I’m Kiwi-as and I know I feel the burn

Igot sunburnt the other day. Like, British touristsunburnt. I don’t get sunburnt. I’m Ma¯ ori. Well, a little bit.

‘‘Gidday, I’m Jordan.’’ ‘‘Are you Ma¯ ori?’’ ‘‘Part Ma¯ ori. Part Ma¯ ori and proud.’’

See, my Mum is full British. Backstreets of Birmingham British. Thick accent British. Came over on a steam ship over 45 years ago and says things like, ‘‘You call that snow? Well, when I was a kid . . .’’ British.

You know, British British.

When she arrived she met a handsome Ma¯ ori man nicknamed Hori. It was love at first sight. And when you mix my Mum’s full British-ness with my Dad’s half Ma¯ oriness, you get me.

My British mother came over on a boat, invaded my father and made me. It’s as if I am the very paper the treaty was signed on. Or animal hide. Did they have paper back then?

Dad’s Ma¯ ori genes were strong and blessed me with built-in sunscreen. As lighterskinned friends huddled under shade I was free to roam the lands. No sign of burnt British DNA here. In summer, my natural sunscreen would thicken and I would become a shade darker. But still no shade needed. I was invincible.

A few days ago my threeyear-old, Alba, looked up at me all lovingly and said, ‘‘Eww, Dad what’s wrong with your face?’’

I was the MC at a friend’s wedding last weekend. I got burnt. Bad. I had been standing with one side of my face to the sun so one side got burnt, one side started to glow instantly. I was half n’ half.

Since the age of 25 something strange has been happening. My mean-as Ma¯ ori sunscreen has been wearing off. I joke that my Ma¯ ori-ness is disappearing.

I don’t speak the language, none of my family do. But over the past five years I’ve become a stickler for correct pronunciation. I grew up in Te Kauwhata. Tear–Ko-Fa-Ta. Not the more common, incorrect Tea-Car-Water.

How people get Tea-CarWater out of Te Kauwhata is beyond me.

If anything, my Ma¯ ori-ness should be on the rise – not burning me.

Technically I’m a quartercast. Although that does not sound technical at all and I’m guessing in 2019 it’s slightly racist. Mum plus Dad made me quarter Ma¯ ori.

To be honest, I was a bit of a confused kid. My Ma¯ ori Dad’s best friends were Pa¯ keha¯ , my Mum was British, my group of mates were Pa¯ keha¯ and constantly reminded me I was the brown kid (while they were huddled together under the shade at school).

Lunch time rugby back in the day was Brown Bread vs White Bread – something that wouldn’t fly these days. I was lucky enough to be able to pick and choose what side I went on depending on what team I thought would win. Quarter-cast perk.

It took me a while to figure out that I’m Jordan Watson – a New Zealander. My Dad taught me that when the census comes around, tick the ‘‘other’’ box for ethnicity and write ‘‘New Zealander’’.

I like that. I’m not ‘‘NZ European’’ and I’m not ‘‘Ma¯ ori’’, I have the best of both worlds. I have history and stories on both sides.

My ethnicity: Kiwi-as New Zealander.

My skin: currently covered in aloe vera.

That quarter with its SPF 1000 is failing me. I’ve noticed over the past few summers that I, too, need to linger by the shade and apply real sunscreen often. What is going on?

Maybe Mum’s British genes are fighting to get out of me. Maybe I’m becoming some sort of two-face superhero. Maybe my DNA is evolving at such a rate that science can’t keep up.

Maybe I just don’t get outside as much as I did as a kid and need to apply sunscreen now. Or it’s that giant ozone hole. Whatever the answer, I know this – wear sunscreen – no matter what your built-in SPF is.

Yours truly, Jordan the New Zealander.

Lunch time rugby back in the day was Brown Bread vs White Bread – something that wouldn’t fly these days.