WHAT IS A PAKEHA by RITA ATKINSON She was taller than the other children in her class and this alone made her feel conspicuous and awkward. She had learned their language but she spoke it with an accent and far too quickly, especially when excited, as she often was, so they called her “Dutchie” and said she spoke “Double Dutch.” She had been homesick at first but she found she was beginning to like her adopted country more as time went on, in spite of the teasing. There would be days when the other girls were very friendly; when they allowed her to join in their various amusements; told her secrets, whispered in her ear and walked the playground with her, arm in arm. Then she was happy. Then she was one of them. But there were other days. Days when the rest of the girls ganged up against her; when they jeered at her and teased her, when even those she thought her best friends laughed at her speech, her size and her different cast of features. They teased her about her family, about her father, who was different from their fathers, and about her mother who, ever homesick, still clung closely to her Dutch ways and her Dutch speech. “Pooh! You all talk Double Dutch at home,” they would tell her. Rushing her words one on top of the other, her accent becoming thicker in her excitement, she would try to explain her mother's love of her country and her uncertainty about this new one. “Listen! She's talking Double Dutch,” they would yell, crying, “Double Dutch! Double Dutch!” in a sing song imitation of her accent. Then came a day when the girls were choosing sides for a team game. “Let's play pakeha against Maori,” suggested one girl, so the brown-skinned girls began to line up on one side and their fairer sisters on the other. The Dutch girl walked towards her white playmates but a yell went up from one of the Maori girls. “Hey, you. You're not a pakeha.” “Yes I am.” “You're not. You're not a pakeha. You're not a Maori.” “I am a pakeha. Ya!” “You're not. You can't play.” “What am I then?” “You're Dutch. Double Dutch. That's not pakeha.” The Dutch girl had stood much teasing but she had had enough of it so she rushed to the attack, her arms and legs flying and charged at the girl who tormented her. Others soon joined in the fray and a first class battle was on. There were yells of “Go it, pakeha!” “Go it, Maori!” and even “Go it, Dutchie!” Soon a teacher came running and attempted to restore peace, though there were some torn frocks and scratched knees and faces. “What is all this?” she wanted to know. “They say I'm not a pakeha!” cried the Dutch girl. The Maori girl who had taunted her grinned. “You're all right,” she said. “You may not be a pakeha but you're a good fighter. How about being a Maori, eh?” “Dutchie” wondered if she was still teasing but, hesitating a little, decided the offer was genuine. “All right,” she agreed. So, arm in arm, brown team and white, off they went to play. “Look at them,” the teacher said to another member of the staff. “A minute ago they were all fighting. Now they're bosom pals. You never know what will happen next with children.” Out in the playground the Dutch girl's long legs were taking her over the ground in double quick time. “Come on the Maori! Come on the Maori!” yelled her brown team mates encouragingly.