Before getting a little older on Thursday, I suppose it's time to wrap up a few loose ends... once again I find myself doing my 'yesterday' blog post 'tomorrow'... it's still Tuesday to me and will be until I go to bed in a few minutes. I get a bit reflective around birthdays... they're like another shot at new years resolutions, a chance to think about what I've been doing and to plan (and dream) ahead. Getting in the mood for this Annual Alice Audit, I'll give a couple of things in each category now...
Reflections on what has gone:
* I'm living in Toronto, something I've been looking forward to and planning for over a year. I was walking home from 'Little Italy' early this evening and enjoyed being surrounded by the Torontoness of it all as I walked home. I decided I wanted to move to Toronto for a year and now it has happened. I'm doing it. I'm a lucky girl.
* The resolution side of my life always ends up with a few standard items, mostly involving becoming more punctual, finding the man of my dreams, getting a bit more healthy, getting a bit more organised, and seeking more work-life balance. Yep, those same old same old things have graced resolution lists for most of my adult life, and now I like to think of them as the things I need to keep working on rather than things to taunt myself over. It turns out that these are the things I struggle with the most, and reflecting on them at birthdays (and new year) gives me a chance to check in with myself and encourage myself to keep working hard at them. This, I have found, is much funner (and much more productive) than beating myself up about them.
* We buried Grandad since my last birthday, and this will be the first birthday without him; the past couple of years when he was in Wellington I spent the morning of my birthday with him, hanging out and enjoying each others' company. He wouldn't remember it was my birthday while we were hanging out, but he'd crack the same joke every year whenever I reminded him.
Grandad: How old are you anyway?
Me: Grandad I'm X years old today.
Grandad: Well you look it!
At this point Grandad would split his sides laughing, and last year he cracked this joke while standing up and leaning on his walker and I was laughing but also keeping an eye out in case he lost his balance completely and tipped over. Talk about fall over laughing!
Hopes and dreams:
* The usual resolutions: that I continue to work on them, and that I continue to make peace with them.
* My first book, Once Were Pacific: Maori connections with Oceania will come out between now and my 2012 birthday! Wow! Thank you University of Minnesota Press I'm very excited!! I don't mind if people take issue with my arguments, as long as they engage with the issues.
* I hope that Matiu will continue to be the most fabulous and amazing nephew anyone could dream of having, and that there will be other children in my life (I'm not sure how, but somehow) too.
Right! On that note, I'm off to bed. Lots to dream about!
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
patriotism
Yet another post which will have the date stamp of the day after the day I'm supposed to be writing it... it's 2.38am and here I am on my computer working... just finished skyping with one very smart student and sending off conference paper feedback to another great student... and am now finally blogging before heading to bed. To me it's still Monday even if the date stamp on this blog will be Tuesday.
This evening Nadine and I took the porch at the back of my house for a test drive. We've got our combined birthday festivites here on Friday nite and still quite a few days of warm evenings, so after she arrived on the bus from Hamilton (an hour away, and where she lives and teaches) we went to 'Candian Tire' (which is kind of like Mitre 10 Mega in NZ) to get some deck chairs.
The chairs we ended up getting are awesome - cheap, comfortable and suitably Canadian. Yes, indeed, they are bright red and have Canadian flags on them, loud and proud!!
I was stoked to find such fabulous and cheesy outdoor furniture (and especially with the end of season sale) and as Nadine and I wrestled them off the shelf (and carted them home on the subway - yes I'm a big city girl now and that means everything is brought home on public transport) we talked about the difference between buying a chair with a Canadian flag while I'm here and buying a chair with a US flag when I was living there. There is a difference, a big difference, but it's hard to put my finger on what that difference is.
We could say that the US has such dodgy foregin policy and uses symbolic displays and articulations of patriotism in order to justify heinous acts both on its own soil and beyond its borders. We could say that the US flag cannot be uncoupled from the history of its use. We could say the US flag is hegemonic.
We could also say that the Canadian flag stands in for a country whose values I hold, a country which doesn't have much of a hand in big international affairs and which, like NZ, is unlikely to have the capcity to perform acts of comparable injustice even if it so desired. We could say that I like living in Canada and can see myself living here in the long term if things worked out that way.
Indeed, just this past week I acquired the official Canadian booklet about the path to citizenship here, which outlines the knowledge you need to have before you can truly belong.
I have got Canadian flags on my deck chairs because of all of these things, but I cannot help but think about the layers of complexity that lie underneath. Canada is like NZ in many ways, including not only its values and positive attributes but also its appalling treatment of Indigenous people and its complicity with (even if not leadership in) injustices on the international stage.
Patriotism is going to matter a lot over the next month: the rugby world cup begins in New Zealand, and the tenth anniversary of 9/11 is commemorated in the US and beyond. There are a lot of flags in my future beyond the ones on my deck chairs, and they stand in for national characters and histories and hopes as well as failures.
I am writing this post on Tuesday but I want to keep believing it's Monday because from my experience it still is: I haven't gone to bed, my Monday has continued regardless of what teh clock has to say. Sure, my Tuesday will be a bit shorter because of my extra-long Monday but I am committed to blogging every day so if I accept it is Tuesday then I've let myself down but I've also let you all down too.
Monday? Tuesday? Who gets to tell? Patriotism is such a funny beast, allowing excesses in some ways and clipping off things in others. It relies on a kind of blindness even where that blindness is for a good purpose or even when it is (as these late nights are for me, when the clock turns from late hours into early hours) imperceptible.
This evening Nadine and I took the porch at the back of my house for a test drive. We've got our combined birthday festivites here on Friday nite and still quite a few days of warm evenings, so after she arrived on the bus from Hamilton (an hour away, and where she lives and teaches) we went to 'Candian Tire' (which is kind of like Mitre 10 Mega in NZ) to get some deck chairs.
The chairs we ended up getting are awesome - cheap, comfortable and suitably Canadian. Yes, indeed, they are bright red and have Canadian flags on them, loud and proud!!
I was stoked to find such fabulous and cheesy outdoor furniture (and especially with the end of season sale) and as Nadine and I wrestled them off the shelf (and carted them home on the subway - yes I'm a big city girl now and that means everything is brought home on public transport) we talked about the difference between buying a chair with a Canadian flag while I'm here and buying a chair with a US flag when I was living there. There is a difference, a big difference, but it's hard to put my finger on what that difference is.
We could say that the US has such dodgy foregin policy and uses symbolic displays and articulations of patriotism in order to justify heinous acts both on its own soil and beyond its borders. We could say that the US flag cannot be uncoupled from the history of its use. We could say the US flag is hegemonic.
We could also say that the Canadian flag stands in for a country whose values I hold, a country which doesn't have much of a hand in big international affairs and which, like NZ, is unlikely to have the capcity to perform acts of comparable injustice even if it so desired. We could say that I like living in Canada and can see myself living here in the long term if things worked out that way.
Indeed, just this past week I acquired the official Canadian booklet about the path to citizenship here, which outlines the knowledge you need to have before you can truly belong.
I have got Canadian flags on my deck chairs because of all of these things, but I cannot help but think about the layers of complexity that lie underneath. Canada is like NZ in many ways, including not only its values and positive attributes but also its appalling treatment of Indigenous people and its complicity with (even if not leadership in) injustices on the international stage.
Patriotism is going to matter a lot over the next month: the rugby world cup begins in New Zealand, and the tenth anniversary of 9/11 is commemorated in the US and beyond. There are a lot of flags in my future beyond the ones on my deck chairs, and they stand in for national characters and histories and hopes as well as failures.
I am writing this post on Tuesday but I want to keep believing it's Monday because from my experience it still is: I haven't gone to bed, my Monday has continued regardless of what teh clock has to say. Sure, my Tuesday will be a bit shorter because of my extra-long Monday but I am committed to blogging every day so if I accept it is Tuesday then I've let myself down but I've also let you all down too.
Monday? Tuesday? Who gets to tell? Patriotism is such a funny beast, allowing excesses in some ways and clipping off things in others. It relies on a kind of blindness even where that blindness is for a good purpose or even when it is (as these late nights are for me, when the clock turns from late hours into early hours) imperceptible.
Monday, 29 August 2011
home again
In the years since Mum and Dad left Auckland in 1994, I've lived in 16 houses:
Baird's Rd
Ferndale Rd
Batt St
Preston Rd
New North Rd
Kingsland Ave
Ethel St
Line Rd
N Geneva St
N Tioga St
Pumehana St
Riverside Dr
Tama St
Culloden Rd
Cambridge Tce
and now, Spadina Ave :)
One of the things I've learned while moving around so much has been that a house doesn't feel like a home until I've been away for a trip and then returned. I had a great time up in rural Ontario and had a hilarious trip coming back to Toronto which involved missing one bus and the later one breaking down halfway to the big city. However, another journey took place today: when I turned the key in the lock to my front door and pushed the door open and looked around, I realised the house I''ve been living in for a week and a half had become a home.
Baird's Rd
Ferndale Rd
Batt St
Preston Rd
New North Rd
Kingsland Ave
Ethel St
Line Rd
N Geneva St
N Tioga St
Pumehana St
Riverside Dr
Tama St
Culloden Rd
Cambridge Tce
and now, Spadina Ave :)
One of the things I've learned while moving around so much has been that a house doesn't feel like a home until I've been away for a trip and then returned. I had a great time up in rural Ontario and had a hilarious trip coming back to Toronto which involved missing one bus and the later one breaking down halfway to the big city. However, another journey took place today: when I turned the key in the lock to my front door and pushed the door open and looked around, I realised the house I''ve been living in for a week and a half had become a home.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
water water everywhere
Today I floated in the water at Cape Croker Reserve; the water is part of one of the Great Lakes. It was warmer than I'd expected and clear, and being lake water there was no salt. I lay there in the water, and looked around me.
On two kayaks Daniel and Kateri were paddling and talking about Indigenous publishing and writing, and on the beach at the side of the lake Kent played with Kateri's adorable almost-3-year-old Kegedonce who is known as Kegsy. We were based at Kateri's Mum's cabin; we had had a tour of the Rez and stopped for icecreams on the way, and later in the afternoon we would return to Kateri's own place for kai. As I floated around on my back I could see trees in both directions along the side of the small sheltered bay and had the strong sense I've had a few times when I find myself in land which has enjoyed longstanding connection with its own people.
Cape Croker Reserve is a place with which I am familiar because of the books published there by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm (yep, the same Kateri who was padding a kayak and whose son was hanging out on the beach) which I have read in Ithaca and Wellington and taught at my classes at Vic. Kateri's publishing house, Kegedonce Press, which she runs with Renee who also joined us for dinner this evening, is based at Cape Croker and through the press she has put anthologies and single-author texts in the hands of people around the world.
Indigenous writers and Indigenous writing have relied for a long time on 'mainstream' publishers but the work of Indigenous publishers and creative organisations has created space for a wider, more diverse, deeper range of voices to get into print. It was a privilege to meet Kateri and Kegsy today but also a gift to get to have my first swim in Canada right there in the lake.
Here I was, floating in a lake at Cape Croker... floating in the water... Water is connective, refreshing, nourishing, moody and - sometimes - dangerous. Kind of like literature.
On two kayaks Daniel and Kateri were paddling and talking about Indigenous publishing and writing, and on the beach at the side of the lake Kent played with Kateri's adorable almost-3-year-old Kegedonce who is known as Kegsy. We were based at Kateri's Mum's cabin; we had had a tour of the Rez and stopped for icecreams on the way, and later in the afternoon we would return to Kateri's own place for kai. As I floated around on my back I could see trees in both directions along the side of the small sheltered bay and had the strong sense I've had a few times when I find myself in land which has enjoyed longstanding connection with its own people.
Cape Croker Reserve is a place with which I am familiar because of the books published there by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm (yep, the same Kateri who was padding a kayak and whose son was hanging out on the beach) which I have read in Ithaca and Wellington and taught at my classes at Vic. Kateri's publishing house, Kegedonce Press, which she runs with Renee who also joined us for dinner this evening, is based at Cape Croker and through the press she has put anthologies and single-author texts in the hands of people around the world.
Indigenous writers and Indigenous writing have relied for a long time on 'mainstream' publishers but the work of Indigenous publishers and creative organisations has created space for a wider, more diverse, deeper range of voices to get into print. It was a privilege to meet Kateri and Kegsy today but also a gift to get to have my first swim in Canada right there in the lake.
Here I was, floating in a lake at Cape Croker... floating in the water... Water is connective, refreshing, nourishing, moody and - sometimes - dangerous. Kind of like literature.
Saturday, 27 August 2011
love actually
After my second full day at Daniel and Kent's place, I'm feeling the love in the air... these two are not only gracious hosts to me and showering me with all kinds of treats and loveliness, but they are also very sweet with each other... it has been great to be reminded just how sweet real love can be :)
It has been all about rural living today... this morning Daniel and I went to a farmer's market and bought peaches (super sweet), butter tarts (amazing Canadian sweet treats), and jewellery (yes, I admit that was me)... then we returned home to do some work stuff, via a couple of garage sales where I scored some cool plant pots and cheap knitting needles. This evening, Daniel and Kent took me to dinner at a cool old converted mill in a nearby town, and told me cool when-we-met love stories all the way home. Tomorrow we're off to visit a friend of theirs on Cape Croker Reserve, a couple of hours north of here.
Te tau okioki is providing me with an opportunity to dial back the crazy busy side of life and focus on the big, deep, important things. There are lots of things I love in my life... and lots of family and friends.
And who knows, maybe my time in Canada will give me the opportunity to meet a nice boy so one day we can tell when-we-met stories too.
It has been all about rural living today... this morning Daniel and I went to a farmer's market and bought peaches (super sweet), butter tarts (amazing Canadian sweet treats), and jewellery (yes, I admit that was me)... then we returned home to do some work stuff, via a couple of garage sales where I scored some cool plant pots and cheap knitting needles. This evening, Daniel and Kent took me to dinner at a cool old converted mill in a nearby town, and told me cool when-we-met love stories all the way home. Tomorrow we're off to visit a friend of theirs on Cape Croker Reserve, a couple of hours north of here.
Te tau okioki is providing me with an opportunity to dial back the crazy busy side of life and focus on the big, deep, important things. There are lots of things I love in my life... and lots of family and friends.
And who knows, maybe my time in Canada will give me the opportunity to meet a nice boy so one day we can tell when-we-met stories too.
Friday, 26 August 2011
funny story (yes, about a bear)
So Daniel and I are walking with his dog Raven through the local woods, after he has confirmed that it's unlikely I'll be eaten by a bear or bitten by a snake.
Daniel is giving me an introduction to folk and country music by singing a crazy and hilarious song about a girl who killed all her family members in various ways, and then we see a man walking towards us further up the trail.
The man is elderly, and dressed for walking as we are, and politely says once we get closer "sorry I hope I didn't scare you with my gun" - at which point I realise for the first time that he is carrying a gun! A shotgun! Just dangling off the end of his hand there! So no, I hadn't been scared of his gun - until I realised it existed!
And then he follows this up with a smile and a comment "I carry it for the bears - I've seen bears in here..."
***
Yes, this is a true story. It really happened this afternoon, after we drove through an amazing storm last nite with sheet *and* fork lightning, and I had a lovely sleep, and we had lunch with some awesome mates of Daniel and Kent's in the local town... I'm having a lovely time here - very relaxing!
Well, except when I see old men carrying guns who have seen bears ;)
Daniel is giving me an introduction to folk and country music by singing a crazy and hilarious song about a girl who killed all her family members in various ways, and then we see a man walking towards us further up the trail.
The man is elderly, and dressed for walking as we are, and politely says once we get closer "sorry I hope I didn't scare you with my gun" - at which point I realise for the first time that he is carrying a gun! A shotgun! Just dangling off the end of his hand there! So no, I hadn't been scared of his gun - until I realised it existed!
And then he follows this up with a smile and a comment "I carry it for the bears - I've seen bears in here..."
***
Yes, this is a true story. It really happened this afternoon, after we drove through an amazing storm last nite with sheet *and* fork lightning, and I had a lovely sleep, and we had lunch with some awesome mates of Daniel and Kent's in the local town... I'm having a lovely time here - very relaxing!
Well, except when I see old men carrying guns who have seen bears ;)
Thursday, 25 August 2011
can't go over it, can't go under it, can't go around it, got to go... through it!
When I spent 5 years living in the States I learned to distinguish between being homesick and just having the feeling of having missed something significant at home.
I'm not homesick - but I've 'missed' my first big thing... Matiu got his first ever point in basketball last nite! Yes, the famous skipper-up-the-court who is in the famous asking-did-we-win-?-after-being-slaughtered Petone Central School miniball team scored a goal! Woohoo!
So, today we're celebrating my fabulous 6 year old nephew - yay for him!!!
:)
In other news, I'm off to rural Ontario for a few days and have had two things running through my head all day: 'if you go down to the woods today you're in for a big surprise...' and 'we're going on a bear hunt...'
Hmm, well we shall see what becomes of me in the Canadian wilderness - but I'm totally looking forward to it and will blog again as soon as I'm able.
I'm not homesick - but I've 'missed' my first big thing... Matiu got his first ever point in basketball last nite! Yes, the famous skipper-up-the-court who is in the famous asking-did-we-win-?-after-being-slaughtered Petone Central School miniball team scored a goal! Woohoo!
So, today we're celebrating my fabulous 6 year old nephew - yay for him!!!
:)
In other news, I'm off to rural Ontario for a few days and have had two things running through my head all day: 'if you go down to the woods today you're in for a big surprise...' and 'we're going on a bear hunt...'
Hmm, well we shall see what becomes of me in the Canadian wilderness - but I'm totally looking forward to it and will blog again as soon as I'm able.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
first post from T.O./ t-dot/ GTA (yep, Toronto by its other names still smells as sweet)
Team, I love it here. Seriously. Toronto is fantastic. Hopefully there will be a crowbar around next June when it's time for me to leave because I suspect I'll be stuck here like a paua to a rock by then.
First, of course, apologies for the massive delay between posts - I finally got internet hooked up at home yesterday, and planned to blog last nite but my mate Rawinia was in town so I was out with her and her whanau here rather than sitting here typing! However, I've missed blogging and it feels nice to be back in this zone.
There is so much to say about my experiences since arriving, so I'm going to give a quick overview with a summary of events, a key moment, a significant person, something I learned and a question for each day since I last blogged.
Weds 17th
Summary: flew Vancouver-Toronto, picked up at airport by Nadine, stayed at Anne and Michelle's place
Key moment: Waiting for bags to arrive in Toronto airport at midnite, and I see my dear friend Nadine walking towards me; I realise I've properly arrived in a place that will be good for me.
Person: Jason, the lovely sweet interesting Canadian boy I met on the plane from Vancouver. My first new Toronto friend, and someone I look forward to meeting up with again later this week.
Something I learned: The CN tower (like Akld's skytower) is always south.
Question: Will this place feel like home?
Thurs 18th
Summary: Picked up keys for apartment, picked up rental car, hit IKEA and supermarket to stock up for my time here, started to unpack.
Key moment: The guy at the rental car place asked for my address and for the first time I wrote down my Spadina Ave address!
Person: Nadine, who as well as being totally fun and supportive, worked very hard making translations and suggestions, carrying bags, steering me through IKEA when we both ran out of steam and the list wasn't yet finished, and talking about 'work' stuff. Now that's a good friend :)
Something I learned: I can get on a streetcar (kind of like a tram/ light rail), transfer to the subway and land exactly at a big supermarket - this will be handy when it's snowy!
Question: How did I manage to get tonic for gin but no lime or lemon? (obviously still jetlagged)
Fri 19th
Summary: Slept in, spent an hour in traffic on Spadina after some kind of incident blocked the road, picked up Nadine, drove towards USA, spent 2 1/2 hrs at immigration at Buffalo (long story), had buffalo wings at the pub they were invited (love the Anchor Bar), went shopping at Target and we were the last customers when they closed at 11pm, drove home.
Key moment: Sitting in immigration waiting room with Nadine, talking quite deeply about research; a juxtaposition? Maybe.
Person: The US immigration officer who, despite having to go through a tedious and long process to sort out Nadine's and my different and strange visa dilemmas, was super-lovely and gave us directions to the bar!
Something I learned: It's cheaper to by 500 cotton buds than 375 cotton buds at Target. (I bought the 375 - the smallest box - I couldn't imagine needing 500 in ten months!
Question: Is the stuffed eagle in a glass case in the US immigration waiting room a metaphor?
Sat 20th
Summary: Slept in (again!), dropped off rental car, got mobile phone (email or msg me if you want the number), went to Anne and Michelle's for kai, did some more unpacking and settling in.
Key moment: Walking into Anne and Michelle's place, seeing the kids again - big hugs all around :)
Person: Kingsley, Anne & Michelle's five year old son - the child is adorable and doesn't stop talking! He took me out to show me the beans he'd been growing.
Something I learned: (Again.) Winter feet + jandals = blisters.
Question: When will I adjust to Toronto timezone?
Sun 21st
Summary: Again with the sleeping in (!), unpacked and did stuff around home, went to see Harry Potter with Anne, Michelle, Anne's sister Cathy, and Shonagh.
Key moment: I caught a streetcar by myself and kept my cool the whole time! A very proud moment in my relationship with public transport here; I felt like maybe I had transitioned into looking more like a local than a tourist as I navigated the transfer pass situation without breaking into a sweat.
Person: Cathy, sitting beside me at the movie, patiently putting up with my stupid questions. (Yeah nah, it turns out that Snape isn't Harry's actual father after all.)
Something I learned: Life without the internet is pretty tricky.
Question: Now my house is all set up, how will I ever get it all home next year; what will I leave behind?
Mon 22nd
Summary: Got up and went for a 1 hr walk checking out my new town, had the phone and internet guy come and set me up, met upstairs neighbour, went to have kai with Rawinia & Te Ripowai from home who were staying with whanau here in T.O., went for a drink and got home late!
Key moment: Seeing Ra's smiling face as I emerged from the subway at Ossington.
Person: Kyle, the guy from Bell, the phone company; he spent 4 hours working on the wiring and installation! Legendary effort, and good company too (it's strange living alone again).
Something I learned: That a 'polar bear' is a very delicious shot. Yum.
Question: Will the summer weather stay for long enough for me to keep up my walking for a while yet?
Tues 23rd
Summary: Met up with Daniel (my friend at Uni of Toronto who arranged for me to be here), had breakfast with him on Bloor St, signed up for a bank account, went to Aboriginal Studies and First Nations House to meet some of my new colleagues, got keys to the office I'll share with Daniel, went to free outdoor movie screening and caught subway home.
Key moment: Eating a kebab and watching 'Chicago' in a comfy seat at the movie screening - enjoying being part of a Toronto crowd.
Person: Daniel, who is wise and lovely and generous and supportive.
Something I learned: It is possible for someone teaching Indigenous Literature to be valued and supported by English *and* Indigenous Studies. (A comforting and inspiring insight.)
Question: Is it possible that I am not adjusting to Toronto time because I keep staying up to watch TV/ blog? (ie is it self-inflicted?)
Hopefully that makes you feel a bit caught up. It has been nice to reflect on all that has happened so far.
Tomorrow evening I'm heading to Daniel's place to stay with him and his partner for a few days. They live two hours north of the city and so I'll be experiencing some rural life... he assures me I won't be eaten by a bear. Whew! :)
Hopefully I'll be able to get online there so I can keep up with the blogs... it's nice to be back at te tau okioki.
First, of course, apologies for the massive delay between posts - I finally got internet hooked up at home yesterday, and planned to blog last nite but my mate Rawinia was in town so I was out with her and her whanau here rather than sitting here typing! However, I've missed blogging and it feels nice to be back in this zone.
There is so much to say about my experiences since arriving, so I'm going to give a quick overview with a summary of events, a key moment, a significant person, something I learned and a question for each day since I last blogged.
Weds 17th
Summary: flew Vancouver-Toronto, picked up at airport by Nadine, stayed at Anne and Michelle's place
Key moment: Waiting for bags to arrive in Toronto airport at midnite, and I see my dear friend Nadine walking towards me; I realise I've properly arrived in a place that will be good for me.
Person: Jason, the lovely sweet interesting Canadian boy I met on the plane from Vancouver. My first new Toronto friend, and someone I look forward to meeting up with again later this week.
Something I learned: The CN tower (like Akld's skytower) is always south.
Question: Will this place feel like home?
Thurs 18th
Summary: Picked up keys for apartment, picked up rental car, hit IKEA and supermarket to stock up for my time here, started to unpack.
Key moment: The guy at the rental car place asked for my address and for the first time I wrote down my Spadina Ave address!
Person: Nadine, who as well as being totally fun and supportive, worked very hard making translations and suggestions, carrying bags, steering me through IKEA when we both ran out of steam and the list wasn't yet finished, and talking about 'work' stuff. Now that's a good friend :)
Something I learned: I can get on a streetcar (kind of like a tram/ light rail), transfer to the subway and land exactly at a big supermarket - this will be handy when it's snowy!
Question: How did I manage to get tonic for gin but no lime or lemon? (obviously still jetlagged)
Fri 19th
Summary: Slept in, spent an hour in traffic on Spadina after some kind of incident blocked the road, picked up Nadine, drove towards USA, spent 2 1/2 hrs at immigration at Buffalo (long story), had buffalo wings at the pub they were invited (love the Anchor Bar), went shopping at Target and we were the last customers when they closed at 11pm, drove home.
Key moment: Sitting in immigration waiting room with Nadine, talking quite deeply about research; a juxtaposition? Maybe.
Person: The US immigration officer who, despite having to go through a tedious and long process to sort out Nadine's and my different and strange visa dilemmas, was super-lovely and gave us directions to the bar!
Something I learned: It's cheaper to by 500 cotton buds than 375 cotton buds at Target. (I bought the 375 - the smallest box - I couldn't imagine needing 500 in ten months!
Question: Is the stuffed eagle in a glass case in the US immigration waiting room a metaphor?
Sat 20th
Summary: Slept in (again!), dropped off rental car, got mobile phone (email or msg me if you want the number), went to Anne and Michelle's for kai, did some more unpacking and settling in.
Key moment: Walking into Anne and Michelle's place, seeing the kids again - big hugs all around :)
Person: Kingsley, Anne & Michelle's five year old son - the child is adorable and doesn't stop talking! He took me out to show me the beans he'd been growing.
Something I learned: (Again.) Winter feet + jandals = blisters.
Question: When will I adjust to Toronto timezone?
Sun 21st
Summary: Again with the sleeping in (!), unpacked and did stuff around home, went to see Harry Potter with Anne, Michelle, Anne's sister Cathy, and Shonagh.
Key moment: I caught a streetcar by myself and kept my cool the whole time! A very proud moment in my relationship with public transport here; I felt like maybe I had transitioned into looking more like a local than a tourist as I navigated the transfer pass situation without breaking into a sweat.
Person: Cathy, sitting beside me at the movie, patiently putting up with my stupid questions. (Yeah nah, it turns out that Snape isn't Harry's actual father after all.)
Something I learned: Life without the internet is pretty tricky.
Question: Now my house is all set up, how will I ever get it all home next year; what will I leave behind?
Mon 22nd
Summary: Got up and went for a 1 hr walk checking out my new town, had the phone and internet guy come and set me up, met upstairs neighbour, went to have kai with Rawinia & Te Ripowai from home who were staying with whanau here in T.O., went for a drink and got home late!
Key moment: Seeing Ra's smiling face as I emerged from the subway at Ossington.
Person: Kyle, the guy from Bell, the phone company; he spent 4 hours working on the wiring and installation! Legendary effort, and good company too (it's strange living alone again).
Something I learned: That a 'polar bear' is a very delicious shot. Yum.
Question: Will the summer weather stay for long enough for me to keep up my walking for a while yet?
Tues 23rd
Summary: Met up with Daniel (my friend at Uni of Toronto who arranged for me to be here), had breakfast with him on Bloor St, signed up for a bank account, went to Aboriginal Studies and First Nations House to meet some of my new colleagues, got keys to the office I'll share with Daniel, went to free outdoor movie screening and caught subway home.
Key moment: Eating a kebab and watching 'Chicago' in a comfy seat at the movie screening - enjoying being part of a Toronto crowd.
Person: Daniel, who is wise and lovely and generous and supportive.
Something I learned: It is possible for someone teaching Indigenous Literature to be valued and supported by English *and* Indigenous Studies. (A comforting and inspiring insight.)
Question: Is it possible that I am not adjusting to Toronto time because I keep staying up to watch TV/ blog? (ie is it self-inflicted?)
Hopefully that makes you feel a bit caught up. It has been nice to reflect on all that has happened so far.
Tomorrow evening I'm heading to Daniel's place to stay with him and his partner for a few days. They live two hours north of the city and so I'll be experiencing some rural life... he assures me I won't be eaten by a bear. Whew! :)
Hopefully I'll be able to get online there so I can keep up with the blogs... it's nice to be back at te tau okioki.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Kua tae mai
I've landed in Vancouver. Crazy long wait for my visa and a bit of a rush to find my bags and put them through in time, but all good now. Am sitting by the gate for my flight to Toronto, silently apologising in advance to whoever will be sitting next tome for four hours, basking in the aroma of my long haul travel. Have only got a few seconds now, but wanted to post to let you all know that I've arrived, eh.
:)
:)
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
topsy-turvey
Today I am living in a topsey-turvey world: none of these things should be happening, and yet they are. Even more strange, they all feel right.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
Tonight, my bags are packed and I am going to go and hop in next to Matiu in a few minutes... this will be the last time I wake up next to his little 6 year old snuggles until he is in Canada in December.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
I spent the day with Joy Harjo and Hinemoana Baker, driving around Wellington and chatting with these two figures of Indigenous poetry.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
It snowed so much in Wellington today that even my lawn and house in Epuni looked like a 'Winter Wonderland' Christmas scene.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
Tonight, my bags are packed and I am going to go and hop in next to Matiu in a few minutes... this will be the last time I wake up next to his little 6 year old snuggles until he is in Canada in December.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
I spent the day with Joy Harjo and Hinemoana Baker, driving around Wellington and chatting with these two figures of Indigenous poetry.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
It snowed so much in Wellington today that even my lawn and house in Epuni looked like a 'Winter Wonderland' Christmas scene.
Tomorrow I move to Canada.
Monday, 15 August 2011
bliss.
If the person who wrote your favourite novel and the person who wrote your favourite poem were both on stage, where would you look? On whom would you focus?
This was my dilemma today, as I watched Patricia Grace chair a session with Joy Harjo. I mean, as the writer of Baby No-Eyes chaired a session with the writer of 'Perhaps the World Ends Here.' I found that I learned as much from and about Patricia and I did about Joy through the riveting and rich conversation, and I was not the only person in the room with a few tears by the end of the poetry reading.
Joy talked about the importance of place but how her elders recognise she has a role to play as a traveller, as someone who takes journeys, and someone who travels far away and brings back stories. My friend (and amazing poet) Maraea leaned over to me and said 'that's like you.'
I sat in a room full of writers and readers and listeners, while it snowed outside on my lovely harbour. And thought 'this, this is what I do.' This, today, is at the very centre of this part of my life. When all is said and done, after I've worried about recruitment/ retention/ success of Maori & Pasifika students, after I've taught countless students the difference between a short paragraph and a long sentence, after I've strategised about how to increase the number of Maori/ Pasifika/ women/ brown scholars at university, after I've gone to meetings about iwi education plans, after I've done what I can for English in high schools and for Maori in Indigenous Studies, after I've argued and fought and cried and worried and fought some more, after all of that, this is who I am. The girl who loves Patricia and Joy.
In a day and a half I am hopping on a plane, but for now I am at the centre.
This was my dilemma today, as I watched Patricia Grace chair a session with Joy Harjo. I mean, as the writer of Baby No-Eyes chaired a session with the writer of 'Perhaps the World Ends Here.' I found that I learned as much from and about Patricia and I did about Joy through the riveting and rich conversation, and I was not the only person in the room with a few tears by the end of the poetry reading.
Joy talked about the importance of place but how her elders recognise she has a role to play as a traveller, as someone who takes journeys, and someone who travels far away and brings back stories. My friend (and amazing poet) Maraea leaned over to me and said 'that's like you.'
I sat in a room full of writers and readers and listeners, while it snowed outside on my lovely harbour. And thought 'this, this is what I do.' This, today, is at the very centre of this part of my life. When all is said and done, after I've worried about recruitment/ retention/ success of Maori & Pasifika students, after I've taught countless students the difference between a short paragraph and a long sentence, after I've strategised about how to increase the number of Maori/ Pasifika/ women/ brown scholars at university, after I've gone to meetings about iwi education plans, after I've done what I can for English in high schools and for Maori in Indigenous Studies, after I've argued and fought and cried and worried and fought some more, after all of that, this is who I am. The girl who loves Patricia and Joy.
In a day and a half I am hopping on a plane, but for now I am at the centre.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
he kotuku rerenga tahi
I spent this evening at Hongoeka marae in the company of the two people who have written my favourite texts in the whole wide world. If there was an Alice Literary Prize, the fiction prize would go to Patricia Grace for Baby No Eyes and the poetry prize would go to Joy Harjo for Perhaps the World Ends Here. The evening was amazing, and started with Megan, Mum and I driving out together through crazy rain to Plimmerton. We were welcomed onto the marae and then had kai, followed by an evening of musical and literary entertainment. A real whanau affair. Awesome. There is *so* much to say about the evening, and so I'll just share a few key bullet points, many of which are likely to turn up in poems. Think of them as poem starters, and if you write one share it with the rest of us:
* I told Mum and Megan that I was excited to be going out to Hongoeka because I hadn't been out there before - Mum corrected me, and told me that this was where we used to come paua diving when I was little (before we moved to Auckland when I was 5). I have strong albeit imagistic memories of diving for paua with Dad when I was young, and all this time I hadn't clicked it was there.
* It snowed at Hongoeka today! Yes, where it has never snowed before apparently! Right beside the sea!
* Matua Dick Grace was telling us about the rocks which were hauled out of the ocean right by the marae and taken by truck to Wellington for the airport extension - literally hauled out, some of them still had paua on them!
* We sang 'Whakataka te hau' as our waiata - not often you get to sing about snow and know that it's falling outside!
* The whanau of the marae brought kai from their kitchens to the wharekai in crockpots - this was exactly how we catered the 'after match' after we buried Grandad! All of these family crockpots of different makes, models and eras, lined up on a table...
* Joy Harjo stood and sang about the voices and character of her own people as they journeyed on then Trail of Tears. She talked about the many trails of tears experienced by Indigenous people all around the world, when they are forcibly removed from their lands.
* Patricia Grace, who makes me totally nervous because I'm so in awe of her fantasticness, stood in the kitchen and called across 'Alice, come and have some pudding!' -
All of these are reasons to write, reasons to go and reasons to come home.
* I told Mum and Megan that I was excited to be going out to Hongoeka because I hadn't been out there before - Mum corrected me, and told me that this was where we used to come paua diving when I was little (before we moved to Auckland when I was 5). I have strong albeit imagistic memories of diving for paua with Dad when I was young, and all this time I hadn't clicked it was there.
* It snowed at Hongoeka today! Yes, where it has never snowed before apparently! Right beside the sea!
* Matua Dick Grace was telling us about the rocks which were hauled out of the ocean right by the marae and taken by truck to Wellington for the airport extension - literally hauled out, some of them still had paua on them!
* We sang 'Whakataka te hau' as our waiata - not often you get to sing about snow and know that it's falling outside!
* The whanau of the marae brought kai from their kitchens to the wharekai in crockpots - this was exactly how we catered the 'after match' after we buried Grandad! All of these family crockpots of different makes, models and eras, lined up on a table...
* Joy Harjo stood and sang about the voices and character of her own people as they journeyed on then Trail of Tears. She talked about the many trails of tears experienced by Indigenous people all around the world, when they are forcibly removed from their lands.
* Patricia Grace, who makes me totally nervous because I'm so in awe of her fantasticness, stood in the kitchen and called across 'Alice, come and have some pudding!' -
All of these are reasons to write, reasons to go and reasons to come home.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
No man is an island...
I woke up on an island this morning, and while technically I do this every morning in Wellington (you know, living on the North Island/ Te Ika a Maui and all) waking up on Matiu/Somes is always a bit different. A bit more. I woke up to the sense that my previously warm side had been cooling a little, and realised my nephew Matiu had rolled closer to his Mum, who was closer to our Mum, who was closer to our Dad. Five mattresses were spread across the lounge floor of our iwi house and four people took up three mattresses while the fifth (me) was on the fifth. The uninhabited fourth mattress was what was letting the cold in.
There they were, chatting away, my immediate family: Dad, Mum, Megan, Matiu... Matiu started calling out to me "Auntie Lala! Aun-tie Laaaalaaaa!" and I rolled over towards them all, tangled up in blankets and pillows. We all lay there, chatting, and Matiu was in his element: he was surrounded for a rare moment by all four of us in one place at one time and he announced: "this is a cuddle train!" A cuddle train? He explained that we were all close to the person next to us, and this meant we had a row of people who were in a cuddle train. Proximity and connection. Warmth.
A cuddle train. These are the things I'll remember when I'm in Toronto. Not in order to make myself sad, but to keep myself warm.
There they were, chatting away, my immediate family: Dad, Mum, Megan, Matiu... Matiu started calling out to me "Auntie Lala! Aun-tie Laaaalaaaa!" and I rolled over towards them all, tangled up in blankets and pillows. We all lay there, chatting, and Matiu was in his element: he was surrounded for a rare moment by all four of us in one place at one time and he announced: "this is a cuddle train!" A cuddle train? He explained that we were all close to the person next to us, and this meant we had a row of people who were in a cuddle train. Proximity and connection. Warmth.
A cuddle train. These are the things I'll remember when I'm in Toronto. Not in order to make myself sad, but to keep myself warm.
Friday, 12 August 2011
when one door closes...
I had a farewell cuppa with Helen today; my student Maria and I wanted to meet with her before she goes to take up a new job. It was a cold rainy day in Welly today and the cafe at the chaplaincy on campus does amazing chilli mochaccinos so we sat around holding cups of warmth and chatting. Helen talked about why she was moving towns, and the feeling of taking risks and trying new things. While her korero was about her own decisions, it has been nice to reflect on her words over the course of the day.
Because, sometimes when one door closes another one opens... but more than this, there is a huge amount to be discovered and affirmed when you take the risk to keep on moving, keep on rolling, stay in transit, try new things. Wellington is a great town and I'll miss it when I'm gone - but some days it's time to pack the bags, swallow the fear, and head off into the distance...
Nice one, Helen.
**PS - I realised you might not know who Helen is - she's the awesome Administrator in English - she has been a real friend to me over the past 6 1/2 years at Vic**
Because, sometimes when one door closes another one opens... but more than this, there is a huge amount to be discovered and affirmed when you take the risk to keep on moving, keep on rolling, stay in transit, try new things. Wellington is a great town and I'll miss it when I'm gone - but some days it's time to pack the bags, swallow the fear, and head off into the distance...
Nice one, Helen.
**PS - I realised you might not know who Helen is - she's the awesome Administrator in English - she has been a real friend to me over the past 6 1/2 years at Vic**
I can see clearly now...
(*Thursday's blog - I just started it late so it is datestamped on Friday*)
Oh dear, it seems these post titles are all turning into old song references...
But it's true - I *can* see clearly now - not because the rain has gone but because I got some new glasses today. I had an appointment with an optometrist on Monday, chose my favourite frames with Mum's and Megan's help on Monday nite (they let me bring home 6 pairs to try), indicated my preference on Tuesday, and today I picked them up. So pretty (black/ white with flowers down the sides) but also so effective... it's true, I can see clearly now...
It turns out that one of my eyes struggles to see things far away, while the other one is pretty good. This means that altho the main near/ far problem is that I'm slightly near sighted, the bigger problem is that my eyes are engineered to work in tandem but mine are doing two different things. Balance is key when it comes to sight, both for focus and judgment, and it takes one wonky eye to render both eyes wonky.
Although it is tempting to find the metaphor for today's blog post in the glasses themselves, perhaps reflecting on research as 'revealing' or 'seeing' or perhaps 'correcting inaccurate or blurred vision,' I am going to turn to something else: the problem of bad balance.
Actually, my body (which is usually healthy and doesn't cause me many problems) has other kinds of balance problems too - I can't walk, swim or ride a bike straight. I wobble all over the show - I remember one embarassing school swimming sports at Glen Taylor when I touched the wall and couldn't believe how fast I'd swum to the other end of the pool - surely I'd won the whole race? When I cleared my eyes, I looked int eh distance to see a whole row of disappearing peers, splashing their way to a wall far, far away. I'd swum straight for about a meter then managed to not notice an almost 90 degree turn which meant I very soon arrived at the side wall of the pool. First to touch, I suppose, but it was the wrong wall. Shame!
So much bad balance, and now bad focus; an impaired ability to judge. Hmm. Sounds like my life! Sounds like it's time to go on sabbatical! I'm off to bed, then off to work, then off to Matiu/Somes island, then off to Hongoeka, then off to two more days at uni and around Wellington with Joy Harjo - then off to Toronto! And when I get there, and spend some time focussing on gaining some more balance, more focus, well - I guess this is the way my sabbatical is like a new pair of glasses: by next June I want to be able to see clearly now...
Oh dear, it seems these post titles are all turning into old song references...
But it's true - I *can* see clearly now - not because the rain has gone but because I got some new glasses today. I had an appointment with an optometrist on Monday, chose my favourite frames with Mum's and Megan's help on Monday nite (they let me bring home 6 pairs to try), indicated my preference on Tuesday, and today I picked them up. So pretty (black/ white with flowers down the sides) but also so effective... it's true, I can see clearly now...
It turns out that one of my eyes struggles to see things far away, while the other one is pretty good. This means that altho the main near/ far problem is that I'm slightly near sighted, the bigger problem is that my eyes are engineered to work in tandem but mine are doing two different things. Balance is key when it comes to sight, both for focus and judgment, and it takes one wonky eye to render both eyes wonky.
Although it is tempting to find the metaphor for today's blog post in the glasses themselves, perhaps reflecting on research as 'revealing' or 'seeing' or perhaps 'correcting inaccurate or blurred vision,' I am going to turn to something else: the problem of bad balance.
Actually, my body (which is usually healthy and doesn't cause me many problems) has other kinds of balance problems too - I can't walk, swim or ride a bike straight. I wobble all over the show - I remember one embarassing school swimming sports at Glen Taylor when I touched the wall and couldn't believe how fast I'd swum to the other end of the pool - surely I'd won the whole race? When I cleared my eyes, I looked int eh distance to see a whole row of disappearing peers, splashing their way to a wall far, far away. I'd swum straight for about a meter then managed to not notice an almost 90 degree turn which meant I very soon arrived at the side wall of the pool. First to touch, I suppose, but it was the wrong wall. Shame!
So much bad balance, and now bad focus; an impaired ability to judge. Hmm. Sounds like my life! Sounds like it's time to go on sabbatical! I'm off to bed, then off to work, then off to Matiu/Somes island, then off to Hongoeka, then off to two more days at uni and around Wellington with Joy Harjo - then off to Toronto! And when I get there, and spend some time focussing on gaining some more balance, more focus, well - I guess this is the way my sabbatical is like a new pair of glasses: by next June I want to be able to see clearly now...
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
what a difference a day makes...
... 24 little hours.
(yes, I'm going to have that song in my head now too)
I missed the blog last nite, both ways: I didn't do it and I wish I had. I hope I haven't lost my rhythm for writing yet - and yet I realise it's not the rhythm I've lost, it's the time.
I was way too tired last nite when I got home for a full day on a selection panel, and then I had to prepare for meetings with students today. It was a case of falling asleep reading and waking up tired and (I'll admit it) scratchy.
Talking with cousin Terese today, I realised how *unreal* the whole trip to Canada is, even though it's exactly a week from my departure. Yes, a week from today I will be three hours into the flight frpom Auckland to Vancouver - I'm guessing I will be finishing my first movie (I'll pick a sad one so people don't think I'm odd for crying so much), enjoying my first drink, and deciding between the beef and the chicken. The thing is, it doesn't feel like it is all going to happen so soon; now I am home I have lost the sense of urgency and 'not-business-as-usual' that I had in Australia. I have slipped so easily back into familiar routines that it is my conscious rather than subconscious self that is aware I've got a 'to do' list the length of a rugby field. The list is slowly being addressed, but this takes up a whole lot of time, and the thing that is starting to 'give' to make the time is sleep.
At the same time as I'm attending to tasks and specifics, on Friday morning I need to talk 'big picture' about how I can see my work (teaching, research, and so on) as a part of the university in the future. This kind of dreaming about future possibilities is fun, but I must admit when it's done under pressure it's easier to be glass half empty than glass half full. I am trying to steal time out for preparing my presentation about this future, well aware (among other things) that this future will be better served if I do the things I'm setting aside to think about it.
I'm tired again tonite - there's no time to blog or I'll fall asleep in an awkward position again, waking up a while later with the lights blazing and a sore neck. So, I'll go to bed and sleep, dream about the future, and tomorrow I'll write again.
(yes, I'm going to have that song in my head now too)
I missed the blog last nite, both ways: I didn't do it and I wish I had. I hope I haven't lost my rhythm for writing yet - and yet I realise it's not the rhythm I've lost, it's the time.
I was way too tired last nite when I got home for a full day on a selection panel, and then I had to prepare for meetings with students today. It was a case of falling asleep reading and waking up tired and (I'll admit it) scratchy.
Talking with cousin Terese today, I realised how *unreal* the whole trip to Canada is, even though it's exactly a week from my departure. Yes, a week from today I will be three hours into the flight frpom Auckland to Vancouver - I'm guessing I will be finishing my first movie (I'll pick a sad one so people don't think I'm odd for crying so much), enjoying my first drink, and deciding between the beef and the chicken. The thing is, it doesn't feel like it is all going to happen so soon; now I am home I have lost the sense of urgency and 'not-business-as-usual' that I had in Australia. I have slipped so easily back into familiar routines that it is my conscious rather than subconscious self that is aware I've got a 'to do' list the length of a rugby field. The list is slowly being addressed, but this takes up a whole lot of time, and the thing that is starting to 'give' to make the time is sleep.
At the same time as I'm attending to tasks and specifics, on Friday morning I need to talk 'big picture' about how I can see my work (teaching, research, and so on) as a part of the university in the future. This kind of dreaming about future possibilities is fun, but I must admit when it's done under pressure it's easier to be glass half empty than glass half full. I am trying to steal time out for preparing my presentation about this future, well aware (among other things) that this future will be better served if I do the things I'm setting aside to think about it.
I'm tired again tonite - there's no time to blog or I'll fall asleep in an awkward position again, waking up a while later with the lights blazing and a sore neck. So, I'll go to bed and sleep, dream about the future, and tomorrow I'll write again.
Monday, 8 August 2011
family ghosts, family writers
So there I am, in the Archives NZ reading room (which is doubling as the Alexander Turnbull Library reading room at the moment while they tart up the ATL and National Library) looking for the letter by Uncle Paul which is in the restricted Ngata files, and I saw a guy in a Taupo Swimming Club jacket waving at me. Funny, aye, where family shows up.
Pete isn't a blood relative but he's totally part of the whanau. He is the father of three of my cousins, and I see him a few times a year at different family events. We will often have a chat about something at these occasions - but he'd never mentioned that he hangs out at the ATL in his spare time when he's in Wellington. Thinking about it further, I'm guessing that he could say the same thing about me.
He was reading through the journals of a NZ sports writer who followed the ABs tour of South Africa which was the first to include Maori rugby players in the NZ team (oh, and one Samoan guy too). He's writing something about a layering of connections between ghosts buried side by side in South Africa, news which fascinated me both because the premise of his story is compelling and because I had once again underestimated the number and range of Maori writers in the family.
Pete also had a printout of his great-uncle's war records from his time in the Maori Battalion during WWII. As we talked about these uncles, and the possibilities of connection between them during the war (his uncle was killed within a few months of my uncle, and both are buried in Italy), I became aware again of the ways that talking about our ghosts - our relatives, our families, who we are - gives us opportunities to further connect to each other and the present. We reflected together on the essential waste of these young mens' futures - "do you ever just feel sad when you think about Uncle Paul?" Pete asked at one point - and were struck by the impossibility of imagining how things might have turned out if they'd come home.
I'll pop back to the ATL on Thursday to pick up the letter from Uncle Paul which I ordered today. I'd wondered if the letter would be waiting for me already behind the desk today, seeing as I'd acquired permissions to view and copy it, and had assumed I'd alreayd have read it by now. But that wasn't the order of things for this part of the process: instead of reading Uncle Paul's letter, I have heard about another fallen Battalion soldier who may well have known him and whose grave (whose ghost?) is closer to him than any of the rest of us. I have heard of another writer in the family. I like to think that Uncle Paul is pleased about this turn of events, this proliferation of relationships between him, his letter and myself. This extension of writing and ideas. This family. These ghosts.
Pete isn't a blood relative but he's totally part of the whanau. He is the father of three of my cousins, and I see him a few times a year at different family events. We will often have a chat about something at these occasions - but he'd never mentioned that he hangs out at the ATL in his spare time when he's in Wellington. Thinking about it further, I'm guessing that he could say the same thing about me.
He was reading through the journals of a NZ sports writer who followed the ABs tour of South Africa which was the first to include Maori rugby players in the NZ team (oh, and one Samoan guy too). He's writing something about a layering of connections between ghosts buried side by side in South Africa, news which fascinated me both because the premise of his story is compelling and because I had once again underestimated the number and range of Maori writers in the family.
Pete also had a printout of his great-uncle's war records from his time in the Maori Battalion during WWII. As we talked about these uncles, and the possibilities of connection between them during the war (his uncle was killed within a few months of my uncle, and both are buried in Italy), I became aware again of the ways that talking about our ghosts - our relatives, our families, who we are - gives us opportunities to further connect to each other and the present. We reflected together on the essential waste of these young mens' futures - "do you ever just feel sad when you think about Uncle Paul?" Pete asked at one point - and were struck by the impossibility of imagining how things might have turned out if they'd come home.
I'll pop back to the ATL on Thursday to pick up the letter from Uncle Paul which I ordered today. I'd wondered if the letter would be waiting for me already behind the desk today, seeing as I'd acquired permissions to view and copy it, and had assumed I'd alreayd have read it by now. But that wasn't the order of things for this part of the process: instead of reading Uncle Paul's letter, I have heard about another fallen Battalion soldier who may well have known him and whose grave (whose ghost?) is closer to him than any of the rest of us. I have heard of another writer in the family. I like to think that Uncle Paul is pleased about this turn of events, this proliferation of relationships between him, his letter and myself. This extension of writing and ideas. This family. These ghosts.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
decorative
The lounge is a mess. The two couches are piled high with clothes (one is the summer couch, one the winter) and a heap of 'non-seasonal' clothes is in the middle of the floor. Scattered around these clothes are smaller clusters: footwear, toiletries, jewelery, books, gifts, electrical things... and 'decorations.' Yes, I'm packing for Toronto and yes, I have a separate category for things that will make my new place feel like home. Photos, fabric, ornaments, spunky nz themed teatowels, a door cover from near my sister's late-90s home in Japan, poi, an embroidered kowhaiwhai stitched by Nana many years ago, a sticker declaring in Maori a 'smokefree house,' a few magnets, and a cream coloured wreath which Mum made for me while she and my sisteen year old self sat with Grandad's elder sister Martha shortly before Aunty Martha passed away...
These are the things that remind me who I am. Not because of their material worth (I suspect most of them would be on a 50c stall at a garage sale) but because of the people I associate with them.
I've always puzzled over my very global, somewhat jetsetting and perhaps even transitory life, because I know myself best as a bit of a home girl. I love fixing up the place I live so it feels like a good place to be, and in the twelve (yes, I just counted them) places I've lived since moving out of Mum and Dad's place I inevitably unpack and sort out the decorations before turning my attention to clothes and other practical items. I always assumed I'd spend a life in New Zealand with a man and some kids and the same house for much of my adult life, and yet since I was 19 the longest I've lived in the same house is 2 1/2 years (a record which is only partially accurate, because I spent a year in Honolulu between the first two year stint and the last 6 months)
Because I'm moving to Toronto for ten months rather than permanently, and because I need to fit everything into a small number of bags for the flight, I find myself paring things down: daring myself to remove trasured things from the pile, almost always replacing them quickly with something else I've just remembered. Also, everything has to be fairly unbreakable; surely the thing worse than not having a loved object nearby is unwrapping a collection of shards or pieces which used to bring joy when they were together.
The cream coloured wreath, which reminds me of Aunty Martha but also of those last years of being 'at home' before venturing out, and which Mum made while I sat in the December sun reading Alice Walker's profound novel The Temple of My Familiar, has hung in every bedroom window since then. Yep, in Otara, Mt Wellington, Kingsland, Sandringham, Glen Innes, Downtown Ithaca, Fall Creek, Honolulu, Waiwhetu, Alicetown, Marsfield and Epuni, the wreath has welcomed mornings and evenings on my behalf, tapping at the glass when there's a breeze and hanging quietly through all manner of personal seasons.
As I packed my 'decorative' items this evening, Mum reminded me to go and get the 'Aunty Martha wreath' which was still hanging in the window here in Epuni. I've brought it down, and it will be gently washed and careful dried before being packed into the inside pocket of my carry-on wheelie bag. I'm also going to pack a drawing pin, not because I think they don't have drawing pins in Canada, but because exactly ten days from today, I will land in Toronto and the next morning I will make my way to my new whare.
My first night in my apartment will be hot because it's summertime and strange because I'll have new sounds to get used to hearing as I fall asleep. But it will also be familiar, because hanging in the window will be a small round twist of wire and stitched strips of fabric which remind me of the people and places I've known and been.
These are the things that remind me who I am. Not because of their material worth (I suspect most of them would be on a 50c stall at a garage sale) but because of the people I associate with them.
I've always puzzled over my very global, somewhat jetsetting and perhaps even transitory life, because I know myself best as a bit of a home girl. I love fixing up the place I live so it feels like a good place to be, and in the twelve (yes, I just counted them) places I've lived since moving out of Mum and Dad's place I inevitably unpack and sort out the decorations before turning my attention to clothes and other practical items. I always assumed I'd spend a life in New Zealand with a man and some kids and the same house for much of my adult life, and yet since I was 19 the longest I've lived in the same house is 2 1/2 years (a record which is only partially accurate, because I spent a year in Honolulu between the first two year stint and the last 6 months)
Because I'm moving to Toronto for ten months rather than permanently, and because I need to fit everything into a small number of bags for the flight, I find myself paring things down: daring myself to remove trasured things from the pile, almost always replacing them quickly with something else I've just remembered. Also, everything has to be fairly unbreakable; surely the thing worse than not having a loved object nearby is unwrapping a collection of shards or pieces which used to bring joy when they were together.
The cream coloured wreath, which reminds me of Aunty Martha but also of those last years of being 'at home' before venturing out, and which Mum made while I sat in the December sun reading Alice Walker's profound novel The Temple of My Familiar, has hung in every bedroom window since then. Yep, in Otara, Mt Wellington, Kingsland, Sandringham, Glen Innes, Downtown Ithaca, Fall Creek, Honolulu, Waiwhetu, Alicetown, Marsfield and Epuni, the wreath has welcomed mornings and evenings on my behalf, tapping at the glass when there's a breeze and hanging quietly through all manner of personal seasons.
As I packed my 'decorative' items this evening, Mum reminded me to go and get the 'Aunty Martha wreath' which was still hanging in the window here in Epuni. I've brought it down, and it will be gently washed and careful dried before being packed into the inside pocket of my carry-on wheelie bag. I'm also going to pack a drawing pin, not because I think they don't have drawing pins in Canada, but because exactly ten days from today, I will land in Toronto and the next morning I will make my way to my new whare.
My first night in my apartment will be hot because it's summertime and strange because I'll have new sounds to get used to hearing as I fall asleep. But it will also be familiar, because hanging in the window will be a small round twist of wire and stitched strips of fabric which remind me of the people and places I've known and been.
my place
Tonite I've been watching a TV series on DVD with Mum and Megan called My Place. The series is made by the Australian outfit ABC and follows the lives of families living in one specific house each decade between 1788 and 2008. When were watching we joked that we're not exactly the target audience for the series, because it's aimed at kids (Mum and I found it for Matiu when we were in Sydney), but the episodes we watched were awesome. They were also familiar because the series is based on a book of the same name that was released for Australia's 1988 bicentenial, a copy of which floated around our home.
The thing I loved about My Place as a kid, and now again as an adult, is the attention it pays to the layering of people and histories and interactions across all those generations. In the book and the TV series, the specific 'place' is home for these poeple, and some specific aspects of the 'place' become touchstones for all the kids: a river and a big old tree.
This is what it means to be physically home in 'my place.'
Today Mum, Megan, Matiu and I drove north to cousin Jude's place and met with several other cuzzies for a waiata practice. The land we were meeting wasn't 'our place' (thanks Rangitane!) but in our cousin's home, as we practiced 'E Rere Ra,' made poi, caught up with each other and ate lunch together, we remembered and enacted and voiced and performed the significance of place. Our place.
When your homelands have been concreted over by urban space, and no longer resemble either their earlier selves or the place in the imagination of most people when they think about 'Maori space,' it can be profound to reflect on the layers of generations and connections which make up who we are. It has been great to be home in 'my place' (I arrived home 23 hrs ago!) and when I head off to Toronto in eleven days I will take my memories of today with the Te Punga crew with me. E rere ra indeed.
The thing I loved about My Place as a kid, and now again as an adult, is the attention it pays to the layering of people and histories and interactions across all those generations. In the book and the TV series, the specific 'place' is home for these poeple, and some specific aspects of the 'place' become touchstones for all the kids: a river and a big old tree.
This is what it means to be physically home in 'my place.'
Today Mum, Megan, Matiu and I drove north to cousin Jude's place and met with several other cuzzies for a waiata practice. The land we were meeting wasn't 'our place' (thanks Rangitane!) but in our cousin's home, as we practiced 'E Rere Ra,' made poi, caught up with each other and ate lunch together, we remembered and enacted and voiced and performed the significance of place. Our place.
When your homelands have been concreted over by urban space, and no longer resemble either their earlier selves or the place in the imagination of most people when they think about 'Maori space,' it can be profound to reflect on the layers of generations and connections which make up who we are. It has been great to be home in 'my place' (I arrived home 23 hrs ago!) and when I head off to Toronto in eleven days I will take my memories of today with the Te Punga crew with me. E rere ra indeed.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
exit interview...
I'm writing this from home. Properly home. The place my relatives have lived for a couple of centuries since migrating down here from Taranaki.
The Australia part of my sabbatical is over and I'm home for ten days. (Although I must say I'm perhaps maybe sort of kind of thinking I might maybe pop in on Sydney next February when I make a trip home. Watch this space.)
At the end of a job, often one is asked to do an exit interview: to talk about how it went and what suggestions might be made and so on. It's time for an exit interview from Australia and instead of going through a list of questions (Mum just reminded me we're heading north to cousin Jude's place for a whanau waiata practice at 6am so I better keep this brief!), I'll just kind of say some thanks. Thank you to all of the people who had me to stay in their homes: Michelle & Ness, Glenice & Jeff, Auntie Nanie, Karin & Youcef & Aliyah. Thank you to the crew at Warawara Dept of Indigenous Studies in Sydney and the Lutheran Church Archives in Adelaide. Thank you to the 'Gambo's Angels' pub quiz team.
Thank you Aussie - it has been great. Thanks to you, te tau okioki is fully underway.
The Australia part of my sabbatical is over and I'm home for ten days. (Although I must say I'm perhaps maybe sort of kind of thinking I might maybe pop in on Sydney next February when I make a trip home. Watch this space.)
At the end of a job, often one is asked to do an exit interview: to talk about how it went and what suggestions might be made and so on. It's time for an exit interview from Australia and instead of going through a list of questions (Mum just reminded me we're heading north to cousin Jude's place for a whanau waiata practice at 6am so I better keep this brief!), I'll just kind of say some thanks. Thank you to all of the people who had me to stay in their homes: Michelle & Ness, Glenice & Jeff, Auntie Nanie, Karin & Youcef & Aliyah. Thank you to the crew at Warawara Dept of Indigenous Studies in Sydney and the Lutheran Church Archives in Adelaide. Thank you to the 'Gambo's Angels' pub quiz team.
Thank you Aussie - it has been great. Thanks to you, te tau okioki is fully underway.
Friday, 5 August 2011
milk and ID
I'm home drinking milk before I go to bed, after a great night out at a pub quiz in Erskineville and a quick trip to another bar afterwards... it's my last nite in Australia, and so a bit of a farewell of sorts... and the evening has involved a few beers which means my head is gently spinning while I type tonite.
The thing I wanted to blog about is something that happened today when I was at Macquarie Uni for the last time before I head off - and this actually happened, depsite it sounding like a funny joke. After watching the fabulous Aboriginal dance troupe 'Descendance' perform on campus, I had coffee with Susan who's head of Indigenous Studies and Michelle who's a lecturer in the same dept. We talked about all kinds of things - insitutional, personal, literary - and before parting ways Susan suggested we go to the university bookstore so we could pick up a copy of a book she'd been telling me about. Off we walked, the three of us, in the direction of the student bookshop; when we got there we found a number of students patiently waiting in line and a security guy standing at the door.
We went to walk in and were stopped "excuse me are you staff or students?" "Staff" we replied, of course, because we are. "I wil lneed to see you staff ID - and if you don't have it you're going to need to wait over there" the guy said, gesturing to the gaggle of students. Well, funnily enough Susan and Michelle - who are both permanent Macquarie staff - did not have ID but I had, in a moment of inspiration, decided to pack my Macquarie staff ID from when I was here in 2009. I produced the card, and said "these guys are with me" and the three of us walked inside.
We all laughed about how funny it was that the Macquarie staff members didn't have ID (and therefore would not be granted admittance to the bookstore) but the girl who'd been here for 3 months a couple of years ago had ID which established her right to assert a specific and privileged position in the univerisity. And yet, through the afternoon I started to think about the layers to that 'funny' moment.
Here I was, neither legally nor functionally a member of the Macquarie staff and yet able to vouch not only for my own status but also those of the people with me. The people who are *from* the university have less status and privilege than the one who happens to have a legible and acceptable ID card.
Surely this parallels the position of Indigenous people in the settler state, with regard to immigration and alliance building and citizenship. Those who have technical and legal proof of connection to the state have rights which override (and perhaps in a generous mood) those who have ongoing, lived, fiuctional connection (however marginal or compromised that might be at times).
And surely, to follow this parallel, this speaks to the position but also the responsibility of people like myself on the land of other Indigenous people. Surely the question of whether to use the power enscribed (me producing the required document for admittance) or to ally oneself with the local people (and bring them with me into any place to which I have access) is important here.
I've had too much beer to extend this metaphor further, and it deserves careful consideration in teh clear light of day.
In the meantime, I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect, recharge and - yes - attend quiz nites at a fun pub like 'normal' people do. And, on that note, it's off to bed for this girl. Good night.
***
And: good morning. I'm awake and have read through my post from last night and just wanted to take a moment to extend the metaphor in the way I'd actually been thinking about it yesterday afternoon. Here I was, the person with a recognised 'right' (which becomes a form of power) to enter the space despite being least connected. Not only could my ID enable my own entry, but it enabled me the opportunity to generously (from the point of view of the guy at the door) bring with me the two people I was with.
Later in the afternoon yesterday I heard that Australia's new "people-swapping" immigration policy had been initiated for the first time. A number of people who arrive in Australia seeking asylum will be 'swapped' with 'genuine' refugees in Malaysia. (Various other places around this part of the Pacific - Nauru, Christmas Island, PNG, East Timor - have been used or tagged as dumping grounds for Australia's immigration 'problem'.) According to the PM Julia Gillard, the people who are handed to Malaysia will be treated with dignity and respect - which, whether or not it is true, is a slightly odd comment to come from her because she isn't actually the PM of Malaysia so can't really speak on behalf of what will happen there, and also because clearly treating these people with dignity and respect is hardly the underpinning value of the Australian 'solution.'
But the biggest irony and tragedy from my perspective is the question of legitimacy raised by the case of the ID at the bookstore: an arbitrary decision that rights to enter will be determined by a specific piece of documentation. In that moment, standing in front of the security guard (who incidentally was a Pacific guy - yes, the metaphor just keeps unfurling), none of the actual position of Susan and Michelle in the context of the university mattered. Although it was expected that the documentation I produced proved precisely the kind of status in the university which Susan and Michelle actually have (and indeed which I don't have), the details of history (why a Macquarie ID was in my purse, the swipe cards the other two had with them which were not accepted as appropriate evidence of their status, and so on) were irrelevant in the face of a simplistic policy about documentation. Indeed, to put this all another way, the symbol of 'being Macquarie staff' was more important than the practice of 'being Macquarie staff' to the extent that the symbol (ID) proved my right to enter despite there being no substance to my symbolic claim of being Macquarie staff whereas the inability to produce such recognised symbolic proof put Susan and Michelle into the category of 'not staff and therefore to be treated like students and made to wait.'
Although a strict parallel is possible here, the moment of my producing ID sufficient for the entry of Susan and Michelle is most helpful, I think, for raises questions about legitimacy and power. Who is 'Australia' to decide that these people cannot come in, when the historical and mythical basis of Australia (I'm talking about the state of Australia here; obviously Indigenous people have other origins) is the arrival of people from across the ocean seeking a better life in a new country? What difference is there between the 'people smugglers' of today and the people who brought the 'convicts' to Australia? Yes, there is a difference - I'm not saying there's not, and I'm not being naive about contemporary human trafficking - but what is the nature of that difference?
When we start to think about questions of recognition and legality and rights to seal off borders, an historical perspective can put the contemporary situation in a slightly different light. Because, aye, it's not like the people arriving in Australia (or NZ or the US or Canada or...) over the past two centuries have been busily paying attention to the immigration policies of the existing nations who had already been operating here for many thousands of years.
The thing I wanted to blog about is something that happened today when I was at Macquarie Uni for the last time before I head off - and this actually happened, depsite it sounding like a funny joke. After watching the fabulous Aboriginal dance troupe 'Descendance' perform on campus, I had coffee with Susan who's head of Indigenous Studies and Michelle who's a lecturer in the same dept. We talked about all kinds of things - insitutional, personal, literary - and before parting ways Susan suggested we go to the university bookstore so we could pick up a copy of a book she'd been telling me about. Off we walked, the three of us, in the direction of the student bookshop; when we got there we found a number of students patiently waiting in line and a security guy standing at the door.
We went to walk in and were stopped "excuse me are you staff or students?" "Staff" we replied, of course, because we are. "I wil lneed to see you staff ID - and if you don't have it you're going to need to wait over there" the guy said, gesturing to the gaggle of students. Well, funnily enough Susan and Michelle - who are both permanent Macquarie staff - did not have ID but I had, in a moment of inspiration, decided to pack my Macquarie staff ID from when I was here in 2009. I produced the card, and said "these guys are with me" and the three of us walked inside.
We all laughed about how funny it was that the Macquarie staff members didn't have ID (and therefore would not be granted admittance to the bookstore) but the girl who'd been here for 3 months a couple of years ago had ID which established her right to assert a specific and privileged position in the univerisity. And yet, through the afternoon I started to think about the layers to that 'funny' moment.
Here I was, neither legally nor functionally a member of the Macquarie staff and yet able to vouch not only for my own status but also those of the people with me. The people who are *from* the university have less status and privilege than the one who happens to have a legible and acceptable ID card.
Surely this parallels the position of Indigenous people in the settler state, with regard to immigration and alliance building and citizenship. Those who have technical and legal proof of connection to the state have rights which override (and perhaps in a generous mood) those who have ongoing, lived, fiuctional connection (however marginal or compromised that might be at times).
And surely, to follow this parallel, this speaks to the position but also the responsibility of people like myself on the land of other Indigenous people. Surely the question of whether to use the power enscribed (me producing the required document for admittance) or to ally oneself with the local people (and bring them with me into any place to which I have access) is important here.
I've had too much beer to extend this metaphor further, and it deserves careful consideration in teh clear light of day.
In the meantime, I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect, recharge and - yes - attend quiz nites at a fun pub like 'normal' people do. And, on that note, it's off to bed for this girl. Good night.
***
And: good morning. I'm awake and have read through my post from last night and just wanted to take a moment to extend the metaphor in the way I'd actually been thinking about it yesterday afternoon. Here I was, the person with a recognised 'right' (which becomes a form of power) to enter the space despite being least connected. Not only could my ID enable my own entry, but it enabled me the opportunity to generously (from the point of view of the guy at the door) bring with me the two people I was with.
Later in the afternoon yesterday I heard that Australia's new "people-swapping" immigration policy had been initiated for the first time. A number of people who arrive in Australia seeking asylum will be 'swapped' with 'genuine' refugees in Malaysia. (Various other places around this part of the Pacific - Nauru, Christmas Island, PNG, East Timor - have been used or tagged as dumping grounds for Australia's immigration 'problem'.) According to the PM Julia Gillard, the people who are handed to Malaysia will be treated with dignity and respect - which, whether or not it is true, is a slightly odd comment to come from her because she isn't actually the PM of Malaysia so can't really speak on behalf of what will happen there, and also because clearly treating these people with dignity and respect is hardly the underpinning value of the Australian 'solution.'
But the biggest irony and tragedy from my perspective is the question of legitimacy raised by the case of the ID at the bookstore: an arbitrary decision that rights to enter will be determined by a specific piece of documentation. In that moment, standing in front of the security guard (who incidentally was a Pacific guy - yes, the metaphor just keeps unfurling), none of the actual position of Susan and Michelle in the context of the university mattered. Although it was expected that the documentation I produced proved precisely the kind of status in the university which Susan and Michelle actually have (and indeed which I don't have), the details of history (why a Macquarie ID was in my purse, the swipe cards the other two had with them which were not accepted as appropriate evidence of their status, and so on) were irrelevant in the face of a simplistic policy about documentation. Indeed, to put this all another way, the symbol of 'being Macquarie staff' was more important than the practice of 'being Macquarie staff' to the extent that the symbol (ID) proved my right to enter despite there being no substance to my symbolic claim of being Macquarie staff whereas the inability to produce such recognised symbolic proof put Susan and Michelle into the category of 'not staff and therefore to be treated like students and made to wait.'
Although a strict parallel is possible here, the moment of my producing ID sufficient for the entry of Susan and Michelle is most helpful, I think, for raises questions about legitimacy and power. Who is 'Australia' to decide that these people cannot come in, when the historical and mythical basis of Australia (I'm talking about the state of Australia here; obviously Indigenous people have other origins) is the arrival of people from across the ocean seeking a better life in a new country? What difference is there between the 'people smugglers' of today and the people who brought the 'convicts' to Australia? Yes, there is a difference - I'm not saying there's not, and I'm not being naive about contemporary human trafficking - but what is the nature of that difference?
When we start to think about questions of recognition and legality and rights to seal off borders, an historical perspective can put the contemporary situation in a slightly different light. Because, aye, it's not like the people arriving in Australia (or NZ or the US or Canada or...) over the past two centuries have been busily paying attention to the immigration policies of the existing nations who had already been operating here for many thousands of years.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
the grass is greener...
Sometimes it feels like the grass is indeed greener on the other side... sometimes it feels like you would have been on the greener side yourself if it wasn't for decisions you've made... and sometimes it feels like grazing on the greener grass on the other side is a possibility but you haven't quite worked out the fence yet. And then sometimes it's just a case of saying 'hey - I'm hungry - and I have grass - and that's all I need...'
I'm staying tonite with my friend Karin and her family (Youcef who is kind enough to not mind when I steal Karin from him for an evening to talk up a storm, and lovely gorgeous sweet smart little Aliyah who fixed my hair in not one, not two, not three, but four pony tails - plus a scatter of clips - this evening) in Parramatta. Karin and I have been up with cups of tea, talking about the paths we've taken to vairous places and the paths that have taken us to various places... and now I'm reflecting on things, I realise that we've been talking a lot (and I've been thinking a lot) about the greener grass just over the fence, in the paddock up the road, beyond the horizon.
Now, let me be clear that I fully enjoy and appreciate my life - I have crazily amazing opportunities I never dreamed of and I'm one of the lucky ones who gets to follow her passion for a living. It is extraordinary that I am paid to read and write for a year, that I am moving to Toronto in two weeks, that I get to trip around the world so much, that I am part of a whanau context which is supportive, fun and multidimensional. I have been taught by great people, encouraged by generous people, and kept honest by loving people.
At the same time, some days I can get a bit sad about the places I thought I'd be by now (this is usually the green grass of a partner and kids of my own) and the way I wish my worklife could be (this is usually the green grass of a mythical university setting where staff are valued, mentored, supported and where I would feel like there's a department where people say 'hey Alice, we're so glad you're here, your research and teaching is something we need, value and enjoy'). Well, sad isn't the right word. Maybe I just yearn for that green grass... maybe I'm peckish for it... a bit hungry... starving... ravenous. Hmm, it all depends on the day.
And this is the place we all end up, I suspect: all of us, pulled tight like a clothesline between the posts of fantasy and reality. Or perhaps between the posts of 'if I wait for it, it may never come' and 'if I actively chase it, I still might never find it .' Between the posts of inertia and nihilism. Between 'may not happen anyway' and 'why bother.' Perhaps this sounds a bit too glass-half-empty? Perhaps it sounds like I'm saying the dream man and dream university don't exist so why bother going after them? Well, maybe they don't.
But there's another possible way to think about the clothesline - if 'it's not going to happen' is at either end, surely we can imagine that 'yes, at this specific point it might well happen' could be somewhere in between? Tonight we've talked about men who might be a good match for me, and we've talked about universities where we would be happy. As far as I know, there are no men out there dreaming of me tonite (am happy to stand corrected on this one!) and there are no other universities which at the present time would be completely ideal; and yet, I keep an eye out for new people and keep an eye on job advertisements so I feel like whichever situation I find myself in, I'm there because I know what the options are. I'm here because I know what the options are, and while I'm always happy to review the status quo of either situation, I am equally unwilling to sit around in case either situation gets better by itself just through the sheer force of my dogged determination to stare the problem down.
There's always an opportunity cost: there's always a price that is paid for the one that got away. There's never a guarantee you'll find what you're looking for and there's never even a guarantee you'll get home. And yet, as I write I realise that green grass can feel like it's taunting but it can also motivate. I'm writing in Parramatta, a place where Maori people have literally been coming for two centuries in order to get away from home, seek new perspectives, meet new people, gain a certain kind of education and - for some - plan further journeys to places beyond Australia. Mowhee, Teeterree, Tooi, Kooley, Toopunah and all the rest have spent time here - yes, literally, here - in this space of dry grass which is, from certain perspectives, green.
I'm staying tonite with my friend Karin and her family (Youcef who is kind enough to not mind when I steal Karin from him for an evening to talk up a storm, and lovely gorgeous sweet smart little Aliyah who fixed my hair in not one, not two, not three, but four pony tails - plus a scatter of clips - this evening) in Parramatta. Karin and I have been up with cups of tea, talking about the paths we've taken to vairous places and the paths that have taken us to various places... and now I'm reflecting on things, I realise that we've been talking a lot (and I've been thinking a lot) about the greener grass just over the fence, in the paddock up the road, beyond the horizon.
Now, let me be clear that I fully enjoy and appreciate my life - I have crazily amazing opportunities I never dreamed of and I'm one of the lucky ones who gets to follow her passion for a living. It is extraordinary that I am paid to read and write for a year, that I am moving to Toronto in two weeks, that I get to trip around the world so much, that I am part of a whanau context which is supportive, fun and multidimensional. I have been taught by great people, encouraged by generous people, and kept honest by loving people.
At the same time, some days I can get a bit sad about the places I thought I'd be by now (this is usually the green grass of a partner and kids of my own) and the way I wish my worklife could be (this is usually the green grass of a mythical university setting where staff are valued, mentored, supported and where I would feel like there's a department where people say 'hey Alice, we're so glad you're here, your research and teaching is something we need, value and enjoy'). Well, sad isn't the right word. Maybe I just yearn for that green grass... maybe I'm peckish for it... a bit hungry... starving... ravenous. Hmm, it all depends on the day.
And this is the place we all end up, I suspect: all of us, pulled tight like a clothesline between the posts of fantasy and reality. Or perhaps between the posts of 'if I wait for it, it may never come' and 'if I actively chase it, I still might never find it .' Between the posts of inertia and nihilism. Between 'may not happen anyway' and 'why bother.' Perhaps this sounds a bit too glass-half-empty? Perhaps it sounds like I'm saying the dream man and dream university don't exist so why bother going after them? Well, maybe they don't.
But there's another possible way to think about the clothesline - if 'it's not going to happen' is at either end, surely we can imagine that 'yes, at this specific point it might well happen' could be somewhere in between? Tonight we've talked about men who might be a good match for me, and we've talked about universities where we would be happy. As far as I know, there are no men out there dreaming of me tonite (am happy to stand corrected on this one!) and there are no other universities which at the present time would be completely ideal; and yet, I keep an eye out for new people and keep an eye on job advertisements so I feel like whichever situation I find myself in, I'm there because I know what the options are. I'm here because I know what the options are, and while I'm always happy to review the status quo of either situation, I am equally unwilling to sit around in case either situation gets better by itself just through the sheer force of my dogged determination to stare the problem down.
There's always an opportunity cost: there's always a price that is paid for the one that got away. There's never a guarantee you'll find what you're looking for and there's never even a guarantee you'll get home. And yet, as I write I realise that green grass can feel like it's taunting but it can also motivate. I'm writing in Parramatta, a place where Maori people have literally been coming for two centuries in order to get away from home, seek new perspectives, meet new people, gain a certain kind of education and - for some - plan further journeys to places beyond Australia. Mowhee, Teeterree, Tooi, Kooley, Toopunah and all the rest have spent time here - yes, literally, here - in this space of dry grass which is, from certain perspectives, green.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Parting is such sweet sorrow...
Today I realised that one of the not-so-great sides of a year of saying lots of hellos is that these will eventually be followed by goodbyes.
I spent the day with Auntie Nanie today, and it was perfect. The sun was shining (actually this winter day in Sydney reminded me a lot of Wellington summer!), we talked the entire time, we sat out on the porch at Auntie Nanie's house, we had yummy kai at one of our favourite cafes next to the sparling water, then we went and watched the sun go down from her porch... it was just awesome. Beautiful, fun, awesome.
One of the things we talked about was the arrival of the printouts of this blog that Mum had sent to her through the post. Yes, another 'follower' of this blog is Auntie Nanie, who still isn't sure about the technological side of how it works but who will be reading these posts when Mum sends her paper copies of the blog each week. (Actually, Auntie Nanie isn't the only person who's reading this blog on paper - Mum is also sending it along to Betty, who lives in Mirimar now but who has been a feature of our whanau since she lived next to my grandparents when Mum was a baby.)
Auntie Nanie and I have talked about so much today and during the week with Mum, but it still feels like there's so much more to talk about and so leaving felt a bit like I was leaving something before I was ready.
Because, inevitably, it was eventually time to leave... to drive back to Michelle and Ness's and to the last two days in Sydney before, on Friday, I fly home to Wellington. So, this was my goodbye to Auntie Nanie until next time I'm back in Australia.
But it's also the first of many goodbyes I'll be saying this year. The next couple of days will involve goodbyes to Aussie mates before I go to New Zealand to say goodbyes for ten days before moving to Toronto... and, I've done this whole moving overseas things before, I know what happens after Canada... more goodbyes. The worst bit of the privilege (yep, see yesterday's blog) of living in different countries is that I'm always far away from people I love... and I have to say goodbye a lot. I'm looking forward to Canada, but I also know that at the end of my months in Toronto there will be tears and promises to stay in touch and memories to be tucked away and the closing of doors and, well, goodbyes.
According to dictionary.reference.com (who says they don't learn anything from their students?), when Juliet says that 'parting is such sweet sorrow' to Romeo, she is saying goodnight and at the same time she describes the parting as 'sweet' because it makes them think about the next time they'll see each other again.
It's 1.05am so it's time to say goodnight. But also, Auntie Nanie, I can picture you reading this blog while you're having a cup of tea at your round white kitchen table, and... I'll see you again. Sweet :)
I spent the day with Auntie Nanie today, and it was perfect. The sun was shining (actually this winter day in Sydney reminded me a lot of Wellington summer!), we talked the entire time, we sat out on the porch at Auntie Nanie's house, we had yummy kai at one of our favourite cafes next to the sparling water, then we went and watched the sun go down from her porch... it was just awesome. Beautiful, fun, awesome.
One of the things we talked about was the arrival of the printouts of this blog that Mum had sent to her through the post. Yes, another 'follower' of this blog is Auntie Nanie, who still isn't sure about the technological side of how it works but who will be reading these posts when Mum sends her paper copies of the blog each week. (Actually, Auntie Nanie isn't the only person who's reading this blog on paper - Mum is also sending it along to Betty, who lives in Mirimar now but who has been a feature of our whanau since she lived next to my grandparents when Mum was a baby.)
Auntie Nanie and I have talked about so much today and during the week with Mum, but it still feels like there's so much more to talk about and so leaving felt a bit like I was leaving something before I was ready.
Because, inevitably, it was eventually time to leave... to drive back to Michelle and Ness's and to the last two days in Sydney before, on Friday, I fly home to Wellington. So, this was my goodbye to Auntie Nanie until next time I'm back in Australia.
But it's also the first of many goodbyes I'll be saying this year. The next couple of days will involve goodbyes to Aussie mates before I go to New Zealand to say goodbyes for ten days before moving to Toronto... and, I've done this whole moving overseas things before, I know what happens after Canada... more goodbyes. The worst bit of the privilege (yep, see yesterday's blog) of living in different countries is that I'm always far away from people I love... and I have to say goodbye a lot. I'm looking forward to Canada, but I also know that at the end of my months in Toronto there will be tears and promises to stay in touch and memories to be tucked away and the closing of doors and, well, goodbyes.
According to dictionary.reference.com (who says they don't learn anything from their students?), when Juliet says that 'parting is such sweet sorrow' to Romeo, she is saying goodnight and at the same time she describes the parting as 'sweet' because it makes them think about the next time they'll see each other again.
It's 1.05am so it's time to say goodnight. But also, Auntie Nanie, I can picture you reading this blog while you're having a cup of tea at your round white kitchen table, and... I'll see you again. Sweet :)
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
O Canada~!
So, I picked up my visa today from the Canadian consulate here in Sydney. The visa means I can spend the year in Toronto doing all the things I've been planning to do... I have to say, having only interacted with US immigration before, Canada was a bit of a breath of fresh air. No appointment necessary - I just waltzed up to the right floor and wandered in to take a place in the queue. The woman at the desk was totally lovely and - this is the best - at the end of the letter which I have been given to present to the borderguards, confirming I have been granted a visa, it says: "Thank you for your interest in Canada."
Aaaaawww. How adorable. Unlike US visa documents which have got 'you should be so lucky' and 'bet you hope I'll pick you' oozing out of them, Canada politely thanks me for even being interested. It reminds me of my own country. (Actually it reminds me a bit of me.) I smiled when I read it, and decided I'd feel quite at home there.
But.
What does it mean to say I'll feel at home there? What processes of history mean that this vastly distant place feels like 'home'? Who had to give up their homes so I could have one? Whose land will I be on? Who got to decide (and enforce) that 'Canada' would be the entity to grant me permission to move to Indigenous land rather than the local Indigenous communities? Who *doesn't* get to fly to Sydney and pick up a visa to work in Canada? Because, aye, moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege.
(Or perhaps I should practice saying 'moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege eh...?)
Privilege. You know, when you get something and don't even have to take the time to realise that you got it. Instantly I find myself feeling mortified all over again, recalling standing with Paul at an airport recently, asking to have a prime seat and the person checking me in finding that the specific seat is, in fact, available. As we turn away from the check-in counter and I held my boarding pass out proudly, announcing I was 'so lucky,' Paul said something like 'yeah because you're a gold frequent flyer. Some poor person who hardly ever gets to travel prebooked that seat and was really excited about getting to sit there and is about to find out it's been given to someone else.' Um. Not lucky. Privileged. (And mortified.) I hadn't even thought about my gold status (acquired for a year and already lapsed last month) when I'd asked for the seat, and if Paul hadn't reminded me of it I could well have kept on believing the great seat just happened to be free when I asked for it. It's the not thinking that makes it privilege. Even though I research, read, write and teach about all kinds of privilege (white, male, straight, middleclass, able-bodied), I was still incapable of noticing privilege in this new context. That's the deep power of privilege: it is barely perceptible; it dresses up and prances around wearing 'logic' (even the dubious but comforting logic of 'luck') rather than running naked and being honest about what's really going on.
So, back to the Canadian consulate.
This morning I stood in line, waiting along with all the other people who were in the queue or sitting in white plastic chairs beside the giant map of Canada and the window that looked out straight onto the harbour bridge. We all had our papers with us: passports, forms, photos, bills, cheques, proof of who we are, who we've been, who we plan to be if we get to Canada. We all had our own systems for organising these small bits of documentary evidence: envelopes, folders, files, plastic wrapping, bags. All of these little systems of organising that make sense to the logic of the person who has filed them, and all of us needing to reconcile our own systems of filing with the logic of the consulate. All of us ends up rifling through bits of paper over and over, looking for the thing that Canada thinks comes next even if they belong in different parts of the pile in our own lives.
We're the lucky ones. We've got paperwork. We've got papers. And for me, I've got a passport from a white Commonwealth country.
I strongly believe you learn things from everyone you connect with - it's just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out the main lesson from a particular person. From a guy I dated for a while in the States, I learned about the black and white Commonwealths. There I was, living in the States, researching and reading and writing about the ongoing processes of colonialism and race... and yet I still didn't know enough about my own privilege to even realise there were two Commonwealths. Pius mentioned that he had applied for a visa to go to a conference in London and without thinking (without thinking) I said 'oh but aren't you travelling on a Nigerian passport?' - baldly revealing the extent of my naivety about how uneven Mother England's love is for her many freckled Children... Pius and I both watched the Commonwealth Games growing up, and we had both scoured our local American supermarkets for Weetabix (closest thing to Weetbix) and Milo. Both of us were deeply shaped by and committed to our respective Indigenous communities, deeply valuing the cultural, linguistic and political inheritance we had acquired from our families and nations. And yet, when Pius and I wanted to travel to London I get to just hop on a plane and chat with the border guard when I get there, whereas he needs to apply for a visa. Sure, we both had passports (unlike millions of undocumented people around the world), we both had money to buy tickets to travel (unlike billions), and we both had educational opportunities beyond the wildest dreams of any people, including our own respective communities. And yet, we had unequal access because of long and deep histories of interaction. Privilege.
On 17th August I will be flying to Canada, one of the lucky ones. The world is organised in such a way that my ability to move to Canada is rare and unusual. (Indeed, my ability to move around depends on some people staying put.)
I'm very excited to be going to Canada. I'm still giggling about moving to a country that thanks me for my interest.
I'm privileged to be going as well.
Aaaaawww. How adorable. Unlike US visa documents which have got 'you should be so lucky' and 'bet you hope I'll pick you' oozing out of them, Canada politely thanks me for even being interested. It reminds me of my own country. (Actually it reminds me a bit of me.) I smiled when I read it, and decided I'd feel quite at home there.
But.
What does it mean to say I'll feel at home there? What processes of history mean that this vastly distant place feels like 'home'? Who had to give up their homes so I could have one? Whose land will I be on? Who got to decide (and enforce) that 'Canada' would be the entity to grant me permission to move to Indigenous land rather than the local Indigenous communities? Who *doesn't* get to fly to Sydney and pick up a visa to work in Canada? Because, aye, moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege.
(Or perhaps I should practice saying 'moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege eh...?)
Privilege. You know, when you get something and don't even have to take the time to realise that you got it. Instantly I find myself feeling mortified all over again, recalling standing with Paul at an airport recently, asking to have a prime seat and the person checking me in finding that the specific seat is, in fact, available. As we turn away from the check-in counter and I held my boarding pass out proudly, announcing I was 'so lucky,' Paul said something like 'yeah because you're a gold frequent flyer. Some poor person who hardly ever gets to travel prebooked that seat and was really excited about getting to sit there and is about to find out it's been given to someone else.' Um. Not lucky. Privileged. (And mortified.) I hadn't even thought about my gold status (acquired for a year and already lapsed last month) when I'd asked for the seat, and if Paul hadn't reminded me of it I could well have kept on believing the great seat just happened to be free when I asked for it. It's the not thinking that makes it privilege. Even though I research, read, write and teach about all kinds of privilege (white, male, straight, middleclass, able-bodied), I was still incapable of noticing privilege in this new context. That's the deep power of privilege: it is barely perceptible; it dresses up and prances around wearing 'logic' (even the dubious but comforting logic of 'luck') rather than running naked and being honest about what's really going on.
So, back to the Canadian consulate.
This morning I stood in line, waiting along with all the other people who were in the queue or sitting in white plastic chairs beside the giant map of Canada and the window that looked out straight onto the harbour bridge. We all had our papers with us: passports, forms, photos, bills, cheques, proof of who we are, who we've been, who we plan to be if we get to Canada. We all had our own systems for organising these small bits of documentary evidence: envelopes, folders, files, plastic wrapping, bags. All of these little systems of organising that make sense to the logic of the person who has filed them, and all of us needing to reconcile our own systems of filing with the logic of the consulate. All of us ends up rifling through bits of paper over and over, looking for the thing that Canada thinks comes next even if they belong in different parts of the pile in our own lives.
We're the lucky ones. We've got paperwork. We've got papers. And for me, I've got a passport from a white Commonwealth country.
I strongly believe you learn things from everyone you connect with - it's just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out the main lesson from a particular person. From a guy I dated for a while in the States, I learned about the black and white Commonwealths. There I was, living in the States, researching and reading and writing about the ongoing processes of colonialism and race... and yet I still didn't know enough about my own privilege to even realise there were two Commonwealths. Pius mentioned that he had applied for a visa to go to a conference in London and without thinking (without thinking) I said 'oh but aren't you travelling on a Nigerian passport?' - baldly revealing the extent of my naivety about how uneven Mother England's love is for her many freckled Children... Pius and I both watched the Commonwealth Games growing up, and we had both scoured our local American supermarkets for Weetabix (closest thing to Weetbix) and Milo. Both of us were deeply shaped by and committed to our respective Indigenous communities, deeply valuing the cultural, linguistic and political inheritance we had acquired from our families and nations. And yet, when Pius and I wanted to travel to London I get to just hop on a plane and chat with the border guard when I get there, whereas he needs to apply for a visa. Sure, we both had passports (unlike millions of undocumented people around the world), we both had money to buy tickets to travel (unlike billions), and we both had educational opportunities beyond the wildest dreams of any people, including our own respective communities. And yet, we had unequal access because of long and deep histories of interaction. Privilege.
On 17th August I will be flying to Canada, one of the lucky ones. The world is organised in such a way that my ability to move to Canada is rare and unusual. (Indeed, my ability to move around depends on some people staying put.)
I'm very excited to be going to Canada. I'm still giggling about moving to a country that thanks me for my interest.
I'm privileged to be going as well.
Monday, 1 August 2011
one month down, eleven to go :)
So it's the 31st of July and in about twenty minutes it'll be August, and the beginning of the second month of sabbatical. (Well, I suppose it's technically already the beginning of the 2nd month back home in Wellington, but ever since I moved to the US I've found it easiest to just live in the timezone I'm in when it comes to such calculations - else it's just too confusing. The only exception to this rule is my birthday, which I have very happily celebrated over a 48 hour period every year since 1 Sept 2000.)
How's it been going? Great. The pros outweigh the cons by far at the moment - I'm having an awesome time and feel very lucky and privileged. Actually, I heard something on the radio the other day about pros and cons lists, and thought I'd make one up about month #1 of the sabbatical.
Pros:
* Heaps of stuff has now been crossed off the 'to do' list, especially things that were running a bit - um - well, past deadline
* Some amazing things in the archives: found in Wellington and Adelaide but also in private collections
* Having time to actually work through the archival stuff and start processing it and writing about it
* SLEEP and REST and even a bit of HOLIDAY
* Time with Mum and Auntie Nanie
* A whole week of dropping Matiu at school and picking him up again the week before I came to Aussie - great time to chill with the little man
* Catching up with mates here in Australia (and in Welllington before I left) has been awesome
* I've started walking every day - yay!
* Writing this blog has been really good for me. It's been nice to build time into my day to reflect on things, instead of running myself into exhaustion each day and then waking up already in a rush
* A whole year is superlong! I've already had a chance to do so much - I've already got heaps to be grateful for, I already feel so re-energised and refreshed, that I can only imagine what the time between now and the end of next June has in store... after all, eleven months is a long time.
Cons:
* I've stil got a few things on the 'to do' list yet to be sorted out
* I am yet to start working on writing my own stuff every day. I've been close, with this blog, and with transcribing things from the archives, but I haven't been working on my own scholarly writing much. (This is on the list for month #2 for sure!)
* Already I am getting a sense of how quickly time moves. I am leaving Sydney on Friday and there are quite a few Sydney (and Sydney-area) people I haven't yet managed to connect with!
* I miss my students. Yeah, I know I complain about essay marking when I am in the middle of semester, but I miss them. Undergrads, postgrads... they keep me young and keep me guessing and keep me on my toes and keep me engaged.
* It's hard being away from home. I am so happy all the time, and I am able to keep in touch through postcards and txts and emails and fb and all that jazz... but I miss the whanau. I rang up Matiu tonite to wish him a good day back at school tomorrow after the holidays and it made me miss him heaps. When I rang back later about something, Megan and Mum and Dad were having the regular 'nite before school goes back after the school holidays' family meeting where we synchronise the diaries: sort out pick ups and drop offs, when people are away, when Matiu has sports or whatever, what other things we want to discuss about how he's going. This is the first time I've missed that meeting, and I could picture them sitting around the table with diaries and bits of paper and cellphones, working it all out. And I'm not there. I won't be dropping off the kid (well, except for two days when I'm home next week) and I won't be watching his basketball games and I won't be at home for whanau 'roast nite' or whatever. I knew this was part of the deal when I signed up for a year away, but it still makes me feel a bit, well, like eleven months is a long time.
So, in honour of Matiu (my little chicken licken), Megan, Mum & Dad, I will close today's blog post by sharing a youtube clip about the number 'eleven' that we have watched together many times and that means we all inexplicably say 'eleven' in a fake Scottish accent whenever anyone mentions the number eleven in any context.
Usually when we're watching this I laugh so much that I start to cry.
And then Matiu (who adores this clip) looks up after he finishes his own funny giggly laugh and pats my arm and says (with the wisdom of a 6 year old who knows his Auntie is likely to shed a tear as an expression of pretty much any strong emotion) 'it's okay Auntie Lala I know it's happy crying not sad crying.'
Tonite, I suppose it's a bit of both.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FFRoYhTJQQ
How's it been going? Great. The pros outweigh the cons by far at the moment - I'm having an awesome time and feel very lucky and privileged. Actually, I heard something on the radio the other day about pros and cons lists, and thought I'd make one up about month #1 of the sabbatical.
Pros:
* Heaps of stuff has now been crossed off the 'to do' list, especially things that were running a bit - um - well, past deadline
* Some amazing things in the archives: found in Wellington and Adelaide but also in private collections
* Having time to actually work through the archival stuff and start processing it and writing about it
* SLEEP and REST and even a bit of HOLIDAY
* Time with Mum and Auntie Nanie
* A whole week of dropping Matiu at school and picking him up again the week before I came to Aussie - great time to chill with the little man
* Catching up with mates here in Australia (and in Welllington before I left) has been awesome
* I've started walking every day - yay!
* Writing this blog has been really good for me. It's been nice to build time into my day to reflect on things, instead of running myself into exhaustion each day and then waking up already in a rush
* A whole year is superlong! I've already had a chance to do so much - I've already got heaps to be grateful for, I already feel so re-energised and refreshed, that I can only imagine what the time between now and the end of next June has in store... after all, eleven months is a long time.
Cons:
* I've stil got a few things on the 'to do' list yet to be sorted out
* I am yet to start working on writing my own stuff every day. I've been close, with this blog, and with transcribing things from the archives, but I haven't been working on my own scholarly writing much. (This is on the list for month #2 for sure!)
* Already I am getting a sense of how quickly time moves. I am leaving Sydney on Friday and there are quite a few Sydney (and Sydney-area) people I haven't yet managed to connect with!
* I miss my students. Yeah, I know I complain about essay marking when I am in the middle of semester, but I miss them. Undergrads, postgrads... they keep me young and keep me guessing and keep me on my toes and keep me engaged.
* It's hard being away from home. I am so happy all the time, and I am able to keep in touch through postcards and txts and emails and fb and all that jazz... but I miss the whanau. I rang up Matiu tonite to wish him a good day back at school tomorrow after the holidays and it made me miss him heaps. When I rang back later about something, Megan and Mum and Dad were having the regular 'nite before school goes back after the school holidays' family meeting where we synchronise the diaries: sort out pick ups and drop offs, when people are away, when Matiu has sports or whatever, what other things we want to discuss about how he's going. This is the first time I've missed that meeting, and I could picture them sitting around the table with diaries and bits of paper and cellphones, working it all out. And I'm not there. I won't be dropping off the kid (well, except for two days when I'm home next week) and I won't be watching his basketball games and I won't be at home for whanau 'roast nite' or whatever. I knew this was part of the deal when I signed up for a year away, but it still makes me feel a bit, well, like eleven months is a long time.
So, in honour of Matiu (my little chicken licken), Megan, Mum & Dad, I will close today's blog post by sharing a youtube clip about the number 'eleven' that we have watched together many times and that means we all inexplicably say 'eleven' in a fake Scottish accent whenever anyone mentions the number eleven in any context.
Usually when we're watching this I laugh so much that I start to cry.
And then Matiu (who adores this clip) looks up after he finishes his own funny giggly laugh and pats my arm and says (with the wisdom of a 6 year old who knows his Auntie is likely to shed a tear as an expression of pretty much any strong emotion) 'it's okay Auntie Lala I know it's happy crying not sad crying.'
Tonite, I suppose it's a bit of both.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FFRoYhTJQQ
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