Maori

When I think of New Zealand, the words openness and equality come to mind. One notable difference between New Zealand and other countries is its treatment of indigenous people. The Māori people there make up 16.5 percent of the total population in New Zealand. You could feel the importance of them there. Most museums include multiple ancient Māori artifacts and there are also museums dedicated solely to Māori history. Initial relations between Māori and Europeans at the beginning of their arrival were very good. The Europeans didn’t wage war on the Māori people like many Europeans did to the other native people who lived on the land that they found. There was even a treaty that protected the lands of the Māori people. I think that this really shows how inclusive New Zealand people are. They didn’t force Maori people to completely abandon their culture but instead integrated some of their cultures into theirs. In New Zealand, alongside an English greeting, the words “Kia Ora” can often be seen next to it. Kia Ora means hello in Maori.

The word “native” has multiple meanings. To some, it simply means to be indigenous to a place. The word for native in Maori is actually “Maori, ” which means “normal” , “natural” or “ordinary. ” Presumably, it was the Maori’s way of understanding themselves (and perhaps differentiating themselves from other, non-Maori people). For immigrants, “native” is like a secret password they constantly strive for but never seem to grasp. How do you become native? This was the

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question that I had asked myself constantly during my time abroad. Paradoxically, the older I became, and the more comfortable I became in my environment and the more fluent with the language, the more I became aware of the subtle differences and slights that set me apart from the “natives.

As a Chinese girl, it’s harder to blend in with a majority white population as in New Zealand and Francophone Canada. Yet, historically, the irony is that these white majorities aren’t native either, at least not originally, as they were preceded by indigenous peoples whom they conquered or subdued. So, what does it take to earn the official designation of “native”? If it’s totally dependent upon where one is born, then things like skin color and ethnicity shouldn’t matter. But they do matter, at least according to those in power. If you look into the (often ugly) history of this word and the way it’s been used as a political weapon to marginalize people who don’t meet a certain idea of what those in power or those who feel threatened want to hold up as the standard for belonging, you can easily become demoralized.

When I step back from the maelstrom of these voices, a still, quiet voice in my head says, “Is there anyone who perfectly embodies the definition of what it means to be a native? Someone who embodies the culture of a place perfectly? I think the answer is no, and I’m not sure if it’s very healthy to try to limit our concept of what it means to be Kiwi, or Québécois or Chinese to a narrow set of cultural, ethnic, or racial stereotypes. How do we choose which culture is native to a place? Is it

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the Maori in New Zealand and the Indians in Canada? The truth is that, if we go back far enough, there was probably a group that preceded even these “indigenous” peoples. And this is by no means to delegitimize their claims of being native. It seems to me, however, that whether you were born in a place or share the same ethnic background as a dominant group should be less important than the role you play in the community regardless of your origins or ethnic makeup. If you want to make your home in a particular place, then the best thing is to go out and form relationships, get involved in the community; in other words, set down roots.

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LIFE LESSONS FROM THE

GAME OF GOLF

The flat shiny steel clubhead once again thudded straight into the grass, stray pieces of dirt and grass flying away into the distance, my patience soaring away alongside them. I looked up at my coach with an accusatory and annoyed look, questioning why this was happening to me. The golf ball with its little dimples, sat there, perfectly untouched after dozens of swings. A few centimeters behind it sat an expanding divot, a deepening rut that threatened to bury me in frustration. My patience had started to drain out, my inability to successfully make contact with the ball annoyed me beyond measure. My coach, Emma, repeated the same thing that she had told me from the beginning of the lesson, “You’re using your arms, which explains the hole behind the ball. If you turned with your body, there would be a divot in FRONT of the ball. Don’t forget to use your waist, Kelsey. ” My eight-year-old self angrily gripped my shiny, brand new club in a desperate attempt to at least graze the ball. The sun glared down at me, projecting rays of unreasonably hot light onto my Nike cap. My hair had started to stick to my forehead by then, the insufferably hot air seemed to be stuck in my cap, the heat slowly driving me insane. I shook my head, trying to focus before reattempting again. Turning my shoulders and raising my eight iron into the air, I glared at the ball as I tried to will my body to turn before striking the ball. But it was the dull thud of the club striking the turf. “Aaaarrrggghhh!” I groaned. I was on the verge of tears, desperately looking at my parents in

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a futile gesture for help. I was so excited before the lesson.

“How hard could it be?” I thought to myself on the drive to the club. As it turned out, much harder than I realized.

Eventually, I overcame this rocky (or rather dirty) start and learned to hit the ball, eventually learning the techniques that allowed me to channel my energy and desire. The result was a young girl gradually getting the hang of the deceptively simple game and, more importantly, learning to love it. Still, if you’re looking for a high success rate, then golf is probably not for you. In fact, I think as much as anything, it’s been this ability to tolerate failure and to stay steady and poised through the rough patches that has proven most valuable to me. As my coach often reminds me, you’re lucky to make one excellent shot out of ten. The other four might be just ok, imperfect shots, and the remaining five are failures. This is true even for the best players in the whole world. Learning to embrace and ultimately love a sport that requires such a high threshold and tolerance for failure has forced me to redefine success. Understanding that progress (with its emphasis on the learning process) rather than perfection (which prioritizes finality and results) is the best one can hope for helps take the pressure off the perfectionist in me. Golf allows me the freedom to fail because failure is simply built into the game. Failure is just a necessary part of the learning process, not something to be feared or shunned at all costs, but something that helps me improve and, ultimately, become a good golfer. And being good, at anything, is no small achievement.

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