Words carry history. On Kaua‘i, I was taught to respect both. A lesson learned the hard way, and a tradition worth remembering.

I grew up around cowboys my entire life. My family has ranched here on Kaua‘i since 1886.

Years ago, I came across an article by Lee Cataluna in the Honolulu Advertiser. It was about Claude Ortiz—a man who had been riding, roping, and herding for over 70 years—and why he absolutely refused to use the word most of us know today.

After reading it, I had to go ask my dad what he heard growing up.
He said paniola—and then he started singing “Paniola Country,” pronouncing the A.

Over time, we change names, and the new generation forgets the old. It’s like playing telephone—by the time the message goes around the circle, it comes back different.

But I love the stories of the past, and I prefer to tell them the way they were told to me. I love the old names and the old stories because they’re also our story.

The Lesson That Stuck for Life

Picture this: about 60 years ago in Kahuku. A younger Claude Ortiz was driving cattle when three old-timers from Parker Ranch rode up.

Ortiz joked,

“Here comes the three old paniolos!”

Suddenly, one of them rode right up to him, looked him straight in the eye, scolded, “Kulikuli!” and kicked him off his horse.

Getting up, Ortiz asked,

“Eh, why you kick me off my horse?”

The elder answered that he had just used a very bad Hawaiian word and asked,

“You even know what that means?”

The proper term, Ortiz learned that day, is paniola—not paniolo.

What’s in a Letter?

The word is said to come from “españiola,” meaning Spanish. Somewhere along the way, that final “a” got changed to an “o”—maybe by someone trying to force Spanish grammar rules about masculine and feminine words onto a Hawaiian word.

The problem, as Ortiz explains, is that in Hawaiian “pani” means “to grab,” and according to what that old-timer told him, “paniolo” refers to grabbing something that definitely shouldn’t be grabbed. It was not a word they used lightly—and not a word they respected.

I’ve also heard people say that “paniolo” refers to bull testicles. One guy messaged me and said he hates being called a paniolo because to him, it straight-up means bull balls. People throw words around and don’t even know what they’re actually saying.

What about you? Have you ever heard that the original word is paniola, not paniolo?

Personally, I can’t stand when people mispronounce names of people or places—and then act like it doesn’t matter. It’s incorrect and it’s disrespectful. If someone’s not from here, okay, they don’t know better yet. But if you’re local and still saying it wrong after you’ve been told then, maybe you deserve to get kicked off your horse like Claude did.

I’m just letting you know the facts. If you still want to say it wrong after this, that’s up to you. 😄

The Spanish Cowboys We Forgot

Legend says the vaqueros—the Spanish cowboys—came up from Mexico and brought the skills to work and handle the wild cattle that were tearing up the forests and terrorizing people.

They didn’t just bring ranching skills. Like every group that came, they brought their culture: horsemanship, saddle-making, their style of roping, their songs.

The paniola tradition spread throughout the islands. Here on Kaua‘i, we grew into our own ranching culture. Our Hawaiian saddles look a little different, our terrain looks different—but at the core, it’s the same:

Same love for our family
Same pride in the work
Same connection to the land
Same respect for the animals
Why This Matters
In 2003, At 82 years old, Claude Ortiz was still riding and still fighting to correct this mistake.
He did lectures. He toured the Mainland. He was featured in books about Hawaiian cowboys. But he felt like it was a losing battle. Too many people would point to the dictionary and say:
“But it’s in the books!”
The old folks knew better. They hated that word.
After 52 fractures, multiple injuries (including losing fingers from roping accidents), and even two years of paralysis after being thrown from a stallion—nothing stung quite like being kicked off his horse for saying the wrong word.
That lesson stuck for life.
He said:
“Since I got kicked off my horse for saying that word, until I die, I know what that word will be. And it’s PANIOLA.”
My Dad, the Quiet Paniola
According to my dad, who’s 80 now, you won’t see him giving lectures or writing books about any of this. But if you ask him what he thinks, he’ll give you that quiet smile—like, “what you think?”—and say, “se la,” like who cares, whatever, let them think what they like.
Or, as his license plate reads:

“QUE SERA, SERA.”
Whatever will be, will be.

He’s not Spanish himself, but his wife is. My mom is from one of the old Spanish families (españiola) that came to Hawai‘i long ago.

My dad is a fifth-generation paniola. He’s had his share of broken bones—broke one leg once and the other one twice. He spent his life raising cattle, ranching, training horses, slaughtering cattle, running the slaughterhouse, traveling for rodeo in his youth, riding broncs, winning all-around cowboy titles.

He has that quiet confidence. He just smiles at the ignorance of the youth who don’t know what they’re saying. But give him a few beers, and he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks.

Honoring the Legacy

This isn’t just about a word. It’s about honoring the Vaqueros who helped shape Hawai‘i’s ranching tradition.

It’s about respecting the old-timers who knew the difference and cared enough to correct it—even if it meant kicking a young cowboy off his horse.

So next time you’re talking about Hawai‘i’s cowboy culture, remember:

It’s paniola.

Not just because it’s more accurate to what many of our elders said, but because it honors the people who actually lived and worked that life.

Our Local Paniola

I’ve been blessed to know many spanish cowboys in my own life, and I want to honor them here.

My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Antone Martin, was a cowboy for Kekaha Plantation and also ran their slaughterhouse.

Eddie Lara was my mother’s cousin. He used to be part of my dad’s cowboy gang. His brother Al Lara, who’s also gone now, I called him uncle—he always used to cowboy with my dad.

Uncle Willy Sanchez runs Wailua Meat Company. It’s the only other slaughterhouse left on Kaua‘i, still slaughtering like us, keeping the ranching business alive. And here’s something people don’t always think about: if it weren’t for the slaughterhouses, we wouldn’t have ranching on Kaua‘i in the way we know it.

Well, technically we could still ranch—but in my opinion, why use local lands to raise cattle if it doesn’t, in the end, feed the people who live here? That’s what it’s about for me—sustaining our community.

And one of my favorites was Johnny Sanchez. We shared the same birthday, and he was my dad’s good friend. I’d call him every year on our birthday. He’s gone now, but not forgotten.

Your Turn

Who were the Spanish cowboys you knew?
Who were the paniola in your life?

I’d love to hear about them.
Drop their names in the comments and share a memory.

Let’s remember the people who kept this tradition alive.

Where I First Heard This Story

I first learned about Claude Ortiz and this story from a column by Lee Cataluna in the Honolulu Advertiser:

“Don’t call them paniolos!” – Lee Cataluna, Honolulu Advertiser, September 5, 2003

As far as I can tell, it’s not online anymore, but that’s the article that started me down this path.

It's Paniola, Not Paniolo: A Forgotten Name Worth Remembering