Navigating Māori identity is complex and confronting, writes Annabelle Parata Vaughan (Ngāi Tahu) in this opinion piece.
It often makes me feel equal parts proud and self-conscious, especially when it comes to learning te reo.
Over the past several years, Aotearoa has witnessed a huge increase in the number of te reo speakers, and there appears to be plenty of genuine interest from both Māori and non-Māori in learning the language.
To some, learning te reo can be seen as gaining a new skill, or something nice to have on a work resume. To others, learning te reo is seen as a way to actively engage as a partner of Te Tiriti, to learn more about our indigenous history, or as a hobby sparked by genuine interest.
But for some Māori, such as myself, learning te reo presents double standards and challenges which have often been left out of the wider conversation.
On one hand, I take immense pride in my Māori heritage, both in my personal and professional capacities.
Learning my history
I have spent the last several years actively learning about the history of my iwi and whakapapa, becoming more aware of how their journeys have directly impacted mine.
I’ve spent time on my marae, and have dedicated much of my professional life as a writer focusing on Indigenous stories and platforming Indigenous issues in hopes I’m doing my part to uplift voices that have previously gone unheard.
But on the other hand, I also feel uncomfortable and self-conscious. While I have no reservations about being personally and professionally proud of being Māori, it accompanies an experience which is difficult to articulate.
I can’t speak te reo, and I also can’t speak for all Māori, although I’ve had people think I can.
"More work than is originally in the job description"
In previous workplaces, I’ve often found myself being one of the few, if not only people of Māori descent.
This created added pressure as I was aware of the responsibility I had to myself and my tūpuna to make sure I was doing a good job and being part of that representation.
But this situation also often leads to doing more work than is originally in the job description.
For many Māori in workplaces, we find ourselves asked to work as a translator, or as a one-stop-shop advisor for all matters relating to Māori, acting as a sounding board to ensure those around us get the tick of approval for cultural competency.
We’re asked or expected to do more in a professional setting which also comes with additional emotional labour, most of which goes unseen or undiscussed.
It requires the constant rehashing of our family history, which has often been defined by generational trauma and a desire to deny who we really are.
Feeling like a fraud
It requires constantly feeling like we need to prove ourselves and justify our identity.
With these extra pressures comes the consequence of making mistakes, or being unsure to admit where shortcomings lie.
On some occasions, I feel compelled to get defensive, perhaps pretending to know more than I do when it comes to te reo. Other times, I admit defeat and acknowledge my shortcomings.
Either way, I end up feeling like a fraud or a failure, and the response is usually the same.
“Why can’t you speak it, aren’t you Māori?”
“Why don’t you just learn it?”
“You probably should know it.”
“You can’t really claim to be Māori then, can you?”
Don’t get me wrong, I think it is incredible to watch how Aotearoa has embraced and revitalised te reo as time has gone on, but there is still so much stigma facing Māori who are disconnected from their reo.
Not being fluent in te reo doesn't make me any less Māori
For Māori, learning te reo isn’t just a skill that comes naturally, nor is learning it some kind of “rite of passage.”
The process of learning te reo is emotionally-loaded, and often requires us to unravel decades worth of generational trauma which may have previously been brushed under the rug, tainted with hurt and shame.
It means confronting your past and realising you are responsible for creating a future that previous generations of Māori would be proud of. It’s not easy to learn something you were taught not to know.
As we move toward a more te reo-centric future, it’s crucial we acknowledge that Māori identity shouldn’t be determined by one’s fluency in te reo.
It’s important our workspaces are inclusive environments which provide adequate support and representation for Māori, instead of operating on harmful stereotypes and baseless assumptions.
To whakapapa Māori is to be Māori, and the worth of our identity both personally and professionally should not be measured by how fluent our te reo is.
Annabelle Parata Vaughan (Ngāi Tahu) is a freelance writer based in Pōneke/Wellington.
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