Carmen Hall: How being Māori and raised Pākehā affected me

Pictured with my younger sister Nicola outside our family home in Gore. Photo / Supplied

OPINION

My birth mother left me in the maternity ward and went to the pub after I was born. She never came back.

It was 1968. I am Māori but was brought up by Pākehā in a rural town in Southland. My parents fostered children and had two of their own before I was delivered to their doorstep.

My subsequent adoption and the birth of their third child, two years later, signalled an end to all that. I am unsure why my parents fostered children but I think their kindness and willingness to help stemmed from their own childhoods and the responsibilities they shouldered much earlier than they should have.

It was a running joke in our family that dad tried to run away to the circus. His mother died before he was 5 and his father was an alcoholic. He was brought up by his sisters and was working before he was 14.

My mother's father was a pilot in World War II and took his own life after making it home. That made nana a widow with six children and every week mum, the eldest, would hand over her paycheque to make ends meet.

My parents were hardworking, principled, and caring. Looking back now, and knowing what some foster children have endured, they were the greatest gifts of my life.

Growing up, I wasn't aware I was different until I went to school and my birthday parties started. I remember the odd looks on those tiny friends' faces as their eyes flicked back and forward to my mum and other siblings. It was like a nightmare on Sesame Street: One of these things was not like the other.

Squashed into the back of my dad's Valiant, my 6-year-old self contemplated why I was brown and everyone else in my family was white.

Throughout primary school, I was only one of a few Māori children. The ratio improved when I moved to intermediate and high school but not by much.

I started to question my parents about why I was different but they wouldn't have a bar of it. I was their daughter and that's all there was to it. They kept this up until, in a fit of rage, I locked myself in my room and demanded an answer. They struggled to utter the words but couldn't deny it anymore.

My brother Gary with my mother Shirley and me. Photo / Supplied

A drunk uncle once told me even though I really never was by blood, I'd always be his niece. My brother and sisters were always in defensive mode when they introduced me. I felt like a shadow in my own home despite the unwavering, unconditional love.

I had an identity crisis when I was a teenager after discovering my best friend's sister was actually my half-sister by blood. She lived three doors down and I had known her my whole life. She ended up in a girls' borstal due to her out-of-control behaviour.

She was told from the earliest age she was adopted. A concept I could not understand at the time because her dad was Māori, originally from Kaitaia. She blended right in.

My blood sister Karen and me. Photo / Supplied

I met my birth mother when I was 29 and once again before she died. The first meeting did not go well as she wanted to dwell on the past and attribute blame for not, in her view, being allowed in my life.

I couldn't get over the fact she never really told her whānau about me and my resentment grew. I could not understand my anger and emotion.

I later learned she had suffered from mental health issues throughout her life.

The next time I saw her I wanted her to know she had made the right choice in giving me up - despite the circumstances.

It was not her fault. It was not my fault. It was not my parents' fault.

My biggest loss was not love. My family's love was warm and enveloping. For me, it was not knowing my culture and not having a sense of belonging.

Luckily I believe in fate and paths crossing.

My blood sister traced our tribal links and established a strong connection with our blood uncle who was able to fill in a lot of our blanks. We belong to Ngāi Te Rangi. I found this out after I moved to Tauranga Moana - the rohe of our iwi.

Without knowing it, I had, through life's twists and turns, returned home. It came without fanfare and when the opportunity to spend one week finding out about Ngāi Te Rangi and writing about their operations for my job, I jumped at the chance.

I had written about Ngāi Te Rangi in the past including a feature about its free mobile health waka and stories on its transitional housing apartments and the iwi's outrage when Kāinga Ora demolished nine state homes it hoped to acquire for whānau living in atrocious conditions.

But this was a rare insight. I met the warriors on the frontline.

Over the course of the week, I met members of the team who worked tirelessly in the realms of social services, education, employment and commercial investments who improved outcomes for iwi members and changed lives.

People such as former addict Richshea Webster, who has turned her life around and is now giving back to others.

Chief executive Paora Stanley told me its staff would eat glass for their iwi, while chairman Charlie Tawhiao says although Ngāi Te Rangi had grown its value by $30 million to $60m in the past five years - it is first and foremost about our people.

I still have much to learn but I have started on the journey to learning about my whakapapa and my iwi. I am fortunate to walk in two worlds.

My name is Carmen Hall.

He toroa whakakopa au nō runga i Kārewa, he pōtiki manawa ū nā Ngāi Te Rangi

​I am a soaring albatross high above Kārewa, ​a stout-hearted child that belongs to Ngāi Te Rangi.