‘What am I going to apologise for now? Breathing?’
I’ve been worrying about diversity in my own life.
We hear a lot today about ‘‘diversity’’. This or that organisation is deemed insufficiently ‘‘diverse’’. There is too much of one colour or not enough of another. Rainbow analogies do not apply. Monoculture is so last century.
For some time now, I’ve been worrying about diversity in my own life.
So far as my business is concerned, I think most of the bases have been covered. Of course, when you rely on volunteer labour you are inherently indulging in exploitation, so I best begin by confessing to that one.
If you can look past the fact though that I don’t provide financial remuneration for services rendered, the variety of folk who have been prepared to work for nothing over the past decade is remarkable – so much so that it might even impress the selfappointed arbiters of such things.
My Hamilton DVD rental store Auteur House has enjoyed both male and female staff members. Some have been teenagers, others comfortably in middle age and a few nearing retirement. Carnivores have sat down with vegetarians and the odd vegan. Religious affiliations have ranged from the atheistic and the agnostic to various Christian denominations – Catholic, Open Brethren, run-of-the-mill Anglican – and happily incorporated the friends of Allah as well. Ethnically, while caucasians have dominated, we have also employed those from Asia and the Middle East and a particularly forthright chap from the north of Ireland.
When it comes to sexual orientation, my policy follows that formerly adopted by the American military: Don’t ask, don’t tell. That said, without naming names, I have suspicions that our workplace has played host to both teams and a number of players who could bat for either side, depending on the toss or options available on any given night.
While our obligations under the Treaty of Waitangi have centred on a single volunteer of Ma¯ ori descent, the gentleman in question stayed on for years. I shouldn’t really say this in print – playing favourites and all – but he’s been the best of a good and generous lot.
If the truth be told, I can lay claim to some indigenous blood too. Enough to put myself on the Ma¯ ori electoral roll, should I so stipulate, or turn out for the Ma¯ ori All Blacks, as great Uncle Alexander once did.
However, my pronunciation of te reo would never pass the Taika Waititi test. My Pa¯ keha¯ vowels are sadly at the Duncan Garner end of the spectrum. In fact, I suspect my faulty command of both official New Zealand languages could well lead to formal charges being laid in the high court of political correctness. Mispronounce English – as I do, frequently – and you are merely thought a fool. Mispronounce te reo and it’s a cultural transgression.
To labour a point, there is no prejudice involved. Those who think I disrespect Ma¯ ori by butchering their tongue should hear me attempt French. Outside of a heavily accented impersonation of the lead character from ‘Allo, ‘Allo and references to Alain Mafart and Dominique Prieur when reciting the story of how David Lange went on television to inform the nation that our justice system wasn’t for sale, just before he sold it, I’m simply not up to parlez-vousing the Francais.
Some people just don’t have a facility with languages. Funnily enough though, I think my te reo is about as good as my grandfather’s was. If Taika ever heard Granddad pronounce Te Karaka, he would cringe. Yet Granddad was as brown-skinned as Taika is and Granddad was born in Te Karaka. By my way of thinking, to pronounce the word any differently would insult the memory of a much-loved ancestor.
Our family kauma¯ tua had every right to pronounce the township of his birth as he saw fit. Four elder brothers said it that way when in the trenches of the western front. Granddad pronounced it like that in Egypt and all over Italy and at the end of the war, when in Yugoslavia. Weren’t they all fighting for that kind of freedom? And for Taika’s right to correct them, too.
Guilt is the lot of the – mostly – white, middle-aged male of today. The morning shave is an opportunity to reflect on one’s lack of personal diversity. The privileges that flow from gender, race, heterosexuality and a bourgeois background are heavy crosses to bear and if you have enjoyed any material success as a consequence, it’s all rather embarrassing. At times, it’s difficult to know what to apologise for first. Breathing, perhaps?