I was born in Torrance, California. My parents moved from Apia in the late 80s, and I grew up in a house where English and Samoan mixed freely. I didn’t realize until I was older how rare that was.
Every Sunday was toana’i — the big family meal after church. My aunts would be in the kitchen from dawn, the house would smell like palusami and sapasui, and the table would be packed with food we’d be eating for days.
I didn’t always appreciate it. In high school, I wanted to be like everyone else. I was embarrassed when my dad spoke Samoan in public. I didn’t want to go to the family functions — they were too loud, too long, too much.
But then my grandmother passed. And at her funeral, I saw hundreds of people I was connected to — people I didn’t even know — all there because of her. All there because we’re aiga. And I realized that what I had been embarrassed by was actually the most important thing in my life.
Now I’m learning the language. I cook palusami for my own kids. And I tell them: this is who we are. Be proud.