English wasn't the first language spoken on our soil. The Queen's English was introduced by British colonists and forced upon the original indigenous custodians of this land.
There was a time when Māori were literally beaten for attempting to speak in their mother tongue. The objective was to eradicate te reo Māori entirely, so that English was the only language written and spoken.
I have heard so many stories from Māori elders who experienced the eradication of their language and culture first-hand. Imagine being physically punished merely for speaking the language of your ancestors.
It saddens me to think about the psychological impact this must have had on them and how subsequently that generational trauma was passed down to the next generation.
This has affected so many families, including my own.
You see, I whakapapa Māori but, because of the stigma, my grandfather's parents chose to bury away this part of our DNA like a dirty little secret.
In 1855 Waiau Taranaki Mere Kupa married a Pākehā man named William Ellingham. This is a part of my family tree that, for the longest time, was kept hidden away.
I am of mixed race. My father, a Malaysian South Indian immigrant, was studying at Victoria University in the 1970s and fell in love with a Pākehā Kiwi woman of mixed European descent.
Mum happened to have extremely racist parents who continued to keep Grandad's Māori heritage a secret from her and her two sisters.
I didn't arrive in Aotearoa until I was 12 years old. Prior to that, I grew up in Penang, Malaysia, a melting pot of rich multiculturalism where it was normal to hear a mixture of Malay, Tamil, Hokkien, Mandarin and English being spoken.
To me, it was so normal to hear and speak different languages.
There was a sort of unspoken mutual respect and understanding among everyone, so much so that we would all partake in each other's cultural and religious celebrations.
Visiting friends and neighbours for Chinese New Year, Deepavali, Hari Raya or Christmas was part of what made growing up in Penang so special.
I also grew up listening to a lot of Māori waiata on our cassette player because Mum had a huge collection of te reo Māori music from her homeland.
I'd often see her tearing up when she would sing along and she would explain to my younger brother and me that it made her homesick.
I understood, even then, that language can be a hugely important part of one's own cultural identity.
I remember when I first arrived here, there was this beautiful rendition of Pōkarekare Ana by Kiri Te Kanawa.
It was featured on an Air New Zealand television commercial and even though I didn't understand the words, it moved me.
The Ka Mate haka has long been used by the All Blacks rugby team to intimidate their opponents prior to a match. These things unite us as proud Kiwis and sets us apart from the rest of the world.
Fast forward to now, living in my second home Aotearoa, it's clear to me that the revitalisation of te reo Māori can be so divisive.
Why, though?
Why do some people get so angry about the resurgence of our country's indigenous language, being spoken alongside English?
Notice I say "alongside" and not instead of?
This isn't mirrored history repeating itself — nobody is beating the language into us.
What is so terrifying about embracing a language that differentiates us from the rest of the world and makes us unique?
If you are reading this and you're one of the people who feels threatened and outraged by the resurgence of te reo Māori, I feel sad for you — because you're going to be left behind.
So get on board, because this waka's leaving with or without you, e hoa!
