The once-dying art of : THE LEI : In Hawaii, It’s the Thought That Counts, and They Say It With Flowers, Shells, Feathers

On the long flight from Chicago to Hawaii, a young woman whiles away the hours by stringing a lei of pearl-white shells. At the Honolulu airport, a little boy holds a lei of fragrant yellow blossoms as he eagerly watches for his mother. “I made it myself,” he says shyly. At the gate, a tour guide welcomes his group with leis made of carnations and tiny orchids. “Aloha!” he greets them. “Welcome to Hawaii!”

The lei is so much a part of Hawaii’s image that it is surprising to learn that it, along with other traditions of the islands, was disappearing 40 years ago. When Marie MacDonald began her career with the state Department of Parks and Recreation in 1952, she was one of a few recreation teachers and professionals determined to revitalize the arts of Hawaii. “We grew up making leis,” MacDonald said with a smile, “but I had so much to learn!”

Passing on the Skill

Today, MacDonald is renowned as an expert on the leis of Hawaii, and her students’ students continue to pass on her knowledge and enthusiasm. This summer, she joined dozens of other tradition-bearers in sharing the state’s rich heritage with visitors to the Smithsonian Institution’s Festival of American Folklife in Washington, D.C.

The Polynesians who first settled the Hawaiian Islands 15 centuries ago brought with them the tradition of making leis from natural materials at hand--seeds, shells, teeth, feathers and plants. The years that followed brought explorers, visitors and settlers from South America, Europe, Asia and North America, and “any time anybody introduced something to the islands,” MacDonald says, “somebody made a lei out of it.”

The lei became important in Hawaiian religion, music, poetry and lore. Preparing the lei remains a key part of the hula ritual. Today, the lei tradition belongs to everyone in the state, whether their forebears were Hawaiian or came from Japan, China, Puerto Rico, Okinawa, Samoa, Southern California or all of the above.

Social Significance

Leis are offered to welcome a stranger or a friend, to celebrate holidays, weddings and birthdays and to honor the dead. Hawaiian cowboys wear leis in parades and rodeos and just for the fun of it. At prom time, a boy gives his date a lei to match her gown, and at commencement time, graduates are showered with leis “to the eyebrows,” MacDonald says.

Each lei-making technique has its challenges. Hili is simple braiding of a single material. In haku , the most difficult, the lei maker braids ferns or other leaves and mounts flowers in the plait. A wili lei is bound with a thread of hibiscus bark or raffia. A kipu’u lei is knotted; a humupapa is sewn to a base of bark or fabric. And there are many, many variations of stringing the lei kui .

Lei makers have a vast array of materials from which to choose, and since Hawaii has virtually no seasons, buds, blossoms, fruits and leaves of any given plant are available year-round. Many of the native species are now rare, so MacDonald encourages her students to grow their own materials in lei gardens. “Orchids, carnations and other things you can buy in the supermarket,” she said.

Shells as Flowers

This profusion of flowers is lacking only on arid Ni’ihau, a private island. “So, for centuries, the shell has been the flower of Ni’ihau,” says Linda Moriarty, coordinator of the Smithsonian’s program. During the winter months, Pacific storms churn up the tiny shells that wash ashore on the island’s beaches. The shells of Ni’ihau are not unusual, Moriarty says, but their abundance and quality are unmatched. Beachcombers can gather a cupful of shells on a good day and store them for summer lei-making.

Many shells are discarded or damaged during the process of sorting, cleaning and piercing for stringing. The islanders have words for the subtle differences in color that develop as shells are tumbled in surf and bleached by the sun. The most valued shells are the pearl-white momi .

In the old days, shells were strung on the green cotton thread used to make fishing nets, the tips of the strings stiffened with beeswax. Nowadays, nylon or polyester thread and quick-drying cement are used. There are many styles of stringing, some named for flowers. A traditional wedding lei of 20 strands, each 60 inches long, contains 6,000 carefully selected shells. A bride’s friends might work for a year to produce such a lei, Moriarty says.

Many Blossoms Stacked

If there is a king or queen of the floral leis, it is the ilima . This deceptively simple, golden garland inspired the familiar paper leis. Hundreds of tiny, fragile blossoms are opened and stacked to form a round strand. Ilima were so valued that for centuries, the Hawaiian monarchs accepted them as payment for taxes. Receiving one today is a great honor. “It will last through the day and then wither,” MacDonald said, but the fragrance lingers and the memory lasts forever.

In fact, in making traditional leis, materials are chosen first for fragrance--”better than French perfume,” MacDonald said. Then there is the color scheme, which may be brilliant or subtle. Many lovely leis are made from greenery. The lei maker also considers texture and the way the material will feel against the wearer’s skins. Movement is very important in a lei to be worn by a hula dancer or as a headdress. “They are very intriguing and graceful, and enhance the beauty of men and women,” MacDonald said.

The least important aspect of a lei is how long it will last. This is a concept that escapes many tourists, who are often heard asking how to preserve one. “Some Westerners have trouble understanding that the meaning of the lei is in the making and giving,” MacDonald said, “perhaps because they live in such a plastic world.” Indeed, some do settle for leis made of artificial flowers. She cringes at the thought. “Sure, make leis out of plastic beads or shapes, but please, oh please, don’t make plastic imitations!”

A Fragile Expression

“The lei is an expression of love, affection, respect or honor,” she explained. “It’s the most beautiful thing I can make, from the most beautiful material at hand. As long as the lei is at its peak when I give it to you, it shows that I care.”

Westerners are also often uncomfortable with the idea of men wearing flowers, MacDonald noted. “For the Pacific man, the more flowers the better,” she said. “One paniolo (cowboy) summed it up when he said: ‘We like to show off. The girls all look at you when you wear a lei!’ My husband, a Virginian, got so in tune with the custom that he often wore a lei on his hat while working with his Pam Am ground crew.”

For a cowboy, a hat lei has its practical side--it keeps the hat from blowing off. Old-time paniolo tell MacDonald of making leis on the way home, sometimes gathering the materials “at full gallop, for the fun of it.” One paniolo confided to MacDonald that he relied on his lei to show his wife that he had really been out in the high pasture and not off gallivanting.

The paniolo are great lovers of another lei tradition, the feather hat band, descended from the feather leis once worn by Hawaiian royalty. Tsugi Kaiama, another festival participant, has been making feather leis for 51 of her 75 years. “I thought I would retire,” she said, but the customers keep coming.

Kaiama gets her feathers from hunters who come to the Big Island ranches to shoot pheasant, peafowl, quail and other game birds. “They only want the meat, so they give me the skins,” Kaiama says. The plumage is so varied that an infinite number of patterns are possible.

“Some leis can be completed in a few days,” she said. She then pointed to a simple band of perfectly matched, iridescent blue neck feathers from Chinese ringnecked pheasants. “That one took six months,” she said.

Feather Leis Saved

Fine feather leis are kept and handed down for generations, but Kaiama fears that hers is a dying art. Younger lei makers lack the patience, she said. “They calculate in their minds, ‘so much an hour,’ but we’re not making money, we’re making feather leis. You must love to do this.” She has high hopes for her grandniece, a fourth-grader “who can sit beside me for hours.” Like MacDonald, Moriarty and other lovers of Hawaiian tradition, Kaiama wishes to pass the gift of the lei to future generations.

Lei Day is May 1. In Honolulu’s Kapiolani Park, people crowd in front of the winner of the mayor’s grand prize, a lei of deep green laua’e fern leaves fashioned into hundreds of rosettes, each no bigger than the tip of a pinkie. The winner, a Vietnamese who came to Hawaii in 1979, says he learned “by watching.”

Demonstrators show how to make leis of every description. There are leis made from silk, roses, glossy black candlenuts, paper clips, candy, cigarette papers--and plastic six-pack holders. One woman creates intricate patterns from seed pods. A friend sits down to admire the work. “Will you make one for me?” she asks. The answer is a smile and a shake of the head. “I’m not gonna make for you. You gonna learn do yo’ own!” They pick up the needles, and the lesson begins.