From Kiwi to Pākehā: My Journey So Far

This article was adapted from a talk given to Royal Oak Baptist on Waitangi Day.

I used to think of myself as a kiwi. If I am honest, I thought of myself as a 'normal kiwi'. I grew up here. Even though my parents arrived only a few years before I was born, there was no question in my mind that this was home. I belonged here.

The majority of kids at my school were New Zealand European, along with a few Māori, Pasifika, and some from other cultures. Looking back on it, I had an unacknowledged feeling that being European was the norm. I was deeply grateful for an idyllic, privileged upbringing, but I didn't see clearly how part of that privilege came from being European in a Eurocentric society. I wasn't very aware of ethnicity. Was that because I had never been slighted, disadvantaged or overlooked because of my skin colour or culture? That thought did not occur to me.

I mis-pronounced te reo words by default—no one I knew did any different. I didn't even realise I was doing it. Then a friend in high school, with beautiful pronunciation, said she had visited Taupō. I didn't know where she had been, until she added, “you might know it as Towel-poe”.

I was interested in history, and studied in my spare time as a teenager. I chose the histories of Britain, France, Germany, America. European history. Later, travelling overseas, I loved learning the languages of countries we lived in, and practising speaking with locals. And yet, it never occurred to me to learn te reo Māori. Or even to translate the occasional waiata we sang in school. 

I am still embarrassed by my reaction to the foreshore and seabed protest in 2004. It seems like the nadir, the lowest point of my journey. It pretty much went along the lines of “The Māori! What do they want now?”

Thankfully, things began to change when I returned from overseas. I started to wonder why I had never learned Māori, even though I loved languages. With some further education and honest reflection I found the answer—among other things, learned racism. Unexamined prejudice.

And if I did learn te reo, where would I use it? I'd lived most of my life in New Zealand, the home of the language, and very rarely heard spoken conversational Māori. I began to wonder why. 

I started learning our histories. I read three books which challenged my world. Vincent O'Malley's taught me about the invasion of the Waikato: a thriving prosperous community where local iwi had quickly adopted new technologies. Māori were building flour mills, planting orchards, providing Auckland with a large part of its food needs, and trading internationally. How the invasion was justified on the perceived (and non-existent) threat of a Māori attack on Auckland. Dick Scott's book described the invasion of Taranaki, the land confiscation, and the peaceful protests met with violence. The duplicity of the Europeans, creating laws to disadvantage Māori and justify themselves. The inconsistency with which the Europeans lived out their values. I read further - about the British invasion of Punjab, with similar actions. For a while I felt genuinely ashamed of my English heritage. What were my ancestors doing in England, while all this was going on? Did they know? Did they understand, like the few brave Pākehā who spoke out here? I learned how the missionaries in New Zealand, in my opinion, confused culture with truth and tried to 'civilise' the Māori before spreading the gospel. Civilise? Translation: live more like Europeans did. And for a while I felt ashamed to be a Christian.

I started learning te reo. A few courses in, I decided to fully replace the word “hello” with “kia ora”, for everyone I greeted. I made a commitment to pronounce every single Māori word I spoke correctly. I was surprised at how hard it was. Learning the pronunciation was easy. But pronouncing Māori words correctly around my European friends? I felt embarrassed, stupid, saying Onehunga, Tītīrangi, and Manukau Road. When I visited the Kauaeranga Valley and Kuaotunu, people literally didn't know where I meant– not that I can judge, having been at that point myself. And there are so many Māori words and names! It was like taking a small stand, every day. But my embarrassment diminished. Positive comments from both Māori and tauiwi (non-Māori) helped. I realised this is actually one thing I can do, to help New Zealand on its journey forwards as a country. And my embarrassment? A drop in the bucket compared to the emotions some Māori describe when learning their own language. Grief from not being raised with it. Guilt for not engaging earlier. Disapproval from their own family members. And when people like me pick it up so easily, so lightly … irritation? Anger? Embarrassment? Joy? Pride in their language? But I should not attempt to speak for them.

I joined a group called Tauiwi Tautoko, run by the amazing people at Action Station. We were trained in how to engage with people making racist comments on social media. Not to call them out or label them as racist – that doesn't go down well. But to draw alongside them, to call them in to conversation. To be curious about their experiences, about the 'whakapapa' behind each racist comment. To share my own experiences and find common values, or a common vision. And then, to encourage people to work towards that vision.

The amount of racism is staggering! Any article about te reo or Māori culture will have an unbelievable amount of negative, racist comments. Some are horrendous. Others are more subtle, a representation of where I was before: a lack of awareness of our colonial history, and how that history affects us all differently. Like the devastating generational impacts of a people losing their language, being denied their customs, being forced to assimilate or learning that survival requires assimilation. Comments calling for everyone to be treated the same, for us all to be one, for us to forget the past and move on together. Failing to recognize how doing so can perpetuate injustice and inequality. Thinking language is just about communication – unaware of the wealth of belonging, identity, cultural connection, tradition, and knowledge a language can contain, and the healing power of regaining a lost cultural language. 

Responding in the Tauiwi Tautoko way can be tough work. I have to be in the right mood for it. Sometimes I take a break, or more often, life gets busy so I dip out for a while. I have learned that this is part of my privilege. I began to realise how many 'microaggressions', or worse, Māori may face each day. Māori don't get the privilege of taking a break, or of dipping out for a while.

I learned that being racist doesn't mean you are a bad person. Most of us have good values. But we all have assumptions and biases. Are we all racist? I am racist. But if I examine those assumptions, reflect, challenge myself, educate myself, I can become less racist. I can move forward. I can be part of Aotearoa New Zealand's journey, be a part of decolonisation, be part of making our country a better place for everyone. 

Along the way, I've learnt to call myself Pākehā. I'm still a Kiwi, as we all are. I could call myself New Zealand European, but I prefer Pākehā. It's an acknowledgement of Māori, and of my place here in relation to Tangata Whenua. It feels respectful. It's also a tohu, or sign, of my continuing journey. I used to be a Kiwi living in New Zealand, but now I am Pākehā, living in Aotearoa.