Writing on Māori subjects for broad audiences as I do, there’s a risk of opening a window on issues readers might have little knowledge of – though they’ll often have a view, well-informed or not.
In my last column, I wrote about the shifting demographics of the country (target="_blank">Memo to Wellington - you can read it here) and the need to address the growing Māori and Polynesian population who will be the next generation of our workforce. I also noted that in the town I live in, an engineering teacher hadn’t been replaced, and as a result, the subject was likely to not be offered. The kids who will miss out are predominantly Māori and Polynesian.
I received a response from a teacher who took umbrage at what she took to be my criticism of teachers. “It’s upsetting to read disparaging comments about lower-decile schools from journalists who probably have had little to do with these schools,” she wrote.
Over the years, I’ve found teacher unions and representatives can be overly prickly about their profession and go on a PR offensive about themselves without actually addressing the issue at hand, which is the children. The intent of the story was to raise awareness in readers of the need to improve education outcomes for Māori children.
My two kids went through low-decile schools with a high proportion of Māori and Polynesian kids and have gone on to great things – law school and building. I went to St Stephen’s School and a college with a high Māori population that was low decile.
I have the utmost respect for teachers who work in low-decile schools that face challenges teachers at the wealthier end of town wouldn’t have a clue about. I regard those teachers as heroes who should be paid far more than they are. In fact, at one point, I considered going into teaching because I thought, as I still think, it is so important.
I’ve championed programmes such as I Have a Dream, which supports tamariki and rangatahi with mentoring and schools with resources, but has battled institutional racism to do so.
Covering Māori education throughout my 25-year career in journalism, I have met and spoken to teachers working in this field, and many a time I have come away encouraged and concerned. The teachers are inspiring, but they face challenges not just in teaching but in dealing with issues that go well beyond the classroom. I have also spoken to students and parents of Māori kids, including from high-risk backgrounds, and their experience of the education system is uneven at best.
And I have seen and reported on the catastrophic results when children are allowed to drop out of the system without basic literacy and numeracy, and without qualifications.
I have covered the abuse of children in the custody of the state, and often, the first entry point was schools. The lack of education they received in state institutions was one form of abuse that has followed them and contributed to lives lived in jails and gangs.
Many of these individuals are highly intelligent and talented, yet they never reached their potential because of a lack of education.
Most of our prison population is functionally illiterate – their failure is partially rooted in the failure of the education system.
Last year, I did a three-part series on Māori education that included interviews with two young wāhine working for Ngāi Tahu. I innocently asked them about their experience of education and within a few minutes they were in tears. The trauma they had experienced was visceral and far-reaching.
They’d had teachers treat them as if they were dumb, when clearly they weren’t. One of them had been discouraged from taking Māori as a subject because the timetabling meant she couldn’t take science subjects. She wanted to do both.
What really cut for one of them was that some of the teachers were making the same assumptions about her son and his ability.
My point in the last column, and this one, is that we cannot as a country afford to fail Māori children in the education system. Otherwise, it will cost all of us.
