How I went from freezing worker to academic, Bounty bar to Moro
As a Mā ori in the 1980s, Deane Gage struggled to understand how he fitted in. It took a stint playing rugby in Italy to open his eyes.
My story is no different from any other young Mā ori boy attending college in the mid-1980s.
I was part of a generation that missed learning and speaking te reo Mā ori. I struggled to understand how I fitted in. I felt brown on the outside, but white on the inside, like a Bounty bar.
At high school, learning to speak Mā ori had no relevance in my life. There were no Mā ori jobs, or Mā ori television, nothing that would inspire you to pursue te reo Mā ori. In my mind, the only way to progress and be successful was the Pā kehā way.
These whakaaro (thoughts) I believe came from my subconscious: remembering stories of the beatings my nanny and koro received for speaking Mā ori at school; recalling my father changing his first name to sound more Pā kehā , from Popata to Fred; convincing my uncle, Pakipaki Waenga, to change his name to Joe Gage, to sound like a Pā kehā , if he wanted a job in Christchurch.
My father was a fluent te reo speaker. I would sit under the palm tree at our marae and listen to him whaiko¯ rero (make speeches) to the manuhiri (visitors). I did not understand what he was saying, but vividly remember the people laughing and smiling even at sad events such as tangihanga.
I knew I was Mā ori and not knowing my language did not make me feel any less important. But I felt there was something missing, like the final piece of a puzzle that needed completion. I just had to figure what it was.
I actually learnt how to speak Italian before I learnt Mā ori. In my mid-20s, I travelled to Europe to play professional rugby. I spent a year in San Dona di Piave, a city in the province of Venice.
I realised that Italians are very similar to Mā ori: they have a strong sense of connection with familia/whā nau (family), the love of food and expressing ospitare/ manaakitanga (hospitality). Living in Italy I understood the power of language, and how it strengthens identity.
I also played rugby in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I was training, when a big, black ex-army truck pulled up at the end of the field and a large Irishman with a long beard, wraparound sunglasses and a weathered army jacket got out.
His name was Cahill McQuinlan. And over the next hour he talked about the Ra – the IRA, Irish Republican Army – New Zealand history, the Mā ori land wars against the British, and Mā ori sovereignty.
He related these stories to his own conflict between Irish republicans and the British, repeatedly saying Tiocfaidh Ar La (Chucky Ar La) – our day will come.
He spoke of Mā ori with respect and awe, which I found both humbling and embarrassing. Humbling to listen to words of pride for my people from an Irishman, and embarrassing because I did not know this history.
When I returned home I ended up working in the freezing works. I would say to myself, I cannot do this job for the rest of my life; I need to work from the shoulders up and engage my brain.
This was the first tohu (sign) I needed a change.
The second tohu came from coaching my son’s under-9 rugby league team. Some 90% of the kid’s ko¯ rero Mā ori and belonged to kura kaupapa schools. I felt left out of their conversations. If an 8-year-old could ko¯ rero, why not me?
It was time for a change. At the age of 44, I signed up to learn te reo Mā ori, levels one and two at Te Wā nanga o¯ Aotearoa.
The excitement turned to fear and doubt; it was too late to pull out now. The difficult part of any journey is having the courage to have a go, despite the unknown and the questions of uncertainty, like ‘‘what if it is too hard’’.
I was surprised there were not many Mā ori in the class. I was one of four Mā ori tauira
(students) and felt like the token brown guy. I kept my head down. The majority of the 28 taiura were Pā kehā , Indian, Cook Islander, Australian and British.
We were fortunate to have a kaiako (teacher) who was a musician, kapa haka performer and a great mentor. We learned Mā ori by singing the alphabet, mock po¯ whiri and by conversation.
My kaiako created ahurutanga (safe space) for learning. She shaped a fun and enjoyable environment where you were accepted no matter your failings or level of te reo.
The weekend noho (stay) is a great learning tool. It is a weekend fully immersed in learning, from the morning parakuihi
(breakfast) to the evening karakia (prayer), and continued into the night while you were sleeping, listening to tauira reciting whaiko¯ rero, practising waiata and discussions in Mā ori.
As tauira we were all in the same waka of learning, heading in the same direction.
The food was awesome, breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and supper – you were never hungry. I had found a passion for education, learning and te reo Mā ori, and after the first year I wanted more.
I continued learning Mā ori, completing levels three and four, and the following year levels five and six. I enjoyed learning and took up the next challenge of a master’s degree of indigenous knowledge.
I’d question myself if I belonged among these academics, and would soon learn about decolonisation, indigenous philosophical frameworks and navigating the holistic needs of indigenous people. My mindset was changing. I had acquired the skills of critical analysis, reflection and rangahau (research).
As an adult I finally understood the teachings and mā tauranga (knowledge) my nanny and father were showing me as a child. I learned the principles of pekapeka (call in, visit) and to koha (gift) kaimoana. They always said ‘‘call in, the next time you visit they might be gone or passed away’’.
I learned tikanga, manaakitanga, whanaungatanga and kaitiakitanga, principles that would shape my self-identity. Through academia I appreciated the opinions of others and realised these are very difficult to change.
Te reo Mā ori and education has the ability to transcend lives. I am looking to complete a PhD; just imagine being called tā kuta (doctor). Why not? I no longer sit under the palm tree listening to whaiko¯ rero at the marae, but on the paepae, not struggling to understand any more but laughing with my whā nau.
Te reo Mā ori has turned a freezing worker into an academic, and a former Bounty bar into a chocolate layered Moro.
No reira te¯ na koutou te¯ na koutou katoa, mauri ora.