Indigenous Autoethnography: Illuminating Māori Voices 9819967171, 9789819967179

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Indigenous Autoethnography Illuminating Māori Voices Edited by Kelli Te Maihāroa · Adrian Woodhouse

Indigenous Autoethnography

Kelli Te Maih¯aroa · Adrian Woodhouse Editors

Indigenous Autoethnography Illuminating M¯aori Voices

Editors Kelli Te Maih¯aroa Otago Polytechnic Dunedin, Otago, New Zealand

Adrian Woodhouse Otago Polytechnic Dunedin, Otago, New Zealand

ISBN 978-981-99-6717-9 ISBN 978-981-99-6718-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: Photographer: Stephen Robinson, Artist: Rangi Kipa This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore Paper in this product is recyclable.

Contents

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1

Introduction to Indigenous Autoethnography Adrian Woodhouse and Kelli Te Maih¯aroa

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Me aro koe ki te h¯a o Hine-ahu-one Kelli Te Maih¯aroa

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Ko Wai Tenei? Jamie Addison

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F*** You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me Mawera Karetai

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Wisdom Is Universal Takarua Tawera

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Waipuna-a-Raki Jeffrey Francis Huia Thomas

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A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes Vicki Rangitautehanga Murray

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Identity Matters Jody Takimoana

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Growing up in Aotearoa as M¯aori in the Education System Gary Te Waaka

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CONTENTS

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The Shroud of Whiteness Adrian Woodhouse

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Editorial Discussion Adrian Woodhouse and Kelli Te Maih¯aroa

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Glossary

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Index

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Notes on Contributors

Jamie Addison (Ng¯ati Porou) is an Addictions practitioner at Moana House, Dunedin, New Zealand. Jamie embraces the values of tika, pono, and aroha within his practice, enabling transformative changes within the lives of his clients and their wider wh¯anau.

Mawera Karetai (Waitaha, K¯ati Mamoe, K¯ai Tahu) is a lecturer at the School of Busi¯ akou University ness, Te Whare W¯ananga o Ot¯ of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand. Maweras’ practice is located within social justice and transformative change where she works tirelessly as an advocate for the marginalised and voiceless within society.

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Rangi Kipa is a renowned M¯aori sculptural artist whose creative practice is at the forefront of defining the aspirations of M¯aori today. Kipas’ practice embraces the intertwinement of M¯aori motifs, techniques, and contemporary materials to create a k¯orero between the past and present. Vicki Rangitautehanga Murray (Ng¯ati ukeko, Ng¯ati Awa) is a M¯aori practitioner, P¯ immersed in te ao M¯aori (M¯aori world), where M¯aori philosophy is central to her community of practice, principles, processes, and traditions. Traditional rituals of taonga tuku iho (gifts handed down) shape her work, where spiritual elements are fundamental to her personal and professional practice.

Jody Takimoana (Nga Puhi) is the Tumuaki Whakaako, at Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand. Jody’s work focuses on the inherent ideological structures that exist within New Zealand’s education system, and how he can challenge these for better outcomes for M¯aori learners.

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

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Takarua Tawera (Ng¯ati Awa, Ng¯ai Tuhoe) is a clinical psychiatrist dedicated to empowering M¯aori men through te ao M¯aori-centred counselling. Harassing the wisdom of his tupuna wisdom, he works tirelessly to build reintegration pathways and a brighter future for his community.

Kelli Te Maih¯aroa (Waitaha, Ng¯ati R¯arua ¯ Atiawa, Taranaki, Ng¯ati Maniapoto) is the Kaihaut¯u: Te K¯ahui Whet¯u/Capable M¯aori at Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, working with cohorts of M¯aori undergraduate learners and mentors on the doctoral programme. Her research areas include Indigenous methodologies, autoethnography, peace traditions, and decolonization.

Gary Te Waaka (Ng¯a Ruahine) is an IT lecturer at Te P¯ukenga ki Taranaki, dedicated to decolonising New Zealand’s education landscape incorporating M¯aori knowledge, perspectives, and values into his curriculum development and teaching methodologies.

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Jeffrey Francis Huia Thomas (Waitaha, K¯ati Mamoe, K¯ai Tahu) is a dedicated food secondary school teacher in Taranaki, Aotearoa New Zealand. He passionately champions learner-centred pedagogy, employing inquiry-based teaching methods alongside the principles of manaakitaka and wh¯anaukataka to cultivate purposeful and genuine learning spaces.

Adrian Woodhouse (K¯ai Tahu) is the Head of Programmes at the Food Design Institute, Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand. Adrian’s research explores the explicit and implicit institutional systems and structures of society and their influence on kai (food), power, and identity formation.

List of Figures

Fig. 11.1 Fig. 11.2

Three States of Being (Walker, 1992) Indigenous autoethnography Praxis model. Te Maih¯aroa and Woodhouse (2024) adaption of Walker (1992)

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction to Indigenous Autoethnography Adrian Woodhouse and Kelli Te Maih¯ aroa

It is with great pleasure that we introduce Indigenous Autoethnography: Illuminating M¯aori Voices. Our co-editorial relationship began several years ago, when Kelli Te Maih¯aroa worked in the Office of the Kaitohutohu at Te Kura Matatini ki Otago (Otago Polytechnic) as a cultural research adviser, and Adrian Woodhouse was in his first year of his Doctor of Professional Practice studies at Capable NZ. After realising that they shared many cultural synergies, Kelli joined Adrian’s academic mentoring team, where Adrian successfully achieved the first Doctor of Professional Practice qualification at Te Kura Matatini ki Otago (Otago Polytechnic). As an a¯konga (learner) and kaimahi (staff member) at Capable NZ, both academics have borne witness to the rise and empowerment of M¯aori learners who have embraced Indigenous autoethnography as their epistemological sense-making tool within the field of academia. It is these

A. Woodhouse (B) · K. Te Maih¯aroa Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, Dunedin, Otago, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] K. Te Maih¯aroa e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_1

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earlier adopters of Indigenous autoethnography who have paved the way for other M¯aori to find their authentic voice, in doing so, enriching the higher education with m¯atauraka: (Indigenous knowledge and understandings) which has until recently largely been ignored and excluded from the academy. Indigenous autoethnography has more recently been adopted as a reflexive tool for M¯aori and Indigenous academics to explore new and alternative means to make sense of and communicate the impact of colonisation. For Adrian, his doctoral research explored the cultural trauma and identity dislocation that was suffered by his t¯ıpuna (ancestors) and wh¯anau (extended family). Generations of colonisation and racism within the lower reaches of Te Waipounamu (South Island of New Zealand), had taught Adrian, and his wh¯anau to hide their K¯ai Tahu identity within the shadows of a dominant white society. As an indigenous researcher exploring the impacts of colonisation, kaupapa M¯aori theory provided Adrian with the epistemological platform to explore his story. With kaupapa M¯aori theory being premised upon acts of conscientisation, transformation, and resistance (G.H. Smith, 1997, 2003, 2017), Indigenous autoethnography became a means for him to enact this kaupapa. Many of the contributing authors within this manuscript have subsequently embraced Indigenous autoethnography as a personal and professional means to pause, reflect, and make sense of one’s life and professional practice. Paul Whitinui, a seminal academic in the field of Indigenous autoethnography, notes: Indigenous autoethnography aims to address issues of social justice and to develop social change by engaging indigenous researchers in rediscovering their own voices as “culturally liberating human beings.” Implicit in this process is also the desire to ground one’s sense of “self” in what remains “sacred” to us as indigenous peoples in the world we live, and in the way, we choose to construct our identity, as M¯aori. (2014, p. 1)

During his Master’s thesis (Woodhouse, 2015), Adrian describes his first encounter with autoethnography as a means for self-exploration and professional interrogation. Deeply inherent within autoethnography is the act of reflexivity, the ability to reflect on the reasons why we think and act in the ways that we do (Ellis et al., 2011). As White (2001) points out, practising autoethnography can be an act of self-surveillance; to check in

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on the self and to critically examine the social, cultural, and political forces which influence and inform our lived realities. Kelli worked as a Lecturer with Professor Paul Whitinui for several years at the University of Otago, and she also drew on Indigenous autoethnography to contextualise her position as a researcher for her Master’s thesis within the te reo M¯aori speaking community in ¯ Otepoti (Te Maih¯aroa, 2012). Her Doctor of Philosophy thesis highlights a Kaupapa M¯aori research approach which aligns with Indigenous Autoethnography (Te Maih¯aroa, 2019) and aims to present authentic M¯aori voices with, for and within M¯aori and Indigenous communities. In keeping with an Indigenous Autoethnographic approach, further information about the co-editors Associate Professor Adrian Woodhouse and Associate Professor Kelli Te Maih¯aroa can be found near the end of the book , thus privileging the M¯aori contributors, for whom this book is collated for, along with their wh¯anau, h¯apori M¯aori (M¯aori community) and wider global Indigenous Peoples.

Autoethnography: A Critical Methodology for ‘Self’ Examination In the first instance, we wish to introduce the over-arching philosophies and academic practices which are situated within the meta-research paradigm of autoethnography. By its nature, sense-making and disseminating knowledge in an autoethnographic manner is an intertwined process of research and writing, as its intent is to seek, describe, and systematically analyse (graphy) the personal lived experience (auto) in order to understand the social, cultural, and political experiences (ethno) that exist within it (Bochner & Ellis, 2016). As an academic practice, autoethnography is both a process and a product, in which the research process and the research artefact are considered as a whole, as opposed to being separated from each other (Hughes & Pennington, 2016). Interpreting and utilising the philosophies and practices of autoethnography therefore requires the researcher/storyteller to meld the interpretive methodologies of the human sciences with the aesthetics of the creative arts and the humanities (Benson, 1993). This presents aesthetic and creative storytelling challenges for the author as engagement, authenticity, and connectivity must all be managed to create autoethnographic legitimacy. As Wall (2008) argues, writing within an autoethnographic methodology is much easier said than done, due to the methodology

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requiring the academic storyteller to artistically blend the emotional realities of the lived experience into an evocative and engaging story (Ellis & Bochner, 2000). However, creating emotional and evocative stories is only one dimension within the autoethnographic methodology, with an appropriate thread of systematic analysis and analytical rigour, critical to defining the work’s academic legitimacy (Anderson, 2006). With autoethnography situated within the interpretivist realm, autoethnographic authors do not seek to provide a truth, instead, their work is driven by a desire for the reader to ask themselves moral and ethical questions as to how we might live our lives in more purposeful and meaningful ways (Bochner & Ellis, 2016). As practitioners of autoethnography, herein lies its true power: within autoethnographies reflective processes and authentic voices we can break cultural silence, reclaim insider’s voice and evoke a critical consciousness within each of us (Holman Jones et al., 2013). As a methodology, it acts as a reflective tool for enabling critical awakening and transformation of action, whilst at the same time ensuring that the authentic insider voice of the researcher is never lost. It is through the practice of autoethnography and its inherent processes of praxis and conscientisation that we can potentially expose and emancipate ourselves from a set of personal embodied dispositions that can influence and change our views of the world and practices within it. We are reminded of the words of Freire (1970, p. 72) when he stated ‘looking at the past must only be a means of understanding more clearly what and who they are so that they can more wisely build the future’; autoethnography provides us with the voice of the past, but more importantly, insights and lessons for the future.

Indigenous Autoethnography and the Spiritual Dimension As M¯aori, wairua (spirituality) is fundamental in defining our cultural and spiritual selves (Marsden, 2003a; Mead, 1934). For M¯aori researchers who choose to embrace autoethnography as their research methodology, incorporating a spiritual and metaphysical dimension into their work is an important aspect of their worldview and realities. This worldview and realities have traditionally presented a challenge for M¯aori autoethnographers as traditional approaches to autoethnography ‘lacks a certain esoterically, metaphysical, and w(holistic) edge, specific to an indigenous reality’ (Whitinui, 2014, p. 6). To this end, Whitinui (2014) has laid

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the academic foundation for M¯aori researchers to embrace Indigenous autoethnography as a culturally responsive means to claim a voice in academia. Within Whitinui’s (2014) conceptual framework of Indigenous autoethnography, perspectives and world views that have a spiritual dimension, and therefore align with the realities of Indigenous People, are valued and celebrated as legitimate and meaningful knowledge within academia. As a culturally responsive methodology, Indigenous autoethnography intentionally seeks out our personal experiences and insider stories to bring about cultural revitalisation (Whitinui, 2014). This point is of particular importance to M¯aori, as historically, Indigenous knowledge and cultural practices have been ignored or misrepresented, notably so, when gazed upon through a western lenses (L. T. Smith, 1999). Until now, there has been a limited number of M¯aori researchers who have embraced Indigenous autoethnography within the hallowed halls of the academy (Carey, 2016; Kainamu, 2013; Whitinui, 2014; Woodhouse, 2021). Through the pioneering work of several M¯aori academics, our traditional storytelling approaches are now acknowledged within academia, yet as Indigenous Peoples, our stories are never ours alone. With te ao M¯aori (the M¯aori world view) premised on the concept that our physical and spiritual selves are developed through whakapapa (genealogy) (Henare, 2001; Marsden, 2003a); Indigenous autoethnography is framed within a multidimensional, cultural, spiritual, and collective premise (Whitinui, 2014). At the heart of the collective premise are the concepts of cultural replenishment and nourishment (Whitinui, 2014). These concepts of replenishment and nourishment are both internal (social, cultural, emotional, and spiritual), and external (people and the environment). With this perspective in mind, when an Indigenous autoethnographer is describing and analysing the ‘self’, the self will often include wh¯anau, hap¯u (subtribe), iwi (tribe), whenua (land), and te ao (the world). It is by embracing the concept of self as it is situated within the wider constructs of the Indigenous reality, that Indigenous autoethnography differentiates itself from other western forms of autoethnography. For M¯aori, it is these spiritual realities that are naturalised within our ways of knowing and being (Marsden, 2003b). Therefore, the stories contained within this book are not simply that of the self and the knower. They embrace Heshusius’ (1994) notion that within the pursuit of a deeper sense of kinship, coming to know the

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cultural self reflects the needs of the cultural collective. To that end, the stories within this book speak of our collective Indigenous struggles for self-determination, autonomy, and empowerment , whilst also indirectly bonding us as the First Nations People of Aotearoa New Zealand and our traditional ways of knowing and being.

Introducing the Storytellers The title of the opening chapter Me aro koe ki te h¯ a o Hineahunoe, written by Kelli Te Maih¯aroa, is based on a M¯aori Womens’ Welfare League (1984) whakatauki (proverb), and follows her challenging journey from being a p¯epi (baby) through to being a mother herself to her adult five sons. She is grounded within her Waitaha whakapapa and the southern landscapes that have moulded her as a wahine championing for Mana M¯aori (the power, prestige and sovereignty of M¯aori). Despite growing up in W¯anaka with limited opportunities to learn and engage in te ao M¯aori, Kelli has immersed herself within M¯aori communities and in her roles which see her work with M¯aori across Aotearoa. Throughout her story, Kelli refers to the strength of her spiritual faith and tohu (signs) from her t¯ıpuna sent to guide her journey towards a deeper sense of self and connection to te ao m¯arama (the human world). Her pathway has been greatly tested, especially when her loved ones transitioned through the veil, although Kelli believes that she is always surrounded and supported by her t¯ıpuna. Kelli wears her moko kauae (traditional chin markings) with pride, as a co-representative of her wh¯anau Te Tiriti claims. In the chapter Ko Wai Tenei? Jamie Addison presents a self-monologue that recounts growing up in a household where gang life and domestic violence were acts of normality. With constant movement in his youth and indoctrination into a world where love was communicated through the actions of the fist, Jamie charts his life from a disillusioned and angry gang member to that of a loving father and addictions practitioner at ¯ Moana House, Otepoti (Dunedin). As a story of personal struggle and transformation, Jamie has written his story as a heartfelt testimony of transformation. He speaks from a place of rawness and honesty, and encourages those who face similar struggles, to pursue a different life for themselves. Having found solace in the Lord and his culture, Jamie’s new-found self drives its sense-making from the Bible and whakatauki. Acutely reminding us that as M¯aori, our

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world views and sense-making mechanisms often come from positions of complexity and spiritual intervention. At the centre of Jamie’s practice are his values of tika, pono, and aroha. Jamie defines these values as being tika which is correct, pono meaning the truth, and aroha, which is ultimate love. These values have been borne from deep moments of reflection and are values that Jamie hopes others will connect with, as they come to sense with their life struggles and issues with addiction. As a self-identified agent of transformation, Jamie brings to the fore a story of hope and change in a world full of challenges and struggles. As a creative storyteller, Mawera Karetai artistically plays with words within the opening lines of her story to remind us that our personal and professional identities are never fixed, but an ever-evolving mix of dreams and aspirations. At the heart of Mawera’s story is a love of knowledge and the empowerment of others. Having lost her sister and changing houses 28 times before the age of ten, Mawera describes an early life that was filled with tragedy, violence, and character-building moments. These early experiences led Mawera to becoming a social justice advocate, dedicating most of her adult life to helping others within her community. As such, Mawera wears many hats in her field of professional practice; with each hat advocating for justice and fairness, especially for those who have been left voiceless in our society. Being brought up in te ao M¯aori, looking to the past to make sense of the future, comes naturally to Mawera. Reflection and lifelong learning are resounding themes in Mawera’s work and are driven by an intentional accumulation of knowledge for the purpose of sharing and empowerment of others. As Mawera reminds us, reflection comes naturally for M¯aori; however, reflection is not always pleasant. Yet, the power of reflection comes from the realisation that we are part of a greater universe; something which is much greater than ourselves. Ignored and abandoned within the P¯akeh¯a education system, Takarua Tawera recalls his story of growing up believing he was not academically minded. Within his chapter, Takarua embraces the story of his whakapapa, allowing him to draw connections between his t¯upuna and his present-day professional practice as a cultural and clinical practitioner for M¯aori men through counselling and navigating the re-integration pathway. Deeply embedded within Takarua’s work is the application of whakatauki as an epistemological sense-making tool. Throughout his story, he artistically weaves whakatuaki with stories, reiterating to the

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reader, that through harnessing the knowledge of our ancestors, we have the knowledge and means to build a better future for our people and planet. Like many authors within this book, Takurua is a lifelong learner, and maps out a pathway for other native te reo M¯aori (M¯aori language) speakers and the journey to not only learn but to also be an articulate and accomplished academic within his second language. Heralding from the deep south of Te Waipounamu, Jeff Thomas recounts his story of being rejected as M¯aori due to his fair complexion and lack of te reo M¯aori. Jeff recalls the complexities of his life, starting with his early experiences of being brought up in Taranaki, where local iwi definitions of M¯aori identity differed from his own. Within Jeff’s story, he takes us into the emotional realities of what it feels like to know you are M¯aori, yet to be culturally rejected when you do not fit traditional stereotypes. As a chef and secondary school kaiako (teacher) teaching food technology, stories of education and kai (food) are woven throughout Jeff’s chapter. Along the way, Jeff traverses into his career in hospitality, where often the manaaki presented to the guests, failed to transition into the back-of-house workplace culture and practices. With a degree in linguistic studies, Jeff draws upon his poetic tongue to create an imagery of words that situates us within his realities. Portrayed through an emotional storytelling approach, this is a story that takes the reader through a rollercoaster of laughter and tears. From the opening scenes where we see a young boy standing in his classroom discussing the importance of his wh¯anau pounamu (family jade pendant) and t¯ıt¯ı (mutton-bird) stick, to the closing remarks in which Jeff returns to his t¯urakawaewae (place of standing), Te Wehi a Te Wera on Rakiura, this is a story of the importance of M¯aori connecting with their mana whenua and returning to their place of standing. In her story A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes, Vicki Rangitautehanga Murray delves into an exploration of self by drawing on her traditional iwi (tribal) chants to unpack and reinterpret her current professional practice. Within each chant, Vicki presents a range of discourses which allows her to examine and reinterpret her taken-for-granted assumptions. Assumptions have become important elements within Vicki’s theory of self and have allowed her to culturally and professionally locate herself as a proud Ng¯ati P¯ukeko and Ng¯ati Awa wahine (woman). Vicki’s chapter illuminates how the insights that are woven into the verses of each chant can guide M¯aori in the development and transformation of their professional identity. It is through the ability of chants

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to traverse land, river, and ocean edifices, that Vicki’s chapter further encapsulates how traditional chants are personified legacies and sentient chronicles of M¯aori ancestry and ways of knowing. In this way, Vicki’s chapter positions that traditional chants are guiding theories of practice for M¯aori; an important insight when attempting to define one’s cultural and professional identity. In his chapter Identity Matters, Jody Takimoana critiques the inherent ideological structures that exist within New Zealand’s education system and its impact on young M¯aori learners. Adopting p¯ur¯akau and critical reflection as a means of systemic interrogation, Jody recalls his personal and professional experiences of being both a learner and educator within the New Zealand education system. Within his story, Jody exposes the dark underbelly of New Zealand education, whereby personal acts of racism and an institutional adherence to colonial ideologies have collided to marginalise many of our M¯aori learners. Jody’s story includes the retelling of his father’s experience of New Zealand schooling in the 1950s. Through acts of physical and psychological abuse towards Jody’s father, he learnt from a young age that the quality of education that young M¯aori receive had a direct impact on their sense of self-worth and cultural identity. As a previous secondary school kaiako and current Deputy Chief Executive of M¯aori Development at Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, Jody is today focused on empowering M¯aori learners through the implementation of a culturally responsive pedagogy. Within this pedagogy, Jody places the needs and aspirations of M¯aori at the centre of learning, thus transforming their educational experiences and sense of cultural self. Jody’s chapter concludes with a series of critical questions which inherently asks those within education to challenge the status quo. Gary Te Waaka’s story is one of a series of life changing events woven with acts of personal resilience and determination. Having been forced to leave secondary school at an early age, Gary recounts his emotional story of re-entering education in his mid-twenties through to his current role as an Information Technology Kaiako at the Western Institute of Technology at Taranaki. As a creative storyteller and a process of sense-making, Gary weaves poetry throughout his story to express the key learning moments and critical turning points within his life. These learning moments have led to him developing a series of deep insights into the New Zealand education system, whereby adopting the principle of whanaungatanga is central to ensuring M¯aori succeed. At the heart of

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Gary’s k¯orero is the importance of decolonising the New Zealand education system by embracing M¯aori ways of knowing and being. Although Gary’s chapter discusses the decolonisation of education in relation to the discipline of information technology, his whakaaro provides insights into the wider education sector. Finally, the chapter, The Shroud of Whiteness by Adrian Woodhouse presents his own story of cultural trauma and identity dislocation. His story opens with an onslaught of anger and frustration, as he discovers that the deep ideologies buried within whiteness have clouded his indigenous reality and cocooned him within white privilege. Applying the processes of reflexivity, Adrian ventures back into his formative years to untangle and decipher the roots of his whiteness. Here he recounts the story of being brought up in a mixed-race wh¯anau, where the cultural practices and worldviews of his northern M¯aori p¯ap¯a rua (stepfather) seemed foreign to him. It is within the process of labelling traditional M¯aori cultural practices as ‘other’ that Adrian finally exposes his whiteness within. Spurred to find the puna (source) of this whiteness, Adrian begins to recall and critically analyse the stories and realities of his t¯ıpuna and wh¯anau. What Adrian soon comes to realise, is that becoming culturally ‘white’ was not a choice for many Southern M¯aori, but a simple means of survival in a society dominated by P¯akeh¯a (New Zealander of European descent) cultural lifeways. Just as the other authors have expressed within this book, it is a story of raw emotion and self-vulnerability to provide meaningful insight into the cultural views and lived realities of M¯aori.

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Ellis, C., & Bochner, A. P. (2000). Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 733–768). Sage. Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the oppressed (30th anniversary). Continuum. Henare, M. (2001). Tapu, mana, mauri, hau, wairua: A Maori philosophy of vitalism and cosmos. In J. A. Grim (Ed.), Indigenous traditions and ecology: The interbeing of cosmology and community (pp. 197–221). Harvard University Press. Heshusius, L. (1994). Freeing ourselves from objectivity: Managing subjectivity or turning toward a participatory mode of consciousness? Educational Researcher, 23(3), 15–22. Holman Jones, S., Adams, T., & Ellis, C. (2013). Handbook of autoethnography. Left Coast Press. Hughes, S. A., & Pennington, J. L. (2016). Autoethnography: Process, product, and possibility for critical social research: Sage Publications. Kainamu, R. (2013). Say our beautiful names: A M¯ aori indigene’s autoethnography of women-self-mother [Doctor in Philosophy]. University of Auckland. https://researchspace.auckland.ac.nz. https://researchspace.auckland.ac.nz/ handle/2292/21753 Marsden, R. M. (2003a). God, man and universe: A m¯aori worldview. In T. A. C. Royal (Ed.), The woven universe: Selected writings of Rev. M¯ aori Marsden (pp. 187). The Estate of Rev. M¯aori Marsden. Marsden, R. M. (2003b). Kaitiakitanga: A definative introduction to the holistic world view of the M¯aori. In T. A. C. Royal (Ed.), The woven universe: selected writings of Rev. M¯ aori Marsden (pp. 54–72). Estate of Rev. M¯aori Marsden. Mead, G. H. (1934). Mind, self and society (Vol. 111). University of Chicago Press. Smith, G. H. (1997). The development of Kaupapa Maori: Theory and praxis [Doctor of Philosophy]. University of Auckland, ResearchSpace@ Auckland. Smith, G. H. (2003). Kaupapa Maori theory: Theorizing indigenous transformation of education and schooling. Paper presented at the Proceedings Kaupapa Maori Symposium-NZARE/AARE Joint Conference, Auckland. Smith, G. H. (2017). Kaupapa M¯aori Theory: Indigenous Transforming of Education. In T. K. Hoskins & A. Jones (Eds.), Critical conversations in Kaupapa Maori (p. 211). Huia Publishers. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples: Zed Books. Te Maih¯aroa, K. (2012). K¯ a Puanan¯ı o Te Reo as an Effective Means of Te Reo ¯ Me Ona Tikanga Enrichment from the Perspective of Tamariki and Wh¯ anau [Master of Arts]. University of Otago. http://hdl.handle.net/10523/2420 Te Maih¯aroa, K. (2019). K¯ a p¯ akihi k¯ a whakatekateka a waitaha The plains where the waitaha strutted proudly Titiro ki muri, kia whakatika ¯ a mua, look to the

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past to proceed to the future: Why t¯ıpuna used rakim¯ arie peaceful living to claim and maintain ahi k¯ a burning fires of occupation during early colonial contact and does it hold validity and relevance for wh¯ anau family today? [Doctor of Philosophy]. University of Otago. https://ourarchive.otago.ac.nz/handle/ 10523/9818 Wall, S. (2008). Easier said than done: Writing an autoethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 7 (1), 38–53. White, S. (2001). Auto-ethnography as reflexive inquiry: The research act as self-surveillance. Qualitative Research in Social Work, 1, 100. Whitinui, P. (2014). Indigenous autoethnography: Exploring, engaging, and experiencing “self” as a Native method of inquiry. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 43(4), 456–487. Woodhouse, A. (2015). Culinary arts pedagogy: A critical enquiry into its knowledge, power and identity formation [Masters of Professional Practice ebook]. Otago Polytechnic, Research Gate. https://www.researchgate.net/ publication/284409855_Culinary_Arts_Pedagogy_A_Critical_Enquiry_into_ its_Knowledge_Power_and_Identity_Formation Woodhouse, A. (2021). Torn Ident¯ıt¯ıes: A K¯ ai Tahu p¯ ur¯ akau of whiteness [Doctor of Professional Practice]. Otago Polytechnic, Otago Polytechnic. https://www.op.ac.nz/industry-and-research/research/postgraduate-stu dies/opres-theses/professional-practice-theses/woodhouse-dpp/

CHAPTER 2

Me aro koe ki te h¯a o Hine-ahu-one Kelli Te Maih¯ aroa

Me aro koe ki te h¯a o Hine-ahu-one Mai te t¯ımataka Ko Papat¯ua¯nuku te whaea whenua Ko Hine-ahu-one te ira takata tuatahi He w¯ahine T¯ıhei Mauri ora!

Pay heed to the dignity of M¯aori women. From the beginning of time Was Papat¯ua¯nuku the Earth Mother Then Hine-ahu-one the first human created A woman I sneezed and therefore I live!

K. Te Maih¯aroa (B) ¯ Dunedin, Aotearoa, New Zealand Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_2

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Mai te t¯imataka | From the beginning of time We are all the seed of divine unlimited potential, where our ancestral hopes, dreams, and experiences materialise through wairua (spirit) into a preordained physical life. We are ira takata (spiritual and physical energetic beings), the celestial essence embodied as we enter te ao m¯arama (the human world), the kanohi ora (living face) of our t¯ıpuna. Ko au ko koe, ko koe ko au (I am them and they are me). Our destiny in this lifetime was predestined by us before entering this dimension, place, and space. We chose to come into this earthly realm, to connect with Papat¯ua¯nuku (Earth Mother), and all the mauri (lifeforces) that she nourishes; her whenua, flora, fauna, takata (people), and all other living beings. T¯ıhei mauri ora! (The breath of life!).

¯ Ko Papatu¯ anuku te whaea whenua ¯ | Papatu¯ anuku the Earth Mother M¯aori p¯ur¯akau (narratives) inform us that T¯ane-nui-a-Rangi and Io carved Hine-ahu-one, the first wahine M¯aori from the whenua at Kurawaka Beach, Aotearoa (Te Aka M¯aori Dictionary, 2022). Gaynor Te Maih¯aroa (Gay) was my Hine-ahu-one, my first female role model, my earth mother, who in turn, shaped me from her dreams and lifeforce. Born in 1950, her p¯ap¯a Eruera Te Maih¯aroa (aka Big Ted) was a great grandson of Te Maih¯aroa. Te Maiharoa was the last M¯aori prophet of Te Waipounamu, the South Island of Aotearoa New Zealand (Mikaere, 1988). Gaynor’s m¯am¯a, Dorothy Benny was of Scottish descent, also born and raised within the southern landscape. When Ted and Dot married, they gathered their two children from previous marriages; Lenore, Teddy, Lorraine, and Graeme, and then welcomed three more tamariki into their wh¯anau; Gaynor, Gary, and Faye. I am the eldest mokopuna from this second union of Ted and Dot. M¯am¯a Gay often talked about how happy she was as a child, and how much she loved playing with all her cousins, free to play all day, singing waiata (songs), and playing with poi (traditional ball on string). When her parents divorced at an early age, m¯am¯a shared with me how much this affected her deeply. It was a feeling that she held close to her heart as a young wahine and went on to shape her life pathway, and subsequently mine.

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When I came here, my landing was not soft, as my m¯am¯a was only 18 years old and faced the dilemma of an unwanted teenage pregnancy. Knowing that Dot, her hardworking mother already had two older and two younger children, she may not be able to care for and feed another child. This accompanied by her perceived shame and stigma of an unplanned pregnancy, m¯am¯a decided to hide away in a city by herself and place her p¯epi (child), me, up for adoption. The protocols of the day were to remove the p¯epi from the m¯am¯a immediately after birth just in case there was a change in direction. I often wonder if I saw her when I opened my eyes for the first time. After two weeks of the health imposed post maternal care separation at the hospital, m¯am¯a came to say goodbye and decided that she could not leave without her p¯epi. I always felt like the two of us were trying to make up for lost time, that we had lost something of ourselves in those imposed two weeks of separation. What I know now, is that it was supposed to be like this. My entry into this world without my m¯am¯a, has led me to living a fiercely independent life—it has been a long, and at times painful journey to be able to fully reflect on how these humble beginnings have shaped me as an Indigenous wahine. Upon reflection, I now realise that I was and am, never alone. For just as m¯am¯a had longed for a p¯epi of her own, someone to care for and love unconditionally, so too had I called her into my dreams of becoming. Life was harsh for her as a young new m¯am¯a. Facing the parental journey without a partner, job, or money, she took me home to Nana Dot’s, emptied out her sock draw, and created a home for us to be together. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity of being raised with my m¯am¯a and my maternal wh¯anau, at a time when many p¯epi M¯aori were placed for adoption away from their wh¯anau of origin. Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko Ko

Aoraki te mauka teitei Waitaki te awa Waitaha t¯ uturu te iwi Uruao te waka R¯aikaihaut¯ u te kaihaut¯ u Kati R¯akai te hap¯ u Te M¯aiharoa te tohuka me poropiti Eruera Te M¯aiharoa t¯ oku p¯ oua Dorothy Benny t¯ oku t¯aua Alistair Howison t¯ oku p¯ap¯a tuarua Gaynor Te M¯aiharoa t¯ oku m¯am¯a

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Ko Jay r¯atou ko Ben, ko Josh, ko Isaak, ko Jake ¯aku tamariki, o¯ ku manawanui.

Ko Kelli Te M¯aiharoa t¯ oku ikoa

Mount Cook is the majestic mountain Waitaki is the river Waitaha is the tribe Uruao is the ancestral canoe R¯akaihaut¯ u is the navigator Kati R¯akai is the subtribe Te Maih¯aroa is the spiritual priest and prophet Edward Te Maih¯aroa was my grandfather Dorothy Benny was my grandmother Alistair Howison was my second father Gaynor Te Maih¯aroa was my m¯am¯a Jay, Ben, Josh, Isaak, and Jake are my children, my heartbeats My name is Kelli Te Maih¯aroa.

Returning to her home, m¯am¯a gave me two important names, connecting me to two influential t¯ıpuna in Te Waipounamu. My first name, Kelli, is after m¯am¯a’s cousin Kelly Davis, a tribal m¯ahika kai (traditional food) expert. The brief time that I spent with Uncle Kelly, taught me the beauty of being humble and how to manaaki people no matter how much or little you have to share with your people, the act of sharing is enough to nourish and benefit the collective. I was gifted my last name directly from my tipuna Te Maih¯aroa. The honour of carrying his name firmly locates me within our wh¯anau, hap¯u (subtribe), and Iwi (tribe) who strive to uphold his mana in the light of his prophetic legacy. I have spent almost my entire life living within my t¯urakawaewae, (ancestral homelands), my tribal boundaries, a customary practice of ahi k¯a roa (uninterrupted burning of ancestral fires) for over 1200 years. When I reflect on these humble beginnings, it is easy how I became both fiercely loyal to my wh¯anau, but also incredibly self-sufficient, resourceful, resilient, and determined. These characteristics proved to be my saving grace, as the universe placed many obstacles within my early years, to ensure that I gained clarity on what I want and what I do not need in my life. But they can also be my sharp points, resulting in a strong-minded wahine M¯aori committed to the ‘struggle’ of mana

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Motuhake (self-determination) and mana M¯aori (aspirations and prestige of M¯aoridom). Life can be, and often is, a struggle for many of us, no matter what place, time, and race we enter this world. In my early years, I was placed in an unsafe home when my m¯am¯a went to work, where the person who was entrusted to care for me as a toddler tied me to tables, beds, and the toilet to train me into obedience. Too young to speak of these horrors, my unreconcilable distressed behaviour showed that my wairua (spirit) could no longer be shackled. Distraught and hospitalised, when m¯am¯a picked me up, she realised that she needed to make good choices for herself and me. She knew that she had to do better, and so she did. It was about this time, when I was two, that m¯am¯a’s first love, Ali Howison, reappeared in her life, and she was elated to be rescued from her small rural life. Within the year, Ali adopted me, and they set up a home in W¯anaka where they went on to have three much loved daughters together: Sheryl, Michelle, and Toni. On reflection, these childhood years were a positive time in my life, where I felt safe and happy with our wh¯anau living sustainably off the land, with plenty of gardens to tend to and animals to feed and nurture. Like many fathers in the 1970s and 1980s, our father was more than often absent due to long working hours as a truck driver and local barber. Although very authoritarian, he was a handsome man, sporting the latest cool cars and hairstyles. Our m¯am¯a loved him deeply, and she was his beautiful, kind, and graceful darling. I remember the long, hazy, summer days of these times growing up in W¯anaka. But from an early age, I also remember yearning for the seemingly lost connection with myself, the dreams, the sleep–wake existence of walking through the fields towards something much greater than the physical. I recall the times that I would often dwell in those in-between spaces, being able to leave my body and exploring the metaphysical, a state I now recognise as mediation. I would get vivid messages in my dreams, that would wake me up and note them, knowing that they were significant and seemingly very real. This state of moemoe¯a (dreams), has helped guide me throughout my life, to recognise the tohu (signs) or stop, pause, and consider the deeper reasons behind things happening. At times it still pains me to be presented with the lessons of ‘you get what you need, not what you want’; where some of my greatest learnings have evolved from events that I would not have wished for anyone, but my soul had a different calling.

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As a maturing eleven-year-old, on the brink of being a teenager, m¯am¯a and Ali thought that it was time to tell me that I was adopted—this was not good timing! I can still remember the day vividly, being led into my parents’ room for what I thought was the ‘birds and the bees’ talk. This sharing of this secret shook me to my core, as I wondered why I had been lied to, it shattered my sense of belonging within our wh¯anau. Teenage years are often the time for exploring the self as a separate person from your parents and siblings, and it was at this time that I started mistrusting my parents through a rebellious sense of betrayal. Finding out that you are adopted and do not know one half of your DNA is an emotional minefield. This was the beginning of my cognisant search for ‘ko wai au’ (who am I)?

Ko Hine-ahu-one te ira takata tuatahi | Hine-ahu-one is the first woman Growing up in a sheltered, white community, I knew nothing about the being M¯aori, let alone the first M¯aori ancestress Hine-ahu-one. For me, ‘being M¯aori’ was not a thing as a teenager growing up in W¯anaka and it was not until third form social studies when my class was studying ‘preEuropean M¯aori’ that one of my best friends said: ‘oh you are one of those!’ I can remember asking her what she was talking about? I had never thought about this before, as m¯am¯a had been separated at an early age from her wh¯anau through her parents’ divorce. I then started to explore what made my m¯am¯a different from some of my friends’ parents, and soon found that we had a history and belonging with this whenua that I needed to know more about. Subsequently, social studies sparked my interest in taha M¯aori (M¯aori things), but there was no M¯aori in our curriculum at W¯anaka Area School that held any further information. The cultural vibe of Wanaka was P¯akeh¯a working/middle class (now largely wealthy P¯akeh¯a retirees), with no real consideration of M¯aori, let alone support to engage with other M¯aori. We lived in a culturally white cocoon where te reo M¯aori (M¯aori language) was not spoken and although we were surrounded by M¯aori wh¯anau who occasionally came together for a shared h¯ang¯ı, there were no M¯aori community events. M¯aori were rarely visible on TV and insight into the M¯aori world was conveyed through Billy T James’ humour, a M¯aori comedian who laughed and joked at M¯aori more than providing any insight into being takata whenua (Indigenous to this land).

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I was a teenager when our p¯oua (grandfather) started making seasonal appearances in our lives as he travelled to and from the West Coast from Invercargill for white baiting. It was at this time that I saw my m¯am¯a blossom. The reconnection with her p¯ap¯a, created a pathway for us to connect with our wider wh¯anau and signalled a new sense of belonging for me through whakapapa. Not knowing my biological father stirred and unearthed me, propelling me to learn more about where I came from and to whom I belonged. One of my paths into the M¯aori world was via our M¯aori neighbours and as a teenager, (much to the horror of my parents), the shearing ‘gangs’ became my ‘idealised’ surrogate wh¯anau and I loved spending time with them, travelling away to remote high country farms. The white baiting season and occasional marae visits kept us connected with our Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau. Our parents would plan their yearly holidays around the whitebait season, and we travelled regularly over to the small West Coast white baiter’s settlement of Kwitchatown, Haast Pass, where Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau owned several baches. My parents fitted right in and inherited a bach from p¯oua Ted. The thing that we all loved the most, more than eating the whitebait itself, was playing cards and spending time together as a wh¯anau. We knew that we belonged here and no matter where we were in the world, we knew that Te Waipounamu was our t¯urakawaewae (place to stand stall), our home. When I am on our whenua and recall these times spent with wh¯anau, my body relaxes, and I am taken back to these warm childhood memories, of belonging. It was the complete circle for my m¯am¯a to experience, now reconnected and embedded within her wh¯anau. My teenage years were also a time when I was starting to make more sense of other aspects of who I am and exploring my taha wairua (spiritual side). During this time, I developed a more acute sense of the presence of my t¯ıpuna. They would visit me when I was alone, sick, or when I just needed someone to watch over me. One of these times was when I was 15 and out on a long horse ride. I was at a crossroad, the intersection at Maukawera, and the road to W¯anaka and H¯awea. Here outside the shearers’ quarters was a special place for me, one where I felt welcomed and accepted, so no wonder I was open to a tohu for guidance. At that crossroad, I telepathically heard a male voice, that I interpreted as God (although we did not attend church) say: ‘you have two pathways ahead of you, the easy one that will take you down the road already known, or the high road, which will be more difficult but more rewarding’. This

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event was life-altering and gave me the spiritual strength to open my mind and heart to higher opportunities and experiences. At the time I was learning to make choices about who I am, where I am from, and what my life might look like going forward. It would be fair to say that there was truly little parental guidance, our parents worked so hard and just got on with life, there was no time for ‘deep and meaningful’ k¯ orero. I had been through some rough years with my stepfather, and during an alcohol-fueled argument he said to m¯am¯a ‘leave her alone, she is going nowhere, she belongs on the streets’. This was one of those ‘sometimes you get what you need, not what you want’ moments, where these words often rang through my head as a reminder that I was destined for a higher sense of purpose. It defined my pathway out of this situation, as I prepared to leave my parents’ home at 17 and immerse myself in as many life-giving opportunities as I could cram into each day, each year, each decade. The following year I was chosen to represent W¯anaka Area School on the Spirit of Adventure, sailing around the Hauraki Gulf, the excitement of meeting new people, and my first time on a plane by myself and my first visit to the North Island. My confidence and sense of adventure grew hugely from this experience and was nominated as a Rotary Exchange Student 1987 and finished my final year of high school in Colorado, United States of America. I went from being a shy, sheltered teenager, to a young M¯aori woman, eager to participate in all that life had to offer, including leading a cultural performance in front of thousands of Americans. These years were followed by a working holiday around the east coast of Australia in 1988, returning home to spend time with my Nana Dot who was unwell and passed away shortly after.

He wahine | Woman It was at this time that I met DJ, and we had our first son Jay when I was 20 years old. Just as I had been a blessing in my young m¯am¯a’s life, so too was Jay a joy in mine and he became the reason for me to provide a better life for him. As my m¯at¯amua (first born), he holds a special place in my heart. We lived in Dunedin and when Jay turned six months, I enrolled for a Bachelor of Arts degree at the University of Otago and then a Primary Teaching Diploma. One of my first-year papers was Introduction to M¯aori Society taught by Russell Bishop who quickly became my academic mentor and whanauka (extended relative) as

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his Aunty Ora married my p¯oua. His a¯whi (care) and tautoko (support) for me as a young wahine exploring ‘being M¯aori’ catapulted me further on my cultural learning journey. At this time, a new book had just been written by Buddy Mikaere (1988) called Te Maiharoa and the Promised Land, which ignited my desire to learn more about my Waitaha whakapapa and this history of the first people of Te Waipounamu. I would put Jay in our little Honda City, and we would head off on all sorts of adventures, arriving at hui (meetings) and having to make the whakapapa puzzle connections. It helped that this took place within my whenua, as I am now able to understand how difficult this cultural reconnection process must be for wh¯anau living outside of their tribal areas. We had an incredibly busy household, with DJ starting up a new business and both of us studying at the University of Otago. Three and a half years later we welcomed into our wh¯anau a second p¯epi, Ben, with a big personality right from the start. I did not know how my heart could expand any further, and these were mostly happy times for our little wh¯anau. And then, just like that, in my final year of study the following year when I graduated, we bought into this world our third angel son, Josh. It was a special time with three little boys, surrounded by lots of wh¯anau whom we enjoyed spending time with. If I could give myself advice and guidance to the 25-year-old m¯am¯a who had all that she could have wished for and more, to be grateful for each day with your p¯epi, your babies need your unconditional love. But as a young couple and now parents of three young sons, we were struggling to keep up with the pace of our own busy lives, and in hindsight, it was not surprising we chose to lead separate lives. We were just too busy being busy, a young couple in our mid-twenties, learning to grow up ourselves and trying to raise our three young tamariki. There is sadness in admitting that we lost sight of the beautiful little wh¯anau that we had created. We went on to share care of our boys, both working part time and trying to do the best for Jay, Ben, and Josh. But emotionally it took a toll on all of us, especially our sons. Life certainly was hectic and challenging back then. I remember that I could not pay the rent three times in a row due to insufficient funds; how embarrassing! Juggling shared parenting, mahi (work), sports and community, and Waitaha events, became a part of my normal life. At 25, I was living and parenting on my own with little wh¯anau support, earning little money as a part-time teacher and trying to establish my teaching

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career and struggling to put kai on the table and to pay the never-ending bills. I do have regrets about how we co-parented our three beautiful sons, which became more complex once we both re-partnered within a year of separating. Up until the late 1990s, the W¯anaka M¯aori community was invisible, in that we did not have a local marae to draw us together or any ‘M¯aori’ cultural events that pulled us together as a r¯op¯u (group). M¯aori in Te Waipounamu are also often faced with the issue of (in)visibility, being fair skinned and te reo M¯aori was not being taught in our school or community. Despite this, ‘being M¯aori’ was a lifeline to my Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau and making new links through M¯aori studies within the University and the College of Education. I felt like I had finally found my place in this world, somewhere I belonged and connected to the people as mana whenua (the people that hold the prestige of the land). A cultural shift occurred in our community (along with many other school communities) during the early 1990s that also brought to the fore M¯aori identity with the introduction of Tomorrow’s Schools reform (New Zealand Department of Education, 1988). This required schools to establish and maintain relationships with their local wh¯anau groups, M¯aori community, hap¯ u (subtribe), and iwi (tribe). In response, local M¯aori in W¯anaka formed a representative r¯ op¯u named Te Korowai o M¯atauraka, with a focus on educational relationships between M¯aori and school communities. In addition, the Ng¯ai Tahu Settlement Bill 1998 was being widely debated. Being direct descendants from R¯akaihaut¯u, the founding tipuna of Waitaha, upholding the mana of being ‘Waitaha’ was integral to Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau. The 1990s was a time of Crown-Tribal settlements, which saw hap¯u and Iwi rearrange themselves to engage with the Crown. The Waitaha Tai Whenua o Waitaki Trust Board was formed in 1996 as a tribal organisation and remains engaged with local and national government agencies. We spoke at the M¯aori Select Committee to advocate for Waitaha to be retained as a unique and distinct Iwi separate from Ng¯ai Tahu. Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau never gave his mana over to the Crown, and Waitaha Taiwhenua did not consent to another tribal authority being able to speak on behalf of Waitaha. Waitaha elders called several hui in regular succession to keep wh¯anau informed of these political developments and to gain clarity around the implications for ‘Waitaha’. As the Ng¯ai Tahu Settlement proposal circulated around the motu (island), Waitaha elders

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spoke out about their desire to remain Waitaha and the perceived perils of being included under the korowai (blanket) of ‘another’ iwi. There were elders at the time who voiced their concern that we should remain Ng¯ai M¯aori and not become tribalised, some called for us to remain as wh¯anau and hap¯u, whilst the Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau (and others) remained staunchly Waitaha t¯uturu (authentic). But the Crown swiftly negotiated a settlement for the majority of Te Waipounamu with Ng¯ai Tahu Wh¯anui as the umbrella iwi for and on behalf of three Southern iwi: Waitaha, Ng¯ati M¯amoe and Ng¯ai Tahu (Ng¯ai Tahu Settlement Act, 1998). Unlike the Tainui Waikato iwi negotiations, which left opportunities for another hap¯u and iwi within that takiw¯a, Ng¯ai Tahu took a conquering approach and enveloped Waitaha into what was the Ng¯ai Tahu and Ng¯ati M¯amoe claim. Tomorrow’s Schools reform had the knock-on effect of expecting local M¯aori wh¯anau to fulfil schools’ expectations of consulting and working with local M¯aori. This led to W¯anaka developing Te Korowai o Matauraka to engage with the local primary and high school, and at the same time, I became more involved with the tribal Waitaha Tai Whenua o Waitaki Trust Board. Strategic planning for both organisations provided the opportunity for me to personally consider what I want for my tamariki, mokopuna (grandchildren), and community and I continued to be involved with Waitaha events and local kapa haka (even though I am the worst singer, ever!) Mahi a t¯ıpuna (ancestral work) continues to be a driver for me, to serve my wh¯anau, hap¯u, and iwi, to uphold mana M¯aori that Te Maih¯aroa stood for. He never folded. For I am a reflection of him, and a descendant of a long line of chiefs, dating back to R¯akaihaut¯u in 850 AD. It is my obligation to uphold the mana of my t¯ıpuna and wh¯anau and in turn, to create my own legacy for mokopuna (grandchildren) to come. At the turn of a new millennium, now as a thirty-year-old wahine, saw my second marriage to Whet, and being blessed with our two sports loving sons: Zak and Jake. Being an older m¯am¯a and having more financial security meant that I had more time and energy for my five boys, even though I was also busy as co-partner within our property development business. This marriage was one of great highs and deep lows; an attempt to mix oil and water—it does not happen! On the outside we may have looked like a successful couple, but along with all the glitz and glamour that comes with property speculation, our relationship also turned upside down and left me emotionally bankrupt.

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I needed a stable, loving home, where I was safe, valued, and cared for. I felt that I would rob my tamariki and myself of a healthy future if I stayed in this relationship, it was crushing my wairua. I had to draw on all the strength of my t¯ıpuna to give me the clarity and strength to walk away and leave behind much of what we had built together, which now felt like sandcastles. Just as my own m¯am¯a was faced with the dilemma of trying to do things differently, I too knew that I needed to do better for my tamariki. All my five sons deserved to have a m¯am¯a who was present and able to give unconditional aroha (love), rather than trying to constantly navigate choppy home waters. My rocks in these times of change have been my m¯am¯a, sisters, sons, and my mahi. The need to provide financially to raise my sons has also helped spark my passion to make a difference within the M¯aori community through designated M¯aori roles including being a M¯aori Counsellor, Parliament Secretary, Strategic Adviser M¯aori for the Ministry of Education, and M¯aori Lecturer at the University of Otago. These roles have propelled me to connect more, learn more, and study more. Being ¯ awarded the role as Associate Professor for Te P¯ ukenga ki Otago Polytechnic in my current role of Kaihaut¯ u: Te K¯ahui Whet¯u | Capable M¯aori enables me to make a difference within my community and empower M¯aori learners to gain the tohu (qualifications) and tools to make a difference in their own lives and for their people. To support my own tribal mahi, I have worked as the role of secretary for Waitaha Tai Whenua Trust Board for close to 15 years and am still a dedicated Board Member. I really valued the time of this service, especially spending precious time with our kaum¯atua (elders). They come from a bygone era, where their foremost thoughts were to serve their wider community, immeasurable learnings, and lessons that have shaped my cultural and spiritual identity. My relationship with our m¯areikura (high born female) Aunty Sissie Te Maih¯aroa Dodds has been a constant treasure to me, and I in turn, have been blessed to have spent time as one of her kaitiaki (guardian) for her in her later years.

T¯ihei Mauri ora! | I sneezed and therefore I live! I am, therefore, I live. The breath of life was the exchange of breath when Hine-ahu-one was brought alive into human form as the first woman, and she exhaled mauri ora, the breath or sneeze of life. Each role, life event, and chapter has helped to shape me, an Indigenous wahine, a Waitaha

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m¯am¯a, and soon to join the circle of the Waitaha Grandmothers. My strongest advocate over the last four decades had been my m¯am¯a, Gaynor Anne Te Maih¯aroa Howison. But within the first year of embarking on my Ph.D. thesis journey, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and passed away five short months later. On her death bed, she shared her regret that she had not handed me over at birth to Aunty Sissie, as she felt that I would have been a great kotiro (daughter) for Aunty and that I would have had the childhood that would have been best to shape me within te ao M¯aori, the M¯aori world. Coming up to the first anniversary of our m¯am¯a passing, her beloved husband Ali also suddenly slipped away after a routine operation in hospital. During these times I felt blessed to be part of a wider wh¯anau network, where we were supported by so many in our community, to try and help lessen the loss. Unexpectantly, we also needed to support our little sister through her own health trials and challenges. Everyone experiences loss and grief in their lives, it can bring the strongest to our knees. Grief and loss are emotions that one never wishes to experience. My sisters and I had up until then, been fortunate to spend several decades with minimal loss of loved ones. You can only experience great loss when you have equally experienced great love. I would not barter any pain for any less love in my life, as it reminds us of the rich korowai (cloak) of life, the muka (fibre) that we weave our experiences around, and to ponder what legacy we may leave behind when it is time to return to the stars. After losing our parents, I felt both a huge sense of loss, but also a rebirth through the mortal realisation that not one day is promised to us. My three eldest sons had left home, and Jake my potiki (youngest), wanted to move up North to play in the under-15 Super Eight rugby competition. Jake and I ended up living in Ng¯a Motu (New Plymouth), initially staying with my youngest sister and her wh¯anau. I grasped this ¯ opportunity to learn more about our Te Atiawa and Taranaki whakapapa and to spend some more time with my treasured friend Maata Wharehoka at the historic pacifist village of Parihaka. Maata and I had met several years earlier when she was touring with the film T¯ atarakihi: The Children of Parihaka (2012). It was also at this time that I met a remarkable man through our mahi, Apakura, a meeting that sparked a fire in our souls that was mesmerising. We knew that destiny had bought us together and felt that our t¯ıpuna wanted us to be together. Once in your lifetime, you are lucky to meet someone so treasured and adored that you hand your heart and soul over

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to that one person. Tragically, one month after I moved north to be closer to him, he passed away unexpectantly on the sports field. This feeling can only be described as ‘he patu t¯oku wairua’, an assault to my soul. As his wairua departed to our ancestral homelands of Hawaiki, so too did a little piece of me travel with him, until I too return to the stars. The longing does not fade, and I still mourn for the loss of his beautiful face every day, such a beautiful soul. But no matter how much I wanted things to be different, I have had to bow to the universe and have faith that all was for a reason much greater than ourselves. His transition has taught me how thinly the veil is between the physical and non-physical, that we are all energetic beings of light, just a thought away from each other. It was at this time that my aunty reminded me that God must have huge faith in me, as I have been given many challenges in my life. I believe that our t¯ıpuna would not give us challenges that were too great for us to carry. His passing has given me the spiritual strength that I needed for purposes that are yet to unfold. I marked this passage of time by receiving my moko kauae (traditional chin markings), which represent my whakapapa and spiritual journey over half a century and beyond. Moko kauae is a statement of strength, resiliency, and determination. It provides me with cultural and spiritual strength to sustain the call for justice through our Te Tiriti o Waitangi (Treaty of Waitangi) claim for Waitaha, K¯ati R¯akai, and Te Maih¯aroa wh¯anau that I have co-held since 2008 with Aunty Sissie and Uncle Rangim¯arie Te Maih¯aroa. The adorning of my moko kauae also reflects my commitment to our ancient whakapapa, the kaupapa of Mana M¯aori (M¯aori prestige), and a symbol of hope for our mokopuna to come, so that Waitaha do not become forgotten people. This deliberate cultural resurgence of moko kauae has also created a space for cultural pride within our wh¯anau, as it had not been worn for almost two hundred years. Entering this world alone and seemingly unwanted, I am grateful every day for the strength of my wh¯anau and t¯ıpuna, who have shaped and moulded me into the wahine that I am today. Each day I am thankful grateful for the blessings and people in my life. Tohu continue to guide me, aroha expressed in a feather here, a rainbow there, and wind chimes all around that play to remind me that I am not alone. I am learning to ‘know and be’, that I am the sign that I have been searching for, I am the homecoming that I have been longing for. Through the darkness, I continue to believe in the light, the feelings of connection, to be loving and to be loved. What I know for sure, without a shadow of a doubt, is

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that I energetically hold a beacon of light for Apakura to visit with me, he is only a thought away. E kore e mimiti te aroha m¯ou, ka murimuri aroha m¯o ake tonu (my love for you will never subside, I will always yearn for you). T¯ıhei Mauri Ora! Acknowledgements Me aro koe ki te h¯a o Hineahuone. This whakatauki was the title for the M¯aori Women’s Welfare League National 1984 Conference. Report of the Royal Commission Social Policy, 1988, Vol II , 158.

References Joseph, P. (Director). (2012). T¯ atarakihi: The Children of Parihaka [Film]. Documentary Edge, Paora Joseph Productions in association with Gaylene Preston Productions. Mikaere, B. (1988). Te Maiharoa and the promised land. Heinemann. New Zealand Department of Education. (1988). Tomorrow’s schools: The reform of education administration in New Zealand. New Zealand Department of Education. Ng¯ai Tahu Claims Settlement Act. (1998). https://www.legislation.govt.nz/act/ public/1998/0097/latest/DLM429090.html Te Aka M¯aori Dictionary. (2022). https://maoridictionary.co.nz The Royal Commission on Social Policy. (1988). The April Report Volume II: Future Directions. The Royal Commission on Social Policy. https://ndhade liver.natlib.govt.nz/delivery/DeliveryManagerServlet?dps_pid=IE17399424

CHAPTER 3

Ko Wai Tenei? Jamie Addison

Ehara taku toa, he takitahi, he toa takitini | My success should not be bestowed onto me alone, as it was not individual success but the success of a collective. To reflect and describe one’s past is a task that for me requires careful consideration to not fall into a category of one’s gory background. Psalm 107:2: “let the Lord of the Redeemed say so… whom he has redeemed from the hand of the enemy.” This sometimes requires in some forums a gory descriptive account of one’s past which can in one respect amplify and drive the determination involved to promote change from a place of achieved change. Yes, life before the 26th of June 2008 consisted of not-so-great outcomes considering the lifestyle I had become so conditioned to. Trying hard to graft into my environment and to be a leader was a process that required a complete transformation. As I reflect on my past it drives a stimulation to establish and describe the principles I have now adopted and implemented into my life as an Addictions practitioner at the Moana ¯ House programme based in Otepoti (Dunedin).

J. Addison (B) Moana House, Dunedin, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_3

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My name is Jamie, New Zealand European M¯aori, I descend from the iwi of Ng¯ati Porou. I was raised in Tauranga, however moved from town to town between my mother and my father as they had separated whilst I was young. My father is an alcoholic in recovery and my mother passed away when I was very young. I was left to understand life on life’s terms exploring and trying hard to belong. Getting attention was only ever achieved when I had done wrong, however, it was attention nevertheless. My sister who is younger than me was also surrounded by this environment. An environment that was full of dysfunction and aggression. The only time my family would come together was to get drunk and then beat each other up. My father would hit my mum, my mum would leave and then come back… this occurred around us daily. As a young boy, seeing grandad hitting nana, uncle hitting aunty, dad hitting mum, and so on and so on, then saying in the same breath, I love you! This was quite confusing for a child growing and entering maturity as my own relationships began to suffer as I was conditioned to this way of being, that love was only shown by using physical force. I really believed that because my mum continued to forgive my father and all the other women in my upbringing forgave their partners then my girlfriends and women I was intimate with would do the same. It was not until I assaulted the mother of my oldest daughter, and the cops threw me in jail did I really come to terms with the fact that this was not okay and that the law treated this very seriously. I went to jail accused of male assault on a female. I was chucked into a concrete yard with a lot of angry men boasting about the way they raped and beat women up. I went from a culture at home growing up to culture inside four walls where men had done the same. I joined the Mongrel Mob in prison and decided that I wanted to be the president of my own chapter. I wanted people to fear me, but who was I kidding? I was a scared young man trying to make it in a world that was full of violent acts and senseless aggression towards the ones that brought us into this world. I walked this road and was plagued by the demons of my upbringing and the impact that my aggressive behaviour had affected those who I loved. I just did not know how to show emotion the way most do. Love was shown by bashing women and terrorising those who I knew were weaker than me. As I write this, I cry, because it reflects my past and it is not the man I am today. What changed me?

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When did I realise that I could not continue to behave this way? “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”This concept was taught to me later in life by a psychotherapist. He instilled in me the ability to observe in others what I had experienced in myself and how this would then amplify my determination to empathise with what was being displayed by the clients I have worked with. More importantly as I moved into the addictions field I observed what was shown to me required a level of maturity to avoid harm as opposed to doing well with positive therapeutic outcomes. Throughout my life, I consistently observed the lack of justice being displayed regarding violence perpetrated in a home. This, in turn, created a belief system that gave justification to the behaviour later perpetrated by me towards others. Understanding this concept was difficult however it was described to me this way. “We have a set of beliefs that we adopt as young men or women. Picture an onion, as you peel back the layers eventually you will get to the core.” Adopting this was a way to understand that I had a lot of layers to peel away before I got to the core of why I was the way I was. As I identified within a fuller expression of my identity a shift occurred. This shift came in the form of accepting that what I had been doing since I could remember was not normal and that showing love was far from what I thought it was; it was the complete opposite. The motivating factors were a different expression of beliefs that I had begun to understand by surrounding myself with people who knew how to express this correctly. This learning is what has assisted in allowing my story to accelerate and transform a maturity inside the hearts of men that I have worked with. Accepting that I was introducing love into the lives of those who had experienced love the way I had, to excel in this process by living and breathing in a way that shows human-to-human love, not empathy! Nor compassion! But LOVE! Although I knew I was M¯aori the way my wh¯anau (family) expressed being M¯aori was like they were ashamed of who they were culturally. It never dawned on me till later in life. I discovered that when my grandparents were at school they were not allowed to speak te reo M¯aori (M¯aori language) as it was forbidden. My great-grandfather was a hard worker so adopted a way of not acknowledging his whakapapa (genealogy) due to fitting into the socially acceptable era that he was raised into. This form of belief system shaped the way my wh¯anau were surrounding all things M¯aori. This is hard to imagine when I was the

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one that was teased at school about being the white guy, when all my wh¯anau were brown! This led to a chain of events throughout my youth that enabled me to initially prove myself in a not-so-helpful way, to being able to assist in showing and introducing the importance of my identity; firstly, to myself and then to those that I began to work alongside. I got here by embracing the fact that I descend from a special line of men and women who are highly regarded in the realm of te ao M¯aori as performers and people that sing and share and care for one another. Growing up in the 80 s consisted of going to the space arcade parlours, stealing milk bottle money, and playing all day. Mostly to be absent physically from the chaos of my father’s addiction to alcohol and his destructive anger that scared us all. Me and my cousins always hung out, we would stay at nana’s as she would always say “do not ever steal from your family, the door will never be locked, if you are hungry have a feed.” These values and principles structured my ability to have trust in others despite the risk of that trust being broken. Being ok with the fact that a blueprint was being shaped for future reference as I incorporated my own newly discovered values of trust, love, respect and being truthful tika (correct), pono (truth), aroha (love). These values began to manifest as a young man, however, upon reflection, it is important to note that functioning and being responsible was far from what is being described throughout this reflective story of my life. In a nutshell, my story is of a young man who never really got the start that most have in life. Remembering that the first sound I heard was not something happy but the opposite the sound of my mother screaming as my father beat and then raped her. These experiences shaped and drove my ability to survive in an era where destruction and aggression was more common than one would like to acknowledge. The description of values surrounding being tika, which is correct, pono, meaning truthful, and aroha which ultimately is love, are the highlight of my reflection as I summarise how I have utilised these values and life teachings into an effective tool to assist others to be able to make sense of their struggles and addiction alongside coexisting problems. As I look beyond what the external reflection presents, I come to a place of understanding. To assist in my desire for happiness requires a level of consistent internal reflection which requires me to tap into my faith and show that although I was and have been the opposite of how I am today, hard work internally has altered the way I view the world, therefore, the past has become just that the past! The effects of doing

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this are simply now people feeling ok in my presence and comfortable asking how and what I have done to change my life, when compared with the way I once behaved. Grafting into what presents and displays the gift of reflection which untimely generates from a place of understanding can be taken in two ways, negatively or positively. This was not a case of growing up, however, the values and principles that activated my desire to unpack my life and give testimony to one’s prior dysfunction is the driver within those that require support. But more importantly, the competency that is needed whilst building and affirming the learning gained from my upbringing that now shapes and develops as I grow into the role of a counsellor/ mentor. Growing up I had no respect for anyone or anything. At an early age, I got into smoking weed heavily and consuming alcohol. I got caught up in the wrong company of friends which introduced me to get whatever I wanted in terms of criminal activity. This provided instant gratification which was something I was oblivious to. I got into stealing cars, burglaries, and even backing stolen cars into shops. I was never into physically harming others, yet my associates at the time thrived on seeking to hurt others. To feel accepted, I took part in physically harming others. I was living this evil and chaotic lifestyle for years. I only became this, due to the environment I surrounded myself in. The gang culture was harsh, and sometimes proving myself was doing things that were not in my nature. I knew this because every time this happened, I felt anxious and horrible, and knew it was not right. I was not meant to be like this or was I confused!! I thought this was the way to gain respect and to prove myself as being worthy and loyal to the older gang members. This was my world: my reality. I felt like I was conditioned to this environment due to the way I grew up and by the people I chose to associate with. This negative and inappropriate behaviour led me to get arrested and locked up in a youth facility. It was exciting, I was heading to the “Rock College.” This was the school where boys became men. Deep down I was scared but I had to prove myself worthy; I wanted a patch! At the age of 15, I was doing nothing that normal 15-year-old kids were doing. I was in and out of youth justice and stealing from my wh¯anau. I could not be trusted by anyone, especially my wh¯anau, which in hindsight is an incredibly sad state of affairs. One day I took a good look in the mirror and did not like what I was seeing. The reflection scared

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me, and this was the beginning of me becoming aware that there must be something better. I was starting to think that the gang culture may have been made for me because I could adapt to any situation. I was like a chameleon, but I was not destined to be in it! My search for something more than the sex, drugs, and just trying to fit in began to occur. When you stop chasing the wrong things you give the right things a chance to catch you (Daskal, 2020). I tried to stop doing the drugs and stop mistreating and hurting the ones I loved. I found myself searching for something or someone more real than what I had assumed and learned from my personal experiences. Yet, in all my efforts to change my behaviour and be someone with mana (prestige), it was not something at that time I was able to be. I could not do it; it was too hard! I was stuck in this world, and I felt as though it was impossible to get out on my own. It is interesting when I look back on this time in my life, as I know now that nothing goes to waste; not even the silly decisions and choices I made. My life struggles have turned into a true testimony of transformation that can be observed by many and encouraging for those in the struggle; I am not able to connect with others who have been through or are in similar life situations. One thing I have discovered is that before you try to understand transformation or change, you first need to become fully open and come to a place of being completely open and honest with yourself. Going through intensive therapy, I had nowhere to hide. I had to learn, over a long journey and many hours of therapy, that being honest allows people to know your true character. The following whakatauk¯ı comes to mind when traversing through these challenges; Kaua e mate wheke mate ururoa! Don’t die like an octopus, die like a hammerhead shark! This proverb has been interpreted as octopuses are well known for their lack of resistance when caught, unlike a hammerhead shark which fights bitterly to the end, even to the point of filleting the shark, where the meat quivers (Keane & Ombler, n.d.). This whakatauk¯ı is commonly used to encourage someone not to give up, no matter how hard the struggle is. Tryin to adapt and transform, I found it to be an extremely scary and painful thing to do. As the saying goes “old ways will not open new doors.” I have discovered personally that the truth will only hurt your pride for a brief time. Which is a good thing! I was in a dark place, all I thought of at that time was asking God for help! Not just when I was facing a prison sentence, but as a genuine plea for help. A lot had occurred over the years building up to this day.

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The positive choices my uncle had made, taught me that there is no such thing as not changing one’s life, no matter how hard things get or how old you are. Even though my life had become unmanageable, God was always there to help me when I was in trouble. I just could not see it at that stage of my life. I was starting to believe in something more than being unhappy, with all that I have become! I wanted to know love but did not know how, as love to me had been shown by a fist or by sexual attacks. I had to deal with these childhood traumatic experiences. I found that the best way to deal with this was to talk to someone. Healing took place within me, and I understand after many years of intense therapy that love does cover a variety of sins. It is only when these sins are brought into an open arena, that forgiveness can occur; however, to forget is something I will never achieve. Remembering, from a new place, helps me in my work. I forgive people but that does not mean I accept their behaviour or trust them. I forgive them for me, so I can let go and move on with my life. (Reddit, 2016)

Exposing my most inner secrets to a therapist was the scariest time in my life. I experienced so many different emotions such as hate and anger, resentment, and sadness. It was hell. I did not realise what it was going to take to get normality back in my life. I went through so many stages of anger and resentment that I fell apart, I did not know who I was. I went through a phase, where I did not want to remain alive, suicidal ideation was a daily occurrence. Why? Because I thought that raising the trauma I had been subjected to would allow it to end. All this did was make me into a monster. I went through long periods of isolation. I thought no one would want to understand what I was going through. A lack of trust was a big thing that I had to deal with, even still to this day. I could go on and on, but I am sure this paints a clear picture of some of the things I had to face so that I could start re-building my life again. It has only been five years since unpacking this chain of events from my youth. I feel that I am making great progress. So yes, “ko wai t¯enei,” this is “who I am.” These are some of the things that have had their way in moulding me but have inspired me to continue the journey of re-building myself. I still have many chapters of my life to write and many more experiences. I have endured and strengthened my

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whakapapa and promoted myself as having the ability to be able to speak from a place of experience, an agent of transformation. Life has had its way of trying to destroy me. If you are not willing to risk the usual, you will have to settle for the ordinary (Rohn, n.d.). I am a father and a koro (grandfather), an uncle, a husband, a friend, a mentor, and a man of God. My emphasis is on maturity, becoming more like Christ and pursuing maturity for God’s use, not of my own. My level of consciousness requires me to focus on my God’s needs not my own as I move towards Christ-like maturity. I love my wh¯anau with all my heart with unconditional love. I would do anything to keep them safe and prepare them for a better life. I often think about some of the troublesome times throughout my life, and I question God—where were you during those times? Putting myself in the shoes of a loving father, by thinking of my wh¯anau, I am convinced that I would never leave my wh¯anau despite all the struggles life throws at me. If God is a loving Father, it just does not make sense to me that he would leave me during the time I needed Him most. I love authenticity. I will never claim to have it all together. I think of my wife, my children, and my mokopuna (grandchild). If falling over and hurting myself was the best way for me to learn beneficial things pertaining to my life and producing good character, then as a loving father I would allow those things to happen; even if it was in my power to stop them. I realise now, that there were definitely times when I needed rescuing from my pain. There were also times I needed to experience and feel it. I felt as though it taught me to become comfortable with the fact that, being vulnerable is safe, and to express this, requires being honest and open about being this way. Understanding this is helpful when working with people. I can empathise with the worst kind of emotions that people are currently living, as I have been down that path many times; and still do sometimes. The difference today is that I am now able to manage life better and I am able to advocate for what is and is not possible. Looking back on my life, and even though it felt like God had abandoned me during those hard times, I now know, that he was carrying me and sustaining me throughout. Just like a loving Father would, and I am so grateful.

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References Daskal, L. (2020, October 30). When you stop chasing the wrong things, you give the right things a chance to catch you. PositLive. Living life positively. Retrieved September 26, 2022, from https://positlive.com/when-you-stopchasing-the-wrong-things-you-give-the-right-things-a-chance-to-catch-you/ Keane, K., & Ombler, F. (n.d.). Kupu o te Ra. Kaua e mate wheke mate ururoa! Retrieved September 26, 2022, from https://kupu.maori.nz/kupu/Kaua-emate-wheke-mate-ururoa! Reddit (2016). Reddit quotes: “I forgive people but that does not mean I accept their behaviour or trust them. I forgive them for me, so I can let go and move on with my life”. Retrieved September 26, 2022, from https://www.reddit.com/r/quotes/comments/2v5jg2/i_forg ive_people_but_that_doesnt_mean_i_accept/ Rohn, J. (n.d.). If you are not willing to risk the usual, you will have to settle for the ordinary. Mr Great Blog. Retrieved September 26, 2022, from https://www.mrgreatmotivation.com/2018/01/if-you-are-not-willingto-risk-usual.html

CHAPTER 4

F*** You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me Mawera Karetai

Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be? —Charles Bukowski

Who was I? Who could I have been? How did I get to this place in my life? Where am I going from here? These questions have plagued me for the whole of my adult life. In what has been a life well-lived, there have been many changes of direction—some by my own choosing, but some that were not—and each of them a source of new learning.

M. Karetai (B) ¯ akou University of Otago, School of Business, Te Whare W¯ananga o Ot¯ Dunedin, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] Te Whare W¯ananga o Awanui¯arangi, Whakat¯ane, New Zealand © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_4

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I-am-a-child, I-am-a-musician, I-am-going-to-be-a-scientist, I-ama-mother, I-am-going-to-be-a-librarian, I-am-a-wife, I-am-a-cook, Iam-going-to-be-a-chef, I-am-a-race-engine-builder, I-am-going-to-bea-teacher, I-am-divorced, I-do not-know-what-I-am, I-am-lost… Iam-lonely… I-am-broken… I-am-going-to-be-a-teacher, I-am-a-mumand-wife, I-am-going-to-be-a-mediator, I-fish, I-am-a-fisher-of-men, Iam-a-business-owner, I-am-a-community-advocate, I-am-going-to-be-ascientist, I-am-a-teacher, I-am-a-student, I-am-the-sum-total-of-everyexperience-I-have-had-and-everything-I-have-learned. With each new learning opportunity has always come the need to redefine and recreate my identity, as a new and improved version of myself—more to offer, more to give, and more to learn—more to offer, more to give, and more to learn—inevitable change, spiralling onwards, repeating itself over and again. In going through this process, I am not alone. From my life’s work, and especially lately, in my work as a facilitator for Capable New Zealand (now College of Work Based Learning) at Te Kura Matatini Otago (Otago Polytechnic). I have learned that these same questions, in some form or another, wrap themselves around the thoughts of most people, at some stage in their lives. We are compelled to reflect by changes in our lives, or by a willingness for change to occur. Reflection helps us to have clarity in our thinking. It helps us to learn more about the essence of ourselves, determine our strengths and our weaknesses, set, and break patterns, and understand more about the true nature of ourselves. It is the process that strikes a match, the light pushing away the darkness in our minds. The light has gone out and I have been sitting here in the dark thinking: Is the power off or is the bulb no good?

Very nice to wander in aimless anonymity among the metaphysics of astrological signs , but if I can’t see where I am, how can I see where I don’t want to be?

I asked Someone in the room: did you notice that the light is out?

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and Someone said: I cannot see my Self in others until I can see my own Self. Then I asked Another: did you notice? and Another answered: I have to get my head straight first. Finally, I asked Everybody: DID YOU NOTICE THAT THE LIGHT IS OUT? but Everybody was too busy trying to find space in the dark. Never mind. I will strike a match and see.

(Todd, 1977, p. iv)

Reflection is not always pleasant, and not always something we choose consciously to do. But the need for introspection and self-examination are human needs, the results of which enable us to create our ever-changing stories. Through this process of reflection, we have the opportunity to break free from how we are taught to view OUR existence and from who WE are through the lens of others—to see the truth of ourselves. We begin a process (2015, p. 148) describes as seeing “what possibilities emerge when we author our own paths, as uniquely our own as our feet themselves, in shoe sizes determined by the wearer”. My name is Mawera Karetai. I am a 46-year-old mother, wife, daughter, educator, facilitator, mediator, mentor, learner, community warrior, outspoken non-activist, rule-maker, rule-breaker, lover of all, hater of some, cook, writer, waffler, researcher, doer of mostly-gooddeeds, and maker of mischief. For the last month or so I have battled with myself to write this. It was not a case of an inability or unwillingness to reflect—it has been more about there being so much going on in my mind, as I prepare for this personal story writing journey, that I had no natural starting place. And then Stephen Hawking died, and I lost a hero in this world. What better place to start than an ending? Stephen Hawking (1993, p. 32) wrote, “I have noticed that even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing

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to change it, look before they cross the road”. I am not a particularly spiritual person and so I don’t have a working concept of karma, or predestiny, or a higher power, or of a book written in blood from the wounds of every deed we do unto ourselves or others. Having a faith in an afterlife seems like a tragic way to journey through life—always focused on something so incredible in an unseen world that you do not see all that is incredible in this one. Nope, an afterlife is not for me and so I look before I cross the road. I believe in the here and now. This moment. This actual instant in time, with each tap on my keyboard being the only thing I have control over. But with that I also have hope for the future— so much hope that it is like an aquifer providing unlimited quantities of the purest water, ready at any time to quench the thirst of all who need it. My aquifer of hope does not run dry, ever. It has persisted in the most difficult of times. But why? Why do I have this way of thinking and others do not? What has shaped my thinking to make me like this? In the same way that it has happened, could it unhappen? What is the source, and could it dry up? And die? Can my mind become an arid desert where hope cannot live—where all that remains is dust in the shape of the memories of a past that was so real and so wonderfully useful? Hope eternally extinguished, and the end of that one thing that I know myself as and others define me as. It terrifies me. That fear has been a theme throughout my life, and it has at times had the power to stop me in my tracks. However, as well as that there have been other themes that have kept me on track, and that are fundamental to who I am as a human. My insatiable curiosity, my pursuit of fairness, and my lifelong participation in transformative learning processes. These three are the focus of my mahi. While my fear is significant, and I battle with it constantly, I have found that the better my understanding of the other three, and the role they play, the less power fear has to impact on my life. “Curiosity killed the cat”, say some. Others say, “satisfaction brought it back”. Oh, the satisfaction of new knowledge—there is nothing else like it in my world. That moment of understanding, that rush of dopamine, the connecting of neurons, the growing myelin, and the sense of having achieved something that matters. Learning is beautiful. From my childhood, through to this day, the pursuit of knowledge has been a driving force, keeping me moving forward. It has not been knowledge for its own sake, it has been an intentional accumulation of knowledge for the purpose of sharing, rooted firmly in a need to make my life matter.

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Does everyone have a conscious need for their life to “matter”? If so, is that another human condition? There are hundreds of self-help books that indicate that yes, we do and yes, it is. My own need to matter has a clearly defined starting point—the death of my younger sister, Melissa May Maarea Karetai. She was three years old, and I was four. A car accident robbed the world of a lovely little girl and robbed me of the only happiness in my life at that time. As I got older, I felt a responsibility to live my life for both of us—for my life to matter, otherwise, hers could not, for I lived, and she did not. And so, I consciously set out to be all things to all people. I wanted to know everything. I needed to know everything. High school did not meet that need for me, except in music, English, and science. The rest of it was suffering I had to endure to escape from a life that was not conducive to success. At school, music and English were about communication and science made the world make sense to me. It was through learning to play the cornet and playing it well that I first had a real feeling of adding value— of mattering. The better I got at it, the better we, as a school orchestra, collectively sounded. With music, there is nowhere to hide when things go wrong. Music taught me to take responsibility for my mistakes and to work harder to know more; to be better; to share with others; to be part of something greater than myself; to feel, in a way that only music can help you feel. As I grew as a musician my curiosity drove me to explore other instruments and genres. My playlist now honours a lifetime of wanting to know more and experience more in music; Ozzy Osborne resides next to Vivaldi, who is next to The Grateful Dead, who is next to Holly Arrowsmith, who is next to John Coltrane, who is next to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, who is next to John Lee Hooker, who is next to Burning Spear, who is next to Bob Dylan… and so it goes. It is my addiction of choice. Like music, English also took me on a journey of feeling. It enabled me. The Dewey Decimal system was my friend and together we explored the universe. It was in the Darfield High School library that I learned to independently find information from books. I also learned to write about what I was reading and that is when I began to understand the power of individuals who could research, to make change happen. Knowledge became power. I was learning things other people did not know and teaching what I learned. I was able to take knowledge of complex ideas and reframe them in a way others could understand. As I reflect on that

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time in my life, I know it is the foundation for this story today. The more I learned, the more useful I was and the better I felt about myself. That pattern has repeated itself over and again, throughout my life. After school finished for me, I began to explore tertiary study, and there I found the same difficulty I had in high S\school—I just did not fit in and could not adapt to the way knowledge was delivered. I bounced from degree to degree, from provider to provider, always looking for something, but never finding it. In the meantime, I amassed an excellent skill set in the business, social sciences, and education. I became more and more useful, while at the same time beating myself up for not being able to stick to a course of study. My values system was wrong, but I did not understand that at the time. A breakthrough came when I met my second husband and began helping him with a custody dispute. I became curious about the law and landed a Graduate Diploma in Dispute Resolution at Massey University. The delivery was the same as every other provider and nothing else was different, except I was different. I was trying to learn something I needed to know to help someone else. And so, success came. I completed the papers I needed and kept going to complete a bunch of papers that interested me. I began to understand what it is to be an intentional learner and the lifelong relationship between myself, and learning started to make some sense (Bereiter & Scardamalia, 1989). I could not learn in a formal setting unless the topic either interested me, or I had an application for it. It was not enough that I wanted to be a sponge, soaking up information. I first had to be curious, and the learning needed to satisfy that curiosity. As I have come to understand who I am as an intentional learner, I have had to think a lot about what has motivated that intention. Reflecting on my life and the learnings from it, another pattern emerges— natural justice, the application of it, and how I respond to the absence of it. While it is unclear to me exactly where this drive to see natural justice done has come from, I suspect its foundation is in feeling quite powerless in the early years of my life. Unfair things happened that I had no control over. When I was able to have control, I used that to make good things happen. I recall learning about the Magna Carta quite early in my high school years, while my friends were reading the Diary of Adrian Mole, etc. (that might have been better for me). The Magna Carta, first written in 1215 during the reign of King John, was an attempt to bring peace and natural justice to a relationship between ruler and servant, that until then was about the power and control of the ruler.

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John was a tyrant king who took land and assets from people who did not comply with his demands or simply disposed of the person. There was an uprising that resulted in King John having to agree to a new framework for the relationship between him and his subjects; one that was fair. The original Magna Carta document evolved, and became the foundation document for many others, including the United States Bill of Rights (1791), the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), and even our Treaty of Waitangi (1840). Almost all the original statutes have long since been repealed (Worcester, 2010), however, several clauses from the original 63 remain in statute, and of them, there is one that has always meant something to me: No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled, or deprived of his standing in any other way, nor will we proceed with force against him, or send others to do so, except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land. To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice. (UK Parliament, n.d.)

This simple clause granted the right to a fair process for people to defend themselves. It protected people from unjust and biased processes. It provided in the law for natural justice in that they are morally right and fair within our cultural norms. While I continue to admire the inclusion of this clause and the continued use of it in law, at some point along my journey I stopped to consider what it means to be free and with that came a major shift in my thinking. I realised that being free in 1215 meant you were still in the higher echelons of British society. Most people were living in some form of servitude, and education remained the domain of the wealthy; the clause did not include them. In 1354 the wording of the statute was changed from no free man…, to no man of whatever estate or condition he may be… (Levy, 2008), and so it was more inclusive, at least on paper. But now let us consider history since then and the current situation. Yes, we all have access to the same rights in law and the law is underpinned by natural justice. But there are barriers preventing people from exercising their rights now, as there were in 1215, and they impact on the same kinds of people. The vulnerable, the hardest working but lowest paid, working but lowest paid unemployed/infirmed/unsupported, and the least educated

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in Aotearoa (New Zealand), who have not made it to the blue-collar class in our country, let alone the white collar. These people are the least likely to be able to get the law to work for them. Natural justice is not part of their reality. Unless you have resources, or a support network, or an understanding of the law, you have limited ability to navigate those barriers. There is difference between equity, equality, and justice (Interaction Institute for Social Change, 2018). Everyone has the same rights in theory, but not everyone can participate in the process of exercising them. The only fair outcome, is to address the issues in our society that prevent people from being able to take control of their lives—we must remove the barriers and bring about social change. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects us directly, affects all indirectly” (Madden, 2006, p. 167) and King was right. We live in a society where people regard themselves as free and where there is a widely held belief that our society is democratic and just. If you, my reader, are nodding your head in agreement with this, then you are indeed privileged. Your privilege comes from the confidence that the law is there to protect you. In your mind you believe you have choices and that you have been empowered by a system that has rules to keep you safe. In my professional practice, I have devoted most of my adult life to working with people who do not know those rules, who do not have choices, and who feel disempowered by a system of legislation that they cannot understand or apply. They need help and I have been that help for many years. My interest in natural justice has seen me involved in problem-solving for others in both formal and informal roles. This has naturally evolved into my professional practice in alternative dispute resolution (ADR) and of course my first successful completion of a tertiary qualification. My formal professional practice started when I was an atheist minister of a non-denominational church, supporting members of my congregation in issues they could not resolve by themselves. I realised I had a knack for that and so from there I established an ADR practice, specialising in family and employment disputes. After undertaking Lawyers Engaged in Alternative Dispute Resolution (LEADR) mediation training I began volunteering as a McKenzie Friend, assisting dads in the Family Court for the Union of Fathers.

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This changed to problem-solving outside of the Court, to try and prevent the parties from entering the aggressively litigious Family Court process, where the only winners were the lawyers. I found I was good at facilitating conversations and helping people to move past their fixed positions and work with the other party for solutions. Throughout all of that, I was often asked to support people in all sorts of courts and legal processes. As a McKenzie Friend, you cannot speak in Court, which can be frustrating. One of my favourite memories was turning to my client who has struggling to articulate his position and, in a voice, loud enough for the Court to hear, telling him what he should say. That generated laughter from around the Court, and the Justice presiding stated, with a smile on his face, “Miss Karetai, that was a very loud stage whisper!” My client won! From Family Court to the High Court, to social services, health, education, employment, and commercial matters, I have taken the knowledge gained from a lifetime of curiosity and applied it to solving problems for others where there is an absence of natural justice. Sitting in front of a judge as a layperson and reminding them of their responsibility to the person I support has generated mixed responses. Battling with lawyers who have specialist degrees in law, with my knowledge of the basics, but driven by my need to see natural justice done has been challenging. Holding people to account for not being fair, or just, or unbiased has been rewarding. The amazing Dr. King also issued us, as human beings, a challenge: “Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism, or in the darkness of destructive selfishness” (Siang, 2016). I have chosen to walk in the light of altruism, and with that light also comes the responsibility to pass the torch to others. From helping myself to helping others, I understand the power of transformative processes. It was not until recently, when I began my learning journey with Capable New Zealand, that I came to understand this in an educational context— something that has come naturally to me throughout my life was given a name. As I have reflected on how I best learn and on my teaching practice in formal and informal teaching, I found a pattern in my life best described as transformative education. Transformative learning theory is where “learning is understood as the process of using a prior interpretation to construe a new or revised interpretation of the meaning of one’s experience to guide future action” (Mezirow, 1996, p. 162). My journey into transformative education

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started early in my life. My childhood was a difficult time with the loss of my sister and 28 house changes in my first 10 years. I attended more schools than I can count and did not have a great foundation for learning. My homelife was tragic, violent, and character-building. There are lots of good things that came from my early years, though, and one of those was from a dad who was a disrupter. My dad taught me to question everyone and everything. He also taught me that even though we had very little in the world, we had choices, and our choices came from knowledge. He was determined that his struggles in life should not become our struggles. My dad taught me to think about what I was learning and how what I learned was making me feel. He encouraged introspection as a habitual process. I recall when I was 9 years old, we were watching the Billy T. James show on TV. The audience was laughing, and so I laughed. My dad turned off the TV and asked me why I was laughing. I said I laughed because they did. He said to me then that he never wanted to hear me do it again. I was not ever to let someone define for me those things that I should only define for myself, and that if I do not understand then I should look for understanding and not just go along with the crowd. I have tended to take that to an extreme in life, but I am at least conscious of it. That early learning from my dad was the beginning of transformative learning for me which has driven a lifelong, relentless search for applicable, useful knowledge and a deep understanding of who I am as a person. Having grown up in te ao M¯aori for the first part of my life, I learned that reflection comes naturally to M¯aori. When we are culturally connected, we look back, constantly analysing the present in the context of the past. From a young age, we are made aware that we are part of something so much greater than ourselves. We are representative of everyone who has come before us and everyone who will come after us. We are reminded of our ancestors by references and comparisons. “You have inherited your humour from poua Hiki” or “you have inherited your love of music from taua Maaki”, “your ability in science comes from Aunty Marama”, “your love of history is just like cousin, Tahu”. We grow up reflecting a lot on why we do things a certain way and why others don’t. I don’t think this is something that only happens in te ao M¯aori, but I have not experienced it with my non-M¯aori family. Reflection on tikanga and kawa and how they apply to life eventually becomes a reflection on all aspects of life. Why do I get so frustrated or mad about things that others don’t care about? Why is it so hard for me

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to say no to things at times, when I know I am over-committed? Why? Just why? That self-analysis keeps us moving forward, mindful of those who will come after us, and making sure that what we do matters. In my formal education, prior to beginning my journey with Capable NZ, it was only that habitual reflection instilled by my dad that kept things on track for me. To be honest I do not know how I survived school; it was only music that got me through. Paul Mayhew and Judy Bellingham were fundamental to my success in high school and if you asked them about their teaching practice, you would find two constructivist teachers who practised transformational teaching. They promoted positive change in learners’ lives by challenging and encouraging, engaging mentally and emotionally, creating lessons that worked with the way we best learned, and most importantly, involving us in the teaching plans. It was our plan that we decided on—we were in this together. They were ahead of their time, and I am so thankful for that. I can pinpoint my time with them in my later high school years as being a huge part of the reason I am writing this now. They have been my role models for my teaching practice, some 30+ years later. It was not until I was in my early 40s and starting as a learner with Capable NZ that I had a name for what they did. It is my honour to write about them today. As my practice has evolved, and my accumulated knowledge added up to something of value, I was presented with an opportunity to teach in a tertiary environment. I took a role as a lecturer at a Private Teaching Establishment (PTE), where I was delivering face-to-face lectures on business strategy and leadership. My learners were Punjabi Indian, and Nepalese young adults who came to Aotearoa New Zealand to start a new life, leaving their families and all that was familiar behind them. The learners had all come to my classroom from failed PTE, had low levels of literacy and had no real understanding of what was required of them to pass their desired qualifications. They had been exploited. They were broken. Alone. Afraid. Terrified. On the first day I had one shot at building our relationship. This really mattered. So, I went back to my learning, to some years before when I had tried becoming an early childhood teacher. Working in an Early Learning Centre was not for me, but the learning about teaching was significant and it is not hard to see why early childhood education is all about transformation. Young children, away from

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their parents and everything familiar to them became capable, independent learners. Preschool is learner-driven. Learners build new skills from old skills. The relationship between learner and teacher/facilitator is central to the success of the process. Reflection becomes a natural part of the learner’s experience (Csikszentmihalyi & Nakamura, 2005) which should continue beyond early learning and into the rest of their educational journey. One of many wonderful examples of this process is Te Wh¯ariki, and that is the model that underpinned my practice in my role with the PTE. Te Wh¯ariki is a kaupapa M¯aori model of teaching/facilitation that was developed in the late 1990s as a bicultural framework for the delivery of early childhood curriculum. “It encourages all children to learn in their own ways, supported by adults who know them well and have their best interests at heart” (Ministry of Education, 2017, p. 2). It acknowledges that each learner is on a unique journey and that the learner is the result of every experience they have had and everything they have learned. They are not there to simply receive knowledge. The principles of kaupapa M¯aori are tino rangatiratanga (self-determination), taonga tuku iho (cultural aspiration), ako M¯aori (preferred pedagogy), kia piki ake i nga raruraru o te kainga (socio-economic mediation), whanau (extended family structure), kaupapa (collective philosophy), te Tiriti o Waitangi (the Treaty of Waitangi), and ata (growing respectful relationships) (Smith, 1992). Learners are there to grow, build relationships, develop, and learn and increase their competency (Weinreich-Haste, 1987), and to participate on their terms in a co-constructing environment that is inclusive and where relationships are safe. And so were my Punjabi and Nepalese learners, and there began a journey for all of us, as we developed a wh¯ariki to stand on. Toko Rangatiratanga na te mana-matauranga – knowledge and power set me free. (Reedy, 1993, p. 6)

From the beginning of my time with the PTE, until the end, Te Wh¯ariki was my guide. My approach to my professional practice was to really “see” my learners, to enable them to understand themselves and where they had come from to be where they were. We reflected a lot on how we got to where we were. We delved into culture and how that shapes our thinking. We acknowledged differences as something to celebrate together instead of something to divide us. At the beginning of each session, when I

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called the roll, I would call a learner’s name and when they acknowledge being present, I would make eye contact with them and say, “I see you, Manpreet” or “I see you, Sukhmander”. My learners knew that it meant I was engaged with them, and they knew it meant I saw the whole person they were and not just the receiver of knowledge. It was effective. Our relationships in the classroom were positive. The learners applied this same way of viewing people with others in our class and then in our PTE. It was a wonderful tool for minimising conflict since we all stood as equals on our co-created wh¯ariki. Knowledge and power released us from preconceived ideas of how a classroom should run and how our relationships should be. We were free to be who we decided we were. Success came slowly, but it came, and I am certain it was having this holistic kaupapa M¯aori model of practice that underpinned our success. It was this experience that has become the primary motivation to undertake doctorate studies. I have lived my life purposefully seeking knowledge to share. From a young age, my life has been about honouring my past and planning a future that meant something. Learning has not come easily for me in formal settings. I have always been best left to learn in my own way, on my own terms. That is at odds with mainstream education, but not with kaupapa M¯aori principles, or with progressive institutions like Otago Polytechnic and their Capable NZ school. Through my time as a classroom teacher and now as a facilitator for Capable New Zealand, I am very aware that there is a mood for change in the way we engage with learners. My observation of my colleagues at Capable NZ is that they embrace kaupapa M¯aori principles, without actually naming their framework of practice with a label we would find in te ao M¯aori. It appears that there is a natural way of facilitation that aligns with these frameworks. This makes me wonder about the backgrounds of my colleagues and how they label that which they do. Other frameworks within te ao M¯aori can be and have been adapted to a tertiary education environment; Te Wh¯ariki is only one of many to be explored. These are other legitimate models of facilitation that by their very nature inspire and enable transformational education. And so, the question is: The legitimacy of M¯aori models of facilitation; are they unique? what do they mean? and how can they be successfully integrated into mainstream tertiary education?

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References Bereiter, C., & Scardamalia, M. (1989). Intentional learning as a goal of instruction. In L. B. Rensnick (Ed.), Knowing, learning, and instruction: Esaays in honor of Robert Glaser. Lawerence Erbaum Associates. Csikszentmihalyi, M., & Nakamura, J. (2005). The role of emotion in the development of wisdom. In R. Sternberg & J. Jordan (Eds.), A handbook of wisdom: Psychological perspectives (pp. 220–242). Cambridge University Press. Hawkins, S. (1993). Black holes and baby universes and other essays. Bantam Books. Interaction Institute for Social Change. (2018). Illustrating equality vs equity. Interaction Institute for Social Change. Retrieved May 1, from https://intera ctioninstitute.org/illustrating-equality-vs-equity/ Levy, D. (2008). The signing of the Magna Carta. Twenty-first Century Books. Madden, D. (2006). Martin Luther King, Jr. “I Have a Dream”. In D. Madden (Ed.), A Pocketful of essays: Rhetorically arranged (1st ed., Vol. 1, pp. 167– 173). Thompson Advantage Books. Mezirow, J. (1996). Contemporary paradigms of learning. Adult Education Quarterly, 46(3), 158–172. Ministry of Education. (2017). Te Wh¯ ariki: He wh¯ ariki m¯ atauranga m¯ o ng¯ a mokopuna o Aotearoa. 72. Retrieved January 26, 2023, from https://www.education.govt.nz/assets/Documents/Early-Childhood/ ELS-Te-Whariki-Early-Childhood-Curriculum-ENG-Web.pdf Reedy, T. (1993). I have a dream. CECUA Early Childhood Curriculum Conference, Christchurch, New Zealand. Siang, S. (2016). How to be a creative Altruist. LinkedIn. Retrieved January 19, from https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/how-creative-altruistpost-inspired-martin-luther-king-sanyin-siang/ Smith, G. H. (1992). Research issues related to M¯ aori education. University of Auckland. Sousanis, N. (2015). Unflattening. Harvard University Press. Todd, N. J. (1977). Preface. In T. Nanncy Jack (Ed.), The book of the new Alchemists (p. 171). Dutton. UK Parliament. (n.d.). The contents of Magna Carta. UK Parliament. Retrieved January 26, 2023 from https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/ evolutionofparliament/originsofparliament/birthofparliament/overview/mag nacarta/magnacartaclauses/#:~:text=%E2%80%9CNo%20free%20man%20s hall%20be,or%20delay%20right%20or%20justice.%E2%80%9D Weinreich-Haste, J. B. a. H. (1987). Acts of meaning. Cambridge University Press. Worcester, K. (2010). The meaning and legacy of the Magna Carta. PS; Political Science & Politics, 43(3), 451–456.

CHAPTER 5

Wisdom Is Universal Takarua Tawera

Karakia E Rangi, e Papa, e te wh¯anau atua, whakatohia to koutou manaakitanga, ki roto I t¯enei mahi o m¯atou. Father of the heaven, mother of earth and the family of gods inspire your blessing upon this work.

Whakatauki Tangata ako ana i te k¯aenga, te t¯uranga ki te marae, tau ana. A person nurtured in the community contributes strongly to society.

¯ Uku Pepeha Tu ana au I te whaka o M¯ataatua, whakarongo rua ana i te hau o T¯awhirim¯atea e hau mai nei, rere wairua I runga maunga Pohatu, ko te rohe potae o T¯uhoe tangata, enei ahau e uri o Hinepokohurangi.

T. Tawera (B) ¯ Dunedin, New Zealand Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_5

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¯ T¯imatanga korero-Introduction He iti hau marangai e t¯u te p¯ahokahoka. There may be a little storm, but in the end, there is a rainbow. The aim of this chapter is to examine, critically analyse, and reflect on my past and current learning experiences. I anticipate the assignment will professionally assist me in developing my personal identity, allowing me to formulate an initial conception of my learning agreement and inquiry project. Often learning institutes have defined limits with regard to personal and academics—the person is often subservient to academic demands. I have discovered during my time as a learner within Capable NZ, I am encouraged to reflect on my personal journey, both spiritual and professional. This has given me the realisation that my pursuit in academia does not always have to be about academic learning, but can also be spiritual, emotional, and personal. No doubt my clinical experience has equipped me to analytically reflect on my past; nonetheless I am able to appreciate the rich experience my life has offered, despite at times experiencing some elements of distress. Historically, reading and writing were redundant to me. My wh¯anau were first language speakers in te reo M¯aori. They were immersed in te ao M¯aori (the world of M¯aori). Naturally, we were absorbed into te ao M¯aori, hence marae activities were regular community events (tangihanga and religious gatherings) and communal living. Reflecting on these experiences, I would capture these interventions and learn, instead of being taught tikanga or te reo. For instance, heketua whakakata (toilet humour) reo, was a form of communication that helped us form and understand relationships in a culturally relevant way. On some occasions I would be in class, having a conversation with a cousin and say “Ehoa patero (flatus) Kei hea m¯atou mahi k¯ainga” (where is our homework). He would reply “Ehoa Tiko (faeces) k¯aore, n¯aku t¯enei” (no this is mine). Our heketua whakakata in class would result in us being sent to the principal’s office, with us often perceived to be uncivil. Other times the wh¯anau would talk in metaphors to emphasise a thought or concept that I was capable of understanding. The difficulty was for me to comprehend P¯akeh¯a literacy. Teachers would write words on chalkboards, and then try to teach me the English pronunciation, and then I rapidly lost interest. There were moments when my wh¯anau were selective in the utilisation of te reo because of the cultural intrusion of P¯akeh¯a dominance. Like others, we were not

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encouraged to speak te reo in school (Ritchie, 2012), particularly with my Ng¯ati Awa wh¯anau. However, this was not so much a restriction with our Ng¯ai Tuhoe wh¯anau I believe this was a result of exposure of my wh¯anau to colonisation; I was ignored and fell through the educational system. In other words, my parents and lifestyle lacked sufficient resources to advance my early childhood development; and, in time, I gradually learned to read and write English. As an early adult I did assignment writing, for my psychotherapy studies. I tended to cite articles to help me formulate an opinion; in other words, the cut and paste scenario. I will explain later in this work, the personal challenges and academic transformation.

Whakapapa Kua hoki mai nei ki te u ¯ kaip¯o. Return to your spiritual and physical nourishment. Whakapapa is often explained as the establishment of a M¯aori worldview. Whakapapa is the process that accounts for the progression and genealogical lineage of all living things. It defines the interconnectedness of relationships between people and their taiao environments, both spiritual and physical, and specifically people to each other in an ordered process (Henare, 1988; Walker, 1996). Therefore, whakapapa exemplifies the origins and nature of relationships. I felt it important to investigate my whakapapa as a starting point if I am to explore the roots of my reflective learning. I do not profess to be an absolute expert regarding my whakapapa (genealogy) or to lay the foundation; nevertheless, sourcing information effectively induced a state of euphoria and excitement. My findings revealed a historical connection associated with my professional development and my ancestor Tamarau Takurua. In this chapter, I will draw attention to my findings and ask, “Is there a link between my life’s experiences and my ancestry?” and “Are my aspirations a result of my DNA?”. The whakatauaki that comes to mind in asking these questions is, “kia whakat¯omuri te haere whakamua” “I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on my past” (Rameka, 2016, p. 387). In answering these enquiries, I will describe insightful leadership qualities and features of community as exhibited by my ancestors and inherited, I believe, by myself. Evident in this chapter will be my academic transition and the value of education; I will describe this later.

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Takurua Tamarau My tipuna t¯ane Takurua Tamarau died before I was born; therefore, my personal knowledge of him is clearly related to my ignorance—I knew him by name only. Be that as it may, in conversation, close relatives portrayed him as a Rangatira (Paramount Chief) for Ng¯ai Tuhoe. I had discovered data in an article written by Te Wharehuia Milroy in 1998, an academic and expert in the M¯aori language of Ng¯ai T¯uhoe descent and updated in February 2011 under Te Ara-The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand (TATENZ). The TATENZ article found that Takurua was born in 1871. The article concludes that there was some disparity about his genuine birth date. It is hilarious on reflection, the various names or birthdays of our M¯aori precursors. I found similar examples with o¯ ku koroua, unwilling to reveal their age or unsure because of time or for whatever reasons known to them. Google’s uncertainty re-enforces my experience o ng¯a koroua. My understanding is that Takurua was initially raised in Ruatahuna, a small rural M¯aori community, and later moved to Ruatoki. Later in his life, he had succeeded his dad Tamarau Wire, he himself a recognised pioneer of Ng¯ai Tuhoe. On perusing more, I noticed that at an early age, Takurua had been educated on marae protocol. I suspect, through this procedure, he would have captured the cultural nuances of leadership, certainly having been inspired listening to tribal discussions and speeches. For Takurua, issues of land emerged as a concern. I suspect this reflected his dad’s work with the Urewera Commission. It would appear his dad’s work empowered Takurua with significant knowledge into the subdivision of land specifically for the Urewera District Native Reserve, which included setting up a system of roads. Amid this time, Takurua helped his dad, managing concerns from inside the kinfolk, gathering and advancing those groups which bolstered their concerns. I had in my mind, sometime prior, researched articles by Professor Margaret Mutu (2019) and Moana Jackson (2008) and considered their hypothesis on Te Tiriti O Waitangi. I concluded from their ideas that the New Zealand Government had intentionally utilised land surveyors to confiscate M¯aori land under the Waste Administration Act (Marr, 1997). Suddenly, an overwhelming worry that my great grandfather may have been instrumental in supporting New Zealand’s local government causes struck me. As I investigated more about Takurua and his work, I started to see his movement into rangatiratanga.

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In 1908, Takurua led representatives of his people to a gathering called by The Kauhanganui (the parliament of the King’s development), in the interest of Ng¯ai Tuhoe, on debates of land issues and looked to evidence the grievances of the previous administration. On reflection, I gathered his work experience may have uncovered the Government’s unseemly land ownership. I began to rest easy. I noted, as the years advanced, Takurua turned out to be more dynamic in the authority of Ng¯ai Tuhoe. Milroy (2011) records that, in October 1918, he and Erueti Peene (Biddle) were identified as M¯ataatua regional representatives for the M¯aori Soldiers’ Fund Organising Committee. I thought about whether this was an immediate after-effect of the death of his son, Hori (George), while serving in the Second World War. I was pleased to learn that, in 1919, Takurua was depicted as a “whetu hou” (rising star). The more I read about him, the more I was in admiration of his ability to go up against systemic (local government) positions of authority. As far as administration was concerned, he led the Otenuku Marae Committee and he sat on the M¯ataatua M¯aori Council. When I read that he had led the Ruatoki Native School for several years, I realised that this fact represented a great milestone. For me, the term “appreciation” does not accurately describe the mana, passion, and responsibility of Takurua regarding Ng¯ai Tuhoe and its kin. His capability to extend further his responsibilities continued to define him as a leader. I read further accomplishments—from tribal executive, key advocates of the integration of M¯aori and Crown lands within the district, and his relationship with Apirana Ngata. In 1929 Ngata’s concepts of farming advancement were taken up in the region and Takurua was chosen as a member of his advisory commission for the M¯aori farm development scheme. The solidification of Ruatoki titles was finished in 1933. It appears Ng¯ai Tuhoe territory grievance continued to concern Takurua, so in the 1920s, he influenced their motivation. His predominant concern was the ambiguous financial transaction as an end-result of the advancement of the road. It showed that these transactions were occurring when the roads had not been done or even begun. I felt mystified for Ng¯ai Tuhoe, The Native Land Confiscation decision ignored their pleas. In any case, accordingly, Takurua kept on including himself on the Ng¯ai Tuhoe Raupatu Committee as a seat until the late 1950s. I compliment his industriousness. Ng¯ai Tuhoe were finally compensated for land taken for roads, so in 1958 legislation was established. After this land breaking choice, I was disillusioned to learn that

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Takurua was not re-elected to the Board and the likelihood had lost the certainty of the people, for reasons unknown. Regardless, the whakatauaki “t¯atai tangata ki te whenua ngaro noa, ngaro noa, he t¯atai whet¯u ki te rangi mau tonu, mau tonu”. The people will come and go, but the star in heaven will remain forever, exemplifies the qualities of Takurua a good leader and paramount chief of Ng¯ai T¯uhoe.

¯ Tana Whakapono---Belief Kia mau ki te t¯umanako, te whakapono me te aroha, hold fast to hope, faith, and love. It does seem ambiguous to me to contemplate Te Ao M¯aori beliefs and the father of Takurua would transition to Karaitianatanga (Christianity). Traditionally, Wairuatanga incorporates practices and beliefs that connect te taha wairua (spirit) of the person to Te Ao M¯aori world view. It includes karakia (prayer) intervention o ng¯a atua (gods) me te taiao (natural world). It permeates all M¯aori culture (Tikanga) and ways of life. Karaitianatanga is conveyed through a relationship with God, with self, with others, with community, and the natural world. It is centred on the example and values expressed in the life of Jesus Christ in the Gospels and in Scripture (Betham, 2008). It would appear Takurua, despite contentions and challenges that emerged between his father and Te Kooti (founder of the Ringatu Church) became a member and lead the church for a considerable time. Due to his congregation and association, Takurua was appointed as a trustee by the church administration at Te Wainui, Ohiwa. In respect to Takurua of his passing, the church had manufactured a dedication door to his marae, and later chose to restore the land and the congregational house to his relatives. The relationship Takurua had with P¯akeh¯a enabled an immense arrangement of contacts among ministers of the Crown, officers of government departments, agencies and local bodies, police, churches, and medical professionals. All sought his leadership in resolving various concerns because of his deep knowledge of historical traditions, hence his appointment, as a member of the Whakatane and District Historical Society. His influence supported a large proportion of the land of Ng¯ai Tuhoe being incorporated in the Urewera National Park. Thankfully, in this twenty-first century, Takurua and his hard work has enabled Ng¯ai Tuhoe a Te Tiriti o Waitangi partnership to manage the Urewera

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National Park. Takurua was honoured to get the Lord George V Silver Celebration Award in 1935 and in 1953 he was designated an MBE for administration to Tuhoe and the public. An overwhelming honour for me to have a whakapapa of distinction.

¯ Marenatanga---Marriage He hono tangata e kore e motu; ka pa he taura waka e motu, unlike a canoe rope, a human bond cannot be severed. I did not realise arranged tomo (marriage) union existed in New Zealand in the nineteenth century. I had assumed traditionally this would have been the case in terms of tribal conflicts, he taka te pere (I have just learned something). I believed Takurua married five times, given his status within the tribe. His wives were selected by his hap¯u within the Ng¯ai Tuhoe region. For the people, the decision was to create social, economic, and political alliances. His first wife Kiha was the daughter of prominent leader Turoa Pekatu, unfortunately, they did not produce any children. There does not appear to be an article to indicate the period Takurua had grieved. Records suggested he married his second wife Kumeroa Whakamoe from Te Urewera hap¯u in Ruatahuna and Ruatoki. From this union, they had three sons and four daughters. I recall in 2005 I attended a wh¯anau reunion and I was informed our wh¯anau whakapapa is a direct descendant of Kumeroa Whakamoe. I was dis-heartened to hear Kumeroa had died during the 1918 influenza epidemic. Takurua then married his third wife, Te Hereripine Peene (Biddle), of Te Mahurehure hapu of Ruatoki and Te Whakatane hapu in Waimana. Interestingly, she had held a high-ranking position within her hapu, sadly she passed away in 1940. The fourth wife of Takurua, Te Urikore, was an exceptional w¯ahine with extensive knowledge of Ng¯ai Tuhoe traditions and in the art of weaving. I am unsure when she died; however, after her ¯ death, Takurua then married Te Onewhero Tangi Hineariki of Upokorehe hap¯u of Te Whakatohea, another w¯ahine of noble rank, who was well knowledgeable in traditions, songs, and customs. Curiously, I have no knowledge how the family surname changed from Tamarau to Takurua; all his children use Takurua as their surname. Takurua Tamarau died on the 17th of November 1958 at his papa whenua of Ruatoki and was buried on his marae land. Because of his burial there, the land was set aside as a cemetery for the hap¯a of Ng¯ati Koura. I was heartened to read a young Tuhoe leader Te Iki Pouwhare, wrote a heartfelt oration and

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waiata in remembrance of him, published in Te Ao Hou in December 1959. Ng¯a m¯atua, me o ¯ ku wh¯anau. Ka nui taku aroha ki a koe. My love for you knows no bounds. Ko Deni (Dennis) Maatamua Tawera o ¯ ku p¯apara. The memory of my father’s hometown of Ruatoki was an exceptional experience, especially ng¯a wh¯anau Takurua and their unique Ng¯ai Tuhoe Te Ao M¯aori lifestyle. Reflecting on my childhood, Deni had a reasonable account of the English language and never had problems communicating with P¯akeh¯a. In fact, as I recall his relationship with them was exceptional. I would have been about 10 years old; I was aware Deni was wh¯angai to Turinga and Te Amohaere (nee Ruri) Tawera. Apparently, she was the biological sister of Pare Dennis’s biological mother. Unfortunately, Te Amohaere was unable to conceive children, consequently the wh¯anau arrangement of wh¯angai (adoption) was gifted to them. Our wh¯anau had a close relationship with Dennis’ younger sister Eva Sidney (nee Takurua) and her wh¯anau, incidentally, she was also wh¯angai by Turinga and Te Amohaere Tawera. My understanding is, they moved to Te Teko, a small Ng¯ati Awa rural community. They settled there until their deaths. Both t¯ıpuna (grandparents) were key figures for Te Mapou marae. Deni’s biological parents were Joe Takurua, the son of Takurua Tamarau and Pare (nee Ruri) Takurua. I do not have extensive personal knowledge of Deni; I had spent a dominant part of my childhood with different wh¯anau, particularly an uncle. My experience of Deni was of a caring father; however, there were times he would get physical abusive towards me. I also experienced likewise by ng¯a wh¯anau that had raised me. My knowledge of Deni and his wh¯anau were active H¯ahi Ringatu. My mum said he had changed his religion to Christianity when I was 4 years old. I had been diagnosed with leukaemia and healed by a visiting Christian revivalist. During my childhood, I recalled Deni as a hard worker who had worked in various employments, from forestry, timber yards, truck driver, and salesman. My father tragically passed away in 1974 when I was age 16 years, from complications because of a motor vehicle accident.

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¯ ¯ Tenei oku whaea Ko Kotiro Lucy Tawera (nee Wihape) It has saddened me, my experience with Kotiro was like Deni, I did not have an intimate memory of her. Be that as it may, my relationship with her mother Ani Wihapi was very secure—she was a committed Christian and demonstrated the virtue of compassionate love. I never knew her husband Watene Wihape, he had died when I was an infant. I do not recall Ani ever remarrying or being in a relationship. I recall on her death how emotionally affected I was. I still think of her and believe my compassionate temperament comes from her aroha for her ng¯a mokopuna. Kotiro worked hard all her life, she raised me and my siblings on her own. Because of my mahi, Christian faith, and personal development I currently have an excellent relationship with her and recognise how difficult life would have been for her. She remarried until the death of her second husband Murray Hoeata. Koinei ¯oku wh¯ anau The Takurua wh¯anau whakapapa correlation from Joe Takurua (tipuna), to o ¯ ku p¯apara Deni an absents o ng¯a mahi hapori, my estimate of two generations. Noticeably my two sisters and I, appear to continue the ¯ leadership tradition of our ancestor Tamarau Takurua. Oku m¯atua had six children, I am the second oldest. My tuahine, Te Orohi Paul (nee Tawera) herself an established toa w¯ahine, had represented Ng¯ati Awa and Ng¯ati Pikiao politic. She was also a former vice-president of the M¯aori Party during the time Hone Harawira was leaving to form Mana. She was active in educational circles and was a member of the School Trustees Association. She and her husband Hakopa Paul were also pioneers in the addiction sector, particularly for M¯aori. In 1987 they were instrumental in the establishment of the first New Zealand M¯aori Alcohol and Drug Treatment Service (Te Ara Hau), she also represented M¯aori on various addiction advisory committees. Sadly, she passed away in 2014 travelling with her husband by air to collect a motorcycle gifted to them, in conjunction with the White Ribbon ride. Like Te Orohi, Ripeka Lessels (nee Tawera) my younger sister is a Kura Kaupapa (Te Whata Tau o P¯utaki, Kawerau) principal, and is recognised for her contribution to education. She is a council member on the New

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Zealand Education Council, which includes advice to the Minister. She was an active and staunch supporter of the M¯aori Party. I wondered if Raiha Waikato (nee Tawera), another younger sister, would have followed the legacy of Tamarau Takurua. I recall growing up she was very bright and intelligent. She died at an incredibly early age and left a young son, Daniel Wright, currently living in Australia. Samuel Tawera, my younger brother, is a high-ranking active gang member. Jo-Ann Tawera, (adopted) my younger sister, died in 2017 while living in Australia. Anita Pio my biological sister was adopted by John and Nancy Pio at birth.

Ko wai au? M¯a te kimi ka kite, m¯a te kite ka m¯ohio, m¯a te m¯ohio ka m¯arama. Seek and discover, discover and know; know and become enlightened. I currently inherit the full name Takurua Tamarau Tawera and do so with pride. I recall Deni had worked in numerous employments, including a brief period within the forestry industry. From memory our wh¯anau were raised in Te Teko, a small Eastern Bay of Plenty M¯aori Community, spending most of my life on the marae and wh¯anau farm. We then moved to Matata, for a brief time, as Deni worked for a trucking company. We then moved to Kawerau where I remembered as a youngster, my sibling and I sleeping in our wh¯anau van while my parents worked night shifts. The wh¯anau moved to Mount Maunganui, and then Tauranga. In terms of childhood memories, this part of my life was the most noteworthy. I remember my parents did not stress over our security, we regularly wandered the streets and the odd event returning home late at night from fishing.

Whakatutukitanga---Accomplishment Te hopu a te ringaiti, he aha te huanga; t¯en¯a ko te hopu a te ringa whero e t¯ang¯ang¯a, the grasp of the common person, what is its advantage? However, the grasp of the chief cannot be loosened. As a youngster, I was extremely energetic. I played representative rugby and was exceptionally athletic. In saying this I was not academic; truth be told, I could not read or write and only learnt in my late twenties. Overall, I survived well. I enjoyed the outdoors, especially diving for kaimoana (seafood). I recall accompanying a group of my father’s work colleagues

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to our most loved diving spots, unfortunately they were inexperienced divers. I dived into the open sea, found an excessive bed of muscles, and continued to drag them aboard our boat. Today I still find it humorous. Further reflection suggests my physical attributes had developed naturally; thus, my responses appear to be instinctual rather than analytically calculated. From the age of 13 years, I was attracted to rugby and concentrated on sport. Looking back this was an evasion for my academic limitation. I had moved to Wellington to play for the Petone Rugby League Club. I likewise had a stint in England playing for Fulham Rugby Football League Club. I recalled that I retired about three times. I was about 36 years old playing in the Northland Rugby League division, we had won the North Island second division and after that, lost to a West Coast Club in the New Zealand final. I played Master Rugby League for Northland, in a competition between New Zealand and Australian teams. I was selected for the Australian team. I then moved to the Wairarapa and played-coached a local senior A rugby team. I then returned to rugby league, playing premier league until I turned 46 years. I then made the choice to finally retire and take up bodybuilding, my first year I was not placed; however, the next year I was placed second in the Wellington Championship.

¯ Nga¯ Kura Matauranga Wh¯aia te m¯atauranga hei oranga m¯ o koutou, seek after learning for the sake of your wellbeing. The word M¯atau means to “know” or have an “understanding”, while the word ranga derives from the action to weave or set in motion. The description implies the comprehension to take in educational knowledge and develop conclusions. Reflecting on my early childhood, I do not call to mind, attending an early pre-development school. Nonetheless, at age 5 years I do recollect going to a local M¯aori Native School of Te Teko (I attended to eat my and other students’ lunch). My wh¯anau often moved around small M¯aori communities. My fondest memories were when we moved to Mount Maunganui. I had gone to the local primary school and experienced meeting Pakeha for the first time. Surprisingly, I developed a decent rapport with them. It was during this time that I was sent to live with relatives for almost twelve months, again attending another M¯aori Primary School. I had to return home to Tauranga, and attended

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a primary school, intermediate, and finally Tauranga Boy’s High. During my schooling, I cannot remember what I learned academically. As earlier indicated, I was illiterate until my lifestyle changed in 1987. It was obvious, working in the mental health and addiction sector, I was expected to study and pick up my capability to build into my career. I had attended a Counselling in Addictions Course. Unfortunately, I struggled with writing assignments and could not comprehend the analysis of theory to practice. In my work case notes, I would retrieve old notes, at that point modifying to fit the setting of my clients. I presume I was lacking the ability to engage a large volume of data and then analyse trends and bring out a result. During my work as a social worker living in the Wairarapa, my literacy skills improved while studying psychotherapy, and being enrolled in the Wairarapa Adult literacy programme (WALP). I found the teaching style and support of Trevor Searancke, my tutor at the time, valuable. Sadly, Trevor has passed after suffering from a neurological disorder. Once I complete my Doctor of Professional Practice studies I would pay tribute to him and WALP at some time. My recollection is that this would have been the only support I experienced from a mainstream Educational Institute. I later studied Addiction and Coexisting Disorders. I passed; however, this was despite the lack of sufficient academic and teaching support I received from the institution. I then completed two further papers, one in supervision, and finally Te Hananga (Dual Clinical and Cultural Practice in Mental Health). Unlike previous training institutes, I was provided exceptional support, especially with a Kaupapa M¯aori world view provided by Massey University.

Mana Whakatipu---Activities He toka t¯umoana he a¯kinga n¯a ng¯a tai. A standing rock in the sea, lashed by the tides. Reflecting on my career pathways and milestones, I realised at the time acknowledging my own achievements was no easy feat. Not because I lacked leadership qualities, but because I felt reluctance to stand upwards and to imitate these leadership qualities vocally or via self-promotion. The whakatauaki K¯aore te k¯umara e k¯orero m¯o t¯ona ake reka (The kumara does not say how sweet he is), comes to mind. Ng¯a taonga tuku iho are cultural heirloom, in particular the traditional belief of whanonga pono (principles and values) inherited from my ancestors. Tamarau Takurua,

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and the mentor I have trained under, have certainly influenced t¯oku mana whakatipu (leadership). Two prominent people, Nau Epiha in my early counselling career, and my kuia Ani Waihapi in my early childhood, imparted to me whakaiti (humility)—the wairua quality of exhortation of others before oneself and to enable others rather than taking credit for work. I have found whakaiti to have a close similarity to the characteristic of aroha in context, to have empathy for others. For me, working with high-risk men requires the ability to understand and relate to the emotions of another, regardless of their behaviour. I am reminded of the whakatau¯ak¯ı “Hutia te rito o te harakeke, Kei whea te k¯omako e k¯o? K¯ı mai ki ahau; He aha te mea nui o te Ao? M¯aku e k¯ı atu, he t¯angata, he t¯angata, he t¯angata” (Pull out the shoot of the flax bush, where will the bellbird sing, say to me what is the greatest thing, what is the greatest thing in this world, I will say the people! the people! the people). This whakatuaki resonates throughout my working career. From what I can gather, there are resemblances in appearance, character, and quantity identical to my koro, Tamarau Takurua. Some of the similarities include representing M¯aori on several Local Non-Government Organizations, District Health Board Advisory Groups, Central Region M¯aori Mental Health Advisory Groups. On reflection, I felt naive and inadequate as I was never exposed to this level of leadership. As my experience grew, I sat on the National Committees for Addiction Treatment, then the Public Health Organisation as Clinical Quality Advisor, and Mental Health Representative. I was then invited to sit on the Otago University School of Medicine, Addiction Centre Advisory Group in relation to the interests of M¯aori. I am convinced exposure to the health sector governance and operational system had influenced my desire to pursue Tikanga M¯aori. The advisory group had exposed me to the qualities of Leadership accomplishment designed for M¯aori with careful attention to traditional principles while managing the multiple connections within our world. During the last five years, it has been heartening to recognise the value of my early advisory role, especially the kaitiakitanga guidance (advisory group) o ng¯a kaum¯atua and Constance points towards the need for sustainable guardianship and protection of Tikanga M¯aori and traditional belief within the health sector. An interest of mine is domestic violence with the addiction and mental health sector. I was appointed to the National Network of Stopping Violence as an executive, and I am currently the M¯aori Caucus Chair. This leads me to the White Ribbon campaign as a motorcycle rider, travelling

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across the country promoting the message “Violence Towards Women Is Not OK”. I then accepted a role in the Trust and later the position of chairman. Another achievement of mine is being an elected member of the Drug Alcohol Practitioners Association Aotearoa New Zealand (DAPAANZ) Executive, and to then be elected by the M¯aori Addiction Caucus as the Pou Whakarae. The position provides DAPAANZ’s Executive with cultural (M¯aori) best practice expertise. Obviously for me the Pou Whakahaere is not a title, but the role enables me to offer the addiction sector a M¯aori voice. It can challenge mainstream practitioners and the addiction sector in terms of how best to work with M¯aori. Certainly, this is a satisfactory and inspired leadership role. For the last 7 years, I have been teaching Applied Addiction Counselling, at a level 7 qualification and Cultural Supervision under the Otago Polytechnic Institute, because of my clinical and cultural experience. In turn, tutoring has helped me read and then write teaching material for students and course programmes. I have found this extremely beneficial towards my Doctor of Professional Practice studies. During my thirty years in the industry, I have attended numerous short training programmes to keep my practice and leadership skills updated.

Nga¯ Mahi Ka wh¯aia te w¯ahie mo takurua ka mahi te kai m¯o te tau. If you look for firewood in the winter, you will have plenty of food all year round. I have always had a consistent hard-working attitude. From the age of 10–15 years, I had a paper run and then delivered milk. My first employment at the age of 15 years was in a supermarket. At age 16, I worked in the forestry industry for 8 months and afterwards Tasman Pulp and Paper Mill in the sawmill department. Since this industry had strict worker unions and there were numerous strikes. I happened to go to Wellington with companions and was employed with Ford Motor Company for about 3 years. This was the period the New Zealand Government began bringing in Japanese vehicles, which resulted in the demise and end of the auto engineer manufacturing industry. At that point, I then went to work for a Dulux paint organisation for a year and I left to play rugby league in England. On my return, I worked at a little paper recycling business for almost three years. Because of my strong work ethic, I eventually managed the business.

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My personal morals changed in 1987. I started to tidy up my life and became a Christian, which entailed a change in careers. I was offered to apply for a counsellor position in a mainstream addiction service, despite not having the qualification or sector experience. However, I had met the criteria for the type of person they needed and of course I was successful. Initially my inexperience was obvious and felt inadequate. Fortunately, my colleagues were supportive, and I started to develop into my role doing individual counselling, group, and whanau, wh¯anau facilitation, and alcohol and other drug assessment reports for the courts and Probation. After observing for a while, my colleagues’ attitude and systemic racism towards M¯aori and the ideas of cultural assimilation models became obvious. I started to be despondent; however, I was developing an increasing passion for M¯aori. I then accepted an employment position with a Kaupapa M¯aori Residential Alcohol and Other Drugs Treatment Centre for Men in Auckland. I started learning to design and develop day-to-day programmes, supervise staff, facilitate group and wh¯anau dynamics, do individual counselling, write court and probation reports, manage caseloads, and liaise with Community Networking Groups. For me, this period of employment with an emphasis on residential treatment felt restricted and so I accepted a position with a mainstream social service organisation in the Wairarapa to expand on community interventions. I worked as a wh¯anau specialist, advising on culture and wh¯anau mahi. Obviously, I had gained lots of experience, so I decided to leave the Wairarapa and move to the Bay of Islands, to work for a M¯aori Health Organisation to further develop my leadership and programme development skills. Eventually the opportunity to increase my leadership capabilities presented itself and I accepted a position with a Non-Government Organisation as a practitioner service coordinator (manager), positioned in Whangarei. This role developed my competence in leadership with people, organisational structures, and systems. The role also involved national strategic planning. My employment history to date has enhanced my clinical and leadership capabilities. Interestingly, my wife and I are often head-hunted. Since my employment in Whangarei my experience with Te Hauora Runanga O Wairarapa Alcohol and Other Drug Service and my current position with Moana House, a Therapeutic Community in Addiction Rehabilitation, has been the most fulfilling clinical and cultural development to date. The whakatauaki “E kore e mau I a koe, he wae kai pakiaka”, you

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will not catch the feed accustomed to running among the root, describes my transformation progress. I feel I am able to recognise my hard work and accomplishments.

¯ Oku Whakapono---My Beliefs Ka mau tonu ng¯a taonga tapu o ng¯a m¯atua tupuna koinei ng¯a taonga i tuku iho, na te ¯atua. Hold fast to the treasures of the ancestors for they are the treasures that have been handed down to us by God. As a child I grew up surrounded by ng¯a wairau ahurea (culture), raised on spooky stories, such as, if you misbehave the tohunga will send the k¯ehua to visit you. In saying this not all the disciplinary inference was a deterrent, such as the behavioural conduct required at the marae, movement within the urup¯a, ritual karakia at special ceremonies, and so on. Ng¯a wh¯anau no o ¯ ku m¯atua were devoted Ringatu. In my early childhood we would often attend services held at our local wh¯anau marae. Prior to entry, my kuia would convey “Kaua e wareware ki te haere ki te wharepaku i mua i to whakauru i te wharenui, ka riri i te tohunga kia koutou”. The point my Kuia was emphasising; I could not leave during the karakia and rituals because they were tapu (scared). To leave would disturb the offering of exaltation to Io and the tohunga will get angry with me. Other occasions my kuia would have a conversation with me, and at the time I was unsure if she were talking to me, a third people or using a metaphor to make her point. For example, “kia t¯ımata o kanohi, kia kore ai e p¯ouri to a¯t¯arangi”, Keep your eyes open so that your shadow does not become dark. Obviously, in my childhood I had no idea what she was referring to. However, in the present time, her korero has certainly influenced my understanding of wairua, especially the application of tika (what’s right) and the effect of kahup¯o (being ignorant of or blind to something). These words of wisdom imply “diligence is the virtue of freedom”, in other words, work hard on myself, and my past will not determine my future. I was told my father and uncles had expelled spiritual inflection (makutu) off people, but I was not sure if he was being humorous or describing their inexperience. He said they were officiating karakia over a wh¯anau member, believed to be troubled, and a dialogue occurred between them. They would go through the ritual to draw on Io (God) and then command authority over the entity and talk directly to the entity

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saying “ko wai koe”, the response “ko au t¯enei”, my father and uncles “puta atu” the response “eta ko au t¯enei.’ My uncle said they did get better over time, he also said there were times I was present; however, I do not recollect. My spiritual philosophy is based on my belief that the activity of M¯aori and Christian Spirituality helps construct meaning from experiences by promoting critical thinking about our world. The Oxford Learner’s Dictionaries (2022) defines religion as “the belief in and worship of a superhuman controlling power, especially a personal God” and spirituality as “the quality of being concerned with the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things”. However, religion also frequently instructs about the spirit and dismissal of an excess of material products, and spirituality can consist of beliefs. For me, I have learned being a spiritual person is synonymous with being a person whose highest priority is to be loving to oneself and others. I guess caring about people, animals, and the planet is a conscious attempt to honour Oneness.

¯ Wairuatanga i te ao Maori, me te Karaitianatanga In recent times, I have been challenged by my Christian peers for my love of culture and humanity. Working with high-risk M¯aori offenders implies working in a clinical environment, requiring having a statuary knowledge of law, ethical logic, and a maturity to engage with hard-to-reach men. I find myself comfortable using M¯aori metaphor as a tool to explain complex Criminogenic behaviours exhibited by the men I counsel. For me, I have learnt that M¯aori spirituality interconnects and affects the character of life and what it means to be human. This is often demonstrated in ways that are unfamiliar and outside the competency of people foreign to the cultural nuances of M¯aori. Even though numerous M¯aori iwi (tribes) may have the same insight for the theories of M¯aori spirituality, the significance, or effect may vary from tribe to tribe. Unlike religion, M¯aori spirituality recognises the traditional gods, their stories, ancestors, and their contribution to M¯aori society. In other words, I relate to p¯ur¯akau (traditional story) to describe life’s principles. The p¯ur¯akau o Tawhaki and his life’s experiences, his trial and redemption resonate with my whanonga pono (values) and my mahi. The story begins with the near-death experience of Tawhaki by the hand of his inlaw, and then the process of recovery by his wife, Hinepiripiri, and her use of a fire for healing. On reflection, the notion is that when a person

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is affected by trauma, it can pose severe consequences in terms of reactive emotions. Myths can provide answers in human terms to the way things are in our world. The characters act as we do, but on a grand scale. They can be an important guide to philosophy, values, and social behaviour; to correct procedures for certain acts. They can show us the results of certain acts and provide pointers towards social order.

¯ Oku whanonga pono My personal and professional values are compatible with my practice as an Addiction Practitioner and the Drug Alcohol Practitioner Association Aotearoa New Zealand Code of Ethics (DAPAANZ). There are several values which I resonate with when working with M¯aori and my selfdetermination to promote social justice and social change on behalf of the t¯angata whaiora (clients). For me, this work emphasises how significant these values are, because these are the reasons that inspired me to engage in this career. Working as a tutor further enhances my interest in cultural consideration and social justice. No doubt I continue to encounter an epiphany as I reflect the dignity of humans and the impact on them and society. The taking on of traditional story, and my belief in te ao wairuatanga can be related to the enlightening thoughts derived directly from the belief o ng¯a atua, of such H¯ın¯atore the phosphorescent light. Ng¯a tipuna the conduit o ng¯a p¯ur¯akau to connect or communicate with a spiritual realm, especially to Io (God). I realized that my profession in counselling strengthens my vocation at the same time as challenging my abilities. Abuse has deeply troubled me since it is out of line when people are not regarded with respect and dignity, and when people exploit others for lucrative purposes. My role is a responsibility to challenge social injustice, especially for M¯aori. An example of contributing to social justice advocacy is challenging policy that disadvantages M¯aori or human rights. I have for an enormous time been a keen advocate of political activism. To contribute at a governance and management level connected me to my history and the attributes of Takurua. The experience was extremely satisfying to realise that I added to a social cause that was successful within my clinical practice. Another example of my self-determination is that as a tutor, combined with my clinical knowledge, governance experiences, and national advisory role, assists students to have an insight into the Mental Health and Addiction sector.

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Another critical value associated with counselling work is pono (integrity). From my understanding, partnership is built on respectable integrity and being trustworthy. I have learned not to divulge privacy unless there are risks to the person or others. Integrity relates to my practice because as a counsellor I will be capable of developing a good rapport with those I work with. In turn, the client will build trust in me and be more likely to disclose willingly. Ng¯a whaiora entering Te Whare Moana exhibit multiple complex problems, especially trauma. Their offending behaviour is often an expression of early traumatic childhood experiences to adulthood. As a result, they have not learnt to regulate the emotional impact, hence their behaviour often affects their wh¯anau and others. Occasionally, the whaiora may disclose sexual abuse, and they continue to experience overwhelming shame and guilt. For them, my integrity to protect and gain their confidence is paramount. In my experience, traumatic whaiora, when reactive, will elevate themselves to protect themselves from unpleasant past emotional experiences. I find, as a practitioner, my responsibility to moderate my emotion is critical to engage with them. This enables communication to be regulated appropriately, hence the whaiora can maintain coherent dialogue. Matatau (Competence) is another important personal value as it relates to my counselling practice. Working with M¯aori clients may involve engaging with their wh¯anau. Importantly, the method requires establishing and maintaining a connective rapport. Demonstrating empathy, respect, and genuineness enables my human relationship with the client and their wh¯anau and will help me become a better counsellor. Competence permits me to offer suitable services by applying careful decisions and making responsible outcomes to ensure my work protect clients from harm. The word “competency” means the capability to apply or use a set of related knowledge, skills, and abilities required to successfully perform “critical work functions” or tasks in a defined work setting (Addiction Practitioners’ Association Aotearoa-New Zealand, 2011). In my work, competency is a critical attribute to practice, such as culture that embodies “the values, customs, and traditional beliefs that influence my identify, the way I think, relate, how I act, and make sense about my world”. In turn, my mahi develops the awareness of others and their own cultural worldview, challenges attitude towards cultural differences, and educates knowledge and wisdom of various cultural practices and worldviews, and the cross-cultural abilities needed to do so (Chamberlain, 2005).

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Establishing whanaungatanga within human relationships is another personal value. After thirty years as a clinical practitioner, the valuable lesson I learned was the importance of kotahitanga or networking of community resources, in many cases enabling clients and their families, access to a wide range of resources. I found human relationships can enable networks to be built, for me to be mobilised within a community that benefits the client. Likewise, it allows a push to improve the prosperity of people, families, social gatherings, associations, and groups. As a counsellor it is crucial for me to recognise the significance of building connections since it will encourage my exploring procedure and resources for clients. I do this because tikanga is the practice of M¯aori customs and processes founded in te ao M¯aori worldview. I am reminded of a whakatauaki “Ma te kotahitanga e whai kaha ai t¯atau”, in unity, we have strength. The word “ko” is used when talking about something specific, tahi means number one, individual or singular, and “tanga” means togetherness. “Kotahitanga” is a word that cannot support oneself without there being more than a singular; therefore, the word describes two or more. In the field of family violence, the focus on individual methodology is seen as having only limited application to M¯aori families and communities (Kruger et al., 2004). The introduction of Wh¯anau Ora as a holistic intervention of wh¯anau, and community working together strengthens relationships and good practices. Ng¯a mahi o Wh¯anau Ora the practice framework brings wh¯anau and communities (human resource) together, building transformational resilience into wh¯anau. There will be times I will have to manage personal values (core beliefs), that may conflict with counselling values, such as mulling over the distinction and synergy between both—for example, self-assurance, trustworthiness, skill, and human connections. I tend to examine these qualities and, in addition, refer to the DAPAANZ’s Code of Ethics and assess my thoughts (beliefs) and feelings (emotional and physical experiences). I might want to utilise these qualities as rules that I have to stand to keep away from my own personal values and defer complicated counselling cases that can hinder my career and the people I work with. Nonetheless, I anticipate experiencing conflicting circumstances with my personal values and the DAPAANZ Code of Ethics when managing a client who becomes dependent on me. For example, the client’s story reminds me of a situation of hopelessness, and my thought is to rescue them from their demise, therefore I would endeavour to fix the problem,

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rather than manaaki te t¯angata (empowerment) find solutions for themselves. In this specific circumstance, I will hand over the case to another counsellor. Another alternative that I would consider when managing discord in counselling is to have a significant reflection of myself by additionally breaking down my own personal values, adjust both the pros and cons, while continually remembering my obligation to empower the client. One life situation that has helped me shape my values and support my belief in the counselling values was when I worked in a rural town. A client I had was referred for residential alcohol and drug treatment. Two weeks into his treatment he was discharged, put on a train, and sent back with no support and told to find his own accommodation. I received a call from the client on arrival—we could not find immediate accommodation. It was then I recalled my grandmother (tikanga) almost thirty years ago saying, never leave anyone on the street if you can offer your home. She was quoting her traditional experience from a marae context. I then spoke with my wh¯anau and put a kawa (boundary) in place to safeguard them and then presented to clinical supervision, a reflection. The client was able to have a couple of days to organise himself with the help of a local community provider. We were able to relocate him to wh¯anau in another district. This type of cultural experience also exposed me to ethical dilemmas. I recognise working with M¯aori sometimes requires a balance of flexibility in terms of safe practice and the risk to clients. Sometimes colleagues can have conflict with these types of decisions. Obviously, my grandmother’s belief derives from her knowledge of tikanga; passed from ng¯a tipuna, ng¯a atua, and finally onto me. I feel conflicted when mainstream principles are protective of themselves and reluctant to challenge systemic policies rather than prioritising the wellness of the person. Institutively my cautions are inspired by tikanga M¯aori values. I have learned in counselling that my integrity will be shown in several ways. These are: having an honest and friendly manner demonstrated in my work performance, having the willingness to learn and share information, being a team worker, demonstrating listening skills, and other essential counselling skills that I will learn as time progresses.

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¯ Matana---Aspiration Toi tu te kupu, toi tu te mana, toi tu te whenua. For without language, without mana (spirit), and without land, the essence of being a M¯aori would no longer exist. I read two quotes on Google by Mike Norton, an American inspirational comic book artist and writer. He wrote “the true measure of a man is not what he dreams, but what he aspires to be; a dream is nothing without action” (goodreads.com). The other quote from Muhammad Ali, “I hate every minute of training, but I said, ‘Do not quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion (BrainyQuote.com)’”. From this I encourage myself to suffer well. These statements resonated for me. One would hope, living in the twenty-first century, our society would be educated, recognising the disparity between M¯aori and non-M¯aori health. Unfortunately, the adjustment required to address disparity has not been fully taken on board by the mainstream organisations, and I see it all the time. For me, my aspiration is “to improve the health of M¯aori and reduce the inequality between M¯aori and non-M¯aori”. I wish to advance my confidence in Tikanga M¯aori, and its application in a clinical context, like Takurua Tamarau to utilise the wisdom of our ancient ancestors in a modern model era.

¯ Whakarapopoto/Summary What have I learned in my thirty years working as a counsellor? Remarkably my life has changed, for example, behaviours can often be motivated by childhood trauma or life experiences. Therefore, ignorance is no longer a definer of incompetence. I am responsible for my decision, hence living a congruent lifestyle is a sign of accountability for what I currently understand as a knowledgeable person. My training in psychotherapy, addiction, and coexisting disorders helped develop my psychological ability to critically analyse or stretch my thinking capability. My clinical insight is not limited to academic skills; my practice experience has enabled me to utilise these skills with an application. I am implying not all situations have the same processes or outcomes. To date, my colleagues are leading clinicians who are recognised in New Zealand as leading counsellors and psychotherapists. My national activity is a result of my developed intellectual insight and community service in business management and administration. The M¯aori saying: “K¯aore te kumara e

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k¯orero m¯o t¯ona ake reka”, a kumara does not talk about its own sweetness. This whakatau¯ak¯ı highlights my personal transition. I can recall a time of my difficulties talking about myself and my achievements. Therefore, the knowledge I have gained through my years in the industries has enabled me to distinguish differences between appropriate promotion of oneself and grandiose ideas of self. Critical to my thinking is the ability to see the underlying structure of an argument; for example, to critique information, formulate a conclusion, and then execute an argument of reasons that support my position or notions. My primary modality of practice is transactional analysis in psychotherapy, an approach I regularly use as a form of communication in my practice and community relationships. I have gained a huge amount of confidence advising community organisations on cultural and clinical matters and certainly feel the respect of my peers. I have reflected on my grandfather’s accomplishments and related to the concept of spirituality and wisdom in context to “ng¯a taonga tuku iho”. I certainly acknowledge my early Christian lifestyle; however, I feel I resonate closely with spirituality than religion. My work at Moana House is a direct result of my early lifestyle in addiction, coexisting disorders, other M¯aori and addiction training, and my passion for whaiora and their wh¯anau. My leadership development has helped me manage a team of professionals inspired by personal and community values: “hope in human kindness”. I had mentioned in my aspiration my desire to reduce the inequality between M¯aori and nonM¯aori, especially at the governance level. I feel that’s where the decision to influence practice will stem from. A whakatau¯ak¯ı I have learned from my experiences “ki te kahore he whakakitenga ka ngaro te iwi”. Without foresight or vision the people will be lost. “A vision is like a lighthouse on the horizon, whilst it might be distant, it serves as a marker point and a guide, something to orient oneself towards as one sails through often uncharted waters”. My original doctoral research question “Can ancient belief of whakaw¯atea be integrated into a clinical therapeutic community model of Te Whare Moana” still resonates with me. However, I have thought of another topic “The Comparison of Traditional and modern Tika in relation to ng¯a tohunga practices in the modern era”. I have always been fascinated with human behavioural psychology, especially the comparison between traditional and modern tohunga practices. My observations suggest clinical methodology appears to construct cultural models, from

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a non-M¯aori psychological approach and wonder how precisely doing so justifies the cultural nuance in relation to M¯aori traditional practices. My professional opinion would suggest the reverse “traditional Tohunga Practices has its own unique clinical approach” and can be interpreted within a modern context. My hypothesis of traditional tohunga practices and years of experience in modern clinical practice, suggests that traditional practices offer a culturally (wairuatanga) responsive clinical approach. The relationship o ng¯a atua is important. I intend to investigate this observation further in the next part of my study. “Wisdom is universal and is not confined by generations, by oceans or by cultures. It is part of the legacy of humankind” (Mead, 2004, p. 9).

References Betham, E. (2008). Aspects of Samoan indigenous spirituality and Christian spirituality and spiritual direction. A research project submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements of the Spiritual Directors’ Formation Programme of Spiritual Growth Ministries. Retrieved August 16, 2009, from https://www.sgm. org.nz/researchpapersviewed BrainyQuote. (2022). Muhammad Ali quotes. Retrieved July 3, 2020, from https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/muhammad_ali_148629 Chamberlain, S. P. (2005). Recognizing and responding to cultural differences in the education of culturally and linguistically diverse learners. Intervention in School and Clinic, 40(2), 195–211. https://doi.org/10.1177/105345120 5040004010 Drug and Alcohol Practitioners’ Association Aotearoa–New Zealand. (2011). Addiction intervention competency framework: A competency framework for professionals specialising in problem gambling, alcohol and other drug and smoking cessation intervention. DAPAANZ. https://dapaanz.org.nz/ Henare, M. (1988). Ng¯a Tikanga me ng¯a Riteng¯a o te Ao M¯aori: Standards and foundations of M¯aori society. In The April Report III, part I, Royal Commission on Social Policy, Wellington. Jackson, M. (2008). The Constancy of Terror. In D. Keenan (Ed.), Terror in our midst? Searching for terrorism in Aotearoa New Zealand. Huia Publishers. Kruger, T., Pitman, M., Grennell, D., McDonald, T., Mariu, D., Pomare, A., Mita, T., Maihi, M., & Lawson-Te Aho, K. (2004). Transforming wh¯ anau violence—A conceptual framework (2nd ed.). Te Puni Kokiri. https://nzfvc. org.nz/sites/default/files/transforming_whanau_violence.pdf

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Marr, C. (1997). Public works takings of M¯ aori lands, 1840–1981. Waitangi Tribunal rangahaua whanui series. Waitangi Tribunal. https://www.wai tangitribunal.govt.nz/assets/Documents/Publications/wt-theme-g-publicworks-takings-of-maori-land.pdf Mead, M. H. (2004). Nga pepeha a nga tipuna. Victoria University Press. Milroy, W. (2011). Tamarau, Takurua. Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/4t5/tamarau-takurua Mutu, M. (2019). ‘To honour the treaty, we must first settle colonisation’ (Moana Jackson 2015): The long road from colonial devastation to balance, peace, and harmony. Journal of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 49(1), 4–18. https://doi.org/10.1080/03036758.2019.1669670 Oxford Learner’s Dictionaries. (2022). Religion. https://www.oxfordlearnersd ictionaries.com/definition/english/religion?q=religion Rameka, L. (2016). Kia whakat¯omuri te haere whakamua. I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on my past. Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood, 17 (4), 387–398. https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/pdf/https://doi. org/10.1177/1463949116677923 Ritchie, J. (2012). Titiro Whakamuri, Hoki Whakamua: Respectful integration of M¯aori perspectives within early childhood environmental education. Walker, R. (1996). Ng¯ a Pepa a Ranginui: The Walker Paper. Penguin Books.

CHAPTER 6

Waipuna-a-Raki Jeffrey Francis Huia Thomas

As I write this, Matariki (M¯aori New Year) is approaching. My hope is to be inspired by Matariki as my ancestors were. I have named this work ‘Waipuna-a-rangi’, one of the nine stars. It is the star connected to rain. The significance of this to me is one of cleansing, to prepare and ready my kaupapa (journey) for new learning. Waipuna-a-rangi will, I trust, guide, navigate, and allow new growth. I have started to slow and to listen, to consider, and to wonder. For it is in this space that the unknown elements of me have presented themselves. They have brought me to the here and the now. These elements have given me the clearest outlines along with the vaguest understandings. This autoethnography or p¯ ur¯akau (story) is sourced from my own need to comprehend my view of te ao M¯aori (the M¯aori world). It is driven by a desire to acknowledge my journey of self-exploration and self-discovery as not only mine but also that of ‘takata whenua’ (indigenous person from Aotearoa/New Zealand)’. The class sat in silence, looking forward and passive. Someone coughed, and thankfully it stirred me into addressing the room. ‘My

J. F. H. Thomas (B) ¯ Dunedin, New Zealand Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_6

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presentation today is to show some artefacts from my family, old things which have history and meaning’. My voice was shaky, with a tone of hope, pleading with the class to accept my words. I was in Intermediate school; the presentation was to showcase artefacts that were old and offered a glimpse into our Aotearoa (New Zealand) past. I had decided to showcase a pocket watch, a piece of pounamu (greenstone), and a ‘mutton-bird stick’, all heirlooms passed down in my wh¯anau (family). My story meandered around how I was descended from Southern M¯aori, the union of a European whaler and a M¯aori chief’s daughter. The pounamu was a valued item, the watch early technology while the ‘mutton-bird stick’ was used in the annual harvest of t¯ıt¯ı (mutton-bird) from an island called Poutama. The end of the presentation could not have come sooner. I finished feeling despondent and disappointed. Disappointed that no one in the room seemed bothered, involved, or even interested. I was disappointed in how the lack of reception showed a lack of relevance which showed a lack of value. How could this be? These artefacts were real, important, and carried a story of a time when M¯aori and P¯akeh¯a (Europeans) had a fledgling relationship, still eager and keen. The other student’s presentations, artefacts, and stories were very Euro-centric. I didn’t know that term then, I used ‘very white’ instead. This may seem unexpected, as I wasn’t raised in a te ao M¯aori home. Mum is P¯akeh¯a, Dad is M¯aori on his dad’s side and Swedish on his Mum’s. Dad has always talked about his, our, Southern M¯aori heritage. Growing up he would share snippets of where we started from, at a place called ‘The Neck’, close to Oban on Rakiura (Stewart Island). During the class’s presentations, I noticed how the teacher received the information. Differing levels of surprise and astonishment, the odd squeal of glee as though just realising how clever, resilient, and brave our settler immigrants were. No acknowledgement to our hardy and clever Indigenous people. The only one in the room that I felt heard me was Sonia Maniapoto. She held my gaze and gave me a slight nod of her head as I fumbled into my seat. We were told before she joined our class that a M¯aori princess from the Waikato was coming to our school for some time. She always sat with such a straight back, head high. She never said much. We were in the ‘clever’ class. Maybe her presence asked some questions, raised some

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eyebrows, a M¯aori girl in the ‘clever’ class? Being in a ‘clever’ class meant that we had to learn French. One of the privileges I suppose. Monsieur Wall, the Headmaster, would walk up and down the aisles, smashing his cane on the desktops as he screamed grammar rules and pronunciation, throwing out the different accents with reckless abandon. How European, I remember thinking, slightly excited by the strange sounds and the different use of my tongue and lips. The drive was to learn a language that is important, that you can travel or get a job with. This always annoyed me. It infuriated me that te reo (the M¯aori language) was not considered as important, nor needed. I knew early that te reo was valuable, it had currency. I would correct friends on their poor pronunciation of te reo, which would always lead to conflict. My argument was that the words meant something, they gave a place meaning, purpose, and historical content. I was 15 when I introduced the middle name ‘Huia’ to my name. It was my Grandad’s middle name, and I took it as I felt it should be kept alive. It connected me to my whakapapa (ancestry) but also helped me find a place and establish my own M¯aori worldview. I had no language or obvious brownness. My name and family name gave no indication of a M¯aori connection, so this helped me to establish myself. My family left Aparima (Riverton) and that removed us, me, from that Southern landscape and whenua. I carry a feeling of displacement. Should I? I feel connected to the Taranaki whenua where I live, but only as an adopted child would. My connection to Te Wai Pounamu (South Island) is stronger. Sometimes I would lay on my parent’s bed and my dad would test my French vocabulary from a textbook. Often after we finished, he would get his M¯aori/English dictionaries and we would go through some basic words. This fizzled out after some time as we struggled with life; work, sport, and family commitments but I felt the language connected me to a history and to a people, my people, who have a long and strong story. I always loved the imagery created from M¯aori whakatauki (proverbs). I was enchanted with how humans were always so small, while rivers, mountains, and trees so grand. I have always felt a strong inclination to the M¯aori world. Stories of migration, the art of moko (tatoo), fighting with taiaha (wooden spears) and mere (fashioned clubs). My early years were spent reading and daydreaming.

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Up to the age of five I lived in Te Kuiti in the King Country. I was shared between my parents and our next-door neighbour, an old Kuia called Rita Kiore. Every waking moment I spent nextdoor with Rita (apart from those in the front garden with my goat, Billy) and Rita was everything to me. The moon, the sun, and the stars. She fed me, read to me, and played with me. My folks did too, but with Rita everything was different. She had heaps of mokopuna (grandchildren), and I was just one of the team, except at the end of the day they left, and I didn’t. Often Mum would come over to look for me and find myself and Rita curled up together in front of the fire asleep. She called me the Mayor of Te Kuiti Road, I was the boss of all the kids. I still remember the feeling, the sense, of those kids to this day. I remember that we felt the same, we belonged the same, we had a bond, a commonality. There is no memory of difference. Not long after the school presentation, Dad started to speak about when the family moved from ‘The Neck’ near Rakiura to Aparima. They lived on the ‘Kaik’ with other M¯aori families. His Dad was given grief at school for speaking M¯aori. I tried to imagine how it felt, being so different, so brown. Maybe that is partly why Pop married Nana; tall, blonde, and Swedish. Fitting in? Assimilation? Dad would share his frustration about when he was a kid and he was a lot lighter than his cousins, and they would give him a hard time. I always found that strange, as family is family, but I understood. Over the years I have also felt annoyed with people challenging our ancestry, ‘You are not M¯aori, are you?’ or ‘How much M¯aori blood do you have?’ ‘You do not even speak any M¯aori!’ ‘You are not even brown!’. I would indignantly think that I belonged to a special group of people, which made me different, in a non-arrogant way. I lost count of the times I would lie face down on the floor in the hope that my nose would flatten a bit more! Dad announced that we were heading to Christchurch for a family holiday. I was around 13 or 14 years old. My Dad thought that we needed to connect with family again, many lived in Christchurch with the odd member sprinkled further south. We visited my t¯upuna (ancestor) Tukuwaha’s home marae (place of community, learning, talking, sharing of philosophies) in Wairewa (Little River), met many unknown family members, and spent time in Christchurch Museum researching family history. To me, this was a symbolic form of ‘Ahi K¯a (keeping the home fires burning, keeping connections alive)’.

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As I settled into high school, I was excited at the prospect of new learning, bigger concepts, and more layers of discovery. My love of language and food developed my interest in art and the natural world around me awakened. Especially things M¯aori. However, for some time I carried the hurt and embarrassment from my failed attempt at joining the M¯aori language class. I say failed attempt but in reality, I was asked to leave. One day my teacher called me over at the start of a lesson ‘this class is not for you’ he said softly, ‘it is a place for M¯aori students to be M¯aori, to be themselves’. The burning of my cheeks was deafening. I stammered that I really want to learn M¯aori, I have M¯aori ancestry, and that it would make my dad happy. He looked at me slightly surprised, which then transformed into irritation. ‘You don’t fit in; you don’t understand these kids’. I was flat for some time. A little lost, a little fragile, a little angry, I began to look elsewhere for some stability and direction, for some acceptance. Upon leaving school I headed to Wellington to study hospitality. Part of the general tourism and hospitality theme encouraged us to look at who we were, and our history, along with what face as a people is on show and shared with tourists. I started to consider my journey, my family, and who I am. Once again, I felt my white side was established but I felt vague about my brown side, I needed to know more about how things were done, discussed, and shared. I found a local M¯aori cultural group and attended twice. It was weird. I didn’t know anything at all and was happy to learn but the looks and whispers were heavy and passive, yet fervent. I was taken back to high school where the M¯aori class was for M¯aori and this group emanated the same vibe. Outsiders were tolerated, to a point, and then cut and left behind like overweight luggage at the airport. I retreated, readjusted, and focused on my studies. Upon completion, I commenced a three-year hotel management traineeship, with my first posting being in Franz Josef. The learning curve was steep. Six-day weeks, 12-hour days, I was challenged, pushed, and tested. The work itself was simulating. The training programme required you to work in every department of each hotel and I loved all the different aspects. What I loathed was the constant putdowns and verbal assault from the management team above me. I was constantly at odds with the concept of hospitality and caring for people in a general sense which stopped at the frontline. Everything behind the scenes seethed with hierarchy, power-over, and criticism. Staff meals were

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often leftovers put in a pot and heated up, nothing fresh, nothing wholesome. The only sustaining part was the fact that staff sat together to eat which fed the ideology of ‘us’, togetherness, and family. I was halfway through the three-year programme, and I just started to struggle. I was choking, the balance was off. I started to question everything, the whole concept of providing such a high and constant level of care, while simultaneously flogging the staff. This was a P¯akeh¯a system needing a M¯aori overhaul. I had been moved from Franz Josef to Waitangi and it was here that I was introduced to ‘manaaki (hospitality, caring)’. I was also schooled in New Zealand history 101, from a M¯aori perspective. In the heart of Ngapuhi country the hotel was 100 metres from Te Tiriti o Waitangi (Treaty of Waitangi) grounds. I made friends with many of the local staff, most were M¯aori. I started seeing a local M¯aori girl from Moerewa, from a family of multigenerational freezing workers. I felt welcomed, and through this began to discuss more deeply life from a M¯aori perspective. One day, sitting in the staffroom at the hotel having a chat and a laugh with several staff one of the ‘aunties’ just ripped into me. The tirade was thunderous, heated, and venomous. She unloaded. The state of affairs around ‘white’ privilege, the bullshit Treaty, exploitation of local labour, it went on and on. She finally stood and stormed out, leaving the air stinging and raw. I sat, unmoving, blinking. Someone apologised, and everyone slowly got up and left. I thought ‘where is my place within all this?’ ‘How much of this do I own?’ This is multi-levelled and generational, but do I receive and process at a national ‘M¯aori’ level or a regional ‘iwi’ one? I started to look at how we as a business, a hotel, and a group of people—many of whom were family—operated. I struggled and resented the fact that all our hotel managers were English, mostly left over from the Peninsular & Oriental Steam Navigation Company—(P & O) cruise ships who decided to stay on. These men were making decisions about a people who they knew very little about. There was no connection, no understanding of local values. It was at this point that I started to acknowledge the differences within a M¯aori landscape. I had started to read more about K¯ai Tahu, their part in colonial endeavours, and assimilation and I started to understand that the M¯aori world I was in was North Island. I questioned why the M¯aori

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face portrayed was from the North, what about the South? Why was Waitangi Day always delivered in Waitangi? Could it not be shared around the motu (island/country) with other iwi (tribes)? Soon after I was transferred to Waitomo. I was working with a management colleague who was M¯aori, clearly but raised in a P¯akeh¯a world. He completed two years of high school in the United States and therefore valued everything non-Aotearoa. I started to ask him about his past, his upbringing, and his place. The resistance at first was structured and strong, often defiant. I felt it was a trust thing. We shared many stories as we stacked up the hours and with this came a lot of laughter, which ultimately was the key to his acquiescence and talking about who he was, a M¯aori boy in a suit with a good job his family could be proud of. I knew he was ashamed of how he shunned his M¯aori side by comments he initially made, but after time these comments lessened. His parents would visit sometimes, M¯aori dad, P¯akeh¯a mum. Dad had the roundness of someone worn and moulded by the constant P¯akeh¯a social file, smoothing off the M¯aori edges, shape, and form softened. This allowed me to consider that being M¯aori wasn’t always about speaking the language or singing a waiata (song). It was more of a position of knowing, knowing the whenua you come from, and who you belong to. And accepting that; the place and the people. Not allowing the edges to get too soft. At this point in my journey, I decided to travel to the United Kingdom, do the Overseas Experience or ‘OE’. I mucked around in London for some time, nothing too flash, getting odd jobs which were enough to live on and buy beer. One day I decided to go visit a mate who I had worked with at the hotel in Waitangi. He was a chef and had moved home to Devon, about three hours south of London. Jim was a good English bloke, the type of Pom who loved language, loved culture, and boy did he love his time in New Zealand. He had a great relationship with the locals, he respected them, their differences, their history, and their place. Jim helped me get a job in the hotel where he worked, which turned into a three-year chef apprenticeship. This allowed me to settle and focus on new ventures, and the life of a chef. It also allowed me to think of my place as a M¯aori within a kitchen of Europeans. Jim worked in the pastry section, so started and left early. One morning when I was on breakfast shift, he rocked up and stood in the pass, and yelled loudly to me, and the world, ‘Kia ora, koretake (hello/hi useless)!’

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This was a ritual back at Waitangi, started by Hapai, one of the longestserving staff members. She was five-foot-high, just as wide, with a massive heart. She looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp but if you were ‘with’ her, she ‘had’ you. Lock, stock, and barrel. When Jim did this, I dropped a tray of eggs laughing so hard, but it was the look he gave me that scorched. Smirk on his face, eyes twinkling, it was… I know you, your story, your people. I felt seen. After I finished the apprenticeship, I headed back down under. Fast forward a couple of years and I was in Australia, working in a five-star resort. Once again, I was surrounded by Europe. From all the human imports from the Mediterranean who I worked with to the owners of the establishment. It was obvious that in order to be respected you had to follow Europe; old school, established, traditional, and inherited. This colonial tainting of my day annoyed me immensely. I was into Aboriginal art, and music and questioned their lack of place and voice. The food I was producing was all Euro-centric. An interesting juxtaposition of generational techniques applied to local ingredients. Running parallel to this fine dining was bush tucker. It was starting to gain interest and momentum. It was straining to be heard and pushing against the established voice of ‘culture’. Needing some te ao M¯aori, I decided to hunt out the local M¯aori group/club in the hope of connecting and finding some identity. I struggled in that I did not seem to have a position of history or knowledge in terms of kapa haka, waiata, or performance. They wanted someone with prior knowledge. I wanted to learn, but the people seemed reticent to impart. They looked at me with bemusement. Maybe being in a foreign land made me more foreign? I felt the gap widen. The local scene became bland, so I headed back to Europe and spent the next five years, mostly in Italy. This move allowed me time to connect to food and language again. I was in Europe, but it felt like home, it reminded me of similar values which Italian culture and M¯aori culture share. The strength and respect of family, the enjoyment and power of music, and the ability to sustain mind, body, and soul through food. These years were good, but all good things come to an end. I headed back down under with a thirst for new beginnings. Burnt out from the constant drive and search for frontline food creation I relocated to Auckland, Aotearoa (New Zealand). I made a radical change and left food. I retrained and moved into teaching English as a second language. Teaching English to speakers of other languages

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(ESOL) was a godsend. I was able to channel my energy into a new type of creative process. My language head was challenged, I had a keen interest in grammar, and I got immense satisfaction from teaching, helping, guiding, and developing. My soul needed a connection with humans. I started to create and develop activity programmes for the schools I worked in, taking the students out of the classroom to interact and integrate with the wonderful playground Aotearoa had to offer. This encouraged me to look at how visitors saw ‘us’; the culture, the people, and where M¯aori sat within this landscape. I realised I was scratching the surface of M¯aoritaka (M¯aori world view, language), which was great for visitors, but I needed more. The students were getting a lot of energy, thought, and kindness. Their experience was amazing, but they left after a short time. What about the local students who were ours, our future? What investment were they getting? I decided to make the change, bite the bullet, and go to university. I studied a BA double major in Linguistics/Language Teaching and Italian. I have always felt guilty for not choosing te reo M¯aori (M¯aori language) as my major language. I really wanted to move into that space, but I just felt I couldn’t take a chance. I was afraid that learning te reo, a language that I belonged to, that I wanted, would be given to me with reluctance or hesitation. I felt I needed to carry the culture better as well, tikaka (M¯aori ways), waiata (songs), kapa haka (performing arts). I played it safe and enrolled in te reo as a minor elective. Sadly, I revisited my two earlier disappointing encounters. As before the vibe was off. I couldn’t connect with the teachers, although this time I felt they tried harder. There was more rigour and academic narrative this time, which at times felt like a justification or explanation for not allowing the full connection. I wondered if it was a colonial push back, an ownership thing, a ‘Honkies have taken everything and this guy and others like him want the language too, but this time it is on our terms’. My fellow students were either M¯aori, or foreign language students doing a study exchange. The concept dawned on me heavily that maybe I was not clear, obvious, or distinct enough. Maybe I couldn’t be pigeonholed. I was fair skinned and interested and therefore had no position anywhere. I had to work hard and share stories of my whakapapa, and my life experiences of mixing with M¯aori for the walls to soften. I was admitted, but not fully.

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Moving forward I trained as a secondary school teacher in food and language. Moving into education was to date the biggest eye-opener and still is around the place of M¯aori in Aotearoa. Education is the panacea and poison all rolled up into one. My first teaching job was in a school in Manurewa, South Auckland. It was in a low socio-economic area. It was not uncommon to have the Police helicopter hovering overhead or have a kid sprint past your window followed by a cop during lesson time. Teaching students about food design, nutrition, and the basics of meal creation only to send them home to empty cupboards was, and still is, not easy. I have been wading through the quagmire of secondary education for 15 years now. That, as a kaupapa, is worthy of its own p¯ur¯akau. I am now at my sixth college. The constant ebb and flow of catering for student needs and voice is all-consuming. One point of interest is that when I have shared with my students that I am M¯aori, not once have I been challenged, nor had comments about being too fair, or having no language ability. One theme follows me in my mahi (work), the low academic success rates of our M¯aori rakatahi (youth). It is a constant reminder of how we need to work differently, how we must change the key of the song to fully allow their potential to sing. I have always felt that these students are more my responsibility than the others are. Each college has its own ‘cultural capital’ and this can have adverse effects on its students, and teachers, especially those who are M¯aori. One college I worked at had a M¯aori Club and a strong M¯aori presence in the school and the community. One aspect of the club was featuring staff who identified as M¯aori and inviting them to a hui (meeting) where they could present something about themselves and their kaupapa. I was invited and gave a mini korero (speech) of myself, my wh¯anau (extended family), my whenua (land), and my hopes and dreams for M¯aori. As a M¯aori teacher this was cathartic, refreshing, and empowering. The mauri (lifeforce) was strong. In another college, my Head of Department facilitated my appraisal. She was British, had spent 20 years in Aotearoa, and struggled with all aspects of the Te Tiriti of Waitangi. Her knowledge of tikaka M¯aori and te reo in general was poor. The appraisal ground to a halt as I felt she was not suitable to appraise me. I suggested she gathered more understanding of the founding document, Te Tiriti of Waitangi, its terms, and protocols. I even suggested some te reo lessons in order to pronounce the

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kupu (M¯aori words) better. She kept maintaining that she was the Head of the Food Department, not ‘Mari’ Department, and my comments were superfluous. How British I thought. The kicker comment was that I wasn’t ‘Mari’, nor was my name, so why was I getting so precious?

The H¯ikoi (Journey) South---January 2021 My immediate wh¯anau and I had landed in Waih¯opai (Invercargill). As I walked out of the airport the first thing, I noticed was the air, and the second thing was the sky. Both were vast, thin, and unencumbering. Both filled me. I felt the need to travel, to journey, to move. My feeling of disappointment only lasted the first 20 minutes of the one-hour ferry crossing from Motup¯ohue (Bluff) to Oban. The weather and sea were fairly calm, with no sign of life. I wanted more. I needed the ‘end of the world’ experience. Then one big sea bird sitting alone caught my eye and roused me to go outside. As I lurched and stumbled to the back of the boat I breathed deeply. Like Bluff oysters, the air was sweet, foamy, salty, and sharp. The ferry started to undulate over the swell with long graceful movements, which allowed the bow to pat the waves and flick a confetti of sea foam skyward. In the distance, a myopic outline suddenly sharpened, Rakiura. I felt a spark of excitement in my core. The five days on Rakiura were peaceful and reflective, the weather kind although colder than expected. Birdlife was plentiful, and weather changes abundant. We spent our time in an assortment of activities. Movies inside when the weather was challenging, short walks outside when cabin fever set in. Observing birds, dodging weka (small flightless native bird), and avoiding bull seals on Ulva Island. It was the ideal opportunity to read our wh¯anau whakapapa (family genelogy). The pre-travel reading, the YouTube clips, and even conversations with local kaitiaki (guardians), all showed a common theme. We were fair and light in complexion, but unmistakably M¯aori. It struck me that I have been surrounded by Northern M¯aori for most of my life, and we in the South were, in fact, quite different. My ‘normal’ was being challenged and I welcomed it. The highlight of the trip was spending most of a day at The Neck in Whaka ¯a Te Wera (Patterson’s Inlet). The whole wh¯anau were excited as we tumbled off the back of the water taxi, keen to see where our wh¯anau started, at the whaling station. We grouped on the beach and waited as

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the taxi’s outboard engine rattled and whined into the distance. A screen of oily haze hung over us. We did not speak much for the next few hours as we trekked here and there, seeking vantage points to view and ponder, wondering about a life lived here so far south. Wading through the waist-high tussock was therapeutic, feeling the grass caress legs and hands. The smell was simultaneously recognisable and unknown, a sweet herby aroma with an earthen pungent tang. I felt I had been here before. My dad had moved away from the cohort and settled into his own pace, spending long moments gazing out to sea. I wondered what he was thinking. His grandad and grandad’s siblings were born here, the first generation of mixed decent tamariki (children) in our wh¯anau blend of K¯ai Tahu and P¯akeh¯a. Once back at Bluff we spent some days moving slowly north eventually ¯ ending up in Akaroa. We visited all our marae on the way: Oraka Aparima, ¯ Murihiku, Wairewa, Onuku, and using the whakapapa, started to unpeel the layers of history and wh¯anau connection, establishing ties, and social circles. So now Waipuna-a-rangi is challenging me. What changes have come with her cleansing rain? I recently discussed the h¯ıkoi with friends. Upon learning of my history, they informed me I am not M¯aori as I do not hold enough blood value now, I do not use te reo, and my culture is white. The concept and importance of whakapapa meant nothing to them. This time my replies were different, more open yet concrete. Established and knowing. It is after all my kaupapa, my narrative, my history. They could not understand how they were measuring me by their standards and rules, their worldview, and their cultural capital once again dominant. They were implying I was a P¯akeh¯a with a whakapapa. My pushback shocked them. I don’t have to own their views. My capital has evolved. This is a positive feature, it benefits myself, my wh¯anau, and my rakatahi. I am active in the school’s kapa haka group and attend teacher kapa haka performances. I am invested in learning more about te ao M¯aori as part of my growth mindset. I have started te reo lessons (and plan to learn more K¯ai Tahu dialect in the future), which are delivered with fun, compassion, and respect. I feel that I belong, I am permitted to be there. My Kaiako (teacher) acknowledges us all enthusiastically. I feel attitudes have changed, evolved, and matured across the whenua. The irony I feel is that this space is still contentious within

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educational settings. There is still questioning, justifying, and ownership of tikaka, te ao M¯aori and who should front foot the upskilling. During work on my Masters of Professional Practice within an education landscape, my cultural practice was challenged and broadened. I looked deeper into concepts such as te kotahitaka (unity), ako (learning/ teaching), manaaki, p¯ur¯akau, rakatirataka (self determination). I have used these without fully appreciating their worth. I now know these to be valid, real, and needed. All students benefit, but M¯aori more so. In a television interview with Hana O’Regan (M¯aori Television, 2018) she discussed the importance of upholding K¯ai Tahu cultural practices within our lives. She challenged M¯aori to continue to demonstrate manaakitaka (kindness) to wh¯anau, manuhiri (guests) to the people in the community. Furthermore, she asked each of us to continue to promote a M¯aori essence that supports a M¯aori worldview and continues to promote te reo (M¯aori Television, 2018). As a Southern M¯aori, I intend to accept her challenge and move forward, to be proactive rather than reactive on matters M¯aori. I aim to be culturally sustaining or invigorating rather than culturally responsive.Tihei Mauriora! (acknowledge the breath of life). Ka tangi te t¯ıt¯ı Ka tangi te k¯ak¯a Ka tangi hoki ahau As the sooty shearwater voices its presence As the parrot voices its presence So too do I.

Reference M¯aori Television (Producer). (2018, July 15 ). Ng¯a T¯angata Taumata Rau Episode. Ng¯a T¯angata Taumata Rau-Te Waipounamu. [Television broadcast]. https://www.maoritelevision.com/shows/nga-tangata-taumata-rau-tewaipounamu/S04E002/nga-tangata-taumata-rau-episode-2

CHAPTER 7

A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes Vicki Rangitautehanga Murray

The writing of this chapter as A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes 1 was a magical experience because, during that juncture of learning, my mind, heart, and spirit were awakened to the immeasurable treasures of te ao M¯aori (the M¯aori world). It was composed while studying Te Tohu o Te Reo M¯aori (a degree in the M¯aori Language) in 2012. At first, I thought it a remarkable coincidence the chant reappeared after all this time but reasoned it would be the perfect conduit; to reflect on my professional practice, and to situate the learning gained from those experiences in a socio-genealogical geographic continuum. Notwithstanding that subconsciously, in reviving it in this work; the chant might evoke similar beautiful lived experiences, one more time. 1 A prayer or chant used by speech makers to identify the tribal ancestry of the speaker in formal situation.

All but one of the photos in this chapter are from the personal collection of the author. V. R. Murray (B) Whakatane, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_7

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This review of self is analogous to Huaki P¯ouri a portal to splendid enlightenment on the pathway to higher learning. Like all endeavours I know not what lies ahead, where the learning will lead, or what will come up along the way. Be that as it may, to walk a path untrodden is akin to opening the first page of a mystery novel, and I am keen to get going. Unlike the obscurity of a mystery, I have implicit trust in the ancient influences woven in the verses of the chant, and that my real-life worldly advisors will guide me in the articulation of my professional identity, observations on learning, and transformations in professional practice. The chant is an assertion of the discovery of myself in culture. After eight years of iwi (tribal) and hap¯ u (subtribe) noho w¯ananga (marae-based learning), and life experiences since the creation of the chant, I now realise it is more than an excursion from land, river, and ocean edifices. The mountain-to-shore terrains and the inland and coastal waters are personified legacies and sentient chronicles of my ancestry. For that reason, A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes is also a declaration of who I am as a woman of Ng¯ati P¯ukeko and Ng¯ati Awa descent living in a community with kinfolk of shared heritage. M¯aori philosophy is central to my practice, and thus M¯aori values, principles, processes, and traditions are reflected in my engagement with my communities of practice. Though just as my ancestors Toi, Toroa, and Awa-nui-¯a-rangi explored the land and sea territories through discovery (Mead, 1997), in this work I take a pluralist approach to cultivate my imagination and bring to light new possibilities. As such, a range of discourses is tendered within the chant vignettes. This is a deliberate strategy to examine my taken for granted assumptions, a central principle Mezirow (1997) posits, regarding critical reflective practice. I admit to having some cultural pre-dispositions or cultural assumptions (Chang, 2008), which I also surrender to exposure not only to the discriminate reader but to myself (Derrida, 1976). This Indigenous Autoethnographic review is also a quest, an exploration of the self (Arnold, 2011) on learning experiences in practice. The self as data; analytic observation through the prism of self (Arnold, 2011); the self as a window into cultural experiences (Chang, 2008) are descriptors associated with autoethnography. According to Adams et al. (2015), and more pointedly Whitinui (2014) re-examining previous writings whakapapa (genealogy), whakatauk¯ı (maxims), and p¯ur¯akau (traditional chronicles) located in the chant provide the opportunity to extend and critique on existing research and theory and present it in a comprehensive scholarly conversation. In the spectrum of life-long learning, to critically

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reflect on experience and theory in practice as a systematic channel to create new knowledge, indigenous autoethnography has allowed me to ask questions on my reflections. To align more seamlessly with my philosophical attitude, I engage a Ng¯ati Awa motif for critical reflection, Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki. The motif was a culturally responsive practice (Macfarlane et al., 2012) initiated into my reflective practice regime. I was able to engage in the reflective process at another level of meaning, in the vein of the domains in Durie’s (2007) Marae Encounters. Moreover, the motif became a cultural learning resource adapted to meet the relevant contexts and needs of each of my communities of practice. Whakatauk¯ı are thematic features in both the chant and my practice examples. Jones and Metge (1995) describe whakatauk¯ı as cosmological narratives, that exemplified symbols of inspiration and insight into the M¯aori world. Mead and Grove (2000) refer to whakatauk¯ı as ancient wisdoms brought forward into modern-day application. For these reasons, I confer to whakatauk¯ı and other philosophical principles at any opportunity, sourcing explicit tribal claims ahead of generic excerpts. Kare te k¯ umara e k¯ orero m¯ o t¯ ona ake reka. (The k¯ umara does not speak of its sweetness.)

The acquisition of the k¯ umara (sweet potato) and its importance in the agricultural and economic fabric of Ng¯ati Awa of old are recited today in story and song. The said aphorism lends prominence to the value of humility. How then, one might ask, am I to remain humble in a study of ‘self’? Insightful gems from a leading exponent of autoethnography, Ellis (2004), gave me grounds to question my suppositions of the ‘M¯aori self’ being in opposition to humility. Autoethnography, Ellis (2004) asserts, is value-centred, not value-free. Therefore, the values I espouse must be reflected in my practice and observations (Whitehead, 2018). In fact, by opening my practice up for analysis, I place myself in a vulnerable position, as data ethically derived reveal the good, the tricky, and well, everything else (Bracken-Roche et al., 2017; Smith, 2005). This aside, it is an opportunity to expand on what is working well and identify any aspects in need of review and improvement and more excitingly that which might be on the fringe of discovery (Snowden & Boone, 2007). Autoethnography is storytelling from an insider subjective perspective. Stories, Ellis (2004) claims are better than theories, added to which linguist Derrida’s (1976) statement; there is no outside text, infers that everything including text can be interpreted in multiple ways. It could

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be argued, that the closer the relationship between the author, audience, and text (including speech), the closer the interpretation is likely to be to the intended message. Moreover, Carey-Webb (2001) in Literature and Lives contends autoethnography must examine the alienating effects of the dominant society, explore the connections within and across oppressed cultures, and theorise strategies for hope and social change. It is not surprising then to see more M¯aori academics (Hakopa, 2019; Kainamu, 2012; Whitinui, 2014; Woodhouse, 2021) explore these effects on M¯aori through indigenous autoethnography, adopting the duplexity of familiarity of phenomena as a method of inquiry. In the end, indigenous autoethnography allows me to tell my story within the collective narratives of the chant as an emic-emic or intimate subjective insider. The original composition of A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes written in te reo M¯aori (the M¯aori language) entitled He Tauparapara Toka Tipua will follow the abridged translated rendition. The edited account in English is offered here to enlist a wider readership. Presented in four parts; in the opening lines of each photo scape is a brief narrative to a verse from the chant. A thematic example prompted by the verse relating to one of my communities of practice comes next (there are multiple strands to choose from). One significant learning from reflection on practice follows and then concludes with an orientation of the learning to the kete m¯atauranga (baskets of sacred knowledge) (K¯aretu, 2008). Sequential verses are portrayed in a photographic exposition of the chant. Weaving verse and visual aesthetics into the captions is an open invitation to the reader, to flow with the chant and gain insight into, a small sample, of my indigenous autoethnographic reflections on practice. “Haere mai, haere mai, haere mai r¯a.” The chant is calling, inviting us in. Are you ready? We can go together. Come. A Chant to Ancestral Landscapes My journey begins at P¯ ohaturoa There, spirits of ancestors’ repose Deliberation at Wharaurangi ¯ Sustenance at Otuawhaki Ascend to P¯ apaka and Puketapu Outposts o’er distant horizons O’er yonder to sky palisade

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To thee, progeny of Toi eternal keepers of the land Wairere gushing forth liquid sustenance Sage’s hollow Inconsolable sanctuary Navigators’ signposts Turn inward there Hine’s pouted lips Bold acts and words proclaimed Arise! Valiant maiden O’er, under, never more seen Guardians, custodians Sentinels, denizens Lift mine eyes yon sandy estuary Neither burial track n’er kith nor kin Soar out beyond inshore currents To volcanic isle quietly smouldering Cast landward to thee Oh, mountain who walked P¯ utauaki - the caverns of R¯ehua To Mataatua carved house where altared m¯ anuka stands For those of Awa, of P¯ ukeko It is there, it is there! He Tauparapara Toka Tipua T¯ u ana ahau ki P¯ ohaturoa Te iringa o ng¯ a t¯ıpuna He kupu tau¯ a ki Wharaurangi Ko te Waiewe tuku kiri Eke ana ki P¯ apaka, ko Puketapu Titiro whakarunga ki Kap¯ u-te-rangi Ko Toi-kai-r¯ akau, Te tini o Toi ‘H¯ ohonu te tangata ki te whenua’ Ko te Wairere t¯ aheke noa He puna wai M¯ aori He tohu whenua ki a Toroa Ko te Ana o Muriwai ‘Mai i ng¯ a Kur¯ı-¯ a-Wh¯ arei ki Tihirau’ ¯ Anga atu ki te ngutu awa o Ohinemataroa Ka whakairinga te waka Ki te Toka Tap¯ u o Mataatua Are mai an¯ o te kupu a Wairaka ‘E, kia t¯ u whakat¯ ane ake au i ahau’ Toka runga, toka raro ko Ir¯ akewa Toka mauku, Arai awa, Toka roa, Himoki, Hoaki

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He tipua, he taniwh¯ a Ka anga atu aku kamo ki te one i te wahap¯ u ¯ Ko Opihi-whanaunga-kore Ki a Turuturu Roimata Tae atu ki te Rae o K¯ ohi Hei h¯eteri ki te ¯ akau Ka rere r¯ onakinaki atu ki te au t¯ uraha Ko te ahi atua ko Whakaari Te Tahi-o-te-rangi te tohunga tapu rawa Puea ake ko T¯ utarakauika Ka puta ko te k¯ orero ‘Waiho m¯ a te whakam¯ a e patu’ Ka rere ¯ awhiowhio atu au ki Motu tohor¯ a ‘P¯ owhiri a Raetihi k¯ owatawata k¯ oangiangi Ka karanga ng¯ a ngaru whatiwhati ¯ o te Moana-nui-a-Toi Ka waiata m¯ oteatea ko p¯ ohutukawa’ Ko te wai p¯ ukaea a Taiwhak¯ aea H¯ upekepeke ana au ki ng¯ a moutere iti Ko Rurima, T¯ okata, Mou-toki Ko te kauae o Waitaha-ariki-kore Ko te Paepae ki Rarotonga te waka tipua Huri whakauta r¯ a taku rere ki te maunga nekeneke Ko P¯ utauaki, Te Matapihi o R¯ehua, Ko Rangit¯ ukehu te tangata Ko Rangit¯ aiki te awa ‘Ng¯ a mate kai runga, ka tangi kai raro’ ¯ Hoki k¯ omuri au ki te rar¯ a o te ora, ki Orini Ki te Toka a Taiao te punga t¯ awhiti o t¯ oku waka Ko Mataatua ki Te M¯ anuka T¯ utahi Ko Ng¯ ati Awa Ko Ng¯ ati P¯ ukeko E k¯ o, k¯ o, koia e ara e!

(Murray, 2017, pp. 39–42).

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¯ My Journey Begins at Pohaturoa | There Spirits of Ancestors’ Repose A journey must start somewhere, it is most fitting to begin my story of reflective learning (inside the chant as a collection of tribal narratives), at P¯ohaturoa. The enigmatic monolith stands at the heart of presentday Ng¯ati Awa, in the centre of the township of Whakat¯ane. It looks much different today than at the time of the arrival of the Mataatua waka to these shores in the 1300s but remains one of the most significant sites within the Confederation of Mataatua tribal history (Mead, 1997). In ancient times P¯ ohaturoa was the altar where rituals for deaths and baptisms were performed. Bones of chiefs were interred in the upper crevices.

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Every year on the 16th of June, I join, my Ng¯ati Awa whanaunga (relations) at P¯ohaturoa in remembrance of the signing of te Tiriti o Waitangi (The Treaty of Waitangi) on this site by tribal leaders, in 1840. It is a relatively simple gathering where traditional rituals; karakia, mihimihi, m¯ oteatea (prayer, acknowledgement, song), greet the dawn of a winter’s day. Traditional customs of encounter recognising spiritual elements are fundamental to my professional practice. Simple rituals (such as the above) are performed in concert with the philosophical attitudes of the M¯aori communities I design, mentor, and evaluate kaupapa M¯aori programmes for (Tuhiwai-Smith, 1996). Here the reorientation of customary practices in workplaces inspires, the whole movement of creation (Shirres, 1997) In reshaping, redefining, and revitalising language and culture to better address the inequities of marginalised communities; learning and reflecting in action are hoa-haere (constant companions) (Macfarlane et al., 2012; Pohatu, 2003). Rituals of encounter are taonga tuku iho (gifts handed down to mankind), found in Te Kete Tuauri, the basket of sacred knowledge and of darkness. Although darkness in this sense refers to the intangible or that which cannot be seen or measured, my certitude in the primacy of rituals in practice deepens in the habitual and holistic (rituals in practice in personal and professional, formal, and informal, individual and group settings) articulation of these ancestral wisdoms.

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Deliberation at Wharaurangi ¯ | Sustenance at Otuawhaki Deliberation in political and social settings was integral to tribal survival and development. Ng¯ati Awa assembled at Wharaurangi to ponder on matters of collective concern. Further along the river, folk met ¯ at Otuawhaki, to make fishhooks and prepare nets for fishing. The ¯ whakatauk¯ı ‘He k¯orero riri ki Wharaurangi, he t¯a matau ki Otuawhaki’ although ancient in origin, lives on in tribal experiences today. One such event occurred at the end of 2019. Following Te Puia o ¯ Whakaari (White Island) eruption and the loss of lives, a r¯ahui (temporary ritual prohibition) was placed over the Ng¯ati Awa rohe moana (customary coastal ¯ ¯ territory) off Whakat¯ane Ohope and Ohiwa, and Rurima, Moutohor¯a and Whakaari Islands by senior Ng¯ati Awa kaum¯atua (elders) and cultural experts (TRONA, 2019). The competing interests were; a show of respect

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for the deceased set against the impact on people’s right to fish, gather food, and have access to the restricted area as a matter of course. As a Te R¯unanga o Ng¯ati Awa Governance Board (TRONA) member, our primary activity is to consider and decide on tribal issues. The r¯ahui was one of the many matters requiring extensive discussion during this incident. Delegates from the twenty-two hap¯ u, representing the diverse interests of their collective membership, guarantee a robust debate on all matters brought to the table. Consequently, an inherent systematic and protracted inquiry proceeds in any decision-making. ¯ It is from Otuawhaki, T¯awhaki-nui-a Hema ascended the heavens to retrieve four baskets of specialised knowledge. The baskets: Wh¯ekite, Wh¯ekaro, Te Werohia, and Te Whakairihia (names from the T¯awhaki traditions) are an analogy to his reflections in action on the tenuous journey through the celestial spheres (Lee, 2009; Mead & Hetet, 1996). The kete are found inside Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki, the motif for critical reflection recreated by the author (Fook, 2007; Mezirow, 1990).

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¯ ¯ Te Ara Tauwhaiti o Tawhaki | A Motif for Critical Reflection Wh¯ekite—the observation of an activity Wh¯ekaro—learnings from the observation Te Werohia—analyse and investigate the learnings Te Whakairihia—application of new activity from learning and analysis Te T¯ uahu Mataaho2 —knowledge and appreciation of multiple perspectives

Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki is a consequential process of inquiry in the pursuit of (knowledge) a new way of seeing occurs within Te Kete Aronui.

¯ Ascend to Papaka and Puketapu | Outposts o’er Distant Horizons Likened to the T¯awhaki journey by way of the Akaaka Matua (the parent vine), the ascension from P¯ ohaturoa to the twin outlooks of P¯apaka, and Puketapu in this context, are metaphors (Redden, 2017) of the value of learning. Principally, it is a call to follow the path of ancient wisdom, to recall, value, and practice indigenous ways of accessing and gaining knowledge. Furthermore, it is a pointer that learning is a process that takes time, effort, and determination to reach each level of competency. There are often challenges along the way but heeding the cautionary words of informed elders, goals lofty or commonplace are more likely to be realised. 2 Te T¯ uahu Mataaho in reflectivity is arriving at a place of clarity. Te T¯uahu Mataaho is an original term reframed by the writer for the purposes of this discourse.

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Kimihia te Kahurangi. (Reach for the highest summit.)

In the pursuit of knowledge, one can see the world from another vantage point, such as the vista offered from P¯apaka and Puketapu looking out over the Moana-a Toi (ocean), Motu Tohor¯a (Whale Island), and Te Puia o Whakaari (White Island) glimmering on the distant horizon. ‘Kahurangi’ here refers to a M¯aori epistemological and ontological position of seeking knowledge that is of the highest value (Crotty, 1998; Patterson, 1992). It is interesting to note, that during the writing of this observation of self, I felt I needed to justify or validate what it is to be M¯aori; to explain why we do what we do and why it matters. One of my cultural assumptions was that my cultural knowledge should only ever be questioned by another M¯aori. However, within Te Kete Aroiti (the basket of morals and values), if the inquiry was a quest for understanding, instead of being on the defensive I can be open to not only explaining myself better but also to being challenged. One of Arrien’s (1993) four basic principles is to be open rather than attached to the outcome. The wisdom of the teacher is being flexible and open to possibilities not yet considered. Arrien’s (1993) magnum opus The Four-Fold Way: Walking the paths of the Warrior, Healer, Teacher, and Visionary continues to inform my response to living in the world at the personal and professional level.

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O’er Yonder to Sky Palisade of Toi | Thee the Progeny of Toi Eternal Keepers of the Land Whakawhanaungatanga (making connections); linking people to the land, people to people (collective tribal affiliations), and individuals to their kin through shared whakapapa and tribal narratives is an intoxicatingly beautiful process of engagement. Although the way connections are made may vary, whakawhanaungatanga is a central meaning schema for many Indigenous Peoples besides M¯aori (Marsden, 2003; Marton & Saljo, 1976). Every landscape as an ancestral site is a sub-schema within a wider specified socio-geographic setting as exemplified in the chant. The chant was composed sometime after Te R¯unanga o Ng¯ati Awa held a series of rangatahi w¯ananga (workshops for youth) for aspiring tribal leaders. A select group of teens was escorted to several of the tribe’s significant sites (including some in the chant) where they heard traditional accounts and histories from cultural elders and mentors. I was one of the facilitators for this programme and before retiring for the evening we

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would discuss the events of the day with our young people, summarising key elements and the intentions for each activity. Going to the sites and listening to their ancestral chronicles gave each rangatahi a deep sense of belonging which ignited the desire to contribute to the strategic vision of the iwi. Te R¯unanga o Ng¯ati Awa (the mandated entity to manage the collective affairs of the people of Ng¯ati Awa) recognise the importance of ongoing w¯ananga (learning) for all the progeny of Toi (Ng¯ati Awa ancestor) and I support this strategy within my hap¯ u and wh¯anau (family) affiliations. In the 1900s my kuia tuarua (great-grandmother), Ng¯amihi Materangatira Waaka Paora repurposed our marae Rewat¯u as a whare t¯uroro (field hospice) to care for the infirm during the influenza epidemic. My mother, Rangi Hotene Murray was instrumental in establishing the first k¯ohanga reo (language learning nest) at Mataatua Marae in T¯amaki Makaurau (Auckland), in 1989. Today, to a great extent due to their influences, other than tangihanga (funerals); patronage of our marae is predominantly by community groups promoting wellness and knowledge generation. The key learning here is; that my participation and contribution to building (social, health, cultural, and economic) my M¯aori communities of practice is one way to continue the legacy of those who have gone before me. Giving to others features in Te Kete Aroiti and Te Kete Aronui.

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Wairere Gushing Forth | Liquid Sustenance The waterfalls known as Wairere (flying water) is the first of three landscapes Toroa (captain of the great voyaging canoe Mataatua) was told to look for. Te Ana a Muriwai (Muriwai’s cave), and Te Toka o Ir¯akewa (Ir¯akewa’s rock) were the other two locations. Upon sighting the waterfall, cave, and a distinctive rock situated on the riverbanks nearby, Toroa knew he had arrived at his destination. Wairere, the healing female element flows and bubbles into pools, then meanders into the river. Just off the main traffic route, hidden by the lush overgrowth Wairere maintains its serenity, thus making it an ideal spot for quiet reflection.

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The integration of ancestral site visits in reflective practices such as supervision has been my most profound learning experience in professional practice to date. In my master’s thesis (Murray, 2017) ‘Hoki ki t¯ou maunga kia purea ai koe ki ng¯a hau o T¯awhirim¯atea – A tangata whenua model of supervision’, the research findings illuminated participant experiences of the phenomenon of tangata whenua (people of the land) supervision on ancestral sites. The results were explicit in affirming the multiple benefits of this approach to supervision.

Sage’s Hollow | Inconsolable Sanctuary Wairere and the cave assigned to Muriwai are sites I frequent, to plan, reflect, and spend time simply being in nature. When the motif sequence of Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki presented itself in the process of this reflection on self, I immediately recognised it as a M¯aori construct in sync with my perception of critical reflection. Although it is still to be tested implementation of such an approach is a working example of knowing

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in action (Schön, 1983) and a way of honouring my sagacious insights and learnings (Horton & Freire, 1990). In the initial stages, I employ, as Schön (1983) and Moon (2008) suggest, capturing any observations in a reflection journal to evaluate the design and its effectiveness. Before long critical reflection across cultural portals became another of my habitual rituals of practice. The observation here is that; reflection in action which generates new methods of self-discovery through ancient pathways is soul food for the inquiring mind. Knowledge generation is associated with Te Kete Aronui.

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Turn Inward There Hine’s Pouted Lips3 The name of the township and the river are now more commonly known as Whakat¯ane but in earlier times was, and to certain tribal people the river ¯ retains the ancestral name of Ohinemataroa. My hap¯u, Ng¯ai Tamapare maintains its own mana (sovereignty); thus, the waters that course from the source of Te Urewera (homelands of the T¯uhoe people) are said to be ¯ the kuia (T¯uhoe ancestress) Ohinemataroa; as she glides gently past the banks of our marae, we acknowledge her relationship to us. As such, in oration, she is referred to as the flowing waters of Te Rewat¯ u and further on is called Te Awa o Whakat¯ane (the Whakat¯ane river) before surging out to Te Moana-a Toi (the ocean of Toi). Ko au ko te awa, Ko te awa ko au. (I am the river, And the river is me.)

If in my reflection of the self in ‘me, myself and I’ the aforementioned whakatauk¯ı, ‘I am the river and the river is me’ (therefore the stretch of the river passing by our marae), is a representation of my hap¯ u and myself. My professional and cultural practice prior to viewing it through a critically reflective process would have been as Dewey (1933) would say; in disequilibrium. Uttered a multitude of times over the years as rhetoric in presentations, prose, and academic text but never actually examined in depth. Upon looking through the lens of Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki, living beside the river, gazing upon her while driving to and from town, and greeting her sincerely while crossing the main Whakat¯ane bridge, still falls short of my standard of proficiency. The learning from this reflection on action is that integrity in practice is, to model theory in action. I continue to seek guidance to find solutions to dilemmas or opportunities to grow through rituals present in Te Kete Tuauri.

3 Hine is the familial idiom for Ohinemataroa. ¯

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Bold Acts and Words Are Proclaimed. | Arise! Valiant Maiden The decision to contravene tradition, to save the great voyaging vessel Mataatua as it was about to drift off its mooring, was audacious. It takes courage to defy convention or a certified attitude, to make bold decisions, not knowing what might result from them. The noble deeds carried out by Wairaka (Ng¯ati Awa ancestress) epitomise what it is to think of solutions and then act. Contrary to Wairaka who was a shining beacon for her people I prefer to support causes from behind and shun public attention. Instead, I elucidate Arendt’s (1970) political action to counter the harms of biopower, in my roles on M¯aori land trusts, on hap¯u and iwi committees, and in M¯aori social and health agencies.

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Underscoring a return to my cultural roots, learning te reo M¯aori (to speak the M¯aori language) and tikanga (customs) has meant I can now stand at the amo (carved barge boards) of my whare tipuna (ancestral house) as the kaikaranga (caller to visitors entering the marae) in the p¯owhiri (welcome onto the marae). Karanga (calling) (Barlow, 1991; Walker, 1981) is integral to my practice. I learnt the art of karanga to be able to participate fully and better contribute to my affiliated marae (Hibbs, 2006). “E, kia whakat¯ane ake au i ahau.” (“Let me now be as a man”)

(Mead & Grove, 2000; 127 p. 29) Wairaka’s famous effigy is a call to take responsibility, to act in the best interests of all. My learning is that M¯aori participation in, M¯aori communities of practice, is to contribute at multiple levels, in a professional or voluntary capacity, and with the understanding that it is likely to be a lifelong commitment. Qualities such as leadership, courage, responsibility, and contribution exist in Te Kete Aroiti.

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O’er, Under, Never More Seen. | Guardians, Custodians, Sentinels, Denizens He tipua. He taniwha! (Spiritual presences abound.)

The foreshore including the rocks near the Whakat¯ane river mouth is sacred to Ng¯ati Awa. The rocks are named after explorers and tribal ancestors who lived by the river. Metaphors and symbolism include both animate and inanimate objects in the environment (river, ocean, rocks, islands, land, sea creatures, entities imbued with spiritual and sacred qualities). The physical and spiritual worlds are a continuum, existing at the same time and space (Barlow, 1991; Marsden, 2003). Every morning, before the day’s coursework begins, students are invited to share anything that is ‘on top’ (or unseen) for them. Along

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with the customary practices we open with, the opportunity to disclose personal insights and musings is an effective method kia tau te mauri (of grounding people). Giving voice to something that is on their minds, makes space for new learning to occur. Taylor (1996), in the Healing Power of Stories, insists everyone has a story to tell. Over the course of a three to six-month programme by simply sharing meaningful insights with fellow students, intimacy is established. As Carey-Webb (2001) has discovered, through the simple act of being listened to, the speaker’s confidence and feelings of self-worth grow. Pohatu (2003) identifies this as m¯ahana (warmth), a prerequisite to well-being. Although storytelling has been instrumental in my practice, I have only just learnt that storytelling can help students make sense of experiences, and through sharing stories, develop inter-peer relationships (Alterio & McDrury, 2003; Bishop, 1997; Carey-Webb, 2001). As the river ebbs and flows, the rocks (the students) are cleansed and restored by a simple yet robust form of inquiry, originating in Te Kete Tuauri.

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Lift Mine Eyes Yon Sandy Estuary. | Neither Burial Track n’er Kith Nor Kin On one side is the township of Whakat¯ane, on the opposite side at the ¯ river mouth is the ancient burial ground for Ng¯ati Awa people, Opihi¯ whanaunga-kore (Opihi the relation-less). Relation-less implies death happens to everyone, regardless of birth right or status. Mai i te timatanga tae atu ki te mutunga Ka ao ka ao ka awatea. (The new dawn brings forth another day to live a full life.)

The axiom in this context speaks to learning as a life-long journey (Adds et al., 2011; Walker, 1981). For me, learning happens while I am in the states of tapu and noa (restriction and common). For example, I learn through the whole experience of tangihanga (in mourning a death). To understand (on an emotional and spiritual level) the grieving process of tangihanga is to be fully present in all aspects of the event. In this way, I have observed myself and others in the various states of p¯ouri (sadness). The insights that occur in tangihanga are multifaceted. What is involved is more than physical or cognitive, as these are primarily socio-emotive experiences. The spiritual aspects promoted in the domain of the marae are compounded by a collective sharing of grief. Dewey (1933) calls this learning from reflecting on experience. In the early years, I replicated the traditional teaching style I had been raised on; a banking model of education (Freire, 1970) of instructing students and providing supporting texts to explain the content. Moving into my umpteenth iteration of transformation I now adopt a more dialogic style, the facilitation of learning through the implementation of various methods like those espoused by Brookfield & Preskill (1999), Kolb (1984) and Moon (2008). Methods such as peer interactions, small and large group brainstorming; experiential learning activities and storytelling approaches in concert with the paradigms of ako (to teach and to learn) and teina/t¯ua¯kana (junior/senior) (Pere, 1994). My development, as Epstein (2019) writes in Range is that even late in life, purposeful learning towards mastery in specialist fields is always possible with active open-mindedness. As such, I will continue in the pursuit of knowledge situated in Te Kete Aronui until the karanga (call) ¯ to join my ancestors in our ancient burial site Opihi-whanaunga-kore beckons.

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Soar Out Beyond Inshore Currents Gaze out from Te Rae o Kohi (Kohi Point), the headlands at the entrance to the river, to the east, almost beyond your vision the eye catches something on the horizon. Many things are beyond our knowing and seeing but sowing the seed of curiosity through prognostication (a large dollop of supernatural optimism), such as that demonstrated by the famous Ng¯ati Awa sorcerer, Te Tahi o te Rangi (Isaacson, 2008; Waaka, 2007). The vision of Te R¯unanga o Ng¯ati Awa is the survival and revitalisation of Ng¯ati Awa identity and culture into the future. My vision is to pass on a legacy that contributes to the future peace and well-being of my wh¯anau, loved ones, and my personal and professional communities of interest. Ki te k¯aore he whakaritenga ka ngaro te iwi. (Without foresight or vision, the people will be lost.)

In the professional space my vision is kia oho te mauri o te tangata, (to awaken the life force of the members in my communities of practice) which in short can be interpreted as, Oho Mauri (Durie, 2001; Henare, 2001). Oho mauri is one of the states of mauri. How and what I do in practice has been an evolutionary development, but until recently I had not thought about needing a vision for practice other than helping communities meet individual and agency expectations. I am excited to have clarity of the intention of my practice going forward. In contemplating movement within all the states of mauri, I can already feel mine, begin to soar out beyond its current facility. Knowledge relevant to the enlightenment of people emerges from Te Kete Aronui.

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Photo courtesy of Uenuku Jeffries 2022

Whakaari. | To Volcanic Isle Quietly Smouldering The notion of r¯ahui m¯o ¯ake tonu (permanent sanction) of certain landscapes has long lain dormant within me since the conception of Hoki ki tou maunga kia purea ai e koe ki ng¯a hau o T¯awhirim¯atea4 —a tangata whenua supervision model, in 2009 (Murray, 2016). Perhaps it has always been there, deep in my R¯uaumoko belly5 thus when Te Puia o Whakaari (White Island) erupted last year, the establishment of r¯ahui came back with conviction. Whakaari is more than an active marine volcano off the coast of Whakat¯ane. In Ng¯ati Awa song and legend, Whakaari is referred to as the ‘kuia’ luring P¯utauaki, her massif paramour by billowing smoke columns towards the heavens. She is an ahi tipua (volcanic entity) and is allied with the supernatural. Ko t¯ ona mea nui he tapu. (Her greatest possession is her sacredness.)

Shirres (1982) sums up the justification for complete r¯ahui in the aphorism above. This lesson also applies to practice. When things are out of my realm of knowing, I must let them be. Caution is critical with creations from the natural world beyond sense perception implanted in Te Kete Tuauri.

4 T¯ awhirim¯atea is God of winds and storms, a child of Ranginui (Sky father) and Papat¯ ua¯nuku (Earth mother). 5 R¯ uaumoko is God of earthquakes and the youngest child of Ranginui and Papat¯ ua¯nuku.

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¯ Putauaki. | Cast Landward to Thee Oh Mountain Who Walked P¯utauaki (Mt. Edgecumbe) the consummate ancestral mountain of Ng¯ati Awa (and other surrounding tribal peoples) stands majestically in the Rangit¯aiki plains where his form is a prominent landscape feature. Ko P¯ utauaki te maunga He ng¯angara t¯ ona kai. (P¯ utauaki is the mountain, insects are his food source.)

Eulogies to P¯utauaki resound in oratory, genealogy, song, story, and sayings such as P¯utauaki is the mountain who devours chiefs. This is because, in the time of our splendid isolation before the arrival of P¯akeh¯a, Ng¯ati Awa custom was to carefully conceal the bones of the chiefs of the Rangit¯aiki in fissures near the summit (Phillis, 2002). Enduring eulogies are themes I associate with P¯ utauaki. In pausing and projecting forward I wonder what eulogies I would want to be said about my practice. Contributing to cultivating communities of practice, and leveraging on social capital to further their interests, is a cause worth pursuing. I would agree, that M¯aori communities of practice hold true to Wenger et al.’s (2002) three elements (domain, community, and practice) but have infinitely more leveraging power than Putnam (2000) cites. M¯aori communities of practice still value social capital and as a bonus feature generational cultural capital. Two more elements fostered in these

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communities are associational activities and civil virtues; koha (the practice of gifting), and awhi mai, awhi atu, (the principle of giving and receiving) as they hold great value in terms of human well-being (Pohatu, 2003; Taylor, 1996). Advanced knowledge is relevant to the preservation of physical, spiritual, and mental welfare (of all living things) is obtained in Te Kete Aronui and Te Kete Tuauri.

To Mataatua Carved House ¯ Where Altared Manuka Stands Te M¯anuka T¯utahi, the lone standing m¯anuka tree is a t¯ua¯hu (an altar where rituals were performed), erected upon the arrival of the Mataatua canoe. It still holds a position of importance in the Mataatua Marae surroundings as a symbolic representation of the physical and spiritual well-being of the people of Mataatua. Throughout this reflection on self, I have drawn on Te Ara Tauwh¯aiti o T¯awhaki to critically reflect on experiences in my practice. Now at the final stage Te T¯uahu Mataaho, the landing place—kua oho toku mauri ki t¯enei ao (the life force is fully aroused), I have a greater appreciation of the purpose of the enterprise of engaging with the self. The voicing of

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autoethnographic bites for each photo scape as a mirror into aspects of my practice revealed some interesting findings and unsurprisingly identified more fields of inquiry to delve into. Through this highly personal, indigenous approach to expressing my view of the world (Rangihau, 1977) and self-imposed cure talk (Tomaselli et al., 2008) I realise my distinctive looking back and inside-out analysis is the first step of a systematic critique of my practice. To date, I have relied heavily on intuition as a tacit learner and facilitator (Schön, 1983), which through critical reflection and deconstruction (Derrida, 1976) of the way I define and portray myself within my practice journey, makes the knowledge more explicit. The implementation of reliable evaluative tools will be necessary if I am to continue to transform my practice. Although this reflection of self on a particular episode of learning has drawn to a close, the final words of the chant ‘koia e ara e’ (it is there, it is there) signal there is more (for me) to rediscover. The reiteration of the chant in a contemporary activity has allowed me to reinterpret and reshape my thinking, and along the way has made me realise ‘ahakoa he iti, he pounamu’ (albeit small, it is a treasured possession), the little I know has provided a useful foundation for my practice. The chant to ancestral landscapes has sung its parting refrain and my hope is, it has also revealed meaningful agentic transactions (Arendt, 1978; Bandura, 2001) to you, the reader. Haumi e, Hui e, T¯aiki e!6 (Hold fast. Join. Affirm!)

References Adams, T. E., Holman Jones, S., & Ellis, C. (2015). Autoethnography. Oxford University Press. Adds, P., Hall, M., Higgins, R., & Higgins, T. (2011). Ask the posts of our house: Using cultural spaces to encourage quality learning in higher education. Teaching in Higher Education, 16(5), 541–551. Alterio, M., & McDrury, J. (2003). Learning through storytelling in higher education: Using reflection and experience to improve learning (1st ed.). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203416655 Arnold, J. (2011). The self as data: A qualitative methodology. Journal of Educational and Developmental Psychology, 1(1), 65.

6 Terms found in karakia to bind or close proceedings, in this context to formally signal the end of the chapter.

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Hakopa, H. (2019). P¯ ur¯ akau: The sacred geographies of belonging. Te Whare Wananga o Awanuiarangi. Henare, M. (2001). Tapu, mana, mauri, hau, wairua. A M¯aori philosophy of vitalism and cosmos. In J. A. Grime (Ed.), Indigenous traditions and ecology: The interbeing of cosmology and community. Harvard University Press. Hibbs, S. (2006). The uniquely female art of karanga. Social Work Review, 18, 3–8. Horton, M., & Freire, P. (1990). We make the road by walking: Conversations on education and social change. Temple University Press. Isaacson, W. (2008). Einstein: His life and universe. Simon & Schuster Publishers. Jones, S., & Metge, J. (1995). He Taonga tuku Iho n¯ o Ng¯a T¯ upuna: M¯aori proverbial sayings—A literary treasure. Journal of New Zealand Studies, 5(2), 3–7. Kainamu, R. V. (2012). Indigenous auto-ethnography: Self-side. Presentation at Te Ao M¯aramatanga M¯aori Caucus Bi-Annual National Mental Health Nurses W¯ananga Rotorua. K¯aretu, T. (2008). Te kete tuawh¯a, te kete aronui—The fourth basket. Te Kaharoa, 1(1). https://doi.org/10.24135/tekaharoa.v1i1.135 Kolb, D. A. (1984). Experiential learning: Experience as the source of learning and development (Vol. 1). Prentice-Hall. Lee, J. (2009). Decolonising M¯aori narratives: P¯ ur¯akau as a method. MAI Review, 2(Article 3). Macfarlane, A., Macfarlane, S., Savage, C., & Glynn, T. (2012). Inclusive education and M¯aori communities in Aotearoa New Zealand. In S. Carrington & J. MacArthur (Eds.), Teaching in inclusive school communities (pp. 163–186). Wiley. Marton, F., & Saljo, R. (1976). On qualitative differences in learning 1: Outcome and process. British Journal of Education Psychology, 46(1), 4–11. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.2044-8279.1976.tb02980.x Marsden, M. (2003). The woven universe: Selected writings of Rev. M¯ aori Marsden. Estate of Rev. M¯aori Marsden. Mead, H. M., & Grove, N. (2000). Nga pepeha a nga tipuna: The sayings of the ancestors. 127 (p. 29). Victoria University Press. Mead, H., & Hetet, T. (1996). Ko Tawhaki nui-a-Hema: Ana mahi whakahirahira. Reed. Mead, S. M. (1997). Landmarks, bridges and visions: Aspects of M¯ aori culture: Essays. Victoria University Press. Mezirow, J. (1990). How critical reflection triggers transformative learning. In J. Mezirow (Ed.), Fostering critical reflection in adulthood: A guide to transformative and emancipatory learning (pp. 1–20). Jossey-Bass.

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CHAPTER 8

Identity Matters Jody Takimoana

Ko Poeura te Maunga (Poeura is my mountain) Ko Waitangi te Awa (Waitangi is my river) Ko Ngatokimatawhaorua te Waka (Ngatokimatawhaorua is my canoe) Ko Oromahoe te Marae (Oromahoe is my Marae) Ko Ngati Kawa te Whare (Ngati Kawa is my meeting house) Ko Nga Puhi te Iwi (Nga Puhi is my tribe) Ko Jody Takimoana t¯ oku ingoa. I am a descendant of M¯ aori and P¯ akeh¯ a whakapapa. This is common ancestry for M¯ aori However, I have often found myself conflicted You see, my P¯ akeh¯ a grandfather was a racist and was gifted land in the apuhi area after the War in 1914 tribal area of the Ng¯ My Father of Ng¯ a Puhi descent was opposed and displaced as a result of colonisation that stripped him from his language, culture, and identity The trajectory of my life has been influenced as a result. How I reconcile my identity has also been a place of tension for me. How may my life have played out if our nation’s founding document, the Treaty of Waitangi had been honoured?

J. Takimoana (B) Te P¯ukenga ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_8

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Understanding this is not the purpose of this critical reflection into my professional practice. But in reflecting on my professional identity It is important to understand the context of what has shaped my life And the many decisions and paths I have travelled as a result

My professional practice has been the culmination of a lifetime of experiences, both positive and negative. My journey through the education system and the events that have occurred started before my time here on earth. The impact of decisions made by generations before my own has meant that systems and cultures have sought to dominate and control M¯aori. During this korero (conversation) I will discuss racism, values, responsive pedagogy, and leadership.

Systemic Racism and the Generational Impact Born into a mixed-race family in 1969 was not something that was seen as socially acceptable. My dad was a M¯aori from the Ng¯apuhi tribe in the Bay of Islands where he was born and raised with eight other siblings. Mum is a New Zealand European and was born and raised on a farm in the Whangarei region. My dad’s education was limited, and he experienced little in the way of learning during his school years. He shared stories of being beaten at school by kaiako (teachers) for speaking his first language of te reo M¯aori. These beatings were a regular occurrence within his native school and were set up to exclude all M¯aori from speaking their language. He shared with me in his later years some p¯ur¯akau (story) of these times, and one particular p¯ur¯akau sits clearly in my mind. Dad was eight years of age and was in class with other M¯aori from the local community. He asked a friend to borrow his pencil in M¯aori and was instantly grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged outside. At first, he was unsure of what was going on as the Kaiako continued to pull him across the schoolyard. His feet were bare, hitting stones and kicking up dirt as he struggled against the Kaiako. Finally, the Kaiako stopped under a tree and grabbed some supple jack to punish him with. At the time, supple jack was a type of cane that was used to beat and manage livestock and horses. This Kaiako proceeded to beat my father with the supple jack until blood ran from his legs. My dad took the beating from this Kaiako, and as he held back his tears, he heard the Kaiako say “don’t you ever speak that disgusting language in

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my presence or classroom again, you hear me boy”. Over the years I have often thought of the impact this experience must have had on my dad and all the other M¯aori tamariki (children) in that class. Eventually, he could not take the racism anymore and at the age of twelve my dad left the education system. He could not write or spell his name and struggled with the written word of English. Violence and not being allowed to speak te reo played a major role in his decision to leave school. At times I find this story of my dad hard to understand and believe as the treatment of not only him, but the M¯aori of this time and the impact on future generations. Today, my professional practice is underpinned by understanding an education system that not only took away the rights of people to speak in their native language but to also learn in a safe way. Now that I am a leader within the education system it is now my responsibility to ensure that leadership within education changes.

¯ Whanau Is My Foundation and Guides Who I Am As a young boy, I experienced a lack of connection with my P¯akeh¯a wh¯anau (extended family). Being raised in a very M¯aori manner through my dad’s influence, I always wondered about the reasons for not having a lot of contact with my mum’s parents. On the day of my greatgrandfather’s death in 1975, I did not really understand why my mum was so upset as he had not played a significant role in my life. Later, I was to realise why this had been the case and the resilience of my parents. When my dad told me that we would be making a trip to Whangarei to see my mum’s wh¯anau, the anticipation began to build for both my sister and me. The night before we departed sleep did not occur for any of us due to the anticipation of the adventure ahead. I was going to meet our other wh¯anau, and I thought to myself this is going to be amazing! In the back of the car, with pillows and sleeping bags, we departed at o-dark hundred in the morning. The old man always liked to leave early on a big trip, this was to beat the traffic on the roads between Turangi and T¯amaki Makaurau (Auckland). On reflection, one of the best parts of this trip was being with my wh¯anau, on what I considered at the time to be an adventure. Fights in the back seat of the car with my sister, a slight haze of smoke sitting in the air from the cigarettes that got fired up every half an hour as my parents sat in the front of their Mark II Zephyr. Mum and Dad were

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chatting about the problems of the world and having a laugh together. It is not until more recently that I realised that this type of environment has influenced the way I practise today. The ability to bring people together and work collaboratively is directly reflective of the close connection that I have had with my immediate wh¯anau. Without this type of connection and aroha (love) that was ever-present in my family I would not be the person that presents to tauira (learners), peers, and people today. My wh¯anau are my anchor stone and I do not do anything in life without first considering what they would think of both my behaviour and actions. They are ever-present in my thoughts and everyday actions. This informs how I teach and interact with young people that I work with today. The realisation that every interaction has a real-time effect on individuals guides my practice.

Responsive Pedagogy From my experiences, some kaiako believe that their work is for the improvement of society and doubt that they willingly oppress children. Moreover, oppression in education can contribute to class hierarchies through the type of education tauira receive (Bowles & Gintis, 1976). These perspectives have had an impact on how I view education in terms of the disparity of education my dad received compared to my mum. The imbalance with the education system seemed unfair as I listened to my dad’s stories. Listening to his experiences made me understand that the education system, without knowing it, impacts peoples’ futures and lives. As schools within Aotearoa (New Zealand) have become more ethically and racially diverse, the sense of belonging within a group becomes an important aspect of the personal identity of adolescents (Webber, 2012). There are key areas within group acceptance and belonging that directly impact on how I undertake my professional practice. The first of these is how a positive sense of racial-ethical identity can help M¯aori tauira develop resilience within the school environment. In practice, this means that developing a positive identity is achieved through the development of a positive self-identification as M¯aori and how this is displayed and integrated into their learning and life. This is both as a kaiako and leader in the educational space where I act as a change agent for M¯aori and lead by example. Despite the background you come from, change is possible.

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Whakapapa (genealogy) which is a connection to an individual’s family lineage is seen as a significant factor that provides a meaningful understanding of where and how M¯aori are connected to one another. Having a working knowledge of your whakapapa is important to M¯aori, wh¯anau, and the community (Webber, 2012). Within my current role at Te Kura Matatini ki Otago (Otago Polytechnic) the focus is on M¯aori tauira success and ensuring that our tauira receive the support that they deserve to not only survive but thrive in our education system. This means that as the kaiwhakatere (leadership) of kaiako and tauira, developing cultural capacity and capability is crucial to ensuring M¯aori succeed as M¯aori.

Strange Worlds and Fantastic People Pulling into the drive of some distant Auntie’s house where the funeral was being held of someone who I had never met was very daunting. The lawn was immaculate with a flower garden that stretched all the way to the back of where the homestead was located, a beautiful piece of land. I immediately thought “Far out that’s a flash whare (house),”. It was not somewhere that we had been to before as a family. My first reaction was “These fellas must be rich as with heaps of money” and I wondered if they would accept us with open arms. For some reason, the old man was incredibly nervous, which was not an emotion that I would normally apply to his character. Nothing phased the old man as he was a natural leader within his work and our community. Something was bugging him, and I could tell something was wrong. I felt uncomfortable in this house where the funeral was to take place. Everyone in the room was P¯akeh¯a and no one spoke to our family. What I would learn later was that when my dad had married my mother, her family had disowned her. She had married someone outside of her culture and being involved with a M¯aori was seen as an unacceptable act. The result of this was that we as a family had never been able to be a part of or get to know these people. We were seen by our P¯akeh¯a Grandfather as “half breeds!” The courage both my parents showed during this period shaped my values and how I think about people and treat them with respect, regardless of their personal backgrounds. The fact that my family history has racist undertones weaved into its background means that today I have a strong sense of social justice. Especially inequity for minority peoples and the Indigenous people of New Zealand. As such, my professional practice is reflective of this.

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Those Who Inspire Me Today and into the Future During my time as a secondary kaiako, I experienced working with M¯aori tauira that possessed a strong sense of self and this was reflected in their attitude to schoolwork and classroom focus. They were typically involved in kapa haka (M¯aori cultural song and dance) or some type of other extracurricular activity such as sports or peer mentoring. These tauira clearly had a sound understanding of their cultural and academic capabilities, understanding that to be successful outside of school and in life, they had to apply themselves in all areas of the school. Furthermore, these M¯aori tauira had managed setbacks within the classroom well, which was an indicator of their resilience in general. As an example, an interaction I had with one tauira was a request for feedback on his written work. Overall, he had done a reasonably good job and had shown some real commitment to the subject that he had been working on. However, he had not really drilled down enough into the subject material that was required for the assessment. We discussed this issue in class, and he was very receptive to the feedback and was pleased that guidance in this area had been provided. From my perspective, this reflected that he had a strong sense of self as he was not afraid to receive feedback and constructive criticism. In doing so, he developed resilience and was able to accept the information and adopt this into his work. This displayed courage on his behalf and a sound sense of self-awareness. During this period as a Kaiako, my professional practice developed in a way that allowed tauira to take ownership of their learning. Today, in my current role within the tertiary sector, this learning has become invaluable, whereby holding others accountable for goals and aspirations, is seen as a key to achieving personal success. This applies to all that I work with regardless of the subject matter or the academic level that they are studying.

Youth of Today and How They Have Shaped My Thinking My enthusiasm for sport was only paralleled with the desire to be a break-dancer and hip-hop artist when I was young. A group of close friends formed a break-dance group called System X and we went on to compete at regional competitions in Te Waipounamu (South Island). Our connection to the American craze in the 1980s was reflected in our

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dress, haircuts, and identity as young teenagers. Mainstream education in a white monocultural town in the middle of Te Waipounamu was not receptive to this type of tauira and was another barrier to education. Not feeling accepted as M¯aori and just expressing myself differently was demoralising. As I moved into working in the secondary school teaching one of my key drivers was to change the education system that I experienced in the 1980s. The kaiako preacher style of teaching was detrimental to creativity, critical thinking, and problem-solving. My way of teaching was very much in a tuakana (older sibling) and–t¯eina (younger sibling) mindset (Bishop & Glynn, 1999). This concept is a process that evolved from an older and younger sibling relationship in the M¯aori world; it allows for both involved to gain valuable learning from each other within the relationship and not just a one-way experience. For my professional practice, this approach has been incredibly rewarding as it has allowed for tauira to be the kaiako and the kaiako to be tauira. Applying this in my mahi (work) on a day-to-day basis has allowed for the development of educational spaces in which both involved can grow and learn from each other.

Humbled and Proud of My Culture At a school in Tamaiki Makaurau on my last day of working there as a Kaiako, the school decided to celebrate International Day. One of the events was a performance from all diverse backgrounds and cultures within the school. A particular tauira performance was a mixture of Tongan and Samoan dance where they displayed the crossing of two cultures while remaining reflective of who they were as individuals. This allowed these tauira to bring their whole person to the school environment and feel included for who they are. From a professional practice perspective, it means a greater awareness of how different tauira and people identify and how they respond to being themselves. Supporting this and leading in this space is important to who I am as a person and ensures that regardless of background, I will do my best to be inclusive.

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Mindset and Thinking Differently One of the questions I often ask is, what needs to happen in our current education system for M¯aori to succeed? Kaiwhakatere and clarity of direction is an area that has always been a big part of my journey through my mahi and education. I believe that how we guide tauira and lead them will have an impact on the next generation and those that follow. I believe that how we think and the actions we take within education need careful consideration. Sir Ken Robinson is an international leader in the development of creativity, innovation, and human resource, with a background as an education professor who worked all over the world with various agencies (Robinson, 2011). His approach to learning has brought forward new and exciting perspectives within education, especially the importance of fostering creativity. For myself, this has had an enduring effect on how I reflect on my journey and professional practice in my mahi today. As an example, during my first eight years in the New Zealand Army, I was fortunate to be able to study and gain qualifications as a chef. This required attending various block courses at the Waiouru Military Camp and completing intensive practical and theoretical assessments. Although the military is perceived as a very restrictive and structured environment, I never felt this within my chosen career path. In fact, the opposite was what I experienced with my chosen trade. The teaching methods applied by our kaiako were to demonstrate a specific task, confirm our understanding, and receive coaching and feedback as the assessment progressed. Within this teaching, a scaffolded learning methodology was applied, and each task was built on the next until you were seen as competent. From a new tauira perspective, this was an excellent way of learning, and I enjoyed both the teaching and learning styles. Within this space, you were also given the freedom to express yourself by producing a dish of your choice and creating what you wanted using the new skills that you had attained. This freedom allowed for the process of self-expression through a creative medium. Rethinking creativity and what this is and how this can be applied is one of the key aspects I implement into my current professional practice. From this perspective, everyone has an enormous creative capacity as a natural result of being human. The challenge is to develop their capacity, and a culture of creativity must involve everybody, not just a select few

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(Robinson, 2011). What this means is that I believe everyone is creative and can be creative in some aspect and that it is a matter of recognising what is within each of us. From my experiences, education has typically been situated within the practice of selecting a few or those that are seen as special, as these are the only ones that have creative ability as a part of their personal makeup. This logic means that creativity is located only within the traditional creative areas such as art and music. According to Robinson (2011) this is not the case and creativity is something that all individuals have and should be nurtured and developed in youth. Within my professional practice, this is an aspect that I am very aware of and look forward to implementing. One of the strategies that I utilise to develop creativity is when tauira are struggling in a particular activity. Rather than providing the solution for them immediately, I will allow them to attempt to figure out the problem on their own. This allows the space for them to be creative and come up with solutions that may be more effective. As they work through the problem and continue to struggle, I then ask them if they can think of other creative ways in which to approach the problem. This allows them to think differently by allowing them the freedom to use different means to produce ideas and solutions. This is a supportive way in which my professional practice can support those to find what it is that inspires them through their own creative solutions. Allowing tauira to produce their ideas organically allows for learning of the subject material as well as the development of creative problemsolving skills. The outcome is a great discussion and well-thought arguments from all groups within the class. This shows the value in letting people experiment with ideas and thoughts to create their own solutions to problems. Creativity is possible in every teaching discipline and should be encouraged and promoted throughout the whole of education (Robinson, 2011). As Robinson (2011) notes, all subjects from science, and maths to the arts such as music and dance, are creative endeavours; one is no more important than the other. As a professional practitioner and leader, it is from this perspective that I look to create a culture of creativity within the classroom for all tauira. This not only ensures a positive learning experience but to also be a part of a learning process that will support what they hope to achieve.

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Relationships and the Impact They Have In 1984 my education journey took a sharp turn when we left Dunedin and moved to Central Otago. Cromwell College was a rural school at the time and the community was predominately P¯akeh¯a. Over the next two years, my experience within this educational environment was poor from an academic perspective. One of my core subjects kaiako taught in a manner that was very directive and controlling. You opened your books, and he would tell you what you needed to learn. No debate or discussion about what the content was, or engagement at a personal level. One comment he made to me that had a long-lasting impact was “you will never amount to much and most likely end up as a labourer or in prison”. I appreciate that as a young teenager my behaviour at times was poor and I must take ownership for that. This conflict continued into my later years at school and as a result, I did not engage in this subject matter at all. Bishop and Glynn (1999) looked to address cultural diversity within mainstream education as they reviewed M¯aori success in Aotearoa’s education system. From this research, they proposed that the current model in which the education system was operating was failing for those who were marginalised. Bishop and Glynn (1999) proposed a different way of looking at the education system and how it could be changed and modified to support all learning within the current model. Within this model, positive relationships and cultural empowerment were key to M¯aori success. From a personal perspective, I am still growing and learning in this area, however making a connection with, and building an authentic relationship with tauira is important to my mahi today. This perspective from a leadership point of view is a way of empowering individuals and respecting them, as not only as tauira but as people. Having a wholeperson approach to the development of all tauira that I will teach is vitally important from both a personal and professional perspective. Within my current role, these principles, perspectives, and ideas are something that I look to implement daily. The wh¯anau concept of a collective approach is how I build relationships with people. In this way, they feel a part of the collective group and have a connection with each other. Over the last 30 years much of my experience has led me to believe that to have a more effective and responsive pedagogy within education,

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influence must come from the top. The kaiwhakatere within the current education system must be the catalyst for change within the tertiary sector and potentially the whole education system.

Final Thoughts Having a greater understanding of my background in education and the impact on my values and personal and professional practice has shaped all that I do within a workspace and in life. Understanding tauira want to achieve and igniting their inner passion as learners is important; however, so is the role of culturally upskilling those kaiako that lead these tauira as well. M¯aori working within the education system need to feel valued and supported as M¯aori. The diversity of M¯aori tauira can be supported by looking at different teaching and learning approaches yet this will only occur if systemic change is apparent and addressed. Although it is a complex and critical time of change for our tauria, as kaiako and leaders I believe that we can make a difference. Possessing an understanding and having an awareness of this means that we can be a part of enhancing our tauira experiences as we lead in this space. This is an opportunity and a gift that all who are involved in making this happen are committed and inspired to be a part of for our tauiras’ future. My educational and academic journey has been a crooked path; not always in a straight line. The various experiences that I have had over the last 40 years have shaped how my worldview has brought me here today. The historical impact of my P¯akeha and M¯aori background through to the current day is not what I expected when I stepped into the workforce at 17 years of age. Key moments within this journey have either motivated or been a roadblock to me, yet they have all happened for a reason. I now realise that all these events have merged to allow my personal and professional practice to have a clearer direction moving forward into the future. The first of these is a strong sense of injustice for those who have been in my lineage such as my grandparents and Dad. This injustice has generated a passion that has been sitting with me for a generation and it is now time for change. This for me has been reflected in my current role and I recognise the impact I need to have at an organisational and strategic level. Those that are leading this are critical to the experiences of the past not occurring again. I feel a great sense of responsibility to those who have suffered without knowing it, in an education system that has been

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set up to be kept down. Moving into the next phase I believe we need to shine a light on the current models of leadership within the education system. In doing so, I leave this k¯orero with the following questions: Is the current kaiwhakatere model within education degenerative or regenerative for M¯aori working within this space? Do M¯aori receive the same opportunities within the current education system and if so, is it working? Do we need to rethink and reshape how the current educational model is working for current and future M¯aori tauira?

References Bowles, S., & Gintis, H. (1976). Schooling in capitalist America (Vol. 57). Basic Books. Bishop, R., & Glynn, T. (1999). Culture counts: Changing power relations in education. Dunmore Press Limited. Robinson, K. (2011). Out of our minds; Learning to be creative (2nd ed.). Capstone Publishing Ltd. Webber, M. (2012). Identity matters: Racial-ethnic identity and M¯aori Students. Te M¯ aori I Nga Ara Rapu Matauranga, M¯ aori Education, Set, 2, 20–26.

CHAPTER 9

Growing up in Aotearoa as M¯aori in the Education System Gary Te Waaka

My p¯ur¯akau (narrative) traces my hikoi (journey) as an a¯konga (student) and more recently, as a kaiako (teacher) within the tertiary vocational sector. It is a journey that enabled me to understand my contribution to professional practice in my current employment as an information technology (IT) educator at the Western Institution of Technology at Taranaki (WITT). My chapter pivots on 10 key learnings, which I have included as ‘morals’ or ‘takeaways’ concepts from the key events in my mahi (work) and personal life. My hikoi is about my journey of reclaiming of m¯atauranga M¯aori (M¯aori knowledge) at the heart of my personal and professional practice and underlying belief system. I came to value and understood the importance of kawa (cultural practices) and tikanga (cultural principles) in working with my M¯aori ¯akonga. The 10 key learnings come together in my conclusion to form my own guiding ten commandments, my framework of practice. These 10 key learnings inform my worldview, my mahi, and my work as a researcher.

G. Te Waaka (B) Western Institution of Technology, New Plymouth, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_9

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My reflections follow an Indigenous autoethnography approach; a resistance narrative to provide hope and inspiration for Indigenous people and other M¯aori re-searchers (Whitinui, 2014). I narrate of my p¯ur¯akau in sections that give rise to the 10 key learnings. Each p¯ur¯akau is a developmental story of myself as an inseparable member of my wh¯anau (family), hap¯u (a collection of related wh¯anau and iwi), from my cultural identity to which I belong, along with my professional experiences—those of a M¯aori educator re-grounding myself in m¯atauranga M¯aori. As Charles Royal had written in 2008: ‘he whakaatu, he whakam¯arama hoki i ng¯a ahuatanga o te Ao. M¯a reira e m¯ohio ai te tangata ki te ao, e m¯atau ai hoki ia ki e¯tahi whainga, ki e¯tahi tikanga. He mea ako, he mea whangai’ (p. 37). This contribution to my culture means that I present more than a life story, it is an expression of ‘being M¯aori’.

The Method of Indigenous Autoethnography The k¯orero that I develop here, as I remember my growing up, youth, and adulthood, is presented in the method of Indigenous autoethnography. Whitinui (2014) writes that this act of writing makes space for us to ground our sense of “self” in what remains “sacred” to us as Indigenous people in the world we live, in and in how we choose to construct our identity, as M¯aori. Bishop (1997) demonstrated how M¯aori need the power of self-determination in understanding their identities. This review of learning gives me a chance to do this. I am also freeing myself from colonial domination through this act of creativity (Bishop, 2005). The k¯orero narrated here is about me as an emerging, developing, and reflective M¯aori educator in IT. Like Legge (2010), I discover the importance of marae-based education in my journey. M¯aoritanga (being M¯aori) is at the centre of my teaching. The reflections I offer here take the form of key learnings. These key learnings, presented in bold, demonstrate my capability to be reflective and extract general meaning from life moments and stories. This means I am contributing to a culture of learning—that of developing M¯aori educators, not just telling my own life story. I move beyond autobiography into Indigenous autoethnography. E Tipu e rea Ko ng¯a r¯a o tou ao To ringa ki ng¯a r¯akau a te p¯akeh¯a hei oranga mo to tinana

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To ng¯akau ki ng¯a taonga a o tipuna M¯aori he tikitiki mo to m¯ahuna to wairua ki te Atua N¯ana nei ng¯a mea katoa N¯a Pa Apirana Ngata

Grow up tender youth and fulfil the needs of your generation Your hands mastering the arts of the P¯akeh¯a For your material well-being Your heart cherishing the treasures of your ancestors As a plume for your head And your soul given to God the author of all things Sir Apirana Ngata

Anei He Pepeha

Ka timata ahau i te taha t¯ oku P¯ap¯a, Ko Terangiwhakaputia Gary Te Waaka t¯oku P¯ap¯a Ko Emily Katene r¯aua ko Tuwhakaata Te Waaka o ¯ ku t¯ upuna Ko Tuhekeao Ihaia Pi Katene r¯aua ko Hirapeka Te Arani o ¯ ku t¯ıpuna Tuwhakaruru Pi Katene t¯oku tipuna Tuwhakaruru Katene t¯oku tipuna Ko Taranaki te pou herenga waka, he pou herenga iwi, he pou herenga kaupapa.

Ko Taranaki te maunga Ko Aotea te waka Ko Turi te tangata Mai Ketemarae ki Omuturangi Ko Ng¯a Ruahine te iwi Ko Okahu, Inuawai, kanihi, Araukuku, Manuhiakai, Ngati Tu, Ngati Haua nga hapu Ko Waingorongo te awa Ko Aotearoa te marae Ko Ngakaunui te wharinui Ko weriweri te urupa Ko Gary Phillip Te Waaka t¯aku ingoa T¯en¯a koutou, t¯en¯a koutou, t¯en¯a r¯a koutou katoa

My Pepeha: Ko wai ahau? N¯o hea ahau? Who am I and where am I from?

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Taranaki is my place of belonging. I am going to share with you my father’s side of my whakapapa. My father’s name is Terangiwhakaputia Gary Te Waaka. My grandparents’ names are Emily Katene and Tuwhakaata Te Waaka. My great-grandparents’ are Tuhekeao Ihaia Pi Katene and Hirapeka Te Arani. My great-great-grandfather is Tuwhakaruru Pi Katene. My great-great-great grandfather is Tuwhakaruru Katene.

I am from Taranaki. Taranaki presents my Iwi; it is my guidance and sense of my belonging. Taranaki keeps me connected to my whenua and grounds me.

The people of Turi are my ancestors from Ketemarae to Omuturangi. Ng¯a Ruahine is my iwi. Okahu, Inuawai, Kanihi, Ngati Tu, Ngati Haua is my Hapu. Waingorongo is my Awa. Aotearoa is my Marae. Ngakaunui is my Wharenui. Weriweri is my Irupa My name is Gary Te Waaka.

I grew up in Whanganui with multiple wh¯anau. Pipititaurangi Te Waaka was a person that identified as a M¯aori leader for all the wh¯anau. She spoke M¯aori fluently and held the m¯atauranga and tikanga for our wh¯anau. She gave advice, guidance, and direction to the wh¯anau. She also taught us karakia (prayers) and chants. She performed hymns in her native language, te reo M¯aori, which she recited every night before she went to bed. I was in the other bed beside her, a young child. At times it sounded really scary, but then also safe at the same time. I attended Tawhero School in, Whanganui. It was Wanganui back in those days. I found a friend there. He was removed from the class, and I felt like I was alone and abandoned again. I cried, found out later, we were both crying. But at the same time, my feelings were mixed up with trying to understand where I was as a young child, feeling grief with why my mum had given me away, and trying to understand why and how a mum could do this to her son. I felt rejection and anger. Why did I have to go through this? I did not understand why my mum was being so selfish.

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So, what did I learn from this today? I found forgiveness for my mum, by understanding that she was going through a process of mental illness, and I choose to accept her for who she was and that she did not know any better. I can best narrate this event as a poem. I went through a lot, and I did not find that forgiveness straight away. I went through my teens, and I did not feel like I belonged, and I made a lot of wrong choices. I had no one to tell me what was right or what was wrong.

I ended up in trouble with the law. I ended up in Court. I ended up in the wrong crowd. My so-called friends were not my friends. Life was hard and it was a struggle.

But after two years in Stratford, this was the point in my life where I chose to make better choices. It was my probation officer who told me to make better outcomes for my future. I respected her. The following poem captures these feelings: I turned 18 and went hitch-hiking will all the gears, to go in search of what Aotearoa had to offer. When I came back, I met a beautiful wahine, and we married. I was only 21 years old, and I became a father. We had four beautiful children. I started a successful IT business. I led a community outreach called Tamariki Alive, made up of businesspeople that helped support this kaupapa. I felt happy that I could help young tamariki make good choices to make better outcomes in their lives. To this day, the tamaraki see me and I see they are doing well.

Things did not work out and I separated from my wife. I lost vision. I lost everything. I lost the energy and anything that was good for me. I felt like I lost the plot.

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I was feeling down and out and was looking on Trade Me one day. I saw a job at Western Institute of Technology at Taranaki (WITT) and as I knew I had industry experience and I wanted to pass on the skills I had so I went for an interview. In the job interview, I had the job on the spot. This was me and what I wanted to do.

So how has this impacted on who I am today? I would like to acknowledge that although I missed growing up with the skills and the fundamental values of being M¯aori, I learned many lessons in my upbringing and this has shaped me into who I am today. I have a strong passion for whanaungatanga (relationships) and I know the importance of staying connected and having a sense of belonging. Looking back on my story above, I reflect on the childhood importance of m¯atauranga M¯aori and the rituals of the wh¯anau. It is only by reflection that this realisation appears. At the heart of it all is the need for forgiveness; fresh knowledge comes once you have forgiven others, and yourself. Growing up in Aotearoa New Zealand as M¯aori, thinking about my personal learning experience, I recall a lengthy and quite traumatic process. The school system involved several processes that were extremely difficult to navigate. Further, because of being passed around by wh¯anau members, finding my own identity within both the wh¯anau and school system was exceedingly difficult socially, culturally, and mentally. I attended various schools from the age of 5 to 14 and the schools were rural, urban, and small towns. One school I remember forced me to leave the school to attend a place for those with learning disabilities, and on reflection, I am now able to acknowledge that was a one-way door out of my school and into another unknown area. Consequently, at the early age of 13, I left the school system, as I was given a choice not to go to school and instead went to access training courses which were Macess and Access courses that had recently been introduced into Aotearoa. Thus, I undertook several courses in farming, catering, life skills, carpentry, engineering, and conservation between Taranaki and Whanganui. At the age of 24, I decided to go back to school as an adult ¯akonga at Strafford High School in Taranaki to see if I could get my School Certificate in English, Maths, Science, and Agriculture. However, I failed in achieving any pass grades for those subjects, and this left me in a failed

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state, experiencing another loss of confidence from failing in the school system. By then I had three tamariki (children), and to support them I went to work for Fonterra as a machine operator and worked my way through to level 5A. This was the start of my learning journey about the learning process and the steps you need to undergo to be a part of a chain management system. I learned how to measure volumes from a 20 kg bucket to a 1000-litre blender and was able to follow formulas, which kick-started my literacy and numeracy journey. I am a member of this generation of those brought up during an educational era of deficit thinking. The education system has consistently failed wh¯anau, hap¯u, and iwi for many generations, and this has led to low expectations by all of education system performance for M¯aori and of M¯aori achievement (Ministry of Education, 2008). My p¯ur¯akau is one that, in line with Bishop (2005) aims to decolonise deficit thinking and replace it with M¯aoritanga. A key part of my development of my practice is maximising chances for collaboration in w¯ananga (traditional learning space), because a wh¯anau and community approach is more appropriate than the P¯akeh¯a model based on competition and the individual’s achievement. If praxis is about links between theories, such as those of Smith (1997) and Smith (1999), and Pere (1988), then I need to enhance my understanding of my praxis. The impact of the deficit model of education for my generation was far-reaching and traumatising, and only by consciously decolonising this thinking am I able to move forward and understand myself as an educator. What did I learn from this process is, first and foremost, changing my thought patterns, what the learning experience was for me growing up in Aotearoa and what was presented to me, and changing the ako (learning and teaching) experience within the programmes I teach now in my classroom. This is whanaungatanga, getting to know the ¯akonga and accepting who they are, finding different strategies to help them develop how they think, understand their social background and the struggles that they are going through, and how you can help them out first before they can start ako. If the school system does not offer the w¯ananga our people need, there will be real-world opportunities that will build our confidence and kickstart our learning journeys. My real-world opportunities also saw several critical events within my adulthood. First Critical Event—The accident: I had a motorbike accident that left me physically and mentally unwell, and after a time I was let go from

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work and made redundant. I was left with a long-term healing process, so I thought what do I do now? I had an interest in computers, so having more confidence in education led me to go to Taranaki Polytech and look for a course in IT. Hence, I decided to undertake the Certificate in Computing (Level 5). However, at that time my literacy was not so great, and it troubled me to begin writing a sentence as simple as a memo which was my first task. Second Critical Event—A key person in my life: I do remember as a tutor saying what do you want to do in IT? I said I was not cut out to have a degree. The tutor led me to reflect that no way would I get anywhere, let alone a degree, with an attitude like that, so I went home reflected and looked at my options: I had nothing to lose but to work hard and long. I ended up completing that programme; then I was away to start my degree for three years. I later got the opportunity to work for WITT for two years, became involved in full-time study, and started teaching community computer courses four days a week from 6 pm to 10 am. I took up majoring in Website Design and Training applications and I gained a Bachelor of Applied and Information Systems degree. Third Critical Event—The work journey: My next journey of job hunting was not successful, so I had an idea to go into business and create a job for myself. Away, I went and undertook a 12-week start-up course in business and was in business for seven years, and there I learned how to integrate many business processes in management. I learned from such activities as customer service, contact work with the business within Taranaki, accounting for all business processes, and having employees. This was a big learning curve that I underwent throughout this time. Learning hugely from my seven-year journey, I did come through some struggles at the end. Next, I decided to take an on a Sky contract which even gave me more experience, like working with customers and being able to deliver service within Taranaki. I then decided that this was a time for change: I wanted to take my life experience and share with ¯akonga what I had learnt along the way, so I explored education as a profession. There are numerous obstacles along the way, but when you find your vocation, it is the greatest breakthrough you can make. As I recall my story of becoming an educator in a marae (traditional carved meeting house) setting, I realise that it was important to move away from the deficit model with its P¯ahek¯a methods and to decolonise educational spaces and methods for M¯aori a¯konga via a w¯ananga model

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(Ministry of Education, 2008). I was in my second year of my Bachelor of Applied in Information Systems degree as a full-time a¯konga and was allowed to teach community computing south of Taranaki at Taiporohenui Marae. This was an hour’s drive from Nga Motu north of Taranaki. I travelled there Monday to Thursday and taught four hours in the evening after my daytime studying for my degree. My experience teaching on Taiporohenui Marae on the first day of arrival was an enjoyable experience driving in and being greeted and a look of astonishment: Yes, I am M¯aori, as this was a computing course being delivered and all they knew was they were sending Kaiako from WITT. I looked around the class and what I saw was the different ages from young to mature kaum¯atua (elders) eagerly waiting for me to commence the class. As the M¯aori a¯konga continued, I realised that my approach needed to be one that allowed them to find their groove, and this involved taking nothing for granted: I became aware of the issues of information literacy. I was provided with a Microsoft workbook manual which was made of four Applications; WORD, EXCEL, ACCESS, POWERPOINT which I handed out after an introduction and an outline of the course. For the next six weeks, I then said, “open your workbook we will be working with Microsoft Word.” As i wondered around the class and saw that there were some problems occurring due to their body language reactions, I asked “Does anyone have any p¯atai (questions)?” hands went up, and ¯akonga started asking “how do I turn on the computer?” then multiple questions were being asked …. “How do I use a mouse”? “How do I start Word”? I stood back and reflected. I then asked, “who has used a computer before”? About 70% of a¯konga had their hands up. I thought to myself, that everyone knew how to do operate a computer. I was more focused on the workbook that had step-by step instructions with pictures, and it should all be good. This was a key learning experience for me. I was so wrong to think that ¯akonga had prior knowledge. I immediately addressed what was needed before they could commence with the workbooks by taking a lesson about operating a computer. So, when the next r¯op¯u (group) arrived I did not even open the workbook but went over the process of starting a computer, how to operate the keyboard and mouse, and how to start Applications, and that took up the remainder of the time. I carried the same process onto the next r¯op¯u, where we did not even open the workbook for the first week: it was about giving direction, and confidence on the computer first. This moment of reflection on my mahi also gave me

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the importance of one-on-one, kanohi ki kanohi, with ¯akonga and getting to know them personally. I came to realise the importance of not taking information literacy for granted and with it the need to develop a comprehensive m¯atauranga M¯aori approach to w¯ananga on the marae. My feedback on teaching on a marae as to what I could do differently today is first that I see a marae is a place of belonging so that I can ground where I, as an educator, can understand where ¯akonga are from second is to get to know each ¯akonga and make a connection before a lesson starts from (Rameka, 2018). Whanaungatanga is now a place maker that needs to be done first. Affirmative identity is key. I started on my journey and to this date, I recognise how important it is to identify myself as M¯aori and bring the taonga (treasures) and how I can pass this on to a¯konga. These beliefs and values will be imparted to ¯akonga now and in the future to support them to feel safe to identify as M¯aori. Seven important points to share at this stage are: Numeracy and literacy, and how important it is to have this skill set but being able to decode what it is for M¯aori who undergo a process of ‘decriminalisation’. It is what we have been taught in a system that we have been conditioned as M¯aori. The environment determines the whenua (land) and what that looks like in the classroom environment. The key is whanaungatanga which is a base of connection, that will enable further ako for ¯akonga. A decolonised way of thinking can only happen when we are allowed to ask: Where you are from, your place of belonging, and what do you know and bring forward with you today? This can be achieved by changing the mindset of your ako and you are learning and understanding processes of how you can achieve this. For myself I ask, how can we make a change in Aotearoa in the education sector and be able to see me as an Indigenous voice in this enquiry? The relationships—whanaungatanga—inform the ways of connecting in terms of both networking professionally and making a stand on your values ethically and politically. To implement these ideas, you must be strong on your kaupapa and open to giving it a go. To control and manage the process of implementation, you need to be open to seeing what works and restarting the process.

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The need to decolonise ‘classroom’ approaches via w¯ananga and ropu (group) was something I came to understand that would be crucial if I wanted to serve M¯aori communities in the future.

¯ Experience with Maori Success at WITT An important change in life led me to reflect on the contribution I could make as a M¯aori educator. I left the industry to teach at a tertiary level, at WITT in Taranaki, where I commenced employment in February 2011. At first, I felt like an imposter; what have I got myself into? It was a rollercoaster but also a positive challenge: here we go again unfamiliar experience, but exciting at the same time. I saw unknown processes, like courses within a programme that I had to decode and gain an understanding of structure for the next 17 weeks of a semester and plan accordingly by learning other systems, structures, and processes like New Zealand Qualifications Authority (NZQA) frameworks, moderation, marking, learning course content, updating Moodle, working with a team, teaching, and going to staff development courses, I found this extremely stressful, and learning how to cope mentally and emotionally was challenging. It was a lesson of no pain, no gain. I became a part of a committee called the Te K¯ahui Matanui, which was designed side by side with the WITT Academic Standards Committee. We focused on M¯aori success throughout the organisation of WITT focusing on safeguarding, supporting, and the advancing of M¯aori interests and values. The principles of w¯ananga, which NZQA has organised into three M¯aori led organisations (Te W¯ananga o Raukawa, Te W¯ananga o Aotearoa and Te Whare W¯ananga), needed to inform my workplace as well. A w¯ananga is characterised by teaching and research that maintains, advances, and disseminates knowledge and develops intellectual independence, and assists the application of knowledge regarding ahuatanga M¯aori (M¯aori tradition) according to tikanga M¯aori (M¯aori custom)(https://www.nzqa.govt.nz/audience-pages/wananga/). I learned a lot about M¯aori pedagogies such as manaakitanga (support, respect). Ken Tiapa, Head of the WITT Academic Standards Committee, produced the following as a mission statement for our organisation: This is the M¯aori value of hospitality, kindness, generosity, and support. Often this is expressed through showing respect, generosity, and care for others. Typically, this is done through p¯ owhiri—the way we welcome people into our space. In a holistic sense, this means providing

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quality orators who follow tikanga procedures to verbally welcome visitors and a song that illustrates the speaker’s main points. Even the kinds of food provided at p¯owhiri are a part of manaakitanga as it reflects the mana of the host and their ability to manaaki visitors. In an education context, manaakitanga is also about how we nurture students while they are on campus. This was the start of my understanding of how to help M¯aori a¯konga to thrive. On reflection, I feel my teaching journey in 2016 was a time to put into practice my classroom experience and to highlight my M¯aori ¯akonga and the importance of the cultural concept of manaakitanga. I noticed that once I had implemented these strategies into my classroom, not only for M¯aori and for non-M¯aori, but I could also see changes starting to occur including better success and more positive outcomes for assignments and tests. Teachers need to strongly believe that M¯aori students are capable of greater achievement. Te Kotahitanga research undertaken by Bishop and Berryman (2009) shows the greatest literacy and numeracy gains for M¯aori students occur when teachers take up positive, non-deficit discourses, and adopt positive beliefs about their ability to make a difference for M¯aori students through their teaching (Hargraves, 2022). My experiences outlined above demonstrate to me an area of need for our M¯aori a¯konga in IT at WITT. At this stage, I have a reflective question: How do I (or what steps do I take) create a teaching and learning environment that is physically, socially, and culturally emotionally safe for my ¯akonga M¯aori (M¯aori learners)? The NZQA framework is colonised. It is increasingly important for M¯aori educators to understand what this means for our a¯konga, and to generate appropriate valued-based k¯orero around m¯atauranga M¯aori modes of community-based education.

¯ Maori Pedagogies: Co-constructing the Big Picture WITT has adopted a holistic whole of organisation framework, and one area of foci is M¯aori learner success. Ken Tiapa, one of the professional development and academic leaders at WITT, shared with us that M¯aori pedagogies are only a single strand of the bigger wh¯ariki (woven mat) that is required to bring about transformation. One of the organisational

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levers for transformation is ratified in the ‘Implementing an Organisational Cultural Competency Framework’, which unpacks the initiatives to explain how we are going to do this. The WITT had five key principles, and these were central to my future research: Opportunities for staff professional development (PD) related to M¯aori learner success Workshops and seminars Guidance materials Embedded M¯aori pedagogies Teaching materials and methods that reflect te ao M¯aori (M¯aori world). The Education hub highlights Professor Russell Bishop and Professor Mere Berryman (2009)’s seven key principles to effectively support M¯aori students as M¯aori: . Ensure that lessons are planned carefully and well-structured, with clear links between learning goals and activities, while offering multiple task contexts to support students’ learning and opportunities for students to adjust the learning direction. There should be plenty of scope for negotiation with ¯akonga about content. . Make homework relevant and responsive and check it carefully. . Effectively monitor students’ individual and group work while encouraging students to take responsibility for their own and others’ learning. . Give students timely feed-forward (expectations in advance) as well as feedback about learning and behaviour. . Use non-confrontational classroom management strategies and emphasise respectful relationships. . Maintain an organised and tidy classroom that students can use independently. The benefits of following these principles both locally, as in WITT’s practice, and generally as in The Education Hub’s ideas, were that it created a p¯ataka (storehouse) of culturally responsive initiatives, and it provided opportunities for strategic thinking and the practical approaches to improve M¯aori learner success at WITT.

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Being involved in developing and applying a m¯atauranga M¯aori framework of cultural competency at WITT gives me the grounding and the passion to research this area for my ¯akonga. My professional development journey continued. I completed a Certificate in Tertiary Learning and Teaching Level 5 at WITT. This helped me develop skills within my professional practice in teaching which included teaching practices and culture in the classroom. I also learned about adult teaching practices in Aotearoa, specifically moderation and design of assessments. This gave me a more in-depth understanding as to what to look out for following frameworks such as NZQA and ensuring course learning outcomes were met and assessed in a fair non-judgemental way for each of the courses within programmes, while at the same time as preserving the elements of M¯aori learner success. Working in the industry prior before coming to work in the tertiary education sector provided me with tools that I have brought into my teaching practices today. It has enabled me to support ¯akonga by reducing their knowledge gap in technology during their learning journey and how to address these factors through communication, such as the issues of how information is shared and how to interact with customers. My journey through the IT industry has also taught me the importance of considering M¯aori business owners and different stakeholders like iwi leaders. It was clear that networking was a key ingredient for success, so embedding such practices into courses I taught at WITT for IT was important too. In 2011, I came out of the IT industry and started work for WITT as an IT tutor full-time, reflectively teaching subjects from my learning experience as a student and personal experience from the industry. Bringing in my skill sets from the industry in which I had been engaged informed my major in Training and IT for my Bachelor of Applied Information Systems. Then another journey started engaging with students in that capacity was quite critical and unknown to me from learning new processes within tertiary education. I realised how time has changed work within the classrooms and how far technology has come in the way of resources, attitudes, and the platforms of technology such as Moodle. The deliverables of courses were different from those of my deficit education. My next learning was about classroom preparations. As I was still learning about tertiary teaching myself, lesson plans did take some time to learn. I had to find out how important this was in the way of delivery and structure. Based on what I see today, this learning gave me strategies for the analysis and evaluation of work-based information and concepts. This

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provided not only a sense of accountability but more of a stable systematic process for weekly tasks, ensuring every outcome is met throughout the courses that I was teaching and assessments. Lesson planning, informed by my organisation’s mission statement and our knowledge of m¯atauranga M¯aori enables us to scaffold such values and whanangautaunga into the sessions. Observations and evaluations provide my final key learning. Observations were crucial as this provided feedback for both myself and our mentoring tutors. In this way, I was able to have more insight into the positive things I was doing and have encouragement on things that I could improve on, like students that were not engaged and how I can improve their learning experience. From the feedback, it was clear that I needed to present my classroom experience by thinking about how ¯akonga learn. Thus, I was taken back to the times when I was young and how the learning was for me. What I got out of this was that there are assorted styles of learning and that adapting modern technologies enables personalisation for specific students. Regardless of the medium of the learning, the relationship was a key factor that was especially important for engagement to even start. Praxis, as Graeme Smith (1997) has taught us, begins with a kaupapa M¯aori approach with the intention to advance M¯aori aspirations. No amount of understanding of the potential technology holds for engaging and accelerating learning substitutes for whanaungatanga.

Two Further Critical Reflections and Observations I remember a young M¯aori kotiro (daughter) that stood out to me, I could see that she had a hard life, she was there with her partner and undertaking the Diploma in Information Systems. This made me think about how I could tautoko (support) her on her learning journey as this was the first M¯aori I had encountered in my classroom. Back then, I knew she was just focused on her partner, supporting him, trying to get him to get to class every day, and staying on track. She put his needs before her own, she worked hard and had come up against a lot of obstacles, but with support from us as kaiako, she was able to graduate and have a successful learning journey outcome. On reflection, I am now able to see that with the progress and experience gained over the years, I am now

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positioned to support M¯aori a¯konga better; this would have made her learning journey a lot easier. Another experience was supporting an incredibly positive mature M¯aori a¯konga. However, when things went wrong, he became extremely angry with the kaiako. Being fortunate to be M¯aori he respected me, he asked if he could remove himself from the class, I was able to calm him down and hear his side of the story. As I reflect, the pressure he was under besides trying to learn was increased by the IT systems not working correctly. This had an impact; his learning journey outcome would not have been different outcome as now this has been corrected now.

My Framework of Practice The purpose of this self-review process has been for me to understand, through reflection, some of the core principles of teaching and learning in a m¯atauranga M¯aori setting. The key principles emerged from the key learnings I have extrapolated and my key ‘takeaways’ as an Indigenous ¯akonga and kaiako from my hikoi through the education system. My framework of practice encompasses these 10 key learnings: . Forgiveness of self and others is necessary as a base element of reestablishing a m¯atauranga M¯aori worldview. . Decolonising the conditioning of the deficit model of education is vital for understanding who I can be as a M¯aori educator. . The real world of the industry offers opportunities that can build our confidence and kick-start our learning journeys when the education system fails. . There are numerous obstacles along the way, but when you find your vocation, it is the greatest breakthrough for M¯aori educators. . In teaching M¯aori a¯konga, do not take information literacy for granted, and in addressing this there is a need to develop a comprehensive m¯atauranga M¯aori approach to w¯ananga on the marae. . The need to decolonise ‘classroom’ approaches via w¯ananga and rop¯u is crucial to serving M¯aori communities in the future. . Decolonising curriculum as described by NZQA is an activity the M¯aori educator needs to be continually to be aware of. . Being involved in developing and applying a m¯atauranga M¯aori framework of cultural competency at WITT gives the grounding and the passion to research this area for M¯aori a¯konga.

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. Organisational mission statements and educational research can inform the M¯aori educators of appropriate ways to experience education with M¯aori a¯konga. . Even in the world of technology-mediated learning, M¯aori educators need the value of whanaungataunga. These key learnings form the principles at the heart and core of my mahi, both as a M¯aori educator and, as I move forward, as a M¯aori researcher and kaiako. T¯ u k¯e Tongariro Motu k¯e a Taranaki He riri kia Pihanga Waiho i muri nei Te Uri ko au ee!

References Bishop, R. A. (1997). M¯aori people’s concerns about research into their lives. History of Education Review, 26(1), 25–41. Bishop, R. A. (2005). Freeing ourselves from neo-colonial domination in research: A Kaupapa M¯aori approach to creating knowledge. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), The Sage handbook of qualitative research, edited by (pp. 109–38). Sage. Bishop, R., & Berryman, M. (2009). The Te Kotahitanga effective teaching profile. SET, 2, 27–33. Legge, M. (2010). A snapshot of place-based learning in a marae context: An autoethnographic account. New Zealand Journal of Outdoor Education: Ko Tane Mahuta Pupuke, 2(4), 87–102. Hargraves, V. (2022, October 26). Seven principles to effectively support M¯ aori student success as M¯ aori. The Education Hub. https://theeducationhub.org. nz/seven-principles-to-effectively-support-maori-students-as-maori/ McGregor, S. L., & Murname, J. A. (2010). Paradigm, methodology and method: Intellectual integrity in consumer scholarship. International Journal of Consumer Studies, 34(4), 419–427. Ministry of Education. (2008). Key evidence and how we must use it to improve the system performance for M¯ aori, Wellington. Mowai. Te K¯ahui o Taranaki. https://taranaki.iwi.nz/our-history/ New Zealand Qualifications Authority (NZQA). (2018). W¯ ananga. https:// www.nzqa.govt.nz/audience-pages/wananga/

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Office of the Auditor-General. (2012/13). Education for M¯ aori. https://oag.par liament.nz/2012/education-for-maori/part3.htm Pere, R. R. (1988). Te Wheke: Whaia te maramatanga me te aroha. In S. Middleton (Ed.), Women and education in Aotearoa (Vol. 1, pp. 6–19). Unwin & Irwin. Rameka, L. (2018). A M¯aori perspective of being and belonging. Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood, 19(4), 367–378. https://doi.org/10.1177/146394 9118808099 Royal, C. (2008). M¯ atauranga M¯ aori: An introduction. MKTA. Smith, G. H. (1997). The development of Kaupapa M¯ aori theory and praxis (Unpublished PhD thesis). School of Education, University of Auckland, Auckland. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. Zed Books Ltd. Whitinui, P. (2014). Indigenous autoethnography: Exploring, engaging, and experiencing “self” as a native method of inquiry. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 43(4), 456–487. https://doi.org/10.1177/089124161 3508148 https://oag.parliament.nz/2012/education-for-maori/part3.htm#:~:text=Min istry%20of%20Education&text=In%20the%20late%201980s%20and,parent ing%2C%20and%20other%20societal%20influences

CHAPTER 10

The Shroud of Whiteness Adrian Woodhouse

Roxburgh, my place of birth some forty plus years ago. As my newly born body gently lies down, they bathe and cleanse me of my bodily mess. A soft cry is released as they enrobe me in a shroud of soft white cloth. The cloth’s presence makes me feel safe and secure, the tight and taut binding of the swaddle protects me from myself and those unwanted things in this world. Within this cocooned blanket of perfect whiteness, I can traverse easily within this world, relenting my control over what I might see or where I might go. “Whiteness what did you do with my placenta”? The precious gift of ua¯nuku that nourished and fulfilled me during the time whenua from Papat¯ of hap¯ u, but now spiritually feeds me under the ancestral calls of ‘He taoka n¯ o te whenua, me hoki an¯ o ki te whenua’. Did you consider my whenua to be disconnected from the land and my being, an unsavoury by-product of this new individual self? Did your cultural lens blur your moral judgement and fail you in seeing that for M¯aori, what is gifted from the whenua should be returned to the whenua. No, instead your ideologies told you to burn this unsightly thing, for it has no relevance to you and its culture warrants no place in your world.

A. Woodhouse (B) Food Design Institute, Te P¯ukenga Ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_10

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From the moment I was born you controlled me, weaving the threads of your cloth into the entanglement of my life. For years I walked in the haze of your whiteness, too oblivious to your power and too taken by your desires. Only now do I feel empowered to pull back your veil of distortion, to expose your inner-being and to cut your cloth from my entrapment. For you, nourishment and fulfilment come from the control and power over “the other”, but for me, this whenua now feeds me in ways in which your world can never imagine. Tihei mauri ora

What Brings Me to This Place? The opening words were crafted on my 44th birthday. The opportunity for me to draw connections between the symbolism of the day of my birth and the conversations within this manuscript seemed a natural place to start a journey of K¯ai Tahu identity (re)clamation. My opening words speak of the social constructs and realities that I was born into, and how they have intentionally—or unintentionally—shaped and moulded my identity. The suggestive and implicit nature presents the concept of Whiteness , an ideological cultural power that has carved a distinctive mark on the experiences of my life, and the construction of my personal and professional identities. In my professional life, I am a chef and have taught culinary arts at Otago Polytechnic for the last 20 years, with the last decade primarily teaching in the Bachelor of Culinary Arts programme. From an early age, I had a passion for cooking which led me to train in the classical French curriculum and practice as a chef in the field of Haute Cuisine (more commonly referred to as Fine Dining). Within the field of Haute Cuisine, the white ideologies and cultural tastes possessed within it have dominated the philosophical and technical approaches to my craft. As a chef and a culinary arts teacher, I have both mastered and taught these white ideologies to others, enculturation and assimilation into culinary whiteness under the dark cover of formal education! Like many others who whakapapa (genealogically connect) to the southern reaches of Te Waipounamu, I am a descendant of an early mixed-race marriage between a K¯ai Tahu wahine (woman) and a European whaler, in the early part of the nineteenth century. For a significant part of my life, the agenda of cultural assimilation enforced on Southern M¯aori by the colonialists has left a distinctive cultural imprint upon me.

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Until recently, I have roamed in a wilderness of confusion as to the validity and legitimacy of my K¯ai Tahu identity. It is only now, in the mid-stages of my life that I feel confident to ask why I have always felt white and could only make sense of the world through the lens of te ao P¯akeh¯a (European worldview). I could put this down to a mid-life identity crisis; however, it is the opportunity to tell this story and to restore the Mana M¯aori within my wh¯anau, hap¯u, and iwi which has now brought me to this point in time. To make sense of who I am, I will return to the first five years of my life and introduce you to the normalities of my whiteness . These early years were extremely important in influencing how I viewed kai and the whenua, and in later years, how these experiences would express and embody my personal and professional worldviews and my relationship with my K¯ai Tahu self.

¯ Tahu and Growing Up “White” Being Kai My mother is the daughter of Pearl Colvin and Raymond (Butch) McCunn, wonderful and loving grandparents of mine who I spent many ¯ precious years with growing up in Otepoti (Dunedin). It is through my grandmother Pearl, that I whakapapa to Southern M¯aori (K¯ai Tahu specifically) and my t¯urakawaewae (place of standing), Rakiura. When my mother was born, it was often joked that she was the milkman’s daughter due to her blonde hair and pale complexion, while my grandmother and some of my mother’s siblings possessed a darker complexion. As a young boy I lived in Roxburgh, however, my cousins and I would always look forward to catching up at family gatherings at our grandpar¯ ent’s house in Otepoti with its basement full of hidden treasures and its garden laden with tasty treats. I recall these family experiences as being very P¯akeh¯a or white in nature. There was no te reo spoken in the wh¯anau, no karakia before kai (the word kai was not even used), and limited practice or understanding of tikaka. When it came to kai, as a wh¯anau we ate a traditional British diet. Like other “normal” families of the time, indigenous kai such as flounder, Bluff oysters, and blue cod adorned the table, however, these were always prepared through western culinary practices and consumed using white European cultural protocols. As a wh¯anau, we never ventured into the wild and practiced m¯ahika kai and my grandfather’s prized vegetable, or flower garden would have never been dug up for the purposes of cooking a hangi!

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Just before my fifth birthday, my mother separated from my father and ¯ left Roxburgh to return to Otepoti with my sister and me. Around the age of seven, my mother met her future life partner, Joe, a M¯aori of Ng¯a Puhi, Ng¯ati P¯ukenga, and Ng¯ati Ruahine descent from Tauranga. In an attempt to get away from the “M¯ aori’s up North”, Joe had moved south to flesh out a different life for himself. It was through my mother’s relationship with Joe, that Richard my (step) brother entered my life. Following the separation of Joe from his previous wife, Richard had come to live with Joe in Dunedin. Unlike me, a pasty, timid, and somewhat reserved white boy, Richard was a lean, muscled, and outgoing dark-skinned M¯aori kid. Likewise, where I somewhat fumbled and stumbled my way through sport, Richard was a natural talent, excelling to the point of representing Dunedin Metropolitan in rugby. As kids, we had so much fun growing up. Riding our bikes on the streets of our neighbourhood, building huts over the back fence in the crevasses of the Abbotsford slip, and performing pretend WWF wrestling matches on our bedroom floor, these experiences were the normality of our youth. On several occasions, I would adopt the wrestling name of Ravishing Ray McCunn in honour of my grandfather (a previous wrestler in his own right) and take Richard on in an amateur wrestling match. While I may have had the wrestling lineage, an older and more buff competitor was always going to beat the weeny younger kid. Many a time, my body would end up on the bedroom floor, contorted and entangled, with my desperate pleas of submission going deafly unheard! Without sounding cliché, the outdoors was also a big part of our playground and looking for a “free feed” was a natural part of our adventures. Whether it was koura in the creek or blackberries in the bushes, if it could be found in the wild and eaten, it was fair game to us kids. Part of our adventures would be to head to the beach to collect buckets of tuatua, cockles, sand oysters, and mussels. Similarly, being at the beach and fishing from the rocks would be a great way to spend an afternoon “out of my mother’s hair”. It was during these coastal outings that I was first exposed to Joe’s perspective of the world. Many a time, I would spend the day waiting patiently for a fish to hook onto my line before eventually dragging it onto the rocks. As was typical, Joe would walk to my fish, unhook it from my rod, and throw it back into the water saying, “that one is for Tangaroa”. In my state of youth, I was not in a position to verbalise my thoughts, but deep inside I was always thinking “why is this guy throwing

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a perfectly good fish away to some mystical god?” Fears of missing out on food only added weight to my concerns and thoughts such as “what will happen if we do not catch another fish today?” and “what will we be eating tonight?” raged wildly through my mind. On the one occasion, I did ask Joe why we threw the fish back; his reply was simple “it is bad luck to keep the first fish”. His response was a basic explanation to me, and it did not possess any spiritual, philosophical, or metaphysical reasoning behind it. I never really challenged Joe on his reasons, but just shrugged my shoulders and went along with the process. I viewed it like finding a four-leaf clover, some things bring you luck in life and others do not. On one such fishing adventure, my best friend from school came with us. We went to a spot that we had not been to before, and within minutes we were landing some of the biggest fish I had ever seen. As I looked over my shoulder, my friend’s face was filled with excitement as he felt the sharp tug of a massive fish on his rod. I yelled at him to quickly reel it in. As he fought the fish, he struggled to haul the monster from the deep onto the jagged basalt rocks. He was pretty buggered after the ordeal but extremely pleased with his efforts. As he gazed upon his prized catch, Joe went over and removed the hook from the fish, and just as he had done every other time, he walked over to the water and said, “that one is for Tangaroa”. I watched the blood drain from my friend’s face as he turned to me and said, “what the f**k is that about?”, to which I replied, “It’s a M¯ aori thing, it’s just what they do”. When Mum was at work, it would be Joe’s turn to cook dinner for us children. Regularly we had boil-up, Joe’s favourite dish. As a kid, I did not even need to be told we were having boil-up for dinner because the smell hit me in the face the moment I walked in the door from school. Sometimes when we did not have access to watercress, Joe would add puha to the boil-up. Puha was a strange kind of weed that he found down the back of the house and one which my sister claimed made her feel healthy when she used to get sick. When it came to eating boil-up, we would each be dished a bowl of vegetables and pork bones, and we would pick up the bones with our hands, and, with a knife, pick away at the bones to remove the scrapings of meat on them. The first time Joe cooked a boil-up, I remember thinking “what is this thing?”, and “why do we have to pick around bones to find scraps of meat?” I wasn’t a big fan of the boil-up. It was just so weird and foreign

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to me. I mean, surely life hadn’t become so bad that all we could afford to eat was bones! Worse still, I might invite a friend over to stay and we could end up serving them bones for dinner; good God, what would the other kids at school think of me? About once a year we used to have a h¯angi and a party with friends and wh¯anau. If it wasn’t bad enough eating bones for dinner, we were now cooking meat on rocks in the ground! Just over our back fence, on the farmland that was once the Abbotsford slip, we would go about digging a big hole and creating a massive fire to heat some river rocks for us to cook the food on. When I say we, I really mean Joe and Richard, as my growing interest in becoming a chef meant that I was always in the kitchen, stuffing the chickens, cutting up the vegetables, and making the puddings with my mother. As Richard used to jokingly say to me, “best you go hang out in the kitchen with Mum as women aren’t allowed near the fire and h¯ angi pit anyway”. It was Richard’s typical sense of humour, but I didn’t really care because digging holes in a paddock never rarely appealed to me, and anyhow, in my opinion, real chefs cooked on stoves and not in pits in the ground. The putting down of a h¯angi meant that we would have friends and family around to feast. While the h¯angi was the main event, our friends and wh¯anau brought plates of other delicious foods to eat. As a future pastry chef in the making, I always looked forward to the desserts and the dining table adorned with bowls of trifle, stacks of eclairs dipped in chocolate, and neat rows of brandy snaps filled with light fluffy cream. The beautiful swirling of Chantilly cream and the light dusting of icing sugar on the desserts were what appealed to me. As my father’s family was Catholic, my sister and I went to the local Catholic school, while Richard went to the local state school. By all accounts, the kids at my school never really knew Richard was my (step)brother. With us both attending different schools, we each developed our own friend groups. We would walk home with our own friend groups after school, sharing lollies and soft drinks that we had brought from the dairy with recycled bottles we had found on the streets. As children, friend groups are important when you are walking to and from school. Friend groups provided you with your own small gang, so that, if challenged by other kids, you had the collective security and forces of your friends, to defend yourself against an attack, even if the threat of attack was rare for me and my friends.

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Around the age of eight, one day my sister and I met up with Richard on his way home from school. For some reason, we had all been delayed at school and as such, we did not walk home with our usual friend groups. This was in the early 80s and it was a time when New Zealand started to see the emergence of the skinhead movement. Skinheads were a group of young white angry nationalists who physically distinguished themselves in society through their shaven heads, black clothing, and black Doc Martin shoes with white laces. They were also commonly referred to as “boot boys” and they often had younger associates hanging around in the wings. In the suburbs surrounding our home, they hunted in wolf packs on their BMX bikes. On this day, my sister, Richard, and I were heading through the Green Island motorway tunnels when three associate skinheads pounced upon us. Their general demeanour alone was enough to frighten me, but Richard knew there was more to the situation than general intimidation. Richard often spoke to the wh¯anau about being verbally tormented on the streets by these white supremacists. Initially, I thought we were all going to get hit by them, but instead, the three of them attacked Richard, violently punching him in the face and head, while calling him a black bastard and a nigger. Richard was a well-built young man and he defended himself as best he could. Unfortunately, he was outnumbered by the gang and suffered punches to the head and body, as well as the racial distress of being labelled “a black bastard”. While I was frightened by the whole ordeal, I was happy not to be a victim of their attack. I remember thinking at the time, here was my bigger and stronger brother being innocently attacked by these skinheads just because he was M¯aori. By now I had come to realise that my pale skin could hide my cultural identity because being M¯aori and black served you no favours in life. Worst of all, being outwardly known to be M¯aori, would only bring you physical and psychological harm.

Learning to Hide in the “White” Shadows Within the above story, I have recalled some of the most influential experiences of my youth. Upon reflection, this highlights my lack of connectivity to and understanding of te ao M¯aori (M¯aori worldview) and tikaka (protocols) and being of pale complexion provides the ability to hide one’s K¯ai Tahu identity in society (which can be of benefit at times).

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Learning to be “white” and having to hide one’s (K¯ai Tahu) cultural identity has always been a meta-narrative within my wh¯anau. My wh¯anau experienced this first-hand within the Taiari (Taieri) Plains, just south of ¯ Otepoti, where, like so many mixed-race families, they were enculturated and assimilated into P¯akeh¯a culture through marriage, land ownership, and state education (Wanhalla, 2009). These early colonial agendas are well documented through the research endeavours of Wanhalla (2004, 2009, 2015); the structural and cultural implications of these agendas are still being felt in our K¯ai Tahu communities today (Dacker, 1994; Evison, 1993; O’Regan, 2001). However, there are K¯ai Tahu p¯ur¯akau that further explain the dominance of P¯akeh¯a ways of knowing in Southern M¯aori life. Many of these p¯ ur¯akau have intentionally been hidden from the public, that is, until now. I have been granted the mana to share the p¯ur¯akau of my wh¯anau with you. The kaupapa that fuels the sharing of these p¯ ur¯akau is that they shine a light on the lives of our t¯ıpuna and provide insight into why some Southern M¯aori abandoned their traditional cultural lifeways for te ao P¯akeh¯a. The Story of Una Palmer My Great Grandmother, Una Palmer, was born at Mait¯apapa (Henley) in 1898. As a young girl, she attended Flag Swamp School near Palmerston. The social and racial pressures of living in the Otago region in the early and mid-twentieth century meant that for Una being M¯aori wasn’t advantageous in the P¯akeh¯a-dominated society. By the time Una attended school, all of her lessons were taught in English as a result of the 1871 Education Policy which dictated all state education would be delivered in English (Selby, 1999). This law reinforced the irrelevance of te reo (and M¯aori culture) in Una’s life, as there is no living memory of my great-grandmother ever acquiring the language nor practicing it within the wh¯anau. As Una transformed into a young woman, she lived in a white-dominated society that held negative attitudes towards her M¯aori culture. As Evison (1993) comments of racism in the 1920s and 30s in New Zealand, it was the common societal practice to ridicule M¯aori through “coon humour” and everyday slang words such as darkies and niggers (p. 483). While Una was registered with K¯ai Tahu, she was reluctant to identify privately or publicly with her Southern M¯aori identity. My Aunty Dawn recalls being intrigued to find out as a young girl that she was of M¯aori

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descent. However, when she pressured her grandmother to tell her what iwi she belonged to, it was only under duress that Una conceded that she whakapapa to K¯ai Tahu. For a young Dawn, Una’s concession came with words of advice “that one should not worry themselves with these things, as those ways are gone” (Leask, 2020). As was typical of many Southern M¯aori of her time (O’Regan, 2001), it appeared that Una tried to hide her K¯ai Tahutaka from the public as a simple means of self-preservation. As Dacker (1994) comments, with the passing of each generation and as their features started too “pale” (p. 85), it was also common practice for those of mixed descent to deny their Southern M¯aori heritage in the hope of better integration into the evolving P¯akeh¯a settler society. The desire to appear white and therefore “normal” meant that many M¯aori remained unseen as M¯aori as they hid their cultural identity, allowing them to assimilate more quickly into P¯akeh¯a society (L. T. Smith, 1996). As someone who rarely spoke of her indigenous identity, a comment made by Una to one of my aunties provides an insight into the life she led. As recalled, Una commented that one of my cousins (who had darker skin because his father was a North Island M¯aori) was an absolutely beautiful baby; however, because of his skin colour, she feared for him dearly as the life ahead would be hard indeed. Such remarks provide us with small glimpses into the life of Una and what it meant to be Southern M¯aori in those times. As my mother recalls, even once Una was of the age to receive her annual K¯ai Tahu kaum¯atua grant, she would always ask her grandchildren to cash the cheque at the bank because she did not want the tellers to know she was M¯aori. In 1962, her annual Ng¯ai Tahu kaum¯atua grant of £10 went unclaimed because Una could not face the shame of someone at the bank potentially realising, she might be M¯aori. This uncashed cheque remains in the possession of the wh¯anau today and serves as a historical artefact and social and cultural reminder of the racial shame that existed in Una’s life. Story of Pearl Colvin “There’s the black bitch, quickly get her, don’t let her get away!” It was only a small group of children, but enough to surround the vulnerable girl and deem her defenceless. An attacker grabs a rock and launches it towards her

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head. Luckily, her quick reactions avoid a direct hit to the head. Alas, the second rock is more precise as its ragged edge strikes her back. Its piercing thud renders her body motionless and her lungs temporarily breathless. Unable to breathe, her legs become weak; eventually, her lifeless body drops to the ground. Her first breath is a sob of pain, and through the broken tears she asks, “but why did they do this to me?”

The above scene is an emotional interpretation of a racial experience encountered by my grandmother Pearl. Sadly, like her mother Una, Pearl also suffered a backlash towards her Southern M¯aori identity. As my mother recalls, Pearl once told her of the traumatic experience of being stoned as a young child in her hometown of Kaitangata. Pearl had left school one day and was making her way home on foot when, along the way, a small group of children ganged up on her and hurled rocks at her. At the time, Pearl questioned why the children were trying to hurt her, their reason for doing so was simple…she was a M¯aori and, therefore, she should be stoned. As my mother recalls from the conversation, the incident left a young Pearl distraught about her K¯ai Tahu identity; an identity she would learn to shun in her public life but would speak of comfortably in the safety and security and her wh¯anau. By the time my grandmother Pearl was born, the colonial vision of cultural assimilation was deeply embedded within Southern society (Evison, 1993). As these p¯ur¯akau indicate, success for many K¯ai Tahu in the first part of the twentieth century rested upon how best its members integrated into the dominant and mainstream white p¯akeh¯a culture (Wanhalla, 2009). Likewise, parents actively encouraged their mixed-race children to “fit in” in order to succeed socially within this new white P¯akeh¯a world (Wanhalla, 2009, p. 138). Fitting in socially entailed adopting the hybrid body, in the form of a P¯akeh¯a physical appearance and education with western standards of dress, and cultural and social etiquette (Wanhalla, 2004). Speaking English and denouncing te reo M¯aori were also central to successful social and cultural assimilation (Dacker, 1994). Generations of being physically and culturally attacked for being M¯aori had led my wh¯anau to adopt P¯akeh¯a lifeways and the inherent white social and cultural normalities that existed within them. Thus, through enculturation, my wh¯anau was provided with a means to free themselves from their culturally enslaved and socially deprived situations. To survive within these new white worlds, they had to abandon their K¯ai Tahu identity and

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bow to what Wolfe (1994) describes as the “logic of elimination”: the elimination of their indigenous cultural practices and the adoption of the cultural lifeways of the colonial Other (p. 93). Reflections on Whiteness and Learning to “Fit in” Reflecting on the experiences of my wh¯anau and their need to fit into a P¯akeh¯a-dominated world has allowed me to identify how cultural assimilation made me feel comfortable in a white world. I can now see that the white normality that existed within my youth was a result of generations of my wh¯anau learning to socially and culturally fit in, due to the racial, cultural, and social pressures of the past. The sense of white normality that I was born into had in fact been brought about through generations of enculturation into the dominant p¯akeh¯a cultural lifeways. Likewise, enculturation into te ao P¯akeh¯a has been a means for me to navigate and, at times, succeed within a P¯akeh¯a-dominated world. Such enculturation has meant that my wh¯anau have been both victims, and with time, benefactors of a colonial agenda of white assimilation. This historical enculturation explains when I first came into contact with food practices that were not within my cultural construct of normality, I viewed them as foreign and labelled them negatively as “weird” and “strange”. This was my perception of M¯aori food as a child because M¯ aori food did not represent my perceptions of normality. Yet, here I was as K¯ai Tahu with a proud whakapapa, having no cultural connectivity to the traditional practices of tikaka. Dyer (1997) argues that the power of whiteness is best represented when it does not need to speak its name, rather, it chooses to categorise and label what is foreign to it as Other. From this position, whiteness holds the privilege of normality in society and therefore does not need to defend itself or its actions towards Others . Fundamental to the notion of othering is that social and cultural differences become the distinguishing boundary markers that form the characteristics of in-group identities (groups that people belong to) and out-group identities (groups that people do not belong to) (Staszak, 2008). The concept of othering becomes relevant within this work, as an examination of my reactions towards M¯aori tikaka kai, reveals that I regarded and treated it as other to me. Thus, by perceiving M¯aori food as other, I was socially and culturally reinforcing and reconfirming my in-group white identity.

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I can now see that the normality that existed within my youthful worldview was in fact an expression of my white identity and its embodied whiteness. Likewise, experiencing first-hand violent attacks towards my stepbrother only served to subconsciously reinforce to me the safety and security of the white identity. Not possessing dark skin, knowledge of tikaka and kawa, or command of te reo benefitted me in society because I could hide my Southern M¯aori identity when challenges were made towards my M¯aori culture. Frankenberg (1993), one of the seminal academics in the field of critical whiteness studies, states that being white “is a location of structural advantage, of race privilege” (p. 1). When I look at the actions towards my brother and me that day, it was apparent that my white skin provided me with the racial advantage of not being violently attacked. The tragic reality is that my wh¯anau p¯ur¯akau of colonisation and racial abuse is not unique to me, instead, it sits alongside other similar Southern M¯aori stories (Armstrong, 2016; O’Regan, 2001; Wanhalla, 2009). As such, my p¯ur¯akau is but one of many thousands that exist within the wider K¯ai Tahu wh¯anui narrative; a meta-narrative of a marginalised group, forced to live and culturally function within the ideologies and worldviews of the culturally dominant other. In presenting the p¯ ur¯akau of my wh¯anau to the public for the first time, I hope that the insights gained from within, will critically, and spiritually awaken those K¯ai Tahu wh¯anui members who see themselves as culturally dislocated from their indigenous self. As Pihama et al. (2014) remind us, there is still a void of knowledge and understanding within Aotearoa New Zealand, as to the role that colonisation has played in creating historical trauma for M¯aori, and what that means in terms of the physical, cultural, and spiritual health of M¯aori today. This work contributes towards that understanding by examining how cultural dislocation acts as a form of cultural trauma and impacts our internal understandings of self and our external displays of cultural self.

References Armstrong, V. (2016). “Our M¯ aori Connection”: The impact of colonisation on one Southland wh¯ anau. Auckland University of Technology. Dacker, B. (1994). Te Mamae me te Aroha: The pain and the love: A history of the K¯ ai Tahu Wh¯ anui in Otago, 1844–1994. University of Otago Press, in association with the Dunedin City Council.

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Dyer, R. (1997). White. Routledge. Evison, H. (1993). Te Wai Pounamu: the Greenstone Island: A history of the southern M¯ aori during the European colonisation of New Zealand. Aoraki Press. Frankenberg, R. (1993). White women, race matters: The social construction of whiteness. University of Minnesota Press. Leask, D. (2020, February 22). [Palmer History]. O’Regan, H. (2001). Ko Tahu, ko au: K¯ ai Tahu tribal identity. Horomaka Publishing. Pihama, L., Reynolds, P., Smith, C., Reid, J., Smith, L. T., & Nana, R. T. (2014). Positioning historical trauma theory within Aotearoa New Zealand. AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 10(3), 248–262. Selby, R. (1999). Still being punished. Huia Publishers. Smith, L. T. (1996). Ng¯ a aho o te kakahu matauranga: The multiple layers of struggle by M¯ aori in education. Doctoral thesis, University of Auckland. ResearchSpace, The University of Auckland. Staszak, J-F. (2008). Other/otherness. In International Encyclopedia of Human Geography, 1–7. Elsevier. Wanhalla, A. C. (2004). Transgressing boundaries: A history of the mixed descent families of Maitapapa, Taieri, 1830–1940. Doctoral thesis, University of Canterbury, University of Canterbury. https://doi.org/10.26021/4337 Wanhalla, A. C. (2009). In/visible sight: The mixed descent families of southern New Zealand. Bridget Williams Books. Wanhalla, A. C. (2015). Living on the River’s Edge at the Taieri Native Reserve. In Z. Laidlaw & A. Lester (Eds.), Indigenous Communities and Settler Colonisation: Land holding, loss and survival in an interconnected world (pp. 138–157). Palgrave Macmillan. Wolfe, P. (1994). Nation and miscegenation: Discursive continuity in the postMabo era. Social Analysis: THe International Journal of Social and Cultural Practice, 36, 93–152.

CHAPTER 11

Editorial Discussion Adrian Woodhouse and Kelli Te Maih¯ aroa

In this concluding chapter, we wish to draw attention to the epistemological themes portrayed in the authors’ work. These themes include metaphorical expressions as a M¯aori sense-making tool, including whakapapa (genealogy) as a foundational construct for locating and developing understandings of self. By drawing attention to these epistemological themes, we will contribute to a deeper understanding of how legitimate knowledge is constructed and disseminated by M¯aori within the research method of Indigenous Autoethnography. This contribution builds upon the m¯atauraka M¯aori of previous M¯aori scholars (Carey, 2016, 2018; Kainamu, 2013; Whitinui, 2014) who have embraced Indigenous Autoethnography within their scholarly practice. As part of the editorial process, each of the authors was asked to explore and analyse the concept of self within the domains and realities of their personal and professional lives. As editors, we asked each

A. Woodhouse (B) Food Design Institute, Te P¯ukenga Ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] K. Te Maih¯aroa Te P¯ukenga Ki Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6_11

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author’s contribution to evolve from a place of self-authenticity; meaning the authors were given individual agency to tell their story in ways that were natural to them. Through this approach, each of the authors’ stories was informed by an instinctual and tacit dimension, whereby the naturalised and internalised ‘ways of Being’, guided and directed them throughout their work. This internalised wayfinding process was deliberately heuristic, as adopting a heuristic approach within Autoethnography allows each author to naturally “turn inward to seek a deeper, more extended comprehension of the nature or meaning of a quality or theme of human experience” (Moustakas, 1990, p. 24). As a method of research, embracing and embodying one’s internal and tacit sense-making processes sits at the juxtaposition to the realist and objective modes of research that dominate the academy (Bochner & Ellis, 2016). It is within the realist research paradigm, that knowledge is often communicated through highly structured forms of writing and explicit modes of expression (Bochner & Ellis, 2016). This form of academic writing can be likened to expressing one’s knowledge through a pre-determined script; a script which at times can unwittingly fail to embody the authentic nature of the researcher or their knowledge. On the contrary, these works with Indigenous Autoethnography: illuminating M¯aori voices, embody a rhythmic expression that can only emerge when an Indigenous person embraces their authentic self. By standing back and observing and decoding each author’s natural forms of expression, we are provided with a lens into the authentic ways in which M¯aori make sense and position themselves within te ao M¯aori. In doing so, these authors’ works emerge as natural and organic forms of Indigenous Autoethnography expression, offering unobstructed perspectives into what is viewed as authentic, legitimate, and meaningful m¯atauraka and knowledge expression for M¯aori.

Empowering the Indigenous Self It has been almost a quarter of a century since kaupapa M¯aori Theory was welcomed into the academy (Graham Hingangaroa Smith, 1997). Since that time, M¯aori academics have embraced and readily adopted kaupapa M¯aori as an approach to uphold and explore traditional knowledge constructs within the academic arena. In doing so, M¯aori academics have continued to enhance the academy with Indigenous epistemologies that embrace traditional ways of being and knowing. Within the

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academy, Indigenous epistemologies act as forms of decolonisation to the dominant western constructs of hegemonic scientific research and its associated ideologies of imperialism and colonialism (Archibald, 1997; McIsaac, 2000; Sium & Ritskes, 2013). Beyond the acts of resistance and decolonisation, Indigenous epistemology has empowered Indigenous researchers to create knowledge that culturally enriches the lives of Indigenous peoples (Christensen, 2012; Iseke, 2013). Like other academics (Bainbridge, 2007; M. Bishop, 2021; Houston, 2007; Justice, 2004; McIvor, 2010; Nakata, 2007) who are working to decolonise the academy, these works are situated within a wider global Indigenous movement, whereby Indigenous people are writing back and reclaiming their authentic, unbridled voice through Indigenous Autoethnography. Moreover, with the academy heavily dominated by western paradigms, each of the authors is active changemakers, offering their contributions of personal stories and experiences, thus rebalancing epistemological equity within higher education through perspectives and knowledge which is counter to western knowledge, paradigms, and worldviews. Endeavouring to achieve epistemological equality within the academy is important for M¯aori because it avoids the colonial campaigns of the past which were employed to breed us out, but within a contemporary world have been reframed as institutions of knowledge designed to ‘educate us up’ (M. Bishop, 2021, p. 375).

Seeking the Cultural Wisdom Within The gift of indigeneity lies in our ability to connect with the authentic cultural self and to express ourselves in ways that other Indigenous people find meaningful (Royal, 2009). As Linda Smith (1999) argues, “Indigenous people want to tell our own stories, write our own versions, in our own ways, for our own purposes” (p. 28). Through the deep reflective processes inherent within the practice of Indigenous Autoethnography (Whitinui, 2014), as Indigenous academics, we find ourselves examining and reconnecting with our own sense of knowing and intuitive intellectual wisdom, a cultural wisdom that Royal (2009) argues is important when recalibrating one’s own personal and collective cultural potential. Embracing one’s Indigenous identity and cultural wisdom does not limit M¯aori or Indigenous people to the worldviews and epistemologies of the past. Instead, it accepts that all cultural identities are shaped and informed by the realities of today (Royal, 2005). As M¯aori, we should

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be inspired and guided by the wisdom of our t¯ıpuna (ancestors), but we need to acknowledge within our practice that the realities of a contemporary world, can at times, be vastly different from that of traditional M¯aori society (Royal, 2005). Here within the ‘melting pot’ space between building upon the m¯atauraka (knowledge) handed down by our t¯ıpuna (ancestors), alongside the current and potential future positioning, is the creation of new m¯atauraka that is adapted for contemporary living. With this perspective in mind, each of the authors has drawn their understanding of their personal and professional lives by integrating traditional M¯aori epistemological cultural markers such as whakatauk¯ı (proverb) (see Addison, Caffery, Karetai, Murray, Tawera, Thomas, Te Maih¯aroa and Te Waaka) and whakapapa (genealogy) (see Takimoana, Tawera, Thomas, Te Maih¯aroa, Te Waaka and Woodhouse) into their sense-making processes. Their work embodies Royal’s (2005) call for present-day M¯aori to be creative with our traditional knowledge, as they have each reimagined its application and meaning within the turbulent realities of contemporary life. By combining their story of self with traditional sense-making processes, each of the authors has woven a korowai (cloak) of knowing which upholds their mana (prestige) and those they represent, while at the same time, reaffirming their own M¯aoritaka (being M¯aori).

Weaving Traditional Storytelling into the Complexities of Contemporary Life Storytelling is central to the Indigenous worldview (Lee, 2009; McIvor, 2010; L. T. Smith, 1999). It is through our story work, that as Indigenous people we can find many answers to the questions within our lives (Pihama et al., 2019). Questions of identity, belonging, and personal and professional aspirations have been raised by each of the authors. These questions highlight, that as Indigenous people our lives are often situated within sites of personal struggle and cultural angst, as we attempt to be authentic to ourselves and embrace our spiritual being. In responding to such questions through Indigenous Autoethnography, the complexities of ‘being Indigenous’ are inextricably linked to unearthing one’s authentic ‘Indigenous Being’, the self-discovery journey beyond knowing thyself. We are reminded of the complexity of the Indigenous dimension when Bishop (2021) writes, “Indigenous autoethnographies cannot and will not be defined or reduced to a checklist. They operate from a

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different axiology and ontology that does not seek to categorise, classify, or simplify; instead, Indigenous autoethnographies strive to increase complexity” (p. 2). It is this complexity, which is at the heart of each of the authors’ works, and as Indigenous Autoethnographers, they are tasked with examining and decoding life’s complexities for the betterment of others. Questions about the legitimacy of one’s personal and professional being are threaded within the works (see Tawera, Thomas, and Woodhouse). Compounded with notions of love and loss (Addison, Karetai, Tawera and Te Maih¯aroa), the Indigenous reality can often be filled with a multiplicity of tensions. Yet, it is through the act of reflective practice and the retelling of one’s story, that the methodology of Indigenous Autoethnography allows the author to embrace these complexities and transform them into meaningful learning moments. In doing so, the reflexive and self-restor(y)ing processes within Indigenous Autoethnography provide a means of self and cultural empowerment for M¯aori (Carey, 2016; Whitinui, 2014; Woodhouse, 2021). Whereas storytelling has at times been adopted as a mode for entertainment, storytelling within Indigenous Autoethnography is intended for the greater purpose of cultural regeneration and Indigenous empowerment (Carey, 2016; Whitinui, 2014; Woodhouse, 2021).

Metaphorical Way Finding Using a storytelling approach has allowed the authors to express epistemological constructs and creative cultural expressions that are unique and fundamental to M¯aori ways of knowing and being (R. Bishop, 1997; Lee, 2008, 2009; Lee et al., 2005; L. T. Smith, 1999). The use of Indigenous storytelling, with its integrated symbolic, implicit, and metaphorical meanings, has allowed M¯aori Autoethnographers to conceptualise and express their thoughts in ways that traditional Autoethnography cannot (Whitinui, 2014). This approach to constructing one’s story within Indigenous Autoethnography should not be of surprise to M¯aori, as Bishop (2021) contends, metaphorical and poetic expressions are considered the legitimate dataset of the Indigenous Autoethnographer. Metaphorical expression is fundamental to m¯atauraka M¯aori (R. Bishop, 1999; Metge & Jones, 1995). Hence, the use of whakatauk¯ı (see Addison, Karetai, Murray, Tawera, Te Maih¯aroa, Te Waaka and Thomas) and poetic storytelling (see Karetai, Te Waaka, Thomas, and Woodhouse)

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is adopted throughout the chapters. As T¯a Apirana Ngata once stated of traditional M¯aori language constructs “In former times a wealth of meanings was clothed in a word or two as delectable as a proverb in its poetical form and in its musical sound” (quoted in H. M. Mead & Grove, 2004, p. 450). This is best seen in whakatauk¯ı, a poetic expression that is known to cast light on M¯aori knowledge, educate future generations, and elucidate values for guidance in life (Metge & Jones, 1995). Furthermore, the deeper meanings within the metaphorical passages of whakatauk¯ı do not rest on the words alone, instead, they are premised on the intellectual duality that exists between the poetic author and the receiver of the work (Metge & Jones, 1995). This requires those who interpret these metaphorical works to possess a certain level of cultural insight and understanding, without which, much of the key messaging and value within would be lost (Metge & Jones, 1995). Constructing and expressing knowledge in this way is important for M¯aori, as metaphorical forms of expression are widely practiced within M¯aori society and are therefore easily received, understood, and conceptualised (R. Bishop, 1997; Carey, 2016). The adoption of metaphorical expression within Indigenous Autoethnography makes it an accessible form of knowledge acquisition for M¯aori, as opposed to traditional explicit forms of autoethnographic expression (Denzin et al., 2008). With most pre-colonial M¯aori language structured in the form of metaphoric poetry (Carey, 2016), the use of implicit and metaphorical language evident within each authors’ story has been a means for the authors to connect to the past, as they seek guidance into the future. As Metge and Jones (1995) comment when discussing the metaphorical nature of whakatauk¯ı and its application within contemporary life, “the art of using whakatauk¯ı involves applying them in new contexts to new problems, in a way that sheds new light on context, problem, and whakatauk¯ı” (p. 6). Through the process of reapplying traditional whakatauk¯ı within the practice of Indigenous Autoethnography, each of the authors continues to value the wisdom of the past yet strengthens this wisdom by weaving its interpretation and purpose into contemporary lifeways. The use of metaphorical expression within Indigenous Autoethnography creates a sense of truthfulness for M¯aori, and when combined with the need to honour the metaphorical wisdom of their t¯ıpuna, develops what Wilson (2020) describes as a “relational accountability” (p. 77). It is this relational accountability and the need to do things right within our work, that as M¯aori we uphold the tikaka (protocols) to practice within this space.

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Whakapapa as a Reality and Construct of Being For M¯aori, whakapapa is central to one’s way of knowing and being (Rameka, 2016; Te Rito, 2007). Through relational connectivity, whakapapa explains how all things physical and spiritual within te ao M¯aori are related through a series of complex relationships and interdependencies (Marsden, 2003a). As Whitinui (2014) comments, whakapapa as a sense-making and analytical tool was traditionally employed by M¯aori “to help understand the nature, origin, connections, and trends related to a particular phenomenon—as an organic process” (p. 17). Within the concept of whakapapa, everything is connected, and nothing exists on its own. Whakapapa, through its connections to the spiritual and the physical realms, weaves and binds M¯aori to their atua (deity), t¯ıpuna (ancestors), and whenua (land) (Rameka, 2016); a construct located within many of the authors’ stories. The importance of connecting with one’s cultural identity is evidenced by each of the authors’ acknowledgement and recall of their whakapapa. Connecting with one’s whakapapa can be practiced through the simple act of stating one’s iwi (see Addison and Karetai), yet for others (see Murray, Takimoana, Takurua, Te Maih¯aroa, Te Waaka and Thomas), it is about establishing a line of descent from which they draw their puna of strength from. In the case of Woodhouse, drawing on the principles of whakapapa has been his means of sense-making to explain the nuanced characteristics of his Southern M¯aori cultural identity. Beyond genealogy, whakapapa can also be understood as forms of universal movements (Rameka, 2016; Walker, 1992). Through this construct, whakapapa is not just about unfolding physical matter, but rather the movement and an emergence of new conscious understandings as energetic beings move through different phases of existence (Rameka, 2016; Walker, 1992). Walker (1992, p. 11) states that M¯aori operate within “three states of existence” which form their physical and spiritual being. These states of consciousness are ‘Te Kore’ (the Void), ‘Te p¯ o’ (the dark), and ‘te ao m¯arama’ (the world of enlightenment) and through this construct, whakapapa is conceptually framed as the movement and evolution of human thought, understanding and consciousness (Rameka, 2016; Walker, 1992). Within this framework of whakapapa, human thoughts and understandings, move from Te Kore through into the realms of emergence within te p¯o, before entering our conscious ‘Being’, within the paradigm of te ao m¯arama.

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These two constructs of whakapapa are evidenced within the creation p¯ur¯akau (story). Within this p¯ ur¯akau of enlightenment, all spiritual and physical things within te ao M¯aori emerge from the womb of Te Kore. As Marsden (2003a) reminds us, it is within the womb of Te Kore that potential thoughts and actions exist in the form of primal, elemental, and latent energies that can, at any time, be realised and transformed into existence. The formation of potentiality occurs once the energies within Te Kore enter the realm of te p¯ o and venture through varying stages of te p¯o, the realms of manifestation and realisation (Marsden, 2003a). Te p¯o is also the celestial realm, and it possesses varying states of physical and conscious emergence (Walker, 1990). With time, these differing levels of physical potentiality and human consciousness transition through te p¯ o and enter te ao M¯arama, the place of enlightenment (Walker, 1990). As Rameka (2016) states in relation to the use of whakapapa and its correlation to knowledge enlightenment, “Whakapapa is acknowledged as a way of thinking, a way of storing knowledge, and a way of debating knowledge. This holistic, outward looking perspective of knowing is intimately connected and continually developing” (p. 4). In the same way that whakapapa provides an epistemological framework to explain the evolution and development of our physical and spiritual realities, whakapapa is also an epistemological framework which explains the continued evolution and development of human thought, understanding, and Being (Fig. 11.1). When interpreting whakapapa from the perspective of selfenlightenment, conceptual overlaps exist between whakapapa and reflective practice. Within both developmental constructs, one must be prepared to let go of the constructs of the known self, if one is to arrive at a new state of Being. Central to both forms of self-enlightenment is critical reflection, which Dewey (2003) defines as “assessing the grounds (justification) of one’s beliefs” (p. 9). It is through the critical assessment of self, that one enters a place of uncertainty before transcending into an evolved state of Being (Fook, 2015; Mezirow, 1991). The process of critical reflection mirrors the continuous cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth; the evolutionary process which can be found at the heart of the Indigenous paradigm (Rameka, 2016). The following Indigenous Autoethnography Praxis model is adapted from Walker’s (1992) proposed Three States of Being and illustrates how the reflective storytelling processes inherent within Indigenous

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Fig. 11.1 Three States of Being (Walker, 1992)

Autoethnography creates a hybridity space to consider schematically new forms of Being (Fig. 11.2). With these perspectives in mind, we can see how whakapapa is adopted within two applications within Indigenous Autoethnography. The first application is a genealogical perspective, in which the Indigenous Autoethnographer uses whakapapa to self-identify and explain the interconnected relationship of their physical and spiritual being. The second application of whakapapa is when the Indigenous Autoethnographer enters the writing process and critiques previously held beliefs to arrive at a new state of Being. Within this process, reflective writing allows the indigenous Autoethnographer to enter the realm of Te Kore, and to bring into realisation a new state Being within te ao M¯arama. Simply put, by reflecting, revisiting, and rewriting one’s life story through a lens of self-critique, the Indigenous Autoethnographer operates within the continually evolving and transformative realm of te ao M¯arama. This is the elixir of human living within te ao M¯arama; to be inquisitively curious,

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Fig. 11.2 Indigenous autoethnography Praxis model. Te Maih¯aroa and Woodhouse (2024) adaption of Walker (1992)

thrust forward by our eternal quench for more life-giving moments to nourish our ‘Spiritual Being’.

Concluding Thoughts As we return to each of the author’s chapters, we can now clearly see how the concepts of reflective practice and new states of Being operate within each of the stories. Within herstory, Kelli Te Maih¯aroa connects to her ancient Waitaha whakapapa in Te Wai Pounamu, which grounds her identity within her tribe’s ancestral landscape. For Jamie Addison and Mawera Karetai, their reflections have brought forward the conscious realisation that they are agents of change within marginalised communities. Similarly, reflections by Vicki Rangitautehanga Murray, Jody Takimoana and Gary Te Waaka have provided them with the platform to professionally position themselves as thought leaders within the field of formal education.

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For Takarua Tawera, reflection has been a means to draw connections and understandings from the leadership qualities possessed by his ancestors to his role today as a leader within the M¯aori mental health sector. Likewise, Jeff Thomas’s reflections about his physical and spiritual connection with his t¯urakawaewae provided him with the conscious wakening about his unique cultural identity. Finally, through reflection, Adrian Woodhouse was able to examine the cultural traumas of the past to illustrate why many M¯aori today continue to feel dislocated from their authentic cultural self. In each of these stories, the reflective processes within Indigenous Autoethnography have been the means to embrace the potentiality of Being that exists within each of the authors. The epistemological themes of metaphorical expression and whakapapa as a construct for locating and developing understandings of self are present throughout each of the authors’ stories. Each author’s story was derived from a place of self-authenticity, thus allowing us to experience first-hand the natural ways in which M¯aori interpret their experiences and express their lived realities through Indigenous Autoethnography. Much like the rich tapestry of a life well lived, these his and herstories bring forward a kete brimming with mixed emotions, an expression of life stories and M¯aori lived realities as the Indigenous People of Aotearoa New Zealand. As we bring this work to an end, we once again reach into the power of whakapapa by drawing on the words and wisdom of our t¯ıpuna through the expression of whakatauki. Ka tangi te Titi, ka tangi te Kaka. Ka tangi hoki ahau (The muttonbird sings, the kaka sings. I want to say something too).

It is through the voice offered by Indigenous Autoethnography that our people are empowered and encouraged to share their most vulnerable moments within their lives. In doing so, they have reconnected with their past to make sense of their future. Yet, as scholars their k¯orero no longer sits solely within them; rather, like all forms of m¯atauraka, their stories are shared in a space of hope and anticipation that others may see themselves reflected in these stories and potentially enrichen the lives of others. M¯a te whiritahi, ka whakatutuki ai k¯a p¯umanawa a takata | Together weaving the realisation of future potential.

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Mauri ora koutou, good health and wellbeing to all Kelli Te Maih¯aroa and Adrian Woodhouse

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Glossary

ahi k¯a ahi k¯a roa ahi tipua ¯ahuatanga Maori ahurea ako ¯akonga amo

keeping the home fires burning, keeping connections alive uninterrupted burning of ancestral fires volcanic entity Maori tradition culture to learn, to teach learner carved barge boards

aroha atua awa

love deities, gods river

awhi awhi mai, awhi atu h¯ang¯ı hapori hap¯u heketua whakakata h¯ıkoi hoa-haere hui

care the principle of giving and receiving food cooked in an earth oven community subtribe toilet humour to walk, journey constant companions meeting/s, to meet

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6

187

188

GLOSSARY

ira takata iwi kahup¯o kai K¯ai Tahutaka kaiako kaikaranga kaimahi kaimoana kaitiaki kaiwhakatere kanohi ki te kanohi kanohi ora kapa haka Karaitianatanga karakia karanga kaum¯atua kaupapa kaupapa M¯aori kawa k¯ehua kete m¯atauranga koha koha atu-koha mai k¯ohanga reo k¯orero koro/koroua korowai kotahitaka k¯otiro k¯oura kuia kuia tuarua k¯umara kupu M¯aori kura kaupapa M¯aori mahana

physical and spiritual beings tribe, tribal being ignorant of or blind to something food, to eat K¯ai Tahu-ness, K¯ai Tahu way of living teacher/s caller to visitors entering the marae staff member seafood guardian/s leader face to face living embodiment M¯aori performing arts group/s Christianity prayer calling, to call elders journey, topic, purpose, theme, subject M¯aori approach cultural practices spirits baskets of sacred knowledge to gift, gifting, gift exchange of gifts language learning nest story, discussion, speech grandfather blanket, cloak unity daughter, girl crayfish grandmother great-grandmother sweet potato M¯aori words M¯aori immersion primary school warmth

GLOSSARY

189

mahi mahika kai makutu m¯am¯a mana

work food cultivation bewitch, inflict harm mother status, prestige

mana M¯aori mana motuhake mana whakatipu mana whenua manaaki manaakitanga/manaakitaka manuhiri M¯aoritanga/M¯aoritaka

power, prestige, sovereignty of M¯aori self-determination leadership territorial rights, the people that hold to care, hospitality hospitality, kindness guests, visitors M¯aori way of life, being M¯aori, M¯aoriness complex of land and buildings

marae m¯areikura m¯arenatanga m¯at¯amua matan¯a Matariki matatau m¯atauranga/m¯atauraka m¯atauranga/m¯atauraka M¯aori

high born female marriage first born aspiration M¯aori New Year competence knowledge, understandings M¯aori knowledge

mauri mere

lifeforce fashioned clubs

mihimihi moemoe¯a moko moko kauae mokopuna m¯oteatea motu muka noa

speech of greeting dreams tattoo traditional chin markings grandchild, grandchildren lament, traditional chant island fibre restriction, common

noho w¯ananga

marae-based learning

190

GLOSSARY

oho mauri o ¯ ku p¯ap¯a rua p¯ap¯a/p¯apara p¯atai p¯ataka pepeha p¯epi poi pono

to awaken the lifeforce my (plural) stepfather father question storehouse tribal saying baby traditional ball on string truth, integrity

p¯otiki p¯oua pounamu

youngest, last born grandfather greenstone

p¯ouri p¯owhiri p¯uh¯a puna

sadness welcome onto the marae sowthistle source

p¯ur¯akau r¯ahui r¯ahui m¯o ¯ake tonu rakatahi/rangatahi rakatirataka/rangatiratanga rangatira rohe moana r¯op¯u taha M¯aori taha wairua taiaha taiao t¯akata/t¯angata takata/tangata whenua

narratives, story, traditional chronicles temporary ritual prohibition permanent sanction youth self determination paramount chief customary coastal territory group M¯aori heritage spiritual side wooden spear environment, natural world people Indigenous to this land, people of the land region children clients at Moana House funeral treasures

takiw¯a tamariki t¯angata whaiora tangihanga taonga

GLOSSARY

taonga tuku iho tapu taua tauira tautoko te ao te ao M¯aori te ao m¯arama te ao P¯akeh¯a te reo M¯aori teina tihei mauri ora tika tikaka/tikanga tipuna/tupuna t¯ıpuna/t¯upuna t¯ıt¯ı tohu tohunga tomo t¯ua¯hu tuakana t¯urakawaewae t¯uturu urup¯a wahine wahine toa waiata wairua wairuatanga waka w¯ananga w¯ananga rangatahi weka

191

cultural heirlooms, gifts handed down restriction, sacred grandmother learner/s support the world the M¯aori world, M¯aori world view the physical world, world of enlightenment European world view M¯aori language junior, younger sibling of the same gender the breath of life correct, what’s right customs ancestor/grandparent ancestors/grandparents mutton-bird signs, qualifications chosen expert arranged marriage an alter where rituals were performed senior, older sibling of the same gender ancestral homelands, place of standing, tribal boundaries authentic cemetery woman female warrior song/s spirit spirituality canoe discussion, traditional learning space workshops for youth small flightless native bird

192

GLOSSARY

whakaiti whakapapa whakapono whakatau¯ak¯ı whakatauk¯ı whakaw¯atea whakawhanaungatanga wh¯anau whanauka/whanaunga whanaungatanga wh¯angai whanonga pono whare tipuna whare t¯uroro wharenui wh¯ariki whenua

humility genealogy, genealogically connect belief/s proverb in which the speaker/origin is known maxims, proverb (unknown origin) to clear, cleanse, purge relationship building, making connections family, extended family relative, relations kinship, relationships adopted principles, values ancestral house field hospice meeting house woven floor mat land

¯ Kaupapa Maori Theory Principles ako M¯aori ¯ata Kaupapa Kia piki ake i nga raruraru o te kainga Taonga tuku iho Te Tiriti o Waitangi Tino rangatiratanga Wh¯anau

preferred pedagogy growing respectful relationships collective philosophy socio-economic mediation cultural aspiration Treaty of Waitangi self-determination extended family structure

GLOSSARY

193

Placenames and Other Proper Nouns Akaaka Matua Aotearoa Aparima H¯ahi Ringatu Huaki P¯ouri Io K¯ai/Ng¯ai Tahu Kaihaut¯u: Te K¯ahui Whet¯u Karaitianatanga M¯ataatua Matariki Motup¯ohue Moutohor¯a Ng¯a Puhi Ng¯ai M¯aori Ng¯ai Tamapare Ng¯ai T¯uhoe Ng¯amotu Ng¯ati Awa Ng¯ati M¯amoe Ng¯ati Pikiao Ng¯ati Porou Ng¯ati P¯ukeko Ng¯ati P¯ukenga Ng¯ati Ruahine ¯ Ohinemataroa ¯ Opihi-whanaunga-kore ¯ Otepoti ¯ Otuawhaki P¯akeh¯a P¯apaka

parent vine New Zealand Riverton Ringat¯u faith Where T¯ane-mahuta resided Supreme being A tribal group of the South Island Capable M¯aori Lead Christianity migration canoe connected to the Bay of Plenty and Hokianga Pleiades, M¯aori New Year Bluff Whale Island A tribal group of Northland M¯aori people (as a collective) A hap¯u of Ng¯ai T¯uhoe A tribal group of the Bay of Plenty New Plymouth A tribal group of the Whakat¯ane and Te Teko areas A tribal group of the South Island A tribal group of the Bay of Plenty A tribal group of the East Coast of the North Island A tribal group of the Bay of Plenty A tribal group of the Bay of Plenty A tribal group of Taranaki T¯uhoe ancestress ¯ Opihi the relation-less Dunedin The place where T¯awhaki ascended to the heavens New Zealand European P¯a site of Ng¯ati Awa

194

GLOSSARY

Papat¯ua¯nuku P¯ohaturoa Puketapu P¯utauaki R¯akaihaut¯u Rakiura Rangit¯aiki Rewat¯u R¯uaumoko T¯amaki Makaurau Tangaroa ¯ Te Atiawa Te Kauhanganui Te Kete Aroiti Te Kete Aronui Te Kete Tuauri Te Kura Matatini ki Otago Te Mahurehure Te Moana-a-Toi Te Puia o ¯ Whakaari/ Whakaari Te Rae o Kohi Te Tiriti o Waitangi Te Tohu o Te Reo M¯aori Te Toka o Ir¯akewa Te T¯uahu Mataaho Te Waipounamu Te Whaka-a- Te Wera Te Whakat¯ane Te Whakatohea ¯ Upokorehe Waih¯opai Waitaha

Earth mother A monolith in Whakat¯ane, an alter where rituals were performed P¯a site of Ng¯ati Awa Mount Edgecumbe A Waitaha ancestor and waka navigator Stewart Island A river of Ng¯ati Awa A marae south of Whakat¯ane Deity of earthquakes Auckland Deity of the sea and fish A tribal group of Taranaki the parliament of the King’s development the basket of morals and values the basket of aroha, peace and the arts and crafts the basket of sacred knowledge Otago Polytechnic A hap¯u in R¯ua¯toki The Bay of Plenty White Island Kohi Point Treaty of Waitangi A degree in M¯aori Language Ir¯akewa’s rock the landing place South Island Patterson’s Inlet A hap¯u in Waimana ¯ otiki area A tribal group in the Op¯ A hap¯u of Te Whakat¯ohea Invercargill A tribal group of the South Island

Index

0-9 1300s, 99 1871 education policy, 162 1900s, 106 1920s, 162 1930s, 162 1950, 14 1970s, 17 1980s, 17, 130, 131 80s, 32 850 AD, 23 A Abandoned, 140 Aboriginal, 86 Abuse, 70, 71 Academic learning, 54 Academic mentor, 20 Academic transformation, 55 Academic transition, 55 Acceptance, 83 Accepted, 19 Access training courses, 142 Adapt, 34

Addiction, 6, 7 Addiction (alcohol), 32 Addiction sector, 61, 64, 66, 70 Addictions field, 31 Addictions practitioner, 6, 29 Adoption, 15 Adult life, 39, 46 Adventure(s), 20, 21, 127, 158, 159 Advocate, 36 Affiliated marae, 112 Affirmative identity, 146 Afford, 160 Afraid, 49 Afterlife, 42 Agents of change, 178 Aggression, 30, 32 Ako M¯aori, 50 Alcohol, 32, 33 Alcohol-fueled argument, 20 Alcoholic, 30 Align, 95 Alone, 40, 46, 49, 140, 144 Alternative dispute resolution (ADR), 46

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 K. Te Maih¯aroa and A. Woodhouse (eds.), Indigenous Autoethnography, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-99-6718-6

195

196

INDEX

Altruism, 47 Ancestors, 2, 8, 48 Ancestral sites, 105, 108 Ancestral site visits, 108 Ancestral wisdoms, 100 Ancestry, 55, 81, 82, 93, 94 Ancient influences, 94 Ancient whakapapa, 26 Ancient wisdoms, 95, 103 Anger, 32, 35, 140 Angry gang member, 6 Anonymity, 40 Aotearoa, 166 (a) reflection, 23 Aroha, 32 Arrested, 33 Art, 133 Aspirations, 7, 9 Assault, 30 Assets, 45 Assimilation, 82, 84, 156 Astrological signs, 40 Ata, 50 Atheist minister, 46 Attacked, 161, 164, 166 Atua (deity), 175 Aunty, 162 Authentic cultural self, 171, 179 Authentic insider voice, 4 Authenticity, 3, 36 Authentic self, 170 Authentic voice, 1, 4 Autoethnography, 1–5 Autonomy, 6

B Backlash, 164 Barrier(s), 45, 46, 131 Beaten at school, 126 Beating, 126 Being M¯aori, 18, 21, 22, 138, 142

Being present, 51 Belief, 46 Belief system, 31, 137 Belong, 30, 138 Belonged, 141 Belonging, 18, 19, 128, 172 Benefactors, 165 Best friend, 159 Betrayal, 18 Biased, 45 Bible, 6 Bicultural framework, 50 Billy T. James, 18 Birthright, 115 Black bastard, 161 Blue-collar class, 46 Body, 86 Bodybuilding, 63 Boil-up, 159 Bond, 82 Boot boys, 161 Break-dancer, 130 Break free, 41 Breakthrough, 44 Bring people together, 128 Broken, 40, 49 Brown, 32, 82 Brownness, 81 Brown side, 83 Burglaries, 33

C Capability, 129 Capable New Zealand, 1, 40, 47, 49, 51, 54 Career, 22 Care for others, 147 Catalyst for change, 135 Catholic, 160 Catholic school, 160 Celebrate, 50

INDEX

Challenges, 25, 26 Chameleon, 34 Changes (in our lives), 40 Changes of direction, 39 Chapter, 24 Chapter (gang), 6 Chapters (life), 24, 35 Character, 34, 36 Character-building, 7, 48 Chef, 156, 160 Child, 14, 15 Childhood, 42, 48–50 Childhood memories, 19, 62 Childhood trauma, 74 Childhood traumatic experiences, 35 Childhood years, 17 Choices, 43, 46, 48 Christ, 36 Christianity, 58, 60 Church, 58 Clarity, 16, 22, 24 Class hierarchies, 128 Classroom, 8 Clause, 45 Cleansed, 114 Cleansing, 79, 90 Close connection, 128 Collaboration, 143 Collective, 29 Collective philosophy, 50 Colonial, 84, 86, 87 Colonial agenda, 162, 165 Colonialism, 171 Colonialists, 156 Colonial vision, 164 Colonisation, 2, 55 Comfortable, 165 Commonality, 82 Communal living, 54 Community, 18, 21–25, 94, 106, 118 Community events, 54 Community interventions, 67

197

Community resources, 72 Community warrior, 41 Competency, 33 Confidence, 46, 143–145, 152 Confusion, 157 Connect, 14, 19, 24, 82, 86, 87 Connected, 79, 81 Connections, 7, 17, 21, 26, 96, 105, 175, 179 Conscious wakening, 179 Constructivist, 49 Construct meaning, 69 Contemporary world, 171, 172 Contribution, 106, 112 Control, 42, 44, 46, 155, 156 Cook, 40, 41 Coon humour, 162 Core beliefs, 72 Cosmological narratives, 95 Counsellor, 33, 67, 71–74 Courage, 111, 112, 129, 130 Court, 141 Cousins, 14, 16, 157, 163 Creative capacity, 132 Creative cultural expressions, 173 Creative medium, 132 Creativity, 131–133, 138 Criminal activity, 33 Criminogenic behaviours, 69 Critical assessment of self, 176 Critically reflect, 95, 119 Critical reflection, 95, 102, 103, 108, 109, 120, 176 Critical reflective practice, 94 Critical thinking, 69 Critical whiteness studies, 166 Criticism, 83 Crooked path, 135 Cross-cultural abilities, 71 Crown-Tribal settlements, 22 Culinary whiteness, 156 Cultural and spiritual identity, 24

198

INDEX

Cultural angst, 172 Cultural aspiration, 50 Cultural assimilation, 156, 164, 165 Cultural assumptions, 94, 104 Cultural capacity, 129 Cultural cocoon, 18 Cultural connectivity, 165 Cultural difference(s), 71, 165 Cultural diversity, 134 Cultural elders, 105 Cultural events, 22 Cultural health, 166 Cultural identity, 138, 171, 175, 179 Cultural imprint, 156 Cultural insight and understanding, 174 Cultural intrusion, 54 Cultural knowledge, 104 Cultural learning journey, 21 Cultural learning resource, 95 Cultural lens, 155 Culturally attacked, 164 Culturally connected, 48 Culturally dislocated/dislocation, 166 Culturally liberating, 2 Culturally rejected, 8 Culturally relevant, 54 Culturally responsive, 76, 91 Culturally responsive initiatives, 149 Culturally responsive practice, 95 Culturally sustaining, 91 Cultural models, 75 Cultural nuances, 56, 69 Cultural performance, 20 Cultural portals, 109 Cultural power, 156 Cultural practice(s), 5, 10, 91 Cultural pre-dispositions, 94 Cultural pressure, 165 Cultural pride, 26 Cultural re-connection, 21 Cultural regeneration, 173

Cultural reminder, 163 Cultural replenishment and nourishment, 5 Cultural resurgence, 26 Cultural revitalisation, 5 Cultural roots, 112 Cultural selves/self, 5, 9, 166 Cultural shift, 22 Cultural trauma(s), 2, 10, 166, 179 Cultural wisdom, 171 Cultural worldview, 71 Culture(s), 94, 100, 126, 129, 131–133, 155 Curiosity, 42–44, 47 Curriculum, 18 Customary practice(s), 16, 100, 114

D Dad, 30 Dairy, 160 Dance, 130, 133 Darker complexion, 157 Darkies, 156, 162, 166 Dark place, 34 Daughter, 41, 157 Death, 25, 43, 99, 115 Decolonisation, 171 Decolonise, 143, 144, 146, 147, 152 ‘Decriminalisation’, 146 Defend, 45 Defend yourself, 160 “Deficit thinking”, 143 Define (me), 42 Democratic, 46 Descendant, 22, 23 Designated M¯aori roles, 24 Desire(s), 49, 163 Desires, 156 Destiny, 14, 25, 42, 46 Determination, 26 Developing, 87

INDEX

Difference, 82, 84, 85 Discovery, 94, 95, 109 Disempowered, 46 Dislocated, 179 Disowned, 129 Disparity, 128 Distortion, 156 Diving, 62, 63 Divorced, 14 Domestic violence, 6, 65 Dominant society, 96 Dopamine, 42 Dreams, 7, 14, 15, 17 Drive, 44 Driver, 17, 23 Drugs, 34 Drunk, 30 Dunedin, 157, 158 Dysfunction, 30, 33

E Early 1990s, 22 Early 80s, 161 Early childhood education, 49 Early traumatic childhood experiences, 71 Early years, 16, 17, 44, 48, 157 Educational relationships, 22 Educational system, 55 Education system, 126–129, 131, 132, 134–136 Educator, 41 Embedded, 164 Emotion, 49, 54, 71, 72 Emotional interpretation, 164 Emotionally bankrupt, 23 Emotional realities, 3, 8 Emotional storytelling, 8 Emotions, 35, 36 Empathise, 31, 36 Employment disputes, 46

199

Empower, 24 Empowered, 156 Empowering individuals, 134 Empowerment, 1, 6, 7 Enculturation, 156, 164, 165 Engagement, 3 English, 162, 164 Enlightenment, 94, 116 Environment, 29, 30, 33 Epistemological constructs, 173 Epistemological equity, 171 Epistemological framework, 176 Equality, 46 Equals, 51 Equity, 46 Escape, 43 Establishing ties, 90 Ethical dilemmas, 73 Ethical logic, 69 Euro-centric, 80, 86 Europe, 86 European, 80, 81, 85 European whaler, 80, 156 Evaluations, 150, 151 Evolved state of Being, 176 Experiences, 54, 55, 69–72, 75, 93–95, 108, 114, 115, 119, 126–128, 130–135, 156–158, 161, 164, 165 Exploitation, 84 Exploited, 49 Exploration, 94 Extended family structure, 50 Extracurricular activity, 130

F Facilitator, 40, 41, 50, 51 Failed, 83, 142, 143 Fair complexion, 8 Fairness, 7, 42 Fair outcome, 46

200

INDEX

Fair process, 45 Fair skinned, 22 Faith, 26, 32, 42 Family, 80–86, 88, 89, 127–129, 157, 160, 162 Family Court, 46, 47 Family Court for the Union of Fathers, 46 Family disputes, 46 Family history, 82, 129 Family lineage, 129 Family violence, 72 Father, 30, 32, 36, 158, 163 Fear, 42 Feedback, 130, 132 Feel, 43, 46, 48 Female role model, 14 Financial security, 23 Fine dining, 156 Fit in, 34 “Fit in”, 164, 165 Fitting in, 82 Food, 83, 86, 88 Food practices, 165 Forbidden, 31 Foreign, 87, 159, 165 Foreign land, 86 Forget, 35 Forgiveness, 35, 141, 142, 152 Formal education, 178 Formative years, 10 Foundation, 44, 45, 48 Free, 14, 164 Fundamental values, 142 Funeral, 129 Future, 42, 47, 51 Future generations, 127

G Gang culture, 33, 34 Gang life, 6

Gang member, 62 Gap, 86 Genealogical lineage, 55 Genealogical perspective, 177 Genealogy, 94, 118 Generational cultural capital, 118 Generational techniques, 86 Generosity, 147 Giving voice, 114 Global indigenous movement, 171 God, 19, 26, 34–36, 53, 58, 68–70 Gospels, 58 Government agencies, 22 Graduate, 151 Grandchild, 36 Grandfather, 157, 158 Grandmother, 157, 162–164 Grandparents, 157 Grateful, 36 Great grandmother, 162 Grief, 140 Grieving process, 115 Growing respectful relationships, 50 Growing up, 30, 32, 33 Growth, 79, 90 Grow up, 21 Guidance, 19–21 Guide, 79 Guiding, 87

H Habitual process, 48 “Half-breeds”, 129 Hangi, 157 Happiness, 32 Happy, 14, 17, 21 Hap¯ u, 155, 157 Hard, 141, 144, 151 Hard times, 36 Hate, 35 Hater of some, 41

INDEX

Haute cuisine, 156 Healing, 35 Hell, 35 Helping, 87 Helping people, 47 Here and now, 42 Hero, 41 Heuristic approach, 170 Hide, 161–163, 166 Hierarchy, 83 High Court, 47 Higher learning, 94 Higher power, 42 High risk M¯aori offenders, 69 Highs and lows, 23 High school, 43, 44, 49, 83, 85 Hine-ahu-one, 14, 18, 24 Hip-hop artist, 130 Historical artefact, 163 Historical connection, 55 Historical content, 81 Historical enculturation, 165 Historical impact, 135 Historical traditions, 58 Historical trauma, 166 History, 18, 21, 80, 81, 83–86, 90 Hit, 30 Holistic, 51, 176 Hope, 42, 96, 120, 138, 179 Hospitality, 147 Human needs, 41 Humble beginnings, 15, 16 Hybrid body, 164

I Ideas, 133, 134 Identify, 162, 165 Identity, 138, 142, 156, 161–164, 166, 172, 178 Identity dislocation, 2, 10 Identity (re)clamation, 156

201

Ideologies, 155, 166 Illiterate, 64 Imbalance, 128 Imperialism, 171 Included, 131 Inclusive, 45, 50 Independent, 15 Indigenous, 2–6, 10 Indigenous approach, 120 Indigenous autoethnographic review, 94 Indigenous autoethnography, 1–3, 5, 138, 169–174, 176–179 Indigenous Being, 172 Indigenous cultural practices, 165 Indigenous empowerment, 173 Indigenous epistemologies, 170, 171 Indigenous identity, 163, 171 Indigenous knowledge and understandings, 2 Indigenous people(s), 2, 5, 80, 105, 129, 138 Indigenous person, 170 Indigenous reality, 4, 5, 10 Indigenous researchers, 171 Indigenous self, 166 Indigenous storytelling, 173 Indigenous struggles, 6 Indigenous voice, 146 Indigenous wahine, 15 Indoctrination, 6 Inequity(ies), 100, 129 Infirmed, 45 Information literacy, 145, 146, 152 In-group identities, 165 Injustice, 135 Inner being, 156 Inspiration, 138 Instant gratification, 33 Integration, 163 Integrity, 71, 73 Intellectual independence, 147

202

INDEX

Intentional learner, 44 Interact, 128 Interconnectedness, 55 Intermediate, 64 Internal reflection, 32 Internal understandings, 166 Inter-peer relationships, 114 Introspection, 41, 48 Intuition, 120 (in)visibility, 22 Involved, 23 Isolation, 35 Italian culture, 86 Italy, 86 Iwi, 157, 163, 175 J Jail, 30 Jesus Christ, 58 Journey, 6, 8, 15, 21, 25, 26, 34, 35, 79, 83, 85, 89, 126, 132, 134, 135, 137, 138, 143, 144, 146, 148, 150, 156 Just, 44, 46–49, 51 Justice, 2, 7 Justice (lack of), 31 K Kai, 157, 165 K¯ai Tahu, 156, 157, 162–166 K¯ai tahu communities, 162 K¯ai Tahu cultural practices, 91 K¯ai tahu identity, 157, 161, 164 K¯ai tahu self, 157 K¯ai Tahutaka, 163 K¯ai tahu wh¯anui narrative, 166 Karakia, 53, 58, 68, 100, 140, 157 Kaupapa, 162 Kaupapa M¯aori model, 50, 51 Kaupapa M¯aori research approach, 3 Kaupapa M¯aori theory, 170

Kawa, 166 Key learnings, 137, 138, 145, 151–153 Kia piki ake i nga raruraru o te kainga, 50 Kids, 158–160 Kindness, 147 Kinship, 5 Knowing, 85, 90 Knowledge, 43, 44, 47–51 Knowledge (accumulation of), 42 Knowledge generation, 106, 109 Knowledge (new), 42 Knowledge (pursuit of), 42 Koro, 36 Korowai (cloak) of knowing, 172 Koura, 158 Ko Wai Tenei, 6

L Lack of connectivity, 161 Lack of relevance, 80 Lack of understanding, 161 Lack of value, 80 Land, 45 Land issues, 57 Land ownership, 57, 162 Language, 81, 83, 85–88, 96, 100, 106, 112, 162 Late 1990s, 22, 50 Later years, 157 Law, 44–47, 69 Lawyers, 47 Leader, 29 Leadership, 126, 127, 129, 134, 136, 179 Learn, 19, 21, 24, 25, 126–130, 132–135 Learner, 41, 44, 49–51 Learning, 20, 21, 26, 31, 33, 79, 82, 83, 87, 90, 91, 93, 94, 96, 99,

INDEX

100, 103, 106, 109, 110, 112, 114, 115, 120 Learning experiences, 54, 94 Learning from each other, 131 Learning journey, 143, 150–152 Least educated, 45 Legacy, 16, 23, 25, 106, 116 Legal processes, 47 Legislation, 46 Legitimacy, 157 Lens, 157 Lens of others, 41 Lessons, 142, 145–147, 149–151 Life, 54–56, 58, 61, 62, 67, 69, 73, 74 Life-altering (event), 20 Life change, 9, 33, 35, 147 Life event, 24 Life experiences, 55, 69, 74 Lifeforce, 14 Life-long commitment, 112 Lifelong learning, 7, 94 Life moments, 138 Lifestyle, 29, 33 Life teachings, 32 Lighter (skin), 82 Line of chiefs, 23 Line of descent, 175 Lived experience(s), 3, 93 Local marae, 22 Local values, 84 Lord, 6 Loss, 25, 26, 173 Lost connection, 17 Love, 30–32, 35, 36, 173 Loved ones, 25 Lover of all, 41 Love (unconditional), 36 Loving father, 6 Low academic success rates, 88 Lowest paid, 45 Low socio-economic area, 88

203

M Magna Carta, 44, 45 M¯ahika kai, 157 Mainstream education, 51, 131, 134 Mainstream principles, 73 Make a difference, 24 Mana, 34 Mana M¯aori, 157 Mana (prestige), 172 Manifestation, 176 Man of God, 36 M¯aori academics, 96 M¯aori achievement, 143 M¯aori ancestry, 83 M¯aori and Indigenous communities, 3 M¯aori and non-M¯aori health, 74 M¯aori business owners, 150 M¯aori chief, 80 M¯aori Club, 88 M¯aori communities, 3, 6, 100, 106, 112, 118 M¯aori connection, 81 M¯aori construct, 108 M¯aori cultural group, 83 M¯aori culture, 86, 162, 166 M¯aori descent, 163 M¯aori educator, 138, 147, 148, 152, 153 M¯aori epistemological and ontological position, 104 M¯aori essence, 91 M¯aori food, 165 M¯aori land, 56 M¯aori leader, 140 M¯aori learners, 1, 9, 24 M¯aori learner success, 148–150 M¯aori mental health sector, 179 M¯aori metaphor, 69 M¯aori Native School, 63 M¯aori participation, 112 M¯aori pedagogies, 147–149 M¯aori perspective, 84

204

INDEX

M¯aori philosophy, 94 M¯aori presence, 88 M¯aori Primary School, 63 M¯aori princess, 80 M¯aori prophet, 14 M¯aori researchers, 4, 5, 153 M¯aori scholars, 169 M¯aori sense-making tool, 169 M¯aori society, 69 M¯aori students, 83, 148, 149 M¯aori studies, 22 M¯aori success, 147 M¯aoritaka (being M¯aori), 172 M¯aori values, principles, processes, and traditions, 94 M¯aori voice, 66 M¯aori world, 79, 81, 84 M¯aori worldview, 55, 72, 81, 87, 91 Marae-based education, 138 Marae protocol, 56 Marae visits, 19 Marginalised, 134 Marginalised communities, 100, 178 Marginalised group, 166 Mari, 89 Marriage, 162 M¯atauaraka M¯aori (M¯aori knowledge), 174 M¯atauranga M¯aori setting, 152 Maths, 133 Mattering, 43 Maturity, 69 Mckenzie Friend, 46, 47 Meaning, 80, 81 Meaningful learnings, 173 Mediator, 40, 41 Memories, 42, 47 Mental health and addiction sector, 64, 70 Mental illness, 141 Mentor(s), 33, 36, 41, 100, 105 Meta-narrative, 162, 166

Metaphorical expression, 169, 173, 174, 179 Metaphorical language, 174 Metaphysical dimension, 4 Metaphysical reasoning, 159 Metaphysics, 40 Mid-life identity crisis, 157 Mid-twentieth century, 162 Migration, 81 Mind, 86 Minimising conflict, 51 Minority peoples, 129 Mistakes, 43 Mixed decent, 90 Mixed descent, 163 Mixed-race, 10 Mixed-race children, 164 Mixed-race family, 126 Mixed-race marriage, 156 Moana House, 67, 75 Moana House programme, 29 Modern day application, 95 Mokopuna, 36 Mongrel Mob, 30 Monster, 35 Moral judgement, 155 Morally right and fair, 45 Mortal realisation, 25 Mother, 6, 40, 41, 157, 158, 160, 163, 164 Motif, 95, 102, 103, 108 Motorbike accident, 143 Mourn, 26 Multiple perspectives, 103 Mum, 30 Music, 133 Mutuality, 46 Myelin, 42 My history, 90 My kaupapa, 79, 90 My narrative, 90 My story, 96, 99

INDEX

Myths, 70 N (Name) calling, 161 Natural forms of expression, 170 Natural justice, 44–47 Nature, 108 Navigate, 79 Negative attitudes, 162 Networking, 72, 146, 150 New m¯atauraka, 172 New state of Being, 176, 177 New Zealand European M¯aori, 30 New Zealand Government, 56, 66 New Zealand M¯aori Alcohol and Drug Treatment Service (Te Ara Hau), 61 Ng¯ai Tuhoe a Te Tiriti o Waitangi partnership, 58 Ng¯a Puhi, 158 Ng¯ati Awa culture, 116 Ng¯ati Awa identity, 116 Ng¯ati Porou, 30 Ng¯ati P¯ ukenga, 158 Ng¯ati Ruahine, 158 Nigger, 161, 162 Nineteenth century, 156 Non-confrontational, 149 Non-denominational church, 46 Non-M¯aori family, 48 ‘Normal’, 89, 163 Normality, 6, 35, 157, 158, 165, 166 Normal life, 21 Northern M¯aori, 10, 89 North Island, 84 North Island M¯aori, 163 Not alone, 40 Not to give up, 34 O Observations, 151

Obstacles, 16, 144, 151, 152 Oneness, 69 Open-mindedness, 115 Oppressed cultures, 96 Oratory, 118 Otago, 162 Otago Polytechnic, 1, 156 ¯ 157, 158, 162 Otepoti, ‘Other’, 10 Othering, 165 Others, 54, 58, 65, 69–71, 165 Our home, 19 Our world, 65, 69, 70 Out-group identities, 165 Outside, 19, 21, 23 Outsiders, 83 Outspoken non-activist, 41

P Painful, 34 P¯akeh¯a, 157, 162–165 P¯akeh¯a culture, 162, 164 P¯akeh¯a dominance, 54 P¯akeh¯a-dominated world, 165 P¯akeh¯a education system, 7 P¯akeh¯a lifeways, 164 P¯akeh¯a social file, 85 P¯akeh¯a society, 163 P¯akeh¯a system, 84 P¯akeh¯a world, 85 Pale complexion, 157, 161 Papat¯ua¯nuku, 14, 155 Parental guidance, 20 Parental journey, 15 Participation, 106 Passion, 57, 67, 75 Past, 42, 47, 48, 51 Pasty, 158 Patch (gang), 33 Pathway, 14, 19, 20 Patterns, 40

205

206

INDEX

Peer mentors, 130 Personal and professional aspirations, 172 Personal and professional lives, 169, 172 Personal and professional practice, 137 Personal challenges, 55 Personal identity, 54, 128, 156 Personal journey, 54 Personal morals, 67 Personal stories and experiences, 171 Personal struggle, 6, 172 Personal transition, 75 Personal values, 72, 73 Personified legacies, 94 Perspective(s), 128, 130–134, 158 Philosophical attitude, 95, 100 Philosophical principles, 95 Philosophical reasoning, 159 Philosophy, 69, 70 Physical abusive, 60 Physical and conscious emergence, 176 Physical and spiritual being, 175, 177 Physical and spiritual realities, 176 Physical force, 30 Physical health, 166 Physically attacked, 164 Physically harming others, 33 Physically, socially, and culturally emotionally safe, 148 Physical potentiality, 176 Physical world, 113 Pioneer, 56, 61 Place of understanding, 32, 33 Plea for help, 34 Poetic storytelling, 173 Political action, 111 Political activism, 70 Pono, 32 Positive M¯aori identity, 128

Positive self-identification, 128 Positive therapeutic outcomes, 31 Possibilities, 41 Potentiality, 176, 179 Poua, 48 Power, 40, 42–44, 47, 51, 156, 165 Powerless, 44 Power-over, 83 Praxis, 143, 151 Pre-colonial M¯aori language, 174 Pre-European M¯aori, 18 Preferred pedagogy, 50 Pride, 34 Primary school, 63, 64 Principles, 134 Prison, 30, 34 Prison sentence, 34 Privileged/privilege, 46, 165 Problem-solving, 46, 47 Professional, 54, 58, 70, 75, 76 Professional development, 55 Professional identity, 94, 156 Professional interrogation, 2 Professional practice, 1, 2, 7, 8, 46, 50, 93, 94, 100, 108, 126–133, 135, 137, 150 Progress, 35 Progressive institutions, 51 Protected/protect, 45 Puha, 159 P¯ ur¯akau, 162, 164, 166 P¯ ur¯akau (story), 176 Purpose, 81 Pursuit of knowledge, 104, 115

R Race privilege, 166 Racial abuse, 166 Racial advantage, 166 Racial distress, 161 Racial experience, 164

INDEX

Racially diverse, 128 Racial pressure, 162 Racial shame, 163 Racism, 126, 127, 162 Racist undertones, 129 Rakiura, 157 Rape, 30, 32 Realisation, 176–179 Realist and objective modes of research, 170 Realist research paradigm, 170 Reality(ies), 33, 156, 166 Real-world opportunities, 143 Rebirth, 25 Re-building, 35 Reclaiming, 137, 171 Reconfirming, 165 Reconnected, 19, 179 Reconnection, 19 Recreate, 40 Redefine, 40 Redemption, 69 Rediscover, 120 Reflect, 2, 5, 40, 41, 43, 54, 70, 93–95, 100, 108, 115 Reflected, 179 Reflection(s), 32, 33, 95, 96, 102, 107–110, 119, 120, 138, 142, 145, 148, 151, 152 Reflective practice, 173, 176, 178 Reflective writing, 177 Reflexivity, 2, 10 Reframe, 43 Reinforcing, 165 Re-integration pathway, 7 Reinterpret, 120 Rejected, 8 Rejection, 140 Relational accountability, 174 Relation-less, 115 Relationship(s), 22–24, 30, 54, 55, 72, 75, 80, 85, 157, 158

207

Religion, 60, 69, 75 Remembering, 32, 35 Research artefact, 3 Researcher, 2–5, 41 Research process, 3 Resentment, 35 Reshape, 120 Resilience, 127, 128, 130 Resiliency, 26 Resistance, 2 Resistance narrative, 138 Resources, 46 Respect, 29, 32, 33, 141, 147, 152 Responsibility, 43, 47, 57, 70, 71, 127, 135 Restore, 114, 157 Retelling, 173 Rituals, 99–101, 109, 110, 119, 142 ‘Rock College’, 33 Role, 14, 24 Role models, 49 Roxburgh, 155, 157, 158 Rugby, 62, 63, 66, 158 Rule-breaker, 41 Rule-maker, 41 Rules, 46 Rural school, 134

S Sacred, 2 Sadness, 35 Safe, 17, 24, 127 Safety, 164, 166 Sayings, 118 Scaffolded methodology, 132 Scary, 34 School, 159–162, 164 School system, 142, 143 Science, 133 Scripture, 58 Secondary education, 88

208

INDEX

Secondary school teacher, 88 Secondary school teaching, 131 Second language, 8 Secrets, 35 Security, 160, 164, 166 Seeing, 103, 116 Seeking knowledge, 104 Seen, 86 Self, 58, 75, 94, 95, 104, 108, 119, 120, 138, 166, 169, 172, 173, 176, 179 Self-analysis, 49 Self-authenticity, 170, 179 Self-determination, 6, 50, 138 Self-discovery, 79 Self-discovery journey, 172 Self-enlightenment, 176 Self-examination, 41 Self-exploration, 2, 79 Self-expression, 132 Self-monologue, 6 Self-preservation, 163 Self-promotion, 64 Self-surveillance, 2 Self-worth, 114 Sense-making processes, 170, 172 Sense of belonging, 18, 19, 142 Sense of self, 6, 9, 130 Sentient chronicles, 94 Setbacks, 130 Settlement, 19, 23 Settler immigrants, 80 Sex, 34 Sexual abuse, 71 Shame, 163 Shape, 14, 24, 25 Shared heritage, 94 Shared parenting, 21 Sharing, 7, 42 Sheltered, 18, 20 Shift, 45 Sins, 35

Sister, 43, 48, 158–161 Skills, 50 Skin colour, 163 Skinhead movement, 161 Small rural life, 17 Small rural M¯aori community, 56 Social behaviour, 70 Social capital, 118 Social change, 2, 46, 96 Social circles, 90 Social construct, 156 Social, cultural, and political forces, 2 Social differences, 165 Social injustice, 70 Social justice, 2, 7 Social justice advocacy, 70 Social justice advocate, 7 Social pressure, 165 Social reminder, 163 Society, 161–166 Socio-economic mediation, 50 Socio-geographic setting, 105 Song, 95, 100, 117, 118 Soul, 86, 87 Southern landscape, 81 Southern M¯aori, 10, 80, 91, 156, 157, 162–164, 166 Southern M¯aori cultural identity, 175 Southern M¯aori heritage, 163 Southern M¯aori life, 162 Southern M¯aori stories, 166 South island, 14 Sovereignty, 110 Speaking M¯aori, 82 Speaking their language, 126 Spending time together, 19 Spiritual, 42, 54, 55, 68–70 Spiritual being, 172, 178 Spiritual dimension, 5 Spiritual elements, 100 Spiritual faith, 6 Spiritual health, 166

INDEX

Spiritual philosophy, 69 Spiritual realm, 70 Spiritual reasoning, 159 Spiritual strength, 20, 26 Spiritual world, 113 Sport(s), 21, 23, 26, 63, 130 State education, 162 State school, 160 Status, 115 Statute, 45 Staying connected, 142 Stealing, 32, 33 (step) brother, 158 Stepfather, 20 Stereotypes, 8 Stoned, 164 Stories, 68, 69, 138 Stories (ever changing), 41 Story(ies), 2, 3, 6–10, 41, 44, 79–81, 86, 157, 161–163 Storyteller, 3, 7, 9 Storytelling, 95, 114, 115, 172, 173, 176 Strength(s), 24, 26, 40, 72 Structural and cultural implications, 162 Struggle(s), 48, 141, 143, 144 Students, 80, 87, 88, 91 Study, 21, 24 Subconsciously, 166 Subjective perspective, 95 Succeed socially, 164 Success, 29, 43, 44, 49–51 Suffered, 135 Suffering, 43 Suicidal ideation, 35 Supernatural, 116, 117 Supple jack, 126 Support, 33, 141, 143, 146, 147, 149–152 Supported, 135 Support network, 46

209

Survival, 10 Symbolism, 156 Symbol of hope, 26 Systemic policies, 73 Systemic racism, 67 Systems, 126

T Taken for granted assumptions, 94 T¯ane-nui-a-Rangi, 14 Tangaroa, 158, 159 Taonga tuku iho, 50 Taua, 48 Tauira experiences, 135 Teach, 128, 134 Teacher, 104 Teaching, 43, 47, 49, 50, 86–88, 91, 138, 143–152, 156 Te ao M¯aori, 161, 170, 175, 176 Te ao m¯arama (the world of enlightenment), 175–177 Te ao P¯akeh¯a, 157, 162, 165 Teenage pregnancy, 15 Teenage years, 18, 19 Te kore (the void), 175–177 Te Kura Matatini Otago, 40 Te Mapou marae, 60 Te p¯ o (the dark), 175, 176 Te reo, 162, 164, 166 Terminal cancer, 25 Terrified, 49 Tertiary study, 44 Testimony, 6 Te Tiriti o Waitangi, 50 Te Waipounamu, 156 Te Wh¯ariki, 50, 51 The ‘clever’ class, 80, 81 The ‘M¯aori self’, 95 The “M¯aori’s up north”, 158 The “real world”, 152 The academy, 170, 171

210

INDEX

The Court, 47 The Crown, 22, 23 The law, 141 The M¯aori world, 93, 95 Theme, 42 The metaphysical, 17 The natural world, 58 The New Zealand Army, 132 The other, 156 The past, 32 Therapy, 34, 35 The rights, 127 ‘The self’, 5, 18, 94, 110, 119 The Treaty of Waitangi, 50 Think differently, 133 Thought leaders, 178 Three States of Being, 176, 177 Tihei mauri ora, 156 Tika, 32 Tikaka, 157, 161, 165, 166 Tikaka (protocols), 174 Tikanga, 48 Tino rangatiratanga, 50 T¯ıpuna (ancestors), 172, 174, 175, 179 To defy convention, 111 Together, 15, 17–19, 22, 24, 25, 43, 49, 50 Togetherness, 84 Tongan and Samoan dance, 131 Took (land and assets), 45 To serve, 23, 24 To whom i belonged, 19 Traditional accounts and histories, 105 Traditional and modern tohunga practices, 75, 76 Traditional belief, 64, 65, 71 Traditional knowledge constructs, 170 Traditional M¯aori epistemological cultural markers, 172 Traditional M¯aori society, 172

Traditional practices, 165 Traditional rituals, 100 Traditional storytelling, 5, 172 Traditional teaching style, 115 Tragedy, 7 Tragic, 42, 48 Transform, 31, 34 Transformation(s), 2, 4, 6–8, 29, 34, 36, 94, 115 Transformative education, 47 Transformative learning processes, 42 Trauma, 35, 70, 71 Traumatic, 142 Treasure, 24 Treaty of Waitangi (1840), 45 Tribal areas, 21 Tribal authority, 22 Tribal conflicts, 59 Tribal experiences, 101 Tribalised, 23 Tribal narratives, 99, 105 Tribal survival and development, 101 Trip, 127 Trust, 32, 35, 79, 85 Tuatua, 158 T¯ urakawaewae, 157 Twentieth century, 164

U Umbrella iwi, 23 Unconditional aroha, 24 Unconditional love, 21 Under duress, 163 Understanding, 42, 46, 48, 49, 104, 112 Unemployed, 45 Unfair, 128 Unhappy, 35 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), 45

INDEX

United States Bill of Rights (1791), 45 Unity, 72 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), 45 Universal movements, 175 Unjust, 45 Unplanned pregnancy, 15 Unsafe home, 17 Unseen, 163 Unsupported, 45 Upbringing(s), 30, 33, 142 Uphold mana M¯aori, 23 Uprising, 45 ‘Us’, 84, 87 V Value-centred, 95 Valued, 135 Value of education, 55 Value of humility, 95 Values, 7, 32, 33, 58, 64, 69–73, 75, 126, 129, 133, 135 Values system, 44 Version of myself, 40 ‘Very white’, 80 Victims, 161, 165 Violence, 6, 7, 31, 127 Violent, 48 Violent attacks, 166 Vision, 106, 116 Voiceless, 7 Vulnerable, 36, 45 W Waffler, 41 Wahine, 156 ‘Waipuna-a-rangi’, 79, 90 Waitaha, 178 Waitaha elders, 22 Waitaha events, 21, 23

211

W¯anaka M¯aori community, 22 Waste Administration Act, 56 Way of thinking, 42 Ways of Being, 170 Ways of life, 58 Weaknesses, 40 Weave, 63 Weed, 33 Welcome, 14, 19, 21, 147, 148 Wellness, 73, 106 Western constructs, 171 Western culinary practices, 157 Western lenses, 5 Western paradigms, 171 Western standards, 164 Whakapapa, 156, 157, 163, 165 Whakapapa (genealogy), 169, 172, 175–179 Whakatauk¯ı, 34 Whakatauk¯ı (proverb), 172–174 Whanau, 160, 161 Wh¯anau blend, 90 Wh¯anau connection, 90 Wh¯anau farm, 62 Wh¯anau whakapapa, 59, 61 Whenua (land), 155–157, 175 Where i came from, 19 White assimilation, 165 White baiting season, 19 White community, 18 White-dominated society, 162 White European cultural protocols, 157 White identity, 165, 166 White ideologies, 156 White monocultural town, 131 Whiteness, 10, 155–157, 165, 166 White P¯akeh¯a world, 164 ‘White’ privilege, 10, 84 White Ribbon campaign, 65 White side, 83 White skin, 166

212

INDEX

White social and cultural normalities, 164 White society, 2 White supremacists, 161 Who I am, 83, 94, 127, 131, 157 Whole-person approach, 134 Who they are, 131 Wider wh¯anau network, 25 Wife, 40, 41 Willingness for change, 40 Wisdom of the past, 174 Women, 30–32 Work, 32, 35 Work collaboratively, 128

Working/middle class, 18 Working with people, 36 World, 30, 32–34 Worldview, 90, 137, 152, 157, 161, 166 Writer, 41 Wrong crowd, 141

Y Young people, 128 Young wahine, 14, 21 Youthful, 166 Youth justice, 33