Becoming Pakeha

By John Bluck

A journey between two cultures

After more than 200 years of co-existence under the umbrella of a unique treaty, you might think things would be better than ever. In this perceptive and piercing book, John Bluck argues that Pākehā and Māori worlds grow ever more separate: the Aotearoa of today is a landscape of two predominant cultures, overlaid with so many others, fractured and more likely to erupt than Ruapehu. But has it always been this way?

Becoming Pākehā follows the author's life, growing up as a Pākehā in a Māori village in the 1950s, and illustrates how New Zealand used to be, the history and shared experience that shaped it. The book also discusses the discomfort of being Pākehā today, and how Pākehā might live with their past and get used to the wearing the name, until they find a better one.

Looking at everything from failed models of bicultural harmony to what's likely to bring the treaty partners together - or push them further apart - Becoming Pākehā is a timely read for anyone who wants to understand Māori-Pākehā relations in Aotearoa New Zealand today.

'This is a book I've long been trying not to write. It ought to be easy, but it's not. I began under the cover of a pseudonym, because some of my friends who will read it won't stay friends. Then I decided not to worry about that. And besides, it has to be a personal story, as it is for many other unsettled Pākehā who relish the privilege of living here, and have spent a lifetime trying to belong in this land.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781775492412

John Bluck

John Bluck is a writer and broadcaster with a lifetime of working on bicultural issues. His earlier books include Wai Karekare: turbulent waters, Hidden Country: Having faith in Aotearoa, Killing us Softly: Challenging the Kiwi culture of complaint and Seeking the Centre: living well in Aotearoa. A retired Anglican bishop, and Dean of Christchurch Cathedral before it fell down, he has worked ecumenically all round New Zealand and overseas, serving as Communication Director for the World Council of Churches in Geneva. He lives with his wife Liz in Pakiri, north of Auckland, where he writes, gardens, tries to catch fish and play the trumpet.

Book preview

Preface

This is a book I’ve long been trying not to write. It ought to be easy, but it’s not. I began under the cover of a pseudonym, for fear some friends will read it and won’t stay friends. Well, that’s too bad. It has to be a personal story, as it is for many other unsettled Pākehā who relish the privilege of living here and have spent a lifetime trying to belong in this land. That should be easy to do. But it seems to get harder and is often uncomfortable, as Kiwi film makers keep showing us through what Sam Neill called their ‘cinema of unease’. Home, yet still an alien place.

Some Māori might respond, ‘That’s too bad for you, mate, because for us it’s often not only uncomfortable but destructive and deadly. We bear the brunt of a history you created for us.’ I can only say, ‘I’m sorry about that, but we’re facing up to that right now, and we know we have to, because, as Pākehā, that’s our history too.’

It’s a strange, strange landscape that we live in. Beautiful, green though sadly not so clean, a haven rather than a hermit kingdom at the world’s end that makers of fantasy films flock to because it can so easily be made to look enchanted, as our tourism posters did for a century.

But the common space Pākehā share with Māori is volatile and often fraught. When Pākehā do connect with te ao Māori, the Māori world, by being escorted onto a marae, watching the haka at the start of an All Black Test, listening to a kapa haka performance, laughing with Taika Waititi or simply being caught up in the chords and melodies of ‘Poi E’, especially when they’re far from home, many stop and wonder. Why is this unfamiliar Māori world so disconcerting and affecting? How has it become so much part of them, however little of it they understand? Māori living in New Zealand have no choice about being bicultural. They have to operate in what is still a dominantly Pākehā world. Pākehā don’t have to. They can still live here as though Māori don’t exist.

This is a book about the discomfort of being Pākehā; how they might live with that, get used to wearing the name until they find a better one, learn to laugh about it, and even to relax and enjoy it. As the title suggests, being Pākehā is a work in progress. The word carries freight they weren’t aware of 50 and 100 years ago. And as the debates about colonisation and rangatiratanga heat up, so the meaning of Pākehā is refocused and sharpened. Definitions once trotted out so confidently look quaint in retrospect, even slightly silly. I’ll look at some of that history of becoming Pākehā, the romantic ideas and failed models of bicultural harmony, and celebrate some success stories. And I’ll do that knowing that what I write now will quickly be outdated as the bicultural journey accelerates.

And let’s be very clear about the terminology. The temptation to reach for a multicultural story over the top of the bicultural one has become popular, and understandably so. After all, there are more Chinese or Indian New Zealanders than there are Māori, so it makes sense to say, ‘Let’s get on with enjoying that diversity and making it work.’ Of course this country’s future will be multicultural – more cultures are added by the year – but I firmly believe that we need to first establish a just relationship between the original two. If Māori are the first culture of this land, then Pākehā are the second, and with that comes a special responsibility. No future will ever work if we get there by forgetting how we began as a nation, honouring the promises Māori and Pākehā made to each other in 1840 and redressing the mistakes made since. None of what I have to say will reach those determined to insulate themselves from the cultural volcanoes that surround us, but if you sense that there’s still some unfinished business to becoming a New Zealand where Māori and Pākehā can co-exist, and are both the better for being alongside each other and sometimes even together, then this might be the book for you.

It’s also for those New Zealanders who may not be comfortable about calling themselves Pākehā, and are open to exploring why that’s so, but are also bothered by the way in which Pākehā and Māori talk about and to each other. Bothered, if not bewildered, and often not a little sad and angry.

Introduction

Is the way Māori and Pākehā interact worse than ever? Well, it’s certainly more heated, and is that a bad thing? Much worse is that they increasingly don’t talk to each other; and in that silence, there’s a storm brewing. How did we get into this mess? After more than 200 years of co-existence under the umbrella of a treaty unique among colonised countries, you might think things would be better. Despite some better recent news from education and health statistics, progress is uneven and frequently contradicted by new evidence of racism, poverty and historical abuse. It feels more like a journey of one step forward and two steps back.

Māori visibility in the media and public life is certainly greater than ever before. You can’t watch a rugby or netball match without being reminded of that (though you’d hardly know from watching cricket, tennis or surf lifesaving). Lisa Carrington, our most famous Olympian, is of Te Aitanga-ā-Mahaki and Ngāti Porou descent. But personal contact is another matter. Pākehā and Māori worlds grow ever more separate, in silos defined by wealth and the lack of it.

Just as the elderly get cordoned off into retirement homes, so Māori and Pasifika people are gathered into the lowest paid jobs, the lowest decile schools, the lowest quality (though still high rent) housing. On the streets of any suburb that is even moderately wealthy, and in the schools, cafés and shopping centres that serve them, Māori are pretty much invisible. In our biggest city, the presence of newer New Zealanders is much more obvious. On the streets of our southern towns and cities, Māori are hard to find. They attend a disproportionate number of our decile one schools.

And that invisibility is an obstacle for Pākehā understanding of the depth and urgency of Māori calls for respect and selfdetermination. Māori are four times more likely than Pākehā to end up in jail and have, on average, a life expectancy that’s 10 years shorter. And, unlike the stereotype of perpetrator, they’re eight times more likely to be a victim of crime. Their chances of owning a home have fallen by more than 20 per cent over the last 40 years. Their deprivation is rooted in inequality.

When a society allows its citizens to become distanced by income and everything that flows from that gap, such as access to education, healthcare and decision-making, the absence of brown faces becomes familiar and normal. Sometimes that gap is deliberately maintained, by landlords who turn away Māori tenants, and employers who avoid hiring Māori workers, and health and education planners who assume that one size fits all. Most of the time, though, it’s a matter of institutionalising that invisibility. Sorry, says the system, it’s just the way things are.

And I don’t think that’s orchestrated by some evil cabal of white supremacists. It’s the inevitable outcome of market forces and the lingering legacy of our colonial history. So Pākehā shouldn’t be surprised that Māori become more critical and angry as their understanding of inequity becomes clearer.

Māori will increasingly take charge of their own destiny. It’s already happening with the creation of an independent Māori health authority, the development of a school history curriculum that tries to embrace the conflicting sides of our story, the reform of Oranga Tamariki and the justice system, co-ownership and governance of businesses and institutions, and management covenants of parks and rivers. The list is expanding and the momentum is unstoppable.

But equity, let alone equality, for Māori will never be restored in Aotearoa without better ways of talking to and about each other. Māori and Pākehā have yet to find a mutually respectful partnership, and it’s hard to achieve in the current climate where each side demonises the other with labels like greedy, rapacious, guilty, ungrateful, privileged or, worst of all, resorts to plain indifference or cowed silence.

There has to be a way out of this impasse. It won’t be found by demanding that Pākehā go home; or by expecting that Māori will gradually disappear, as so many believed a century ago; or that, having survived, they just blend in, as government policy required in the 1950s. Nor will it happen by Pākehā simply giving up their wealth. The way ahead will have to be negotiated more carefully than by issuing ultimatums, however angry Māori are about their dispossession. And there will need to be new signs of good faith from Pākehā, in the form of owning a history that requires repentance as well as pride, attempting to understand how different Māori knowledge and language is from what Pākehā take for granted, and letting go some habits that continue to insult and demean. But the first step is some more honest conversation among Pākehā about what good partnership requires of them and looking at how they might be getting in the way of that wider dialogue with Māori.

The current climate makes this conversation especially fraught, thanks to the culture wars that rage around the globe and spill over into Aotearoa. Andrew Anthony has reflected on why these cultural conflicts have become so much sharper. He lists the declining trust in institutions that were meant to hold us together, the growing inequalities of wealth and privilege and, most of all, the spread of technology that encourages people to cluster only in their self-selected, like-minded groups. All of this, he argues, shifts public focus towards symbolic and emotive issues that are packaged together into ideological job lots. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter feed on name calling, point scoring and virtue signalling. The battle lines become more moral than political, with demarcation not so much between left and right as right and wrong. And Donald Trump added to that inflammatory climate by rewriting the public discourse rulebook and practising a new rhetoric of rage and well-honed abuse.

That’s the international climate that frames our local debates and widens the divisions between us. We paint ourselves on a global canvas. Māori are supported by alliances of indigenous peoples worldwide and the protection of United Nations conventions. Pākehā observe the dismembering of their European colonial heritages around the world and look on, bewildered, as the statues start toppling here.

So let’s start this search for a better way of talking to each other, and adding a little flesh to the bones of this identity I’ll call Pākehā for the moment. I write as a white man and as a layperson, without any special expertise in race relations. I’ve dipped into the huge pool of academic literature and specialised scientific reports on this subject, and sometimes risked drowning in it. I’m simply a journalist at heart, trying to access the knowledge that Māori and Pākehā need to live graciously and justly with each other in Aotearoa. Let’s begin with the story of my own lifelong journey from one Māori village to another, with lots of stopovers in between.

PART I

NŪHAKA TO PAKIRI: WALKING BET WEEN TWO CULTURES

CHAPTER 1

The way New Zealand used to be

It was a hot day in Nūhaka in 1954 and the annual rugby match between the primary school and the native school had barely begun. Already I wanted the dreaded event to be over. There was nothing I could add to the proud tradition of Nūhaka rugby with its All Black luminaries like George Nepia. As a skinny white kid in the front row of the sweaty, muddy, head-scrunching scrum, nothing but ritual humiliation awaited me. The ‘native’ team was bigger, heavier, stronger, hugely more accomplished and better led. Their teacher, Hui Matiu, was legendary for his high-volume, passionate coaching style. People would come to listen and watch him, as much as his team. His players dared not fail and the score against us ran into silly figures. Worse still, coming from a school with such a small roll, I’d probably have to play prop again next year. But maybe I’d be dead by then, or have run away. And as it turned out, I did. Off to Napier to stay with Grandma and go to a school where rugby wasn’t compulsory, or even very important.

* * *

Nūhaka today is best known nationally as the best place to view space launches from, across the bay at the Rocket Lab base in Mahia. Drive down Blucks Road (I’m proud to say), walk over to the beach, look left and marvel. We didn’t marvel much about anything in Nūhaka, a small settlement on Highway 2 between Gisborne and Wairoa, but we were glad to be there. My dad used to tell me there wasn’t a better place to be in the whole world. And, like most of the other men, both Pākehā and Māori, and a few women, recently returned from a war in Europe and the Pacific, he meant that literally.

I thought it was pretty good as well. We lived on the edge of a river where we swam and fished and canoed, with a big garden where we built forts, dug tunnels and, armed with slug guns, replayed the battles depicted in our favourite Battler Britton comics. Bikes were our most prized possession. My grandfather bought me a brand-new Raleigh with three speed gears – a state-of-the-art model that few other kids in the village had seen, not Pākehā and certainly not Māori, though I didn’t think about that at the time.

The Education Board school just up the road, oddly and ambiguously known as the public school, had two teachers and 30 to 40 children, all Pākehā. The native school, as it was called, across the river, had 10 staff and around 300 children. Rugby matches aside, we were worlds apart. Yet there was no sense of the separation being hostile; in some areas there was no separation. Nearly all the drivers who worked in my father’s trucking business were Māori and I treated them like uncles, heading off on trips with them to collect wool and hay bales, sheep and cattle, and loads of shingle from the quarry on Blucks Road. They taught me words and told stories I never heard at home. And the language exchanged between Dad and the drivers in the shed where he serviced the trucks was colourful and mutually abusive, but rarely offensive. Men in the 1950s showed their affection for one other by insults more often than compliments.

The transport company, as well as the dairy factory, railway station, service station and shops, along with local farms, supplied enough employment to sustain a thriving local economy for both races. Other institutions ran more separately, especially the several local women’s groups. They didn’t exclude Māori but I don’t remember seeing any as members of the Country Women’s Institute or the Garden Circle. The Country Library branch, which operated out of our washhouse, had only a handful of Māori borrowers and I don’t recall any of them being asked to join the elite team of book pickers allowed to choose titles during the mobile library van’s infrequent visits.

The shops, and there were several – two general stores, a butcher, a saddlery, a bakery and a post office – though Pākehā owned, were seemingly happily integrated places. They must have been, since Johnstone’s General Store down the road had a barrel of salted mutton birds on the steps. I can still gag at the smell on a hot summer’s day. I doubt there were many Pākehā customers. But it all seemed to work for both cultures, unless you ran out of credit at the store and were refused service, much to the embarrassment of everyone present. I say ‘seemed’, because my child’s eye view of all this was uncritical and accepting. We lived in a world within two worlds, rubbing up against one other but rarely melding, let alone meddling. And when we did, it was always clear to me, without being told, that Māori ran this place. Perhaps my rugby experience was more of a parable than I realised.

The local church scene didn’t fit this pattern. There were Presbyterians of both races, served by a long-established mission; Catholics, whose nearest church was in Wairoa and seemed very exotic; and Rātana, whose presence was whispered as numerous but never seen (hardly surprising, as they’d been excommunicated by Anglican bishops back in 1928 for being too fond of angels and prophecies). Equally mysterious but much more visible, and sharing those same fondnesses, were the Mormons. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had been working in New Zealand since 1854 and was well established in the Māori world, but unlike the Anglican church, was unscarred by the disastrous consequences of involvement in the land wars of the 1860s. The Mormons had funded and built, with local labour, a modern chapel in Nūhaka. It was the largest building in town, with a carpark big enough for a fleet of vehicles, but as far as I knew, no one in the Pākehā community had ever visited. When asked why it was so big, the elders explained that they were building for the future, for all of us.

The Mormons had also built the proudest building in the village, the Rākaipaaka War Memorial Marae, opened by Peter Fraser in 1949. It was a beautiful space and a showpiece of traditional carving by the master craftsmen Pine and Hone Taiapa. Anzac Day services were held there, Māori and Pākehā standing together in a building that commanded awe and respect from all of us, sharing the losses from a war whose scars were still raw. (Fifty years later we returned to the marae when my daughter’s short film was shown at the Māori Film Festival there. It was a lovely reconnection.)

Two worlds, side by side but sometimes touching. Not in the food we ate. For Pākehā it was a very Edmond’s Cookery Book-based cuisine. I never tasted fried bread or a boil-up. Puha was never served at home. We ate fish but not the heads, crayfish but not the yellow custard inside the skull. And I never learnt to enjoy kina or fermented corn.

But the two worlds did touch regularly in the Anglican church, where the Pākehā vicar came only monthly but the Māori pastorate priest presided every week. The liturgy and hymns were in te reo and though we didn’t understand the words, we knew we were welcome. The lay reader from the Māori pastorate, a tall, dignified man in an elegant black cassock, helped to teach us Sunday school. One Sunday he collapsed in our midst, writhing on the church floor with an epileptic fit. As children ignorant of such things, we were all terrified, not knowing what to do. To this day, the plaque on the church wall in his memory gives me pause and adds to the respect in which I hold this bicultural building.

Church was one of the very few places where I remember hearing te reo spoken. It was not taught or spoken in either of the schools, or by the drivers in the trucks I rode around in. There were elders who kept the language alive on local marae but in the workaday world of Nūhaka, te reo was hard to hear and officially discouraged, even punished at school, though that policy was unevenly applied. Back before the First World War, English was the language used at the native school, but the grammatical principles of Māori language were also taught. It was claimed that local Pākehā taxi driver Jimmy Pearson had learnt to speak it fluently in order to manage difficult clients.

As Pākehā, we happily pronounced Nūhaka as ‘Newhawker’ with no fear of correction. My brother Richard, who is 12 years younger than me, was a junior pupil in 1962, after the two schools had amalgamated, and the cultural landscape had shifted. He remembers, as a six-year-old, struggling to pronounce correctly the name of his new teacher, Mrs Hana Whaanga, who had a 40-year career at the school. The story went that she forbade inspectors from entering her classroom unless they spoke Māori. She knew our family well, but we had happily mispronounced her name for years. Richard’s embarrassment stays with him to this day. That new era of cultural awareness was also brokered by some Pākehā. The school principal during Richard’s time was a Norwegian teacher named Johan Bonnevie, who promoted te reo and waiata, along with a mixture of classical music.

The Mormons may have built chapels and halls but much more important for a nine-year-old was the LDS Theatre they owned and ran as a movie house under the steely-eyed caretaker, Ponti Te Kauru. Armed with a long torch, he would patrol the upstairs and downstairs seating areas to keep order. When the audience grew unruly or threw ice creams at the screen downstairs, or rolled Jaffas down between the seats upstairs, Ponti would stop the projector until calm returned.

The Mormon owners wouldn’t have approved of all the movies we saw there, or of the Māori kids being downstairs and the Pākehā upstairs. The segregation, never named or enforced, was bridged only by