In the Land of Hamuera

In a littel hotel room at the side of the road just off exit 197 off highway 55 about two hours south of Chicago sits an excited and nervous girl. She has passed several signs to Springfield, the city where her great-grandfather Hamuera trained to be a Lutheran pastor between 1912 and 1916.

Outside in the carpark is a silver car with Illinois plates that proclaim Illinois as 'Land of Lincoln' - this is where Abraham Lincoln came from, and specifically Springfield is known as Lincoln's town.

According to the folder of helpful information on the bedside table there's a Route 66 'Hall of Fame and Museum' 5 miles away in downtown Pontiac... memorialising the famous route by erecting (somewhat counter to the philosophy of Route 66 itself, I would have thought) a fixed place where people can come and stand still indoors to appreciate it all.

Of course, neither of these are why I'm here.

I'm here because, at least to my whanau, this is 'Land of Hamuera'... and a memorial of sorts to the Routes taken by our own ancestors Hamuera and Lydia between this place and the place far, far away where we belong.

Tonite marks exactly three months since I arrived in Toronto, and earlier this evening, once I flew into Chicago, I was talking with the woman at immigration about my citizenship and visa situation and I realised this is the sixth time I've been in the US since I moved to this part of the world in August. Crazy! Unimaginable!

Such privilege I enjoy, being able to cross these borders with such ease that border guards chat with me about how pretty my passport is.

Such privilege of another sort that I enjoy, with my fair looks, securing me in this kind of rural space against racism which would limit my movement in tangible ways and cut down on the range of cheerful encounters I have with strangers. I'm well beyond the inevitable angsty 'I don't look Maori' identity crisis, but so often at home (and sometimes away too) I find myself wishing my appearance was more legible: that people could 'read' my looks in a way that meant I didn't have to explain or, at best, merely reveal. And yet, sitting here in this hotel room I am struck again by what Hamuera's experience of Illinois would have been like... 

Hamuera in the land of Lincoln.

Alice in the land of Hamuera.

All of us in the land of... who? Um... Chippewa, Delaware, Foxes, Illinois, Kickapoo, Miami, Ottawa, Potawotami, Sauk, Shawnee, Winebago, Wyandot...