When Out MacArthur Grant Winner Patrick Makuakāne Moved to San Francisco, He Brought Hula With Him
Each year, the MacArthur Foundation bestows its famed "genius grants," fellowships that include a no-string monetary award of $800,000 "to talented individuals who have shown extraordinary originality and dedication in their creative pursuits and a marked capacity for self-direction," as text at the Foundation's website explains.
Among this year's crop of MacArthur fellows are an "incarceration law scholar," a cellular biologist studying how genes are expressed, an environmental ecologist... and an out gay master hula teacher named Patrick Makuakāne, founder of the hula school Nā Lei Hulu in San Francisco, who, the bio at the site's list of fellows explains, "blend[s] traditional hula with contemporary music and movements and uplift[s] Hawaiian culture and history."
Makuakāne's recognition by the prestigious Foundation casts a spotlight on a rich tradition that isn't just about dance; hula also conveys the heritage of the Haweaiian people, passing down both the stories of native Hawaiians and the art form of hula itself across generations.
Makuakāne is as fascinating as the art form he teaches and helps to preserve. Leaving Hawaii in 1985 at the age of 23 for love — he joined his partner at the time in San Francisco — could have meant leaving another great love of his life — namely hula — behind; instead, Makuakāne chose to bring that heritage with him, and established a hālau hula, a school for hula, in his new city.
Nearly four decades later, he shares with EDGE his insights around the importance and meaning of the traditional art form, the ways in which male dancers are reclaiming their heritage from western ideas of what's "masculine" and what's not, and the hilarious way he found out he was a winner of a prize that, for all its prestige, is typically a total surprise for those who are chosen to receive it.
EDGE: Did you become involved with hula at an early age?
Patrick Makuakāne: I was first exposed to it when I was 10 years old. I went to this cultural immersion weekend at Kamehameha schools they have for all 10-year-olds on each island. It was a really intense, immersion in all things Hawaiian culture, but the one class I hated was hula. I hated that class, because the guy who taught it was rather flamboyant and very māhū (gay), and I think it scared me, with my own internalized homophobia saying, "Oh, that's what you're gonna grow up to be like."
The irony is that I love him today, especially for his flamboyance — I celebrate that. But back then, it scared me, and I never wanted to dance hula until I got to high school and joined the Hawaiian club there. I told the instructor, "Yeah, I'll join, and I'll learn how to sing songs, but I don't want to dance hula." And he was like, "In this club, you dance hula and you sing, and if you don't like it, there's the door."
After two weeks, I was hooked because it spoke to me in a way to express my native identity. My father's pure Hawaiian, and my grandmother is pure Hawaiian, but we didn't live in a Hawaiian household because everybody was too busy trying to be Western and American in order to get ahead in life. In a way, I had to learn about what it's like to be a Hawaiian and about Hawaiian culture through hula, and then take that back to my family.
EDGE: My understanding is that hula is a way of remembering and transmitting the oral traditions of Hawaiian culture and history.
Patrick Makuakāne: That's absolutely right. Think about the incredible navigational system that Polynesians developed. They're in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, without any compasses or any sort of modern equipment. They're using their environment to find their way, and that knowledge had to be passed down century after century, orally, not through any sort of written form. When you put these lessons in stories, people remember them better, and hula definitely serves that [purpose].
EDGE: You mentioned your flamboyant hula teacher, and the word māhū, which I don't think is mainstream yet, but I do see it around more than I used to.
Patrick Makuakāne: It's kind of like us taking back the word "queer." Native Hawaiians are now taking māhū, which was once used to really dehumanize you, and now we get to [restore it]. It's so lovely to be able to use that word and claim it as our own.
EDGE: From what I understand, being māhū was not looked down on in traditional Hawaiian culture, and the word itself was not originally derogatory.
Patrick Makuakāne: I have these incredible transgender artists and friends who are really speaking to this much better than I, but from what we're uncovering [about traditional Hawaiian culture, māhū are] in the middle, not exactly all man, not exactly all female, so they enjoy a privilege of both. Think of them as healers: In traditional Hawaiian society, if you're a man you call onto the male akua, or the male gods, and women usually call upon the female gods, but a māhū can talk to both very easily. Think about all the power that a māhū can generate as a healer, [or] as a prophet. They were recognized in Hawaii as people who really contributed to the society.
EDGE: Is hula similar to other theatrical arts in that it tends to attract LGBTQ+ people?
Patrick Makuakāne: There are a lot of men who teach hula, and I would say a good portion of them, a high percentage, are gay. It's like ballet and modern dance. I mean, that's just dance at every level.
When I first started dancing Hula in the '70s, there was a cultural renaissance happening. It became acceptable to dance as a male — you weren't automatically labeled as gay, [whereas] previously it was a domain of women. That's because we were westernized, and the thought became that if you dance, you're gay or feminine. Nowadays, I think there's still a little bit of that, "Oh, you must be māhū if you're dancing hula," but now it's considered a valuable way of identifying yourself as a native Hawaiian. It's culturally relevant, and it's okay.
EDGE: What was your first thought when you found out you had been awarded the fellowship?
Patrick Makuakāne: I found out when I was at Burning Man, but when you're at Burning Man you don't get cell service. So, I got the strange text that said something like, "This is the MacArthur Foundation trying to get a hold of you. We need to speak with you on a time sensitive matter." And I'm like, "What the fuck is the MacArthur Foundation calling me for? Do I owe them money?" I was really perplexed. I tried to get back to her — we're stuck in the mud, we have no service, the only time you can get Wi Fi is you have to walk to a ranger station about nine blocks away, and you're in the mud, so every step is perilous. And finally I get there, and I call her back, and she doesn't answer her phone. I'm like, "How time sensitive can this be? You're not answering your phone."
Finally, I spoke to her several days later in San Francisco, when I got back, and that's when I found out. Did I have an idea? I'm thinking, "Well, why else would they be calling me?," but then, "No, that can't be true. Why would I be getting one?" I'm in a state of shock, disbelief, and wonder.
EDGE: Is hula similar to other theatrical arts in that it tends to attract LGBTQ+ people?
Patrick Makuakāne: There are a lot of men who teach hula, and I would say a good portion of them, a high percentage, are gay. It's like ballet and modern dance. I mean, that's just dance at every level.
When I first started dancing Hula in the '70s, there was a cultural renaissance happening. It became acceptable to dance as a male — you weren't automatically labeled as gay, [whereas] previously it was a domain of women. That's because we were westernized, and the thought became that if you dance, you're gay or feminine. Nowadays, I think there's still a little bit of that, "Oh, you must be māhū if you're dancing hula," but now it's considered a valuable way of identifying yourself as a native Hawaiian. It's culturally relevant, and it's okay.
EDGE: What was your first thought when you found out you had been awarded the fellowship?
Patrick Makuakāne: I found out when I was at Burning Man, but when you're at Burning Man you don't get cell service. So, I got the strange text that said something like, "This is the MacArthur Foundation trying to get a hold of you. We need to speak with you on a time sensitive matter." And I'm like, "What the fuck is the MacArthur Foundation calling me for? Do I owe them money?" I was really perplexed. I tried to get back to her — we're stuck in the mud, we have no service, the only time you can get Wi Fi is you have to walk to a ranger station about nine blocks away, and you're in the mud, so every step is perilous. And finally I get there, and I call her back, and she doesn't answer her phone. I'm like, "How time sensitive can this be? You're not answering your phone."
Finally, I spoke to her several days later in San Francisco, when I got back, and that's when I found out. Did I have an idea? I'm thinking, "Well, why else would they be calling me?," but then, "No, that can't be true. Why would I be getting one?" I'm in a state of shock, disbelief, and wonder.