When my family moved to Hawaii five years ago from Los Angeles, I also moved away from my “mainland mindset” by starting to call the continental US “the mainland,” and noticing that I was now one of many Asian kids on the street, where before I had been in the minority.
Most Hawaiians embrace some kind of water sport, so I learned to paddle an outrigger canoe, or ama, at the famous Outrigger Club on Waikiki Beach. An enduring symbol of Honolulu’s tradition-hardened social scene, the Outrigger Club offers a unique lens into the state’s complex past alongside its diverse present. In fact, its controversial history of discrimination highlights the importance of confronting uncomfortable truths, and stands as a powerful reminder of the original—much more profound—meaning of the “aloha spirit.”
Often, my friends and I wade up to the club’s dock, drag in our canoe before the sun sets, then rush up the beach to order hot dogs at the Outrigger’s snack window. We talk about anything there, including the common question: “What are you?”
Any kid in Hawaii will immediately understand what that means. Translated, what we really want to know is: What kind of Asian are you? Are you Chinese or Korean? Japanese? Or mixed? We ask one another that question as casually as we inquire about the toppings we like on our hot dogs: ketchup, relish, onions, mustard, maybe some sriracha.
Back in California, race was not such a conversational topic. If anything, there was an unspoken social rule to not talk about race, even though my school in Pasadena was very diverse. In class, the topic was either too sensitive or avoided altogether so as to teach us to be “colorblind.”
This kind of thinking can do more harm than good. In Hawaii, race is simply another part of our identity, not a label that defines how we connect to each other.
According to a 2019 The New York Times opinion article, “Want to be Less Racist? Move to Hawaii,” our state has a reputation for interracial harmony that is unique among the rest of the nation. People of mixed race make up a quarter of the population and forty percent end up marrying outside their ethnic group. In a psychological study by Dr. Kristin Pauker, an Oahu native, young children raised in and around Honolulu were found to see race differently from their mainland peers.
“They weren’t race-blind,” Pauker said. But they also didn’t attach race to inherent personality traits, like intelligence or friendliness. To them, race was not “an essential aspect of one’s personhood.”
But Hawaii’s racial past is more tangled than many would like to admit. With a complex colonialist legacy, the state’s twentieth-century history was defined by bigotry and contradiction.
World War Two, for example, saw over a hundred thousand Japanese Americans forcibly relocated to internment camps up and down the west coast of the mainland. In Hawaii, a relatively small number—about 1,800—were detained.
The fact that individuals of Japanese descent made up a third of Hawaii’s population in 1942, and therefore were an essential part of the territory’s economy, proved to be a deciding factor. Even in the 1940s, the island population was famously multi-ethnic, and there was substantial intermingling between different groups.
However, this did not mean that racial harmony prevailed. Prominent private organizations, including beach and golf clubs like the Outrigger, continued to exclude people of Asian descent for the next several decades.
The Outrigger Club was founded in 1908 only ten years after the former Hawaiian Kingdom’s annexation by the United States. Many families have been members for three or four generations. As a result, the Outrigger Club’s long history reflects the changes in Hawaiian society over time.
In 1945, the club made headlines when renowned professional swimmer (and future Hawaii state representative) Kiyoshi “Keo” Nakama was asked to leave the dining room because of his race. When questioned as to why the club had thrown out the swimmer who had just broken a world record in the mile, then-club president Harold A. Mountain stated, “It has always been the unwritten policy of the club not to accept Orientals as members or guests” (Fawcett, Denby. Honolulu Civil Beat). The Outrigger would maintain its “unwritten racial restrictions” until the 1960s.
American history, past and present, proves that the shift away from racial exclusion does not run in a straight line. But if Hawaii, with its complicated past, can move toward greater inclusion, then positive change is possible. Hawaii is not a perfect place; resources are dwindling as the cost of living continues to rise, all while a newer divide draws lines in the sand—the line between locals and tourists.
Yet, I believe there is something unique in the island culture that does set it apart. The aloha spirit—an implicit understanding of kindness, respect, and community mindset that has survived decades of colonization and oppression. The word itself means so much more than what tourists read on brochures upon setting foot on the islands. To us, it signifies hospitality, reciprocity, and a deep connection to the land. It represents not just taking, but giving.
And the aloha spirit is not only for Hawaii—it should apply everywhere. “If you’re aware of how much you depend on others and how small and fragile the world is,” writes Velasquez-Manoff for the Times, “you’re likely to have a very different approach to human relationships.”
Moving from LA, where discussions about race were almost inherently problematic, to Honolulu, where race is not only openly discussed but joked about, has shifted the way I think about the role of race in our society. Speaking about race helps us better understand ourselves and our history, no matter how messy. In the end, that’s what matters: not forgetting the past, but rather learning from it. The aloha spirit is a cultural reminder to move forward in the right direction and teach people mālama: caring for the land, each other, and ourselves. It’s the “island mindset.”
The Outrigger Club’s most famous member is Duke Kahanamohu, a legendary surfer and Olympic athlete of the early twentieth century. He was denied entry until 1917, when the club contradicted their unspoken rule against members of Asian descent by admitting the “godfather of surfing.” Now, there are countless pictures hanging on the club’s walls as tribute to Duke’s achievements and influence. Whenever I visit, I walk by those framed images. Most of the time, I barely look, but I never forget that they’re there.