HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

It’s 2 a.m. on a humid night in Honolulu, and I’m in a dive bar deep in the heart of Waikīkī. Music plays loudly through tiny speakers, and pleasantly drunken patrons chat amicably upstairs. Down below, the usual dart players have ceased their games, and a circle is forming around the table where I sit, locked in an arm wrestling match with a large, muscular man that I’ve only just met​​; among the spectators is one of Hawai‘i’s brightest young stars (hint: sounds like Stilo and Litch). They cheer us on as we do battle, neither of us willing to lose. Am I truly a man, my opponent asks me. When it comes down to it, when the cards are on the table and the moment of truth has arrived, do I have what it takes to dig deep and win it all?

​​​I ​ask​ myself that and several other questions as, jaw clenched and brow creased, my elbow sticking to the old wooden table, I grapple with my beefy foe. Those other questions include, but are not limited to: What the hell am I, a 30-something Kaua‘i boy who routinely goes to bed at 9 p.m., doing here? I can’t remember the last time I was out after midnight. How did I get myself into this high-stakes battle of brawn in the first place? And how do I emerge victorious, my honor intact? Also, most importantly, will the Jets ever make the playoffs?¹

To answer these questions, we’ll have to go back in time a bit. Five hours back, to be exact, when I’m standing, as I often am, at the buffet line of one of Honolulu’s most exclusive parties,² trying to gnaw my way through a piece of fried fish. Believe it or not, I’ve actually been invited to attend this event as a Special Guest™, a perk of being fairly successful in a fairly small niche. (If you need a Hawai‘i rapper for a thing, I’m probably your guy.) But, having done my set, I have now set upon my true life’s calling of stuffing my face with delicious free food. It is then that my patron for the evening, a dear friend who has recently become capital F Famous, approaches me. She is accompanied by her boyfriend and another man, both of whom will, by the end of the night, become two of my favorite people.

“Hey, so things are wrapping up here, but what are you doing after this?” she asks. “We were thinking about going out. Wanna come with?”

And yet, somehow, he’s convinced me to arm wrestle him, this veritable Apollo …

“Mffphf,” I reply. Then, swallowing the fried fish meat (and some bones, too), I add a few hacking coughs for good measure. The gaggle of famous influencers who are also attending the party give us a wide berth, presumably intimidated by my raw sex appeal. When I catch my breath, I manage to croak out, “But it’s already so late.” They do not seem moved by my shock. Clearly, she has forgotten her Kauaian roots, where a night on the town involves drinking Heinekens in the McDonald’s parking lot at 10 p.m. “I turn into a pumpkin after midnight,” I protest.

“Come on, dude,” she replies. “You’re only here for one night. Live a little!”

Live a little. I’ve gotten myself into all manner of trouble with that line of reasoning, so I tread said line with care. On the other hand, I concede, she does have a point—I am only here for one night …

What follows next is a blur of things that could never happen on Kaua‘i: karaoke in the hotel lobby with a bunch of TikTokers belting their hearts out until the accumulated avalanche of guest complaints forces security to shut us down; the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever had in my life at a hole in the wall in Waikīkī proper at 1 a.m.; walking the (relatively) empty streets of Honolulu long after midnight with this crew of people I adore.

And then the bar. Getting approached by my now-opponent, who says, without preamble:

“You look like you got some heft to you.”

“Thank you?” I reply.

“You a gambling man?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” I tell him.

And yet, somehow, he’s convinced me to arm wrestle him, this veritable Apollo, ​​in front of my friend, her equally buff boyfriend, and a growing number of onlookers. And so we grit our teeth, asking each other what we are truly made of, who really wants it more? I dig deep within my soul and find the answer: I want it more. And with a heroic roar, I slam his hand down onto the table and leap up, arms raised in triumph, as the bar erupts into cheers and my friends swarm and embrace me. ​​Obama is there. He gives me the key to the city. My ex calls. She wants me back.

OK, well, no. What happens next (​​my friend’s boyfriend challenges me and crushes me in five seconds flat) doesn’t matter, ​​just like it doesn’t matter that the first guy definitely let me win, probably because he saw the tears in my eyes. All that matters is that, for one night at least, the Kaua‘i boy lived a little—lived it up, even!—in Honolulu.

I plan to return the favor on Kaua‘i someday soon. I just hope McDonald’s parking lot will still be open after 10.

¹ No.

² I’m often found at the buffet line, not at Honolulu’s most exclusive parties.

Thomas Iannucci is a writer, poet and three-time Nā Hōkū Hanohano-award winning rapper from Kaua‘i. He is signed to Fischer-Harbage literary agency.

HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

​​​I like to picture my father-in-law, Don, standing at the kitchen window facing Kāne‘ohe Bay, telling his favorite story about sharks. I also picture him in the driveway, broom and chiritori in hand. After sweeping, he’d stare at the Ko‘olau Mountains and tell stories about the guys he grew up with. A favorite was how they would yell sayonara moostache at the sensei before cracking up and running out of Japanese school. This is how I learned the word kolohe. This is also how I learned to belong here.

As time passed, Don’s stories grew fantastical. Memories slid into each other. Facts, truth and timeline were not exactly relevant. He brought the past forward the way Alzheimer’s patients do—connections summoned other connections, invisible to us but clear to him. All of it was true and quite possibly none of it was really his direct experience. But that didn’t matter. He would talk story and point across to the Ko‘olau Range, the beautiful backdrop for his entire life.

My husband, Dean, and I moved to O‘ahu back in 2021 and lived with his parents for a year. I’d visited Hawai‘i a handful of times when we decided to come help care for Don. As primary caregiver, Dean’s mom, Amy, was carrying too heavy a load. But she taught me the phrase hele on when we lived with them and I tried to help too much.

Before Hawai‘i, I’d lived in LA, Minneapolis and New York, but I spent my childhood and college years in New Jersey. Gradually making my way west wasn’t a long-term, deliberate plan. When Dean and I married, I took his last name and became Deborah Harada. I hadn’t initially planned to take on a new surname later in life, tied to an ancestry that clearly wasn’t mine. My ancestors were solidly English and Eastern European. Dean’s came to Hawai‘i during the monarchy as plantation workers. But the name change helped me let go of the pain of my first marriage.

My father-in-law wasn’t surprised by anything about me.

People have told me after I’m on-island for 10 years, it’ll start to be home. But there’s a lot to navigate. I’ll never be kama‘āina even though I get the discount. I recently discovered I have an ancestor who taught David Malo, a  Native Hawaiian historian of the Kingdom of Hawai‘i. I’ve been invited to participate in workshops for Asian American writers. Dean and I joke about the surprise that lays in store for people meeting me in person after having only seen my name.

My father-in-law wasn’t surprised by anything about me. I drove him to doctor’s appointments and the senior center. He’d read signs and tell me I was a good driver. I teed up classic jazz or Frank Sinatra in the car, and he’d tap out the complicated beats, putting his anxiety over leaving the house to rest temporarily. Don had played jazz trumpet from the time he was 13. The story of how he found jazz and felt called to play trumpet has been lost to time and Alzheimer’s, but his connection to music was beautiful and deep.

Don was one of my favorite people to cook for. He loved everything I made. We’d watch Wheel of Fortune on the little kitchen TV when I cooked, and he’d cheer when I guessed correctly. He developed a deep love for poi, which meant I learned the twist tie colors at Foodland that indicated the day when the poi was fresh.

Don passed away a year and a half ago. And the thing I remember most vividly is that he never questioned why I lived in his house, made him tuna sandwiches for lunch and helped him with his shoelaces. He’d have seconds at dinner and tell me I was looking good. He never understood that I shared his last name. In fact, he never knew my name. He never called me Deborah, but he did teach me the word ‘ohana. His biggest gift to me was the everyday ordinariness and trust in our connection. I just belonged.

Deborah Harada is a poet and fiction writer living in  Kāne‘ohe. She also  teaches creative writing and  runs the Lō‘ihi Arts Foundation.

HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

Aging is a complicated reckoning for a woman. I’m a writer with a Ph.D. in literature, but lodged in my brain are fad diet facts, not lines of poetry. The daily necessity of writing may be ingrained in my body memory, but so is the habit of slathering sunblock on my face. Like many women, I’m acutely aware that appearance matters, and admit that much of my life has been spent conforming to definitions of how to look, act and be.

At my age, I’m supposed to be filled with nostalgia and know that my best years have passed. I’m supposed to abandon my dreams, or at least make them a reasonable size: A vast accumulation of wealth and stratospheric status? National Geographic-worthy adventures? An eternal devoted love? No. Not yet. 

I say not yet because, while I know that age brings invisibility to women, the only person who needs to see me is myself, and that defiant act, alone, is the ultimate win.

I followed a common arc of life. Marriage, child, years spent seeking exterior validation through certificates and diplomas, awards and property, publication and money—elements that ensured my visibility, but only kept the goalpost moving, higher and farther away from what really mattered: knowing who I am. What brought me back was when my life collapsed after two decades of marriage—I divorced.

When it happened, I was flat broke. Mom cut me a check so I could pay a lawyer. My dad, a medical doctor, handed me two jars of expensive Korean skin care cream, reminded me about UV rays, pointed to my sunspots, and touched the lines on my forehead.

I felt as if all the years of sorrow emerged on my face once I decided to divorce.

“Look, wrinkles!” Dad said.

“Are you wearing sunblock?” Mom asked.

“Yes, I wear sunblock.”

My parents nodded in silence. I thanked them, drove home, shoved the jars in the bathroom drawer, and examined my face in the mirror. I felt as if all the years of sorrow emerged on my face once I decided to divorce. After one of the last arguments I had with my ex, I woke up in the morning with white hair. I was being haunted by the 12-step Korean Skincare Belief System: Youth gone, life over. Save whatever is left of your face. Divorce and appearance intersected in ways that filled me with enormous pressure: If I didn’t magically freeze my edifice, I was headed to disaster!

My close friend earnestly told me: Emotional well-being, the individual inside, not appearances, count more. She was right. The cream remained in my drawer.

And a few weeks later, I was lying on my back staring up at a dim ceiling light getting a facial. “You know you’re Korean when in crisis, you feel like crap, but you don’t want to look like it,” my Korean friend said.

I tearfully told the Korean facialist about my divorce and the gift of face cream from Dad, expecting commiseration. Overcome with feeling she said softly: “Your parents love you so much. So nice. They care, your skin.”

Yet again, I misunderstood what mattered. By giving me the cream, Dad was trying to help me save face in every meaning of the phrase, from real wrinkles to my dignity. Divorce and fine lines be damned. My parents loved me the only way they knew how.

Years have passed since the Korean Skincare Incident. I’m now up early to surf, getting too much sun. I have laugh lines, dye my hair when I remember to throw a box of color on my head, and haven’t visited a facialist in a long time. I don’t want to be younger and don’t care much about looking younger because I know who I am.

After Dad’s stroke last fall, I visited him in the hospital and remembered how Mom said he was always an optimist.

“You have to be an optimist to win,” Dad would say. “When you make a decision, it’s OK. Even if it doesn’t turn out. Move on. You made the decision. Be an optimist to win!”

Letting go of exterior markers, even marriage, and being who I am brought me back to optimism. Joy. Dreams. Love. Everything. I’m winning now. But yes, I still use face cream.

Stephanie Han is the author of “ How to Write Your Divorce Story” (e-guide) and the “woman. warrior. writer.” newsletter. She teaches writing workshops at drstephaniehan.com.

HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

Six-year-old Charlie lobbied with the relentless persistence of a union organizer. “I really need a dog!!”

They already had Jojo at their mum’s place in Queens.

“I need one in Brooklyn too, at Dad’s place.”

“It’s mine and Dad’s place,” I corrected. Silence. I let it go.

To my surprise, my husband, Ronan, held firm against the dog campaign. He was usually putty in my stepchild Charlie’s hands, their closeness a state I bordered but could not enter.  

It was my year of auditioning for Charlie’s love: lavish toys and trinkets, Mummy and Me manipedis, and Disney movies on repeat. I’d literally stood on my head doing yoga poses, performing like a circus animal. All for naught. Charlie wasn’t liking any of it, demanding Dad make spaghetti or mac and cheese, Dad give baths and read bedtime stories. So I made my move. The next weekend, we took a trip to the Animal League and came home with a 27-pound trembling puggle with enormous, melting eyes. Charlie was ecstatic, then turned to Ronan and said, “Thanks, Dad. I
love you.” 

Instead of bonding with Charlie, I became the dog walker.  

On weekends, the puppy and I logged miles while Charlie and Ronan hung out in his studio listening to music and playing video games. At the dog park, Sonnet would bound off to tumble with her crew, while I got to know the neighbors. When Ronan was busy teaching private lessons in the evenings, Sonnet and I snuggled on the couch. She was fun-loving, easily trained, and she cracked open something inside me. I felt so much joy and wondered how I had ever managed without a dog. 

I spent two years trying to win Charlie over. Living with a child’s jealousy and steady dislike is its own particular suffering—you can’t reason with it, outlast it, and can only absorb it day after day. Sonnet’s constant, uncomplicated love was a balm.  

One morning as I was about to walk out of my front door, my sister called. A stroke a few years ago had left Mum incapacitated and in constant pain. After the call, I sat in shock. Sonnet looked at me, walked over and put her head on my lap. Holding onto her soft, warm body, I whispered, “My mother is dead.”

Once again, Sonnet was the perfect bridge to connect to my new neighbors.

Then Ronan landed a wonderful job as superintendent of schools—in Hawai‘i! My brother had lived there, and we had visited often enough to feel the pull of the Islands. Yes, it was an amazing opportunity, and after three failed cycles of IVF, it offered us badly needed forward movement. Charlie would live with their mum and spend the summers with us. Perhaps geography could shift the family dynamic. 

Once again, Sonnet was the perfect bridge to connect to my new neighbors. While Ronan disappeared into his job with its numerous evening obligations, Sonnet and I explored our new world. We’d rise early and go to Lanikai Beach, where she’d race gleefully off leash, across the sand. I’d throw her ball into the water, and she’d plunge in, fearlessly. One day, out of nowhere, a golden retriever and a black lab joined her. Within minutes, she’d formed a pack—no anxiety about leaving her Brooklyn homies behind. Their owners and I stood chatting, calling out to our dogs. I quickly became one of the morning regulars.  

The pet-sitting business started by accident. A beach friend asked if I could mind her dog while they were away. Then another. Within months, I had a roster. Soon, our home was dog central, neighbors dropping off or picking up their dogs. I became fluent with their quirks and rhythms, as well as the grammar of each household. In doorways during handoffs, over text updates, I assembled a community while being paid to do what I loved. In a place I never planned to land, through a dog I got as a bribe, I became essential. It’s a quiet miracle, being exactly where you’re supposed to be, with whom you’re supposed to be with.  

Sujatha Raman is a writer and co-organizer of MIA, Mixing Innovative Arts, Honolulu, one of the city’s longest-standing reading series for Hawai‘i writers. She has published short stories in Singapore, where she grew up, in an anthology in Brooklyn, where she lived for 20 years, and recently in Bamboo Ridge.

If it seems like coffee is popping up everywhere lately, it’s because it is. Coffee and snack shops in Hawai‘i have been opening at triple the rate of other types of eateries, market researcher IBISWorld says. And while the state’s craft coffee community explores next-level techniques of processing, roasting and brewing, some newcomers are taking a more populist approach: They’re using coffee menus to express personal themes, with offerings that are often fun and high quality.

Take Café Vntg. Alexandro Viriato brings a bit of his hometown São Paolo to Kaka‘ako’s warehouse district—specifically, to a bustling corner inside the vintage furniture warehouse store he opened last spring. Specialty drinks combine Brazilian tastes, especially for sweetened condensed milk, with beans from Kailua’s Tradition Coffee Roasters. Suco de Milho, a traditional Brazilian drink made from corn, sugar and milk, is an occasional special. Café Cremoso, a double shot of espresso blended with sweetened condensed milk, is served over milk and ice. You can get it with doce de leite (caramel) or, for a local twist, chocolate haupia.

At UH Mānoa, Kooks Coffee operates out of a surfer-themed trailer owned by a former corporate manager. Dani Mitchell quit her job to combine a love of the ocean with a passion for making syrups for her coffee. Using beans from Honolulu Coffee, she offers drinks like Dawn Patrol, whose syrup combines Lā‘ie Vanilla Co. vanilla and toasted macadamia nuts from Hawai‘i Island; and Nanner Bread, with banana milk made with organic Sun Farm bananas from Hawai‘i Kai. Kooks’ second trailer opened this year in Kaka‘ako.

Panday Coffee, a pop-up at markets and fairs, is the dream of nurse-turned-barista Brian Bigornia. Latte flavors like his Monkey Coffee—made with the equivalent of two bananas a glass—and Biko, whose coconutty rice milk Bigornia makes himself, reflect his Filipino culture.

All this adds dimension to an increasingly full-bodied coffee scene. Whether you’re looking for an unfamiliar new creation or a meticulously sourced, expertly nuanced cup from a barista who can tell you how the beans were grown, processed and roasted, your choices are getting richer. Here’s what’s percolating around Honolulu.

How We Wake Up Now

Drip coffee reigns supreme among surveyed home brewers.

Preparation Methods

Drip Coffee Maker: 38%

Single-Cup Brewer: 23%

Ready-to-Drink: 19%

Cold Brewing: 17%

Espresso Machine: 11%

Instant Coffee: 9%

Bean-to-Cup Brewer: 6%

People surveyed were allowed to pick more than one method. Source: National Coffee Data Trends Fall 2025 Edition by the National Coffee Association USA

Coffee World

◊ ◊ ◊

From Hanoi-style egg coffee to cubanitos, O‘ahu restaurants are serving traditional coffee drinks from across the globe.

Turkish Coffee, Turkey 

Popular across the Middle East, Turkish coffee is listed as a UNESCO intangible cultural heritage for its centuries-long contribution to coffee culture. Traditionally, very finely ground arabica beans are slowly brewed with water in a small copper pot called a cezve until a thick foam forms. The grounds are not filtered before serving.

“This fine grind is essential, as the grounds are meant to settle naturally in the cup and contribute to the coffee’s body and texture,” Istanbul Hawai‘i chef-owner Ahu Hettema says. Nothing is added to Istanbul’s Turkish coffee, which is served in small ceramic cups along with a piece of Turkish delight. Hettema also recommends pairing it with baklava, whose sweetness balances the bitterness of the coffee. “For us, Turkish coffee is a pause at the end of the meal,” she says, “a moment of reflection that brings the table back together.”

1108 Auahi St., Suite 152, Kaka‘ako, istanbulhawaii.com, @istanbulhawaii

Kopi, Singapore 

Traditional kopi is a sweet, strong coffee brewed with robusta beans that have been roasted with butter and sugar, then served with condensed milk. At Café Kopi in Kailua, variations include without milk or sugar (Kopi O Kosong), with evaporated milk (Kopi C), and iced (Kopi Peng). Owner Ernest Shih says the café gets its robusta blend from one of the largest suppliers of kopitiam, or coffee shops, in Singapore. It’s brewed by putting the coffee in one flask, adding hot water and waiting a few minutes before pouring it into another flask, then back into the first flask, over and over. The grounds are strained through a cloth filter bag.

“I believe we are the only ones in Hawai‘i serving this,” says Shih, who uses traditional glass mugs from Singapore. Try it with kaya toast for breakfast, or with Café Kopi’s weekend-only laksa.

45 Kīhāpai St., Kailua, cafekopihawaii.com, @cafekopihawaii

Egg Coffee, Vietnam 

While you can get good Vietnamese iced coffee all over town, the lesser known Hanoi-style egg coffee, cà phê trú ng, is a treat worth seeking out. The Pig & The Lady chef Andrew Le discovered the drink in Hanoi, his mother’s hometown, at a café that whipped the topping using a regular home fan outfitted with a whisk instead of blades. “When we tasted it, it was like, wow!” he says. “This is like Saigon-style iced coffee with condensed milk, but it’s with eggs”—because it was created during a wartime dairy shortage.

Back home, Le and his team developed a version for their new spot, Piggy Smalls. Through that restaurant’s closure and Pig’s move to Kaimukī, the egg coffee has remained, made with beans sourced from Hanoi, egg yolks, sugar and vanilla bean. You won’t find it on the menu—it was recently replaced by a cocktail version—but you can still ask for the original. Tell them I sent you.

3650 Wai‘alae Ave., Kaimukī, thepigandthelady.com, @pigandthelady

Café Cubano, Cuba 

Cuban coffee sets itself apart with sugar and dark roast beans. At Castro’s in Waikīkī, espresso from Maui ‘Oma is pulled over a blend of white and Demerara sugar, giving it a more complex sweetness. It’s then whisked to combine, giving the drink a foamy cap called espumita. Get it as a straightforward cubanito with no milk, with a splash of milk in a cortadito, or as a café con leche, more akin to a latte. 

2113 Kalākaua Ave., Waikīkī, @castroswaikiki

Café de Olla, Mexico 

Mexican coffee gets its distinct flavor from spices and piloncillo, or unrefined whole cane sugar. At Barrio Café in Wahiawā, café de olla is brewed fresh each morning with cinnamon, orange peel and allspice.

“We toast the dried spices to bring out the aromatics, then place it in a clay pot,” says chef-owner Miriam Olivas. Traditional clay mugs “honor the ritual and warmth of the experience,” and skipping the piloncillo lets customers “enjoy the full depth of flavor without added sweetness.” Olivas does include piloncillo for special events, such as a recent Café de Olla & Bolero Brunch in collaboration with Aloha Star, a farm that only sells 100% Kona coffee.

672 Kīlani Ave., Wahiawā, barriocafe808.com, @barriocafe808

Roast Your Own Beans 

Hala Tree’s Coffee Lab offers a hands-on experience in Ka‘a‘awa. 

Downstairs from Hala Tree Café next to Crouching Lion, manager Brian Webb prepares the Coffee Lab for one of its daily workshops. I’m here for the roasting class, a next-level endeavor and the only one I know of on O‘ahu. Besides, Hala Tree’s 100% Kona coffee is one of my favorites. 

The class begins with some Hala Tree history. The family-owned company opened its coffee farm in Captain Cook in 2012 and its café and lab in 2024. Webb, I learn, has decades of experience in the specialty coffee industry, and his manner makes the science of roasting accessible to novices like me.  

He prepares cups of Kona coffee from beans that have been sorted into three roast levels and encourages me to describe the flavors. I like the medium roast best. Webb says we’ll try to replicate it with the lab’s roaster, a countertop machine the size of a small dog. 

Buttons control fan speed and temperature; the rest is up to the operator. Webb outlines the process in detail—using phrases like “Maillard reactions” and “pyrolytic compounds” that make my head swim—then walks me through exactly what I’m looking for. From the point the beans turn yellow to when they start popping like popcorn, it’s up to me to know what to do at different stages, sometimes within seconds, to achieve my desired medium roast. Webb keeps a close eye to make sure I’m pressing the right buttons at the right time.  

Fifteen seconds after the final pop, I turn off the machine, let my freshly roasted beans drop into a cooling tray and stir them to dissipate the heat. We inspect the curvature and chaff to confirm the beans look the way medium roast beans should. 

I make the long drive back to town with about a half-pound of beans, a renewed desire to keep experimenting with preparation methods and, not least, a new respect for our local roasters who literally have this down to a science. 

$55, 51-666 Kamehameha Highway, Ka‘a‘awa, halatreecafe.com/coffee-lab

Katrina Valcourt is the executive editor of HONOLULU Magazine.

HONOLULU STORIES

The Worst Tap Dancer in Honolulu by Timothy Dyke   |   The Joy of Aging by Stephanie Han
Belonging by Deborah Harada    |   Live a Little by Thomas Ianucci   |   Pet Mama by Sujatha Raman

I am the worst tap dancer in Honolulu, and I am about to explore some epiphanies. Should I start with the image of the hole in my sock? Should I start by telling you I’m asexual? Each possibility points in the direction of absence if you view things a certain way. I don’t view things that way, though. Maybe I should start with a memory from childhood. I was 12 years old, standing on a soccer field with my hand on my hip. I am sure I listed leftward like an overwhelmed sapling, not at all prepared to kick a ball or run in any kind of assertive direction. I played sports because my parents told me to play sports. It’s what middle-class white boys did in suburban California in 1975.

My brother yelled from the sideline. “You’re standing like a girl!” He was trying to be helpful. I dropped my arm, shifted, and stood up straight. Even then, I knew I would never be straight. As I coerced my body into some more convincing expression of masculinity, I worried that everyone else perceived my shameful secret. And now, maybe I’ll talk about that asexuality identification. I was raised to think everything existed on a binary. Everything was either/or. Normal or abnormal. Star Trek or Star Wars. Gay or straight.

As all humans do, I crave intimacy. I feel intimate when I read in silence with someone on a couch. I feel intimate when I chop garlic and make marinara sauce with my friend, Heather. I feel intimate with Michael when he lets me push his wheelchair, then picks the Barbara Stanwyck movie. I have never embraced the definition of intimacy that requires me to be crawled upon by naked folks. I experience intimacy as reciprocated empathy, complete trust. Where does that put me on any binary?

The absence that was the hole in my left sock became the presence of possibility.

I like watching sports, but I have never been a good athlete. Fields, courts, trails and rinks have only been sources of insecurity for me. I felt discomfort and confusion when I was forced to shower with other boys in the middle of the day during seventh grade P.E. I associate athletics with anxiety, at best. At worst, I associate athletics with shame. I never have gotten along too well with the physical part of myself. Gyms trigger locker room panic. Mostly, I have lived above my shoulders, brain cells disconnected from muscles and bones. And then last fall on sort of a whim, I signed up for the open adult tap dancing class at Hawai‘i Ballet Theatre.

I’d been told the dance teacher was the best in town, and I was curious about her classes. I think it’s beneficial to learn from good teachers, no matter what the subject. I paid online and showed up on the first Saturday at noon without tap shoes. The absence that was the hole in my left sock became the presence of possibility. I told you I would eventually get back to the hole in my sock. I told you I would eventually get to some epiphanies.

Everyone else at open adult tap is zippy and syncopated. I’m a half-step behind on the second twirl. My feet count out the rhythm to the first part of a Stevie Wonder song. They’ve never done anything like this before, but it doesn’t matter. It’s taken me until the age of 62, but for the first time in my life, I feel unselfconscious as I move my body through a crowded space. I think I might start weeping.

Stevie sings from a speaker: Signed, sealed, delivered. I’m yours. Clomping and stumbling in a bad pair of socks, I see myself in the mirrors that surround me. ​​I forget my insecurities, the awkwardness. Now, I’m just an old asexual dude stomping twice with my right heel, then shifting to my left toe. I have no idea what I look like to other folks right now. It doesn’t matter. I’m not standing like a girl. I’m not standing like a boy. I’m the worst tap dancer in Honolulu. I’m myself in my own body for the first time in my life.

Timothy Dyke is a writer and teacher who published a memoir called Backbends with High Frequency Press in 2025. Since 1992, he has taught English to high school students at Punahou School.

At the end of a single-lane driveway just a quarter mile from Kalaniana‘ole Highway, a tunnel of branches opens up to parcels of lo‘i kalo. This area, Kapalai, is stewarded by Ho‘okua‘āina, one of the biggest producers of kalo on O‘ahu. But the nonprofit, started by Dean and Michele Wilhelm in 2007, offers more than that. The larger picture is to heal, rebuild and nourish community.

Across the street, the next chapter is unfolding.

Once at risk of development, 116 acres of land called Pālāwai at the back of Maunawili Valley Neighborhood Park is now in Ho‘okua‘āina’s hands and will be protected in perpetuity through a conservation easement. “This expansion is an incredible opportunity for us to not only expand the community work we do and the culture-based work we do, which is really the heart of who we are, but we also get a chance to build upon addressing food security and growing our own food in Hawai‘i,” says Māhie Wilhelm, innovation and identity lead for Ho‘okua‘āina and one of Dean and Michele’s daughters.

The team was given right of entry to the land in 2022 by the Weinberg Foundation and has since restored nearly a mile of Maunawili Stream. There has been a reduction in flooding from the clearance of more than 50 years’ worth of debris and invasive plants, and the planting of more than 100 native trees and shrubs.

SEE ALSO: Venison Tartare, Haole Koa Capers, Strawberry Guava Pastries: Where and How to Eat Our Invasive Species

The group is also working on restoring an ancient ‘auwai to get the water flowing to the lo‘i once again. Fifteen acres of the property have been fenced in to keep out pigs. Once water is flowing, kalo will be planted along with a diversity of other traditional crops and agroforestry orchards. Besides farming, Ho‘okua‘āina also wants to continue with community and education programs, such as volunteer days. “This is a model for how in the modern time, we can bring back and restore our ancestral ways and bring those values to the forefront of everything that we do,” Māhie Wilhelm says.

“I feel like my life’s calling is helping address food security,” she says, and she wants to continue to encourage people to eat kalo so there’s more demand for it. “We can grow as much food as we want in Hawai‘i, we literally can,” she adds, noting that Pālāwai used to be considered the breadbasket of Windward O‘ahu. “We’re [in] the perfect place to grow everything we could possibly dream of, but unless we eat it, it’s never going to serve the purpose that we need it to serve.” Right now, Ho‘okua‘āina produces 30,000 pounds of kalo annually.

Anyone interested in supporting the nonprofit as it continues to raise money for things such as a food hub/resiliency center, along with farmworker housing, can donate online.

hookuaaina.org, @hookuaaina

Katrina Valcourt is the executive editor of HONOLULU Magazine.

Recognized as the world’s premier hula competition, the 63rd Merrie Monarch Festival unfolds this month from April 5–11 on Hawai‘i Island. Dancers from renowned hālau, along with thousands of spectators, will appear in Hilo for the prestigious weeklong celebration of Hawaiian culture. Featured here is Hula Hālau ‘O Kamuela, led by Kumu Kunewa Mook and Kau‘ionālani Kamana‘o. Last year, the O‘ahu hālau captured first place in the overall competition.

merriemonarch.com, @merriemonarchfestival

Diane Seo is the editorial director of HONOLULU Magazine.

“Cuz I grew up talking Pidgin, I wuz made for feel like everyting about me wuz wrong. But I tink mo’ bettah we make people feel like dey belong, brah.”

LEE A. TONOUCHI, poet laureate of Hawai‘i

Lee A. Tonouchi—widely known as “Da Pidgin Guerrilla” for his steadfast advocacy of Pidgin—has a new role: Poet Laureate of Hawai‘i. Appointed in February by the Hawai‘i State Foundation on Culture and the Arts, Hawai‘i Council for the Humanities, and Hawai‘i State Public Library System, Tonouchi will serve as Poet Laureate for three years, holding readings and workshops across the Islands.

You have long advocated for speaking and writing in Pidgin. What does it mean to you to be selected for this honor?

Early on in my writing career I saw that da Pidgin talker wuz perceive as being less intelligent than da standard English talker. So da way I saw ’em wuz, get two choice den. I could either try change myself or I could try change da perception. I wen decide for dedicate my life to trying for change people’s perceptions about Pidgin. I wanted for prove that j’like any oddah language, you can do anyting and everyting with Pidgin. So feels nice for be recognize, but still get planny work for do in terms of fighting Pidgin prejudice.

As Poet Laureate of Hawai‘i, you will receive an annual grant for readings and workshops. What are you envisioning as far as how this could be rolled out across the Islands?

Cuz I grew up talking Pidgin, I wuz made for feel like everyting about me wuz wrong. But I tink mo’ bettah we make people feel like dey belong, brah. Das why I like try reach underserve and marginalize kine peoples in Hawai‘i. We stay living in one time wea get planny societal kine discord. I tink writing and sharing poetry can be one way we get for know each oddahs mo’ bettah and das going help us strengthen our community bonds, yeah.

In this role, how are you hoping to inspire people, particularly aspiring writers and poets, to share their stories?

I seen ’em before, lotta times people might be reluctant for write cuz dey no see nobody like dem doing it. Besides being one Pidgin writer, I also stay one Native Okinawan writer. When I first started, I wuz writing at one time when hardly had any Okinawan American representation in literature. I hope for share my story for inspire all kine peoples for share their own diverse stories too. I like people know, if nomono representation, YOU gotta represent! Das your responsibility.

@pidginguerrilla

Diane Seo is the editorial director of HONOLULU Magazine.

Randy Wong cultivated a love for playing the bass while performing years ago with the Hawai‘i Youth Symphony. And while his elementary school had only 25 students per grade, he made lots of friends from across the state who shared his passion for music. “We grew up together, and we had really caring mentors who helped us move forward,” he recalls.

Now as president and CEO of the 61-year-old organization, Wong guides current generations of students, who are reaping similar benefits from the symphony’s numerous year-round programs. During the summer, the symphony holds its long-standing five-week Summer Strings orchestra program for those ages 8 through 18 who want to learn to play the violin, viola, cello or bass. While that program is for kids and teens with no musical experience, the symphony also has intermediate and advanced music classes, an advanced ‘ukulele workshop and many other programs. Between 350 and 400 students participate each summer.

SEE ALSO: HONOLULU Family’s 2026 Hawai‘i Summer Programs Guide

“There are many different ways kids can develop themselves through music, and we want them to have a whole suite of opportunities to find their own path,” says Wong, who now plays bass professionally with the Hawai‘i Symphony Orchestra. “Music helps us to understand ourselves, and how to communicate, work and interact with others.”

There’s also a correlation between music and learning math, Wong adds. “When kids are learning how to read music at an early age, they’re unlocking an understanding of a coordinate system, so by the time they’re in middle and high school, they can interpret a graph, understand a coordinate system or extrapolate data because they’ve been doing that already through their musical studies.”

Far More Than Just Something to Do

As parents consider summer activities for their children, they may be focused on just keeping their kids busy. But researchers and those involved in local arts programs say there are far more benefits to enrolling them in visual arts, music, theater and dance programs than they may realize. One significant benefit: Music and other arts enhance the brain—and there’s ample research to support this.

A groundbreaking study, published in various journals from 2016 to 2020, was conducted by Assal Habibi, a neuroscientist and psychologist at USC’s Brain and Creativity Institute. Habibi spent several years studying the effects of music on the brain development of underprivileged children enrolled in a music education program with the Youth Orchestra Los Angeles. The children studied were periodically compared with kids participating in a soccer program and those who weren’t involved with any organized after-school activities. The researchers found that music training helped the parts of the brain involved with sound processing, language development, speech perception and reading skills, and that it also helped the kids to focus, make decisions and control impulses.

Citing Habibi’s studies as well as her own research, Susan Magsamen, co-author of the book Your Brain on Art: How the Arts Transform Us, says the arts enhance neuroplasticity in the brain, but also the respiratory, circulatory, immune and other systems within the body. “The brain-body connection is amplified,” she says. “It’s been found that children’s brains literally get structurally bigger, which means they have more capacity for cognition. So kids who have arts experiences over a period of time have basically faster brains and actually bigger brains.”

The process of making art also builds specific kinds of skills, including those that guide executive function and decision-making, says Magsamen, founder and executive director of the International Arts + Mind Lab Center for Applied Neuroaesthetics at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. “Building these executive function skills are super important. It helps develop focus, discipline and patience. The arts also enhance people’s mental health and well-being by lowering cortisol and helping us move back into homeostasis. That’s a really important way to manage our bodies and our mental well-being.”

Along with tangible physiological benefits, music and the arts give people a sense of belonging and social connection, she adds. “If you’re in a camp and doing a group mural or learning how to dance with others, you’re learning how to connect. You’re also building self-esteem, self-expression, self-awareness.”

The Arts Are Alive in Honolulu

Every summer, ‘Ohana Arts holds its musical theater program at UH’s Kennedy Theatre for about 100 students in grades 1–12. Over the years, the organization has staged dozens of musical theater productions, sometimes taught by actors and singers with Hawai‘i roots who have performed on Broadway. Students in the program dive into acting, dancing and music, and take part in a musical theater performance before a live audience.

“What we’re trying to do is inspire students by being part of a family,” says Laurie Rubin, co-founder and co-artistic director of the program. “We feel like one way to unite people is through the arts. When you’re celebrating the arts, it brings people together and differences melt away.”

After running the program for many years, Rubin says one of the biggest benefits she’s seen is the self-confidence that students develop. “I’ve seen kids who are terrified when they walk in the door and then act like they own the place by the end,” she says. “I’ve seen this year after year after year, and it’s one of the most rewarding things to see shy kids suddenly come into their own.”

She also recalls a dyslexic student who was a reading level behind when he started with ‘Ohana Arts as a second grader. But by the end of third grade, he had not only caught up with his classmates in reading, he had surpassed many of them by a whole grade level. “His parents attributed this to the fact that he was so motivated to learn his lines and to keep up with his castmates,” Rubin says.

Dancing Is Good for the Body and Brain

Hawai‘i Dance Bomb, now in its new Mō‘ili‘ili location, offers a summer camp for kids to learn about dance and choreography and take part in arts and crafts, dance games and performances. Students can enroll in the camp, from June 1 through July 31, for any period of time, even just a day.

Through her many years teaching dance, founder Miranda Rudegeair has witnessed how kids benefit when they’re active, moving and interacting with others.

“It’s really good for kids to move, be in their bodies, and not be in their heads all day,” she says. “I went to a conference, and this whole lecture was about how if you sit down for too much of your life, or aren’t social, you’ll die early. When you’re moving, you’re physically connecting with other people. You’re keeping your body and brain alive by dancing.”

Researchers Couldn’t Agree More

When students participate in summer arts activities, whether it’s music, dance or something else, they’re more likely to avoid what has become known as “the summer slide,” a term coined by Karl Alexander and the late Doris Entwisle, sociologists at Johns Hopkins University. In their widely known research, which was initiated in the 1990s, they followed 790 randomly selected Baltimore students beginning in first grade. Rather than simply studying changes in test scores from one grade to the next, Alexander and Entwisle compared changes in test scores during the school months to changes that occur in the summer months.

What they found was that children from Baltimore’s low-income areas learned at the same rate as middle-class students during the school year but by the time summer had ended and the new school year had begun, those low-income kids were found to have fallen much further behind. While students from more affluent families tend to take part in summer camps and music or art lessons, poorer children do not and, as such, they forget more of what they learned the previous school year. The “summer slide” created wider learning gaps each year. By the end of fifth grade, the difference in verbal abilities between poor and more affluent students was more than two years, and a year and a half in math.

“We need to come up with some creative ways to put a stop to this free fall, whether through year-round schooling, juggling the school schedule so that it is spread out throughout the year, or through effective summer programs that keep kids actively engaged in learning over the summer,” Alexander said in a news release about the study. “Kids who do activities actually go back to school at grade level or above. Kids who don’t have those activities usually come back below grade level and then they have to catch up cognitively. … It’s really a devastating reality to not having these kinds of summer experiences.”

Dennie Wolf, considered one of the leading arts and human development researchers and evaluators in the country, says the arts are a fundamental component of what humans need to survive and thrive, and each artistic endeavor offers unique benefits. For instance, she says, in the visual arts, children develop eye-hand coordination and the power to observe. With music, children learn how to sing together or accompany each other, and in theater, they learn how to imagine themselves as other people or characters, which develops empathy. Dance, meanwhile, requires learning how to communicate with every part of your body.

“So, yes reading, yes math, yes baseball, yes chess, but also yes singing, yes drawing,” she says.

Diane Seo is the editorial director of HONOLULU Magazine.

“There’s a saying in sign painting—vinyl dies, paint ages,” artist Jeff Gress says. “It relays the value and timelessness of the craft. There’s an aura that comes off signs made with a human touch, a character and authenticity.”

If you live on O‘ahu, you’ve undoubtedly encountered Gress’ work. A graphic designer by training, the San Francisco-raised hand letterer has been adorning local businesses with his spectacular gold-leaf signs and murals since 2011 when he linked up with Pow! Wow! Hawai‘i. It was the mural arts festival’s inaugural year, and Gress was just graduating from UH Mānoa’s fine arts program.

Since then, Gress has created pieces for everyone from Asato Family Shop and Honolulu Coffee Co. to ‘Aiea Bowl and Treehouse Coworking. Featuring four different types of gold and iridescent abalone shell inlays, his sign for The Boardroom Kailua is something to behold. And if you hit up Zippy’s newest Las Vegas location, take in Gress’ epic “aloha” mural, which took three weeks on boom lifts to complete.

He credits the growing call for hand-painted signs to a pushback against AI. “Something about computer-generated graphics lacks a soul,” he says. “I think it’s a way of recognizing how important our human contribution is.”

jgress.com, @pro_gress

SEE ALSO: Rep Local With The Hawaiian Standard’s Retro-Cool Banners and Flags

Brie Thalmann is the home and style editor of HONOLULU Magazine.

After he closed Nami Kaze last fall, Jason Peel’s intended break—to rest, regroup and reconnect with family and friends—didn’t last long. Within days, the chef and restaurateur resurfaced across town at Kelvin Ro’s Diamond Head Market & Grill with Scott and Shaun Motoda from his core team at Nami Kaze.

Fluffy omelets, roast pork hash, ‘ahi and eggs: Peel’s first task was to bring back a popular breakfast service that had been on pause. While it’s only on weekends for now, breakfast is the first item on a menu of projects Peel is tackling. “It’s huge. It’s a bakery, it’s a market and a grill. And we’re adding on two, three other projects to it,” Peel says. “We’re trying to make sure it’s sustainable for a long time.”

What else is coming? Catering, for one, and pop-up dinners Peel hopes to trial on the market’s rooftop starting in March. Then there’s the farm—5 acres in East O‘ahu that Ro began leasing about four years ago. Peel will help develop its crops, farm tours and other programs, especially educational ones for students.

Diamond Head Market & Grill, launched by Ro in 2002, brought a bistro sensibility to plate lunch and grab and go. His blueberry cream cheese scones, kalbi and balsamic-tinged portobello sandwiches are still bestsellers today.

A generation later, Peel’s Nami Kaze rose to national fame as a modern local izakaya that celebrated Hawai‘i farms and food producers. Soon, Peel says, the style he built at Nami Kaze will start to appear on the slopes of Diamond Head. “I’m coming into their house. I want to take my shoes off and be polite. At the same time, I have my own ideas that I want to share,” he says. “I like our potential.”

3158 Monsarrat Ave., Kapahulu, (808) 732-0077, diamondheadmarket.com, @diamondheadmarketandgrill

Mari Taketa is the dining editor of HONOLULU Magazine and editor of Frolic Hawai‘i.

Unique tile options are hard to come by in the Islands, which makes the handmade creations of Sealily Ceramics all the more special. Potter Yamuna Brennan, who’s also known for lovely vases, dishware and sculptures, crafts her exquisite tiles in small batches at her home studio in Kailua, drawing inspiration from the raw, natural beauty of the ocean.

Growing up in Sydney, Australia, Brennan couldn’t help but develop a love for coastal elements. “Sydney is very much a beach city,” she says. “The contemporary ocean aesthetic is strong there.” Her tiles feature textures and hues reflective of shells, stones and organic shapes. And she opts for glazes that mimic volcanic lava and seafoam. “It’s a monochromatic palette, but there are so many different colors within that—inks, ivories, opulent coppers, luminous shades of pearl.”

A recent project for a historic home in Kāhala called for fireplace tile that reflected the home’s location next to a bird sanctuary. So Brennan dreamt up a series featuring individually hand-carved ‘ua‘u kani, or wedge-tailed shearwater seabirds. The delicate pleats of fan palm leaves served as muse for a kitchen backsplash tile. And Brennan experimented with 20-plus glazes to get the cracked earth finish just right for a client’s ocean-inspired wet bar.

“I love that part of the process,” she says. “You could have one glaze in one color, but if you mix it a certain way or fire at a certain temperature, it will do 100 different things. It’s just amazing.”

In fact, the entire tile-making practice is a slow, intensive process. Brennan draws designs on paper or digitally, then carves them and makes multiple molds. “There’s a very long drying time to ensure that there’s no cracks and even then, about 30% aren’t going to be right,” she says. Smaller batches can take around three months. But the perfectly imperfect, completely one-of-a-kind results are well worth the wait.

@sealilyceramics