The Idea of an ‘Other’

Mā te huruhuru ka rere te manu

Alonso Meija-Ball

To some, heritage means nothing beyond the colour of your skin or the spelling of your surname. Not being able to speak the language of your ancestors is forgivable if your family was built on the backs of migrants. There is no standard to uphold if even the people who raised you can’t speak their ‘mother tongue’. I say this primarily thinking of ngā Tāngata Pākehā who are of European descent, whose rangatira hail from Germany or France—they don’t know a lick of the language and that’s acceptable. Although, there can always be exceptions.

But for Tāngata Whenua it’s different. 

There’s the idea that if you’re Māori, and you can’t speak the ‘reo’, then you’re ‘plastic’. Some sort of ‘other’. I’ve talked to individuals who degrade themselves when the topic of culture comes up, almost racing before anyone else can beat them to the punch, by cutting off their own poppy heads. It is fair to say, no one should be blamed for the sins of their parents, because parents who chose to educate their children in the tongue of their colonisers haven’t done anything wrong—it’s the result of grandparents and great grandparents being shamed and beaten into silence. 

Whina Cooper was responsible for the 1975 Māori Land March and was one of the key figures that helped usher in a new founded strength in kotahitanga Māori, helping underpin movements like the Māori Language revitalisation movement. This started with Kōhanga Reo nearly 50 years ago, which led to te reo Māori being recognised as an official language during 1987. 

Some odd 50 years ago is both such a short time and a lifetime ago—I feel as though some people really don’t comprehend that fact. And 50 years is all it took. Some consequences are still trickling down, where Tāngata Whenua are but a stranger to their own language due to a suppression they had no play in. 

Yet there’s an idea, a theory proposed by Theodore Newcomb, that says we are drawn to the people we subconsciously believe we will relate to the most. And when proven true, the connections built will be that much closer and more intimate than any mere acquaintance.

So when you’re surrounded by strangers, and long for conversation—who do you gravitate towards first? Those who speak the shared reo Pākehā or those who speak the language that reminds you of what you have lost? Or perhaps you don’t choose and remain an ‘other’.

The loss of language shouldn’t be a divisive topic. If anything, it should be a moment meant for reflection. Especially in the current climate, where our understanding of connection has become defined by our identity as the whole person who we are, and not what we’ve lost. I understand that too. Knowing who you are gives a sense of security, a place to stand in an at times unreliable world. 

Ahakoa kāore ōku toto Māori. Nō Amerika ki te Raki tōku whaea, ā, nō Amerika ki Te Tonga tōku pāpā. He tāne Pāniora ahau. So when I’m choosing who to talk to, I always hesitate.

Be patient with yourself. Understanding your history is important as it still holds relevance. Understand that what has been done is done, and now we merely begin again. Constantly analysing the why will only lead you towards insanity, really. The world, this country, whoever you deem as ‘your’ people, can be far more forgiving than you anticipate.