Girl in the Back Row

Way back, in your earliest memories. From the very beginning, you have heard them—voices, words—not even words but the sounds of words. Pay attention, kid. They’re important.

There you are, in the back row of the kapa haka. Your cheeks are red, your eyes are tearful, and your mouth struggles with unfamiliar shapes. I’m going to sing to you, sing with you, and hold you as gently as I can. Listen.

Your first engagement with your Māoritanga will feel like shame. You’ll be in the office on your first day at your new school, and the office lady will point to the tick beside ‘Māori’ on the enrollment form and say do you know what iwi? And you’ll say no because you don’t know what that word means. She’ll send you on to kapa haka anyway. When you enter the room, a man will growl at you for leaving your shoes on, and when he says ‘whakapapa’, you’ll think he’s swearing at you. It won’t be until he asks you why you aren’t singing along that you’ll understand your mistake, and the kid beside you will laugh and say, dumb. A place in your chest, just above your heart, will start to hurt. 

For the rest of primary school, you’ll sit in the back row of the kapa haka. You will learn that to pūkana means to make your eyes wide, girl, but keep your tongue in your head, and that e noho means to sit down. 

At high school, you will take one compulsory term of te reo Māori, where you will learn to recite The Lord’s Prayer. You will not join the kapa haka, but three times a year, you’ll go to a special breakfast for all the Māori kids because of that tick on that form, and you’ll wonder, who keeps checking that box? At the breakfasts, of course, you’ll remove your shoes. Every time, Ripeka from your class would say, “Man, you’ve got big feet for a white girl.” 

One day, you’ll be called to your teacher’s office, and she’ll say you’ve been chosen for a special honour, to represent the school at a māori speech competition, and you’ll say, but you don't speak Māori, and she’ll say no no, you just have to be it, and you are, aren’t you? It's on your form? You just have to say your pepeha at the beginning of your speech, but that won’t be a problem. Obviously, you guys are all about knowing where you’re from. You’ll be used to it by then, that bit of your chest that sometimes aches when you wake up in the night to the echoes of voices. Words. Not even words but the sounds of words. You’ll be surprised to feel it again, like a bruise.

At dinner that night, you will finally ask about the tick in the box and Dad will say, there’s scholarships and stuff. Go see your Aunty.

Aunty is Dad’s half-sister. They have the same nose, she and Dad, and the same body shape – round in the middle, on strong, squat legs. She’ll say gosh, you’re like your mother when she kisses your cheeks, but then she’ll look down and laugh and say except for those feet. Those are some hori feet. She’ll put hers beside yours, hug you again, and say, you’ve got the whānau feet.

That day, you will learn about whakapapa. 

You. 

Dad.

Nana.

Nana’s mother.

Her mother.

Her mother.

You’ll look at photos and see the promise of your face in theirs. Their names will echo and roll and settle in that place in your chest that hurts both more and less. 

It’s not your dad’s fault, Aunty will say as she walks you to the door. They weren’t allowed to marry brown boys, you know? Way back, our great-great something Nana, said all the girls had to marry Pākehā boys and make Pākehā babies. They believed it, you know? That it was no good to be Māori. But your nana, my mum, married a brown boy anyway, and boy, did she pick the wrong one, so when she married again, she picked your grandad, a good Pākehā man. Me, I stayed with my dad’s whānau. Your dad just never had the chance to learn.

You will give your speech. You will do well, and it will feel good until Ripeka, who did hers in te reo māori, says in the back of the car you got it wrong, you know, it’s awa first, not waka, geez. Still, you will tuck your new pepeha into the pocket of your school blazer, and when the time comes to apply for university, you will tick Māori on the enrollment form.

Here are some things you will learn about at university: 

Te Tiriti o Waitangi

The Treaty of Waitangi

Those are two different things

Implicit bias

White privilege

You have been helped and harmed by both

That racism is a thing in New Zealand

That reverse racism is not a thing

A woman named Marie will insist that reverse racism is a thing and that she’s heard about people pretending they’re Māori for scholarships and stuff. She’ll look at you when she says it, and a different woman, also named Marie, will put her hand on your shoulder and say sit down, Marie, you’re giving us a bad name.

A noho marae means staying at a marae, and though they’ll tease you for being a white girl, they’ll also nod and say kia ora when you say your pepeha. Some will come up later and say Pikitū is my mum’s marae; we’re probably cousins. They’ll kiss your cheeks, and you’ll both look down at your feet.

At the end of one noho marae, you’ll be asked to share your experience with classmates who couldn’t make the trip. When you finish, First Marie will say, " But are you even Māori?” She’ll pronounce it like cow-ree because you don’t look it. How much is even in you?

She will throw it at you like a spear.

Listen, kōtiro. Listen.

From behind you, you will hear the swelling of chests. Your group mates will stand, and at your back, they will ready their lungs for the war cry, and finally, finally, you will allow yourself to hear it. Those voices that have flitted at the edges of your life? They’re your tūpuna, calling you. Their karanga rings through your earliest memories, and you know it – not the words but the sounds of the words. Your blood knows, and your bones. Your skin is paler than theirs but still skin. Your feet know it; your feet have always been slightly too wide, and suddenly, you are very aware of those feet. You can feel them spreading wider beneath you, becoming anchors and roots that hold you to the whenua. It’s the same whenua your ancestors are buried in, so it’s yours. You will take a step forward.

The wero, the spear that has been cast, hangs in the air. A spot above your heart remembers the pain of being hit with that spear. There will always be bruises, but you will not wear this day on your skin. Instead, this day will wrap around you like a kakahu. You will say

Ko Tainui te waka

Ko Waikato te awa

Ko Wharepūhunga te maunga

Ko Raukawa te iwi

Ko Ngāti Huri te hapū

Ko Pikitū te marae

You will say

This is the name of my father

And his mother

And her mother

And her mother

You will say

Blood quantum is a concept of the coloniser 

It’s not how much

It is are or are not

You will say

I am

There will be other days, in other rooms, when you will feel the weight of your ignorance and mourn all the reasons for it. But one day, your father will come to you and ask, and you will give him the whakapapa he gave you. And he will know that whakapapa is not a swear word.

You will try, fail, and try again to learn to speak and not just hear the words. This will be a hill—a mountain—and you will keep climbing. You don’t feel them there yet, but your children are on your back. 

I know you won't believe me, there in the back of the kapa haka, but I will tell you this. You will have a daughter like you, with one big difference. She stands at the front of her kapa haka. She leads, and her clear and strong voice rings out.