When I Left the Marae

Last weekend, the passing of a family member meant a three day stay at the Marae in the small Maori village where my husband comes from. The village is located in close proximity to the school where I started working last term, so naturally, many of the students at school come from the village, and many of the students are related one way or another to my husband as well (which puts me in such a wonderfully unique position at the school!).

I always think how lucky I am as a pakeha, to have the Maori culture play such a big part in my life, particularly in times of tragedy. The traditions and protocols around death are so healing and beautiful. Three days of mourning. The talking, singing, crying and laughing is so good for the soul. All the children (my own included) are involved, sitting around the coffin, no one is scared or nervous, it's just natural. Death is a part of life, and I think this is how it should be. The Aunty that passed away was a wonderful lady, who held a special place in her heart for the children of the village -many of the children attended the hui as well.

It wasn't until we were back at school on Tuesday that I realised what a unique opportunity the tangi was in getting to know the students. Time and time again that word 'relationships' surfaces as the key to effective teaching. The importance of knowing the learner and building a trusting relationship. In those three days I saw another side to these kids who I thought I had all figured out. I was able to see strengths and weaknesses that perhaps I would not have noticed before. They probably saw a side of me that they had not seen before too.

I'm not the most poetic person, but I wrote a little something about what I learnt  about some of the students over those three days.

When I left the Marae

I saw you through my tears.
You were watching us from a distance, tears welling in your eyes. Overcome with everyone else's emotion, but you kept standing tall, and for a moment I saw another side to your usual staunch demeanor. When I left the Marae, I knew you had a soft heart under that tough skin.

I saw you.
You sat quietly, potato and peeler in hand, concentrating hard as you dropped each peel into the old bucket. Although it took you a long time, you did not give up, you peeled through, with sore hands and raw fingers. When I left the Marae, I knew you were a hard worker.

I saw you.
You were waiting patiently to eat your kai. You stood with a quiet confidence that was much bigger then your tiny frame. Pride beamed from your face as you lead the karakia, your young voice lifting high above the set tables. When I left the Marae I knew you were a leader.

I saw you.
Among a cluster of giggly girls. Sprawled on the mattresses, a nest of mismatched blankets around you. The guitar started playing, and with your tupuna looking upon from the old photo frames, you sung with pride. The reo rolling off your tongue as you lifted your voice. When I left the Marae, I knew that music was in your blood.

I saw you.
Glaring at the children, your sharp tongue snapping. You struggled in your mothers embrace, and ran away from the noisy hustle of the kitchen. You played quietly, alone. In the peace you were happy, picking off leaves and kicked in the dirt. When I left the Marae, I knew you were different.

When I left the Marae, I saw you.