My brothers and sisters and I preparing to honour our parents at a whānau tangi. Photo / Supplied
My brothers and sisters and I preparing to honour our parents at a whānau tangi. Photo / Supplied
Ehara taku toa i te toa Takitahi, engari kē te hē toa takitini. My success is not bestowed on me alone, it is not individual success but the success of many
A journey that will span a lifetime.
My parents could speak their native languages. Dad: Tongan and English- admittedly, broken - and Mum: Māori, Tongan and English fluently.
However, they felt the way forward for their children was to speak English.
Te reo Māori and Tongan were spoken by my parents and uncles and aunties in the house, but never to us as kids. I picked up some words and phrases but was never encouraged to speak them.
In those days te reo Maori and Tongan were considered to be subservient to English - so our parents decided, rightly or wrongly, that English was our language.
In 1981, like many young Kiwis, I moved to Australia and was away for 16 years.
While in Australia, both my parents passed away and I returned home only for their tangi.
I believed there was nothing for me in New Zealand - apart from my brothers and sisters. I had a wife and young family in Australia. It seemed I was destined to stay.
However, I came back to Aotearoa because of the unfortunate passing of a close uncle.
While walking on to the marae, I could hear people asking: 'Who are they'?
'I found myself...sitting on the paepae not knowing what to do'
My six brothers in suits and my two sisters dressed in black to respect our uncle.
This is what we were taught by our parents. In fact, we were taught so many things but never realised until a moment comes and you think: 'So that's what they meant'.
I found myself and my brothers sitting on the paepae not knowing what to do.
Teacher James Los'e performs a haka as his uncle is carried from the church. Photo / Supplied
Listening to the kaumatua speak as tangata whenua I was suddenly reminded of my Māori teacher at Kelston Boys' High School, Mr Manihera.
A karakia, mihi, kaupapa, mihi waiata.
When the kaumātua gestures to my cousin that it is our turn to speak, he looks down the line at us, takes a deep breath and is just about to stand when I say to him: "I got this."
Nervously, I clear my throat, a whakataukī. I clear my throat again. My knees are knocking, my hands shaking and I carry on.
A mihi to the whare, marae, kai karanga, paepae, nga mate and I stop.
What now? Not knowing what to say to my uncle in Māori, I break into English. Was this the right thing to do? I don't know.
So I carry on confidently in English. After several minutes or what seemed an eternity of telling uncle and everyone what he meant to me, my siblings and our parents, I slip seamlessly back into te reo Maori.
A kuia sitting behind my cousin stands up and sings a waiata tautoko. I finish with a mihi, karakia and then sit down.
What just happened? Did I just do that? Tears fill my eyes and a strange sense of jubilation and sadness. After a moment or two, we stand to hongi and be greeted.
The whispers go around the marae ātea - that's Kuini and Tavake's kids.
A kaumatua says to me in Māori: "Your mum and dad would be so proud of you. Standing up to speak."
He carries on a bit more in Māori when I say to him: "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't speak Māori. I just remembered some things listening to you from when I was at school."
He laughs and says it's okay. "You can speak Māori. You just spoke on the biggest stage of all - your marae."
He embraces me with a hongi and a hug.
"Kia kaha, tama. It will come," he says, as he lets go of my hand.
The crazy thing is, I had some understanding of what I was saying and I knew it was far from perfect or eloquent.
My brothers and sisters and I preparing to honour our parents at a whānau tangi. Photo / Supplied
Not one person judged me on how I spoke. Instead, they embraced me with sheer admiration that I had spoken in Māori.
That started my yearning for home. My wife, children and I moved home because I had a feeling.
Twenty-five years on, our three youngest children attended a total immersion early childhood centre (Te Kōpae Piripono in New Plymouth).
My wife started working there and had no reo. However, with the support of her colleagues and her determination, she was fully conversant within a couple of years.
Then on to Kura Kaupapa Māori Te Pi'ipi'inga Kakano Mai i Rangiātea in New Plymouth and then the two boys head to Hato Pāora College and our daughter goes to Turakina Māori Girls College.
My wife completed a degree in early childhood from the Christchurch College of Education and if that wasn't enough, she did another degree Matauranga Maori at Te Wananga O Raukawa.
I completed bilingual studies from Te Wananga O Raukawa to become a teacher 20 years ago.
I am not a teacher of te reo Māori. I am a Māori teacher with strong Māori beliefs at Waitara High.
I will continue to embrace te reo me ōna tikanga (language and cultural customs) for however long it takes - not because someone tells me I have to, but because it is the right thing to do for me and my whānau.
When will I know if I am there? Not sure. That is why this is a journey that will span a life time.
James Los'e is a bilingual teacher. He and wife Wahi learned te reo as adults..
