As long as people have lived on the Hawaiian islands, they have been making lei.
For centuries, the garlands were used for religious rituals, by chiefs (aliʻi), and were believed to even be worn by deities (akua) when they assumed human form. The art, though exalted, was not exclusively for the privileged and was worn by all in Hawaiian society.
Though usually made of flowers and leaves, leis are also made of nuts, feathers, fruit, seeds, and shells. “The women change [the plants they wear] according to the seasons, [and for them] all the fragrant plants, all flowers, and even colored fruits serve as attire,” French botanist Charles Gaudichaud-Beaupré wrote during his visit in 1819. “Such natural attire is much more rich, much more striking, than all the dazzling creations of the elegant European ladies.”
In the following century, native plants became harder to find and lei makers increasingly relied on introduced plants like plumeria and jasmine (pīkake)—which are now so ubiquitous, their garlands are more recognizable than that of native flora.
Nothing quite symbolizes the essence of Hawai’i and the aloha spirit (in short, the generosity and goodwill of the Hawaiian people) quite like the lei. Today, lei are traditionally worn and given as gifts for almost any occasion, including funerals, graduations, weddings, and birthdays.
“Lei is a symbol of love and affection, but also it’s a symbol of a child, of a keiki,” says Maui-based lei maker Wileen Ortega, founder of Tita’s Lei Loke LLC. “Where you wear it… [for example] around your ʻāʻī, or your neck—it’s close to your heart and represents a child and how you hold them dear to you.”
May 1 marks the 96th Lei Day. Local lei makers across the islands share how they see the future of their craft.
The complicated origins of Lei Day
Lei Day was born in 1929 amid a painful time for the Hawaiian people. Following the toppling of the Hawaiian Kingdom, the islands’ people were living under U.S. annexation.
At this time, protocols for the celebration were established, such as using certain types of lei and colors to represent the different islands. Hawai’i Island was given the color red (ulaula) and the flower ʻōhiʻa lehua, which is currently being threatened by a fungal disease known as Rapid ʻŌhiʻa Death.
The Lei Day Queen and her attendants descend a flight of stairs during the Lei Day celebrations in Honolulu, Oʻahu, circa 1935. The tradition of crowning a Lei Day queen dates back to the holiday’s founding in 1928 and continues today.
Photograph by FPG/Archive Photos/Getty Images
“That was not a traditional Hawaiian idea to have an island be with a color and a lei,” Big Island-based entrepreneur and mother Haunani Miyasato says. “That was brought in by an outsider.” Indeed, those colors and flowers were designated by the Hawaii Territorial Legislature, a body imposed by the U.S. before statehood.
It’s not surprising there are mixed feelings toward the holiday. Kawaihili Uyeshiro, Miyasato’s daughter and founder of Ko Kawai Lei, is currently a student at the Big Island-based Hawaiian immersion school, Ke Kula ʻo Nāwahīokalaniʻōpuʻu. She and her classmates won’t be recognizing Lei Day on May 1, unlike other schools around the state. “It isn’t a traditional holiday…We don’t celebrate,” the 16-year-old says.
Lei makers from the Big Island, Oʻahu, Maui
Ortega started making lei around age 5 in her hula halau. She fondly recalls looking for wild plumeria on her drive to weekly performances at the local mall. “Now, whenever I see plumeria, or smell plumeria, it brings back those memories,” she says.
Plumeria is one of the islands’ most popular flowers thanks to both their scent and colors—but they aren’t native to the area. They originate from Central America and have thrived on the Hawaiian islands since 1860. It’s a common misconception that flowers like these used in iconic leis are native, says Oʻahu-based lei maker Skye Kaululani’ikeaomalamalama Rhoden.
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For lei makers, making lei from native plants and ensuring native populations thrive is a tough balancing act. “It’s tricky as a lei maker to perpetuate Hawaiian culture because a lot of our native plants have been overpicked throughout time,” Rhoden says.
Lei wili (wrapped lei) made with native plants ʻaʻaliʻi, hāpuʻu and lāʻī (also known as ti leaf). ʻAʻaliʻi represents strength as the ʻaʻaliʻi bush stands strong in the wind.
Photograph by Haunani Miyasato
Hawaiʻi has been called the “Endangered Species Capital of the World,” with more than 100 plant taxa already extinct, and more than 200 are considered to have 50 or fewer individuals remaining in the wild. At least 90 percent of Hawaiʻi’s dry forests have been lost to impacts from invasive species, wildfires, and urban development.
Because of this, Ortega says she rarely picks flowers from the mountain. “I feel like it’s important to just leave it alone and let it grow back and not pick if I don’t need to if it’s not for a really, really special occasion.”
Uyeshiro came to the same conclusion. Though she lives near the Volcano on the Big Island where the red ʻōhiʻa lehua grows, she refrains from using this particular flower in order to help nurture populations of the threatened plant.
To offset her impact on wild flowers, Rhoden also grows native flora in her backyard and sources from local growers.
“I’m local; they’re local, and I’m keeping the money here within our island,” she said. “We all kind of know each other… Everyone is humble, kind, and rooted, down-to-earth.”
Many of Hawaii’s most iconic lei are made from flowers introduced from other countries, like plumeria (center).
Photograph by Douglas Peebles Photography / Alamy Stock Photo
It’ll take everyone to protect the native flora left on the islands, including people like Puanani Anderson-Fung, a researcher from the University of Hawai’i’s Hawaiian Ethnobotany & Conservation program. Her work involves identifying the original words for native plant life–in a way, making lei from names by stringing together their history.
“Our rate of endemism is very high, meaning that we have so much to lose,” she says. “What we lose in native species can never be replaced.”
Her favorite lei is one made by her husband. “He braids rope with three strands of green ti leaf and weaves the laua’e leaves into it. It is cool and comfortable to wear and has a beautiful fragrance—and it is totally sustainable, as these plants are readily grown in my yard and so they make no impact on native plants and ecosystems.”
A woman sells lei in a photo taken around 1920.
Photograph by James W. Welgos/Archive Photos/Getty Images