The Cultural Line
Image Credit: Jemma Bennett
It has been 30 years since the passing of my hero. My dad. I still quote him today, and when I close my eyes, I can still hear his infectious laugh and smile that would brighten the whole room. To have had such an impact on me in just ten years is incredible, and I will be grateful forever.
After my mother's first marriage ended in the mid-70s, she gathered her four children, ages 11 to 19 and moved to Tauranga to buy a Hotel Pub. She was Pākehā and from Invercargill. Owning the local pub was challenging, as it would fill with opposing gangs and boozed-up boys looking for a fight. But before long, she had them whipped into shape, banning all gang insignia. She commanded almost magical respect.
My dad (13 years her junior) would come to the pub for a few Lion Reds to play the guitar and sing with his brothers. His enchanting voice, good looks and charismatic personality captured mum's heart, and they were inseparable before long. A few years later, I arrived, the product of that once-in-a-lifetime love with four siblings much older than me. Oh, how spoiled I was.
They had 13 amazing years together. Thirteen years that were tangible in their passion. Then after a series of small heart attacks, heart medication and advice from the doctor about cutting back on the salt, the Flaggans and the smoking (“If I’m going to go, I’d rather go happy than having given up all the stuff I love and die a miserable bastard”), it was the big one that finally got him just after 9 am on the 27 of March 1990.
When he collapsed outside his bedroom, I was sitting on the stairs tying my shoes. To this day, I still remember a giant hand reaching down and squeezing the last breath out of him. In shock, I packed my school bag, got on my bike and went to school, passing the ambulance officers on my way. My brother came to collect me from school and take me to the hospital. The door to the small room containing my mother and sister-in-law glistened with grief. We were taken to the morgue, and I climbed on top of him, like I did so many times before, knowing he’d put his big strong arms around me and tell me it would all be alright. But he didn’t. I lay there and cried, soaking up his smell.
A month earlier, mum and dad had discussed what they wanted to happen when they died. Mum had said she wanted to be cremated and was surprised when Dad said he too wanted to be cremated. ‘The family won’t like that, Al’, she’d said. ‘My place is with you, Av’, he had replied. She’d smiled, and that was that. Now he was gone, tangi plans needed to begin.
The whānau was informed of his passing and his wishes to be cremated. Dad's mum had passed away many years earlier, and my koro when I was a baby, so my uncle was acting as a representative for the whānau. It was hard for her, wanting to respect the family but needing to honour dad’s wishes. She didn’t know much about Māori protocol surrounding death, but she was about to learn. My uncle looked shocked when mum told him dad was at the funeral home. She realised he needed to be at home, in the lounge where they would sing and talk for hours, where dad and I would watch Roadrunner and Wiley Coyote and kung fu movies, such happy memories.
As expected, the elders were not happy with Dad’s wishes, but a compromise was reached, and he would go to the marae for 24 hours. The welcome to the marae was warm, sad obviously but embracing. Then the speeches began, all in Māori, and it felt like the warm feeling had gone. Mum decided we’d leave for a while and let the whānau do their grieving privately.
When we returned later, only a few people remained, including my cousins, and the familiar warmth had returned. I fell asleep on one side of dad, with mum on the other. The next day the kaumātua returned. Mum and I approached one of the kuia, and mum asked if there was some way of getting through this amicably. She exploded, “you have no rights here; you weren’t even married”, and then looked at me and at 10-years-old I’d never experienced anger like it. We turned to leave, and one of the elders yelled, “that’s right, leave! You’ve no bloody rights here!” At that point, I remember feeling so ashamed to be Pākehā and Māori. I felt so alien.
Someone from the marae called the funeral directors and said they would be turned away if they came to collect dad. Now we had to fight to get dad back. The police were called, but they hoped all would be resolved without their help as it was a very “grey” area. The funeral director suggested we move quickly in case they decided to bury him. We got in the hearse and made our way toward the marae, not knowing what we were heading into. Sure enough, we reached the Bethlehem shops just before the marae and were stopped and waved to the side of the road. My uncle explained it wasn’t the family that had enforced this; the elders had locked the marae gates, which was unheard of.
So much talking, so much sadness. I weaved my way through the people and stood before my uncle. I tugged at his jacket, and everyone hushed, “please, uncle, let me take my Daddy home” he glanced at me and continued negotiating. I went and sat in the hearse and cried. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a red van pulled up. A Māori on a mission got out, spoke to the whānau in te reo briefly, and told the funeral director to gather the pallbearers and follow him. Now recognising him as one of the cuzzies, Mum thanked him through her tears. “A promise is a promise no matter the colour of your skin,” he said.
And so we could give dad the send-off he would’ve loved. We could grieve, safe in the knowledge his wishes were honoured, eventually.
I spent many years after this feeling ashamed to be Maori. If people assumed I was Italian or any other ethnicity, I was ok with that. Mum did her best to foster the Māori in me, putting me up for the bilingual class in intermediate and trying to involve me in kapa haka. But still, all it evoked in me were feelings of sadness, shame, hurt and disconnection. It wasn’t until my early twenties that I started to feel a cultural pull. In researching my whakapapa, I realised the events of that day were not personal but rather motivated by a cultural belief system that runs deeper than any river or lake.
I’m not fluent in te reo, nor do I have an innate cultural awareness or knowledge, but I want to learn. In reconnecting with my whānau on Facebook, I have unearthed a longing not just for me and who I am but for my tamariki. I have no ill feelings toward anyone involved in that day; if anything, I can look back now and respect them for upholding our beliefs.
But today, like every day, I miss my Daddy, but I am so grateful for the ten years I had him, and today, more so than any other time in my life, I am thankful for his whakapapa running through my veins. He passed down not only his passion but also his need for justice, to protect those he loved and his persistence, determination, humour and sense of fun. His enormous capacity for love and for giving me a sense of connection to my country. For instilling in me the honour of being able to say I am Māori and am proud to be Māori.
Love you to heaven and back pāpā xxx