My Mother's Story (1930–2007)

My mother Rihitapuwae Rauhihi was nine when she began her Catholic education at St. Joseph's Boarding School. A cold bewildering world filled with unreasonable rules and strange beliefs, it seemed to be the antithesis of the warm communal life she now pined for.

From birth my mother had lived among her people of Ngāti Whakatere in the Manawatu. She basked in the love and attention from the many aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins in her extended family. Māori was the main language spoken, especially by most of the older generation, whereas the English vernacular was more prevalent and fashionable among the younger people. In the communal environment, learning about Māori customs, protocols and ways of being just happened, it was not a conscious activity but was simply a part of everyday life. In a similar way to the participants in Metge's 1980s research on Māori methods of teaching and learning (Metge, Reference Metge2015), my mother learnt through observation, imitation and experience. She told me that watching her aunts and kuia/elderly women performing activities was part of her learning. The practical ‘doing’ of the activity soon reinforced the lesson. Mum recalled treks with her mother or other women to pick fern shoots for food and the learning associated with the gathering of seafood and diving for koura/crayfish.

Family and tribal gatherings, tangi/funerals, weddings and other important whānau/extended family events often took place at the marae, a tribal gathering place. My mother learnt by observing and by taking part in the daily rituals, language and values that took place there. My mother lived as Māori—it was normal to be Māori, and to speak the Māori language.

Schooling had a profound effect on my mother's life and her being Māori. Until she was nine years of age she had attended the local primary school. English was the language of the school and my mother explained that her language, Māori, was only allowed outside the school gate. She related that being forbidden to speak Māori at school did not seem terribly significant at that time, because she still had the language thriving within her whānau and community.

My mother was quite a boisterous child, ‘I was told I was a tomboy. They wanted to change me into something lady-like’. Consequently, the start of her Catholic education at St Joseph's Boarding School was marked by a focussed curtailment of her adventurous behaviour. A ‘respectful defiance’ was the stance my mother took in order to cope with the feelings of abandonment and loneliness.

In the 1940s when my mother attended St Joseph's boarding school, education for Māori girls was about teaching them to behave in a ‘civilised’ European manner, thus preparing them for entry into the working class and the wider Pākehā society. My mother related: ‘We were taught how to behave and how to present ourselves in public. We learnt how to eat properly, how to hold a knife and fork, that you have a fork for desserts and sweets, a butter knife for the butter, and serviettes’. She learnt the three R's: Reading, wRiting and aRithmetic, some Biology as well as the following subjects: Hygiene; Home Economics; Embroidery; Knitting; Crotcheting; Dress making and Design; How to make Soap and Starch Clothes; and Laundry Washing. In acquiring these housekeeping skills, the young girls were being prepared for a working class adulthood through vocational and domestic training, an outcome of the 1930s Native Schools’ curriculum (Simon & Smith, Reference Simon and Smith2001). Although seeking ‘to provide a good general education rooted in Christian principles’ (Van der Linden, Reference Van der Linden1990, p. 25), the nuns of St Joseph's were well liked by my mother and others. The girls did not speak a lot of Māori among themselves at boarding school, choosing instead to speak English. Over time my mother came to enjoy living and studying at St Joseph's that she described as ‘sound preparation’ for her future life in the world.

My mother had been brought up ‘living as Māori’. The Māori language and knowledge she carried were put largely aside while at school where English literacy and knowledge were the main curriculum. Throughout her education, however, my mother managed to keep her Māori side intact through adaption and compromise. The English language education she received at the Catholic Boarding School was an addition to her Māori worldview: She became richer with her depth of both knowledge and languages. My mother left school with School Certificate, and an excellent proficiency in the reading and writing of both English and Māori. She was also an eloquent speaker, a skill she learnt from the school, where oratory in the Māori language was encouraged: ‘we learnt how to run meetings and how to debate, also oratory skills in Māori and Pākehā. All these things have helped in my life since’.

My mother's Māori upbringing coupled with the Catholic English language schooling produced a proud and strong Māori woman, able to walk confidently between the two worlds, Māori and Pākehā. Like some of the respondents in Fitzgerald's (Reference Fitzgerald1977) study of Māori graduates in the 1940s, my mother strongly identified as Māori yet also aspired to acquire ‘economic security and a European way of life’ (p. 76). Showing great potential as a teacher, my mother was encouraged to apply to the Wellington Teachers College as part of the Māori Teachers Quota, a system introduced in 1939 to encourage Māori into the teaching profession (Simon & Smith, Reference Simon and Smith2001, pp. 80–81).

It was at the Wellington Teachers’ College that my mother met my Pākehā father, a fellow student. A friendship developed and grew into a marriage that lasted for 57 years until my mother's death in 2007. For the first five years of my life our family moved around the country as my father was posted to teaching positions in different Māori communities.

My Story (1951–)

In 1956, when I was five years old, my father's career, and our lives took a different turn as my father became the Māori Welfare Officer for the Taumarunui district. We moved to Ngāpuke, 20 minutes outside of the township of Taumarunui where we lived among our own hapū, Ngāti Hinemihi (a subtribe of Ngāti Tūwharetoa). Occasionally, we would visit our maternal grandmother and our Ngāti Raukawa relatives further south. It was here that we attended the tangi for my grandmother when she passed away.

A tangi, like most Māori ceremonies, involves tikanga Māori, described by Mead (Reference Mead2003, p. 5) ‘as a means of social control’. Tikanga determines how Māori behave on a large scale, community level or on an individual basis. As children, my siblings and I learnt the more individual type of tikanga or traditional ways of behaving, by observation and a few lashings of the English word, ‘Don't!’ We learnt in a similar fashion to Webber (Reference Webber2008, p. 11) who describes being taught: ‘Don't sit on tables, don't cut your hair or nails after dark, and don't step over people's legs’. Reasons were not often given for a particular activity. It was simply done that way. As the eldest in the family, I was expected to help my mother with the huge workload that came with having a large family. Washing clothes was one of those chores. Although I must have been shown at some time, it feels like I have always known that tea towels, tablecloths and linen associated with food must be washed separately from clothing that goes on the body. There was no lecture or long explanation just the understanding that it was paruparu/dirty to put the two types of clothing together. All this home instruction was in English, even though it was teaching—albeit without explanation—‘Māori ways of being’ in a domestic setting.

I observed my mother picking pūhā/sow thistle and watercress, learnt how to pick the vegetables and how to wash and scrub the sourness out of the prickly pūhā. Later, I was taught to add the greens to a boil-up and how to cook the delicious fry-bread that went with it. However, this kind of ‘Māori kai/food’ was not a regular meal for us as we were more likely to have a traditional ‘kiwi’ meal of meat and two veggies. Traditional Māori food and kaimoana/seafood was a special treat for my mother. She loved kina/sea urchins, pūpū/sea snails, tuna/eel and pikopiko/young fern shoots marinated with mussels. We were not allowed near these foods—they were for her consumption only. So we never developed a taste for Māori kai.

In my convent school days, there was no learning to support my Māori side. Although we studied Maths, Reading and Writing, Social Studies, Art, and Physical Education, the focus was on Catholicism and the avoidance of Hell. School differences caused conflict and kids from other primary schools delighted in teasing us. Coming from the only school in town that insisted on uniforms, I was very noticeable as a convent school pupil in my black, pleated tunic covering a white shirt and a sky blue tie. The distinctive clothing was instantly recognisable to the primary school travellers in the old school bus, and, as it lumbered past me walking home, they would yell and chant from the windows ‘Convent dog sitting on a log, eating the guts out of a frog!’‘Being Māori’ was submerged under ‘being Catholic’ in my daily life as a girl.

The taunts from the primary pupils ceased once I entered Taumarunui High School where I was placed in the top academic class 3A1, as a result of streaming tests in my form two year at primary school. Academic students at secondary school studied the basic subjects of English, Mathematics, Geography, Physical Education and Science, to which I added French and Latin. Māori language and culture were not taught at secondary school.

My class rarely interacted with the ‘lower’ general stream students where it seemed most Māori students were placed. I remember, when hearing a racist remark about Māori students, reminding my classmate that I, too, am Māori. Genuinely surprised, my friend responded with the comment ‘Yeah, but you're different!’ I guess my classmates recognised me as one of them—this time, being of a ‘better social class’ trumped ‘being Māori’. In a way, it is not surprising, given that I was the only Māori in the academic class until my 5th form year, all of my friends were Pākehā, and my middle class family lived in a Pākehā neighbourhood.

Many studies demonstrate the impact of socio-economic status and family resources on children's academic achievement (e.g., Biddulph, Biddulph, & Biddulph, Reference Biddulph, Biddulph and Biddulph2003; Fergusson, Horwood, & Boden, Reference Fergusson, Horwood and Boden2008). Both of my parents were well educated, were avid readers and very proficient writers who expected their children to do well academically. My father had returned to teaching at the local high school. He was the English teacher and, in a way, continued his teaching at home as he corrected my grammar and that of my siblings to ensure proper English was spoken and written around the kitchen table. Such middle class family practices contributed to my learning and resulted in my placement in an academic class at high school.

In discussing Māori identity, Webber (Reference Webber2008) talks about appropriate behaviour that makes a person Māori. One expectation she mentions is the unwritten rule that real Māori stick with other Māori and steer away from befriending Pākehā. Although I didn't feel Pākehā, it seemed that my having Pākehā friends clinched my non-Māoriness. I enjoyed tennis, swimming and netball throughout my secondary school years, captaining the netball team during one of them. Even though I was a reasonably good sports player, and excelling in sport is a stereotype associated with being Māori, I still had the feeling that I wasn't quite Māori when it came to sports—not like the softball playing girls from the General Stream. Although I felt intimidated by their toughness, I envied their ability to send the ball hurtling with great speed to each other. And I envied the ease with which they communicated. I wished that I could be a part of the cheeky banter, the eruptions of raucous laughter. Their camaraderie, their group strength, seemed unattainable. I wanted to be identified with the Māori students but like ‘Shirley’, one of the participants in Lee's (Reference Lee2007) study of Chinese-Māori, placement in an academic class made me an outsider to other Māori at school. A Māori woman in my home town unwittingly re-ignited those feelings of disconnection recently when she mocked me with the words ‘My Dad said you were a good girl at school. He said you were a nerd!’

The sense of separation from other Māori students and the feeling of somehow not ‘being Māori’, the feeling Webber (Reference Webber2008) describes of ‘not belonging’ or ‘in-between-ness’ (p. 9), was a constant companion during my secondary education. The sense of dislocation that remained with for me for some years long after I had left the high school was further compounded by my mother's occasional angry negativity. Once in a fit of anger, she stormed at me ‘You kids –you're so Pākehā! You're just like your father!’ In my mind she was saying we, her children, were not like her—not Māori!

My mother always voiced strong messages about upholding Māori tikanga or protocol, yet she was not keen to teach her children Māori language, even though I expressed interest while at high school, or to pass on the cultural skills she possessed. She was known as an expert in the art of performing action songs and the discipline of the ‘mere’ (a short, flat weapon of stone) that she deftly twirled and thrust in dance. She also became renowned for her song-writing talent and her waiata/songs are still sung on our marae today. But she did not pass this knowledge on to me.

Perhaps one of the reasons behind my not learning Māori language or ‘Māori things’ as I grew up was reflected in the education policies of the time that encouraged Māori parents to ensure good English language proficiency. Parents who went along with this view were not wrong or deluded. In fact, good English language proficiency was a route to a better job. Māori language, in the mainstream of New Zealand life at the time that ignored and looked down on the idea of ‘being Māori’, led ‘nowhere’. So my parents (like others of that time) spoke English to me and my siblings as we grew up. My father related, ‘There was a tendency to feel that you would be better off speaking English’. The regret my parents felt in later years about not teaching their children Māori was expressed clearly by my mother in 2001 when she said, ‘That was a sad time for me, because I went along with the thinking of that time. I helped you to learn French and Latin. I fell down a bit because I never taught Māori to you children. I neglected the Māori side’.

At the time of this admission, my mother was in her 60s and had become very supportive of my desire to speak Māori. With the realisation that I was the only one of her eight children seeking Māori knowledge, she was keen to pass on whakapapa and other aspects of Māori learning to me. She delighted in conversing in Māori with me and my daughter Taupunakohe, who had grown up immersed in the Māori language and traditions through her kōhanga reo pre-school learning and Māori-medium primary school education.

Speaking in Māori opens the mind to many aspects of Māori knowledge and the mores of our ancestors. As Nepe (Reference Nepe1991, p. 44) said, ‘Māori language is the exclusive vehicle that gives expression to kaupapa Māori knowledge’. So upon my return to New Zealand from living in Australia in the early 80s, I was determined to develop my Māori language skills through regular attendance at the Ngāti Raukawa total immersion wānanga/place of learning. It was significant that the first wānanga I attended was held at Whakawehi Marae, the place where my mother had grown up. Here, I was introduced to the genealogy of my Ngāti Whakatere sub-tribe, demonstrating the connection between me, the marae and people there, thus sowing the seed: a nascent sense of belonging.

But as a novice, eager to learn Māori, and to gather the accompanying spiritual and intellectual wealth, I was open to some problematic teachings and ideas. I was a member of a group that met weekly to learn about tribal knowledge and I remember being told off by one of the men for wearing what he called ‘Pākehā’ jewellery—I should have been wearing pounamu/greenstone or mako/shark's tooth earrings. I was also given the impression that one must not be too well-dressed and to wear bright clothing, to stand out was being Pākehā and not ‘authentically’ Māori. Hoskins (Reference Hoskins, Jones, Herda and Suaalii2000) explains issues of authenticity as problematic when trying to return to the Māori traditional ways. Not only has the infusion of colonial ideas into Māori history and knowledge resulted in an uncertainty about the legitimacy of the culture and the knowledge being sought, but sometimes there is a policing of the idea of what counts as Māori. In this group, not only had I encountered a stereotype about being Māori—imposed by a Māori person—but I was also being subjected to oppressive male behaviour.

The group was run by the men in our group as they were the ones who had the language and cultural knowledge. In her critique of the role of Māori women in the world of Māori today, Hoskins (Reference Hoskins, Jones, Herda and Suaalii2000, p. 39) states that Māori men are seen as the repositories of knowledge, ‘the legitimated keepers, interpreters and promoters of what is considered authentic, traditional knowledge and tikanga and kaupapa Māori’. They are the ones who traditionally do the whaikōrero, the main public speaking in a Māori context. But, she argues, the dominance of Māori men in Māori society is the result of colonialism and a power alliance between Pākehā and Māori men in the maintenance of a patriarchal society. Although I accepted the dominant role of men as speakers on the marae ātea/courtyard and speaking area, I could never understand the reason for women having to ask the men for permission to speak within the wharenui/meeting house whenever we were at wānanga. I asked my mother: Where is the place for women to speak? The woman's karanga (the call and the first voice on the marae) seemed part of a formal process and not meant to argue points of interest. My mother assured me that inside the wharenui was the place for women to speak, and that men's permission was not required there. But, afraid to voice the assurances of my mother, I stayed silent. Any opposition from the women in our tribal group about perceived inequalities was silenced by the fear of being labelled as feminists or Pākehā ‘stirrers’.

Māori radical movements were happening on the fringes of my life at that time. Māori protests about long-standing grievances came to fruition in the 1987 Māori Language Act that recognised Māori as an official language of New Zealand (May, Reference May2013). I was an undergraduate student at the University of Auckland, learning for the first time about the history of our country. Exposure to the injustices incurred by Māori through colonialism fostered anger in me and a desire to distance myself from my non-Māori heritage—an easy solution to settle the confusing and polarising constructions of ‘coloniser’ and ‘colonised’ jostling within my own psyche (Meredith, Reference Meredith1999). I was becoming stronger in my sense of being Māori, but I was hesitant to admit that I had within me a Pākehā ancestry.

The ambivalence about my identity increased when I was referred to as ‘part-Māori’ and occasionally as a ‘half-caste’. Mostly used in a derogatory sense, the negative term ‘half-caste’ has been reclaimed and celebrated by Meredith (Reference Meredith1999) as an acknowledgement of his two beings: Māori and Pākehā. In living as a Māori–Pākehā, he describes himself as ‘in a space where two cultures edge each other’ (p. 17). In a similar way, Collins (Reference Collins1999) describes the bicultural nature of people of mixed Māori and Pākehā parentage through the analogy of the flowing of two rivers. She has coined the term ‘ngā tāngata awarua’ to describe Māori–Pākehā who have the ability to slide across the two cultures rather than suffering ‘in-between’ status.

For me, the ‘in-between-ness’, the living within my personal state of ‘limbo’, has now vanished and is replaced instead by a new and liberating stance. When pondering the following questions posed by Bhabha (Reference Bhabha1994, p. 351) in his discussion on cultural hybridity—‘what do I belong to in this present? In what terms do I identify with the ‘we’, the inter subjective realm of society?’—I realise I have constructed an identity in which my Māori and Pākehā backgrounds combine to form ‘a new area of negotiation of meaning and representation’ (p. 211). It is here that my living as Māori, my being Māori, is influenced by my middle-class Pākehā background. The Pākehā side of me is tempered by my Māori conditioning. Instead of edging each other, or jumping from one to the other, my two cultures merge, mixing and influencing each other.

In an extension of Collins’ analogy of the two rivers representing two cultures, I view the point where two rivers come together as an expression of the meeting point of my two heritages. I see a singular flowing entity (the output from the joining of the rivers) as the construction of an identity that is a combination of my dual cultures. This is symbolised in my home town of Taumarunui, where the Whanganui and Ongārue rivers converge at a place called Ngā Huihuinga and become one strong, flowing force, Te Awa o Whanganui. A place full of childhood memories, a place of comfort and spiritual solace, I see this meeting site, ‘Ngā huihuinga’ much like ‘a containment of both cultures’ (p. 503) as described by Moeke-Maxwell in her 2005 article on Māori women and hybridity. Resembling the Māori–Pākehā women she discusses, I too, have the ability to create a third space useful for me, for the good of my whānau and the community at large. Like Lee (Reference Lee2007, p. 16) who states, ‘I do not choose to be one or the other, I am both’, when referring to her Māori and Chinese heritage, I am also both cultures, Māori and Pākehā. Although I can easily move between the two worlds, there are times, depending on the social milieu when one part is more dominant than the other.

Although I acknowledge and am proud of my Pākehā ancestry, I identify as Māori. It has taken 20 years to soothe the ache of not fully belonging, of not truly inhabiting my being, my identity. Today, I am proud to declare the lineage from my mother that links me to the tribes of Ngāti Raukawa, Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāti Maniapoto and Waikato and, from my father, the Celtic and Jewish ancestry.

When attending hui or tangihanga, I move with relative ease on the Māori environment of the marae and I understand and practise tikanga among the various Māori communities I mingle with. But, at times, it is a problem being the only one in my family who can speak Māori and understand the Māori world. The majority of my siblings rarely participate in Māori events. If forced to, as in the death of a loved one, they are filled with uncertainty and trepidation at the thought of making mistakes in the Māori protocol. Thus, a sharing of responsibilities and burdens is not always possible. Whanaungatanga, the expectations and responsibilities around relationships (Mead, Reference Mead2003), is a struggle to achieve and maintain when there is little understanding from others. It is at those moments that I feel alone in my family and miss my mother's support and knowledge about things Māori.

My Daughter's Story (1985–)

Being Māori was a significant part of my daughter's life from the start. When asked about influences on her life Taupunakohe states that she was born into the Māori world and a Māori way of thinking. She remembers ‘going to the marae, to hui, to tangi, to wānanga. I was surrounded by learning, reo and tikanga’. Taupunakohe recalls an upbringing imbued with tikanga and the values of whakapapa/genealogy and wairua/Māori spiritual essence while being inspired by her grandmother, who nourished her Māori side. She has fond memories of her primary school days at Te Kura Kaupapa Māori o Maungawhau and the rumaki reo/Māori-medium immersion unit at Freemans Bay School—the educational places I sent her, determined she would not miss out on her Māori identity as I did as a child. She remembers passionate, caring teachers, kind, understanding kaumātua–kuia/elders as role models and the tight whānau community.

Attending high school was a shock for my daughter. Unsure of the quality of Māori-medium high schools, I had enrolled her in a mainstream-English language high school. My daughter has since told me she disliked her time at secondary school because her Māoriness was denigrated and she ‘felt very lonely, really lost’. She talks of teachers mispronouncing her name, being told off for correcting their pronunciation and even being renamed. She recalls the unfairness of being chastised for speaking Māori to a friend in class, whereas other classmates were allowed to speak in their Chinese tongue. The values and ways of behaving were at complete odds with what she had grown up with. She talked about the values of individualism and competitiveness held aloft as beacons for success, which clashed with the values of whanaungatanga (group support), āwhina (assist and care) and aroha (respect) inherent in her since birth. Although she said she did not feel safe in that environment, ‘it was knowing who I was as a Māori that made me staunch’. Taupunakohe's declaration that her strong identity enabled her to withstand the negativity she encountered at secondary school reflects elements in Webber's (Reference Webber2012) study about racial–ethnic identity and Māori adolescents. Webber found that a positive self-concept can help young Māori to be resilient at school and enables them to cope with adversity and racism while focussing on learning and achieving goals.

There were positive influences. Taupunakohe likened the Māori teacher at the mainstream secondary school to a kind and supportive aunty and her classroom as a comfortable haven, a place of refuge where there was ‘a sense of whānau’. Kapa haka/Māori performing arts also provided a welcome relief, a chance to be proud and show off the beauty of being Māori. Staying at marae during kapa haka practices for the annual Secondary Schools Polynesian Festival was enjoyed, because it meant a return to Māori ways of behaving ‘taking me back to what I knew and felt comfortable in’.

A Pākehā teacher of English is remembered for the out-of-school time and tuition she gave as well as her encouragement and support: ‘She put extra effort in for me, she saw the potential in me’. A Social Studies teacher was also seen as helpful, especially in allowing my daughter a voice in class when negative, non-Māori views dominated. The counsellor, who provided helpful guidance, is recalled with fondness as a person who ‘seemed to understand what it was like to be a young Māori’. The trust and warmth exuded from those teachers and counsellor gave my daughter confidence in her abilities and the belief that she could achieve her goals.

The positive behaviour and supportive teaching skills modelled by these teachers was foregrounded in the 2007 research by Bishop, Berryman, Cavanagh and Teddy. Their study on Māori educational experiences showed that caring teachers employed strategies to pursue the cultural wellbeing of their students and successfully bolstered the students’ educational achievement. Armed with the support of a few committed teachers and encouragement from her family, my daughter nurtured the desire to do well at school in order to attain a good career and future. Consequently she was successful in gaining an ‘A’ Bursary in her final 7th form year. A bilingual speaker, proficient in both Māori and English literacy skills, my daughter's knowledge of te reo Māori propelled her into a television career as a presenter on a Māori language programme for children.

When asked if schooling had prepared her for ‘living as Māori in the world today’—the aim of the New Zealand government's 2008–2012 ‘Ka Hikitia’ Māori Education Strategy (Ministry of Education, 2009)—Taupunakohe cited education as vital, but in second place to the strong and positive influence of a loving family. She describes her Māori-medium primary schooling as an environment that enabled and reinforced her being Māori. The education she received at secondary school taught the skills of the English language and opened her eyes to other cultures, but the dominance of Pākehā values subjected her to challenges about her very core: her being Māori. Perhaps, the need to confront and rebut the negativity developed her strength and the staunch pride she demonstrates today as a young Māori woman.

My daughter's reaction to racism and anti-Māori sentiment is similar to the behaviour and thinking exhibited by the youngest cohort in Houkamau's Reference Houkamau2006 study about modern Māori women's identity. The young women in her research were not afraid to speak out against unjust or unfair treatment of Māori. Like my daughter, it is probable that their strength came from growing up during the late 1970s to the mid-1980s, an era of Māori political activism. At that time, Māori were strident in their protests about land rights, foreshore and seabed issues, Māori language malaise and the continuing failure of Māori children within the state system. The involvement of Taupunakohe's father in some of the protests of that time has impacted upon her thinking.

Mirroring my daughter's primary-school experiences, the women in Houkamau's youngest cohort were also immersed in a Māori-medium education where they learnt about the Māori culture, values and history. They grew up feeling proud to be Māori. Similarly, Taupunakohe is very fervent about being involved in all aspects Māori whether in her workplace or her social life, and she has no qualms about proclaiming: ‘I love te reo Māori and the Māori world. I love being Māori!’.

Interestingly, ‘being Māori’ is viewed by these women and my daughter in a similar way to the thinking of the older women in Houkamau's Reference Houkamau2006 study. Both the younger and the older cohorts described traditional ideas such as whakapapa, marae activities, ‘whānau loyalty and cohesiveness’ as important facets to being and living as Māori (p. 192). The older women appeared similar to my mother in age and in their life experiences. Like my mother, they had been brought up speaking Māori and living Māori values within a communal life-style. Thus, they viewed the ability to speak Māori and having Māori parentage and blood-line as determinants of Māori ethnicity. Like a number of Māori, my mother also viewed certain physical traits as signs of a person's Māoriness: You were Māori if you had brown skin and had a flat nose. What counts as an ‘authentic’ Māori is problematic for today's generation of Māori. A number of Māori writers (Lee, Reference Lee2007; McIntosh, Reference McIntosh, Liu, McMreanor, McIntosh and Teaiwa2005; Webber, Reference Webber2008) report negative challenges to their Māori identity. Judgments about authenticity are often based on skin colour and physical appearance. McIntosh a fair-skinned Māori woman explains she is sometimes challenged for ‘not being Māori-looking enough’ (p. 39) that she interprets as not being dark enough. My daughter expresses a more open idea of what it is to be Māori than her grandmother's generation who were quite specific with their traditional descriptors. She does not see physical aspects or colour as a marker of Māori ethnicity. Instead she acknowledges the outcomes of intermarriage that permeate the Māori society today and that many Māori look different because of their genealogical connections to other ethnic groups.

On being Māori, Taupunakohe explains her own experiences: ‘For me, living as Māori is being able to speak Māori, know tikanga, think in Māori, [and] know the spiritual side, protocol, whakapapa’. Although applying some of the traditional markers for her own identity, she acknowledges being Māori is not static and cannot be clearly defined. ‘It is different for everybody because everyone is in a different place in life and has different backgrounds’. Her comments concur with Lee (Reference Lee2007) who argues that Māori identity is moulded by many factors including ‘class, gender, sexuality, age and geography’ as well as ‘whakapapa, iwi, hapū, whānau and whenua’ (p. 35). Although Māori are perceived to be a homogenous group, the many layers that contribute to identity result in quite individual descriptions for ‘being Māori’.

Stephenson (Reference Stevenson2004) describes four cultural identity profiles that were constructed from the Te Hoe Nuku Roa Framework (Durie, Reference Durie1995) research on cultural indicators as measures of Māori identity. The first profile is named a ‘Secure identity’ and includes Māori who participate in aspects of the Māori world, enjoy Māori language, land, whānau, values and Māori-medium education. A ‘Positive identity’ is the second profile and defines those who have ‘a strong sense of being Māori’ (p. 40), but do not have access to the resources of the Māori world. The third profile ‘Notional identity’ refers to a group who declare themselves Māori but do not participate in the Māori world. Māori who do not see themselves as Māori are placed under the fourth term, ‘Compromised profile’.

Clearly there are many ways of being Māori. Taupunakohe illustrates the diversity of Māori lives with her comments about some of her own relations: ‘some of them don't know how to speak Māori, don't know their whakapapa but they are the ones who are at the marae, still upholding manaaki tangata’. Other cousins name themselves Māori but do not know how to participate in Māori events or activities and have few opportunities to do so.

The crucial nature of identity is demonstrated in the final statement by Taupunakohe: ‘Having the grounding and security about who I am has given me the confidence to step out into the world [and] gives me the strength and courage to know what I want. I'm secure in my āhua Māori because of my upbringing and because of my kura experiences’.