In this extract from his book, Speaking My Language, Mike McRoberts recalls growing up in a very Pākehā oriented 1960s and '70s Christchurch, and his gradual reconnection to his te ao Māori.
He Māori ahau – a simple phrase yet one I avoided for much of my life, initially because I didn’t understand its meaning and, later, because I felt I wasn’t Māori enough to say it.
If you’re Māori and around my age, you’ve likely been asked countless times, ‘So, how Māori are you?’ The most important lesson I’ve learned is that if you whakapapa Māori – that is, if you have Māori ancestry – then you are Māori. It doesn’t hinge on the ‘percentage’ of Māori blood you have, or whether you can fluently speak te reo Māori, or how dark your skin is. If you whakapapa Māori, you are Māori. As a friend of mine likes to say, ‘It doesn’t matter how much milk you pour in. Coffee is still coffee.’
Now, I say ‘He Māori ahau’ with pride, hearing it echoed by my adult children and wider whānau.
Being Māori, embracing te ao Māori, is all about connection – linking to our past and nurturing our future. But I know too well that disconnection breeds isolation, leaving you feeling uninvited to your own cultural party.
Discovering I wasn’t alone in this disconnection brought mixed feelings – the ‘good news’ was the shared experience of estrangement from what should have been my birthright; the ‘bad news’ was realising just how widespread this disconnection was.
Generations of Māori have felt it, especially those who, like me, grew up during intense periods of assimilation and urbanisation. These were the children of parents punished for speaking te reo at school. Unlike my father’s generation, which had its cultural expression suppressed, most of mine never received it because we were never taught our culture in the first place.
My parents, Mac, who is Māori, and Lynda, who is Pākehā, were teenagers when I was born. In the mid-1960s, mixed race marriages were uncommon in Ōtautahi Christchurch.
My father had been swept up in the Department of Māori Affairs’ Māori Trade Training Scheme, which relocated thousands of young Māori from rural areas to urban centres, a massive shift that deeply impacted the Māori demographic.
Moving from Wairoa to Ōtautahi, my father left behind his whānau, marae and hapū. But he found a new kind of family among his peers from the training scheme and their families. This community became our extended family, there for every birthday, milestone and challenge.
The Mou, Christie, Kaa, Tehau, Tumataroa, Rahi and Bush families, among others, became our adopted whanaunga. This tightknit group wasn’t about being mixed race or ‘half-castes’; we were simply ‘us’, united perhaps by a siege mentality but, crucially, by shared experiences and mutual support.
We were Māori yet there was little that was culturally Māori about us. Whenever we gathered, there was undeniable manaakitanga, as well as aroha and tautoko – I just didn’t know then that this was hospitality, love and support.
Te reo was absent and, when the guitars came out, my dad and his mates were more likely to belt out ‘Baby Blue’ or ‘Kiss and Say Goodbye’ than a waiata. Discussions about whakapapa, our family histories, our hapū or marae were non-existent. I didn’t even know what my iwi was until my early twenties. I don’t blame my dad or his friends for this; they were navigating their own cultural disengagement.
Having been strapped for speaking te reo Māori themselves, why on earth would they speak it to their kids? One of the greatest things I’ve been able to do in recent times is talk to my dad about that and to tell him that I knew they only ever wanted the best for us. It’s a kōrero born from mamae or pain but spoken with aroha.
I attended state schools in Ōtautahi through the 1970s and early ’80s. At none of these primary, intermediate or high schools was there an opportunity to learn te reo Māori, although I could have comprehensively studied French if I’d wanted. At that time, there was very little to indicate Māori were even a presence in the country’s second-largest city.
In fact, if it wasn’t for the occasional Christmas trip back to my father’s hometown of Wairoa, I might have gone my entire childhood and adolescence without ever hearing or using a single word of te reo Māori.
But my brown skin marked me as Māori to others, even if I didn’t feel it myself. From a young age, I encountered both curious enquiries about my Māori heritage and the less friendly labels of the times. I once came home and asked my dad what a ‘hori’ was, having been called one at school. He laughed and then got very serious, very quickly, asking me who had said that to me. I told him a teammate in my rugby team. He said, ‘Well, if he does it again, give him a thick ear’ – one of his own punishments of choice – so I knew then it was a bad thing.
Despite this, I excelled at school, both academically and in extracurricular activities – I was chair of school council, captain of the First XV, won public-speaking prizes, participated in drama and even co-wrote our school musical. I have no doubt that if te reo Māori and kapa haka had been available, I would have embraced them fully.
Instead, my school days were filled with the standard New Zealand curriculum of the time – rich in European history and literature, yet silent on the stories of Māori heroes, the treaties that shaped our land and the culture that pre-dated colonisation.
Our history books had none of the tales of great Māori navigators who traversed the vast Pacific with stars as their guides. They overlooked the ingenuity of Māori societal structures and land management that could have offered invaluable lessons in sustainability and community. And they failed to focus on Te Tiriti o Waitangi, the New Zealand Wars or the socioeconomics of colonisation.
On one of the few occasions the Treaty was discussed when I was at school, my teacher told everyone that if Māori hadn’t signed the Treaty they risked becoming slaves. I’m pretty sure I was the only Māori in the class. I was 11.
More recent debates, such as those surrounding the Treaty Principles Bill, underscore the deep fissures in our national understanding and are often symptomatic of a broader societal struggle – the clash between a colonial past and a truly bicultural future.
Imagine, instead, an education system that celebrates Māori language, culture and history as core subjects. Or a society in which every New Zealander can discuss the significance of Waitangi Day beyond it being a public holiday.
The emergence of the kōhanga reo generation, unapologetically Māori, makes me wonder what might have been. And not just for me personally but for all New Zealanders. These young people are the product of decades of hard work and advocacy in education. But e hika mā, my goodness – what a prize, and how beautifully they demonstrate what happens when Māori culture and perspectives are woven into our learning systems.
It would be easy to grieve the missed or lack of opportunity for the likes of myself – or for most of the country, for that matter – but at least we can celebrate that some progress has been made.
What inspires me now – and what I hope to convey through this book – is that it’s not too late. Whether you are Māori or not, there is always an opportunity to learn, to grow and to be part of this ongoing journey. This isn’t just about reclaiming a past but about embracing the full spectrum of our shared future, acknowledging that every one of us has a role in shaping an inclusive, diverse Aotearoa New Zealand.
Extracted with permission from Speaking My Language, by Mike McRoberts (HarperCollins Aotearoa New Zealand).
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