Sticks and Stones

Tu Tangata, Issue 32, 1 October 1986, Page 62

Sticks and Stones

“T’tuki Row-paata! T’tuki Row-paata!” The voice, stark, authoritative, demanding, echoed through the corridors, grating to the ear. An old cop, retirement legs stretching, followed the pitch, his voice hollowing out before losing itself in the mass of people who squatted, stood and sat in the waiting room. It was a desolate, graffiti-dashed, room, nonpersonal, smoke-smelling, fear-smelling. Claustrophobic. Cattle-yard sweat. “T’tuki Row-paata!” The voice and cop again. ya here? Row-paata?”

It broke Tuki’s peace, the foreign sounds leaving him cold, like the room within which he sat. He’d heard the call all right, but couldn’t see any reason to jump to its call. They couldn’t even get his name right. So why jump? He dragged his smoke to the filter before flicking it into a wooden, brownstained, much-charred, tray at his feet. The cop was just turning to go. “Yeah? I’m Ropata,” he said, emphasising the ROPATA, rising to his feet as he did so. Somehow his words came out a bit too tough, not his intent at all. He only wanted a little victory. His own name. Yet, there was nothing on the cop’s face. Only impatience drawing it together. “Thought you weren’t here, Rowpaata,” the copper said. “You’re up now. The judge is waiting.” The cop, tired eyes, face flushed, was irritated. Only 10.30 am, and already he’d struck a smartarse. “Well, get a move on boy,” he grunted, his thoughts foremind, pulling Tuki into the crook of his arm, pushing him foreward. Tuki, his name a nonsense, allowed himself to be cow-prodded into the court room. It was easier to concentrate on that, rather than looking around at the foreboding faces of the court workers and the JUDGE SITTING ON HIGH. He dared a quick glance, however, noting the various bored faces; the female clerk, street-walker made up, cherry lipstick clear in his mind; the backs of two cops, one, young and strong, the other, slightly hunched too much paperwork topped by a greying mass; a lawyer guy, duty solicitor whom he’d talked to earlier; another guy doodling at a bench; and the JUDGE, the muppet eagle, knitted brows clenching and unclenching. There were others too. “Up to the dock,” the policeman, now fully in control, gruffly breathed Tuki’s way. Self-conscious, puppet-walking, he trod the distance to the waist-high cage. A young cop, another bored face, opened the swing door and motioned

him in. He did so, standing stiffly aware of the appraising eyes trying to focus on something real, orientating himself. It was then he happened to catch the judge’s eye. He hadn’t meant too. He just glanced that way and their eyes, the judges for a second unhidden, met with a clash. A feeling of desperation, as if he was drowning, hit him in the gut the second their eyes made contact. They were cold, hard and lifeless. Superior. Infinitely knowing. The despair ballooned inside, caught him cold, and he suddenly gripped the front railing to steady himself. In those blank moments of time, events caught up with him. He was in court, about to face a charge. And on this hearing, its outcome, his life, his future, hung in the balance. What happened here would dictate what the rest of his days would hold for him. It knocked the breath out of him. The sudden realisation. This wasn’t the movies. He was no hero. The cavalry wouldn’t come through the door in the nick of time to rescue him. He was caught. Alone. And soon the lynching would begin. This was real. It scared him into dulled sobriety. All edges of toughness, individuality, slipped away as reality took hold. All desire to fight left him. All desire to tell these pakeha the truth left him. In that moment he became another casualty. Statistic. He hung his head. Shamed. He was dimly aware of the sound of rustling papers and the young lawyer he’d seen earlier getting to his feet, a slight cough announcing his presence before the MIGHTY ONE. “Yes, Mr Findlay,” he heard the judge say. “You have talked to Mr R 0...” A slight hestitation, then: “Ropata. Yes, Ropata, I take it?” “Yes, Your Honour”, the lawyer guy croaked, as if afraid of the sound of his own voice. “He’s given me instructions regarding his case and the charge he’s facing. I understand he’s ready to make

a plea of not guilty to the charge.” Tuki raised his eyes then to look at the solicitor. Yes! He wasn’t guilty. That was for sure. But with the four walls of the court closing in on him, the staring, blank faces, the dehumanisation, reality told him it would be hopeless. He DID hit that pakeha square in the face. No doubt about that. But he still wasn’t guilty. “I wanna plead guilty”, he said quietly. The words were out. “What?” the lawyer asked, nervous now, the routine having been broken. “Wanna plead guilty?” Tuki replied. “I hit that pakeha fulla”, he said to the floor. “You’d better straighten this out Mr Findlay. It seems there’s a hiccup. You may approach the defendant,” the judge intoned, bored, slightly put out. “Of course, Your Honour. Immediately,” the lawyer blurted, eager to please. He quickly shuffled over. “You want to change your plea?” he whispered to Tuki, annoyed at the loss of face. “What’s the story?” “Yeah. Waste ‘a time the other way. I’ll get done, ‘cos I did hit that fulla,” Tuki replied. “Why didn’t you say so before. Well, okay then, if that’s what you want,” the lawyer said, no real concern in his voice. He raised his voice slightly for the benefit of the others. “You do know you’d get legal aid don’t you? If money’s the problem?” “Nah. Nothing like that. Just thought the court would listen...hey! You think the judge will listen to me,” Tuki said suddenly hopeful, “if I have a say?” “I can only ask him.” “Yeah? I just wanna tell my side of it that’s all.” “I’m sure they’ll give you a chance,” the lawyer said, breaking off the conversation, aware of the pregnant silence around him. He walked back to his seat and indicated the change of plea. “Perhaps if the charge would be read to him Your Honour, a plea could be taken,” he said, fully recovered. “Very well, Miss Jenkins would you be so kind...” the judge asked the clerk. A quick search and she had Tuki’s charge sheet before her. In a monotone voice she rattled off the details. “Tu...Tutuki Row-paata, you’ve been charged that on the eighth day of September you did assault John William Peters with intent to injure, how do you plead?” She looked at him pointedly, awaiting his answer. “Guilty,” Tuki said, stumbling over the word, fear cracking his voice. There was a brief pause as more papers were moved around. “Sergeant, would you please read the

summary of facts in this case,” the judge said to one of the two cops sitting at the front row bench.

“Yes, Your Honour,” the young cop replied.

“At 8.30 pm, Friday, September eight, police were called to the Whizz snack bar after the manager complained of a disturbance. On arriving, police Constable Dukeson found the complainant in an injured state being tended by the manager at the back of the premises. The defendant was still at the food bar. The complainant said he had been at the bar when the defendant assaulted in an unprovoked attack. He said he had given no cause for the attack. The complainant suffered a broken nose, cuts to the face, three missing teeth and bodily bruising as a result of the attack.

The defendant, in explanation, said the complainant had called him a ‘bad name’, that is, ‘a black bastard’, and so he had assaulted him.

He said he had been waiting for his order, with another member of his family who was not at the scene when police arrived, when the complainant had come up and called him the name. However, witnesses to the attack say they heard no names being mentioned but saw the defendant striking the complainant about the face and body...” The words droned on. And I’d do it again thought Tuki as the tale unfolded, flashbacks coming to mind; the sweet feel of skin and bone breaking under his fist and knee; the look of surprise the pakeha’s face as his fist swung in a haymaker; the registered shock as the blow struck home. The yelling, hands gripping him, pushing him back, knocking him to the ground. Cops coming. The pakeha fulla’s mates rushing in. Flashing lights.

The judge was talking now, the minutes having ticked by as his still-frame mind motion camera clicked through the incident.

“...and what have you got to say for yourself, Mr Ropata? Mr Ropata? are you listening? Well, what have you got to say for yourself? This is a very serious matter...”

Tuki caught the solicitor’s eye, the lawyer giving him a quick nod of approval, consent for him to say his piece. The urge was there to speak but somehow the words caught in his throat. What could he say? How could he make them understand? Did they want to understand? He looked up at the judge, his throat constricted, the words not there.

“Well man, what have you to say? This is a most serious crime, one that warrants imprisonment. What have you to say,” the judge asked, looking down beneath his bushed eyebrows. “1...1 wanted to say...the truth,” Tuki started. Nothing more would come out. “Of course Mr Ropata, and what is that,” the judge said sarcastically.

“I hit him, but the truth is...the truth is... he called me names... I don’t know...what to say,” he broke halfway through. “I got nothing to say,” he groped, voice staccato, defeated. Memories flooded his mind. The hours he’d sat with his koro. The explanations, but the words were only imprints in his mind, he couldn’t get a grasp on them. They would sound ridiculous in the situation he now faced. He’d be laughed at. “The power of the word, e moko. Nothing can beat it. Nothing! Maori knew about one thing, he knew about words and their power,” his koro

posed, melancholy, remembering. “Maori had nowhere to put them, but, didn’t have to, see, they were always there with him. If you had the mind, and most did...most did.” A pause. Sigh. Long dead memories. “The mind grew that way, see. Nowhere to write down, so, mind had to grow. Had to grasp words, had to remember them. Opened up the mind, like a hawk in the sky, floating, soaring on the wind.” The old man’s words had left a lasting impression in Tuki’s mind. He loved to listen to the old fulla’s crooning. Even if he didn’t understand all of what he said. “You know the karanga the women do on the marae.” It wasn’t a question more a statement. “When her lips stop moving, what you think is happening.” Again, a statement. “You think she stopped talking? Ha! Ha! No, e moko. The words still there, but you can’t hear, see that, you can’t hear them. Not with those ears anyway”, the old man said, giggling with mirth.

“Those words, they go on and on and live, floating in the universe, and somewhere, someone pick them up and hear them. They float forever, to Rarohenga, everywhere. Your tipuna, they hear them. That’s how they know what we’re doing. They hear all our words. But with different ears.” A chuckle. Laughter at the puzzlement in his grandchild’s eyes. “You shoot something into the sky, what happens? You watch, watch, watch. Ha! Goes out of sight. Ne ra? See it no more, but you know it’s still there. Has to be, you saw it going up and up. Ay? Where is it? Only your eyes can’t see it, cause it’s out of range. But it’s still there. Then, one day it comes back down, hits you on the head, and then you know, sure enough, it was still there. Words like that, ‘zactly the same. Ear’s can’t hear them, but they’re still there, floating in the sky. Make sense ay moko? Make sense to us, ay? Words got to go somewhere. For us Maori, in the air, floating for us go get again.”

“Those old fullas, better than those tape recorders. Tell you what you said today, 20 years time. Need no batteries. No plug. Ha!” Another chortle. “All in the head you see. In the head. Tapu to words are. Come from the head, see. And head tapu as anything. No head, no brains, no brains, no life.” “So, you know all your tipuna hear those words. Someone swear at you, they hear too. Hurts their mana too. Same as it hurts yours. Someone tramps your mana, what you do ay? What you do? Can’t just sit there, do nothing. Got to do something. Otherwise, waste of time having mana. May as well have none, be a piece of bread. Same thing!” “Someone punch you in the face,

what you do then? You punch back, ay? Same for words. Only words hurt much deeper. Punch only hurts for a second. Words hurt for years and years. Till you die sometimes.” “Back in those old days, you say a karakia wrong, you commit hara and you die. True! Power of the word, you see. You see a charm wrong and you die, sick or something happens to you. Tohunga got to come in have a look. And, if he can’t help, ah well, ka mate.” “Silly pakehas. Knowing nothing ‘bout words. Need the books to remember. And actions stronger than words they reckon. Tito! Words got the power. So, e moko. Kia tupato. Kia

tupato. Careful, ay boy. Power of the word. Strong stuff.” The scene flashed past, a lifetime’s teachings in a second. “Nothing to say...l hit that pakeha...and I’d do it again,” Tuki mumbled, meant for himself but heard by all. “Not where you’re likely to go. Society has got to be protected from thugs like you. The streets aren’t safe with rogues like you attacking innocent people. I want a probation report, but I warn you I intend sending you to jail,” the judge cut in. “And a word of advice, Mr Ropata, sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt

me. Remember that. You had better learn a bit of respect for other people.” “I ain’t eating at the same place as no black bastard”, the youth said, words slurred, liquor breath condensating in clouds in the cold air. “Bloody horis, should’a stayed in the bush, the lotaya. Ya ain’t wanted here. This white man’s country, so, get lost.” His red eyes, misted, glazed, spat hate. “And take that black sprog with y0u...” he said, tongue curling curses, fire licks, at the young girl, hand clasped in her father’s. And Tuki’s fist struck home.

PAKIWAITARA