It was August 16, 2025, a warm Saturday morning, and my children and I arrived just before 11. The moment we stepped out of the car, the air itself seemed to pull us in—smoky barbecue, fresh poke bowls, and sweet pastries mingled in a delicious cloud around the church parking lot. Vendors were busy at their stalls, laughing, fanning away smoke, and serving up plates of food that looked too good to resist.
Inside the Severn Christian Church, the program began quietly. The emcee introduced a man to open with a prayer. He stood with confidence and began to speak in ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, his words flowing like music. I didn’t recognize a single word, but I didn’t need to. The rhythm of his voice carried both reverence and pride, and in that moment, I felt as though the entire room was wrapped in a blessing. My children sat still beside me, listening—something about the prayer stilled us all.
Before the show continued, the emcee encouraged everyone to visit the vendors. My children’s eyes immediately lit up at the sight of cookies displayed at one of the booths. The sign read “Samoan Vegan Cookies.” Curious, they bought one small bag and we all tasted it right there.
The first bite startled us—it tasted so familiar. Mushroom may have been the main ingredient, but the flavor took us back to the Philippines, to the warm, flaky taste of hopiang baboy. Crunchy on the outside, savory on the inside—it was comfort disguised in a new form. The vendor smiled as I told her the connection. “The original isn’t vegan,” she admitted, “but this version has a healthy twist.” Healthy or not, it tasted like home.
We wandered from booth to booth, each one brimming with treasures: dolls dressed in bright fabrics, lei strung with care, delicate earrings, handwoven purses, T-shirts with island prints. I lingered over a table of hair clips shaped like flowers, while my son picked up a carved necklace, holding it against his chest as if imagining himself a part of the culture it represented.
Then the music began. A group of dancers in colorful costumes moved gracefully across the stage, their steps in sync with the beat of drums. Later, a young woman with a ukulele sang Hawaiian songs, her voice sweet and steady, filling the church hall with warmth. Each performance wasn’t just entertainment—it was storytelling. Through dance, rhythm, and song, we glimpsed the history and spirit of the Pacific Islands.
What moved me even more was learning the festival’s story. It began in 1985 at the Church of the Redemption in Locust Point, South Baltimore. Meki and JoAnn Toalepai, together with their late friend Gordon Velasco, wanted to build a Polynesian community—one rooted in food, fellowship, and talent. Looking around at the packed church, the laughter, the shared meals, and the proud performances, I realized their dream had grown into something far greater than they might have imagined.
So maybe you can’t learn the entirety of Pacific Islander culture in a single day. But you can feel it—in a prayer you don’t understand, in the crunch of a mushroom cookie that tastes like home, in the sway of a dance that tells a story older than you are.
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