Spooked · KQED and Snap Studios

Merrie Monarch

April 3, 2026·33 min·2 clips
Kumu Mapuana de Silva walked alone to the center-stage mic and told thousands at the Merrie Monarch Festival that her halau would not perform — and then the storm stopped.
A command opens the dark. A child sits in church as a red-faced preacher turns Exodus 32 into a warning about the golden calf. The fear in that room lingers, then the story moves to Leigh Ann, a deeply experienced hula dancer who mentors newer hula sisters. Rehearsal should feel familiar. It does not. When the second verse comes, something drops low in her na'au, a gut warning she cannot talk herself out of. She stays quiet. From September into spring, the chant and dance keep resisting her in a way she has never felt before. Then competition week arrives. Leigh Ann and her hula sisters fly to Hilo, check into the Naniloa Hotel, and sit in Edith Kanaka'ole Stadium. The next morning looks calm: blue sky, cool mist, rehearsal on the hotel lawn. Leigh Ann is anything but calm. Before kehiko night, while the others watch the first groups perform, she slips outside for air. The feeling is still there. The excerpt lands in a gentler place too, with an auntie who kept showing up in everyday ways: a hot meal, field trip fees, a couch, gas money, new kicks, an address when there was no address. The divine does not feel far away here. It glows in a tiny apartment doorway, even when someone is getting cussed out for leaving the door open to the cold.

As heard by us

A hula story where nerves, faith, and performance sit close together.

Merrie Monarch follows a dancer who carries an uneasy feeling into hula practice and then into competition in Hilo, where faith, memory, and performance keep rubbing against each other.

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Why you'd press play

You want a hushed, uneasy listen that moves from church memory to stage nerves and keeps tightening the air.

Read the full recommendation in PlayNext →
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