Is This Man Right?

Te Ao Hou, June 1962, Page 15

Is This Man Right? ▪ Pakehas don't understand us Maoris. ▪ Nosy, just like a pakeha. ▪ We're funny Maoris—we don't talk Maori—like pakehas eh? ▪ What's the good of school, they're always down on the Maori kids. ▪ Give it to me! Lousy purari pakeha! ▪ I hate ‘em all—cops, teachers, welfare officers, nurses—pakehas! ▪ We're all no-goods here—no-good houses, no-good clothes, no-good cars — pakehas have got everything — but we don't care. In voices of anger, thoughtfulness, hate, envy, excuse, and despair I have heard all these words spoken, not by adults, adults know better than to tell the truth about how they feel, but by children. Children who were failing at nearly everything, and knew who to blame! I was teaching in a city primary school; I heard these words spoken in classrooms, on the playground, in the streets; some of them were said to me. When I went to this school I didn't have any do-good ideas, I didn't want to make anyone over, I liked Maori children, I had taken the trouble to learn to speak Maori because I thought it was the polite thing to do and—let's be honest, I was a failure. I was a failure because there was a big notice tied round my neck with BEWARE, PAKEHA on it, and that stopped my chances of helping the children. Who taught the children to think this way? Let's be honest again, some of it was done by stupid pakehas, big men, frightened men, and people who knew no better, not all of them bad, just stupid. And the rest? You did that. Maybe you didn't notice you were doing it, but you did your share just the same. These kids weren't born hating, someone taught them to, and you, their parents, had the biggest hand in educating them in the years when it mattered most. People often hate what they are most afraid of, or what they want and can't get. When I was a boy I hated boys who were good at football, I was bad at football, I wanted to be good at it for a while, and then, because I couldn't make it, I took to hating footballers. It was a good excuse. Hating pakehas is a good excuse too, look at what the children say,—they're always down on us—they're nosy—they're the people who make us do what we don't want to. These children were telling the truth, you parents had taught them what to feel, suspicion, distrust, dislike. You didn't always mean to teach them these things, you didn't say—NEVER TRUST A PAKEHA—but by the things they overheard, by the way you looked, even by the way you walked, you let them know what you think. Children see, hear, and guess more than you think, they have to, they love you when they are small no matter what sort of person you are, and they want to be like you; when they get older they want to be proud of you. Did you give them a good thing or a bad thing to be proud of? ▪ Let me tell you about some of the children I taught, you may know some like them. First, Harry. Harry was a big boy, fourteen when I knew him, strong as a horse, bright enough and clever enough with his hands to make a good carpenter or something of the kind. He was shy and uncertain of himself but he was well liked by the children. Harry came from a family of twelve, he was the third boy. His family had lived in Auckland all of Harry's life. His father was a steady worker who used to drink too much. The trouble was he liked people to think he was a good pal and the people who were Harry's father's friends liked him because they could go to his place and get a skinful after the pubs closed. Mind you he treated the kids well—he gave them half a crown each and sent them to the pictures while his cobbers had a party.

Harry's mother worked hard—washing the clothes, scrubbing the old house, cooking and trying to grow a few vegetables. She was a nice kindly person who had to do the whole job of bringing up the children. Well, what happened to Harry? When he turned fifteen he said to me—My old man wants me to leave school— —Do you want to? I asked him. —I don't care, he said. What's the use of staying? He went to work in a timber yard where they paid him a man's wage. Six months later he was on probation, drunk in charge of a car, a little later, Borstal. Harry's eighteen now, he's in jail and he won't come out till he's twenty-one. Since his fifteenth birthday Harry has spent only six months of his life outside an institution. Will he get better? I doubt it. Oh, I nearly forgot, it was Harry who said, —We're all no-goods here. Now let's have a look at another pupil, we'll call her Emma. She was a pretty girl, the kind boys like, good fun, a good dancer, and smart looking—she might have been a success in any number of jobs, have married and have had a family of girls as pretty as herself. She went to the pictures a lot and to the dances at the Trades and the Orange while her parents went to parties; she often came home to an empty house or had to get the meals for the younger children. Goodness knows what they ate. Emma didn't like pakehas. Her Dad said this, her Dad said that, and that was good enough for her. Everything was the fault of some pakeha, if there was a row at home it was the pakeha, if she got her sums wrong it was the pakeha teacher, if her hair was inspected by the school nurse (all the children's heads were inspected) she would come back stinking of Lorexane and muttering under her breath. She had been insulted. Perhaps she was right, perhaps we hadn't tried hard enough to explain things to her, had written her off as just a cheeky girl. I don't think so, though. We tried hard for Emma, and when the time came for her to leave we found her a good job, but at the last moment she turned it down. Neither of her parents came near the school. When I asked her what her Dad had said she gave me his words — What do you want with that Pakeha stuff—you think you're better than me! I saw Emma the other day, she's pregnant now and her prettiness is going little by little. There's nobody to take care of her. I heard you say — This pakeha has got it all wrong, these were bad Maoris—taurekareka. Our kids aren't like that. Indeed they aren't. I taught some Maori children who were happy, friendly, and without troubles, but I also taught a lot who were not. Let me tell you about one of the happy ones. His name is Charlie. Charlie was a big hefty boy with a big hefty voice and a laugh like a beer barrel rolling down stairs. He had enough brains to get by on and less of other things than Harry or Emma. He had no mother, and no father, he lived with his aunt and who she lived with was anyone's guess. However, Charlie used to turn up at school every day and when things got too bad at home he would go and stay with someone else for a while. Then back he'd go to Auntie and put up with things a bit longer. I don't know what's happened to Charlie but I don't think it would be anything too bad, he had learned to take things as they came. Who had taught him that valuable lesson I don't know. One thing I'm sure of and that is that if Charlie does get into trouble he'll probably say to the Magistrate as he used to say to me—I dunno, I suppose it's my own fault. ▪ Harry, Emma and Charlie—nice children each of them. Two misses and one doubtful. As you said,—Not all Maori kids are like this, but there are too many like Harry and Emma. Do you remember what I said at first? Your children love you and want to be like you. To be worth anything they have to be certain of you and you have to be certain of yourself. Beating, nagging, blaming it on the Pakeha, enjoying a party while the kids are at the pictures; are these the ways of showing your kids that you are certain of yourself? Maybe the Pakeha is wrong but did you try to find out whether the cop or the schoolteacher wasn't trying to do his best for your children. Have you looked at yourself and said—Perhaps my boy or girl wouldn't have turned out this way if I'd really tried to help him. It's not always seeing that they do their homework that counts, it's remembering that they're people, people who have to live after you're dead, who need your love, confidence and advice and sometimes, just to know that you're around. They need to be sure of you. ▪ When they grow up children want to be proud of you I remember another girl. She was probably the most difficult I ever taught. When a P.T.A. was formed her father was elected to the Committee. On Monday she had been sour, sulky, bad-tempered. On Tuesday she was two inches taller—she had someone to be proud of. I wish I could say that that was the end of her, and our troubles, but that is another story. You don't have to have a big house, a good car, or a new suit but you've got to be a person; I would sooner have a child say to me—I'll get my Dad on to you—than I'd have him say, like Emma,—I hate ‘em all. Are you thinking of coming to live in town? If you are, just think for a minute about what your children might have to face. A new school where they don't know anyone, strange children who talk a language they don't know too well, perhaps

being not so good at their school work as the others, children from better houses, better dressed, with parents who take them out, books to read, toys to play with. These things are important, but they aren't the only things. Wtihout proper food and clothes a child will die, but without the interest of his parents shown often, and as though they mean it, a child dies inside, like Harry and Emma. How can you help your children? Well, first of all, you'll have to ask yourself some pretty hard questions. What do you want for your children? This is 1962, you have to think about 1982, not 1932. Perhaps you had better go and see the teacher and the headmaster and have a talk to them, they're usually nice people and interested in your children, they wouldn't be doing the hardest and worst paid job in the country if they weren't. Perhaps you had better look at yourself and say—Am I doing all I could? Am I interested in what young Sonny or Annie is doing? Do I know what he does after school? Have I taken him to the pictures or the Museum or the Zoo or for a trip across the harbour? I'll tell you the truth, there are plenty of pakehas that don't do these things. But does that matter? You don't weed your kumara because the pakeha does, you weed them so that they'll grow up and there'll be a good crop. Watch your boy or girl and see how he or she is growing; you'd do that for a kumara, why not for your own flesh and blood? Try to understand why they are like they are, go to the P.T.A.; these things are often talked about. And when you're in doubt about what the Pakeha is up to, keep quiet until you're sure. Perhaps he is trying to help, and he can't do much unless you help too.