How Polynesian Dance Is Reviving Culture and Community for These Young Americans

Welcome to Group Project , a series on the many ways young people are building and engaging with community. From queer resistance to finding new hobbies to forging alternate paths, working together is more important than ever. Here's how young people are getting off their phones and seeking community IRL.

In a tiny gymnasium at Foisia Park in Carson, California, an eclectic group of women ranging in age from 14 to 56 line up in rows, ready for instruction at their first siva Samoa (Samoan dance) lesson. Felisha Anoa’i, the class instructor and owner of Suataute Dance Group , breaks the ice by having each person introduce themselves and why they joined the class. One by one, everyone gives roughly the same answer: “To connect with my culture.”

Just a few miles away at a dance studio in a strip mall in Anaheim, California, a dozen kids ages 8 to 14 giggle around Tiana Liufau, creative director and owner of Nonasina Dance , as she teaches them how to pronounce words in both Native Hawaiian and Samoan before ending their dance class. “Ah, eh, ee, oh, ooh,” she says, sounding out Samoan vowels for the class as they repeat intently. Every little face surrounding her hangs on her every word, eager to learn more.

You’ve likely seen some form of Polynesian dance in popular culture, whether in movies like Lilo and Stitch or Moana, or dancers showcasing their moves on TikTok. But what you’ve seen is probably just that: one variation. The beauty of Polynesian dance communities is that they showcase all different styles of dancing, which vary from island to island — from Samoan sivas, to hulas from Hawai‘i, to Ori Tahiti and the Māori Haka .

“No matter where we land our two feet, we always have that sense of being Polynesian. What better way to perpetuate that?”

In Polynesian culture, dance is an integral part of the community that expands beyond performance; it’s something embedded within us and a form of storytelling passed down from our ancestors. There are layers upon layers to Polynesian dance: movement, language, and traditional ceremonies that go hand in hand with the art. In Polynesian communities in the U.S., people young and old come together to keep these traditions alive, whether they’re performing at big dance competitions like the Merrie Monarch Festival or putting on local performances for their communities.

“What I think is special about Indigenous communities is that we can trace these forms of movement back to our ancestors, back to the land that our parents and grandparents come from,” Liufau shares with Teen Vogue. “No matter where we land our two feet, we always have that sense of being Polynesian. What better way to perpetuate that?”

Though Bryson Nihipali, 26, is not actively a member of Hālau o Lilinoe a me Nā Pua Me Kealoha, the Hawaiian dance group or hālau that his family started, he understands why many young people feel it’s their duty to keep the culture alive for future generations. “There's a quote by the last king of Hawai‘i,” he says. “ ‘Hula is the language of the heart, and therefore the heartbeat of the Hawaiian people.’ And I see that as a lot of things.”

“Hula is resistance,” he shares, “because it was banned in Hawai‘i . In the same way that Hawaiian language was banned, hula was also banned for a long time. So the fact that chants are still being passed onto people, and new generations, is an act of resistance.”

When Christian missionaries arrived in Hawai‘i in the 1800s, Native Hawaiians and their culture were threatened by new disease, political attacks, land grabs, and more. Hula performed in public was eventually banned, turning it into a form of protest that Native Hawaiians practiced to express and preserve cultural pride. It wasn’t until the 1880s when King David Kalākaua was elected and helped revive traditional cultural practices like hula dancing. Similarly in Tahiti, Ori Tahiti dancing was also banned by Europeans in the 18th century and deemed ‘immoral.’ In the present day, these dance styles continue to live on and are honored as a way to preserve an aspect of Polynesian culture that was almost lost, if not for those that fought back to keep their Indigeneity and traditions alive.

For Anoa’i, teaching siva Samoa is a direct connection to her roots, one that can plant that same connection in the community’s youth. “Our stories are being told through dance, and I like dancing [and] singing our stories,” she says. “I think it's important [...] to plug in that piece of identity that's missing [in young people], that isn’t taught in school. I want something solid where our young people could come and learn about our culture.”

For young people, particularly those living in diaspora, cultural dance provides a sense of community and a space to express themselves. “Being here, it's like a second family, it's like a second home,” Courtney Mesi, 22, shares. “[It’s] also an outlet, a safe space where we're able to leave all of the outside problems in the outside world. But once we step in, it feels like we're a unit, we're a community, above all, we're a family.”

Mesi, who is Samoan and grew up in California, joined Nonosina Dance when she was just four years old, following the footsteps of her older sister who is also in the group. She credits the art with helping her get over timidness as a child and boosting her confidence, not just in her abilities but in her identity as well. “I feel like here in California or in the U.S. in general, a lot of people my age feel like they're not Samoan enough, feel like they're not Polynesian enough. Being here has definitely given me that confidence [in my identity] as well.”

“[It’s] also an outlet, a safe space where we're able to leave all of the outside problems in the outside world. But once we step in, it feels like we're a unit, we're a community, above all, we're a family.”

Mesi has been dancing for 18 years, which has given her a strong sense of community that she’s leaned heavily on through every phase of her life. “We definitely are there for each other through the highs and the lows. For me personally, I've overcome every milestone [in my life] in the studio. I've grown up here,” she says. Now, Mesi has become a teacher at the studio to help the next generation of dancers preserve culture. “I don't have any younger siblings. All of the kids I teach, I look at as my younger siblings. They were definitely the ones [that made me want to do it].”

Emeli Muagututi’a, 20, also dances for Nonosina. She is Samoan, Tongan, and Fijian, moved from California to Texas at a young age and felt removed from her Polynesian culture and community. According to the U.S. Census Bureau , California has the second highest population of Native Hawaiian and Other Pacific Islanders, following Hawaii. Texas’s population is growing quickly, but still smaller.

So when she moved back to California at 13, she thought it was the perfect time to join the dance group. “I wanted to join because my mom actually danced for this group. When we moved here, it just seemed like the perfect opportunity… I've fallen in love with dance and it's just become a huge part of my [life].”

Her love for the community runs deep, and tears begin to form in her eyes as she explains why the dance group is so important to her. “Being a part of this group, being away [from California] and coming back, this has been a safe space for me. The people here, I can honestly say I love each and every one of them and everybody that has come before.” She looks to her community not just for emotional support, but also through the dancing itself.

“Dance is its own language,” she says. “Sometimes that's all you need…. We lean on each other a lot because dancing in the line [as a group] is very different from dancing with [one person]. Making sure in your peripheral vision that your sisters are there, they're going to hold it down for you. They're going to be in that line, and you just have to be right next to them.”

Similar to Muagututi’a, Kaile-Ann Bush, 18, also took an interest in hula after moving to California from Texas when she was 14. Bush, who is Kānaka Maoli, or Native Hawaiian, joined Nihipali’s family dance group, Hālau o Lilinoe a me Nā Pua Me Kealoha, last October as a way to connect with her Hawaiian roots. “I grew up mostly in Texas, so I wasn't really in touch with a lot of the Polynesian culture and it was kind of upsetting. When I came to California, I saw more hula dancing,” she shares. “I really wanted to join any hālau, even though I didn't know much about them. But I knew that being Hawaiian, that's just a part of me. So I just decided to start dancing, and I have loved it ever since.”

“Dance is its own language. Sometimes that's all you need."

With a few years of experience under their belts now, Muagututi’a and Bush both emphasize the biggest lesson they’ve taken away from dance: language.

“Language is a huge part [of dance]. If you don't know what you're dancing about, then it doesn't mean anything,” Muagututi’a says. Bush, similar to Mesi, says learning language through dance has also helped her confidence in her cultural identity and understanding. “Ever since joining the hālau, I’ve learned the correct pronunciations, the correct spelling and grammar of Hawaiian words, and that has helped me build confidence. And just knowing that wherever I am, I'm still Hawaiian, I have Hawaiian blood. Even beyond the language, I’ve learned a lot about taking care of the land, especially going back to Hawai‘i to visit.”

Muagututi’a also had an experience where being a part of the dance community led her to a sacred practice that she now has a deeper appreciation for. “We just recently went to the volcano to give offerings to Pele , the Hawaiian goddess of fire, before we danced on the Merrie Monarch stage [in Hilo, Hawai‘i]. Those kinds of things, some outsiders may not know or understand. And just to be able to participate in that, it's super special. And what an honor truly to not just know those traditions, but now I can understand, with language.”

Even if you’re not actively a member of the dance community, those that grew up in the culture still understand its significance. Nihipali, an emerging Kānaka Maoli filmmaker, made his directorial debut with his documentary, Ke Ala , interviewing 3 generations of his family and examining the ways his family members living in diaspora stay connected to their culture and each other while living on the mainland. Hula, of course, plays a big role in his film, as it inspired him to pick up the camera. “I practiced with the hālau a couple of times in my senior year of college. When I went, it felt really familiar. There's a beat, a rhythm to it, that feels familiar. I like that feeling and though, and thought, ‘Oh, this is cool, I need to make a film.’”

Living in diaspora, an ocean away from your ancestral land can make most feel disconnected or “not enough.” Being in spaces like these dance communities remind young people that no matter where they are, they’ll always carry their culture with them. “We're uplifting Polynesia, and I like to tell my students, ‘This is in your blood. You have it in you. I just want to introduce you to it and make you know that it's okay. We're going to use our body to express ourselves because sometimes we're not allowed to,’" Liufau says.

She continues, “I have a soft spot for community, especially when there's a lot of young kids. High school and under is my sweet spot for teaching. That's where I get them because it's such a questionable age. Their bodies are changing. They're figuring out their lives. They want to belong somewhere, and they need some type of reassurance. But instead of just me giving reassurance, I'm going to make you feel something through Polynesian dance that you never knew you had before, and then it starts to stick. Now you are any kind of reassurance you've ever needed. And that's mana .”

Watch Now: Teen Vogue Video.

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