The writer of this article is talking about his experiences as a teacher; because of this, he must remain anonymous. He is a young primary school teacher, with many close friends among Maori people, who has taught for some years in a city school which has many Maoris among its pupils. We don't know whether or not he is right in what he says here; we print it as being one man's opinion, for which only he is responsible. We'd very much like to know what you think about his article, and whether or not you agree with it. We hope you'll write and let us know what you think about it; we'd like to publish some letters on the subject in our next issue.

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.