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A poem by Meilani Payne As we experience the irritants of this word, The hardships we are placed in, The agenda’s forced onto us,  Our tupuna gather around us, Our  kōpu tangata  embracing us, Coming together to coat us.   Morphing, Shaping us, We are transformed. When you try to infect us, Damage us, Invade us, We take your hits, we take your cuts, Your efforts to break us,  take us,  shake us. And despite it all, we become something m ānea. We are the epitome of strength, resiliency and grace. Pārau.

Written by Malia Tatafu (she/her)  In the tapestry of time, 20 Father’s Days adorned Each a treasure, each a cherished morn  For 20 years, we laughed and we embraced  In every moment, love firmly encased  Yet now, as Father’s Day becomes once more I feel your absence, like never before Though only 2 years have gently flown In my heart, your presence firmly shown  For those 20 Father’s Day, oh so sweet  Each memory, each smile, a joyful feat Though now we’re apart, your love remains  In every thought, in every refrain  So as Father’s Day dawns, I celebrate with you In spirit, in heart, our bond held true  For 20 Father’s Days may be in the past But the love we shared forever will last  This poem is dedicated to my father, Limoni Tatafu.  Si’eku tamai malo e ‘ofa moe tauhi kotoa pe pea he’ikai teke ngalo ‘i ha taimi. Toka ā ‘i he nonga moe fiemālie ‘ae ‘Eiki pea kou ma’u ha ‘ofa lahi atu kia koe.

DAN MOSKOVITZ (HE/HIM With the UK, France, EU, India, Taiwan and more already having had elections in 2024—not to mention the looming US bloodbath—it's easy to lose track of what’s going on in Aotearoa’s backyard. Making up 725,000 of 2024’s two-billion voters, in April the Solomon Islands went to the polls. It came out with a new leader, but not a new government. Not much stops MPs in the 50-seat chamber from switching allegiances after horse trading, regardless of party affiliations—making them mean little in Solomon politics. The Prime Minister is also decided internally within the house post-election, so voters don’t necessarily know who will be PM until well after the election. Hence, after the election, the previous PM Manasseh Sogavare decided not to put his hand up for the job again. Still, his party under new leader Jeremiah Manele was the one to form a coalition government with minor parties and independents. Sogavare is now Manele’s finance minister. “There was a desire for change at the ballot box, but the way in which Solomon politics works meant that there was a great deal of horse-trading for coalition building,” said Anna Powles, an associate professor of security studies at Massey University. Powles did her PhD on the Solomons, and was part of an NZ observer mission to the election. Just about every news outlet covering the Solomons’ election discusses its implications vis-a-vis China. In 2019, the Pacific state, then one of the few nations continuing to recognise an independent Taiwan, switched its allegiance to the PCR. Since then, Chinese police have assisted the Solomons and the two nations have signed a security pact, which has never been released publicly in full. While potentially the key international concern, Powles says the Solomon’s relationship with China wasn’t a decisive issue domestically. “The focus on the ground was on the cost of living, access to education, healthcare, the economy, and economic development,” said Powles. “There was very little attention paid to the broader geopolitical competition.” Still, with high turnout and the Sogavare coalition’s unexpected dip on polling day, according to Powles’ there was a voice for change. Perhaps because of this Manele has already made one of his priorities economic development. There’s also opportunities for a reset internationally. Manele’s first overseas visit was to Australia; a sign of willingness to work together. Both Canberra and Wellington have previously criticized the islands over their relationship with China. “Sogavare’s a great orator, and highly nationalistic. He made the most of that, often to the frustration of Canberra, Wellington, and Washington,” said Powles. “But Manele was foreign minister and is a quieter, highly experienced diplomat. “There’s a great deal of continuity between the Manele and Sogavare governments. Similar substance, different tone.” Aotearoa appears to be seizing the chance to start afresh. The new Solomon government was only sworn in at the start of May, yet Foreign Minister Winston Peters has already visited twice since the government’s formation. With riots occurring in 2019 and 2021 in the Solomons, whether or not the election would be an orderly affair was a topic of concern. Yet barring isolated incidents, the election as a whole was peaceful, much to the relief of observers, both domestic and international. Long may that continue. Anna Powles’ comments are made as an independent academic and not as part of the New Zealand government’s observer mission for the Solomon Islands’ election.

Guy Van Egmond (he/him) Having sold-out its development season, Limbo is back for a second run at BATS Theatre. Produced by Keane As and Believable Arts Management, the play drags Dante Alighieri’s 14th-century Inferno  down under and into the new millennium. It’s a story that loves classic literature without being pretentious and grounds itself in an incredibly Wellingtonian drama, complete with financial crisis and amateur stand-up.  Limbo  takes Dante’s Virgil (Ava O’Brien), spiritual guide through Hell and Purgatory, and pairs them with washed-up comedian David Noble (Ben Lamb), who’s burnt all his bridges to fuel his failing career on stage. Together with two demonic Twins (Sophie Helm; Blake Boston), Virgil forces David to revisit scenes of shame from his life in a bid for repentance to save his soul.  The Stage at BATS is not a particularly large performance space, but Limbo ’s production team put together a versatile and flexible stage that did an impressive amount of visual storytelling. Set Designer and Builders Nathan Arnott and Lachlan Oosterman, and Stage Manager Adriana Vascina, evidently chose quality over quantity. Minimal props or set changes were needed to bounce us from a dingy rural pub, to a kid’s birthday party and a personal study drowning in paperwork. Especially impressive is the central set piece: a decrepit train compartment with  exposed framework, seats in dire need of first aid, and many glaring tetanus hazards (clearly the Masterton line).  This set production was given life by an impeccable duo of sound and lighting design. Before the lights come up, Roco Moroi Thorn’s railway soundscape paints a rhythmic scene. Then, rippling fluoro lights set the train in motion. The production design only surged from there, setting spines crawling and laughter bubbling in the audience. Aural motifs helped a lot in giving depth to characters, especially Bolton and Helm’s demonic Twins. Their brittle shapeshifting into different people from David’s life was accompanied with the most delicious effects, like a really good session at the chiropractor. There were many other moments in the show—like when Virgil exercises their psychic control to trap David—where the acting, sound and lighting design came together in on-point synchrony. Fantastic.  While those moments were great, I often found the characters to be lacklustre. David was introduced as a protagonist like a soggy tortilla: slimy and limp, with nothing of substance to him. His history is only established as the play progresses; Lamb does his best to give David depth, but it took until the midpoint of the second act—when David is a shivering wreck and rescued from the Twins by Virgil—that I could begin to sympathise with the guy. O’Brien as a dry and deadpan Virgil was the most grounding character, who had their own delightful moments of vulnerability that revealed a deeper humanity and fear.  Credit is also due to Helm and Boston, who play an ensemble of 10 characters between them. Each character was distinct and well-constructed, but I found many of Boston’s to be distractingly loud, with comic bits that wore out quickly. Helm was often more measured and effective in her performance, but also resorted to volume in the demons’ main horror sequence.  The final confrontation between David and his brother (Boston) followed by David’s soliloquy and change of heart, both had the potential to be heart-wrenching. However, the actors once again fell into the trap of using volume for emotion, which became grating to endure. With a bit more restraint, the scene could have soared on quiet bitterness and regret that cut like razors. The scene between David and his brother was also constantly interrupted by a running gag of delivered paperwork, which shattered any emotional tension and almost had one of the actors corpse centre-stage.  Overall, however, there’s a lot to like about Limbo . The cast and crew work really well together and have a clear passion for the show. The production design is fantastic and there are some really talented people working backstage. However, the story could definitely benefit from another onceover with an unflinching pair of scissors to refine the story into the sharp and witty drama it wants to be.

DAN MOSKOVITZ (HE/HIM) Documents revealed under the Official Information Act show how the Department of Conservation’s budget for bird flu preparation—the deadly avian pandemic sweeping the globe—is just $73000, or the cost of a nice car. Bird flu, also called avian influenza, has killed millions of both wild birds and poultry . The current outbreak has so far only avoided Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific. For how long? Who knows. With many species of NZ birds already endangered, there’s real concern about bird flu causing extinctions upon arrival in Aotearoa.  Yet OIA data reveals DOC’s budget for bird flu is just $73000. Biosecurity NZ, rather than DOC, is the lead agency regarding bird flu, but $73000 is still a paltry sum.  DOC refused requests for an interview. Terrestrial Biodiversity Director Hilary Aikman said in a statement “It is important to balance using resources to prepare for a threat that might appear in New Zealand in future and doing conservation work to address current threats.  “DOC regularly reprioritises resources within its budgets to respond to various environmental factors, and HPAI is no different in this regard.” The budget has paid for a vaccine trial   alongside purchasing protective equipment for staff. DOC did not answer queries about what further preparation it could do with more funds but stated they expected to increase the budget should bird flu arrive.  It’s an open secret that DOC has always been underfunded—it manages a third of Aotearoa’s land on just 0.44% of its budget . And like everywhere in the public sector, this year there were mass cost-cutting layoffs at DOC, with 124 fewer jobs now at the department.  South Island Wildlife Hospital vet Pauline Howard was disappointed with the cuts to DOC and the subsequent lack of budget for bird flu, but pointed out DOC’s lack of options with the disease. “When you look at what this government is doing and how they’ve paired back the Department of Conservation, there’s just no extra money going into DOC,” she said.  “But when bird flu does hit, there isn’t a lot that DOC can do. It's going to rapidly spread around the country, and putting a whole lot of money into it isn't going to solve the problem.” As Aikman pointed out, avian influenza “is not eradicable in wildlife.”  But one of the biggest dangers to birds could be good samaritans.  “If someone picks up a sick bird and carries it away from the area, they've infected the vehicles, the tyres, their hands, anything which touches the bird,” said Howard.  “People will spread bird flu around the country quicker if they pick sick birds up.” Birds taken to wildlife hospitals showing signs of avian influenza have to be euthanized on the spot, while birds with other problems have to be quarantined for two weeks.  “It’s not a matter of taking birds to the hospital and them getting better,” says Howard. “It doesn’t work like that, unfortunately.” Chickens and pet birds can be protected by ensuring water sources are clean, chook houses are roofed, and mice and rats are kept out. If you encounter a bird showing symptoms of avian influenza, please take a video and call Biosecurity New Zealand on their hotline: 0800 80 99 66. Symptoms include falling over, twisting their neck to look upwards, lethargy, and drooping heads. Three or more dead birds in one area is also reason to contact Biosecurity. Transmission of bird flu to humans is uncommon but not impossible. However its mortality rate in humans is 52%. Do not touch any bird showing symptoms.

Recounted by: Magenta Mudgway (they/he) CW: discrimination, homophobia “Do you remember the 21st night of September [1994]”? I don’t, but what I can tell you is it was the night that I came into the world. I was born just eight months after the Human Rights Act 1993 came into effect. It outlawed discrimination based on sexual orientation, gender identity, and expression, it also allowed gay, lesbian, and bisexual people to serve openly in the military. Growing up, I learned about my uncle, who was older than my parents and the only openly gay member of our family at the time. I was confused why he had married a woman and had a child as a young person only to leave them if he was a gay man. My confusion about my uncle's actions became clearer when I learned that homosexuality had been illegal until 1986, only eight years before I was born. By 2002, at age eight, I realised I developed crushes on people regardless of gender. However, media and comments around me made it clear that same-sex attraction was often considered "weird." At the time, "gay" was a derogatory term used daily, and "f*g" was a common insult. I didn't recognise the unconscious messages I was absorbing or how I was perpetuating negative stereotypes about queer people. The Civil Union Act was passed in 2004, when I was 10, and enacted in 2005. It allowed both same-sex edge of NZ’s Queer History LIFE ON THE and different-sex couples to have their relationships officially recognised without needing to marry. This was considered a significant milestone for LGBTQ+ people, as it was seen as the "gay marriage equivalent." However, this wasn't entirely accurate, and the Civil Union Act faced criticism from many within the community. One major point of contention was that this "gay marriage equivalent" was also available to opposite-sex couples, who already had the right to marry. I still remember Valentine's Day 2006, when Maia and Jay were joined in a civil union on Shortland Street . I couldn't understand why some people laughed, some disapproved, and others found it "hot." As a 12-year-old, I was intensely confused by this, not yet aware of the toxic sexualisation of lesbians in mainstream culture. Fast forward another two years. It's 2008 and I’m a bisexual emo kid who is forced to attend an all-girls high school (this will make sense later on). Katy Perry’s bisexual anthem “I Kissed a Girl” is taking over the pop charts. It was around this time that the concept of ‘barsexuals’—women engaging in same-sex intimate acts for the enjoyment of men—began to rise. This concept of making out with your girlfriends for your boyfriends to find hot became shockingly popular amongst teens and burgeoning online social media culture. The Edge radio station was so inspired by Katy Perry’s pop song that they aimed to set the record for the most “girls kissing at the same time.” My friends and I decided to participate, hoping to win tickets to Katy Perry’s concert. We thought it was funny at the time, but for me, it marked the beginning of a desire to be even more visible, especially since gay marriage was still illegal at that point. On September 4, 2008, we went to the City Focus in Rotorua after school. We were three out of eight pairs who “pashed” while groups of people crowded around us, watching us like a spectacle. It’s strange to think sometimes that only 16 years ago this kind of wild behaviour was considered normal and okay. After this point, I started becoming more vocal on LGBTQ+ rights, and joined the first-ever LGBT youth group formed at our local youth centre, in 2014. The legalisation of gay marriage happened only a year prior. To celebrate the law reform, The Edge sought two same-sex couples to marry. The Rotorua District Court even opened early so the weddings could take place during the breakfast radio slot. On August 19, 2013, one lesbian and one gay couple were married at the Government Gardens, marking a momentous occasion for LGBTQ+ rights and a significant step towards acceptance. However, a year later, The Edge faced controversy over a competition offering a trip for two to the 2015 Rugby World Cup in England. The issue arose when two straight best friends committed to marrying each other to win the prize, trivialising same-sex marriage. This understandably upset many LGBTQ+ rights groups, as it reduced the hard-fought battles for marriage equality to a mere gag. Meanwhile, I went on living a terrifyingly straight little life in the Bay of Plenty—despite being so vocally out and proud. However, in 2017 I moved to Wellington, a shift that would mark the beginning of a significant period of growth. I became a better person—more empathetic, and much more open about my sexuality. I entered a polyamorous relationship, and I began to unpack and unlearn past lessons and traumas. In 2019, I began watching two trans YouTubers, Noah Finnce and Jammidodger. As I learned about their experiences as trans men, I felt increasingly uncomfortable but also resonated deeply with their stories. This prompted me to reflect on my own past, and realise that I had never truly identified with being a woman. Womanhood, for me, had always felt like a purely biological feature rather than a personal identity. This was where I started to realise that, even though I thought I had figured out my sexuality so quickly, I had never considered that I wasn’t a woman. I was a pansexual not-woman, maybe man? Then the imposter “I can’t be because I didn’t know sooner” thoughts came out. I grew up in the “I'm not like other girls” era, so I figured that I wasn’t like other girls. I just didn’t clock I might be something else. I was oblivious to the implication of growing up with this internal scream of “put me with the boys!”, anytime people would group me by gender. The timing of my second wave of queer self-discovery was lucky, because in 2021 the BMDRR bill was passed. This bill allows for an easier process for individuals to change the sex marker on their birth certificate. Prior to this bill, people had to go through the Family Court system with proof of medical transitioning. When I look back at my nearly three decades on this earth, there has been so much progress for queer rights. In my lifetime alone I’ve seen our rights, acceptance and community change so much. I see current students in primary and secondary education learning what I wish I had as a kid. I see the growing media representation I needed growing up. I see an Aotearoa that only ever said "gay" as a slur now mostly using it as an accurate description of someone. Our progress is not over. Our rights are in a precarious place yet again with the current government—but I wanted to share how much has happened in my little lifespan. Don’t lose hope.

Onjei Bond (he/him) She did drag performances whilst serving compulsory military service. She was Queen of the red-light district—and is now the green-light symbol all down Cuba. Credited as being a huge influence for Georgina Beyer, she campaigned for Mayor eighteen years before, with the cheeky farmer-esque slogan: “GET IN BEHIND!”. Friends with Dana de Milo, (of Aunty Dana’s fame), and the winner of the hugely influential court case, POLICE VS RUPE, three years before Stonewall. She showed up to parliament to apologise for libel dressed all in black and stepping out of a limo, and three days later appeared shirtless at the Trentham races. Occasionally, she’d sleep in a coffin. Named outrageous, illegal, the Queen of Queens and “the most visible transgender New Zealander of her time”, this whakawāhine paved the way for transgender rights as we know it in Aotearoa New Zealand. And yet, for the four years I’ve lived in Wellington, I thought the woman in the traffic light was a metaphorical drag queen, a sort of Queer national personification. Say hello to Carmen Rupe, trailblazer, revolutionary, and a figure you’ve definitely seen but possibly never recognised. early life Carmen grew up with six siblings in Taumarunui, close with her mother and exploring feminine aspects from an early age. She was particularly inspired by the late World War II victory rolls and, unrelatedly, nuns. At 18 she was called for compulsory military service. During this time, she put on a drag performance for her peers, titled Ballet Latrines Les Girls, and inspired by the infamous Sydney club of the same name. After her service, Rupe worked as a nurse before travelling and working in Sydney as a performer. It was at this point she chose her name, from the titular Carmen in The Loves of Carmen. In Sydney, she started to fully lean into performing, learning several of her key acts—including her infamous performance with two diamond pythons, both two meters long. The act was inspired by the movie Cobra Woman, and involved careful manoeuvring of the two very large reptiles—named Simba and Topaz—who “used to coil around my wig [making it] fall off my head while I was dancing”. Another common act was her signature finishing performance. As her show came to a close, she’d remove her wig for her final dramatic reveal—the fact she was assigned male at birth—a scene I can only imagine as a less dramatic Sasha Velour performance, a wig cap appearing instead of a cascade of rose petals. She would go on to travel to Auckland from Sydney, working along the Waterfront for a few years—briefly meeting Dana De Milo—before finally moving to Wellington and opening her infamous venues. coffee on the balcony In 1967 she set up permanent shop on Vivian Street, opening ‘Carmen’s International Coffee Lounge’—a Café-slash-brothel which ran from six to six, was vandalised often, and was frequently raided by cops. She describes how, when she first opened it, she “painted the whole place red, with purple carpets and black leather furniture and all the staff were drag queens, female impersonators and also gay guys”. It was at this Coffee Lounge that Carmen Rupe and Georgina Beyer would meet, Beyer meeting Rupe when she was 16 and had first moved to Wellington. She would later work for Carmen at the Lounge, describing how “the law worked against us so we had to live in this twilight zone. Camen was an omnipresent figure...she protected us from the haters and homophobes”. Beyer was not the only famous figure to work for Rupe. Dana De Milo worked for a time at ‘The Balcony’, picking up the last name ‘De Milo’ on Rupe’s advice. In fact, all of Rupe’s employees were queer, most ‘transsexual’ women and/or drag queens, and some lesbians and gay men. She would later describe how "all the drag queens I had working for me were very, very stunning and beautiful. They used to wear a lot of wigs, a lot of makeup and lovely miniskirts or split dresses and low-top dresses”. Carmen soon had to open another venue to serve the people waiting in line to enter the Coffee Lounge, which she named ‘The Peacock’. She went on to open several further storefronts: on Cuba was ‘The Egyptian Tearoom’, ‘Carmen’s Down Town’, and an antique store named ‘Carmen’s Curios’; on Vivian she opened ‘Cleopatra’s Coffee Lounge’; and, in Hataitai, a bedroom-brothel-slash-hotel called ‘The Cottage’. Finally, in 1960, Carmen opened her most famous venue. ‘The Balcony’, a nightclub on Victoria. It was located where Te Matapihi Ki Te Ao Nui, The Wellington Central Library, is now. Being the host, Carmen was there nightly—“dressed up as a madam, you know, a classy madam, tits hanging out and split dresses"—performing, working, and keeping an eye on the crowd. She called Wellington “The Vice capital of New Zealand”, proven by her brazen claim on Tonight at Nine that some of the most influential and homophobic politicians of the time frequented her establishments—being homosexual or bisexual themselves. It was this claim that would lead to her appearance at the Parliament's Privileges Committee, called in by then-PM Robert Muldoon on charges of libel. She arrived in a limo. De Milo describes how “they, [parliament] made a big thing out of it and she never even apologised. She said ‘I never’ even when it came down to it”. police v rupe Historically, gay bars in the states would get raided by cops looking for those in the ‘wrong’ clothing— enforcing laws against ‘crossdressing’. This practise sparked the Stonewall riots—a community response to these humiliating and dangerous raids. Aotearoa had no such laws. This is largely in part defined by the Police V Rupe case, which settled the matter of crossdressing before the first brick of stonewall ever entered the kiln—ensuring that, legally in Aotearoa, clothes really didn’t have a gender. Police discrimination towards the Queer community was rife throughout Rupe’s life. She describes how “the police were very, very heavy. They hated gay people. They hated drag queens and they hated lesbians”. Rupe was illegally running a bar and brothel—but her business was under increased scrutiny due to the fact she was ‘transexual’. In 1966, Rupe left the club she was working in. Wearing a black dress, heels, and makeup, she was offered a lift home by a man on Little Queen Street. The man then proceeded to do an illegal right-hand turn—leading to the car being pulled over. Rupe, who had been arrested and fined for ‘Offensive Behaviour’ before—the charge most often used against ‘crossdressing’ at this time—was recognised and promptly arrested by a ‘Constable Green’. She describes how “[he] arrested me because I was in drag... He pulled me out of the car and arrested me for wearing women's clothes.” Historically Rupe, and many other ‘crossdressers’ of her time, would take the charge head on—accepting the fine or prison time to avoid the lengthy, expensive, and extremely public route of disputing it. That night, Rupe decided enough was enough. She hired a lawyer and pleaded not guilty. The first day she arrived at court they told her to go home and change—she had arrived in women’s clothes. In the end, the judge ruled that New Zealand had never had laws against wearing clothes of the opposite sex, and that Rupe had not been in drag to cause offence, outrage, or revulsion—and therefore was unable to be tried under the 'Offensive Behaviour’ charge. On the 26th of January, 1966, Rupe’s charges were dropped. De Milo describes how this “made it much easier for the girls in Auckland, because they [the police] were very heavy in Auckland”, and they could no longer justify their arrests as a response to Offensive acts. She never wore men’s clothes again. get in behind 1977. Carmen runs for Mayor. Every policy item is considered outrageous, shocking, and morally repugnant. She appears often in ballgowns and limos, riding the notoriety of The Balcony and her court case, lighting up the election with radical vision. Her manifesto promised the lowering of the legal drinking age to 18, the legalisation of prostitution, abortion, and homosexual conduct, the legalisation of nudist beaches, and for bars to be allowed to stay open till midnight—or even (gasp) 2 am. In a political debate leading up to her election day, she blithely argued, "I am better looking than Sir Francis [Kitts], I am more charming than Michael Fowler, and I could beat [Tony] Brunt in a brawl any day." She never won—but she did rank fourth in the popular vote, paving the start of a road Georgina Beyer would finish in 1995. offstage In 1979, Rupe’s lease on The Balcony wasn’t renewed. Without her main storefront, she decided to shut her other businesses, leaving Wellington for Sydney. Before she left, she was ceremonially crowned Queen of Wellington by three hundred of her peers, in front of a ball organised in her honour. In Sydney, she remained immersed in her community. Organising AIDS fundraisers and managing community centres, Rupe was just as well known in Australia as Aotearoa. In 2008, she headlined the Decade of the Divas float at the Syndey Gay and Lesbian Mardie Gras. She did so on her mobility scooter. Topless. On her 70th birthday, the Wellington Police gifted her a Police Helmet—painted purple, covered in glitter, and wrapped in a pink feather boa—paired with a formal apology for their past behaviour. In Sydney on 15 December 2011, aged 75, Carmen Rupe passed away. As a tribute to her extraordinary life, she was put in the green lights down Cuba in 2016, a physical testament to her influence and connection to Wellington. She is, to this day, one of the most significant, iconic, and memorable whakawāhine of her time. Her legacy is felt in a million unnoticeable ways throughout Aotearoa—even if it’s as simple as a green silhouette, watching over Ivy.

by Basil Penwarden (they/ia) Ko Nukutaimemeha rāua ko Tākitimu tōku waka, Ko Mauao tōku maunga, Ko Tauranga Moana tōku moana, Ko Ngāti Porou tōku iwi, Nō Uawa ahau, Ko Tuhiwai rāua ko Penwarden tōku whānau, Ko Basil ahau. My place in the world has always been one of struggle. It has always been a fight of definition, of an argument, of a reason I deserve to exist. And I’m sure this is a common experience for many queer individuals reading this: it is hard to exist in a space that was not made for you. Heoi anō, we have made a space to call our own. We have created community, celebration, pride. There is space for us as the LGBTQIA+ community to celebrate our nonconformity together. And yet. Somehow, even with this beautiful community at my back, I still feel like a part is missing from who I truly am. I knew I was queer from an early age. By thirteen, I knew what I wanted, and I quickly learnt the necessities of knowing how to argue well; coming out meant knowing how to defend myself with big words and bigger ideas, logical fallacies were destroyed at my feet. I’m sure my mother got sick of me quickly, her social justice warrior child. I grew up with big ideas on what I wanted the world to look like, the equality I wanted to see in my local communities. Queerness has defined me for most of my life, but for the longest time I hadn’t thought to consider where being Māori fit into that. A quick note on deadbeat dads: mine never wanted anything to do with my life, frequently attempted to get out of paying child support, and has a new family over the ditch. I doubt he has cared about his own heritage even once. He has left my latest email on delivered for the last year, and my only real information about his life comes from being friends with his wife on Facebook. I learnt everything I know about our tūpuna from his sister. My isolation from my Māori heritage always frustrated me. Mum didn’t care to know (“He wants nothing to do with you! I’m raising you, so it should be this side that matters to you. Sorry we’re not interesting enough.”). I was separated through time and space to find out from my Dad’s side of the family (rest in peace Nana Fran), so I often believed I would always be missing a part of myself, forever lost and unretrievable. My queerness became my safety net, a forged identity in absence of my whakapapa. However, that can only get you so far. The knowledge has come slowly. I have surrounded myself with opportunities to learn about my heritage, about queerness, and I am redefining at my own pace how these intersect for me. Sometimes I believe I will never fully know who I am, disconnected from my reo, my whenua, my hapū, my iwi. But often I am reminded that many of us are. Many of us are city Māori away from our iwi, colonised and missing parts of ourselves that can only be healed through time and tremendous effort as a community. Reconnecting with pūtaiao and mātauranga in ways that serve us now, as a 21st century Māori society. Thinking this way, becoming more familiar with the knowledge of my tūpuna, I stumbled across the term takatāpui just a couple years ago. I can’t fully describe in words what it felt like, but as my gift to you, dear readers (I’ve been watching too much Bridgerton lately sorry not sorry), I will try. It’s like when the ringing in your ears finally dissipates. I had carved a space for myself over and over, feeling uncomfortable and alone every time I tried—only to carve into an opening full of waiting arms, ready to embrace me just as I am. I discovered a space that had been ready and waiting for me to return for a long time. My understanding of myself had been stolen from me, I had been alienated from a historical truth; people like me had always existed. Queer Māori people had always existed, and they had been welcomed, celebrated. What I was missing in the LGBTQIA+ community I had found here: a cultural understanding of queerness. Takatāpui. The most important part about this discovery for me was the inherentness of takatāpui as an identity. There was no one strict definition under takatāpui, just an inherent understanding of queerness in conjunction with Māoriness. Somewhere where the two were inextricably linked; both were necessary and could not survive without the other in the definition of being. Now when I think of my body, I am less inclined to think about gender. I am drawn to the koha nature that is my connection to Papatūānuku, that I bleed once a month is not a symbol of dysphoria but one of whakapapa and connection. I think of Porourangi, of Hingangaroa and Iranui, of Matengauroa, my great-grandmother. I am not ‘girl’ or ‘woman’, but takatāpui, ia. I am everything that came before me and everything that will come after, in a line of always-has-been of whakapapa. When I talk about my queerness without cultural understanding, I feel like a part of me is missing, that my words lack the nuance they should carry. I speak with the weight of implications that aren’t understood. I am not nonbinary in the sense I am not man or woman, I am takatāpui in the way that I have come from the whenua and my whakapapa. The decolonisation of my own queerness has made me feel infinitely more comfortable taking up the space that was always rightfully mine. It is easy to feel outcast in a society that doesn’t want you, easy to feel invisible and shunned. But as takatāpui, I know that I have always been part of Te Ao Māori, others like me have always existed, and the space we have carved always belonged to us. Instead of feeling like a burden pushing to take up space, I am reclaiming and inviting others to do the same. Instead of carving for our space to exist, let us carve to decorate. Let our whakairo be ātaahua, let our found whānau be welcoming and bright, in a space not only made to be functional, but to be celebrated. We are not just queer, not just Māori, but both.

Sterling Jones (they/them), Rainbow and Inclusion Advisor I’ve been invited to a Chappell Roan-themed birthday this week, and I am hyped . I’m the sort of person who’ll jump at any opportunity to dress up, so naturally I’ve been obsessing over my outfit all week. Do I want my look to be more “ My Kink Is Karma” or “ Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl” ? Classic or hyper-masc drag make-up? The options are endless.  But among this anticipation, there’s a nagging feeling of anxiety at the back of my mind.  You see, it’s my flatmate’s friend’s party. They’re wonderful, we’ve met before, but I won’t know everyone who’s going to be there, and that’s the source of my anxiety. It’ll be a new experience: new place, new people, and a new group of strangers to come out to.  For us queer people, with every introduction comes an invitation to come out.  My first time coming out of the closet was nearly ten years ago, and it was a big deal for me. It was terrifying, partly because I belonged to a conservative community, but mostly because pop culture told me that it was supposed to be. Every queer YA novel I’d ever read ( The Geography Club, Something Like Summer, Simon vs The Homosapien Agenda , just to name a few) prepared me for a dramatic affair, a point of no return. From that moment on, I would start shitting glitter, and everyone on the street would recognise me as Queer™. It was with that in mind that a trembling, sixteen-year-old Sterling posted, “Well, here goes nothing… I am gay.” It's a fear that’s stayed with me. I feel it when leaving the house with eyeshadow on, when I share my pronouns in a meeting, and when inevitably, I’ll be introduced to new people at my flatmate’s friend’s Chappell Roan-themed birthday.  But it’s not how I want to feel about sharing a part of me with the world. Coming out isn’t supposed to be an invitation for fear! It’s an invitation for connection.  There’s a tweet pinned up in my office, from author John Paul Brammer. It reads, “Remember what it felt like when you saw a queer person owning it, and it gave you permission to be yourself? You’re that person to someone”. And you know what? I do remember what it felt like. I remember what it felt like as a closeted fifteen-year-old to see a pair of queer lovers kiss goodbye (on the mouth!!) at Britomart Train Station before going their separate ways. It felt like hope. I remember it feeling like a promise that people like them, people like me,  could find belonging and love. And it was a hope that I really needed to carry-on, back then.  So, here’s my invitation to you: join me in reclaiming coming out as a source of connection and community and unlearning this intergenerational trauma we share for the generations before us, for the generations ahead of us, and for each and every single one of us.

When I was younger, before I knew I was a trans woman, I used to wish I was a gay man. In high school I had seen the way the gay guys were surrounded by a gaggle of girl friends and I wanted in. At first I thought it was because I was attracted to the girls, that's why I wanted to be around them, but as I grew older and discovered certain things about myself I began to realise that what I really wanted was just to be part of their group. I felt like I needed an invitation into girlhood. Last year, I found myself on a drive with a gaggle of my own gal pals. Speeding down the coast, playing Taylor Swift on the radio as loud as it could go and singing their blessed hearts out, I realised that was it. I'd never needed an invitation, I was already there. This year's Queerlient is centred around that feeling: Invitation. I want to welcome you, the reader, into the intimate. With a focus on lesser-known aspects of queer life, history, and personal interests, I hope this issue can open a door, or at the very least offer a peek through the curtain, to the smaller worlds of queer existence that you wouldn't normally get to see from the outside. And while I’m normally not a big Swiftie, even I found something special on that car ride. So with luck you’ll find something new and unexpected to love here too. UniQ President Khai tells us how they learned to embrace their queerness even when it was frightening, while Basil invites you to understand the place takatāpui identities hold in our culture. We have dives into queer history, local and international, and invitations of all sorts to a better understanding of the myriad experiences our people have to offer. However, please understand that Queerlient can only show so much. It's a tiny glimpse of a broad and diverse community and even a dedicated student magazine can never fully represent us. This is a snapshot of other worlds, so know that these worlds are separate. Queer worlds are forever detached from the mainstream, and while you don't always need an invitation, these are spaces we have fought to build for ourselves and we will fight to keep them. So please enjoy this sneaky peek into our space. Stay a while if you like, we’ve got room to spare. Goose (she/they)

By Charlie Gittins (he/him) I do not choose the finest grapes only what is found in my garden plucked by my own hands, grown from my own soil nothing is imported from France or Belgium no fine new machinery helps me on my way all the same I have been brewing this chaotic act of creation I have taken something that could have been complete and put it through fermentation Everything but the catalyst comes from me my backyard conception then I am left to trust in nature find faith in waiting and it takes so much time and patience some days it feels like my hands are always dirty Like I am always thirsty for something that never comes But just out of sight something incredible is happening that will bring more joy than any fruit or water when the days of packed soil under my nails and hands filled with splinters will leave me sitting back laughing and drinking in everything I thought could be just a bit better

Words by VUW Rainbow Law Students Society 2024 The law applies to all of us. It should be written in an inclusive and accessible way to reflect this. Gender neutral language is not a radical concept. “They” has been used as a personal pronoun in the English language since the 14th century.  In te reo Māori the word that is used for all pronouns is “ia”.  Law students will know the drill: you are studying an old case, and the person in question is referred to as the “man” before the law—“he”, “him”, “his” and so forth. The lecturer will read out: “He” …. pause …. “or she!” And to their credit, that is a fair attempt. However, if we pause again and think about it…. we could get rid of the clunky “he/she”, “himself/herself”, “man/woman”, and use the all-encompassing pronoun “they” and the term “person” (with a smaller word count, too). The entity responsible for drafting legislation is the Parliamentary Counsel Office (PCO). Clause 8.2 of the PCO Style Guide explains the importance of gender neutral language in legislative drafting. The guide uses examples of how to leave out pronouns by repeating nouns and how the personal pronoun “they” can be used effectively without creating ambiguity. Every law student’s best friend, the  New Zealand Law Style Guide  also encourages avoiding gender specific language.  However, gender identity is becoming increasingly politicised in Aotearoa following an international wave of transphobic narratives. New Zealand First is contributing to the transgender-exclusionary discourse based on binary concepts of sex, rather than gender as a spectrum. So far, they have begun challenging legislative definitions of “woman”’ and “gender identity” in press conferences and through interjections in the debating chamber, and have recently put forward the ironically named “Fair Access to Bathrooms Bill”. The members’ bill seeks to introduce a fine for bathrooms not being used by the intended “single-sex” that the bathroom is dedicated to, which would result in our trans and non-binary whānau facing fines just for taking a piss. Long may it stay at the bottom of the biscuit tin… If gender neutrality in legal language has never crossed your mind previously, that is okay! Gender inclusivity can be a practice to incorporate in tutorial discussions, revising legal tests, problem questions, and discussing statutory implications. Gender neutrality at law school is important for our non-binary, takatāpui and transgender students. One non-binary student explains: “When I hear a tutor or lecturer use the pronoun ‘they’, it makes me feel seen and enhances my ability to connect with my legal learning”.  As future legal practitioners, we have a duty to represent the public and help our community. As we deconstruct the gender binary in more visible spaces, we need to ensure that the law is accessible and inclusive.