui Earn Him Aloha Award,” Maui News, June 15, 2001, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 6 Enlace Hispano was formed through a grant from the W. K. Kellogg Foundation to develop an outreach program that would serve Maui’s Latinx community and assist them in adjusting to living in Hawaiʻi through various programs. See interview with César Gaxiola; “MEO Gets Grant to Develop Link with Hispanic Arrivals to Isles,” Maui News, July 4, 1999, Folder: MEO Documents, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive; and Rotary Club of Kahului, Maui, Hawaii 1, no. 3 (March 6, 2005): 2, Folder: Misc. Files, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 7 Edwin Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” Honolulu Advertiser, August 29, 1997, A8. 8 César was hired as the new director of the Cameron Center in 2006. See “Newly Named Cameron Director Has ‘Good Heart,’” Maui Wrap, October 17, 2006, 1, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 9 Gary Y. Okihiro, Pineapple Culture: A History of the Tropical and Temperate Zones (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 74, 77–­78. 10 For more on Native Hawaiian land dispossession in Hawaiʻi’s history, see Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa, Native Land and Foreign Desires: Peha Lā E Pono Ai? (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1992); Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, Dismembering Lāhui: A History of the Hawaiian Nation to 1887 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002); and Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010). 11 Okihiro, Pineapple Culture, 137. 12 Okihiro, 131–­132; Derek Paiva, “End of an Era: Maui Land & Pineapple Closing Its Pineapple Operations,” Hawaiʻi Magazine, November 4, 2009, https://​www​ .hawaiimagazine​.com/​end​-of​-an​-era​-maui​-land​-pineapple​-closing​-its​-pineapple​ -operations/. 13 According to historian Gary Okihiro, at the onset of the overthrow of Queen Liliʻuokalani of the Hawaiian Kingdom, haole settlers began seizing land and developing it for capitalist purposes, one of which was establishing pineapple plantations as part of a larger settler plantation economy that included sugar and ultimately other cash

274  •  Notes to Pages 105–108

crops like coffee and macadamia nuts. Foreigners then controlled the vast majority of more than six hundred thousand acres from the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. See Okihiro, Pineapple Culture, 106–­107, 116–­117. 14 Okihiro, 131. 15 Okihiro, 132. 16 Okihiro, 133. 17 Okihiro, 135–­136. 18 Okihiro, 135–­136; Paiva, “End of an Era.” 19 Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc., “History,” accessed July 9, 2019, https://​ mauiland​.com/​history​.shtml. 20 Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc.; Paiva, “End of an Era.” 21 Paiva, “End of an Era.” 22 Okihiro, Pineapple Culture, 138, table 1. 23 Kyle Shinseki, “The Hawaiian Hispanic Community: Vast, Dynamic, and Getting Its Voice Heard!,” National Council of La Raza Newsletter 15, no. 2 (1999), Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 24 Shinseki’s research for the various articles he wrote for Angulos Hispanos was derived from his MA thesis: Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano de Hawaiʻi: Comunidades en Formación / The Mexican People of Hawaiʻi: Communities in Formation” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1997). See Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “The Mexicans of Hawaii,” Angulos Hispanos, August 1997, 4, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa (hereafter UHM), Hamilton Library. 25 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 45; Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A1. 26 This total includes those who identified as being of Mexican origin (including Chicanos) and those who are Mexican nationals. For example, in 1990 the total population of 15,490 included 14,367 who identified as being of Mexican origin and an additional 1,123 who identified as Mexican born. See Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 7; and U.S. Census Hispanic Population Briefs/Reports 1980, 1990, and 2000, U.S. Census Bureau. 27 Shinseki, “Mexicans of Hawaii.” 28 Joan Conrow, “A New Mexican Migration,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, February 8, 1995, A1, A8. 29 Conrow. 30 Conrow; Joan Conrow, “Migrants from Mexico Sign Up for Maui Jobs,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, December 28, 1991, A2; Shinseki, “Mexicans of Hawaii,” 33. 31 “Hawaii: Mexicans and Natives,” Migration News 4, no. 3 (March 1997); Sandra S. Oshiro, “Hawaii’s Out-­Migration Rate among Nation’s Highest,” Honolulu Advertiser, December 31, 1996, A1. 32 Sam Dillon, “Job Search Lures Mexicans to Far Corners of U.S.,” New York Times, February 4, 1997, accessed November 5, 2007, https://​www​.nytimes​.com/​1997/​02/​ 04/​world/​job​-search​-lures​-mexicans​-to​-far​-corners​-of​-us​.html. 33 Established in 1965, MEO notes that it provides services for “the low income, elderly, immigrants, persons with disabilities, and other disadvantaged residents of Maui County and other locations in the State of Hawaii.” This is in addition to the services it provides for migrant farmworkers. See “Maui Economic Opportunity Program Brochures,” Folder: MEO Documents, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 34 Brenda Duquette, “M.E.O. Kona,” news source unknown, September 14, 1996, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 35 Interview with Gladys Baisa by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 4, 2013, Pukalani, Hawaiʻi.

Notes to Pages 108–114  •  275

36 Interview with Gladys Baisa; Conrow, “Migrants from Mexico,” A2; Sebastian Rotella, “Hawaii Calls; Farm Workers Say ‘Aloha,’” Los Angeles Times, January 20, 1992, https://​www​.latimes​.com/​archives/​la​-xpm​-1992​-01​-20​-mn​-491​-story​.html. 37 Conrow, “Migrants from Mexico,” A2; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 35. 38 Lila Fujimoto, “Imported-­Worker Plan Bears Fruit on Maui,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, October 29, 1990, A3. 39 Fujimoto. 40 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A1. 41 Interview with César Gaxiola. 42 Conrow, “Migrants from Mexico,” A2. 43 Conrow, “New Mexican Migration,” A8; Joan Conrow, “Isle History of Imported Mexican Laborers Rocky,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, February 9, 1995, A8. 44 Fujimoto, “Migrant Labor Gives Valley Island a Boost,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, October 29, 1990, A3. 45 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 34–­35. 46 Shinseki’s thesis was and remains the most comprehensive study of the Mexican community of Hawaiʻi. See Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 46. 47 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A1. 48 Rotella, “Hawaii Calls.” 49 Although MEO did work with many of these other labor agencies, the incident with the labor contractor seems to have been an exception to what other workers under MEO experienced. For more details on the incidents, see Edwin Tanji, “Mexican Workers Allowed to Leave Maui Jobs Early,” Honolulu Advertiser, April 24, 1991, A3; and Conrow, “Isle History,” A8. 50 For more on cannery workers and gender, see Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., Becoming Mexipino: Multiethnic Identities and Communities in San Diego (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2012); Vicki L. Ruiz, Cannery Women, Cannery Lives: Mexican Women, Unionization, and the California Food Processing Industry (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987); and Patricia Zavella, Women’s Work & Chicano Families: Cannery Workers of the Santa Clara Valley (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987). 51 For more on cannery culture, see Ruiz, Cannery Women, Cannery Lives, 21–­40. 52 Fujimoto, “Imported-­Worker Plan,” A3. 53 Informal group interview with Maui Economic Opportunity (MEO) staff by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 3, 2013, Pukalani, Hawaiʻi. 54 Interview with Gladys Baisa; Fujimoto, “Imported-­Worker Plan,” A3. 55 As Gladys Baisa suggested, many of the white women possibly lied on their employment applications with the expectation that they would not work hard and be on vacation in Hawaiʻi. The fact that despite their racist attitudes, they had to live in a dorm and share space with Mexican women speaks to the racial aspects of the tension, since they were now in a place where they were not entitled but rather had to work and be treated on an equal basis with all the other workers. They were now in the racial minority and had to work alongside a larger Latinx group in a cannery culture that was predominantly Mexican within an even larger local Hawaiʻi environment, which was not what they expected and too much for them to deal with, so they went home. See Interview with Gladys Baisa. 56 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 57 Interview with Gladys Baisa; Rotella, “Hawaii Calls.” 58 Interview with Gladys Baisa; Joan Conrow, “Paradise Lost,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, February 9, 1995, A8.

276  •  Notes to Pages 114–119

59 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A8. 60 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 61 Interview with Gladys Baisa; informal group interview with MEO staff. 62 Interview with Gladys Baisa; informal group interview with MEO staff. 63 Interview with César Gaxiola. 64 Interview with César Gaxiola. 65 Fujimoto, “Migrant Labor,” A3; Christopher Neil, “Jobless? Dole Is Pine(ing) for You,” Honolulu Advertiser, September 28, 1991, A1. 66 Fujimoto, “Migrant Labor,” A3. 67 Fujimoto. 68 Interview with César Gaxiola. 69 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A6, A8. 70 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 71 See Aviva Chomsky, Central America’s Forgotten History: Revolution, Violence, and the Roots of Migration (New York: Beacon Press, 2022); José Luis Falconi and José Antonio Mazzotti, eds., The Other Latinos: Central and South Americans in the United States (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007); María Cristina García, Seeking Refuge: Central American Migration to Mexico, the United States and Canada (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); Juan Gonzalez, Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America (New York: Penguin, 2011); and Paul Spickard, Almost All Aliens: Immigration, Race, and Colonialism in American History and Identity (New York: Routledge, 2007), 378–­379. 72 Interview with César Gaxiola. 73 Informal group interview with MEO staff. 74 Informal group interview with MEO staff. 75 Fujimoto, “Imported-­Worker Plan,” A3. 76 Informal group interview with MEO staff. 77 Informal group interview with MEO staff. 78 In this instance, I use locals to also include Native Hawaiians who were also a part of the larger local resident community. 79 Their appearance as vaqueros (cowboys) may have seemed out of place, but given the paniolo history of the Hawaiian Islands, there has always been a vaquero-­influenced presence, even in Maui. 80 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 81 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 82 Informal group interview with MEO staff. 83 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 84 Interview with César Gaxiola. 85 See Mark D. Ramirez and David A. M. Peterson, Ignored Racism: White Animus toward Latinos (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2020), 19–­22. 86 According to Lee, xenophobia is defined as a fear and hatred of foreigners. See Erika Lee, America for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States (New York: Basic Books, 2019), 3, 7; Spickard, Almost All Aliens; and Leo R. Chavez, Covering Immigration: Popular Images and the Politics of the Nation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001). 87 Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, eds., Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018); Isaiah Helekunihi Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth-­ Century Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011); Roderick N. Labrador, Building Filipino Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2015); Jonathan Y. Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi (Philadelphia: Temple University

Notes to Pages 119–124  •  277

Press, 2008); Judy Rohrer, Staking Claim: Settler Colonialism and Racialization in Hawaiʻi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2016); JoAnna Poblete, Islanders in the Empire: Filipino and Puerto Rican Laborers in Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017); Noenoe Silva, Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004); Haunani-­Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1999). 88 Lee, America for Americans, 9–­10. 89 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 90 According to the Honolulu Advertiser, the initial feelings of animosity toward the Mexican community in Maui stemmed from two well-­publicized incidents in 1999 and 2000 that involved two Mexican nationals involved in a drunk driving incident that killed a police officer in West Maui. The second incident involved a drug operation that resulted in seventy-­four people being indicted, with Mexicans being named as the alleged ring leaders. For César Gaxiola and other Latinx leaders in Maui, this has caused a lot of racial stereotyping and animosity toward the majority of the Mexican and Central American communities, which they have been trying to overcome through advocacy and education. See Valerie Monson, “New Friends Celebrate in the Street,” Maui News, September 17, 2000, A5, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive; and Christie Wilson, “Maui a Magnet for Hispanics,” Honolulu Advertiser, April 29, 2001, n.p., Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. La Voz Hispana (The Hispanic Voice) was also cofounded by César Gaxiola, Rudy Esquer, and Francisco Palencia. 91 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A6. 92 Tanji, A6. 93 Tanji, A8. 94 Gary Kubota and Rod Thompson, “A New Mexican Migration,” Honolulu Star-­ Bulletin, February 18, 1995, A8. 95 Interview with César Gaxiola. 96 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A8. 97 Tanji, A8. 98 Tanji, A8. 99 Tanji, A8. 100 “Hispanic Community Gathers to Thank Island,” Maui News, August 12, 2001, A16, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 101 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 102 Interview with César Gaxiola. 103 “Somos Amigos Festival,” MEO Newsletter, 2005, p. 29, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. It was also noted in the Honolulu Advertiser that La Voz Hispana (The Hispanic Voice) was also involved in organizing the Somos Amigos Festival. See Wilson, “Maui a Magnet for Hispanics.” 104 Melissa Tanji, “Festival Celebrates Opportunities for Hispanics on Maui,” Maui News, September 16, 2001, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 105 Interview with Gladys Baisa; Monson, “New Friends Celebrate,” A1, A5, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 106 Monson, “New Friends Celebrate,” A1; Tanji, “Festival Celebrates Opportunities.” 107 Monson, “New Friends Celebrate,” A1. 108 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 24, 2015, Wailuku, Hawaiʻi.

278  •  Notes to Pages 124–127

109 “Soccer Briefs: Latin Soccer in Hawaii,” Angulos Hispanos, April 1997, 11, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; “Latin Hawaii Captures the Angulos Cup,” Angulos Hispanos, May 1997, 1, 11, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 110 Interview with César Gaxiola. 111 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A1. 112 Tanji, A8. 113 Conrow, “Paradise Lost,” A8. 114 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira. 115 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A6. 116 “Noche Mexicana,” Que Pasa Hawaii, December 9, 1994, 2, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; “Restaurantes de Comida Mexicana,” Que Pasa Hawaii, May 1, 1995, 11, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; “New Hispanic Businesses Now Open in Honolulu,” Hawaii Hispanic Newsletter, June 16, 1995, 1, 6, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Mahogany/Latin Hawaii, October 2002, 5, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 117 Most of these newspapers were also circulating throughout Hawaiʻi during the 2000s. 118 Fernando L. Cosio, “The New Immigration Law,” Angulos Hispanos, September 1997, 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; César Gaxiola, “Spanish/English Translation and Interpretation,” Mahogany/Latin Hawaii, May 2003, 17, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 119 Shinseki, “Hawaiian Hispanic Community.” 120 José Villa, “Hawaii Hispanic Center,” Angulos Hispanos, January 1998, 2, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 121 Ruben Ortiz Paez, “Consular Services,” Que Pasa Hawaii, January 9, 1995, 2, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Faustino Angel Guzmán, “Hispanic Heritage Festival,” Hola Hawaii, November/ December 2004, 4–­5, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 122 For some examples, see Luis Ortiz, “16 de Septiembre al Desfile” [September 16 Parade], Angulos Hispanos, September 1995, 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; “Academia de Arte de Honolulu: Día de los Muertos” [Academy of Arts of Honolulu: Day of the Dead], Que Pasa Hawaii, November 9, 1994, 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Angulos Staff, “12 of December in Hawaii,” Angulos Hispanos, December 1997, 8, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Roberto Canales, “Cinco de Mayo Is a Date of Great Importance,” Angulos Hispanos, May 1996, 13, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Rolando Sánchez, “The 6th Annual Miss Latin-­America Hawaii Pageant,” Angulos Hispanos, November 1996, 14, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; “Ballet Folkorico ‘Quetzalli’” and “Pocho Sanchez,” event flyers, Que Pasa Hawaii, March 1, 1995, 11–­13, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; and Nancy Ortiz, “Hispanic Scoops!,” Mahogany/Latin Hawaii, October 2002, 11, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive.

Notes to Pages 127–130  •  279

123 “Radio y Televisión,” Angulos Hispanos, November 1996, 15, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Que Pasa Hawaii, May 1, 1995, 10, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; Alexandre Da Silva, “More Hispanics Calling Hawaii Home,” Maui News, May 2, 2006, A4, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 124 Luis Ortiz, “Dando Voz a los Hispanos,” Que Pasa Hawaii, January 9, 1995, 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 125 Conrow, “Isle History,” A8. 126 Conrow, A8. 127 Brenda Duquette, “M.E.O. Kona,” Angulos Hispanos, September 1996, 14, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 128 According to César, MEO’s National Farmworker Jobs Program is still operated by the Department of Labor at the national level, and MEO continues to receive annual funding from them to assist underemployed/unemployed farmworkers. Email correspondence with César Gaxiola, August 16, 2021. 129 Wilson, “Maui a Magnet.” 130 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira; Ruth Mantell, “Enlace Hispano Helps Hispanics Adjust to Maui Life,” Pacific Business News, May 16, 2003, p. 8, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive; Wilson, “Maui a Magnet.” 131 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 132 Gail Ainsworth, “Looking Back through the Maui News,” Maui News, October 9, 2000, Folder: Newspaper Articles, Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Personal Archive. 133 Conrow, “New Mexican Migration,” A1; Conrow, “Paradise Lost,” A1. 134 Kubota and Thompson, “New Mexican Migration,” A1, A8. 135 Kubota and Thompson, A8. 136 Although a small number of undocumented workers in Hawaiʻi have fraudulent documents, they are in the vast minority versus those who came with proper documentation and overstayed their visas. This, however, is in contrast to the continental United States, where those apprehended at the border with fraudulent documents outnumbered those who overstayed their visas. See Wilson, “Maui a Magnet”; Mark Hugo Lopez, Jeffrey S. Passel, and DʻVera Cohn, “Key Facts about the Changing U.S. Unauthorized Immigrant Population,” Pew Research Center, April 13, 2021, https://​ www​.pewresearch​.org/​fact​-tank/​2021/​04/​13/​key​-facts​-about​-the​-changing​-u​-s​ -unauthorized​-immigrant​-population/; and Jeanne Batalova, Monisha Das Gupta, and Sue Patricia Haglund, Newcomers to the Aloha State: Challenges and Prospects for Mexicans in Hawaiʻi (Washington, D.C.: Migration Policy Institute, 2013). 137 Dillon, “Job Search Lures Mexicans.” 138 Conrow, “Paradise Lost,” A1. 139 Due to the limited capacity of the consulate services in Hawaiʻi, another route is for migrants to travel to and stay in San Francisco, California, to renew their identification documentation, since the Mexican Consulate General has handled Hawaiʻi’s Mexican national population. For many migrants, the costs involved to travel from Hawaiʻi to California are too expensive. Consulates from other Latin American countries such as Perú also advertised their services in local Latinx community newspapers to assist with documentation. For some Central American nationals, there are no honorary consulates in Hawaiʻi, so migrants have no choice but to travel to California or back to their home countries. This creates additional economic hardships for these populations. See Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 1, 4; and Rudy

280  •  Notes to Pages 130–135

Guevarra Jr., field notes, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi, February 28, 2015; Elissa Josephsohn, “Honorary Consul of Mexico for the State of Hawaii,” Angulos Hispanos, September 1996, 8, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library; and advertisement, Angulos Hispanos, September 1996, 10, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 140 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 27–­28. 141 Conrow, “Paradise Lost,” A1, A8. 142 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira. 143 Helen Altonn, “Mexicans Join Influx of Illegal Aliens Here,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, December 9, 1976, B3. 144 Lee describes nativism as “the naming of white Anglo Saxon Protestant settlers and their descendants as ‘natives’ to the United States and the granting of special privileges and protections to them . . . that they deserved preferential treatment and rights.” It does not in any way equate to actual Native Americans and their struggle for sovereignty. See Lee, America for Americans, 11–­12. 145 Lee, 11; Natalia Molina, How Race Is Made in America: Immigration, Citizenship, and the Historical Power of Racial Scripts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 1; Mae M. Ngai, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2004), 7–­8. 146 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira. 147 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 23; Gary T. Kubota, “31 Illegal Aliens Working in Maui Arrested,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, September 6, 1995, A8. 148 Kubota, “31 Illegal Aliens,” A1; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 45. 149 Kubota, “31 Illegal Aliens,” A1. 150 Kubota, A8. 151 Tanji, “Latinos—­the New Immigrants,” A6. 152 Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “Immigrants: Victims of Police Abuse,” Angulos Hispanos, May 1996, pp. 1, 4, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 153 Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “INS Strikes Again,” Angulos Hispanos, December 1995, p. 1, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 154 See Lisa Magaña, “SB 1070 and Negative Social Constructions of Latino Immigrants in Arizona,” Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies, no. 2 (Fall 2013): 151–­162. 155 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira. 156 Kubota, “31 Illegal Aliens,” A1. 157 Rev. Francis X. DiLorenzo, “Carta Abierta de la Iglesia Católica,” Angulos Hispanos, November 1995, 3, Hispanic Newspaper Collection, Hawaiian and Pacific Collections, UHM, Hamilton Library. 158 See Felipe Hinojosa, Apostles of Change: Latino Radical Politics, Church Occupations, and the Fight to Save the Barrio (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2021). 159 See Leo R. Chavez, The Latino Threat: Constructing Immigrants, Citizens, and the Nation (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2008). 160 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 161 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 162 See Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 23; interview with César Gaxiola; Stephen W. Yale-­Loehr, “Foreign Farm Workers in the U.S.: The Impact of the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986,” Cornell Law Faculty Publications, 583, accessed May 23, 2019, https://​scholarship​.law​.cornell​.edu/​facpub/​583; and Kubota, “31 Illegal Aliens,” A1. 163 Paiva, “End of an Era.”

Notes to Pages 135–141  •  281

164 Interview with Leonardo Sequeira. 165 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 166 According to César Gaxiola, MEO’s farmworker program officially ended in 2019. Email correspondence with César Gaxiola. 167 Interview with Gladys Baisa. 168 Email correspondence with Gladys Baisa, August 16, 2021; Gladys Baisa Upcountry Maui Council Candidate Profile, MauiNOW, August 18, 2020, https://​admin​ .mauinow​.com/​2010/​08/​18/​video​-gladys​-baisa​-upcountry​-maui​-council​-candidate​ -profile​-decision​-2010​-mauinow​-com/; Maui County Council, “Congratulating Gladys Baisa on Her Retirement,” Facebook, accessed August 18, 2020, https://​www​ .facebook​.com/​MauiCountyCouncil/​videos/​congratulating​-gladys​-baisa​-on​-her​ -retirement/​611033832940375/. 169 Interview with Gladys Baisa.

Chapter 4  “Wetbacks” in Racial Paradise? 1 Comunidad Latina de Hawaiʻi’s services include ESL classes, Ballet Folklórico dance classes for youth, translation services, citizenship classes, advocacy, Know Your Rights clinics, health care, and consular service assistance, among others. See interview with Angela Dean, July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi; interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi; Angela Dean, “Immigrants Help Economy but Face Tremendous Challenges,” Star Advertiser, July 8, 2021, https://​www​.staradvertiser​.com/​2021/​07/​08/​editorial/​island​-voices/​column​ -immigrants​-help ​-economy​-but​-face​-tremendous​-challenges/; and “Comunidad Latina de Hawaii,” ThinkTech Hawaii, May 17, 2016, https://​thinktechhawaii​.com/​ comunidad​-latina​-de​-hawaii​-angela​-dean/. 2 Interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 3 Interview with Angela Dean, July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 4 For the purpose of this chapter, I will focus primarily on Kona coffee, though I will reference macadamia nuts and other agricultural produce when necessary. See Jeanne Batalova, Monisha Das Gupta, and Sue Patricia Haglund, Newcomers to the Aloha State: Challenges and Prospects for Mexicans in Hawaiʻi (Washington, D.C.: Migration Policy Institute, 2013), 19; and Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano de Hawaiʻi: Comunidades en Formación / The Mexican People of Hawaiʻi: Communities in Formation” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1997), 35. 5 See Jonathan Y. Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2008); Judy Rohrer, Staking Claim: Settler Colonialism and Racialization in Hawaiʻi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2016); Noenoe Silva, Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004); and Haunani-­Kay Trask, From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1999). 6 Lilia Fernández, Brown in the Windy City: Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in Postwar Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), 26. 7 Mario Jimenez Sifuentez, Of Forests and Fields: Mexican Labor in the Pacific Northwest (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2016), 2; Dionicio Nodín Valdés, Organized Agriculture and the Labor Movement before the UFW: Puerto Rico, Hawaiʻi, California (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 107–­122; Zaragosa Vargas, Labor Rights Are Civil Rights: Mexican American Workers in Twentieth-­Century America (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2005), 238–­243; Ismael García-­ Colón, Colonial Migrants at the Heart of Empire: Puerto Rican Workers on U.S. Farms (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2020).

282  •  Notes to Pages 141–144

8 Gerald Kinro, A Cup of Aloha (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2003), vii; “Kona Coffee Trivia,” informational document, n.d., Royal Kona Coffee Center, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 9 California recently began growing coffee, but not at an industrial level like the State of Hawaiʻi. See Estonia Coffee: Coffee and Love Blog, accessed October 30, 2021, https://​estoniacoffee​.com/​kona​-coffee​-and​-the​-story​-about​-the​-hawaiian​-coffee (no longer extant); and Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 19. 10 “Kona Coffee Trivia.” 11 Although most experts agree that coffee plants originated in Ethiopia, others note that it was in Yemen that the plants were “finally cultivated and developed into the beans and beverage we know today.” Al-­Aqeeq, “From the Mountains of Yemen,” Yemen Coffee Online, accessed October 13, 2021, https://​www​.yemencoffeeonline​.com/​history​-of​ -yemen​-coffee/. See also Birhanu Tsegaye Sisay, “Coffee Production and Climate Change in Ethiopia,” Sustainable Agriculture Reviews 33 (2018): 99. The Australian Aboriginal people were the first to harvest macadamia nuts in Australia, referring to them as Gyndl and Jindill, among other names. See “History,” Macadamia Conservation Trust, accessed November 5, 2021, https://​www​.wildmacadamias​.org​.au/​rare​-macadamias/​history/. 12 “Kona Coffee Trivia.” 13 Although Baron Goto noted that Samuel Ruggles planted coffee in Nāole, Kona, most other sources cite it as Nāpōʻopoʻo in South Kona. See Baron Goto, “Ethnic Groups and the Coffee Industry in Hawaiʻi,” Hawaiian Journal of History 16 (1982): 112; Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 9; and Kevin Allen, “A History of Kona Coffee, Hawaiʻi’s Most Caffeinated Crop,” Hawaiʻi Magazine, November 1, 2021, accessed November 5, 2021, https://​www​.hawaiimagazine​.com/​a​-brief​-history​-of​-kona​-coffee​-hawaiis​-most​ -caffeinated​-crop/. For more on Don Francisco de Paula Marin, see Agnes C. Conrad, ed., Don Francisco de Paula Marin: A Biography by Ross H. Gast (Honolulu: Hawaiian Historical Society, 2003). 14 Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 9. 15 Unfortunately, during their visit to England, both King Kamehameha II and his wife, Kamāmalu, died of measles. Boki was left in charge of the Hawaiian Kingdom delegation. See Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 9. 16 Parchment is dried coffee still in the outer skin prior to hulling. For more on Native Hawaiians as coffee producers, see Goto, “Ethnic Groups and the Coffee Industry,” 115. 17 Goto, “Ethnic Groups and the Coffee Industry,” 115; and Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 11–­13. 18 Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 13. For more on the illegal overthrow of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom and other events that resulted in haole control over Native Hawaiian lands, see Lorenz Gonschor, A Power in the World: The Hawaiian Kingdom in Oceania (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2019); Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwoʻole Osorio, Dismembering Lāhui: A History of the Hawaiian Nation to 1887 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002); and Silva, Aloha Betrayed. 19 Goto, “Ethnic Groups and the Coffee Industry,” 119–­120; Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 17–­19. 20 For more on Japanese contributions to Kona coffee, see Goto, “Ethnic Groups and the Coffee Industry,” 117–­122; and David K. Abe, Rural Isolation and Dual Cultural Resistance: The Japanese Kona Coffee Community (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). 21 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 19; Aviva Chomsky, Central America’s Forgotten History: Revolution, Violence, and the Roots of Migration (New York: Beacon Press, 2022); Juan Gonzalez, Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America (New York: Penguin, 2011), 129–­148. 22 Catherine Kekoa Enomoto, “A New Generation of Latino Immigrants Harvest Hawaii’s Golden Crop,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, November 17, 1997, http://​archives​ .starbulletin​.com/​97/​11/​17/​features/​story1​.html.

Notes to Pages 144–151  •  283

23 Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 105. 24 As other scholars have pointed out, formal labor recruitment of Latinxs to the continental United States and its colonial territories has been a constant practice since the early twentieth century. See Fernández, Brown in the Windy City; Jimenez Sifuentez, Of Forests and Fields; JoAnna Poblete, Islanders in the Empire: Filipino and Puerto Rican Laborers in Hawaiʻi (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2017); and Virginia E. Sánchez Korrol, From Colonia to Community: The History of Puerto Ricans in New York City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). 25 Enomoto, “New Generation of Latino Immigrants.” 26 Interview with Magdalena García (pseudonym) and Hector Valenzuela (pseudonym); interview with Gregoria Reyes by Claudia Hartz, July 2, 2014, Oceanview, Hawaiʻi. 27 A sample from 2009 and 2010 specialty crop reports in Hawaiʻi indicated increasing profits for both coffee and macadamia nuts. See “2009 Sugar and Specialty Crop Highlights,” Statistics of Hawaii Agriculture (Honolulu: State of Hawaiʻi, Department of Agriculture, 2009), 19; and “2010 Sugar and Specialty Crop Highlights,” Statistics of Hawaii Agriculture (State of Hawaiʻi, Department of Agriculture, 2009), 19. 28 Interview with Magdalena García (pseudonym) and Hector Valenzuela (pseudonym). 29 Interview with Magdalena García (pseudonym) and Hector Valenzuela (pseudonym). 30 Interview with Ángel Cancino Garza by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 1, 2013, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 31 Interview with Gloria Calamaco by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 25, 2015, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 32 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 19; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 47–­48. 33 Interview with Juanita Pagente by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 2, 2013, Kealakekua, Hawaiʻi. 34 Interview with Rainoldo Cancino by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 20, 2019, Honaunau, Hawaiʻi; “Mowing Extreme Terrain in Paradise: Hawaii Kona Coffee Farm,” Ventrac, January 16, 2020, YouTube video, https://​www​.youtube​.com/​watch​?v​=​ kTAVxhOlupg. 35 Interview with Gloria Calamaco. 36 Interview with Juanita Pagente. 37 Interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 38 Interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 39 Interview with Juanita Pagente. 40 Interview with Gloria Calamaco. 41 Luis Magaña also noted that Pohnpeians were also employed picking coffee when he was working in coffee farms. See interview with Gloria Calamaco; and interview with Luis Magaña by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 23, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 42 Interview with Tony Dias by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 21, 2013, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 43 Interview with Tony Dias. 44 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 2, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 45 Interview with Armando Rodriguez by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 20, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 46 Interview with Armando Rodriguez. 47 Interview with Karina Rodriguez by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 20, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 48 Interview with Armando Rodriguez; Max Dible, “Naalehu Farmers Report Livestock Killings,” West Hawaii Today, November 26, 2017, https://​www​.hawaiitribune​-herald​ .com/​2017/​11/​26/​hawaii​-news/​naalehu​-farmers​-report​-livestock​-killings/. 49 Interview with Arturo Ballar Ortiz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 20, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi.

284  •  Notes to Pages 151–155

50 Interview with Arturo Ballar Ortiz. 51 Interview with Karina Rodriguez. 52 Interview with Armando Rodriguez. 53 Due to its isolated location, Hawaiʻi was one of the last coffee-­growing regions in the world to be impacted by coffee leaf rust. That changed, however, in October 2020, when it was first reported by the USDA on the island of Maui. According to the State of Hawaiʻi Department of Agriculture, it has now been found on all major Hawaiian Islands. Coffee leaf rust is a fungus that starts in the leaves of coffee plants and eventually kills the trees. See Twilight Greenaway, “As Coffee Rust Reaches Hawaii, Farmers Prepare for a Devastating Blow,” Civil Eats, March 17, 2021, https://​civileats​ .com/​2021/​03/​17/​as​-coffee​-rust​-reaches​-hawaii​-farmers​-prepare​-for​-a​-devastating​ -blow/; and “Coffee Leaf Rust Confirmed on Kauaʻi and Molokaʻi,” State of Hawaiʻi Department of Agriculture, July 20, 2021, https://​hdoa​.hawaii​.gov/​blog/​main/​nr21​ -17clrkauaimolokai/. 54 Twilight Greenaway, “Coffee Rust Reaches Hawaii.” 55 This is an issue that has been brought up in the larger global coffee industry and something that Armando and Arturo have been advocating for. See interview with Armando Rodriguez; and Sarah Sax, “Coffee as We Know It Is in Danger. Can We Breed a Better Cup?,” Vox, November 9, 2021, https://​www​.vox​.com/​down​-to​-earth/​ 22763947/​coffee​-breeding​-agroforestry​-stenophylla​-climate​-leaf​-rust. 56 Interview with Arturo Ballar Ortiz; Twilight Greenaway, “Coffee Rust Reaches Hawaii.” 57 Interview with Armando Rodriguez. 58 Interview with Karina Rodriguez; interview with Arturo Ballar Ortiz. 59 Since our interview, I saw a video segment of Rainoldo Cancino where he stated that he now produces over four million pounds of coffee per year. See “Mowing Extreme Terrain.” 60 “2010 Hawaii Hispanic Achievement Awards Sponsored by Verizon Wireless,” Hawaii Hispanic News, October 2010, 19, n.p., Folder: Newspaper Articles, Tony Dias Personal Archive. 61 Interview with Juanita Pagente. 62 See the Miranda’s Farms website, https://​mirandasfarms​.com. 63 Rudy Guevarra Jr., email correspondence with Cecilia Smith (Smith Farms), October 23, 2013; Latino Workforce Questionnaire Response, Bob Kraus, Luther Coffee Farm, May 11, 2014, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi; Latino Workforce Questionnaire Response, Colehour Bondera, Kanalani Ohana Farm, January 22, 2014, Hōnaunau, Hawaiʻi; Latino Workforce Questionnaire Response, Louise Winn, Aliʻi Pride Farm, January 23, 2014, Hōnaunau, Hawaiʻi. I would like to thank Cecilia Smith, then president of the Kona Coffee Farmers Association (KCFA), who assisted me with my project, and the growers who also participated in answering my questionnaire. 64 Interview with Rainoldo Cancino. 65 Interview with Angela Dean, July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 66 Interview with Armando Rodriguez. 67 Interview with Rainoldo Cancino. 68 Interview with Angela Dean. 69 Interview with Angela Dean. 70 One could argue that despite there being an absence of the description of those who were fearful of being deported, based on the racial profiling practices of ICE agents and local law enforcement, those participants in the study were likely Latinxs. See Susan Hardwood, Farm Worker Needs Assessment, Legal Aid Society of Hawaiʻi, June 1, 2016, 21.

Notes to Pages 155–158  •  285

71 See “Greenwell Farms Cherry (Coffee) Harvest Position 2014–­2015 Coffee Season Contract/Greenwell Farms Coffee Harvester General Rules,” translated and provided courtesy of Claudia Hartz. 72 Interview with Angela Dean, July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 73 Kinro, Cup of Aloha, 120. 74 Interview with Luis Magaña. 75 Interview with Luis Magaña; interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Kona, Hawaiʻi; interview with Gloria Calamaco; interview with Pilo Escajeda by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 7, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 76 Sharon R. Ennis, Merarys Ríos-­Vargas, and Nora G. Albert, The Hispanic Population: 2010 Census Brief (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, May 2011), 2; Nicole Akoukou Thompson, “California’s Latino/Hispanic Population Now Outnumbers the Non-­Hispanic White Population,” Latin Post, July 10, 2015, http://​www​ .latinpost​.com/​articles/​65220/​20150710/​californias​-latino​-hispanic​-population​-now​ -outnumbers​-non​-white​.htm. 77 U.S. Census Bureau, 2010 Demographic Profile Data, Hawaii, accessed July 3, 2012, http://​factfinder2​.census​.gov/​faces/​tableservices/​jsf/​pages/​productview​.xhtml​?pid​ =​DEC​_10​_DP​_DPDP1; U.S. Census Bureau, Census 2000 Summary File 1, http://​ www​.infoplease​.com/​ipa/​A0884102​.html; Susan Essoyan, “Hispanic Population Growing in Hawaii,” Hispanic Business, January 4, 2012, accessed March 18, 2013, http://​www​.hispanicbusiness​.com/​2012/​1/​4/​hispanic​_population​_growing​_in​ _hawaii​.htm. 78 Although this number is an estimate, American Community Survey (ACS) data also show the population at 150,864 in 2019. See initial figures in the introduction for more details. 79 Jeffrey S. Passel and D’Vera Cohn, A Portrait of Unauthorized Immigrants in the United States (Washington, D.C.: Pew Hispanic Center, 2009), 30; Immigration Policy Center, New Americans in the Aloha State: The Political and Economic Power of Immigrants, Asians, and Latinos in Hawaii (Washington, D.C.: Immigration Policy Center, July 2010). 80 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 13; Passel and Cohn, Portrait of Unauthorized Immigrants, 14–­16. 81 Mexicans and Central Americans were listed under “Region of birth” in the report. See “Profile of the Unauthorized Population: Hawaii,” Migration Policy Institute, accessed January 20, 2023, https://​www​.migrationpolicy​.org/​data/​unauthorized​ -immigrant​-population/​state/​HI. 82 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 22–­23; Susan Essoyan, “Latinos Targeted, Professor Says,” Honolulu Star-­Advertiser, October 1, 2012, A6. 83 See Billy Bergin, Loyal to the Land: The Legendary Parker Ranch, 1750–­1950 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004); and Joseph Brennan, Paniolo (Honolulu: Ku Pa’a, 1995), 33. 84 Leo R. Chavez, The Latino Threat: Constructing Immigrants, Citizens, and the Nation (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2008); Yalidy Matos, “Immigration within the Contemporary Political Discourse,” in The Routledge Handbook of Immigration and Crime, ed. Holly Ventura Miller and Anthony Peguero (New York: Routledge, 2018), 220–­235; Beth C. Caldwell, Deported Americans: Life after Deportation to Mexico (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2019), 24–­26. 85 Chavez, Latino Threat, 3. 86 Chavez, 4. 87 Chavez, 25. 88 Chavez, 44–­46.

286  •  Notes to Pages 158–160

89 Caldwell, Deported Americans, 25–­26. 90 See Rodolfo Acuña, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos (New York: Harper Collins, 1988), 45–­51, 169–­170, and 376–­377; David Bacon, The Children of NAFTA: Labor Wars on the U.S./Mexico Border (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004); Roger Bybee and Carolyn Winter, “Immigration Flood Unleashed by NAFTA’s Disastrous Impact on Mexican Economy,” CommonDreams.org, April 25, 2006, accessed November 3, 2010, https://​www​.commondreams​.org/​views/​2006/​ 04/​25/​immigration​-flood​-unleashed​-naftas​-disastrous​-impact​-mexican​-economy; Gilbert G. González and Raúl Fernandez, “Empire and the Origins of Twentieth-­ Century Migration from Mexico to the United States,” Pacific Historical Review 71, no. 1 (February 2002): 19–­57; Bill Ong Hing, Ethical Borders: NAFTA, Globalization, and Mexican Migration (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2010); Paul Spickard, Almost All Aliens: Immigration, Race, and Colonialism in American History and Identity (New York: Routledge, 2007), 129–­133, 148–­180, 298, 369–­376; and Zaragosa Vargas, Crucible of Struggle: A History of Mexican Americans from Colonial Times to the Present Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 79–­111, 177–­194, 344–­347, 366–­369. 91 During my conversation with border studies scholar Michelle Telléz, she noted that the recession of the 1970s was the context within which the INS first conceptualized Mexican immigrants as a national security threat. Politicians and U.S. federal agencies tied the country’s economic problems to unauthorized migrants, often employing metaphors suggesting an invasion. In fact, former CIA director William Colby stated, “The most obvious threat, is the fact there are going to be 120 million Mexicans by the end of the century, the Border Patrol will not have enough bullets to stop them.” For more on this, see Chavez, Latino Threat; Alfonso Gonzales, Reform without Justice: Latino Migrant Politics and the Homeland Security State (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014); Camilla Fojas, Border Optics: Surveillance Cultures on the US-­Mexico Frontier (New York: New York University Press, 2021), 29; Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., “Latino Threat in the 808? Mexican Migration and the Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 152–­177; Matos, “Immigration,” 221; Joseph Nevins, Operation Gatekeeper: The Rise of the “Illegal Alien” and the Making of the U.S.-­Mexico Boundary (New York: Routledge, 2001), 52; Spickard, Almost All Aliens, 433–­464; and Vargas, Crucible of Struggle, 378–­391. 92 John F. McDermott and Naleen Naupaka Andrade, eds., People and Cultures of Hawaiʻi: The Evolution of Culture and Ethnicity (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 166; Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 22–­24. 93 Gonzales, Reform without Justice, 27–­28; Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 8–­9. 94 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 79. 95 See Aviva Chomsky, “They Take Our Jobs!”: And 20 Other Myths about Immigration (New York: Beacon Press, 2007); and Jens Manuel Krogstad, Mark Hugo Lopez, and Jeffrey S. Passel, “A Majority of Americans Say Immigrants Mostly Fill Jobs U.S. Citizens Do Not Want,” Pew Research Center, June 10, 2020, https://​www​.pewresearch​ .org/​fact​-tank/​2020/​06/​10/​a​-majority​-of​-americans​-say​-immigrants​-mostly​-fill​-jobs​ -u​-s​-citizens​-do​-not​-want/. 96 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 80. 97 Interview with Martha Sánchez Romero by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 25, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 98 Interview with Martha Sánchez Romero.

Notes to Pages 161–163  •  287

99 John P. Rosa, Local Story: The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2015), 32. 100 See Imani Altemus-­Williams and Marie Eriel Hobro, “Hawaiʻi Is Not the Multicultural Paradise Some Say It Is,” National Geographic, May 7, 2021, https://​www​ .nationalgeographic​.com/​culture/​article/​hawaii​-not​-multicultural​-paradise​-some​ -say​-it​-is. 101 Ethnic community newspapers included Hawaii Filipino Chronicle, Hawaii Hispanic News, La Prensa San Diego, and Ethnic News Watch, among others. 102 Laurie Au and Leila Fujimori, “Tam Apologizes for Using Racial Slur,” Honolulu Star-­ Bulletin, June 3, 2008, A1, A6. 103 I also employ the term Latinx knowing it is another U.S.-based moniker used to unite a large group of individuals from Latin America and the Spanish speaking Caribbean, one that helps the government and media unify these communities under a pan-ethnic identity with very few commonalities. 104 Interview with José Villa by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 15, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; José Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal to Apologize Sparks Hispanic Community Activism,” Hawaii Hispanic News 7, no. 3 ( July 2008): 1. 105 Rudy Guevarra Jr., phone conversation with José Villa, August 6, 2015. 106 Interview with José Villa; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7. 107 Phone conversation with José Villa; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7–­8. 108 Interview with José Villa; Phone conversation with José Villa; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 9–­10. With regards to the term local, as some scholars suggest, it is an identity and culture that primarily nonwhites who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi share, including a plantation-­era past, a language (Pidgin English), and cultural practices that define one as local. For more on this, see Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Why There Are No Asian Americans in Hawaiʻi: The Continuing Significance of Local Identity,” Social Process in Hawaii 35 (1994): 161–­178; Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010), 3; Rosa, Local Story; and Haunani-­Kay Trask, “Settlers of Color and ‘Immigrant’ Hegemony: ‘Locals’ in Hawaiʻi,” Amerasia Journal 26, no. 2 (2000): 1–­24. 109 Interview with José Villa. 110 The Filipino reporter who covered the rally remarked, Save for a noted Filipino professor, Filipinos were noticeably absent from the rally. In fact, the Filipino community has been rather tight lipped about the “wetback” controversy. . . . In hindsight, Filipinos and other ethnic groups, for that matter, should have been more vocal in their support from the Hispanic community. We should realize that any derogatory term that belittles an ethnic group is an attack against us all, for we are all minorities. Also, Filipinos have more in common with Hispanics than we may realize. For centuries, we were both colonized and heavily influenced by Spain. Not only do we share similar surnames, religions and customs, Filipinos physically resemble and are sometimes mistaken for Hispanics—­and vice versa. (“Wetbacks and Desperate Housewives,” Hawaii Filipino Chronicle, June 21, 2008, 2, https://​thefilipinochronicle​.com/​images/​regular​- edition/​2008/​ HFCRE​_06212008​.pdf ) This comment not only illustrates the reporter’s empathy and solidarity with their Latinx counterparts but also suggests in a subtle way that the lack of support could have been because Filipinxs have one of the largest undocumented populations in Hawaiʻi, which was why there was not a large turnout of Filipinxs at the rally. Perhaps

288  •  Notes to Pages 163–165

they did not want to expose their own community given the similar phenotype and surnames at a time when xenophobia was rising in Hawaiʻi and Latinxs, specifically Mexicans and Central Americans, were the main targets of this racism. See also Daniel Muñoz, “‘Wetback,’ in Hawaii?,” La Prensa San Diego, June 20, 2008. 111 Au and Fujimori, “Tam Apologizes,” A6. 112 Malia Zimmerman, “Propensity for Outbursts Finally Lands Eccentric Council Member in Political Hot Water,” Hawaii Reporter, June 5, 2008. 113 Laurie Au and Leila Fujimori, “Tam Sorry for Saying ʻWetbacks,’” Honolulu Star-­ Bulletin, June 3, 2008, accessed March 27, 2010, http://​archives​.starbulletin​.com/​ 2008/​06/​03/​news/​story03/​html. 114 Au and Fujimori, “Tam Apologizes,” A6; Richard Borreca, “In the Land of Racial Harmony and Ethnic Slurs,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, June 8, 2008, E1; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7. 115 Au and Fujimori, “Tam Apologizes,” A6; Peter Boylan, “Rod Tam Sorry for Insulting Comment,” Honolulu Advertiser, June 3, 2008, B1, B5. 116 Laurie Au, “Tam, Sorry about Use of Slur, Survives Furor,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, June 5, 2008, A6. 117 Marie Villa, email correspondence to undisclosed recipients regarding Update on Tam Issue and Beautiful Letter of Support, June 5, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; Peter Boylan, “Tam Censured for Racial Slur,” Honolulu Advertiser, June 5, 2008, B5. 118 Laurie Au, “Tam Urged to Quit Committee Leadership,” Honolulu Star-­Bulletin, June 14, 2008, A1; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7. 119 Marie Villa, email correspondence to undisclosed recipients regarding Update on Tam Issue and Beautiful Letter of Support, June 5, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive. 120 Villa, email correspondence. See also Muñoz, “‘Wetback,’ in Hawaii?”; Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7. 121 Originally from Los Lentes, New Mexico, Herman Baca moved to San Diego with his family around 1954, when he was eleven years old, and was raised in National City, where he still resides. In addition to the Committee on Chicano Rights (CCR), Herman also helped organize and was a participating member of the Mexican-­American Political Association (MAPA) and La Raza Unida Party. Herman is also the owner of Aztec Printing, which he established in 1969. See interview with Herman Baca by Rudy Guevarra Jr., January 8, 2010, National City, California. 122 Interview with Herman Baca. 123 Letter to Marie Villa from Herman Baca, Regarding Councilman Rod Tam, June 10, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive. 124 Although Marie and José did contact Lieutenant Governor James Aiona Jr. requesting that he publicly denounce Tam’s comments, to their disappointment Aiona declined to do so, stating that the Honolulu City Council’s censure was appropriate and that “any public statement by myself would likely not add to your cause, but instead be dismissed as mere ‘political grandstanding’ on my part.” See letter to José and Marie Villa from Lieutenant Governor James R. Aiona Jr., Regarding Councilmember Rod Tam’s Remarks, June 25, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; and letter to Marie Villa from Herman Baca, Regarding Councilman Rod Tam, June 10, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive. 125 See letter to Senator Denise M. Ducheny from Herman Baca, Regarding Honolulu City Councilman Rod Tam, June 18, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; letter to Assembly Member Mary Salas from Herman Baca, Regarding Honolulu City Councilman Rod Tam, June 18, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; letter to Assembly

Notes to Pages 165–168  •  289

Member Lori Saldaña from Herman Baca, Regarding Honolulu City Councilman Rod Tam, June 18, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; letter to Senator Barak [sic] Obama from Herman Baca, Regarding Honolulu City Councilman Rod Tam, June 12, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive; and letter to Senator Daniel Inouye from Herman Baca, Regarding Honolulu City Councilman Rod Tam, June 12, 2008, Herman Baca Personal Archive. 126 Interview with Herman Baca. 127 Villa, “Councilman’s Refusal,” 7. 128 Villa, 7. 129 On November 24, 2010, Rod Tam pled guilty to twenty-­six misdemeanor counts of theft and fraud regarding his council contingency fund, where he falsified documents for hundreds of personal meals with family and business associates, which he was reimbursed for but was not city work related. The amount totaled over $22,000 from 2007 to 2009. Although he served only two days in jail, his political career was over. Tam died on May 15, 2019. See interview with José Villa; B. J. Reyes, “Tam Admits Guilt in Theft and Fraud,” Star Advertiser, November 25, 2010, https://​www​ .staradvertiser​.com/​2010/​11/​25/​hawaii​-news/​tam​-admits​-guilt​-in​-theft​-and​-fraud/; Sara Lin, “Rod Tam Will Spend New Year’s in Jail,” Honolulu Civil Beat, November 2, 2011, https://​www​.civilbeat​.org/​2011/​11/​13536​-rod​-tam​-will​-spend​-new​-years​-in​-jail/; and Gordon Y. K. Pang, “Hawaii Politician Rod Tam Dies Due to Complications from Leukemia,” Star Advertiser, May 15, 2019, https://​www​.staradvertiser​.com/​2019/​ 05/​15/​breaking​-news/​hawaii​-political​-figure​-rod​-tam​-dies​-due​-to​-complications​ -from​-leukemia/. 130 INS is now known as the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency. 131 The deportation regimes of the late twentieth and early twenty-­first centuries include the Bush Sr., Clinton, Bush Jr., and Obama administrations. For more on deportation regimes, see Jimmy Patiño, Raza Sí, Migra No: Chicano Movement Struggles for Immigrant Rights in San Diego (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017), 9. 132 President Obama has been criticized by the Latinx community because of the optics surrounding the Secure Communities program being enacted in the state where he grew up, despite the fact that Latinxs overwhelmingly voted for him in both elections. See Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 23–­24; Michael Keany, “Undocumented: The State of Illegal Immigration in Hawaii,” Honolulu Magazine, March 31, 2009, https://​www​.honolulumagazine​.com/​undocumented/; Guevarra, “Latino Threat in the 808?,” 152–­177; and Tanya Maria Golash-­Boza, Immigration Nation: Raids, Detentions, and Deportations in Post-­9/11 America (Boulder, Colo.: Paradigm, 2012), 47–­52. 133 Interview with Carolina Torres Valle by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 12, 2013, Mānoa, Hawaiʻi. 134 Joanna Dreby, Everyday Illegal: When Policies Undermine Immigrant Families (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015), 25–­26; Linda Chiem, “Feds Say They Will Still Pursue Illegal Hires in Hawaii,” Pacific Business News, January 10, 2010, accessed March 13, 2013, http://​www​.bizjournals​.com/​pacific/​stories/​2010/​01/​11/​story4​ .html. 135 For more on the impact of deportations on immigrant families, see Caldwell, Deported Americans; Dreby, Everyday Illegal; Golash-­Boza, Immigration Nation; Gonzales, Reform without Justice; and Randy Capps, Rosa Maria Castañeda, Ajay Chaudry, and Robert Santos, Paying the Price: The Impact of Immigration Raids on America’s Children (Washington, D.C.: National Council of La Raza, 2007). 136 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 24.

290  •  Notes to Pages 168–172

137 According to the news article, although the group of clergy supports current immigration laws regarding unauthorized entry into the United States, they do not condone it at the expense of an individual’s civil rights. See Eloise Aguiar, “Immigration Raids Protested,” Honolulu Advertiser, April 2, 2009, accessed January 30, 2013, http://​the​.honoluluadvertiser​.com/​article/​2009/​Apr/​02/​In/​hawaii904020334​ .html; and Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 23–­24. 138 Interview with Carolina Torres Valle. 139 Interview with Carolina Torres Valle. 140 Interview with Luis Magaña. 141 Interview with Luis Magaña. 142 As Rev. Stan noted, FACE is a faith-­based community organization made up of multiple denominations, which includes, among others, Protestants, Catholics, and Buddhists. Ally organizations also include senior organizations, Local 5 labor union, and Kauaʻi Coalition for Immigration Reform, among others. See interview with Stan Bain by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 6, 2014, Kailua, Hawaiʻi. 143 Interview with Stan Bain. 144 Interview with Stan Bain. 145 Interview with Stan Bain. 146 Interview with Stan Bain. 147 Interview with Stan Bain. 148 Interview with Angela Dean, July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 149 Sam Dillon, “Job Search Lures Mexicans to Far Corners of U.S.,” New York Times, February 4, 1997, accessed November 5, 2007, http://​query​.nytimes​.com/​gst/​ fullpagehtml​?res​=​9C00E5DD1E3DF937A35751C0A961958260​&​sec​=​&​spon​=​&​ pagewanted​=​print. 150 Faustino Angel Guzman, “New Opportunities and Challenges for Mexicans in the U.S.,” Hola Hawaii 5, no. 5 (March 2004): 9; “New Honorary Consulate of Mexico in Hawaii,” Hola Hawaii 5, no. 7 ( June 2004): 8. 151 Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 27. 152 Batalova et al., 28; Erin Miller, “Mexican Consulate Office Sends Mobile Team to Hawaii,” West Hawaii Today, September 8, 2008. 153 Interview with Angela Dean, February 20, 2019, Captain Cook, Hawaiʻi. 154 According to Mark Hugo Lopez, these estimates account for the total population, not annual inflows. Estimates are also based on the total yearly average undocumented population of 45,000 in Hawaiʻi since 2010. Pew Research Center estimates are based on augmented American Community Survey data for 2005–­2017. See email correspondence with Mark Hugo Lopez, August 25, 2021; “Unauthorized Immigrant Population Trends for States, Birth Countries, and Regions,” Pew Research Center, June 12, 2019, accessed August 26, 2021, https://​www​.pewresearch​.org/​hispanic/​ interactives/​unauthorized​-trends/; Jeffrey S. Passel and DʻVera Cohn, “Mexicans Decline to Less Than Half the U.S. Unauthorized Immigrant Population for the First Time,” Pew Research Center, June 12, 2019, accessed August 26, 2021, https://​www​ .pewresearch​.org/​fact​-tank/​2019/​06/​12/​us​-unauthorized​-immigrant​-population​ -2017/. 155 Dreby, Everyday Illegal, 22–­24. 156 Essoyan, “Latinos Targeted,” A6. 157 Golash-­Boza, Immigration Nation, 48–­49. 158 See Matos, “Immigration,” 220–­235. 159 Interview with Herlinda Jacobo Roque by Angela Dean, October 14, 2013, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 160 Interview with Herlinda Jacobo Roque.

Notes to Pages 172–175  •  291

161 Rudy Guevarra Jr., field notes, March 4, 2015, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi; email correspondence with Angela Dean, September 17, 2015. 162 Interview with Candy Mendoza Soria by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 17, 2013, Kailua-­ Kona, Hawaiʻi. 163 Interview with Candy Mendoza Soria. 164 Since both Herlinda and Candy were U.S. citizens, they were able to leverage their citizenship status as a means to make their voices heard and challenge the agents who were violating their civil liberties. 165 Aguiar, “Immigration Raids Protested.” 166 Marisa Treviño, “Breaking News: ICE Continues Targeting Hawaii’s Undocumented Community with Worksite and Home Raids,” Latina Lista, April 7, 2009, accessed March 17, 2013, http://​latinalista​.com/​general/​breaking​_news​_ice​_continues​ _targeting​_ha. 167 Interview with Stan Bain. 168 I had the good fortune of working with Angela Dean, founder of La Communidad Latina De Hawaiʻi (CLDH), and Claudia Hartz, board member of CLDH, in bringing out Arizona Dream Coalition cofounder Erika Andiola to conduct a Know Your Rights workshop on March 8, 2015, at West Hawaiʻi Community Health Center, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 169 Chris Hamilton, “Rally to Raise Awareness of Issues Facing U.S. Migrants,” Maui News, May 17, 2011. 170 Hamilton. 171 Stephen Balkaran, “Unfounded Loyalty: President Obama and the Hispanic Community,” Huffington Post, June 26, 2017, accessed September 2, 2019, https://​www​ .huffpost​.com/​entry/​unfounded​-loyalty​-president​-obama​-and​-the​-hispanic​_b​ _594da759e4b0326c0a8d087a. 172 Latinx youth were not the only recipients of the DACA program; other youth qualified as well. See “Happy Birthday DACA: Youths Say It Improved Immigrants’ Lives,” NBC News, August 15, 2014, accessed September 2, 2019, https://​www​ .nbcnews​.com/​news/​latino/​happy​-birthday​-daca​-youths​-say​-it​-improved​-immigrants​ -lives​-n181746; Beverly Creamer, “Hawaii’s Dreamers,” Hawaii Business Magazine, August 13, 2015, accessed May 14, 2018, https://​www​.hawaiibusiness​.com/​hawaiis​ -dreamers/; and Batalova et al., Newcomers to the Aloha State, 13. 173 The National Council of La Raza (NCLR) is now known as UnidosUS. It remains one of the largest Latino advocacy groups in the United States. See Amanda Sakuma, “Obama Leaves behind a Mixed Legacy on Immigration,” NBC News, January 15, 2017, accessed September 2, 2019, https://​www​.nbcnews​.com/​storyline/​president​ -obama​-the​-legacy/​obama​-leaves​-behind​-mixed​-legacy​-immigration​-n703656; and Julianne Hing, “Why Numbers Alone Obscure the Real Deportation Story,” Nation, December 28, 1017, accessed September 2, 2019, https://​www​.thenation​.com/​article/​ archive/​why​-numbers​-alone​-obscure​-the​-real​-deportation​-story/. 174 Sakuma, “Obama Leaves behind a Mixed Legacy.” 175 “Breaking News: ICE Continues Targeting Hawaii’s Undocumented Community with Worksite and Home Raids,” Latina Lista, April 7, 2009, accessed January 30, 2013, http://​latinalista​.com/​2009/​04/​breaking​_news​_ice​_continues​_targeting​_ha. 176 See Julia Preston, “Mexican Data Show Migration to U.S. in Decline,” New York Times, May 15, 2009, https://​www​.nytimes​.com/​2009/​05/​15/​us/​15immig​.html; Ken Ellingwood, “Immigration from Mexico in Fast Retreat, Data Show,” Los Angeles Times, November 15, 2011, https://​www​.latimes​.com/​nation/​la​-xpm​-2011​-nov​-15​ -la​-fg​-mexico​-migration​-20111115​-story​.html; Jeffrey Passel, D’Vera Cohn, and Ana Gonzalez-­Barrera, “Net Migration from Mexico Falls to Zero—­and Perhaps Less,”

292  •  Notes to Pages 175–183

Pew Research Center Report, May 3, 2012, https://​www​.pewresearch​.org/​hispanic/​ 2012/​04/​23/​net​-migration​-from​-mexico​-falls​-to​-zero​-and​-perhaps​-less/; Ana Gonzalez-­Barrera, “More Mexicans Leaving Than Coming to the U.S.,” Pew Research Center Report, November 19, 2015, https://​www​.pewresearch​.org/​hispanic/​2015/​11/​ 19/​more​-mexicans​-leaving​-than​-coming​-to​-the​-u​-s/; Jeffrey Passel and D’Vera Cohn, “U.S. Unauthorized Immigration Flows Are Down Sharply since Mid-­decade,” Pew Research Center Report, September 1, 2010, https://​www​.pewresearch​.org/​hispanic/​ 2010/​09/​01/​us​-unauthorized​-immigration​-flows​-are​-down​-sharply​-since​-mid​ -decade/; and Caldwell, Deported Americans, 24. 177 When I discuss the Mexican community, I will be referring to it collectively, which includes U.S. citizens, legal permanent residents, and undocumented migrants. 178 Fojas et al., Beyond Ethnicity; Gerald Horne, Fighting in Paradise: Labor Unions, Racism, and Communists in the Making of Modern Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2011), 11–­12; Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi; Poblete, Islanders in the Empire; Nitasha Tamar Sharma, Hawaiʻi Is My Haven: Race and Indigeneity in the Black Pacific (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2021). 179 Interview with Gregoria Reyes. 180 Interview with Marisela “Chely” López and Jesús Aguilar by Claudia Hartz, June 24, 2014, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 181 Interview with Noelia Solano by Claudia Hartz, September 7, 2014, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 182 Interview with Ángel Cancino Garza. 183 Interview with Maurilio Ruiz Lopez by Claudia Hartz, June 24, 2014, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 184 Interview with Israel Gonzales by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 7, 2011, Hilo, Hawaiʻi. 185 Interview with Israel Gonzales. 186 Interview with Gloria Calamaco. 187 Interview with Gloria Calamaco. 188 Interview with Gloria Calamaco. 189 See Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Y. Okamura, eds., Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2008); Rosa, Local Story; Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Defiant Indigeneity: The Politics of Hawaiian Performance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018), 23–­47; and Trask, From a Native Daughter. 190 Interview with Kenny Lopez by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 27, 2016, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 191 Interview with Kenny Lopez. 192 Interview with Arturo Ballar Ortiz. 193 Interview with Luis Magaña. 194 Interview with Ariel Velasquez by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 25, 2015, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi.

Chapter 5  Mixed Race Identity, Localized Latinxs, and a Pacific Latinidad 1 According to historian John P. Rosa, “local” was first used in 1931–­1932 during the Massie-­Kahahawai case. In 1931, Thalia Massie, a white woman, alleged she was raped by “some Hawaiian boys.” A Native Hawaiian, Joseph Kahahawai, and four of his friends (who were also Native Hawaiian and/or non-­Native local) were accused of the crime and stood trial. The case ended in a mistrial due to the mishandling of evidence, careless police work, and contradictory testimony. A second trial was to take place, but before that could happen, Kahahwai was kidnapped by Thalia Massie’s husband, Thomas (who was a navy offier); her mother, Grace; and two other white men. After a lengthy car chase, police pulled over Thomas Massie and found Kahahwai’s body in a laundry basket in the back seat. Although Kahahwai’s kidnappers and murderers

Notes to Pages 183–185  •  293







were convicted of a lesser crime (manslaughter) and sentenced to ten years, the presiding judge in the case was still pressured by Congress, the U.S. Navy, and the governor of Hawaiʻi to commute their sentences. They served one hour in the governor’s office before they were released. This blatant act of white vigilante justice galvanized Native Hawaiians and other non-­Native locals against haoles (whites) given the severity of the racial injustice that occurred. The distinction between local and haole continues to this day because of this historical moment and others that followed. For more on this case, the construction of a local identity, and the racial implications of this term, see John P. Rosa, Local Story: The Massie-­Kahahawai Case and the Culture of History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2014); Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Aloha Kanaka Me Ke Aloha ʻAina: Local Culture and Society in Hawaii,” Amerasia 7, no. 2 (1980): 119–­137; Jonathan Y. Okamura, “Why There Are No Asian Americans in Hawaiʻi: The Continuing Significance of Local Identity,” Social Process in Hawaii 35 (1994): 161–­178; Judy Rohrer, Haoles in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2010); Paul Spickard, “Local Haole? Whites, Racial and Imperial Loyalties, and Membership in Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018); Jonathan Y. Okamura, Ethnicity and Inequality in Hawaiʻi (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2008), 113; Paul Spickard, “Pacific Islander Americans and Multiethnicity: A Vision for America’s Future?,” in Pacific Diaspora: Island Peoples in the United States and across the Pacific, ed. Paul Spickard, Joanne L. Rondilla, and Debbie Hippolite Wright (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2002), 51. 2 Interview with Reynaldo Minn by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 25, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 3 I interpreted Reynaldo’s comment “local Hawaiian” as being someone who is local from Hawaiʻi, which is usually what this term implies, since being Native Hawaiian or Hawaiian is different from being local. Interview with Reynaldo Minn. 4 Although I utilize localized Latinxs to include Puerto Ricans who are part of the local identity and culture that was initially formed during the plantation era, this term widens the scope to include other Latinx groups who came after, including subsequent migrations of Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Central Americans, and other Spanish-­ speaking populations from Latin America and the Caribbean. This also includes those of mixed racial backgrounds. 5 Mestizaje generally refers to the cultural and racial blending of peoples in Latin America and the Spanish-­speaking Caribbean. The mixtures vary depending on the country. I use this term to be inclusive of the Indigenous, African, Asian, Middle Eastern, and European peoples who racially and culturally mixed throughout this region of the world. 6 I would like to thank Camilla Hawthorne for the discussions that helped me develop this idea more. 7 By intersecting identities, I am referring to gender, class, and sexuality, among others. 8 For more on the diasporic Black population of Hawaiʻi, see Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, eds., Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 114–­151; Akiemi Glenn, the Pōpolo Project, https://​www​.thepopoloproject​.org; Akiemi Glenn, “Want to Explore Race in Hawaiʻi? Center Those Most Impacted by It,” July 2, 2019, accessed July 5, 2019, https://​akiemiglenn​.net/​blog; Miles M. Jackson, ed., They Followed the Trade Winds: African Americans in Hawaiʻi, Social Process in Hawaiʻi 43 (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2004); Nitasha Tamar Sharma, Hawaiʻi Is My Haven: Race and Indigeneity in the Black Pacific (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press,

294  •  Notes to Pages 185–187

2021); and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, “Pacific Revisions of Blackness: Blacks Address Race and Belonging in Hawaiʻi,” Amerasia 37, no. 3 (2011): 43–­60. 9 The 2010 Census marked Hispanic or Latino origin as an ethnic category rather than a race, which has led to some problematic issues regarding statistical data miscounts and criticism by the Latinx community and political groups. With regard to the triracial group population, this includes those who fall under the white, Asian, and Native Hawaiian / Pacific Islander mix. For more on this, see Jens Manuel Krogstad, “Hawaii Home to the Nation’s Largest Share of Multiracial Americans,” Pew Research, June 17, 2015, accessed August 12, 2015, https://​www​.pewresearch​.org/​fact​-tank/​2015/​06/​17/​ hawaii​-is​-home​-to​-the​-nations​-largest​-share​-of​-multiracial​-americans/; Nicholas A. Jones and Jungmiwha Bullock, The Two or More Races Population, 2010: 2010 Census Brief (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, September 2012), 20; and Kim Parker, Juliana Manasce Horowitz, Rich Morin, and Mark Hugo Lopez, “Race and Multiracial Americans in the U.S. Census,” Pew Research Center, June 11, 2015, accessed August 12, 2015, https://​www​.pewsocialtrends​.org/​2015/​06/​11/​chapter​-1​-race​-and​ -multiracial​-americans​-in​-the​-u​-s​-census/. 10 Spickard, “Pacific Islander Americans and Multiethnicity,” 41; Kathleen Tyau, A Little Too Much Is Enough (New York: W. W. Norton, 1996). 11 I acknowledge that my perspective comes from a place of privilege as someone who is visibly brown and does not experience anti-­Blackness. My own racial ambiguity allows me to blend into the local population of Hawaiʻi. 12 F. James Davis, “The Hawaiian Alternative to the One Drop Rule,” in American Mixed Race: The Culture of Microdiversity, ed. Naomi Zack (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1995), 128. 13 See Spickard, “Pacific Islander Americans and Multiethnicity,” 40–­55. 14 Farzana Nayani, Raising Multiracial Children: Tools for Nurturing Identity in a Racialized World (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2020), 9. 15 Nayani, Raising Multiracial Children, 9. 16 Sharon H. Chang, Hapa Tales and Other Lies: A Mixed Race Memoir about the Hawaiʻi I Never Knew (Seattle: Rising Song Press, 2018); Tyau, Little Too Much; Kathleen Tyau, Makai (Boston: Beacon Press, 2000). 17 Brandon C. Ledward, “On Being Hawaiian Enough: Contesting American Racialization with Native Hybridity,” Hūlili: Multidisciplinary Research on Hawaiian Well-­ Being 4, no. 1 (2007): 137. 18 Although foreign white explorers came to the Hawaiian archipelago prior to the formation of the Hawaiian Kingdom under King Kamehameha I, I refer to this time period (the Hawaiian Kingdom era) as the time from King Kamehameha I’s rule to the reign of Queen Liliʻuokalani. Monarchy documents such as the Naturalization Records at the Hawaiʻi State Archives list foreigners who came from all over the world to live and work as naturalized citizens of the independent Hawaiian Kingdom. Other foreigners stayed as invited guests and visitors. 19 I would like to thank Camilla Hawthorne for pointing out relationships of power in our discussions as they related to Native Hawaiians and foreigners. 20 George S. Kanahele, Emma: Hawaiʻi’s Remarkable Queen (Honolulu: Queen Emma Foundation, 1999); Spickard, “Who Is Asian? Who Is Pacific Islander? Monoracialism, Multiracial People, and Asian American Communities,” in The Sum of Our Parts: Mixed-­Heritage Asian Americans, ed. Teresa Williams-­León and Cynthia L. Nakashima (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001), 14–­15; Nancy Webb and Jean Francis Webb, Kaiulani: Crown Princess of Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: Mutual, 1998). 21 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 22, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi.

Notes to Pages 187–191  •  295

22 For an example, see Index to Naturalization Records, Individuals Naturalized by the Minister of the Interior of the Hawaiian Islands, Series 234, 1844–­1894, HSA. 23 Email discussion with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar, February 3, 2022. 24 Romanzo Adams, “Race Relations in Hawaii: A Summary Statement,” Social Process in Hawaii 2 (1936): 56; Robert E. Park, “Our Racial Frontier in the Pacific,” Survey Graphic: East by West—­Our Windows on the Pacific 9 (1926): 192–­196; John Chock Rosa, “‘The Coming of the Neo-­Hawaiian American Race’: Nationalism and Metaphors of the Melting Pot in Popular Accounts of Mixed-­Race Individuals,” in The Sum of Our Parts: Mixed-­Heritage Asian Americans, ed. Teresa Williams-­León and Cynthia L. Nakashima (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001), 49–­60. 25 Shelley Sang-­Hee Lee and Rick Baldoz, “‘A Fascinating Interracial Experiment Station’: Remapping the Orient-­Occidental Divide in Hawaiʻi,” American Studies 49, nos. 3/4 (Fall/Winter 2008): 89. 26 This practice also occurred with white men who married into elite Californio families to gain access to Mexican land and titles in California. See Sang-­Hee Lee and Baldoz, “‘Fascinating Interracial Experiment,’” 96–­97. 27 See Edward D. Beechert, Working in Hawaii: A Labor History (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1985); Moon-­Kie Jung, Reworking Race: The Making of Hawaii’s Interracial Labor Movement (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006); and Ronald Takaki, Pau Hana: Plantation Life and Labor in Hawaiʻi (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 1983). 28 Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa, Native Land and Foreign Desires: Peha Lā E Pono Ai? (Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1992), 314; Noenoe Silva, Aloha Betrayed: Native Hawaiian Resistance to American Colonialism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004), 87–­122. 29 According to Native Hawaiian scholar J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, blood quantum is a settler colonial invention with the goal of erasing Native claims and rights to land, sovereignty, and other benefits. I would like to thank Kēhaulani Vaughn for the discussion that further developed this section. See J. Kēhaulani Kauanui, Hawaiian Blood: Colonialism and the Politics of Sovereignty and Indigeneity (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008); and Ledward, “On Being Hawaiian Enough,” 112–­113, 120. 30 Ledward, “On Being Hawaiian Enough,” 120. 31 Jung, Reworking Race, 68–­72; Lee and Baldoz, “Fascinating Interracial Experiment,” 98–­102; Spickard, “Who Is Asian? Who is Pacific Islander?,” 14–­15. 32 Paul Spickard, Race in Mind: Critical Essays (Notre Dame: University of Norte Dame Press, 2015), 254–­255. 33 Interview with Edgar Ayala by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 10, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 34 This is similar to how Jonathan Okamura notes that unlike in the continental United States, where those of Asian ancestry identify as Asian American, in Hawaiʻi, those who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi for generations often identify as local. This is due to the local culture and identity that developed and was specific to Hawaiʻi. I also do not use the term hapa to describe mixed race people, because as a Native Hawaiian word, this is specific to the descriptive use of someone who is Hawaiian of mixed ancestry (e.g., Hapa haole). It is also a term that I rarely hear in Hawaiʻi anymore in terms of describing someone of mixed ancestry. 35 This was similar to what interviewees in my first study noted as an advantage of their mixed race identities as Mexipinos (Mexican-­Filipinos). See Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., Becoming Mexipino: Multiethnic Identities and Communities in San Diego (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2012), 130–­161. 36 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma by Rudy Guevarra Jr., Kula, Hawaiʻi, June 30, 2020.

296  •  Notes to Pages 191–195

37 Unlike the Mexican vaqueros during the Hawaiian monarchy period that may have numbered around two hundred, the Puerto Ricans that came to Hawaiʻi during the early twentieth century eventually numbered in the thousands. Given the timing of their arrival as part of the sugar plantation workforce, Puerto Rican migrants eventually became part of the foundation of local identity in Hawaiʻi. See chapter 2 for more information. 38 Blase Camacho Souza, “Trabajo y Tristeza—­‘ Work and Sorrow’: The Puerto Ricans of Hawaii, 1900–­1902,” Hawaiian Journal of History 18 (1984): 157. 39 These numbers may include those Puerto Ricans who were also part of the military, though that number would most likely be less than the number of local Puerto Ricans who outmarry, since Camacho Souza focuses on that population segment. See Blase Camacho Souza, “Migration and the Boricuas Hawaiianos,” 1988, pp. 8–­9, box 7, folder 5, Blase Camacho Souza Collection, Archives of the Puerto Rican Diaspora, Centro Estudios Puertorriqueños, Hunter College, CUNY. 40 According to testimonies from a number of interviewees and even personal friends I’ve known over the years both in Hawaiʻi and in San Diego, California, where many locals from Hawaiʻi end up moving when they leave for the continent, Puerto Rican / Hawaiian mixes were among the most common. For more on the role of colorism, see Blase Camacho Souza, “The Puerto Ricans in Hawaii,” in A Legacy of Diversity: Contributions of the Hawaiians, Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, Koreans, Filipinos and Samoans in Hawaii (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Ethnic Resource Center for the Pacific, 1975), 61; and Laura E. Gómez, Inventing Latinos: A New History of American Racism (New York: New Press, 2022), 62–­97. 41 Iris López, “Borinkis and Chop Suey: Puerto Rican Identity in Hawaiʻi, 1900–­2000,” in The Puerto Rican Diaspora: Historical Perspectives, ed. Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vázquez-­Hernández (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005), 43. 42 Waiʻanae is located on Oʻahu’s leeward coast, which has a large Native Hawaiian population. See interview with Francesca “Cheka” Diaz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 9, 2011, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 43 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 4, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 44 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris. 45 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris. 46 I utilize the x in Chicanx much in the same way that it is used in Latinx to be gender inclusive. See Nicolas Cruz, “Beyond Aztlán: Reflections on the Chicanx Student Movement,” Medium.com, November 29, 2018, https://​medium​.com/​ @nicolascruz​_64542/​beyond​-aztlán​-reflections​-on​-the​-chicanx​-student​-movement​ -96d2f93c5f76; and Romario Bautista, “Thoughts on Indigeneity, from the Perspective of an Indigenous Person,” Dichosdeunbicho.com (blog), February 24, 2019, http://​ dichosdeunbicho​.com/​my​-thoughts​-on​-indigeneity​-as​-an​-indigenous​-person/​?fbclid​=​ IwAR3rxuj3JqyslGZJ9​_r8mPMN8TTrfx8​-nr18c6MXEA4Qq8H2VXsqHDm​_KAM. 47 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris. 48 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 9, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 49 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 50 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 51 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 13, 2011, Hilo, Hawaiʻi. 52 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 53 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 54 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 55 Interview with Reynaldo Minn.

Notes to Pages 195–202  •  297

56 Interview with Angela Dean by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 1, 2013, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 57 Interview with Ariel Velasquez by Rudy Guevarra Jr., February 25, 2015, Kailua-­Kona, Hawaiʻi. 58 Interview with Ariel Velasquez. 59 I would like to thank Mathew Sandoval for bringing up this term during one of our writing retreat discussions. I suggest that code weaving can be a more complex extension of “code switching,” which, as Rachel Salia notes, is used primarily in informal conversations and among those who are bilingual or multilingual (e.g., Spanish to English or Spanglish) and can be seen as a method of empowerment by the speakers who engage in it. This linguistic practice can be utilized in the weaving aspect of various languages and even accents when speaking another language. See Rachel Salia, “Between Arabic and French Lies the Dialect: Moroccan Code-­Weaving on Facebook” (BA thesis, Columbia University, 2011), 18. 60 Interview with Alejandra Alexander by Rudy Guevarra Jr., October 6, 2019, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 61 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 62 Interview with Francesca “Cheka” Diaz. 63 Interview with Francesca “Cheka” Diaz. 64 Interview with Francesca “Cheka” Diaz. 65 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 66 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 67 Interview with Luis Magaña by Rudy Guevarra Jr., June 23, 2013, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 68 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 2, 2019, Kona, Hawaiʻi. 69 Interview with Alexis Schultz by Rudy Guevarra Jr., August 1, 2016, Hilo, Hawaiʻi. 70 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 71 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 72 See Ledward, “On Being Hawaiian Enough,” 130–­135; and Brandon C. Ledward, “Inseparably Hapa: Making and Unmaking a Hawaiian Monolith” (PhD diss., University of Hawaiʻi, 2007). 73 For more on the meaning of kamaʻāina, see kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui, “From Captain Cook to Captain Kirk, or From Colonial Exploration to Indigenous Exploitation: Issues of Hawaiian Land, Identity, and Nationhood in a ‘Postethnic’ World,” in Transnational Crossroads: Remapping the Americas and the Pacific, ed. Camilla Fojas and Rudy P. Guevarra Jr. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2012), 229–­268. 74 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 75 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 76 Interview with Francesca “Cheka” Diaz. 77 The word chino was used by people in Latin America and the Caribbean to call anyone of Asian descent Chinese. This term can also be seen as derogatory. See interview with Reynaldo Minn; and interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 78 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio; Ledward, “On Being Hawaiian Enough,” 109. 79 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 80 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 81 Maria P. P. Root, “Bill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage,” in The Multiracial Experience: Racial Borders as the New Frontier, ed. Maria P. P. Root (Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage, 1996), 3–­14. 82 Gómez, Inventing Latinos, 62–­97; Jennifer A. Jones, “Afro-­Latinos: Speaking through Silences and Rethinking the Geographies of Blackness,” in Afro-­Latin American Studies: An Introduction, ed. Alejandro De La Fuente and George Reid Andrews (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 569–­614.

298  •  Notes to Pages 202–209

83 John Rosa, “‘Eh! Where You From?’: Questions of Place, Race, and Identity in Contemporary Hawaiʻi,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 78. 84 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 85 Interview with Carolina Torres Valle by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 12, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 86 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 87 For a critique of the term aloha spirit due to its use by the State of Hawaiʻi and the tourism industry, see Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Defiant Indigeneity: The Politics of Hawaiian Performance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2018), 23–­45. 88 Interview with Victoria Magaña Ledesma. 89 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 90 Interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar. 91 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 92 Interview with Alexis Schultz. 93 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris. 94 Interview with Curtis “November” Morris. 95 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 96 Interview with Luana Rivera Palacio. 97 The African diaspora includes those who migrate from the continental United States, Latin America and the Caribbean, the continent of Africa, and other geographic areas. For more on this, see Akiemi Glenn, the Pōpolo Project, https://​www​ .thepopoloproject​.org. 98 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 99 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 100 The history of the illegal overthrow of Queen Liliʻuokalani and the Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893 and the continued occupation of the Hawaiian Islands by the U.S. military have led to this long-­standing sentiment that Native Hawaiians and locals have toward the military. The pervasive media portrayals and stereotypes of Blacks in the United States and other institutions of white supremacy can also impact how Native Hawaiians and locals view Blackness in Hawaiʻi. See Donald Bogle, Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretive History of Blacks in American Film (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016); bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End Press, 1992); and Nitasha Tamar Sharma, “The Racial Imperative: Rereading Hawaiʻi’s History and Black-­Hawaiian Relations through the Perspective of Black Residents,” in Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi, ed. Camilla Fojas, Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., and Nitasha Tamar Sharma (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2018), 114–­138. 101 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 102 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 103 For more on the Pōpolo Project and Salt Water People events, see http://​www​ .thepopoloproject​.org. 104 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 105 The issue of a lack of Spanish language proficiency was something that came across as a common theme for the mixed Latinx interviewees. The reasons for this could be due to the fact that the language was lost over time for those who were born and raised in Hawaiʻi for generations through cultural mixing. Parents could have also decided not to teach their children the language because of the racism the parents experienced for speaking it. This is something that is not unique to Hawaiʻi but also common in the continental United States. See interview with Iokepa Casumbal-­Salazar.

Notes to Pages 209–220  •  299

106 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 107 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 108 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 109 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 110 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 111 Alejandra Alexander, “The Concept of Juega Was Born Out of Nostalgia and a Yearning for Connection,” Juega con Tú Comida. Con Tradición, July 17, 2019, https://​ juegacontucomida​.com/​explore/​2019/​7/​17/​the​-concept​-of​-juega​-was​-born​-out​-of​ -nostalgia​-and​-a​-yearning​-for​-connection​-to​-my​-ancestors (no longer extant). 112 Rudy Guevarra Jr., field notes, October 5, 2019, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; Hawaiʻi Hispanic Heritage Festival and Events, http://​hispaniceventshawaii​.com. 113 Tako is the Japanese word for “octopus.” Information on Tako Taco Taqueria obtained from Trip Advisor, https://​www​.tripadvisor​.com/​Restaurant​_Review​ -g60588​-d495131​-Reviews​-Tako​_Taco​_Taqueria​-Waimea​_Island​_of​_Hawaii​ _Hawaii​.html#. Acevedos Hawaiiano Cafe has its own website, https://​ acevedoshawaicanocafe​.com. 114 See Jesus Trivino Alarcon, “Bruno Mars Opens Up about the Loss of His Mother,” Latina, January 30, 2017, http://​www​.latina​.com/​entertainment/​celebrity/​bruno​ -mars​-latina​-magazine​-february​-2017​-cover. Native Hawaiian music artist Hāwane Rios has also commented on her Puerto Rican ancestry on Instagram. See also the Hāwane Rios website, http://​www​.hawanerios​.com. 115 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 116 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 117 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 118 Raggamuffin music is a subgenre of dancehall and reggae. See Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 119 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 120 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 121 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 122 Zoom interview with Marilia “Lia” Ledezma. 123 Interview with Alejandra Alexander. 124 Interview with Kurt De La Cruz. 125 Interview with Angela Dean.

Epilogue

1 Email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma, February 10, 2022. 2 Email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma. 3 To learn more about Misma Lani Farm, visit https://​www​.mismalani​.com. 4 Email correspondence with Victoria Magaña Ledesma. 5 See Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture, Class, and Gender on an Anglo-­

Hispanic Frontier in the American Southwest, 1880–­1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 201; Camilla Fojas, Border Optics: Surveillance Cultures on the US-­Mexico Frontier (New York: New York University Press, 2021), 11–­12; Robert Courtney Smith, Mexican New York: Transnational Lives of New Immigrants (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); and Carmen Teresa Whalen and Víctor Vázquez-­Hernández, eds., The Puerto Rican Diaspora: Historical Perspectives (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2005). 6 Kyle Ko Francisco Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano de Hawaiʻi: Comunidades en Formación / The Mexican People of Hawaiʻi: Communities in Formation” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1997), 158–­159.

300  •  Notes to Pages 221–226

7 Interview with kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui by Rudy Guevarra Jr., April 29, 2009, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 8 Interview with kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui. 9 Steve Roby, “Paniolo Play Honors Hawaiian Cowboy Legacy with Songs and Stories,” Big Island Music, August 31, 2019, https://​bigislandmusic​.net/​paniolo​-play​-honors​ -hawaiian​-cowboy​-legacy​-with​-songs​-and​-stories/ (no longer extant). 10 Moses Goods, “About,” accessed February 3, 2020, http://​www​.actormosesgoods​ .com/​about/. 11 Lantana Hoke, “My Name Is Ōpūkahaʻia: Actor and Playwright Moses Goods Tells the Story of the First Hawaiian Christian, a Figure Both Hailed and Decried for Bringing Christianity to Hawaiʻi,” MauiTime, March 13, 2019, https://​mauitime​ .com/​entertainment/​stage/​my​-name​-is​-ʻopukahaʻia​-actor​-and​-playwright​-moses​ -goods​-tells​-the​-story​-of​-the​-first​-hawaiian​-christian​-a​-figure​-both​-hailed​-and​ -decried​-for​-bringing​-christianity​-to​-hawaii/. 12 Roby, “Paniolo Play.” 13 Roby. 14 I intentionally did not list his other intersecting identities, since he did not specify, and I did not want to assume how he identified outside of his Mexican ancestry. Guevarra, field notes, June 18, 2019, Waimanalo, Hawaiʻi. 15 Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 42; interview with Israel Gonzales by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 7, 2011, Hilo, Hawaiʻi. 16 Guevarra, field notes, July 4, 2019, Kapaʻa, Hawaiʻi. 17 Other Mexican-­owned restaurants in Kapaʻa that I came across or others told me about include Monico’s Taqueria, Paco’s Tacos Cantina, El Rey Del Mar, and Al Pastor. See Guevarra, field notes, July 6, 2019, Kapaʻa, Hawaiʻi. 18 According to José Villa, the Hawaiʻi Hispanic Heritage Festival was first established in 1993 by the Hawaii Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. It started off as a family picnic but grew in popularity, so they organized it into a larger festival. See Guevarra, field notes, October 15, 2019, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; interview with José Villa by Rudy Guevarra Jr., July 15, 2013, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; Shinseki, “El Pueblo Mexicano,” 127; and Hawaii Hispanic Heritage 2019 Festival Entertainment, http://​ hispaniceventshawaii​.com/​2019​-entertainment. 19 Interview with Charlie Alejandro by Rudy Guevarra Jr., October 6, 2019, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 20 In my interview with Pilo Escajeda, both he and his son also noted in passing before the interview began that the lowrider culture was present in Hawaiʻi around the early 1980s and was very popular among the locals. In my own experience as someone who was involved with lowrider culture back in San Diego, I remember reading several issues of Lowrider Magazine that featured Hawaiʻi lowrider car clubs on the cover. See interview with Pilo Escajeda, June 7, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi; and Guevarra, field notes, June 7, 2014, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi. 21 Interview with Charlie Alejandro.

Selected Bibliography Primary Sources ARCHIVE COLLECTIONS Bancroft Library Microfilm Collection Documentos para la historia de California, 1769–­1850 (microfilm)

Bishop Museum, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi Kimo Alama Keaulana Mele Collection Photograph Collection Center for Puerto Rican Studies Archives, Hunter College, City University of New York (CUNY) Blase Camacho Souza Papers Diocesan Archives Diocese of Monterey in California, Baptism Records Hawaiʻi State Archives, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi Biographical Files Bruce Cartwright Jr. Papers Foreign Office and Executive Files Interior Department Land Records Privy Council Records William Webster Papers Kauaʻi Historical Society, Lihue, Hawaiʻi Subject Files Maui Historical Society, Hale Hōʻikeʻike at the Bailey House Inez Ashdown Papers Wailuku Sugar Company Labor Contracts

301

302  •  Selected Bibliography

Paniolo Preservation Society, Kamuela, Hawaiʻi Photograph Collection Personal and Family Archives Herman Baca Collection Gladys Baisa and Gaxiola Family Collection Angela Dean Collection Tony Dias Collection San Diego Historical Society, San Diego, Calif. Subject Files State of Hawaiʻi Department of Labor and Industrial Relations Latino Labor Employment Statistics University of Hawaiʻi at Hilo, Mookini Library Haʻilono Mele Collection Hawaiian Collection Hawaiian Newspaper Collection (microfilm) Nupepa (http://​www​.nupepa​.org) Ulukau (http://​www​.ulukau​.org) University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Hamilton Library Center for Oral History Collection Ethnic Studies Oral History Project Collection Hawaiian and Pacific Collection Hispanic Newspaper Collection

Periodicals American West Angulos Hispanos ʻAoʻao Umikumakolu The Daily Picayune El Mundo (Puerto Rico) The Examiner (San Francisco) The Friend Haʻilono Mele Hana Hou! Hawaiian Gazette Hawaiian Star Hawaii Filipino Chronicle Hawaii Hispanic News Hawaiʻi Magazine Hawaii News Now Hawaiʻi Public Radio News Hawaiʻi Tribune Herald Hola Hawaii The Honolulu Advertiser Honolulu Civil Beat Honolulu Republican

Selected Bibliography  •  303

Honolulu Star-­Bulletin The Huffington Post Kuokua Home Rula La Correspondencia de Puerto Rico La Prensa San Diego Latina Lista The Los Angeles Times Mahogany/Latin Hawaii Maui Magazine The Maui News The Maui Wrap Midweek Musical Buzz The Nation National Council of La Raza (NCLR) Newsletter National Geographic New York Times Pacific Business News Pacific Commercial Advertiser Paka Paniolo Paradise of the Pacific The Polynesian Que Pasa Hawaii Sandwich Island Gazette The San Francisco Call Star Advertiser Sunday Advertiser (Hawaii) The Washington Post West Hawaiʻi Today

Published Primary Sources American Community Survey (ACS) Reports Department of Agriculture, State of Hawaiʻi Farm Labor Statistic Reports Immigration Reports Labor and Congressional Reports U.S. Census Bureau

Index 402 Migrant Assistance Farm Worker Program, 103 Adams, Governor Kuakini: and Joaquin Armas, 41–­42; cattle industry, 33, 43, 256n132 Adams, Romanzo, 88–­89, 187 “Adios Ke Aloha,” 55–­57 Aikau, Hōkūlani, 24 African American, 90, 163; diaspora, 15, 187, 206–­208, 211, 214, 245n119, 298n97; Puerto Ricans, 88–­90 African American Chamber of Commerce, 90 Afro-­Latina, 196, 209; queer, 207 Afro-­Latin Dance Festival, 96 Afro-­Latino, 215 Afro-­Latinx, 20, 185, 200, 206–­207, 245n119 Afro-­Mexicana, 196, 209 Afro–­Puerto Rican, 88–­89; music, 93; José Villa, 89–­90 ʻāina (land), 31, 60, 186, 198, 202, 220, 223; “that which feeds and sustains us,” 21, 87, 184, 249n37. See also Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli Alexander, Alejandra, 195–­196 aliʻi, 11, 32–­33, 35–­36, 48, 186, 240n41 Alma Latina, 95, 127 aloha: acceptance, 5, 18, 136, 140, 175, 177–­178; “Adios Ke Aloha” by Prince Leiliohoku, 55–­57; definition, 3, 87; festival, 60; forgiveness, 119; kanaka, 17; love,

176, 181, 190; shirt, 114; spirit, 16–­18, 198, 202–­203, 298n87; support, 4, 121–­122, 137, 139, 166; tourism, 19; vaquero, 38, 63–­64. See also discourse of aloha Aloha Star Coffee Farms, 150 Alta California, México: horses, 249n30; Indigenous, 30, 35, 245n105; mestizos, 248n28; ranching, 31; vaquero, 29, 34–­36, 38–­39, 48, 64. See also Armas, Joaquin; Castro, Miguel; mestizaje Amigos de Maui, Los, 114 Ana, Keoni, 45 Andrade, Willy, 60 Angulos Cup, 124. See also soccer Angulos Hispanos, 106, 126–­127 annexation, 22, 24, 69, 105 Anzaldúa, Gloria, 11, 13 Aotearoa, 11, 14, 184. See also New Zealand Apana, Maui mayor James “Kimo,” 123 Aparicio, Frances, 13–­14 Arizona SB 1070, 132, 160, 168–­169 Armas, Felipe, 47 Armas, Joaquin, 28, 38–­39, 49, 51, 253n91, 254n108, 256n127; Governor Adams, 41; death, 47; dispute with Kekāuluohi, 43; King Kamehameha III, 34, 39–­41, 43, 45–­46, 48, 255n115; Keoni Ana, 45; konohiki, 42; marriage, 47; Maui, 46, 254n111; naturalization of, 44 arrivant, 22–­25 Arvin, Maile, 20 Arvizu, Pastor Susana, 168 305

306  •  Index

Australia, 11, 14, 102, 141, 184, 282n11 Ayala, Edgar, 189 Baca, Herman, 138, 164–­165, 288n121 Baesa, Ramón, 49–­50, 248n20, 256n132, 256n138 Bain, Rev. Milton “Stan,” 168–­169, 173, 290n142. See also Faith Action for Community Equity (FACE); Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE); Lahaina, Maui Baisa, Gladys, 107, 122, 128, 136; Latinx workers, 108–­109, 112–­115, 117, 119, 129, 275n55 Baja California, 50, 177, 211, 253n84, 257n143 Baldoz, Rick, 187–­188 Baldwin family, 105 Balkaran, Stephen, 174 bango number, 74–­75 Batalova, Jeanne, 143, 157, 170 Beckley, Captain George, 51 Beckley, William Malulani Kaleipaihala, 51 Beechert, Edward, 83, 267n94 Bergin, Billy, 29, 36–­37, 49, 62–­64, 223 BIPOC, 185 Black, 59, 88–­90, 188, 208; anti-­Blackness, 89–­90, 185–­186, 190, 206–­207, 294n11; Blackness, 14; cowboys, 248n16, 248n25; diasporic communities, 20, 24, 293n8; interracial solidarity, 164, 207; multiraciality, 184–­185, 189–­190, 200, 202, 208–­209, 215, 222; and queer, 207; racial stereotypes, 158, 298n100. See also African American Blackwell, Maylei, 24 Boj Lopez, Floridalma, 24 Boki, Governor of Oʻahu, 141–­142, 282n15 Boricua Hawaiiana, 66–­67, 86–­87, 91–­92, 97, 99–­100, 261n9, 270n131. See also Puerto Ricans Borinki, 66, 87–­88, 94, 261n9, 270n131. See also Hawaiʻi Pidgin English Bowlin, Richard H., 47–­48 British Commission, 39 bullock, 32, 40–­41; hunters, 33, 35–­39; and vaquero, 251n58, 252n76 Byrd, Jodi, 22 Calamaco, Gloria, 145, 178 Caldwell, Beth C., 158 California Indians, 30, 186; and Mexicans, 28–­29, 35, 39, 64, 245n105, 246n11, 257n140; vaquero, 247n14, 253n85

California missions, 30, 39, 48, 246n11 Californio, 16, 22, 47, 247n14, 295n26; Dons, 248n28 Camacho Souza, Blase: background, 66–­67; Boricua Hawaiiana, 75, 92, 261n9; Pidgin English, 87, 96; population data, 71–­72, 83, 191, 262n16, 272n179, 296n39; women’s work, 78. See also Hurricane San Ciriaco; Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi (PRHSH) Cancino, Rainoldo, 146, 151, 284n59 cane loader, 78 Caravalho, Juan Jose, 66; as father, 76 Caribbean: borderlands, 12; colonial history, 13, 22, 24, 69; labor migration from, 70, 106, 210; Latinidad, 13, 204, 211, 220, 225, 238; map of, xviii; mestizaje, 14; population data, 9; Spanish-­speaking, xii–­xiii, 69, 127, 210, 293n5 Carr, Norma, 74, 85 Castanha, Tony: Borikén, 261n4; Borinki, 261n9 Castellanos, Jose, 115–­116, 125 Castro, Miguel, 50–­51, 57. See also vaquero Casumbal-­Salazar, Iokepa, 23, 186–­187, 194, 199 Catholic and Catholicism, 48, 51, 85, 125, 260n218, 290; church, 127, 133; Edict of Toleration in 1839, 43 cattle: beef products, 15–­16, 32–­33, 42–­43, 251n56; hides, 15–­16, 32–­33, 36, 38, 40–­43; introduction of, 30; jerk beef, 38, 53; ranching, 5, 27, 34–­35, 39, 42, 48–­52, 64, 222–­223; tallow trade, 15, 32, 33, 35, 41; wild, 31–­33, 35, 38, 41, 53, 58, 251. See also paniolo; vaquero centennial celebration, 85 Central Americans: employment opportunities, 128, 133, 147, 181; interracial tensions, 5, 22, 116–­117, 119–­120; pineapple industry, 101, 103–­104, 115–­116, 129, 135; political representation, 100, 279n139; population data, 9; recruitment efforts, 106–­107, 109; worker solidarity, 122, 136; xenophobia, 157, 175, 288n110. See also Ayala, Edgar; Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO); Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc. (Maui Pine) Centro Del Progreso, 102 Chamorro, ix Chang, David A., 16

Index  •  307

Chang, Sharon, 186 Chavez, Leo, 133, 158 Cheng, Wendy, 14 Chicanx, ix, xiv, 158, 192, 226, 296n46; and Chicana/o, xiv, 112 Chinese, 143, 162, 188; Joaquin Armas, 46, 255n115; “chino,” 201, 297n77; labor competition, 82, 106, 119, 186, 263n34; multiraciality, 59, 92, 189, 204, 220 Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, 70, 143 Christ the King Church, 125 church services, 85 Cocoa Collective, 207 coffee industry: Kona, 3, 139, 142–­145, 152–­156, 231, 284n53; Latinx farmworkers, 141–­142, 148. See also Cancino, Rainoldo; Dias, Tony; Magaña Ortiz, Andres; Rodriguez, Armando and Karina Colón, Panama, 212 colorism, 88, 186, 191, 206, 216. See also Camacho Souza, Blase Commercial Mexicana market, 126 Committee on Chicano Rights, 164 Comunidad Latina de Hawaiʻi, 139, 281n1 confianza, xii, 77, 231 consulate, 171; Honduran consulate, 170; Mexican consulate, 127, 129–­130, 170, 279n139; mobile services, 170 Cook, James, 15, 31 Correspondencia de Puerto Rico, La, 74, 80 cowboy, American, 28–­29, 54, 58, 64, 247n15, 248n16 criminalization (for both Mexicans and Puerto Ricans), 120 critical Latinx Indigeneities, 24 Cruz, Ray, Jr., 94, 96, 272n165 Cuatez, Raul, 125 Dana, Richard Henry, Jr., 16 Das Gupta, Monisha, 143, 157, 170 Dean, Angela, 138, 147, 169–­170, 173, 195, 291n168 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, 167, 174, 291n172 De La Cruz, Kurt, 88, 193 Del Monte, 104–­105, 107, 110 Department of Homeland Security, 2, 169 deportation, 2, 131; community response, 132; DUI and, 3; ICE, 133, 166–­167, 173–­174; racism against Latinxs, 4, 157; regimes, 166, 289n131. See also Fojas, Camilla;

Magaña Ortiz, Andres; Obama, President Barack; undocumented migrants Deutsch, Sarah, 220 Dias, Tony, 94–­95, 98, 148; Dias Produce, 153 diasporic conversations, 55, 96, 213–­214. See also Steptoe, Tyina Diaz, Cheka, 191, 196, 201 Diaz, Vicente, 240n45 dignidad, 77 DiLorenzo, Rev. Francis X. (bishop of Honolulu), 133 discourse of aloha, 18, 243n84 Dole, James, 105 Dole Food Co., 104, 110, 135 domestic servants, 78 Drayton, Juan, 80 Dreby, Joanna, 167–­168 economic recession of 2007–­2009, 157, 166, 181 Elbert, Samuel H., 56 Emma, Queen, 186 Encinas, Maria Olivido, 117 Esquer, Rudy, 112–­113, 116–­118 ethnicity, 17, 171; differences from race, 19, 86; identifying as, 215; reading people’s, 189 Eva and Her Rumba Queens, 95 Evans, Faith, 85 Examiner, The, 70, 73, 264n50 Faith Action for Community Equity (FACE), 168–­169, 173–­174, 290n142 Familia Unida, La, 114 farmers: coffee, 139, 143, 146–­147, 149, 152–­155; jíbaros, 88; Andres Magaña Ortiz, 1; market, 210 farmworkers: activism, 139–­140, 156; coffee, 141, 146–­148; and farm owners, 155; Mexican, x; Puerto Rican, 67; recruitment, 108, 110, 139; unionization, 108. See also Dean, Angela; Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO) Federation of Japanese Labor, 82 Fernández, Lilia, 141 Fiestas Patrias (Mexican Independence Day), 123, 127 Filipina/Filipino/Filipinx: bango numbers, 76–­77; car clubs, 225–­226; coffee farming, 143, 145, 154; HSPA, 81–­82; intermarriage, 191; interracial tensions, 25, 146, 287n110; macadamia nut farming, 148;

308  •  Index

Filipina/Filipino/Filipinx (continued ) Manila-­Acapulco galleon trade, 12; multiraciality, 87–­88, 90, 97–­98, 139, 171, 186, 189; Oceania, 235n2; paniolo history, 59; pineapple work, 106; plantation work, 94; undocumented, 130–­131; xenophobia, 119, 174. See also intracolonials; Saranillio, Dean Filipino Labor Union (FLU), 82 Fischer, John Ryan, 30, 32, 256n138 Florence, 50, 257n143 Fojas, Camilla, 159 Foraker Act in 1900, 81 Ford, Elyssa, 59 foreigners: cattle ranching, 33, 40, 49, 251n63; haole, 243n77; Hawaiian sovereignty, 240n41, 273n13; introduction of crops, 104; multiraciality, 11, 186–­188; naturalization, 294n18; pineapple work, 104; trade, 250n50; xenophobia against, 119, 181, 270n139, 276n86. See also Great Māhale of 1848; settler colonialism Four Women Radicals, 207 frontera, la, 5, 11–­13 Frost, Locky, 39 Frost, Rossie, 39 Fujikane, Candace, 21–­24, 69. See also settler plantation economy Galaz, Rafael, 110, 121 García, Magdalena, 144 Garcia, Rafael, 120 Garcia, Rose, 83, 268n108 García-­Colón, Ismael, 141 Garza, Ángel Cancino, 145 Gaspar, John, 142 Gaxiola, César Flores, 102, 277n90, 277n103, 279n128. See also Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO) Glenn, Akiemi, 17, 19–­20, 206, 208, 298n97 Golash-­Boza, Tanya Maria, 171 Gomez, Lorena, 126 Gonzales, Alfonso, 159 Gonzales, Israel, 178 Gonzalez, Jesús, 62, 64 Goodrich, Joseph in Hilo, 142 Goods, Moses, 222–­223 Goto, Baron, 142–­143, 282n13 Grant, Glen, 17 Great Māhale of 1848, 256n127 Greenwell, Henry Nicholas, 143

Greenwell, Sherwood, 53 Greenwell Farms, 145, 147, 153, 155 Guánica (Puerto Rico), 66, 73; monument, 65 guest, 22–­23, 25, 35, 38; aloha, 203; Joaquin Armas, 46, 48; learning about Native Hawaiian culture, 196, 205; Mexican vaquero, 57, 64; naturalization, 294n18 guitar: adaptations, 57; Mexican vaquero, 54–­56, 222; Puerto Ricans, 93. See also slack key H2-­A visa program, 143 Haglund, Sue Patricia, 143, 157, 170 Haiku Fruit & Packing Company, 105, 202 hala kahiki, 104 Hall, Lisa Kahaleole, 18 Hämäläinen, Pekka, 12 haole settlers, 105, 140, 175, 243n77, 273n13 Hartz, Claudia, 155, 173, 230, 291n168 Hauʻofa, Epeli, 10–­11, 240n45 Hawaiʻi Agricultural Labor Solutions, 139, 147 Hawaiianized, 15, 64; guitar, 57; Mexicans, 36, 38, 52, 54 Hawaiian Kingdom: allegiance to, 240n41, 252n78; cattle ranches, 11, 28; coffee industry, 142; economy, 217; interracial mixing, 186–­188; Latinx history, 5, 10, 20–­23, 36, 67, 69; overthrow, 17, 67, 119, 142, 265n57, 282n18, 298n100; paniolo, 222; pineapple industry, 104; trading network, 15–­16, 247n13; white settlers, 273n13, 294n18. See also Armas, Joaquin; Beckley, Captain George; intracolonials; Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli; vaquero Hawaiian Pineapple Company. See Dole Food Co. Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association (HSPA), 75, 264n50; Big Five, 70, 105, 263n33; divisive tactics, 71, 75, 80–­85, 267n94; issues with workers, 75, 80, 85, 265n57; recruiting efforts, 70–­71. See also bango number Hawaii Filipino Chronicle, 163, 287n101, 287n110 Hawaiʻi Heritage Center, 85 Hawaii Hispanic Center (El Centro Hispano de Hawaii), 126 Hawaiʻi Hispanic News, 7, 126–­127, 162, 164–­165, 287n101

Index  •  309

Hawaiʻi Human Development Agency, 128; Andy Aguillon, 128 Hawaiʻi Pidgin English, ix, 96; Borinkee, 66, 87–­88, 261n9; Kanaka Maoli, 269n127; language acquisition for Latinxs, 97, 100, 183; local, 184, 195, 197–­198, 287n108; ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, 87; paniolo, 59; pateles, 271n151 Hawaiʻi Supreme Court, 84 Heuer, Kapua, 59 Hidalgo, Rolando, 144 Hinojosa, Felipe, 133 Hirono, Senator Maize, 2 Hispanic: census category, 294n9; community, 155, 226, 287n110; ICE raids, 169; interracial violence, 118; multiraciality, 195, 201; political support, 165; population data, 6–­9, 106; racial stereotypes, 120–­121, 123, 162–­164; undocumented, 130–­131; voting, 174. See also Latino; local Hola Hawaii, 126–­127 Honolulu Advertiser, The: ICE, 173; Latinx migration, 107; racial stereotypes, 120–­121, 159, 163; undocumented workers, 131, 159, 167–­168 Honolulu Star-­Bulletin: Latinx workers, 143; Mexican migration, 106–­107, 109, 115; racial stereotypes, 159, 163; undocumented workers, 131 Hoʻoulu Lāhui, 188 Hospital Place, 42, 46–­47 Hu-­DeHart, Evelyn, 4 Hurricane Iniki, 224 Hurricane San Ciriaco, 69–­71, 78, 99 Igler, David, 10, 12 Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE): harassment, 161–­162; protests against, 167–­169; raids, 157, 166, 171–­172; targeting Latinxs, 173–­175. See also Faith Action for Community Equity (FACE); racial profiling Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), 129, 172–­173, 286n91, 289n130; John O’Shea, 130; protests against, 132; Donald A. Radcliffe, 131. See also Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) immigration raids, 133, 157, 168; unlawful, 134 Indigenous, 39, 176, 184, 188, 204, 235n3, 240n32; kinship, 235n5; Kumeyaay, x,

252n83; Latinxs and, 8, 10, 25, 185, 202; Manila-­Acapulco galleon trade, 12; multiraciality, xiv, 13, 60, 68, 100, 191, 211, 293n5; nation, 24, 35, 51, 64; studies, 20, 23, 186; Taino, 90–­91, 98, 193. See also Casumbal-­Salazar, Iokepa; guest; Hawaiian Kingdom; Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli; Latinidad; Latinx Pacific boarder-­ lands; Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent; Oceania; Pacific Latinidad; settler colonialism; vaquero intermarriage, xi, 68, 86, 104, 135, 187–­188, 191; racism faced, 122 International Longshore and Warehouse Union, 82, 108 intracolonials, 22, 69–­70, 84, 262n22, 267n94 Jacobo Roque, Herlinda, 171. See also Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) Japanese: differential racialization, 70, 77, 81–­82; immigration, 188; kachi-­kachi music, 93; Kona coffee, 1, 142–­143, 282n20; labor recruitment, 70, 106, 263n34; multiraciality, 59; tako, 299n113 jíbaro, 88, 93 Job Training Partnership Act ( JTPA), 107 Jones Act of 1917, 84, 268n110, 268n113 Jung, Moon-­Kie, 82; interracialism, 82 J. Walter Cameron Center in Maui, 103 Kaapana, Ledward, 57, 259n187. See also slack key kachi-­kachi music, 92–­95, 222, 272n175 Kahele, Kuana Torres, 26–­27, 56, 246n6. See also Kaunaloa Kahoʻolawe islands, 91, 193, 237n2, 270n145. See also Vieques Island Kahului, 103, 110, 112, 121, 124, 210. See also Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc. (Maui Pine) Kahumoku, George, Jr., 57, 258n171. See also slack key Kaʻiulani, Princess Victoria, 186 Kalākaua, King David, 16, 188 Kalisi, 212 kamaʻāina, 200, 297n73 Kamehameha I, King (King Kamehameha the Great), 31–­32, 249n34, 294n18 Kamehameha II, King (Liholiho): Boki, 142; death, 282n15

310  •  Index

Kamehameha III, King (Kauikeaouli): kapu, 250n45; Kuhina Nui, 254n104; Land Commission, 255n116; in power, 32, 250n44; vaquero, 16, 23, 27–­28, 33–­36, 38, 251n58, 253n94. See also Armas, Joaquin; Beckley, Captain George; Catholic and Catholicism: Edict of Toleration in 1839 Kamehameha IV, King (Alexander Liholiho), 51 Kanahele, George, 55–­58. See also slack key Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli: ʻāina, 31, 184; cattle ranching, 33, 35; definition, xiii, 239n30; discourse of aloha, 18–­19; dispossession, 4, 8, 13, 169, 188; Latinxs and, 21–­24, 28, 59; paniolo, 29, 59; social movement, 169, 188, 194, 222, 238n20. See also Hawaiʻi Pidgin English; settler colonialism Kanaka ʻŌiwi, xiii, 220 Kanakas, 16, 41, 91, 142 Kapiʻolani, Queen, 16 ka poʻina nalu, 11, 199 Kāʻu, 90, 193; coffee industry, 141, 149, 153, 156 Kauaʻi: author’s data collection, 223–­224; cattle industry, 32; coffee industry, 141; discrimination, 206; Mexicans, 224–­225; plantation work, 79, 140, 224; Puerto Ricans, 75, 84–­85, 92; rodeo, 60, 63; vaquero, 29, 49–­50. See also Castro, Miguel; Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE); kachi-­kachi music Kauai Puerto Rican Social Club, 84 Kaunaloa, 26–­27. See also Kahele, Kuana Torres Keakealani, Robert Kamuela “Sonny,” Jr., 59 Keaulana, Jerald “Kimo” Alama, 60 keiki, 149 Kekāuluohi, 42–­43, 254n102, 254n104. See also Kuhina Nui Kilauea Sugar Plantation, 77 Kinro, Gerald, 142–­143, 156 Know Your Rights campaign, 173, 281n1, 291n168 Koa Coffee Plantation, 148 Kohala, 41, 66, 261n6 Kohala Puerto Rican Social Club on Hawaiʻi, 84–­85 Komarnisky, Sara V., 5 Kona coffee, 3, 5, 16, 140, 144, 281n4; Kona Typica, 143; Latinx farmers, 152–­154; Latinx labor, 101, 136, 139, 144, 155–­156,

181; U.S. Department of Labor (DOL), 279n128. See also Dean, Angela; Dias, Tony; Ortiz, Arturo Ballar Kona Coffee Cultural Festival, 144 Kona Coffee Farmers Association (KCFA), 152, 284n63 konohiki, 42, 46, 48, 51. See also Armas, Joaquin koppe, 142–­143. See also coffee industry Koreans, 106, 188, 263n34; labor competition, 79–­80, 82; multiraciality, 183–­184, 189–­190, 195; undocumented, 130 Kubota, Gary, 131 Kuhina Nui, 42, 254n104. See also Kekāuluohi kuleana, 24, 198, 203, 222 Kumeyaay, x, 235n3, 252n83 Kumu Hula, 27, 193; Kumu Hula Jerald “Kimo” Alama Keaulana, 60. See also Lake, Kumu John Kealoamakaʻāinana kupuna (plural: kūpuna), 27, 87, 198 kuʻualoha hoʻomanawanui, 220, 222 Kuuyam, 23 Lahaina, Maui: Joaquin Armas, 42–­43, 45–­47, 254n11; churches, 125; “Hālona” by J. Elia, 56; Latinx community response to INS, 132–­134, 168; Mexicans, 110, 120, 126; Puerto Ricans, 73, 89 Lake, Kumu John Kealoamakaʻāinana, 26, 28, 246n1, 247n15 Lanaʻi: Del Monte, 110; James Dole, 105; paniolo, 54, 59; ranches, 249n40. See also Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO) Latina: descent, 15; identity, 139, 167, 212, 238n21; multiraciality, 201, 214. See also Afro-­Latina Latin-­African, 212 Latina Lista, 175 Latin American, 189, 210, 238n21; colorism and racism, 216; consulates in Hawaiʻi, 170; ICE raids, 171; immigration worker programs, 134; Kona coffee farmworkers, 144, 152; music and cultural production, 211, 220, 225; themed restaurants and markets, 156; undocumented immigrants in Hawaiʻi, 171. See also Mercado De La Raza Latin American Market Latinidad: Intralatina/os, 13–­14. See also Aparicio, Frances

Index  •  311

Latino: community, 124, 162, 208–­209; farmers, 152–­153; farmworkers, 144–­145, 148, 154; identity, 7, 197–­198, 205, 213; immigration raids, 133–­134; migration, 221; Pidgin, 97; racism against, 179. See also Afro-­Latino; Hispanic; Latino Threat Narrative; Tam, Rod Latino Threat Narrative, 133, 158. See also Chavez, Leo Latinx: diaspora, 184; labor migration, 4–­6, 12, 21, 101, 136, 161, 238n24, 240n45; migrants, 143, 156, 160, 170, 216, 227, 245n119; population, 4–­8, 20, 25, 116, 126–­127, 157, 162, 174; settlers, 22 Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands, 13, 64, 68–­69, 104, 135, 181, 216–­217; Helekunihi Walker, 11, 240n39 Ledesma, Victoria Magaña, 7, 148, 198, 219, 221 Ledezma, Marilia “Lia Live,” 191, 211, 213 Ledward, Brandon C., 186, 188, 199 Lee, Erika, 119, 130 Lee, Shelley Sang-­Hang, 187–­188 Legal Aid Society of Hawaiʻi, 155 Leliōhoku, Prince, 55–­57 Leong, Karen, 21 Liliʻuokalani, Queen, 18, 55–­56, 67, 105, 265n57, 294n18, 298n100 Lim, Sonny, 57 local: culture, 86, 97, 198, 236n2, 238n20, 293n4; identity, 17, 68, 269n126, 269n127, 292n1, 296n37; Puerto Ricans, 65–­66, 74, 85–­87, 94–­98, 191, 261n9. See also Hawaiʻi Pidgin English; Okamura, Jonathan Y. localized: food, 210; interracial relationships, 197, 203; Latinxs, 15, 184, 195, 208, 214–­216, 293n4; Spanish language, 87 López, Iris: aloha, 87; Borinki, 261n9; Hawaiian population, 7; Puerto Ricans, 68, 70, 81, 85, 91, 95–­96, 191 Lopez, Kenny, 180 Lopez, Mark Hugo, 171, 290n154 Lopez, Maurilio “Don Mario,” 177 Los Amigos de Maui, 114 Los Angeles Times, The, 175 Louzada, 49, 256n132, 256n138, 257n140 Low, Eben, 50, 59 Lowriders, 225–­226, 300n20 Lowriders Pride Car Club, 225–­226 lunas, 79–­80 Lyons, Curtis J., 30, 37

macadamia nut, 5, 16, 137, 141, 150, 281n4; haole settlers, 273n13; Latinx workers, 83, 101, 106, 110, 140, 144, 181. See also Calamaco, Gloria; Cancino, Rainoldo; Dias, Tony; Gaxiola, César Flores; Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO); Rodriguez, Armando and Karina Magaña, Luis, 156, 198, 283n41 Magaña Ortiz, Andres, 1–­4, 7, 147, 219, 237n16; El Molinito. See also deportation; farmers; Ledesma, Victoria Magaña; Obama, President Barack Mahalo, 121, 231 Mahoe, Noelani, 56 malama ʻāina, 205 Marcella, Trinidad, 77, 79 Maria Lanikila Church, 132; Rev. Michael Hill, 132–­133 Marin, Don Francisco de Paula, 141 Marshallese, 92, 148, 195 Massie-­Kahahawai Case of 1931–­1932, 238n20, 292n1 Matos, Yalidy, 158–­159 Matsuda, Matt K., 10, 12 Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO), 108–­109, 274n33, 279n128; Enlace Hispano (Hispanic Network), 103 Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc. (Maui Pine), 103, 105, 115, 135. See also Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO) Maui News, The, 118, 121, 123, 159, 174 Maui Puerto Rican Association, 84 Mauna Kea, 32–­33, 58 McClure, Doug, 108, 135 McDonnell, Fred “Skip,” 108 meles, 27, 56, 64 Mellish, Joseph, 43 Méndez, Javier, 160 Mercado De La Raza Latin American Market, 160–­161, 183 Merrie Monarch Festival, 205 mestizaje, 14, 24, 184, 202, 293n5 mestizos: California Indians, 28–­30, 35, 64, 245n105, 246n11, 253n85; Indigenous descent, 13, 23, 245n119, 247n14, 256n133 Mexican consulate, 127, 129–­130, 170, 279n139 Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent, 16, 245n105; speaking Spanish, 247n14; vaquero, 22–­23, 28–­30, 35, 40, 64, 246n11, 253n85, 256n133. See also Louzada

312  •  Index

México: delegation to Hawaiʻi, 16; Manila-­ Acapulco galleon trade, 12; Michoacán, x, 3, 144–­146, 160, 198, 224; migrant farmworkers, 106–­107, 143–­144, 175; politics, 2, 46; population data, 9; U.S. border, 1, 21; U.S. imperialism, 13, 22; war with U.S., 159. See also Alta California, México; Armas, Joaquin; guitar; Magaña Ortiz, Andres; Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent; Tam, Rod; vaquero MexiRican, 14 Michoacán, México: coffee workers, 144. See also Cancino, Rainoldo; Garza, Ángel Cancino; Ledesma, Victoria Magaña; Magaña, Luis; Méndez, Javier midwives, 78–­79 migra, la, 133, 169 militarization, 91, 159, 193; demilitarization, 91, 270n145; tourism, 15, 20. See also Kahoʻolawe islands; Vieques Island Minn, Reynaldo, 161, 183, 195, 201. See also Mercado De La Raza Latin American Market Miranda, Alfredo, 149 Miranda, Fred and Matilda, 149 Misma Lani Farms, 218, 221. See also Ledesma, Victoria Magaña mixed race: Afro-­Latinx, 206; children, 135, 187–­188; critical mixed race studies, 202; Hawaiʻi, 185–­186, 199, 203, 214–­216; Latinx, 184–­185, 189–­191, 195, 200, 210. See also Casumbal-­Salazar, Iokepa; Dean, Angela; Pacific Latinidad Molina, Natalia, 130–­131 Monterey, California, 31, 38–­39, 48, 54 moʻolelo, 64, 223 Mora, Claudia, 112 Mora, Francisco, 120 Morales, Ed, xiii Morris, Curtis, 192 mutualistas, 84 Nā Hōku Hanohano Awards, 26–­27, 246n2 Na Palapalai, 27 National Council of La Raza, 138, 165, 174; UnidosUS, 291n173. See also Shinseki, Kyle National Farmworker Jobs Program, 128, 279n128 Native Hawaiian: displacement, 107; dispossession, 179, 222; sovereignty, 243n84

Native Interloper, 23. See also Vaughn, Kēhaulani “Nā Vaqueros,” 26–­27 Nayani, Farzani, 186 New York Times, 19, 75, 107, 129, 175 New Zealand, 11, 102, 184. See also Aotearoa Ngai, Mae M., 130 nonbinary, xiv, 196, 238n21 Obama, President Barack: “deportation regime,” 2, 166, 174, 237n6, 289nn131–­132; Tam incident, 165. See also Magaña Ortiz, Andres Oceania: Filipinos, 235n2; Epeli Hauʻofa, 10, 240n45; independent Hawaiian Kingdom, 247n13; Latinx diaspora, x, 12, 14–­15, 64, 184, 217, 220; Latinx Pacific Archive (LPA), 231. See also Latinx Pacific boarder-­lands Oceanic: borderlands, 12, 217; highways, 11–­12, 69; Indigenous routes, 12; Latinx diaspora, xi, 5 Ogawa, Dennis, 17 ʻohana, x, 35, 64, 198, 231 Ohnuma, Keiko, 18 Okamura, Jonathan Y.: local culture, 17, 86, 295n34; ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, xiii; racial stratification, 81–­82, 175; “settler plantation economy,” 21, 24, 69 Okihiro, Gary: guitar, 57; haole settlers, 273n13; pineapple canneries, 105; slack key, 259n187 ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, xiii, xv, 27, 36, 193, 230; aloha, 18; “guest,” 23; network, 127. See also Hawaiʻi Pidgin English Olivieri Sanchez, Manuel, 84 Ortega, Maria, 112 Ortiz, Arturo Ballar, 149; El Cafetal, 151 Ortiz, Nancy, 95, 126 Pacific Business News, 166 Pacific Commercial Advertiser, 38, 71, 73–­74, 264n50, 265n57 Pacific Islanders, 4, 11, 131, 235n2, 263n34; Pacific Islands, 251n56 Pacific Latinidad, 13–­15, 28, 36, 64, 87, 127, 182, 190; beyond Hawaiʻi, 184; Central Americans, 103–­104; Native Hawaiians, 140; next generation, 135, 214–­217, 220, 226; Puerto Ricans, 69, 100; vaquero, 57 Pacific Ocean, x, 10, 138, 165 Pagente, Juanita, 145

Index  •  313

Pahinui, Cyril, 57 Palacio, Luana Rivera, 87–­88, 98, 193, 201 Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo, 60–­61, 260n209 PanaMaui, 214 paniolo: leis, 53–­54, 227, 260n204; saddles, 53–­54, 223, 259n200; uniform, 54. See also vaquero Parker, John Palmer, 33, 35–­36, 250n56, 256n132; Parker Ranch, 3, 58–­60, 223, 250n56, 257n148 Pastele Shop, The, 92 pateles, 271n151 Patiño, Jimmy, 166, 289n131 pāʻū riders, 60, 259n200, 260n204 Pena, Abraham, 121; Casa Aztec shop, 121 Pew Hispanic Center, 157 Pierce, Lori, 18–­19, 243n84 pineapple industry, 105; Latinx workers, 101, 103–­104; women workers, 111. See also Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO); Maui Land & Pineapple Company, Inc. (Maui Pine) plantation: boarders, 78; camps, 81; life, 66, 79; managers, 80, 135, 148; workers, 78, 87–­88, 93 pláticas, xii, 235n5 Poblete, JoAnna, 68–­69, 80, 82. See also intracolonials Polynesian, The, 40, 47, 251n67 Pōpolo Project, 208 Portuguese: ancestry, 59, 92, 107, 139, 189, 192, 201; interracial marriage, 191; lunas, 79; names, 75; plantation work, 94, 106, 143, 188, 263n34; ʻUkeleles, 93; wage labor, 82. See also bango number; Somos Amigos (We Are Friends) Festival Prensa San Diego, La, 163, 287n101 Puerto Rican Heritage Society of Hawaiʻi (PRHSH), 65, 84–­85. See also Camacho Souza, Blase Puerto Rican Independent Association, 84–­85 Puerto Ricans: dance parties, 93; foods, 91–­92; immigrants, 66, 72–­73; migrants, 65, 67, 83, 93, 100, 179, 265n57, 296n37; musical instruments, 93; musical styles, 93, 95–­96; Porto Ricans, 73–­75, 265n58; workers, 68, 77, 81, 84, 262n15, 264n43 Pulido, Laura, 19, 245n115 Purdy, Ikua, 57–­59 Purdy, Jack, 33

Queer, 196, 207 Que Pasa Hawaii, 127 race: racial discrimination, 23, 81, 119, 270n139; racialization, 19, 24, 74, 81, 130–­131, 204, 207; racial mixing, 17, 30, 86, 185–­189; racial stereotype, 3, 19, 121, 207, 277n90 racial harmony discourse, 17–­18 racial profiling: in Arizona, 134, 157, 160; “borderveillance,” 159; ICE, 166, 171, 173, 284n70; Latinxs, 167–­168; Mexicans, 133. See also deportation racism: “illegal aliens,” 158, 172; “wetbacks,” 19, 162, 287n110. See also Tam, Rod Ramos, Paola, xiv, 238n21 relajo, 77 Reséndez, Andrés, 30 respeto, 77 restaurants: employment, 102, 117, 140; INS raids, 131, 134, 167–­168; Latinx, 128, 156, 210; Mexican, 113, 122, 126, 210, 224, 300n17; Puerto Rican, 92, 271n158 Reyes, Gregoria, 176 Rincon, José “Luis,” 62 Rios, Lokelani, 91, 98 riots, 81 Riveira, Confessor, 80 Rocky Mountain HI Coalition, 110 rodeo: clothing, 114; Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo, 60–­61, 260n209; paniolo, 58, 60, 63; roping, 62; women participants, 62 Rodriguez, Armando and Karina, 150–­152, 154; Casa Blanca Farms, 149 Rohrer, Judy, 17 Romero, Martha Sánchez, 160–­161; Mercado De La Raza, 161, 183 Root, Maria P. P., 202 Rosa, John P., 202, 292n1 Rúa, Mérida, 13, 268n110 Ruggles, Samuel, 142, 282n13 Ruiz, Vicki, 112 saddles, 37, 49, 53 Saez, Don Justino Andujar, 70, 263n27 Saldaña-­Portillo, María Josefina, 24 salsa (music), 93–­96, 172, 208–­209, 272n165; bands, 95, 225; dance festival, 127 Salsa in Hawaiʻi Annual Salsa & Bachata Festival, 96 Sāmoan, ix, 91, 189, 200

314  •  Index

Sanchez, Jesus, 130 Sanchez, Manuel Olivieri, 84 San Diego, California: Alejandra Alexander, 196; Joaquin Armas, 39; author’s experiences, x, 224–­225, 300n20; Herman Baca, 164–­165, 288n121; Miguel Castro, 50; cultural festivals, ix, x; and Hawaiʻi, 16, 108, 296n40; Ramon Soto, 110 Sandwich Island Gazette, 49 Santana, John, 77 Santiago, Alfredo, 75, 77, 79, 88, 266n77 Santurce, Puerto Rico, 90 Saranillio, Dean, 25, 262n21 scabs. See strikebreakers Schultz, Alexis, 198 Secure Communities, 167, 171, 289n132 Sepulveda, Charles, 23 Sequeira, Leo, 124, 131 settler colonialism, 4, 8, 17, 21–­24, 169, 205; blood quantum, 295n29; diaspora, 13; dispossession of land and rights, 107, 140, 180, 221; locals, 21, 196, 238n20; mixed race identity, 188, 190; transplants, 159, 176, 181; vaqueros, 32, 46. See also Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli settler plantation economy, 69, 104, 175, 273n13 settlers of color, 20–­21, 23. See also Trask, Haunani-­Kay settler transplants, 119, 140, 175 Sharma, Nitasha, 20, 24, 206, 229, 238n24 Shinseki, Kyle: Joaquin Armas, 42, 46; Miguel Castro, 51; National Council of La Raza, 165, 174, 291n173; reporting on xenophobia, 132, 159–­160; writing about Mexicans, 106, 138, 220 Sifuentez, Mario, 141 Simpson, Alex, 39, 42, 254n102 Simpson-­Rodino Act, 134 slack key, 55, 57, 258n171, 259n187. See also guitar; Kahumoku, George, Jr. Smith, Cecilia, 284n63 soccer, 113, 124–­125; Angulos Cup, 124; Latinos Amigos team, 120, 125 social organizations, 84–­85 Sociedad Civica Puertorriquena de Hawaii, La (The Puerto Rican Civic Club), 84 Solís, Ted, 93 Somos Amigos (We Are Friends) Festival, 103, 122–­124 Soria, Candy Mendoz, 172

Soto, Ramon, 110 sovereignty, 243n84, 247n13, 252n78, 256n127; movement, 221, 238n20; overthrow, 273n13. See also Kanaka Maoli and Kānaka Maoli Spanish Caribbean, 12–­13, 22 Spickard, Paul, 185, 188 sports, recreational, 85, 113, 115, 124–­125 Sproats, Clyde “Kindy,” 27, 29, 57, 248n20 Steptoe, Tyina, 55, 96 strikebreakers, 82 St. Theresa Roman Catholic Church, 125 Suárez Findlay, Eileen J., 67–­68 sugar industry, 21, 67, 69, 105; “Big Five,” 70, 105, 263n33. See also Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association (HSPA) syndicata, 116 Takaki, Ronald, 79, 82 talanoa, xii, 235n5. See also talk story talk story, xii, 146, 167, 180, 220, 224, 226, 231, 235n5. See also talanoa Tam, Rod, 162–­164, 289n129; censure, 165, 288n124; racial slur, 19, 165; Tam incident, 166 tamales, 92, 209–­210, 271n152 Tanji, Edwin, 121 Teves, Stephanie Nohelani, 18 Tokunaga, Lori, 102, 115 Tomoso, John, 125 Tongan, 130–­131 Torres Valle, Carolina, 167, 202 tourism, 19–­20, 102–­103, 143, 179, 206–­207, 221, 224–­225, 227 tourist industry, 4, 16, 18, 20, 106–­107, 128, 175, 202; tourist-­military-­industrial complex, 17 Trask, Haunani-­Kay, 21, 238n20 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848), 39, 252n80 Trimillos, Ricardo D., 55 Troutman, John W., 54 Truett, Samuel, 12 unauthorized immigrants, 157 undocumented migrants, 4, 134, 144, 148, 218, 279n136, 290n154; church assistance, 125; employers of, 155; Filipino, 287n110; INS and deportation, 131, 167–­168, 171–­173, 182; job competition, 166; Latino Threat Narrative, 157–­158, 161–­162, 169;

Index  •  315

Mexicans, 132–­133, 157; race and, 131; visas, 129–­130, 170. See also deportation; Maui Economic Opportunity, Inc. (MEO) United Puerto Rican Association of Hawaiʻi (UPRAH); Raymond Pagan, 91, 95 Urrieta, Luis, Jr., 24 University of Hawaiʻi: Camacho Souza, 66 U.S.-­Mexican War (1846–­1848), 39, 158 vagrancy, 80, 267n94 Valdés, Dionicio Nodín, 82, 141 Vancouver, George, 31, 249n34 vaquero: citizenship, 35–­36; Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent, 28–­30, 32, 35, 40, 64, 245n105, 246n11, 247n14; roping, 53, 58–­59, 62, 223. See also Armas, Joaquin; Mexican mestizos of Indigenous descent; paniolo Vaughn, Kēhaulani, 13, 23, 30, 240n41, 295n29 Velasquez, Ariel, 181, 195 Vera Cruz, México, 39, 51, 55 Vieques Island, 91, 193, 270n145. See also Kahoʻolawe islands Villa, José, 89–­90, 92, 126–­127, 162–­163 Villa, Marie, 138, 162–­163, 165 Voz Hispana, La (The Hispanic Voice), 120, 123, 277n103 wage labor, 73, 108–­109, 146; according to race, 81–­82; exploitation by employers, 130, 155; incentives, 144 Waialua Sugar Company, 77, 88 Waihee Plantation (Maui), 79 Wailuku, Maui: churches, 125; Louzada, 49; migrant workers, 110, 115, 117, 131; Somos

Amigos Festival, 122; Wailuku Agribusiness, 102, 108, 129 Waimea: Governor Adams, 33; Joaquin Armas, 40–­43; Ramón Baesa, 49; bullock hunters, 37–­38; Miguel Castro, 50; cattle herding, 32, 49, 51; climate, 31; INS raids, 132; John Kauwe, 53; Louzada, 49; William Malulani, 51; Ikua Purdy, 58; vaquero, 56, 62 Walker, Isaiah Helekunihi, 11, 239n30, 240n39 West Hawaiʻi Community Health Center (WHCHC), 138–­139 Whalen, Carmen Teresa, 68 white: American cowboy, 28, 58, 248n16; Americans, 20, 39, 58–­59, 157, 161, 175, 190, 198–­199; bullock hunters, 33; disease, 32, 70, 263n34; educators, 87; Europeans, 188; phenotype, 89, 215, 270n139; Puerto Ricans and race, 89; women workers, 112. See also haole settlers; settler colonialism whiteness, 14, 20, 187–­188 white supremacy: racial ideologies, 19, 23, 58–­59, 140, 159, 164–­165; structures of, 4, 13, 17, 20, 119, 175, 188, 298n100 Widemann, Hermann A., 142 Wilkinson, John, 141–­143 xenophobia, 132–­134, 137, 185, 190; migration and, 204; racism, 20, 119, 130; Tam incident, 162, 165–­166 Yambo de Caraballo, Celestina, 72

About the Author is an associate professor of Asian Pacific American studies in the School of Social Transformation at Arizona State University. He is the author of Becoming Mexipino: Multiethnic Identities and Communities in San Diego and coeditor of Beyond Ethnicity: New Politics of Race in Hawaiʻi. RUDY P. GUEVARRA  JR.

Available titles in the Latinidad: Transnational Cultures in the United States series María Acosta Cruz, Dream Nation: Puerto Rican Culture and the Fictions of Independence Rodolfo F. Acuña, The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe José M. Alamillo, Deportes: The Making of a Sporting Mexican Diaspora Mike Anastario, Parcels: Memories of Salvadoran Migration Xóchitl Bada, Mexican Hometown Associations in Chicagoacán: From Local to Transnational Civic Engagement Maritza E. Cárdenas, Constituting Central American–­Americans: Transnational Identities and the Politics of Dislocation Adriana Cruz-­Manjarrez, Zapotecs on the Move: Cultural, Social, and Political Processes in Transnational Perspective T. Jackie Cuevas, Post-­Borderlandia: Chicana Literature and Gender Variant Critique Marivel T. Danielson, Homecoming Queers: Desire and Difference in Chicana Latina Cultural Production Allison E. Fagan, From the Edge: Chicana/o Border Literature and the Politics of Print Jerry González, In Search of the Mexican Beverly Hills: Latino Suburbanization in Postwar Los Angeles Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., Aloha Compadre: Latinxs in Hawaiʻi Rudy P. Guevarra Jr., Becoming Mexipino: Multiethnic Identities and Communities in San Diego Colin Gunckel, Mexico on Main Street: Transnational Film Culture in Los Angeles before World War II Romeo Guzmán, Carribean Fragoza, Alex Sayf Cummings, and Ryan Reft, eds., East of East: The Making of Greater El Monte Marie-­Theresa Hernández, The Virgin of Guadalupe and the Conversos: Uncovering Hidden Influences from Spain to Mexico Anita Huizar-­Hernández, Forging Arizona: A History of the Peralta Land Grant and Racial Identity in the West Lisa Jarvinen, The Rise of Spanish-­Language Filmmaking: Out from Hollywood’s Shadow, 1929–­1939 Ingrid Kummels, Indigeneity in Real Time: The Digital Making of Oaxacalifornia Diana Leon-­Boys, Elena, Princesa of the Periphery: Disney’s Flexible Latina Girl Regina M. Marchi, Day of the Dead in the USA: The Migration and Transformation of a Cultural Phenomenon, 2nd ed. Desirée A. Martín, Borderlands Saints: Secular Sanctity in Chicano/a and Mexican Culture Isabel Martinez, Becoming Transnational Youth Workers: Independent Mexican Teenage Migrants and Pathways of Survival and Social Mobility

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