The "Other" Room

During our stay at Camp Morely, it almost felt as though we were trained to ready ourselves for activities. We didn't really question if we were put into groups or told to engage with new people. We were given a task and we did it. Ako Mātātupu had created a safe space and were used to being in that safe space. 

It wasn't until one night that we were separated from our Te Reo Māori teachers. Initially, I was so excited that they would have a safe space provided to them where they could speak fluently -- a place where everyone would be able to speak and understand. It looked as though we were all given the same task as they looked as though they had walked out with similar objects. No one seemed to question it at the table I was in, we merely continued with listening to our next steps. 

We were then told about what a taonga is and its meaning. We were advised that this was something quite precious and held a lot of weight. We were then told to create our own taonga to provide. I started to think that were were going to share our precious gifts to each other and really started to put our heart and soul into it. The space provided was lovely, and everyone that was overseeing what we were doing had very genuine and bright smiles. Luckily, my group was very expressive and creative and we were all very proud of our taonga. We had created a conceptual bridge to unite our land with the other, we even incorporated our house colours into it to represent Matau, Mania, Toki and Koru. 

Once done, our Te Reo Speakers came back into the classroom and we were getting ready for a karakia -- another indication that I thought we were about to present our taonga to each other. Instead, we were advised to stand up from our seats and create a circle, holding hands. This wasn't uncommon, and even for an introvert, I was already used to holding someone's hand, where normally I would have had a minor panic attack. We were asked to close our eyes, again nothing odd, but I hadn't heard the instruction since the first time we had karakia at the time, I thought nothing of it. 

The person who led our karakia was one that had led many. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Everything was very normal. And then, we heard it. The sound of crashing, footsteps angry across the floor, and I almost felt the vibration of every step, of every piece of our taonga plummeting on the floorboards. I didn't need to open my eyes to see what was happening, nor did I want to. Everything was being taken from us. Everything was being destroyed. Before I could even register what had happened, I was suddenly pulled away from our circle, where I could make out a blurry version of an empty table, blocks strewn across the floor. 

We were set up to believe that this was an activity. We had been a part of an activity. The only difference from the other activities we had been pertinent to, was that this was going to be a negative one. We had been so used to the equation; activity + learning = awesome outcome. This equation was the same, but the outcome was different; activity + learning = trauma x questioning one's self. We had been told that critical analysis was part of this journey, and mostly, we welcomed this. After being a part of this activity, I don't think I would do anything differently, they executed it perfectly and everything was purposeful. The lead up, the cementing of being comfortable in a usual equation, and the safety that the space created -- if even one of those things had been different, the outcome would not have been the same. The weight that was once one very large, and too difficult to carry, was shared amongst us. This becomes a shared weight that we bring to our classrooms. 

It had been a heavy night, one where we were able to say our peace, and where the Te Reo Māori teachers were able to explain theirs. Music softened the blow but it was evident in the nights to come, that it would be something we would revisit often. I had come to terms with it through sharing, through nurturing the Vā that had already been set, and talanoa with the others who had experienced the same revisiting trauma. 

Another night rolled along; activity + learning = great outcome? 

Instead of our usual teacher led, for an activity such as this, it was student led. We were put into groups again, this time Māori in one location, Pasifika in another, and there was an "other". I felt I didn't fit into any, but what other choice did I have? I wasn't Māori or Pasifika -- although I aligned more with their upbringing, than the group I ended up in. I had a more negative association to our segregation, due to the previous night's happenings. There was a large part of me that wanted to sneak off into my cabin, masked under the night of the sky. It would have been an easy escape. Something pulled me to the "other" room though, and I found myself sat amongst many pale faces, light eyes, and mousey brown hair. I had tanned skin, almost black eyes, and my black regrowth was starting to show. This setting didn't feel as though I belonged. 

Stories started to spill out of their mouths, privileged adventures across the world, colonial ties, and reasons for their ginger and golden hair. Even having expressed all the qualities that made life in a post-colonial world easier for them, they lacked something that I had. A sense of community. A sense of place. I'm not one to speak up in front of large groups of people, especially in situations such as this but I found myself saying, "As someone who was born in a third-world country, came to New Zealand through mass migration of Asians in the late 80's, early 90's, grew up in South Auckland, and shipped to an all-girl's Catholic School in Ponsonby, I am incredibly displaced. I was never Filipino enough or kiwi enough. It took me a long time to realise that where I come from, isn't my identity. It's the relationships I create around me, the home that I provide to my family, my son. Its the friends that I choose to have in my life, and everything that I have built. That's who I am. That's my identity. So it doesn't matter if your just found out that your not from Scotland, or that travelling around the world and trying to explain what it means to be a "kiwi" -- there's no such thing. New Zealand is so diverse and we should be embracing that instead of figuring out what it is."

From being apart of something that made me feel very out of place, I realised quickly that there was room for change. Although many of the people in that room were scared, lost, and even trying to cling on to their original way of thinking, there is an opportunity for growth. We ended on someone speaking up, someone who resonated with my story as he too was brought here through mass migration, never feeling entirely South Korean, and never feeling wholly kiwi. "Yes, it is heavy. This is something that you have just experienced but you need to take this with you. This is just one day that you have felt this. We feel it at the beginning of our day, and we live with it when our heads hit our pillows." This is what we need to take into our classrooms so that we honor the Te Tiriti o Waitangi, all of the aspects that our tauira bring into the classroom, and honor the Vā that we create at our schools. This ensures that we may lessen our burden and carry this weight together. 

Critical Evaluation