Creative Response - The Unfinished Fence by Vilsoni Hereniko

He had been caught. The paint on his hands was proof. He had been working, and working on a tourist visa, nonetheless! What would his wife think? He had promised her that he would return, with lots of money for them, their home, their children and their village. But what would the police do now? Would they take away his earnings? Deport him? Ban him from the fruitful and prosperous country that was New Zealand? What would he do for work? Where would he go for work? New Zealand was his hope, his family’s hope!

He sat alone in a desolate gaol cell. Oh, the shame! He was like an animal, trapped in a cage. What would happen to him now?

And poor Mrs Davidson. He hadn’t collected her post. The clock on the wall said it was just after three-thirty p.m. She must be worried sick!

Ha! his inner voice scoffed. She won’t be worried about you! You’re just a coconut!

Jimi’s inner voice was wrong. Mrs Davidson would be worried about him. They were friends. He worked for her, he talked with her, he did nice things for her. Of course she would be worried. Who would collect her post now?

And the worst part: he never finished the fence.

No Scandinavian Name

Her first,
meaning Ash-Tree Meadow.
Of English Origin
to represent her English heritage.

Ashleigh.

Her second,
derived from 'Monica'
meaning alone, advisor, wise
Of French Origin
Although she has no French in her.

Monique.

Her last,
given by her father,
first given by a King
Ne a meta oculos avertam
Never give up
From Neamestown, County Wexford, Ireland,
her family's hometown.

Neame.

She is part scandinavian.

She has no scandinavian name.

I am Kiwi

Creative Response to 'Fast Talkin PI' by Selena Tusitala Marsh 

I am a Kiwi

I am a female Kiwi

I am a teenage Kiwi

I am a brunette Kiwi

I am a fair-skinned Kiwi

I am a blue-eyed Kiwi

I am a big sister Kiwi

I am a daughter Kiwi

I am a granddaughter Kiwi

A niece

A babysitter

I am a Kiwi

I am a student Kiwi

Of a Kiwi university

I am a Kiwi

I am a pakehā Kiwi

I am an English speaking Kiwi

I am a Kiwi

I’m a south side Kiwi

I am a Kiwi from Manurewa

I am an Auckland Kiwi

I am a JAFA Kiwi

I am a writing Kiwi

A self-published novel writing Kiwi

An internet addicted Kiwi

I am Kiwi

I am an Aotearoaen Kiwi

I am a land of the long white cloud Kiwi

I’m a born and bred Kiwi

I am Kiwi

Creative Response - Sons of the return home

Chapter One

She sat there, blonde hair, fair skined arms rushing above that piece of paper
making note? writing a letter? drawing? scribbling?
Although her presences and her questions annoyed me,
her nameless face remained.
Imprinted into my brain, the last thing that came to mind
before my eyes closed.
Her figure out lined,
her violet soft toned voice echoing questions of annoyance.
it bothered me than, but if comforted my quite mind with her tone used as a lullaby.
She wont leave.
I wont let her.
I'll keep her locked into my mind, as a deep dark secret
until that day comes where my culture makes that choice for me.

With my head in my books, before she could made her strong impression
she walked in with a boiling cup of chocolate brown cocoa, with a teaspoon of milk not stirred, just lurking above.
Just the way I like it.
She always did things that way. The way I like it.
Oka gutted, scaled and cubed in to small pieces of flesh
laced with white cream, spiced with natural pants from the super market
down my throat, spicy and fresh. She made the oka the way I liked it.
Her large islander body imprinted deep into my freshly laid sheets.
She watched as I took quick sips of the hot cuppa and mumbled answers that she wanted to hear.
To make her leave.
Now.
"Dont study to hard. Go to sleep"
bidding me goodnight.

These two.
One who share my features, my skin, my eyes and my heritage
differed strongly from me.
The other who looked like a ghost next to me, her white skin, blonde hair and her open personality shared my feelings.
Both sharing one thing in common, noticing me.
They never will understand each other.
Two worlds that collide through me.
Both with my love and with respect, making the decisions difficult to make.
But I will always to my culture
and my mother.

Response to: Samoan From Foreign Soil

Born and Bred
by Ashleigh Neame

***

An essential essence
of being Samoan
is making the pilgrimage back to Samoa.
I think not!

I am classed as a
New Zealand European
but I have not been to Europe
so doesn't that make me not
New Zealand European?

Europe is not my heart.
England is not my heart.
New Zealand is my heart.

I am not
New Zealand European.
I am
New Zealander.

Aotearoa is not my adopted nation.
It is not my family's adopted nation.
It IS our nation.
It is our home.

So why are we classed as
New Zealand European?
We are clearly
New Zealander.

Samoaness from foreign soil.

If that were really, honestly, truly
true
then should England be calling me?

I am not English, Rev Mua Strickson-Pua.
I am New Zealander.
England does not call to me.
I do not want tea and scones.
I hate tea and scones.

Fish and chips.
Pavlova.
The Buzzy Bee that clicks as you tow it along.
These are icons of my culture.
I am
New Zealander.

You say that making peace requires fronting up.
I have made my peace.
I have fronted up.
I am NOT
New Zealand European.

I am New Zealander.

Born and bred.

Seminar Response - Distant Memory

To know ones history
is to know how your family
ended up where you are today.
To know ones lineage
is to know your family.
I know where I come from:
Ireland
Norway
England
Australia
New Zealand.
My ancestors spoke English,
so I speak the language of my ancestors
yes.

The villages of my parents
is Manurewa
and Mangere.
I have been to Mangere.
I live in Manurewa.
There are no tears from my elders,
when they speak about their parents.
Happy tales only.
We do not have one family cemetery,
unless you count Waikumete but no one has been buried there in a while.
Children don't play in my parents' village.
In Mangere, they wander the streets.
In Manurewa, they stay inside and let their pitbulls roam free.

My home is here, and I see it everyday.
I have seen as much as I can of the landmarks of our family.
Unfortunately,
there aren't many left.

I want to go to Neamestown, County Wexford, Ireland.
I want to see where the first Neame was born.
I want to see the land the Neame's used to own.

I will travel, but I will not travel home
for Auckland, New Zealand is my home.
I will travel to the lands of my ancestors,
see the village named after the Neame's
see the new Oslo, Norway, and hopefully the old Oslo, where the Olsen's are from.
I will see the Shepherd Neame brewery in Kent, England,
where a Neame started brewing strong ale with a Shepherd
I want to taste the beer that my family used to make.

Closer to home, I will go to Nelson, where my Pop was born.
I will go to Australia, where my
great-great-great-great-great grandfather
was sent, after stealing from his master,
where he took a second wife, even though the first was alive.

I don't belong to these countries
except for New Zealand
but my ancestors were part of those other histories.
Those countries are their special places
and are special to me too,
but Auckland, New Zealand is my home.

Creative Response - Distant Memory

Creative Response – Distant Memory

This shaky cliff top I stood upon overlooking the baby blue oceans

The breeze of the uncertainty of the coconut and palms trees made me shift uncomfortably

Barefoot, naked to the eye wanted to be covered from my shame

My grass kiekie woven with tears of my ancestors wrapped me with insecurities

My covered chest wanted to bust into the movement of the west

No longer wanting to dance in purity

Wanting to be a savage with the African beat infused with the harmonics of a European keyboard

The shaky cliff swayed in the direction of my emotions,

I was no longer firmly rooted as much as I thought I was.

The great controversy began in my mind

My feet kept from leaping into the tears of my elder

But my sun kissed tanned hand wanted to welcome the great fall into this form of acceptance

But why were my mind and feet in unison?

They were not budging; they refused to fall at the mercy of this distant memory

Memories that were not mine played in mind

The great escape out of the luva

The tree where we would meet

My lover and I.

The sacrificing tears and scars of a wounded mother

Preparing a table with one piece of kumala, one piece of lu to feed 13 children.

The early morning rising, running to meet my father at the wharf

Hands ready to receive the white passengers who came in the name of the Lord

Here on a mission.

Being sent to the main island to study

The rejection of the English classes that could estate a bright future,

Wagging on stretch of denial and hate

These were not mine,

I never found myself in this situation.

I never took the road less travelled on, yet I was here.

The shaky cliff I remained

The calls of my “past” were becoming unbearable

They were mourning, whaling my name for me to hear in hopes that I would make the return.

Looking into the raging waters as they hit my shaky cliff I turned my back to them

And I embraced the steady green ground of the long white cloud.

The tears of promise left my eyes

I vowed to make the return

So that my memory was no longer the distant one they spoke of.

This is a response to the poem Distant memory written by Rev Pua Strickson Mua. Ashleigh and I presented this poem for our group presentation. 

I wanted to further explain why I responded from this point of view. My poem expresses my inner thoughts and issues that I face when deciding whether to make a return back to the land of my parents. As an islander who was predominately raised in New Zealand, I struggled with finding where I belong. Which is why I wrote in this manner, it was a confrontation of my own thoughts and beliefs. I actually thought that I was firmly rooted in who I was and where I came from, but reading this poem brought doubt to my mind. I did not know anything about my heritage, I don't even speak the language and up to that point not knowing these things never really bothered me. That was when I realized there was a battle that I had to deal with where I am now and what I call home and where I'm from and where I belong. But I do promise to return and make that connection, but not now.

In limbo (creative response to: Sons for the Return Home)

The ship rattled and clinked all around me, keeping the warm ocean breeze out. A warm breeze I had not felt since I was 14 years old.
That was 12 years ago now, and the memories I had of home had grown warmer and warmer during my time away. They had grown inside me a dreamy fondness. A longing which I had never felt before.
Perhaps you can never truly appreciate where you have been until you have left.

At least I thought that was the case.

I had been woken by the heralding of gulls. They sang a tune that I had not heard for so so long. Calling out to me. Welcoming me.
The long journey home has been a tough one. Motion sickness was all around. The sticky and guttural sounds of vomit pierced the cabin walls to become stuck in my ears. Just like the raspy cries of ill babies and children did. They were the last hurdles before home. Hurdles that could not be seen down the long darkened isles that flanked the cabins. Yet they only felt inches away from me. Especially in the depths of this ship's echoing bowels. Especially during the nights when the sea threw our vessel from side to side, from back to front. Especially when the cold and black night threw itself down on us.

But I had made it through. Outside the cabin window was calm and quiet waters, warm and bright daylight.

I begin making my way up top. To feel the wind, smell the Pacific, see my homeland. The place I had been waiting so long and travelled so far to see.
The laboured movement and voices of other passengers, remind me of how journeys like this one are often hard on people, and hard on families. In fact, most of the families on board could not muster a greeting, nor a word, whenever I would pass them in the hallways of this ropey vessel. Sometimes, when eyes met mine, all that could be offered was a simple slither of a nod.  More often nothing. Just a cautious glance from weary eyes. Eyes that had seen things they had not expected. Things that weighed so thick and so heavy on so many pacific spirits. Things that are preferred to be forgotten.

I see tired people. I see worn down families. With the ship about to dock, they all achingly drag heavy bags and heavy lives off, and out from under their bunks. Their different journeys and happenings in the west, have given them soft and meek voices. Voices with quiet identity and quiet purpose. One's that can only grow louder and less broken with strong community and time, which they will find here. At home.

I reach the end of the corridor and swing the doors with the small porthole windows open.
The bright and clear sunlight washes over me, causing me to shield my eyes for a moment. Just a moment. There it is. This is what I have been waiting for. Homeland.
Yet somehow, I am not feeling the feelings I was expecting. In fact I do not feel anything at all.
This is my home. This is the place I am from. The place I have missed for so long.

Something is different. Something has changed.

Towering blocks of foreign concrete line the beaches. These white monsters have shimmering windows that reflect away our vast blue sky. They echo the white bodies with reflecting eyes that I see beaching themselves and clogging up our ancient shores. These alien totems have invaded my home. Our home. They have turned our sacred land into car-parks, fake chlorine filled lagoons and manicured knolls for golf courses.

The ill feelings from the ship return. They run through me like those powerful jumbo jet engines.
I have returned home, and not returned home.
Families depart the ship. They do not even look up. Do not see where they are. Their heavy luggage and heavy hearts weigh their heads down. Weigh their hearts down. Where I am shocked, they are sad. Already broken.

This is the place where I once grew up, and this is also the place where I boarded a ship to get away from.
My heart is replaced by 5 star hotels. My soul is replaced by room service.
My home is filled with strangers.

My home is here. It is no longer here.

The Way Home

This place is cold. Strange.

Not like home.

This place is foreign. Alien.

Not like home.

Uncertainty engulfs me.

Penetrates me.

Weighs me down.

It makes me sink in a sea of a strange language. Strange custom.

Where am I.

All I want, is to go home.

But, where is home?

Was it the place where I came into this world?

The place where I grew up?

Many HERE, tell me this is true.

But many THERE, tell me it is not.

No home?

If I have no home, then how can I know who I am?

Who I was? Who I am going to be?

If I have no home, then how can I know where I am from?

Where I am going?

What do they know? The ones here. The ones there.

They do not get to decide.

Only I decide.

Only I, know who I was.

Who I am.

Who I'm going to be.

Only this is true.

The Song and the Storm

Within a large timber frame, wrapped in sheets of galvanized steel, a rhythm is heard. A rhythm that echoes the warm rain that trickles and blisters down the garage's metal casing and solitary window pane. Outside lies a waiting world that was once so foreign, and in many ways, still is. Inside, the master wipes his brow. A brow that maps the many gorges, valleys and clear rivers of the past. Rivers that had begun as still and smooth streams, had now, over time, become vast oceans. Thundering with currents of sweat and wisdom.

The master focuses on the boy. Tap. Tap. Tap. The boy can hear the thunder. With teeth and eyes clenched, does not see it, but every fiber within him knows it is there. Again, Tap. Tap. Tap. The lightning shoots up his leg and into his heart, making it stronger. Making it wiser.

Familiar faces sit around him, whose song begins to fill his ears, a comforting song heard many times before, and never before. The master continues, crafting the map that will guide the boy through the rough and stormy seas that exist all around them, that exist on the horizon. The master is mapping a safe passage for the boy to guide his people home.

Out on the sea, lightning hits the boy's back. Tap. Tap. Tap. He is thrown overboard, sinking into the dark, away from his people, and away from his future.

But his people's song begins to grow louder. Grow clearer.

Lifting him out of the dark water and bringing him back to his people. Drowning out the thunder and blocking out the lightning.

His head pierces the surface and inhales brand new air. His very first breath.

Quiet weather and faces greet him warmly, thankful that he has returned, and yet not returned.

He is different. Changed.

The song is no longer sung, but he can still hear it. Echoing. Resonating inside him.

With a galvanized steel world all around him, he is a strong wooden frame that will hold his people safely within.

His map is now complete.

The man knows the way home.

My Identity

My Identity

Do you know where your home land is?

Do you know your blood lines originate from?

Do you know where you are going back to?

Do you know who you are?

I do not know.

My bloodlines are hidden,

I know they trace back across the world.

Maybe an eighth English,

Only one sixteenth Abenaki,

Half French-Canadian,

Less than one eighth Swedish,

A quarter German.

When we quantify ourselves by percentages who have we become?

I have no way left to explain my ancestors

Or where my bloodlines come from.

I learn bits and pieces of the language or culture:

un peu Français

ein bisschen Deutsch

For the sake of knowing who I am and trying to understand where I come from.

There have been no traditional culture left with my generation.

No language, no stories, no songs.

My family and I,

We now have to make our culture.

We can not got back.

So,

We must go forward;

We are now creating our own identity.

Creative response - Wild Dogs Under My Skirt

I want a traditional tattoo.
I want to show who I am.
I want to display my culture on my sleeve.
I want it to hurt.
I want it to bleed.


I want the needle to pierce my body,
I want my fair skin to be the canvas,
I want the black ink to seep in,
I want to show people who I am.
I want to tattoo my culture on my skin.
I do not want to keep it in.
I want my tattoo to speak for me,
where my fair skin can't.

But I have only been to my homeland once,
Does that give me the right to wear it with pride?
Does it mean I understand its value?
Or will it make me a fake?

I want a traditional tattoo.
I want to show who I am.
But then again,
Who am I?

Creative Response - Point of No return

Point of No Return, Pesi Fonua

Eldest seed

We never thought that we would be a victim

Of neglect.

Tae ofa.

And poverty.

They were too young to understand why,

But I knew. I always knew.

The dream of a better future is what you said

I believe that at some point this was the main focus

But you went astray.

You probably met a beautiful Hawaiian girl, with a tan body and long black hair

You probably got her pregnant and put all of our money on our bastard brother or sister

Or were you afraid to return back to our mother?

Is it because the neighbors would hear her cuss you out?

Or is it because she was no longer beautiful?

Were the responsibilities to much?

Well, since you have been gone

I, a 17 year old do your job.

Leaving school three years ago because I never had school fees

Climbing the coconut trees for the taste of its flesh

Working in uta for some makioke and kape

Hunting a pig, killing then roasting it for dinner

I went to fai kava with no father

I over indulged in the muddy waters,

You were not there to stop me

I became a man without you

This was because I did all your jobs that you neglected to do.

Do you know we starve?

Do you know our mother prays and hopes every day for a letter from you?

Do you know we beg?

She often wonders what you think of our situation

And I know that you do not care.

You were a little voice in my ear

But throughout these years you have become mute

A distant whisper with no tone or volume

I do what it is best for my siblings

Until you return from your point of no return.

I will reject you, and put you on your ass for the village to see

A greedy and unwanted father who is nothing but worthless

Uncaring in the eyes of his eldest seed.

Creative Response - A book and a Pen

A book and a pen written by Vaine Rasmussen

Mmm.

Rolling my eyes and my arms cross, finding its resting spot above my chest

I stand on a lean watching you in a mess.

A drunken mistake made in the island, branded myself a name

Disgusting they say

Hopeless they say

Home wrecking whore, skank, slut, mistress,

Everyone in my village says.

But taking a married man by the hand after fai kava

Leading me into bed of branches,

No night lamp but the moon does us some justice.

A moment of distress, loneliness

My good girl antics died as he wiggled inside of me

In what he calls a moment of weakness

15 with all the hope in the world,

Hanging on my shoulders a heavy satchel

Mr pip. To kill a mocking bird. Year 12 statistics. Year 12 chemistry. Year 12 mathematics.

A pen and a paper.

My struggles to get out of here were pasted brightly with high lighters over all of these books.

I was called the head of the class

My name was posted on the newspapers

I was the one to beat!

Scholarships to New Zealand, to study health science in Otago University

Scholarships to New Zealand, to study law in Victoria University

Scholarships to New Zealand, to study Physics in Auckland University

Drenched in Tongan oil, my culture I wear

The brown colored mats tightly fitted on my back

My ankles, my wrist, my neck chained with the light reminder of where I come from

My hair strapped tightly in a bun with the tree of money falling at every movement.

It begins to dry,

The oil that is.

I do not notice it

I smile and watch my hand move like a calm ocean

As the aunties and uncles run and dance beside me

Throwing expensive paper at my oil stained skin

It does not stick.

I vomit at the smell of powdered milk,

My black face becomes white

My bones then hide under the new layers of fat

As my stomach grows,

I begin to hear the whispers as I wear my uniform,

No longer fitting the way it used to

I walk with my maroon dress to the bus stop

I enter

The whispers become louder.

I leave school

No, I was forced to leave school.

I held onto my culture with two tightly gripped hands

And this is what it has done to me.

If only my faith had been bestowed on my pen, my paper

I could have had it both ways

My customs and my education

Instead, I now watch my blood and my flesh

Making a mess of herself

No longer in the village that secretly shunned me,

But all alone in country that does not know me.

She will not make the mistake that I have made.

Creative Response - Samoan from foreign soil

Hey guys,

This is my creative response of 'Samoan from foreign soil' written by Rev Mua Strickson-Pua.

Call home.

Do not call me, I am busy.

I work every day and sleep every night

I don’t have time to stop and rest with you under the starry lights.

You brought me here, you raised me here

Chasing the money,

The dream and that perfect future for your children.

I do not blame you.

I have never blamed you.

It is not your fault that there is no life in the traditions of our culture,

It is not your fault that our culture does not fit in this society.

But I beg you not to call me back to a home that was never mine.

You call me home, and which I know I never really belonged.

I will set foot on your foreign soil,

I may feel the blood ties to what use to walk this tropical paradise,

I may feel the yearning of belonging

And I may get lost in the heat of the blistering sun and its many whispers.

But this is not my home,

This is the treasures of my elders

This is the distant memories of my parents

And the battle fields of my ancestors.

It may be essential for me to make the return

But I will avoid it at this time,

I will reject the calls of the kingdom

And decline the all of its Tonganess

Until my dreams become tainted with its European ways.

I will get all my pieces of papers.

I will be recognized for my trials and successes

And only then will I return.

To the home of my parents,

To the land filled with blood, sweat, tears, love, humor, betrayal, gossip, prayers and the hopes of my ancestors. 

Analysis/Response to Seminar Text (Wild Dogs Under My Skirt)

While the use of animals in the poem do refer to motifs found in tatau, they can also be identified as references to colonialism. For example, even in the title, “Wild Dogs” can be seen as commenting on the way people of the Pacific were often seen by western culture and the western establishment. People of Samoa and other Pacific cultures, tragically, were often categorized, and ignorantly considered to be simply “savage” and “wild” and “animalistic”, and we can see this also appearing throughout the 3rd stanza. Here, the dog references appear multiple times: “dog's teeth”, “wild dogs”, “wild Samoan dogs”, then on the last line: “the mangy kind that bite strangers”. “Strangers”, of course, being a reference towards colonisers.

I found that, issues of identity and change exist throughout both, the subject matter of tatau, and within the
poem itself.
In regards to tatau, it was originally done as a gift from one generation to the next. For many Samoans its a way to one's identity and indigenous knowledge of who you are, how you relate to your past, your genealogy and your history.
In regards to the poem, we can see many times throughout it the use of “I”. The use of “I” offers us a first person point of view, which in this case, offers a direct kind of communication with the audience, while also giving the poem a more intimate personality, and also adding weight to the theme of identity.

In regards to issues of change, tatau is a transformation. Not only is there the (external) transformation of the skin, but there is also a transformation of attitude, a transformation of responsibility and in the case of a pe'a a transformation from boyhood to manhood.
The poem starts with the first 9 lines communicating to us, like a statement of sorts. It's very literal and direct and simple in what it's saying. You could possibly even imagine a child speaking this way. From line 10 onwards a change occurs. The language is more “poetic” in the traditional sense. It contains more detail and more insight into the author's desire and motivations. More detail is given and there is a lot more use of metaphor. It paints a clearer picture and projects a more vivid kind of image. This change in language provides more sophistication which aligns with the change from boyhood to manhood.

In a way the poem aligns itself with tatau even further. It is like tatau in its structure. The use of repetition throughout, reflects the repetition of line and shape found in tatau designs. The poem's repetition gives the poem musicality, and also creates a “pattern” both on the page, and to the eye. Which again, reflects the patterns and designs found in tatau.
Another similarity, is that if the person gives in to the pain experienced, and can't go on to have the tatau completed, it can be seen as very embarrassing, and can bring shame, not just to themselves, but also to their family and their community. So, to get a pe'a, is seen as very important decision and is not one to be taken lightly. I believe this idea is cleverly referenced though lines 13 to 15: “knowing that once you've pushed off loaded the dogs on board there's no looking back now, Bingo”.

Seeing that Avia's work explores, as the New Zealand Book Council says: “custom and contemporary life”, “place and self” “occupying legend and history”, I found that 'Rites of Courage' also explores these ideas, while also looking at the value tatau can offer in strengthening Samoan identity in the modern and very western-dominated world of today.

Sons for the Return Home - Critical Response

This book deals well with the struggles of a Samoan family fitting in in New Zealand quite well for the most part. However, some parts I thought were too focused on sex (or ‘making love’ as it was called in the books, although I didn’t get the sense that the characters actually loved one another). I found the relationship between the male Samoan narrator and the papalagi (white) girlfriend too clinical – again, they seemed to be obsessed with sex, and trying to understand each other in ways that sometimes resulted in their own humiliation.

At the beginning, the story jumped around a bit – the book isn't told in chronological order – and I was a little confused, but as the story progressed, I began to see how it all fit and my confusion disappeared. 

Violence is talked about and described in a pretty casual way, similar to the relationship with the papalagi girl – he says he loves her but I, as the reader, don’t feel the supposed love he has for her. You have to read between the lines in some parts, especially when the papalagi girl gets pregnant and says she wants to have it, but the talks to the male protagonist’s mother and all of a sudden she doesn’t want it anymore. 

My favourite part of this book was the letters from the girl (she was in Australia at the time she chose to have the abortion, her boyfriend was in New Zealand) after she got rid of the baby. The way she described the need for something that isn’t there anymore, as if it should be but is lost, really made me feel her sorrow and regret over listening to his mother and not following her heart.

The characters were flat at the beginning of the book, but at the end, the two main protagonists (papalagi girl and Samoan boy) were three dimensional, and much better at the end of the book.

There was one scene on pages 78 & 79 where Wendt was describing the killing of a pig in such a way that I had to close the book because I felt physically sick.

I think 'Sons for the Return Home' is a great book, not just because of the way it deals with Samoan themes, but because its one main theme is something everyone can relate to - the fish out of water story. Everyone, at one point in their life, has been a fish out of water, so to speak, struggling to fit in with foreign surroundings - remember your first day of school?

Seminar blog

Summary of Seminar; Racism is not defined but racial discrimination is for the sake of law. Therefore, everybody is not a racist as the definition has been argued. The real answer would be, everyone is prejudice, even though it is very vague. Racism is an umbrella term for the defined terms of racial discrimination, institutional racism, segregation-ism, etc.

   The term kiwi is an umbrella term for all those that live in NZ and practise the NZ culture by natural means. As it seems one would have to experience the culture of a nation to say they are a part of that world, and it is based on choice too.

Extra;
   Because in this modern world immigration is more wide spread, the mixture of cultures and ethnicities is more common. Many people are at least part of two or three ethnicities, even if they may not associate themselves with all of them. Being fully one ethnicity is fading fast. Purist communities are now embracing the changing and accepting other cultures and people that may not be originally a part of their nation. The tolerance of people over the few years has increased, but with the new developments of ideas and guidelines of morals coming into place, arguments break out.
   Recently, the tolerance for race and other things, (ones' individuality), has lowered. The people, mainly patriarchs, are getting defensive and don't like the challenge to their superior position, that they get offensive. This retaliation from the ones in the high status makes the political and social borders narrow, and it may feel like the world is going backwards in it's notion of equality and acceptance of individuals.



   Here are some things that I did not say for my seminar. An extra about stereotypes, and how they propagate racism.

   Everything we say is taught to the system, institutional racism, which spawns segregation-ism  Racial segregation in America for example. The people of colour had to sit at the back of the bus, they used different toilets, not allowed in the bar, and so on. So the white kids grow up being taught this shit. Their parents say the blacks are dumb, dirty and less than normal/alien. With that drilled in their head, they start to believe it, then they practice it.

   It is still being practised  through stereotypes. The stereotype of South Auckland, it’s the place you get mugged. South Aucklander’s are labelled as criminals. Why do people steal? The typical answer would be; they’re dumb, can’t get a job and has no education. Therefore, they’re dirty, because they can’t afford it, they live in the slums. Then they get alienated for not living up to societies expectations, smart, clean and contributes to the world.

   So this discrimination through stereotypes brings us back to the idea of being acknowledge. Post-colonisation. To say, we are here, we are just as capable as you. Everyone is not racist, as it would be said that only the people in power can be racist, but that’s another argued subject. A true statement would be everyone is prejudice. We are prejudice because of institutional racism. Whether it is the colour of someone’s skin, their culture, beliefs, and morals.

My Lilac Gerbera Tattoo

A response to 'Tatz' by Ku‘ualoha Ho‘omanawanui

A lilac gerbera daisy
sits on my wrist -
not for genealogy
but for remembrance.

August 10th, a
dark day
The day my Nana
passed on.
One of the women who
raised me
left this Earth.

Lilac, the colour of her kitchen cupboards,
her favourite colour.
Gerbera, the large daisies spread in her garden,
her favourite flower,
meaning happiness.

Watching, seeing her struggle to breathe,
it made me determined to get a tattoo,
To remind myself to never forget
the happy memories of my Nana,
a strong
a stubborn
a smiling woman.

The lilac gerbera was not my first idea.
I originally planned to get her name -
Joyce.
Instead, I got the perfect symbol,
a lilac gerbera.

If I ever have a daughter,
Her middle name will be
Joyce
To honour the woman who gave me reason
to get a tattoo
and to live life to the full

Because as Nana said,
Live today, because you might not be here tomorrow.