Assertion of identity

Young girl with a moko. Image from Whale Rider, a 2002 drama film directed by Niki Caro, based on the novel of the same name by Witi Ihimaera. The film stars Keisha Castle-Hughes as Kahu Paikea Apirana, a 12-year-old Maori girl who wants to become the chief of the tribe.

From a distance I saw

this teenager was different,

and as she came up close

I saw her moko, permanent

on her beautiful face.

*

"She's too young," suggested some,

"to wear at others' instigation

such sign upon her youthful face."

*

She appeared unmoved, disdainful

of the thoughts of others,

and with unusual maturity

for one so young, said quietly,

"That's their problem,"

and continued on her way.

*

I wondered...

were those words her own,

or where they perhaps -

as her decorated face -

imposed by proud tradition's

fierce, determinate tribal will?

*

I mused again...

or, was what had seemed to me belligerence,

simply a demonstration of an

indefinable quality of race,

which I, in my ignorance,

did not then fully comprehend?

*

Who am I...

foreigner to these shores

forty years or more,

to say it's wrong for one so young

to wear that proud insignia

of her race?

*

I had much to learn.

If she sought in truth

to assert a claim

to her own true self,

then I salute her

most sincerely for that.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Note: a moko is a Māori tattoo or tattoo pattern, usually on the face.

Final confirmation

It was the absence of familiar sounds that pushed the first alert button in my mind, as Sugar, our cat, hadn’t purred her gentle, ‘Get up and feed me now!’ call in my ear. The second alert registered when I realised my eyes were open but there was nothing to see; just a soft, creamy light. My body felt different too; I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t need the loo; my eyes weren’t bunged up and itchy from hay-fever. Strange. A moment of panic. It was Red Alert now. I knew I wasn’t dreaming … but … was I awake?

My hypochondriac mind kicked in; imagined my heart thumping loudly and checked. Nothing. I felt for my pulse … foolish me, no heartbeat … no pulse! Wow, so this was it! My time had arrived. The Big End … I took it calmly enough after that dramatic insight which surprised me really. Not much I could do, now … and gradually the soft light grew stronger and I saw I was in a room; a waiting room with chairs and a small table. Then from somewhere in the light, a voice said, ‘Do take a seat. This won’t take long, then you can be on your way’.

‘On my way?’ I asked, my voice sounding faint and distant; but the voice didn’t seem to hear.

‘First, a few questions. We must be sure we have the correct body-data match. Name?’

I went through the formula, slipping in a few humorous asides; they could have been out of place but I was trying to appear normal. Normal? What was I thinking? Normal had gone; this was beyond the normal; beyond what I’d expected, but then my previous thinking had never graduated to this stage of what I’d expected.

The voice again: ‘Any questions?’

‘Well … yes … where am I?’

‘You don’t know?’ I was encouraged by a tinge of amusement in the voice. ‘Have a guess then’.
‘Heaven?’ I suggested hopefully.

The voice laughed: ‘Oh no, more a blend of your local earth time travel agency terminus, combined with our post-earth-graduate control; still, it’s good to see you have a sense of humour; rather novel in candidates here and it will come in handy for you. Now, just a quick check on your last pre-conception posting request … let’s see … Yes, here it is … an assignment in the North Island of New Zealand … now where is that? … Oh, way down here, only just made it on the map … and you chose ... Mohaka on the east coast. A lovely Maori word meaning, ‘a place of dancing’ as I understand. But, oh dear…’. The voice trailed off.
‘What?’ … I asked nervously.

‘Your occupation was accountant? Not good in that locality; well in any locality really. Just quietly, they haven't much of reputation here. Sorry about that. I’m not being judgemental you understand; candidates are to some extent their own judge here … I can tell you these things as they’ll be erased from your temporary memory before you depart. Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll feed your personal information into the post-earth-time-cosmos-referral index and get back to you directly.’

It was then I caught a faint recollection of myself as a boy playing on a farm at one time. Yes, there was a beach close by. It was great there … a pity we had to leave …

The voice interrupted my thoughts: ‘I shouldn’t need to point out that anything regarding your past, will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; taken by a brain-scan of your earth-time memory and registered on our records from the moment of your conception. You don’t even have to take an oath; we know everything about you; our data files are more with-it than anything held on the New Zealand Police computer’.

No attempt was made to hide the laugh that bubbled to the surface at this point. ‘I could space-transmit them a copy if you like? Sorry, just kidding … and I see you made it to Wellington as a Member of Parliament. What happened? No! don’t tell me. Not many get through the system there without falling by the wayside. A pity in your case. You were very convincing. Lots of ordinary people genuinely believed you. Depended on you. Trusted you to do as you promised. Yes I know, people living longer meant everything was more tightly stretched … and you had a real struggle with the term: ‘Greedy Oldies’. Easier to overcome using labels that degrade. You knew that. Understandable that you felt uncomfortable with your salary, pension and perks … but your vote did help your party win the day!’

The voice paused; I needed it. My equilibrium had been knocked for six.

It continued: 'The interviewer put it to you that it would be difficult for a person with two children, paying market rental to live on $40 a week. You thought not. Your party was proud of you for that but it crushed the people who’d voted for you. Still, those experiences can allow a more enlightened choice in your future decisions. More heart and less conformity to the party line perhaps? It might be a good idea to forget the standard way of doing things and give ordinary people a chance; in any case you’ll be able to think well outside the square here.’

I was feeling a bit narked now and the voice must have sensed it.

‘Feel free to comment,’ it said tolerantly.

‘You do have me at a disadvantage here … I mean, I haven’t come prepared'.

The voice chuckled: ‘Of course. We do bear in mind the original cards you were dealt; it’s the way you played them that matters and you have only passed through the elementary stages so far. Your past experiences together with whatever way you’re thinking takes here, will have a bearing on your decisions in the next round. Take heart, your final assessment is light-years away yet.’

At that point another voice, coldly metallic I thought, broke in: 'Ten cosmos shifts to dematerialisation stage. All post-earth candidates proceed to the lounge for memory recall and earth-time replay.’

It was comforting when the original voice came back with: ‘Sorry about the interruption but I think I’ve covered everything. During your next session you’ll be able to change decisions made during your earth-time. You’ll automatically receive instructions how to do this as the viewing proceeds. Now in earth terms I’d wish you luck, except there’s no such thing. We do believe in team work, you’ll know something about that coming from New Zealand.

The voice faded with the words … ‘Think outside the square …’ then silence.

I felt exposed in that silence but the chair was comfortable as the light slowly dimmed and the screen came on. A young woman was powdering her nose as she listened to someone talking to her from another room: ‘Who’s taking you to the college dance, Audrey?. Not Ted Forbes, I hope. I don’t trust him, you can dance as much as you like when your fiancé comes home next month.’ The camera zoomed in closer. She looked familiar, so did the photograph stuck on the side of the mirror. My stars! The caption at the bottom of the screen said it all. Three hours to the conception of … and there was my name … it was true then after all.
I was a bastard from the start.

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Our front garden

Early settlers, New Zealand

The trees in our front garden are a delight, even when they shed their leaves willy-nilly and in great abundance in autumn. I began to wonder, as I gazed at them this morning, about the person who planted them; it must have been many years ago, 50 or 70, over 100 perhaps; I had no idea.

The house would have been smaller then, and it’s what I call a ‘bitsa’ now, as bits of this room and bits of another room have been added on over the years. We have photographs showing some of the stages, but not of the people who’ve lived here. I wonder did one of them plant the trees? If they did, what was there to see as they looked around them? Maybe the house was a farm cottage housing some of the workers, maybe our small rural farming community was just taking shape, and that made me wonder what other kind of trees were around at the time the native New Zealand bush was being cleared.

Then I remembered the stump of a huge tree in the back garden of the house; it was there when we moved to the house in 1982. There’s still a chunk or two left of the stump now. In one of the early photographs that we have discovered, taken at the front of the house, the branches of that tree can be clearly seen above the roof line, so it was certainly some tree.

So, what have these trees seen of the history around here, of Maori folk and early settlers, of peace and disharmony, of love and inter-racial marriage and bonding, of success and failure of early farming ventures? Inanimate they are presumed to be, but if they could speak, what a story of variety and surprise they would tell.

There was a popular song written quite a few years back now, about the idea of trees talking, in a derogatory manner as I recall:

‘Don’t you tell it to the trees
for they will tell the birds and bees,
and everyone will know
because you told the blabbering trees,
it’s no secret any more…’

Still, not all humans blabber and I think, neither would trees.

I think it’s rather good that people hug trees now, the special ones that are not chopped down. I haven’t hugged one yet, and we have some magnificent Kauri trees still standing here in New Zealand. So, maybe, 

one day, when there’s nobody else around…

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)