Stories about other people's struggles and triumphs in their reo journey have always inspired Sunday reporter Tania Page. So, she's sharing her own for Te Wiki o te Reo Māori to help others experiencing the same rollercoaster.
Before my eldest son was born, I made a promise to learn te reo.
I wasn’t going to let minor details like a lack of reo speakers in our immediate whānau or the fact we were living in Johannesburg at the time deter us.
I watched hours of the Māori TV series Tōku Reo from my couch in South Africa and took copious notes. I ordered waiata books online. I memorised key phrases, believing that at the very least I could ensure that the first and last words my son heard every day were in te reo. That promise was doubled when, two years later, we welcomed our second son.
Fast forward seven years and a lot has changed.
We've been back home in Aotearoa since 2018 and were fortunate enough to get our tamariki into Te Puna Reo o Manawanui (a full immersion te reo preschool) and then into Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Hoani Waititi.
The boys are bilingual, and now, after years of hard slog, so is my husband.
My language journey has been a bit more haphazard. I've found it really tough to bend, warp and bribe my 40-something-year-old brain around passives and statives while also working full time. But kei te pai, kei te haere tonu au.
What I have never relinquished is the first and last words said to my boys every day, since the day they were born.
Mōrena, wā oho, kei te pēhea koe?
Morning, time to wake up, how are you?
One evening, I lean in to kiss my eldest son goodnight and whisper the words I've been saying to him every night since he was born: "Taku aroha ki a koe.”
He meets my eye with a strange look on his face, like he's been meaning to say something for ages but hasn't, and tonight is the night.
"I don't know what you mean."
It's like a record scratch — how can my sacred motherly te reo vow be, well, wrong?
"You know, taku aroha ki a koe," I repeat, like when you're in a foreign country and you just say the same thing again but slower and with hand actions.
He's still looking at me blankly.
So, feeling like a fool, I explain, "I'm saying ‘I love you’".
Reading the spreading expression of horror on my face, he leans into his pillow, blushing, and goes back to his Marvel graphic novels.
I back out of the room with a sinking feeling in my gut and nestle into the couch to pour over my te reo homework.
It's a translation exercise and there it is in black and white, like a tohu, a sign, the phrase ‘taku aroha ki a koe’. Confidently scanning the English translation below I am completely floored to find it translates as "I'm sorry."
What the actual @#$%^?!
Every night. For his entire life. I’ve been whispering “I’m sorry” to my son.
I cry, then laugh, then cry again.
I've since learned that if I had said ‘ka nui taku aroha ki a koe’ that would have been more on point with the sentiment I was trying to express.
But it’s humbling moment number rua mano kotahi rau whitu tekau mā tahi (2,171) in what is a relentless rollercoaster of effort, waning enthusiasm, incremental progress, and happy and sad tears.
I read article after article of people learning te reo, who speak of feeling their ancestors flow through them like rivers connecting the past with the present — but I feel no such inspiring metaphors.
Rather, I have the realisation that this, for me, is more like walking through quicksand. It's going be a grind.
And I am okay with that because it isn't about the destination, it's the journey, and it is one I’m so grateful to be on, given the hard work and sacrifices of the many people who fought so hard to have te reo recognised and protected.
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