Hawaii

In 2026, Hawaii’s public schools will begin serving poi every week — 15,000 to 20,000 pounds of the fermented taro paste across 258 campuses. The state’s superintendent, Dr. Leilani Kai, called it “about identity” as much as food, aiming to “bring our past into the present.” But the announcement also raised a quieter question: what exactly is being served, and what does it mean to call something poi? The kalo plant is not just an ingredient. In Hawaiian tradition, it is the elder sibling of the Hawaiian people — a relationship rooted in the story of Hāloa. Emily’s Take

On the Big Island, the ground doesn’t just sit still. It shifts, steams, and occasionally reshapes the coastline overnight. That’s Pele’s domain — the volcano goddess whose presence is felt from the summit of Kīlauea to the black sand beaches below. Hawaiian mythology isn’t a collection of old stories tucked away in museums. It’s a living framework that explains why the earth trembles, when to plant taro, and how to navigate by the stars. For anyone spending time in the islands, understanding these stories changes what you see when you look at a lava field or hear the surf

On a visit to the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, I watched a kupuna explain the taro plant’s life cycle to a group of children. She traced the stem to the root, then pointed to the corm — the heart of the plant — and said, “This is where we come from.” She was not teaching botany. She was describing ‘ohana. The word itself derives from ‘oha, the shoot of the taro plant (kalo), which Hawaiians regard as an ancestor. In Hawaiian society, ‘ohana promotes a deep sense of connectedness, support, and belonging — and it extends far beyond blood