“Alooooooooha!”

I never forgot the booming voice of Uncle.

No, he was not my blood relative. But everyone in Hawai’i was either an uncle, an aunt, a brother, or a sister.

Little did I know that the second I landed in Honolulu I became a member of a massive Ohana, a family.

On past vacations, my parents, my brother and I would visit the most popular, and usually overcrowded, hotspots recommended by Google or a travel agency. This time, we decided to discover the archipelago on our own.

The moment I stepped off the plane, a wave of heat engulfed my body; warm weather existed! Most of us idealize Hawai’i as the perfect location for beach-goers to relax in the sun, and I was prepared to do the same: Flop on the sand like a beached seal, and then flip back and forth like a sausage patty being tossed on the grill, while soaking in the heat.

Upon entering the hotel, everyone was given a lei, a necklace strung together using freshly-picked flowers. I first marveled at the beauty and sweet odour of my lei, and then learned that it wasn’t meant simply as a fashion statement, but more importantly as a symbol of welcome. The two Polynesian women who were giving out leis further explained to me that it is part of their tradition to make everyone feel welcome in their home. I learned as well that the word “Aloha” was not simply “Hello,” but that it also meant “Peace,” and “I love you.” I was surprised that on the first day I would be invited to experience a new culture that was even more open and friendly than my own (and I thought Canadians were already the epitome of hospitality).

For the first few days, I broke the habit of saying “aloha” the way North Americans say “hello” in a cheery, upbeat voice; I learned to bellow the Hawaiian greeting and extend my “o” for at least 4 seconds. As I spent more time with Hawaiians, I came to understand the significance of saying the word with passion and love, qualities they communicate to everyone they meet. I love the feeling that one simple word can make me feel a sense of belonging and a connection to those around me.

The more I got to spend time with native Hawaiians, the more I learned that the hospitality and warmth in Hawaiian culture are more than just words.

On my last weekend, one of my new Uncles invited me to a luau, a tradition that involves a massive feast, chanting, dancing and storytelling. My family and I were excited to finally experience an authentic Hawaiian meal, after unsuccessfully trying to avoid American and fake Hawaiian food for days. Sitting at a long, wooden table covered with fresh purple orchids, we were served fish, rice, Lau Lau, which was a dish that consisted of shredded pork wrapped in taro leaves, and poi or mushed taro root.

As I was sitting there wondering if I still had room for seconds, Uncle told me to eat more and that fat is beautiful. I thought he was light-heartedly joking with me. The Western culture that I grew up with taught me through media that beauty is all that is skinny. So, I just laughed at his joke. As I went for seconds, he looked at me seriously and told me what he truly meant: Big is beautiful. He told me that for centuries, the Polynesians believed that the bigger you are, the more beautiful you are, and that it is essential to just eat what you want and be happy.

My Asian mother told me since the day I was born that fat is ugly. Throughout elementary school, I was told to eat less or I would retain my chubby figure into adulthood. For the longest time, childhood meant staring longingly at the snack cupboard and then glaring at my fat rolls, and so on back and forth. The realization that there is a culture that openly embraces bigger bodies helped me understand that the diversity of beauty expands beyond the super skinny. Beauty is a reflection of personal happiness, not size. Remembering the beauty of big families, big bodies, and big hearts allowed me to transform shame into an embrace of acceptance.