WHERE DOES TE REO BELONG?

Where does te reo belong? I fear it is becoming the formal language of Aotearoa. We expect the three-pronged ‘‘te¯ na¯ koutou’’ to conclude the speeches of dignitaries and principals. For those of us not so lucky as to regularly see friends or family who have truly made te reo their own, then that can be all we hear of our national treasure.

It can make learning te reo a lonely experience. We know it belongs everywhere. It is our language. It is the language of work and play, joy, sorrow, traditional and contemporary New Zealand.

But, for many, to speak the language causes a stir. It catches ears and makes a statement because te reo is, sadly, still a rarity in everyday conversations for many Kiwis.

There are many reasons why we don’t hear more of it. Old habits die hard. Nerves get in the way of new things. Sometimes, it’s just easier not to have to explain yourself or attract attention.

Part of the problem is New Zealand continues to push back the day when every school teaches te reo. Then, at least, most of us would be familiar with the language, so speaking it in everyday conversations wouldn’t be so radical.

Sometimes when you speak te reo it feels like you’re wearing a bright red suit. The suit looks great on a stage, where extravagance is expected – te reo has been normalised in formal situations.

When you get off stage, people might start questioning you. They’ll give you the side-eye, as if to say the suit’s a bit much for them.

Many people will love your suit. They’ll compliment you on it, everyone will have an opinion. When you’re walking down the street, some strangers will admire you from afar. Others will become inexplicably aggrieved. Occasionally, other fashion radicals will tell you how you should be wearing it. Their criticisms will come as a surprise.

That goes to say that wearing a bright red suit, or speaking te reo with only a few others, can be tiring.

Which is why this week’s hı¯koi through central Po¯ neke (Wellington) was the highlight of my week. A bunch of students, academic-types and a few woke public servants got together for what was a rousing celebration of te reo.

The annual parade for te Wiki o te Reo Ma¯ ori is always an incredible, festive and inspiring event. It celebrates the amazing language we have and the hard mahi that has been done to keep it.

Events like this show us what could be. It attracts thousands of motivated, passionate supporters.

Not all of them speak it, some speak it all the time. Nobody bats an eyelid when they hear our national language spoken.

Yet, a small handful of spectators seemed confused. They asked why the marchers were ‘‘protesting’’ when they had it ‘‘so good’’. It was pretty obvious that this hı¯koi was more parade than protest, but still people tried spinning it to make supporters of te reo seem like radicals.

Those comments show how political te reo remains. On one hand, there are people scrambling to silence it: writing angry letters to newspapers and trying to stop broadcasters from speaking it.

But the language is also fiercely political within te ao Ma¯ ori. Only 35 per cent of Ma¯ ori can use a decent amount of te reo in conversation. About 11 per cent can speak fluently.

Te reo was literally beaten out of many Ma¯ ori, until only a few people were left carrying the taonga. Many bearers of the language rightly guard their taonga from further threats. They promote it where they feel comfortable and help others who ask.

We all, Pa¯ keha¯ and Ma¯ ori, need to let loose. Let’s speak it even if we might stuff up, and help those who give it a go.

The issue comes about when those who were lucky enough to learn te reo early jump on the mistakes of others. It’s a problem when te reo is used to diminish others’ efforts. You don’t know what you don’t know. For me, I didn’t know I butchered the name of my own maunga, Taranaki. I didn’t know until I read my pe¯ peha in one of my first te reo classes when I was 13.

The response was brutal. It was cutting, as if those who already knew te reo took glee in hearing me stuff up.

Had I not been confident in my ability to quickly correct myself, I wouldn’t have lasted long learning te reo. For me, that would have been a huge loss.

A loss because sometimes we take te reo too seriously. We guard it too closely. I understand that, but we all need to chill out.

We all, Pa¯ keha¯ and Ma¯ ori, need to let loose. Let’s speak it even if we might stuff up, and help those who give it a go. The more bright red suits walking down the street, talking in English and Ma¯ ori like normal, the better.