Whitestream

You run like any stream,

Along the path of least resistance,

So to some it seems natural

You should flow the way you do

Yet the birth of your course was not natural,

Not carved by the continuous, curious meandering of living waters,

But gouged from the belly of Papatūānuku with metal tools

Tools forged from melted guns and cannons

Guns and cannons that spilt tūpuna blood

Blood that still stains the stolen whenua across which you snake

I grew up in a small town

My grandparents on both sides lived just down the road

And my best friends were always my cousins

At school we explored, tutu-ed and excelled together

I had no idea this might not be normal for Māori kids

Until I moved to the city and went to a high school 

With streamed classes

I don't remember taking tests

Although I guess there must've been some

But what I do remember

Is sitting in that top-stream class

Surrounded by white faces

What I do remember

Is wondering why

So many brown faces were at the bottom

What I do remember

Is dropping out of kapa haka

And taking Japanese instead of te reo Māori

What I do remember

Is being constantly reminded, 

"Being Māori will get you nowhere.”

So I dipped my cupped hands

And sipped your solution

Oblivious

To the echo of tūpuna laments

In the brown voices drowning below

Oblivious

To Papatūānuku’s seeping wounds

Soaking your streambed

Ignoring

The odd, metallic taste

Tainting my tongue

I was just a kid

I was thirsty

And you were the only water I could see

But I am not a kid anymore

And I know a few things now

I know you could never quench my thirst

I know I never needed you to

I know waiora flows in me

And I know I am your resistance

© Aryan McKay 2020

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