Living and Sharing Pacific Island Culture

March 10, 2025

An Interview with Elaine Talamaivao, Director of Tala Mai Moana

BY EMMALY WIEDERHOLT

Elaine Talamaivao is a Polynesian dancer and educator, as well as the director of Tala Mai Moana, based in Southern California. She brings her lived experience with Samoan, Hawaiian, and Māori cultures to her community via classes for young children up to college aged students and adults. Elaine shares her experience fusing Pacific Island dance styles with krumping, as well as why it’s valuable to study Māori and Pacific Island cultures.

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Can you share a little bit of your dance background and what shaped you as an artist?

I come from a dance family. My father was the director of choreography for the Samoan Dance Theatre in Samoa. He traveled the world showcasing our songs and dances. I was raised in Aotearoa, New Zealand. I represent the island nations of Samoa, Aotearoa, and Hawai’i. My whole childhood was about culture, language, practices, weavings, handicrafts, and how we present ourselves in society. I hail from a long line of chiefs: the House of Talamaivao on my father’s side, and Tuigamala Evalu on my mother’s side. I believed I was always my father’s apprentice. English was not our primary language at home. When I moved from Samoa to Aotearoa as a little girl, because I was still learning English, dance connected me with people at a time when language was very much a barrier.

What was the impetus for founding Tala Mai Moana?

At 18 years old, I wanted to come to America to make films. I wanted to capture movement, heritage, and Indigeneity for future generations and preserve our dances, especially in the generation of our grandparents. I did film school, but it didn’t work out. I completed it, but having received an internship at Warner Bros, it didn’t mesh. There was such a huge disconnect. One thing that was missing for me when I moved to the US was community dance and language for Pasefika. In 2012, I started Tala Mai Moana. It’s a play on my last name, Talamaivao, which means “the wisdom from the jungle.” I created Tala Mai Moana, which means “the wisdom from the oceans.” That was planted as a way to hold practices that were Hawaiian, Samoan, Māori, and Reo Tahiti. These were all the fusions that were present in my body.

You also have experience with hip hop culture. Can you say more about that fusion?

When I was a child growing up in Aotearoa, I was lucky enough to discover a choreographer who was Puerto Rican and Black from New York who did a residency and a mission in Auckland. Instead of going to the library to study, I would sneak off to the rec center to dance with and learn from her. I learned fundamental hip hop from her. I called her Auntie Hillary, and she was a beacon of light into hip hop culture. The flavor she brought was very East Coast, but the music I was listening to was very West Coast. My journey of dance has always been this woven intersection of Pasefika, cultural pride in my roots, and a curiosity in hip hop culture.

At UC Riverside, where I studied for undergrad, I met an innovative, brilliant faculty member, Rickerby Hinds. He is considered the godfather of hip hop theater in Southern California. I sat in his class, and what he didn’t know about me was I had been joining little krumping cyphers in San Bernardino. There was this immediate attraction to krump because of its kinetic energies and spiritual and emotional release that was quite parallel to Kapa Haka. We had this conversation, and I shared with Rickerby my love of krump. But, I was doing it barefoot. It’s supposed to be done in big boots or Timberlands to shake the earth with big powerhouse moves. The electricity that formed in my body was this ancestral pride infused with this raw style birthed out of the krump community in LA.

How is Tala Mai Moana organized?

Tala Mai Moana is my baby and changes over time. I have partnerships with the City of Riverside and the City of Orange. During the summer, I share my love of hip hop and Pacific Island dance with youth, from toddlers to teenagers. Part of that is not just dance; it’s about looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing who you want to be in the world. My classes are also fused with self-love, evoking and acknowledging how we feel in the presence of class. You’re not walking into a portal where you’re transforming immediately. You’re walking in with the heaviness of what’s happening with your family, your community, and the world. We don’t block or bury it. We bring it to the forefront, and we are present in that storytelling.

I’ve also been very fortunate to work for the University of Redlands and helped build a dance minor. Last spring, hip hop was offered for the first time at a private institution in Southern California. And I am currently, for the first time, offering a Pacific Island dance class that is accredited. It’s also cross-listed with Women Gendered and Sexuality Studies and Race and Ethnic Studies. These are the options for students who need to fulfill one of their core class requirements, and my class is one of those options. Enrollment was at 16, and we wait-listed three students, bringing in a full class of 19 students.

I had a freak accident a few weeks ago. I had a pressure cooker accident and burned 75 percent of my torso. In the middle of it all, I was most worried about pivoting my class. So I started the students off with haka. That is how we have been in class and community for the past three weeks. Because my body has been unable to move, my voice carries the movement. Yesterday, I asked my students as they were doing the breath work to capture that fire and throw it and then capture it and put it in their mouth. I asked how their bodies felt. Then I said congratulations; for the first time you have captivated the activation of Māori, haka, and krump. Because that is always activated in my body, it will resurface in different forms as we continue.

I had a student ask, “We’re speaking. Why is this considered dance? What I’ve seen in hip hop, modern dance, and ballet is we don’t sit there and sing.” My response was that dance and movement come in all forms. It comes in abstract forms and cultural forms. Pacific Island culture has a huge connection to oratory. We are orators. That is how we have navigated colonization and the shifts and changes of migration. Like many Indigenous communities, song is part of connecting to that breath. I said, “I want to let you know that by the end of our 14-week journey together, you will learn to weave, you will learn to sing, you will shake the earth with your body, your hips will move, your face will embody the strength of taking in breath. You won’t just move your torso.”

Tala Mai Moana is my foundation, but as you can see, it has forged other pathways for dance, especially in higher education.

Why is it important or valuable to study Māori and Pacific dance styles?

Regardless of your community background, who raised you, or your culture, there is so much happening in the Western world that is distracting from the pure survival of Pacific Island culture. We have movies like Moana, which was created with Pacific Island artists. But we are continuing to modernize our culture. Part of evolution is that we take from the roots of culture and move forward with time. We receive culture and dance and interpret it in different ways. With the growing tourism industry in Pacific Island nations, I worry our songs, instruments, and practices are becoming more accessible but in a way that is very mixed and jeopardizes losing the foundation of the culture.

I think for me, continuing this work is access from someone who hasn’t gone to university for Pacific Island studies. When I look at the Pacific Islander courses in the US, it’s often from the lens of someone not in the Pacific Island community. There’s a difference between a researcher versus someone with lived experience. These are the stories and movements direct from the roots of my parents, my grandparents, and their grandparents. I educate from that side of things. I also tailor to my audience. If it’s kids, we’re going to do stick games and upbeat songs. If it’s an older audience who is truly curious, I’m going to give you a full five-course meal on the culture.

Even Pacific Island kids here are disconnected from their parents’ roots. Their parents are the immigrants. They are first generation Americans. I talk to them about our songs and practices. One thing they brought to my attention is you can’t get a job in the arts. They say, “You’re telling us don’t forget where you come from, but you can’t make a living as a dancer unless you’re performing at a hotel.” That pivots the way I look at my teaching. I respond, “But the activation of dance, songs, and chants is in you, and whatever you do in terms of career, bring that out and share it with your community.” It’s important for Pasefika youth to remember there is wisdom and history in our dances and songs. It’s not about monetizing that wisdom – it’s about preserving our history and our culture.

The assignment due next week is called the pepeha, an introduction of who you are. I tell students to hype up who you are when you say your first name and last name, and then share your mountain, your river, your ocean, your tribe; this is who you are. I realize it’s a privilege to be able to say that. Students tell me they are in San Bernardino. I say, “Go deeper.” Then some tear up and tell me their mom came from another country and hasn’t been back since. There is permission to ask gracefully, “Where is your mom’s mountain? What river did she live nearby? What lands do you belong to?” Now the class goes deeper and is about belonging and lifting up their cultural roots.

What’s next for you? Do you have an upcoming project or focus you’d like to share more about?

I’m thinking of creating a space, but not a studio. I want to create a space that enables these multiple works to happen, especially in Southern California. I want to share work that is rooted in how we take care of the body during and after grief. That comes from an experience of not being mobile for close to a month. I would like to have a performance group again that is a celebration of voice and dance. Haka isn’t heard and seen here. Hula is very vibrant, but we don’t see much of the Samoan culture activated through dance in San Bernardino and LA. In this dormant state of movement, I’ve been able to dream more in collaborative and empowering ways.

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To learn more, visit www.talamaimoana.com.