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Reflections | Reo

NEW ZEALANDER OF THE YEAR

by Tīhema Baker | Dec 17, 2023 | 4 | 12 min read

Tīhema Baker (Raukawa te Au ki te Tonga, Ātiawa ki Whakarongotai, Ngāti Toa
Rangatira) is a writer and Te Tiriti policy advisor. (Photo: Ebony Lamb)

This essay by Tīhema Baker placed second in the Landfall essay competition this
year. It describes his first kura reo, a week-long full-immersion Māori language
course — a harrowing experience in more ways than one.

I used to wonder what makes a person worthy of the title of New Zealander of the
Year. What does it mean to be the epitome of New Zealandness?

Then, one day, a New Zealander of the Year was crowned and they happened to be
someone I’d met. It all made sense after that.

We attended the same kura reo, a week-long full-immersion Māori language
learning experience. It was my first time at a kura reo, and this one happened
to be hosted by Raukawa te Au ki te Tonga, one of my own iwi, in Ōtaki where I
grew up.

I figured it was only fitting that the first kura reo I attend be at home, where
I’d feel the most safety and manaakitanga — and where the teachings themselves
would be informed by the reo of my own hapū and iwi.

There was, however, another reason for the significance of this kura reo. One
that is likely shared by countless other Māori like me every time they enter a
full-immersion environment.

I was terrified.

I’ve heard it said that every Māori is on their own reo journey. Some have yet
to depart, others have climbed to the zenith and still continue onwards. I’m
probably milling somewhere around the treeline, having ventured into the higher
elevations during my university studies only to come back down to what feels
like relative safety since.

My reo journey is one of constant conflict. There are times when the reo just
flows out of me, from a place that I believe lies somewhere both within and
beyond myself.

Then there are times I can’t even string a basic sentence together. Times I feel
a profound pride at my ability to stand and speak, at the resounding intonations
of “kia ora” in response to my words. Times I feel utterly inadequate next to a
true orator in the midst of a whaikōrero I can’t keep up with. Times I feel deep
unease when I wonder if my kaumātua who don’t have the reo feel that way about
me.

This conflict is only exacerbated by my white skin. Learning to be comfortable
in it is a whole other journey I’ve probably made much better progress in. But,
as an 18-year-old forging his own identity, an ugly need to “prove” my
Māoritanga was what led me to study te reo in the first place. So I could
weaponise it. Bear the dismissive looks from other Māori; the natural,
split-second assumptions made about me based on my fair hair and blue eyes, then
revel in the thrill of that satisfying moment when the realisation showed on
their faces: He’s one of us.

Whether or not this pressure to prove myself as tangata whenua exists in reality
or only in my head, it is ever-present — as is the fear of failing to do so. I
knew my proficiency with te reo had diminished in the years since I’d studied it
at university. I’d avoided confronting this truth for long enough. When the
opportunity to attend the kura reo came around, it felt like an undeniable tohu:
it was time to continue my reo journey. But that didn’t make the path looming
over me any less frightening.

So it was with barely concealed, all-consuming anxiety that I joined the ope of
tauira being welcomed to Te Wānanga o Raukawa at the commencement of the kura
reo.

It was easy to spot the regulars — the ones who greeted each other with big
hugs, already deep in reo Māori conversation. By comparison, I felt somewhat
alone. I didn’t know anyone and couldn’t spot any familiar faces. As I took my
seat during the pōwhiri, I stared up at the whakairo of tūpuna on the house and
tried to tell myself that their presence meant I wasn’t as alone as I felt.

After the pōwhiri had finished and we’d been fed, we were invited to speak to
any of the kaiako at the front of the wharekai, who would assess our proficiency
and suggest which rōpū we should join. I was placed into Rōpū Tuawhā — Group
Four out of a possible eight — which felt like a very optimistic placement by
the kaiako, but a challenge I accepted nonetheless. Putting on a brave mask, I
joined the others who’d been sorted into Rōpū Tuawhā and introduced myself. They
were all far friendlier than I anticipated, swiftly putting me at ease with warm
welcomes.

This is how I met the future New Zealander of the Year. She arrived at our table
soon after I did; white-skinned, like me, but without a trace of my crippling
self-doubt. She seemed to part the crowd of tauira with a sort of regal stride
that I could only envy. To feel as comfortable in my skin as she looked in hers,
to carry myself as confidently as she did herself! She arrived at our table with
exclamations of joy at familiar faces who she greeted warmly. Another kura reo
regular, it seemed.

And yet, I learned when she introduced herself to those of us who didn’t know
her, she was Pākehā. If I wasn’t already too nervous to speak, I would have been
stunned into silence. Her reo was excellent, at least by my standards. My
impression of her went immediately from one of envy to awe. If only there were
more Pākehā like her, I thought.

Once our classes started the following day, she only continued to impress me. It
quickly became clear that she was well-known among the kaiako, who would address
her as if an old friend, and she never hesitated to answer any of their
questions or contribute to group kōrero. It’s a common tikanga for one tauira to
mihi to the kaiako at the end of each class on behalf of everyone else, and this
was a role she assumed for one of our earliest classes.

By contrast, I felt like I was barely scraping by. I had regular trouble
comprehending the kaiako, and occasionally found myself struggling to break
through a wall of miscommunication with my fellow tauira in group work.

In my very first class, when responding to a direct question from the kaiako, I
accidentally used the word “haurangi” (drunk) rather than “pōrangi” (crazy,
insane) — which received a confused raising of the eyebrows from the kaiako and
a few mutterings from my classmates. The more I tried to stumble through an
explanation, the more incoherent I became.

Thankfully, another tauira somehow figured out what I was trying to say and
swooped in to save me. But by then the damage was done, and if I could have
dissolved in my seat, I would have.

By the second day of classes, I was already exhausted. Like I’d dived into an
ocean when I hardly knew how to swim, labouring from one island to the next, and
just when I felt like I’d caught my breath, it was time to move on to the next
one. I became obsessed with the clock in each room, counting down until my next
break where I could be free, if only for a while, from the merciless onslaught
of anxious nausea.

The insidiousness of it all was the guilt left in its wake. After class ended
and I beelined for the door, for fresh air and space, the self-interrogation
would begin. Why wasn’t I trying harder? Why wasn’t I soaking up all the rich
knowledge these tohunga of the reo had to offer? This is what I came for, wasn’t
it? What would my tūpuna think?

What would my tūpuna think?

I was left asking myself this after an encounter with Tā Tīmoti Kāretu. His
reputation preceded him: a taniwha of a kaiako, one who demanded perfection from
his tauira. After a particularly tough class with him — in which I felt, for
once, like I wasn’t the only one having a hard time — he called out to me on our
way to morning break.

“Baker,” he said after catching up to me. “Ko wai a Matenga ki a koe?” Who is
Matenga to you?

“Ko tōku tūpuna koroua,” I told him. “Te pāpā o tōku koro.” My
great-grandfather.

I had wondered how long it would take for someone to make this connection. Koro
Matenga was a renowned orator of his time, a rangatira of Raukawa who played a
key part in Whakatupuranga Rua Mano, the iwi development initiative that led to
the establishment of Te Wānanga o Raukawa itself.

Tā Tīmoti hummed in acknowledgment before sharing some of his memories of Koro
Matenga with me. It was a moment of levity I needed, providing the connection
and grounding I had yearned for since the kura began. A timely reminder that
Koro Matenga was here, with me.

But my own traitorous mind forged this into a double-edged blade. It took Tā
Tīmoti’s simple gesture of whanaungatanga and turned it into perceived
expectation, an unachievable target set for me. How disappointing was I, uri of
Matenga Baker, the master kaikōrero, to someone like Tā Tīmoti? How
disappointing was I to Koro Matenga himself?

That question haunted me into the third day, which was when my class was tasked
with that evening’s kauwhau: a speech or lecture given by one member of each
rōpū after meals. During a break between classes, we discussed who would be
willing to speak on behalf of our rōpū.

Expectedly, there were no self-nominations. Despite the memory of Koro Matenga —
or maybe because of it — I immediately ruled myself out too. The kauwhau from
other rōpū so far had all been fantastic, ranging from theatrical to hilarious
to inspirational. Another standard I doubted I could live up to.

Then, puncturing all this internalisation, was a voice. “Tīhema, māu pea?”
Tĩhema, how about you?

It was the New Zealander of the Year. She was seated somewhat casually, arm
draped over the back of her chair, face resting delicately on one hand. But her
voice carried so much authority. I could sense my classmates’ eyes on me.
Relieved, perhaps, that they hadn’t drawn her attention.

I fumbled through a response. What I wanted to say was that I didn’t feel ready.
I wouldn’t know what to talk about. I was already struggling to keep a
full-blown panic attack at bay each class, and the added stress of having to do
the kauwhau to a wharekai full of tauira and kaiako might just break me.

But I didn’t know how to say any of this in te reo Māori. And I wasn’t going to
break the reo Māori-only tikanga of the kura reo for it.

All I could manage was: “Kāore au i te tino hiahia . . .” I don’t really want
to.

I wasn’t sure how I expected the New Zealander of the Year to react. Maybe to
just move on to someone else, or simply offer an understanding: “Kei te pai, e
hoa.” But it certainly wasn’t the way she recoiled, as if I’d just sworn at her.
The way she rolled her eyes and muttered: “Kāore tātou katoa i te tino hiahia.”
None of us really want to.

A dismissal. Whatever answer she’d been hoping for wasn’t the one I’d given.
While she cast her scope elsewhere in search of more worthy challengers, I
replayed the whole five-second interaction in my head. Maybe I had offended her?
Maybe I was the one who’d come off as rude? She was so lovely to everyone else,
so respectful and reverent of all the kaiako, and clearly so familiar with the
struggles of learning te reo that she would surely understand my position. It
must have been my fault for not being articulate enough.

Whatever the case, that was all it took for me to add the New Zealander of the
Year to the steadily-growing list of people I’d let down so far.

This list only grew larger over the final day-and-a-half of classes — or at
least, my own name kept appearing on it more often. In one class, where we were
asked to create our own whakataukī on certain topics, I crafted one that likened
a pair of lovers to the pūtangitangi (paradise shelduck), which mate in pairs
for life.

Somewhat proud of this creation, I summoned up the courage to share it with the
class when the kaiako asked for volunteers. His response was: “Ehara tēnā i te
whakaaro Māori.” That’s not a Māori way of thinking.

This shattered any vestige of confidence I had left. By the time I dragged
myself to our final class the following day, I was simply ready for the
experience to be over.

To clarify: I harboured no ill feelings towards any of the kaiako, or to the
concept of the kura reo itself — which I firmly believe, despite what this
account might be at risk of portraying, is an invaluable exercise that any reo
speaker should try. It was just that I — as a reo speaker of average ability,
suffering a debilitating conflict of identity between my whakapapa and white
skin, and countless other forms of colonised hangover — found it utterly
gruelling. Unpicking these parts of our identity is harrowing, yes, but a
necessity in the fight to reclaim ourselves.

Thankfully, our final class was about the language and slang of rangatahi. We’d
already heard from other tauira that this was the most enjoyable of all the
classes, because it mostly took the form of games and quizzes. Which it did. For
the first time, I never felt tempted to check the clock, instead losing myself
in the laughter of silly word games and light-hearted competition with my
classmates. It was the most fun I’d had in the whole kura reo.

That was until, during the mid-class break, I sensed a presence standing over my
shoulder. The New Zealander of the Year. Smiling sweetly down at me, she asked
me in a gentle tone, like a primary school teacher to one of her pupils, if I
was willing to be the one to mihi to the kaiako at the end of the class. It was
a simple enough request, and one I actually felt comfortable doing. I’d given
plenty of mihi before, and I’d also had the benefit of hearing what others had
said in previous classes to draw on.

But in that instant, where her question lingered in the gulf between us, a
barrage of realisations occurred to me. As far as I knew, no one else had been
pre-emptively asked to mihi like this. It was always a natural thing, an
unspoken expectation that someone would do it because it was just the right
thing to do. I was one of several class members who hadn’t done it yet — not
because I hadn’t wanted to, but because I’d just been beaten to it on every
occasion that I did feel confident enough to try.

That was exactly why she was asking me, I realised. Because I hadn’t done it
yet. Because I hadn’t done the kauwhau. Because I hadn’t spoken enough in class.
Because I hadn’t answered enough questions. Because my thinking wasn’t Māori
enough. The charitable side of me thought that maybe she was just pushing me to
get the most out of this experience while I could. The cynical side of me
thought that she didn’t think I’d put in enough effort.

Whatever the case, one thing was certain: I hadn’t met whatever benchmark she
thought I should have.

And I wanted to say to the New Zealander of the Year: Who the fuck do you think
you are? You, a privileged, wealthy Pākehā who carries your head high and proud,
because you don’t have centuries of intergenerational trauma to drag it down.
You, who shamelessly flaunts a tongue steeped in the language beaten out of my
grandfather. You, who seems to think the significance of acknowledging a kaiako
for the mātauranga shared is simply the act itself — not the intent, not the
purpose, not the manaakitanga shown by expressing what lies in the heart rather
than the soulless, manufactured stage direction you’re attempting now. You, a
manuhiri to this land, who thinks you can stand over me, in my rohe, on my
whenua, and expect me to do anything you think I should.

But I didn’t know how to say any of this in te reo Māori.

So, instead, I forced a smile and nodded back. Placated, she swanned off to
morning tea.

When the time came, I stood and delivered. I’d spent the rest of the class
drafting something in my head, taking particular note of certain lessons or
jokes I could make callbacks to. I thanked the kaiako for lightening up a grey
and dreary day — which I meant for both the rain lashing the windows outside and
the storm raging inside me. Being our final class together, I also took the
opportunity to acknowledge my fellow members of Rōpū Tuawhā. It was all received
well, by both the kaiako and the rest of the class.

Perhaps I should have been proud. Celebrating this private triumph of making it
through the challenge of kura reo. Maybe it was appropriate that the final say
for my class rested with me, uri of Matenga Baker, on my tūrangawaewae. Maybe I
should have been grateful to the New Zealander of the Year for the opportunity.

I just felt hollow. Every moment of shame, doubt, and self-loathing I’d battled
with over the last few days embodied in that moment of compliance. Of
submission. Of compromising my own mana for the sake of obeying the rules, of
avoiding conflict, of protecting a white woman’s ego.

She was awarded New Zealander of the Year a few years later. When I think about
how New Zealand came to be — the motivations that fuelled its creation, the
doctrines on which it was founded, the very reason kura reo exists at all — I
can’t think of a more fitting title.

Tīhema Baker (Raukawa te Au ki te Tonga, Ātiawa ki Whakarongotai, Ngāti Toa
Rangatira) is a writer and Tiriti o Waitangi-based policy advisor from Ōtaki. He
holds a Master of Arts in Creative Writing from the International Institute of
Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington, for which he wrote his
first novel, Turncoat.

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4 COMMENTS

BE RESPECTFUL IN YOUR COMMENTS, AND YOUR OPINION OF OTHER READERS' VIEWPOINTS.

1. R. Reweti on December 29, 2023 at 9:45 pm

Ae marika e mara! He orite tenei pānui ki tetahi whārangi mai taku rátaka
wheako I te kura reo i tae atu ahau, waihoki taku whakaaro e pa ana ki tērā
NZer o te tau lol.

He pānui pai ki ahau, nō reira, e mihi ana ki a koe..

2. Ross Clark on December 19, 2023 at 8:54 am

As much as you were angered by the way the “New Zealander of the Year”
treated you, and I get that, I was also let with the impression, after
reading your essay several times … that you were badly let down by whoever
was running the kura reo – that they couldn’t see your very real distress at
what was happening, or indeed that the New Zealander of the Year was being
completely disrespectful of you.

The point is that you won’t have been the first person to have had this
happen to you, sadly – so it seems to me that the organisers of these kura
reo do need to be aware of how things like this can happen.

3. Aneta Rawiri on December 18, 2023 at 4:50 pm

Tino pai tēnei kōrero!

Reply
* Dkm on December 19, 2023 at 4:12 pm

E te tungāne, kua tino rongo ahau ki te mamae me te āmaimai i roto i a koe
i a koe i haere ki te kura reo. Ka kaha whakaae ahau ki tāu tuhinga me ngā
whakaaro ōu. Ahakoa parauri taku kiri, ka whakamā tonu ia te wā ka kite i
tētehi atu e tū maia ana, e kōrerorero ana, ā, ka kaha te harawene ka puta
i ahau.

“Ēhara tēnā i te whakaaro Māori” – auē te maha o ngā wā kua rongo au ki
tērā kōrero!

E hoa, tēnā koe mō tō māia ki te whakaatu kia tātou katoa i ōu
kare-ā-roto, i ngā uauatanga ka taka ki a tātou e whai ana i tēnei ara
kore mutunga, te ako i te reo Māori.

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