Homework has never been so rewarding

becomes something greater than its parts. Language is alive, but it’s cast from ghosts.

And then there’s the Pa¯ keha¯ language problem. I spent the last 15 years writing in this language for work, and it is a jealous master. Just writing this sentence probably unravels a tiny piece of my understanding of te reo Ma¯ ori, drags me back from the new grammar and syntax.

That’s one of the cruellest parts of being denied two languages from birth in this country. It’s pure greediness by the one language, not an act of generosity.

I would love to be able to say it was my idea to give my daughter the chance to learn two languages from early childhood. But the truth is it was her mum who gave her that gift. My daughter grew up in kura kaupapa Ma¯ ori and learned te reo Ma¯ ori like we, the great smear of this nation’s monolinguals, learned reo pa¯ keha¯ . Like breathing.

At the start of my course, the teacher, an amazing man, asked why we wanted to learn te reo Ma¯ ori. I had to think hard. I’m not that old – I’m a solid Gen-xer – but with my daughter speaking te reo and carrying it into the future for our iwi, I was maybe a little out of date, a little redundant. I was the Smash Mouth of te reo (if you haven’t heard of them, or don’t remember them, there’s a good reason for that).

I’m still not sure I have the answer to my teacher’s question – one that doesn’t simply end up being entirely about myself. But I do know that my daughter is now also my teacher. I might have helped her learn the ropes with te reo Pa¯ keha¯ , but now it’s her job to help me. When I say it’s her job, I mean I make her speak to me in te reo Ma¯ ori. Holding these long, repetitive, often circular conversations might not be the dream job for a primary school-aged youngster. But if childhood is about anything, then it’s unpaid, parent-enforced boredom.

So she helps me learn and remember new words, structures. She corrects me on my pronunciation, which frankly sometimes makes my own ears hurt. She answers my inane questions.

These conversations have gradually increased in duration and bearability for my daughter, as my understanding of te reo Ma¯ ori has grown.

I am lucky. Mostly because the best part is that I simply get to talk to her.

The love for your daughter is like a language all of its own. The love owns you: memories of memories going back to that first moment when you held her in your hands and drew in your breath at her beauty, and started your life all over again.