TIL in 1901, Hawaiian legislators passed a bill naming every county after aliʻi nui. Governor Dole killed it by refusing to sign.
Our take
In 1901, a pivotal moment in Hawaiʻi's history unfolded when Kānaka ʻŌiwi legislators passed a bill to name counties after aliʻi nui, honoring the islands' rich cultural heritage. This legislation, which would have transformed Maui into the County of Liliʻuokalani and Oʻahu into the County of Kalohana, passed both chambers but awaited the signature of Governor Sanford Dole. Instead of endorsing this homage to Hawaiian lineage, Dole opted for silence, effectively killing the bill through a pocket veto. This decision marked the beginning of a century-long pattern of toponymic subjugation, where native place names were replaced by geographic identifiers.
In 1901, a pivotal moment in Hawaiian history was stifled by a simple act of inaction. The story of how Governor Sanford Dole's refusal to sign a bill naming the counties after aliʻi nui reveals much about the ongoing struggle for cultural preservation and identity in Hawaiʻi. This moment, where the voice of Kānaka ʻŌiwi legislators echoed with the intent to honor their lineage and heritage, was silenced. Instead of living in the County of Kalohana or Maui becoming the County of Liliʻuokalani, we were left with a nomenclature that stripped the islands of their rich genealogical tapestry. This act of pocket veto was not merely a legislative maneuver; it was an embodiment of toponymic subjugation that continues to resonate in contemporary discourse about identity and belonging.
The implications of this event stretch far beyond its immediate historical context. The choice to maintain geographic names over culturally significant ones diminished the connection to the land and its history, a theme that has been explored in various discussions about local identity, such as in the 2026 Readers’ Choices Awards: Kauaʻi, where the island's rich landscape is celebrated but often without acknowledgment of the cultural narratives that accompany it. The erasure of place names like Puʻuloa and Lēʻahi, which became Pearl Harbor and Diamond Head, reflects a broader trend of cultural dislocation and loss.
As we witness the gradual restoration of place names in Hawaiʻi, such as the recognition of Hawaiʻi Island as Moku o Keawe in 2025, we must also reflect on what these changes mean for the future. While the restoration of names is a significant step toward reclaiming cultural heritage, it also raises questions about the responsibility that comes with this reclamation. As visitors and residents alike, we are invited to embrace these names and the stories they carry, engaging with the local community to foster a deeper understanding of their significance. This process is not just about replacing one name with another; it is about reestablishing a connection to the land, its history, and its people, as highlighted in discussions about Black Hawaiian locals and their unique experiences within this cultural landscape.
Looking ahead, the challenge remains: how do we ensure that the restoration of Hawaiian place names is not merely symbolic, but rather a catalyst for genuine cultural engagement and understanding? As we continue to explore the islands and their vibrant cultures, we must ask ourselves: how can we contribute to a narrative that honors the past while embracing an inclusive and authentic future? The journey to reclaim these names is also a journey toward reclaiming identity—a testament to the resilience of the Kānaka and their enduring connection to the ʻāina. Embracing this journey is essential for anyone who wishes to experience Hawaiʻi not just as a destination, but as a living, breathing culture rich with stories waiting to be told.
I was supposed to live in the County of Kalohana, not Honolulu. It passed both chambers. It was law waiting for a signature. A single man decided for us by not picking up a pen.
In 1901, Kānaka ʻŌiwi legislators in Hawaiʻi's first territorial legislature passed a bill that would have named our counties after aliʻi nui. Maui would have become the County of Liliʻuokalani. Kauaʻi and Niʻihau, the County of Lunalilo. Oʻahu, the County of Kalohana. Hawaiʻi Island split into the County of Kauikeaouli and the County of Kamehameha.
House Bill 48 passed both chambers on April 26, 1901. The Maui News ran a headline the next morning: "Liliuokalani County." This was law waiting for a signature.
Governor Sanford Dole never signed it. He sat on it for ten days until the session ended, killing it through a pocket veto so there would be no chance for an override. When Kānaka legislators demanded answers, he did not reply.
By 1903, the Home Rule party had lost its majority. The county system that finally passed used geographic names stripped of genealogy, stripped of the message those Kānaka legislators were sending. They were asserting that this ʻāina still belonged to its people.
I learned that there is a word for what happened next, over and over, for a hundred years. Toponymic subjugation. Puʻuloa became Pearl Harbor. Lēʻahi became Diamond Head. By 1976 scholars estimated only 86% of place names across the islands were still in Hawaiian.
Now restoration is happening. Slowly. Hawaiʻi Island was officially recognized as Moku o Keawe in 2025. I hope that somewhere a generation of Kānaka will grow up never knowing the name Diamond Head. Or Pearl Harbor.
I learned of this history from the excellent paper "Race, Power, and the Dilemma of Democracy: Hawaiʻi's First Territorial Legislature, 1901" by Dr. Ronald Williams, Jr.
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