SUMMER PUHIA:
Summer Puhia is a takatāpui Artist, a maker of Mahi Toi. Under the moniker of Raukikini (spicy) they explore the space that is Te Ao Māori, embraces her identity as Takatāpui and Tāngata Whenua, and infuse their wairua into their work. Thank you kare, for your time, your love, and your support. Thank you for trusting us with your kōrero and your vulnerability.
——-
Summer Puhia (she/they) has come to us for an interview the day after we’ve thrown a big fairy party in our backyard. While Kauri and I set up the space for our kōrero under the leftover streamers in the garden, Maia preps kawakawa tea, snacks, and much needed cold water. The air is warm, with kihikihi humming through dust filled sunshine. We sit under the shade of a Cabbage Tree. Our space is opened with karakia and held by our circle, kai and drinks spread out over Utu’s token tiger blanket (if you’re native, you know the one).
“Haumi e, hui e, Tāiki e.” And with that, our kōrero opens.
Whakapapa is at the beginning and the end of everything, so whakapapa is where we begin.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m Summer,” she begins, voice sweet and soft. “Ko Ngāti Maniapoto me Ngāti Raukawa ōku iwi. Nō Whakatū ahau, ko Tainui te waka, ko Waipā te awa, ko Piriongia te maunga.
Te Kūiti i toku ūkaipō, tōku turangawaewae.”
A brief pause for the screeching of a kāka overhead.
“I’m from Nelson. I moved to Pōneke when I was 18, so maybe 5-6 years ago? And I just moved to Ōtaki this year. Just learnt that I’m Ngāti Raukawa too which is pretty mean.”
Whakawhanaungatanga continues round the circle, allowing for the safety to share and be seen.
“What started you off moving into a more Māori inspired area of your Mahi Toi?”
They pause, thinking, before answering.
“It wasn’t intentional, it was just me connecting to my Māoritanga in general, and then once I opened myself up to Te Ao Māori, it seeped into every area of my life. Interestingly, the ‘why’
of me connecting to my Māoritanga was quite a shallow reason. It was because people would always see me, go “Oh, your Māori,” and then would start speaking in Māori to me. I’d be like ‘Oh, I can’t do that.’ So a part of me decided I should learn so that I don’t have that whakamā.
And then, once I did it, it became for me and not for other people. It’s a whole haerenga. It started with Te Reo Māori, and then moved into Te Ao Māori, and then into actively Decolonising.”
“It becomes quite a radical process, hey?”
“Yeah,” Summer replied. “I noticed, with myself, it very much feels like being chucked in the deep end real quick. Especially if you go to a wānanga and you don’t speak any reo, you’re a baby.”
Tea pours under a chorus of “āe” in tautoko.
For those of us who are also new to Te Ao Māori, it’s a familiar feeling – navigating spaces as a babe at the beginnings of their journey to reconnect and reclaim a birthright that feels so unfamiliar. The Whakamā of not knowing the ‘basics’. That overwhelming feeling of ‘not belonging’ that so many of us mixed kids, us urban Indigies can’t help but feel in Māori spaces.
“I feel like when you are a bit lighter – when you are Half-caste – you’re kind of in both worlds a lot, so finding where you stand in both feels like a lot.”
Kauri falls into step with Summers whakaaro “Yeah very much that feeling of, I feel too brown to be white or too white to be Māori.”
S – “Yeah 100%, but then you find people like you, and that belonging is found. This journey has opened me up to all these people on the same haerenga and with that, the feeling of whakamā is just gone. Not completely, but it’s still there a little bit.”
K – “I struggled going into wānanga that had a heavy Christian influence because when it came to gender stuff, I felt like I didn’t have a space.”
“Yeah, and each iwi is really different as well. With my experience in Māori spaces, I haven’t experienced much Christian influence, which is good. But I have experienced the gender roles that take place on the marae and in wānanga. Such as wāhine go out in the front for the pōwhiri. That’s a hard place to navigate as a non-binary person and when your gender identity isn’t seen or understood in those spaces. Finding a place to stand can be difficult and confusing. But one thing I know is Māori culture is built on manakitanga and being takatāpui is inherently Māori. So our space will be paved out for us eventually and things will become more clear. It will change. He kotahi iwi tātou nē.”
A pause. We all hold that truth for a moment, letting it breathe. Manifesting change always begins with setting intentions.
Summer continues their kōrero, our shared intention feeding the space in our circle.
“There was a moment we were doing a pōwhiri at Raukawa Marae. I was standing at the back and all these people were trying to tell me, ‘Go to the front, go to the front.’ But I was quite happy being at the back with the boys. Eventually I got guided to the front. Not in a mean way, but I think they just thought I couldn’t understand them because they were speaking to me in the reo. It was fine after all that…” pause for a sip of kawakawa tea…
“That old school whakaaro āe. Also with tikanga that can be hard to navigate.
Some people in these spaces can be ignorant to other gender identities and queer folk. But they aren’t the people we should be putting our energy into. What gives me a lot of leniency is realising the generations above us are colonised too and have had it a lot harder than we have it now. They didn’t have the opportunity to explore their Māoritanga like we do now. I’m so grateful I moved into my Māoritanga when I was 18. But the generations above, I feel like, are only getting the opportunity to move fully into that now. Colonisation has affected us in many ways.”
Tāwhirimātea sweeps through our kōrero, prompting a question of Summer: “How did you discover your takatāpuitanga?”
“I always identified with being non-binary. When I was a kid my mum chopped off all my hair and everyone thought I was a boy. But lowkey, I loved it. I changed my name to Samuel, and identified as a boy for 3 years until I had a crush on a boy.” They laugh, face turned to the sun. “I went to him and told him I liked him. He told me ‘Oh, but I don’t like boys, boys don’t date boys.’ So I decided I wanted to be a wāhine again because I wanna date boys. That’s the only reason I transitioned back. I think I was 9 when I did that? I always knew I was gay though, from a very young age. I used to just sit there and draw tits non stop.”
Cue the infamously boisterous, takatāpui cackle of ‘same g.’ We join the kāka in their squawking. Tāwhirimātea carries our voices out over the valley, sharing the sound of brown joy with our neighbours. If that happens to be you, you’re welcome. You were blessed that day.
Slowly we settle, and the kōrero flows again, warmed by shared smiles.
“How did you navigate being queer in art spaces?” we ask Summer.
“I always knew that was my identity, and I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone or ‘come out’ necessarily. But when I saw other people owning their identity I thought, ‘oh true, that’s awesome’. And there are benefits from expressing your identity, especially the community. That’s who I am, and after being marginalized for so long, I may as well get all the things I deserve. There’s so much mana in owning your identity and existing authentically. Not caring about what people think about you. I deserve at this point in my life to receive that mana for my identity. Watching other people who were real kaha in their identity was what inspired me to have that strength, and I hope that I can do that for other people.”
“Do you feel like your mahi toi started to change once you began having those larger conversations with yourself about your identity?”
“Yeah for sure!” She smiles. “I didn’t realise I did it, but I used to draw white faces. You know when you do art, you’re taught to draw what’s beautiful, what’s pretty. But a lot of the features started to change once I started to love my Māori features – big nose, big lips, Māori eyes, big hair.”
The conversation begins to tilt towards indigenous futurism, a favourite subject here at Utu.
What does the future for us look like? What would we like it to be?
“Oh wow! Yeah, you know, I’m all for Tino Rangatiratanga, but I feel like we’re getting to a point now where we have to also infuse Te Ao Pākehā with Te Ao Māori. But at the moment I feel we have a massive lack of Te Ao Māori, so just incorporating that into what we have going would be amazing. Also letting Māori be kaitiaki over the land again, because pākehā are not doing a good job of taking care of Papatūānuku. We already know that indigenous people know how to take care of her. There are good aspects of Te Ao Pākehā, it’s not all negative. I can imagine work spaces being way more about Hauora so people don’t get burnt out all the time. I do feel like Pākehā want that substance that Te Ao Pākehā lacks.”
A small burst of ‘āe’s ripple through our circle, tautoko in vibration as Summer continues.
“We need spirituality, We need that connection to Papa[tūānuku] to be happy. I think that’s why we see Pākehā appropriating a lot and reaching for things to grab onto, because they have nothing within their own culture. And maybe if they went way back, they might be able to find something. ‘Land Back’ is beneficial for everyone as well, not just Māori, and I think a lot of Pākehā people are becoming more onto it cause they can see it is beneficial to everyone, as well as uplifting Māori and BIPOC people too…
…I feel like I’m fully ‘decolonise’ and I’d love to just ruin the whole system and start again, but the chance of that happening is quite unrealistic unless, you never know, maybe war.
“Before Covid hit, there were so many protests happening. Anti-fascism, climate change, BLM popping off at the same time. But they all had the same kaupapa; they all came out of the same thing; all so entwined. All of that mamae came out of colonisation. I think that is the future. Us connecting with Papatūānuku a lot more and incorporating indigenous whakaaro into our everyday lives, like Rongoā. The health of our society would improve so much if we all incorporated rongoā into our everyday lives.”
The conversation lulls as we reshuffle ourselves to escape the heat of the late afternoon sun. Summer comments on how many kawakawa plants are around our whare, “I heard the rongoā you need the most is what grows most abundantly around your whare. Mine is Red Matipō. It seems to follow me everywhere.”
Their voice floats softly underneath our next question. “What inspired you to begin your rongoā journey?”
“It started off quite shallow, but with good intentions,” they laugh. “So Christmas was coming up and I wanted to give everyone presents. I had no money, so I decided to make kawakawa balms for everyone. I made them, so much aroha went into it, and they worked really well. Everyone was like, ‘what the fuck is this balm?’. After that I got really into it, but the second time I made them, I went in with the wrong intentions, and that batch had no mauri. Everyone felt it, too. I decided to study Rongoā cause I didn’t wanna be practising it on my own, not having any knowledge, not following the right tikanga, and hurting people. You gotta be careful with Rongoā if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Their kōrero pauses as we drink in her words. The hum of the kihikihi grows for a second, Tāne Mahuta sending thrums of vibration in tautoko.
They continue, “My idea of it at first was real simple, like oils, and balms, and plants. But Rongoā is fucking everything Te Ao Māori. There’s whakairo, tā moko, toi māori, it’s everything. A lot of what we practised was just tapping into your intuition, the energy of the ngahere, the taiao. That’s where your rongoā comes from, tapping into, and channelling that energy into something to heal another person. It could be through taonga puoro, karakia, anything vibrational to create a rongoā. You could grab a cup of wai, and infuse that wai with your aroha – your karakia – and that becomes a rongoā that can sort you out. It’s opened my eyes so much, and made me realise how much I don’t know anything. It made me really want to stop practising it for awhile and just be a tauira. I realised I needed to really root down into my tūrangawaewae and how I connect with Te Taiao, make sure that’s really pure before I start making rongoā again.”
“What sort of rituals do you have to help ground you?”
A soft smile before they answer, “Literally my breath. Connecting with the way I’m breathing. Playing Taonga Puoro, being with the ngahere… …even just standing in the ngahere cause that’s really good for your breath. I find that definitely grounds me the most if I’m ever stressed.”
The awareness of our surroundings becomes so strong after this statement. Our little whare tucked into the hill, surrounded by native trees. Somehow our breathing seems to reach down to Papatūānuku and up through Ranginui. Our kōrero grounded not just by us but by the very energy of te taiao. We hold that connection, performing our own rongoā ritual, that breath allowing inspiration for our next question.
“Has that emotional journey through rongoā changed the tikanga of how you approach your art?”
“Oh yeah!” they answer quickly, full of enthusiasm. “I do karakia all the time now for everything. With this mural I’m painting at the moment, I always open with a karakia every time I start, and shut with a karakia. I didn’t used to do that, but before doing that, going into an art space used to feel like a constant thing, and it made me feel really manic ‘cause I didn’t know when it shut. I’d stay up until 6 in the morning and ruin my sleep schedule.”
Tumbling laughter rolls through us. There’s validation in shared experiences.
“It was intense,” Summer laughs with us, “But now I have dedicated times, opening and closing the space with karakia. I’ll also infuse what I want for the toi with the karakia so it doesn’t feel like just chucking acrylic on a canvas. It feels far more intentional.” She pauses to pull out a phone to show us some upcoming mahi, which you can now view on their insta page (links below).
“Like with this mural, which is about whakawhanaungatanga, wāhinetanga and takatāpuitanga. It’s important to have those intentions while you’re doing it. I catch myself doing it sometimes, feeling the stress of a due date and jumping into it without doing a karakia. It’s hard to be intentional sometimes in this way we live our lives. But tapping into my intuition, and being intentional about things, has changed my life.”
“How does it feel making your mahi toi with all that tikanga, and then taking it into a space that isn’t necessarily decolonised in the same way?”
“Āe, fuck I had that recently. I felt hōhā. I was angry. I was like, ‘No you’re wasting my time.’ I wanted to leave. But I was there, so I decided to make the most of it. I dunno. It’s hard to respect yourself as an artist and individual. But once you start respecting yourself other people see that too. Now that I went through that, which I’m glad I did, I wouldn’t go back, or I’ll be a lot better at sussing the tikanga before I go into it. Also you can pull out at any point. You might think it’s all good, and then at some point if it’s not you can just say, nah I don’t want this, I’m out.”
“What were some of the obstacles you came up against trying to navigate that space?”
“Definitely tokenism. 100%. I see people wanting me to be there just so they can tick a box, which feels real paru. That makes me feel like I’m going against my whānau and my tūpuna. It’s important to realise people will try and tokenise you. People asking you to do extra mahi that you shouldn’t have to do without being paid. I don’t want to be the person that makes people feel comfortable, just because I am a lighter skinned Māori. I don’t want to be the token Māori that yous actually see as white, the safe Māori. It’s just paru.”
Our little circle hums, feeling that shared reality of being mixed race. It’s a complicated thing, growing up with each foot on completely opposite ends of every possible spectrum. Stepping into your Māoritanga can be daunting at first, if you’ve lived most of your life walking through Te Ao Pākehā. There’s a lot of mamae in being disconnected, and the path to healing feels scary when the door to Te Ao Māori feels closed. But if you whakapapa Māori, you are Māori, and there’s always a way in. You aren’t alone in feeling this way either.
Slowly, our circle begins to share our personal stories of coming into our Māoritanga. The shared feelings of whakamā at not being able to speak the reo, not knowing the tikanga of the new world we’re trying to navigate.
How do you care for yourself when those emotions feel overwhelming?
“I found that coming up into my Māoritanga and takatāpuitanga I was quite angry,” Summer begins.
I felt angry that I wasn’t taught about colonisation in school. When I learnt about it everything made sense. All the racism I had experienced. About the history of my people and why society is the way it is today. I felt angry about the injustice of the system. A system that isn’t built for me and my people not to succeed. It can feel depressing when you count the amount of injustices. That is why reconnecting with your community is so important. So we can all support and uplift eachother.
I think, especially in Te Ao Pākehā, anger is repressed a lot. But anger is the emotion you feel when there’s an injustice, or someone has crossed your boundaries, or something is just not okay. Anger is there to say, ‘No I deserve better. This is not okay. Sort it out.’ I think it’s a positive emotion, or it can be if you do the mahi, and listen to it rather than just being reactive. It’s being intentional about the way you use your anger. I think when I do get really angry, if I sit with that feeling and get to the core of that feeling, it’s just me feeling upset, or really hurt. And then, when I am really hurt, I come back to that place of being my own mum to my own pēpē, and the baby to my own mother. It’s just like, ‘Okay. What support do you need? You’re upset,’ which makes it easier to find a way to express that anger in a way that isn’t toxic. It’s okay to raise your voice and express your rage sometimes but there’s a time for it.”
“In terms of Neurodiversity, how has being in Te Ao Māori helped you with Neurodivergent ways of existing?” Kauri asks. We had to laugh at the question’s irony, considering how large that tangent was from the words just shared, but such is the nature of Māori kōrero.
Water pours into our glasses as Summer giggles before answering.
“Going from learning in a pākeha space to a Māori space has been super healing. Te Ao Pākehā is go, go, go. It’s stressful and you feel like you’re just a number. Mentally you get burnt out and if you are nurodivergent it’s almost impossible to survive. Especially with me being ADHD. I’ve always found is hard to listen and focus. I has so many times when I would approach a teacher after and ask them to repeat what was said and they’ve respond with ‘You should have heard it the first time’. Well sorry sir but that’s not how adhd works.”
In to wānanga (māori learning spaces) it’s literally the opposite. It’s your wellbeing and whānau first. They incorporate te whare tapu wha into your mahi and your hauora is the biggest priority. The biggest difference was how your creativity and uniqueness is celebrated. It’s the perfect environment for learning if you are nurodivergent.”
“Being Māori and nurodivergent is a hard one sometimes. I need a lot of space and get over whelmed easily. Because of my Adhd and being matakite. When you’re in poverty and life is hard, you don’t have time to be neurodiverse. Being able to have space is a privilege. That doesn’t mean being neurodiverse is a privilege, but just having that space is. If problems like poverty didn’t exist and systemic racism didn’t exist, being nurodivergent and Māori would be a lot easier.”
At this point our circle erupts. Neurodiversity is a big part of Utu, with every single one of us being on the spectrum, so we adore these conversations. Many thoughts and runaway sentences begin at once. Kauri, Maia, Summer, and myself, all throwing ideas into the air. This, combined with the continued singing of kihikihi, makes it very hard to transcribe exactly what is said. But I’m doing my best to give you the general gist.
S: “In the time of our Tīpuna, neurodivergent people would have been seen as Matakite or just very skillful. They would have had their own niche. They would have had space to fill. I feel like in Te Ao Pākehā we all have the same path, this path that is written out for us, but back then, that path was given to you, or carried by your whanau, or a gift you had and followed.”
K: “It’d just be like ‘Yeah there goes the cuzzy that’s super into manu, they can tell you everything you need to know because they just sit and watch manu all day.’ I’d be the cuzzy that had all the knowledge about bugs and trees.”
S: “And within Te Ao Rongoā you have that dialogue of ‘Oh if you wanna learn about Red Matipō you go to so and so, because they’re really narrowed in on that ae.’”
K, S, M, L: *A chorus of Indigi Cackles*
L: “It benefits the whole community to let that person go off on that path because they can acquire all of the information about that thing and use it to further service the community they’re in.”
S: “And that comes back to imagining a future for us, and rongoā in Te Ao Māori. Rongoā was such a big part of your life because you did it every day. You might have that one tohunga, but everyone had rongoā which is why they were so healthy. It was about taking care of your hauora before anything goes wrong, about raising your wairua. I feel like that would help with your mental health a lot – practising your rongoā everyday.”
This conversation continues on in multiple directions for a few minutes, escalating in excitement and laughter. Honestly, it’s one of those moments that can’t fully be translated outside of the space it came in. Maybe if you listen closely you’ll hear it in the wind.
Slowly but surely, we ground ourselves again, kawakawa tea on its last pour, our attention turning back to Summer’s mahi toi.
Scrolling through Summer’s social media (@raukikini on instagram), we pulled up our favourite pieces, asking for their whakapapa as the sun begins to dip.
“The takatāpuitanga painting, the one of two wāhine kissing. What inspired that image?”
Kauri scrolls down to an art piece that now sits waiting to be hung in our whare.
“That one I just found really beautiful. Mixing my Māoriness and gayness, it just felt so right? It was also about representation. When I made it I was like, ‘Wow I’ve never seen anything like this before. I would have loved to see something like that when I was younger.’”
“And this one?” An image of a wāhine seated, tā moko proudly on display. Summer glows with a fondness while telling us its story.
“That wāhine is a friend of mine. She was stoked to be painted. I love that toi of them because I think it really captures their essence. Obviously the wairua was right, she felt she could trust me to paint her nude. She’s so kaha, so strong. I felt privileged, and I was so inspired while drawing her. She is an amazing māmā, unapologetically Māori, and always in her power. She truly is a modern day wāhine toa.”
Our space slowly quietens, as we soak in the toi, in the presence of their maker. The conversation seems to be flowing towards a natural conclusion. Our last question comes accompanied by a chorus of Tui, flying back to their nests in nearby trees.
“What do you want people to take away from your art?”
Laughing, they answer, “I dunno if you guys feel this, but I don’t actually like a lot of the art that I make after I make it. But for the future of my mahi, I want to make people inspired, but also wake up people’s puku mahi. I’ve had someone tell me my toi made them have a tohu to come back to Aotearoa, I love when my art makes people feel connected to themselves. I want my toi to infuse my identity as a wāhine, as he tangata Māori, as someone who is takatāpui, infused all together to make one Māori gay arty sandwich.”
With that, we hold the space until it feels like there is no more that needs to be said.
Closing with a karakia, we continue to sit in the sun of the late afternoon, enjoying each other’s company. Slowly but surely, we open ourselves to the world outside of our tiger blanket, and take our last few sips of kawakawa tea. Tāwhirimātea sifts through the rākau above us before sailing off, carrying Summer away from us as we go about preparing ourselves for dinner.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m Summer,” she begins, voice sweet and soft. “Ko Ngāti Maniapoto me Ngāti Raukawa ōku iwi. Nō Whakatū ahau, ko Tainui te waka, ko Waipā te awa, ko Piriongia te maunga.
Te Kūiti e toku ūkaipō, tōku hau kāinga.”
A brief pause for the screeching of a kāka overhead.
“I’m from Nelson. Just learnt that I’m Ngāti Raukawa which is pretty mean. I moved to Pōneke when I was 18, so maybe 5-6 years ago? And I just moved to Ōtaki this year.”
Whakawhanaungatanga continues round the circle, allowing for the safety to share and be seen.
“What started you off moving into a more Māori inspired area of your Mahi Toi?”
They pause, thinking, before answering.
“It wasn’t intentional, it was just me connecting to my Māoritanga in general, and then once I opened myself up to Te Ao Māori, it seeped into every area of my life. Interestingly, the ‘why’
of me connecting to my Māoritanga was quite a shallow reason. It was because people would always see me, go “Oh, your Māori,” and then start speaking in Māori to me. I’d be like ‘Oh, I can’t do that.’ So a part of me decided I should learn so that I don’t have that whakamā when they talk to me. And then, once I did it, it became for me and not for other people. It’s a whole haerenga. It started with Te Reo Māori, and then moved into Te Ao Māori, and then into actively Decolonising.”
“It becomes quite a radical process, hey?”
“Yeah,” Summer replied. “I noticed, with myself, it very much feels like being chucked in the deep end real quick. Especially if you go to a wānanga and you don’t speak any, you’re a baby.”
Tea pours under a chorus of “āe” in tautoko.
For those of us who are also new to Te Ao Māori, it’s a familiar feeling – navigating spaces as a babe at the beginnings of their journey to reconnect and reclaim a birthright that feels so unfamiliar. The Whakamā of not knowing the ‘basics’. That overwhelming feeling of ‘not belonging’ that so many of us mixed kids, us urban Indigies can’t help but feel in Māori spaces.
“I feel like when you are a bit lighter – when you are Half-caste – you’re kind of in both worlds a lot, so finding where you stand in both feels like a lot.”
Kauri falls into step with Summers whakaaro “Yeah very much that feeling of, I feel too brown to be white or too white to be Māori.”
S – “Yeah 100%, but then you find people like you, and that belonging is found. This journey has opened me up to all these people on the same haerenga and with that, the feeling of whakamā is just gone. Not completely, but it’s still there a little bit.”
K – “I struggled going into wānanga that had a heavy Christian influence because when it came to gender stuff, I felt like I didn’t have a space.”
“Yeah, and each iwi is really different as well. With my iwi, we don’t really have any of that. Wāhine go out in the front for the pōwhiri, but other than that it wasn’t too strict. We had wāhine whakairo for a long time. Ngāti Maniapoto, I think, were colonised quite late in the game, so they were very tūturu, very ‘don’t fuck with me,’ and that definitely shines through, but other iwi have different things. Same with wānanga. Different wānanga have different tikanga which makes it difficult, especially if you are non binary. That’s a hard place to navigate when your identity isn’t seen in those places. But, having said that, being non binary and being takatāpui is inherently Māori as well, so it’s weird having that but still feeling like it’s not your space. But it’ll change.”
A pause. We all hold that truth for a moment, letting it breathe. Manifesting change always begins with setting intentions.
Summer continues their kōrero, our shared intention feeding the space in our circle.
“There was a moment we were doing a pōwhiri at Raukawa Marae. I was standing at the back and all these people were trying to tell me, ‘Go to the front, go to the front.’ But I was quite happy being at the back with the boys. Eventually I got guided to the front. Not in a mean way, but I think they just thought I couldn’t understand them because they were speaking to me in the reo. It was fine after all that…” pause for a sip of kawakawa tea…
“That old school whakaaro āe. What gives me a lot of leniency is realising the generation above us is way more colonised than we are. I’m so grateful I moved into my Māoritanga when I was 15. But the generation above, I feel like, is only getting the opportunity to move fully into that now, but they’re like 50-60. The colonisation process is already so ingrained.”
Tāwhirimātea sweeps through our kōrero, prompting a question of Summer: “How did you discover your takatāpuitanga?”
“I always identified with being non binary. When I was a kid my mum chopped off all my hair and everyone thought I was a boy. But lowkey, I loved it. I changed my name to Samuel, and identified as a boy for 3 years until I had a crush on a boy.” They laugh, face turned to the sun. “I went to him and told him I liked him. He told me ‘Oh, but I don’t like boys, boys don’t date boys.’ So I decided I wanted to be a wāhine again because I wanna date boys. That’s the only reason I transitioned back. I think I was 9 when I did that? I always knew I was gay though, from a very young age. I used to just sit there and draw tits non stop.”
Cue the infamously boisterous, takatāpui cackle of ‘same g.’ We join the kāka in their squawking. Tāwhirimātea carries our voices out over the valley, sharing the sound of brown joy with our neighbours. If that happens to be you, you’re welcome. You were blessed that day.
Slowly we settle, and the kōrero flows again, warmed by shared smiles.
“How did you navigate being queer in art spaces?” we ask Summer.
“I always knew that was my identity, and I didnt feel the need to tell anyone. But when I saw other people owning their identity I thought, ‘oh true’. And there are a few benefits from that. That’s who I am, and being marginalised for so long, I may as well get all the things I deserve. There’s so much mana behind it now. I deserve at this point in my life to receive that mana for my identity. Watching other people who were real kaha in their identity was what inspired me to have that strength, and I hope that I can do that for other people.”
“Do you feel like your mahi toi started to change once you began having those larger conversations with yourself about your identity?”
“Yeah for sure!” She smiles. “I didn’t realise I did it, but I used to draw white faces. You know when you do art, you’re taught to draw what’s beautiful, what’s pretty. But a lot of the features started to change once I started to love my Māori features – big nose, big lips, Māori eyes, big hair.”
The conversation begins to tilt towards indigenous futurism, a favourite subject here at Utu.
What does the future for us look like? What would we like it to be?
“Oh wow! Yeah, you know, I’m all for Tino Rangatiratanga, but I feel like we’re getting to a point now where we have to also infuse Te Ao Pākehā with Te Ao Māori. But at the moment I feel we have a massive lack of Te Ao Māori, so just incorporating that into what we have going would be amazing. Obviously there are good aspects of Te Ao Pākehā, it’s not all negative. I can just imagine work spaces being way more about Hauora so people don’t get burnt out all the time. I do feel like Pākehā want that substance that Te Ao Pākeā lacks.”
A small burst of ‘āe’s ripple through our circle, tautoko in vibration as Summer continues.
“They need spirituality, they need that connection to Papa[tūānuku] to be happy. I think that’s why we see Pākehā appropriating a lot and reaching for things to grab onto, because they have nothing within their own culture. And maybe if they went way back, they might be able to find something. It’s beneficial for everyone as well, not just Māori, and I think a lot of Pākehā people are becoming more onto it cause they can see it is beneficial to everyone, as well as uplifting Māori and BIPOC people, too… …I feel like I’m fully decolonised and I’d love to just ruin the whole system and start again, but the chance of that happening is quite unrealistic unless, you never know, maybe war.
“Before Covid hit, there were so many protests happening. Anti-fascism, climate change, BLM popping off at the same time. But they all had the same kaupapa; they all came out of the same thing; all so entwined. All of that mamae came out of colonisation. I think that is the future. Us connecting with Papatūānuku a lot more, and whakawhanaungatanga, and incorporating indigenous whakaaro into our everyday lives, like Rongoā. The health of our society would improve so much if we all incorporated rongoā into our everyday lives.”
The conversation lulls as we reshuffle ourselves to escape the heat of the late afternoon sun. Summer comments on how many kawakawa plants are around our whare, “I heard the rongoā you need the most is what grows most abundantly around your whare. Mine is Red Matipō. It seems to follow me everywhere.”
Their voice floats softly underneath our next question. “What inspired you to begin your rongoā journey?”
“It started off quite shallow, but with good intentions,” they laugh. “So Christmas was coming up and I wanted to give everyone presents. I had no money, so I decided to make kawakawa balms for everyone. I made them, so much aroha went into it, and they worked really well. Everyone was like, ‘what the fuck is this balm?’. After that I got really into it, but the second time I made them, I went in with the wrong intentions, and that batch had no mauri. Everyone felt it, too. I decided to study Rongoā cause I didn’t wanna be practising it on my own, not having any knowledge, not following the right tikanga, and hurting people. You gotta be careful with Rongoā if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Their kōrero pauses as we drink in her words. The hum of the kihikihi grows for a second, Tāne Mahuta sending thrums of vibration in tautoko.
They continue, “My idea of it at first was real simple, like oils, and balms, and plants. But Rongoā is fucking everything Te Ao Māori. There’s whakairo, tā moko, toi māori, it’s everything. A lot of what we practised was just tapping into your intuition, the energy of the ngahere, the taiao. That’s where your rongoā comes from, tapping into, and channelling that energy into something to heal another person. It could be through taonga puoro, karakia, anything vibrational to create a rongoā. You could grab a cup of wai, and infuse that wai with your aroha – your karakia – and that becomes a rongoā that can sort you out. It’s opened my eyes so much, and made me realise how much I don’t know anything. It made me really want to stop practising it. I realised I needed to really root down into my tūrangawaewae and how I connect with Te Taiao, make sure that’s really pure before I start making rongoā.”
“What sort of rituals do you have to help ground you?”
A soft smile before they answer, “Literally my breath. Connecting with the way I’m breathing. Playing Taonga Puoro, being with the ngahere… …even just standing in the ngahere cause that’s really good for your breath. I find that definitely grounds me the most if I’m ever stressed.”
The awareness of our surroundings becomes so strong after this statement. Our little whare tucked into the hill, surrounded by native trees. Somehow our breathing seems to reach down to Papatūānuku and up through Ranginui. Our kōrero grounded not just by us but by the very energy of te taiao. We hold that connection, performing our own rongoā ritual, that breath allowing inspiration for our next question.
“Has that emotional journey through rongoā changed the tikanga of how you approach your art?”
“Oh yeah!” they answer quickly, full of enthusiasm. “I do karakia all the time now for everything. With this mural I’m painting at the moment, I always open with a karakia every time I start, and shut with a karakia. I didn’t used to do that, but before doing that, going into an art space used to feel like a constant thing, and it made me feel really manic ‘cause I didn’t know when it shut. I’d stay up until 6 in the morning and ruin my sleep schedule.”
Tumbling laughter rolls through us. There’s validation in shared experiences.
“It was intense,” Summer laughs with us, “But now I have dedicated times, opening and closing the space with karakia. I’ll also infuse what I want for the toi with the karakia so it doesn’t feel like just chucking acrylic on a canvas. It feels far more intentional.” She pauses to pull out a phone to show us some upcoming mahi, which you can now view on their insta page (links below).
“Like with this mural, which is about whakawhanaungatanga, wāhinetanga and takatāpuitanga. It’s important to have those intentions while you’re doing it, otherwise it feels like tokenism for me. I catch myself doing it sometimes, feeling the stress of a due date and jumping into it without doing a karakia. It’s hard to be intentional sometimes in this way we live our lives. But tapping into my intuition, and being intentional about things, has changed my life.”
“How does it feel making your mahi toi with all that tikanga, and then taking it into a space that isn’t necessarily decolonised in the same way?”
“Āe, fuck I had that recently. I felt hōhā. I was angry. I was like, ‘No you’re wasting my time.’ I wanted to leave. But I was there, so I decided to make the most of it. I dunno. It’s hard to respect yourself as an artist and individual. But once you start respecting yourself other people see that too. Now that I went through that, which I’m glad I did, I wouldn’t go back, or I’ll be a lot better at sussing the tikanga before I go into it. Also you can pull out at any point. You might think it’s all good, and then at some point if it’s not you can just say, nah I don’t want this, I’m out.”
“What were some of the obstacles you came up against trying to navigate that space?”
“Definitely tokenism. 100%. I see people wanting me to be there just so they can tick a box, which feels real paru. That makes me feel like I’m going against my Māoritanga, especially since I am white-passing. I don’t want to be the person that makes people feel comfortable. I don’t want to be the token Māori that yous actually see as white, the safe Māori, the one that talks Pākehā. It’s just paru.”
Our little circle hums, feeling that shared reality of being mixed race. It’s a complicated thing, growing up with each foot on completely opposite ends of every possible spectrum. Stepping into your Māoritanga can be daunting at first, if you’ve lived most of your life walking through Te Ao Pākehā. There’s a lot of mamae in being disconnected, and the path to healing feels scary when the door to Te Ao Māori feels closed. But if you whakapapa Māori, you are Māori, and there’s always a way in. You aren’t alone in feeling this way either.
Slowly, our circle begins to share our personal stories of coming into our Māoritanga. The shared feelings of whakamā at not being able to speak the reo, not knowing the tikanga of the new world we’re trying to navigate.
How do you care for yourself when those emotions feel overwhelming?
“I found that coming up into my Māoritanga I was quite angry,” Summer begins. “I can be quite an angry person anyway, so I would just rage. I think, especially in Te Ao Pākehā, anger is repressed a lot. But anger is the thing you feel when there’s injustice, or someone has crossed your boundaries, or something is just not okay. Anger is there to say, ‘No I deserve better. This is not okay. Sort it out.’ I think it’s a positive emotion, or it can be if you do the mahi, and listen to it rather than just being reactive. It’s being intentional about the way you use your anger. I think when I do get really angry, if I sit with that feeling and get to the core of that feeling, it’s just me feeling upset, or really hurt. And then, when I am really hurt, I come back to that place of being, my own mum to my own pēpē, and the baby to my own mother. It’s just like, ‘Okay. What do we need to sort this out? This isn’t okay. You’re upset,’ which makes it easier to find a way to express that anger in a way that isn’t toxic. It’s okay to raise your voice and express your rage, but there’s a time for it.”
“In terms of Neurodiversity, how has being in Te Ao Māori helped you with Neurodivergent ways of existing?” Kauri asks. We had to laugh at the question’s irony, considering how large that tangent was from the words just shared, but such is the nature of Māori kōrero.
Water pours into our glasses as Summer giggles before answering.
“I think it’s a hard one. I need a lot of space, and I think in Te Ao Māori there isn’t much leniency for that because it’s all about whānau and stuff. But I honestly don’t think that’s that healthy. I think a big reason why Maori whānau is the way it is now, is because of poverty as well. And I think when you’re in poverty and life is hard, you don’t have time to be neurodiverse. It’s almost like a privilege. That doesn’t mean those people aren’t neurodiverse, it just means they don’t have the time or the space to take care of themselves in that way. If problems like poverty didn’t exist, Te Ao Māori would naturally encompass and accept all those neurodiverse ways of being.”
At this point our circle erupts. Neurodiversity is a big part of Utu, with every single one of us being on the spectrum, so we adore these conversations. Many thoughts and runaway sentences begin at once. Kauri, Maia, Summer, and myself, all throwing ideas into the air. This, combined with the continued singing of kihikihi, makes it very hard to transcribe exactly what is said. But I’m doing my best to give you the general gist.
S: “In the time of our Tīpuna, neurodivergent people would have been seen as Matakite or just very skillful. They would have had their own niche. They would have had space to fill. I feel like in Te Ao Pākehā we all have the same path, this path that is written out for us, but back then, that path was given to you, or carried by your whanau, or a gift you had and followed.”
K: “It’d just be like ‘Yeah there goes the cuzzy that’s super into manu, they can tell you everything you need to know because they just sit and watch manu all day.’ I’d be the cuzzy that had all the knowledge about bugs and trees.”
S: “And within Te Ao Rongoā you have that dialogue of ‘Oh if you wanna learn about Red Matipō you go to so and so, because they’re really narrowed in on that ae.’”
K, S, M, L: *A chorus of Indigi Cackles*
L: “It benefits the whole community to let that person go off on that path because they can acquire all of the information about that thing and use it to further service the community they’re in.”
S: “And that comes back to imagining a future for us, and rongoā in Te Ao Māori. Rongoā was such a big part of your life because you did it every day. You might have that one tohunga, but everyone practised Rongoā which is why they were so healthy. It was about taking care of your hauora before anything goes wrong, about raising your wairua. I feel like that would help with your mental health a lot – practising your rongoā everyday.”
This conversation continues on in multiple directions for a few minutes, escalating in excitement and laughter. Honestly, it’s one of those moments that can’t fully be translated outside of the space it came in. Maybe if you listen closely you’ll hear it in the wind.
Slowly but surely, we ground ourselves again, kawakawa tea on its last pour, our attention turning back to Summer’s mahi toi.
Scrolling through Summer’s social media (@raukikini on instagram), we pulled up our favourite pieces, asking for their whakapapa as the sun begins to dip.
“The takatāpuitanga painting, the one of two wāhine kissing. What inspired that image?”
Kauri scrolls down to an art piece that now sits waiting to be hung in our whare.
“That one I just found really beautiful. Mixing my Māoriness and gayness, it just felt so right? It was also about representation. When I made it I was like, ‘Wow I’ve never seen anything like this before. I would have loved to see something like that when I was younger.’”
“And this one?” An image of a wāhine seated, tā moko proudly on display. Summer glows with a fondness while telling us its story.
“That wāhine was a friend of mine. She was stoked to be painted. I love that toi of them because I think it really captures their essence. Obviously the wairua was right, she felt she could trust me to paint her nude. She’s so kaha, so strong. I felt privileged, and I was so inspired while drawing her. She is an amazing māmā, unapologetically Māori, and always in her power. She truly is a modern day wāhine toa.”
Our space slowly quietens, as we soak in the toi, in the presence of their maker. The conversation seems to be flowing towards a natural conclusion. Our last question comes accompanied by a chorus of Tui, flying back to their nests in nearby trees.
“What do you want people to take away from your art?”
Laughing, they answer, “I dunno if you guys feel this, but I don’t actually like a lot of the art that I make after I make it. I love those two pieces, but the other ones I’m like, ‘That was me right then, not who I am now.’ But for the future of my mahi, I want to make people inspired, but also wake up people’s puku mahi, get other people feeling angry like, ‘Yo this isn’t fair.’ I want to head off into doing more political works, and display them in a beautiful way, not necessarily a graphic way, while still having myself, kei te takatāpui au, kei te Māori au, infused all together.”
With that, we hold the space until it feels like there is no more that needs to be said.
Closing with a karakia, we continue to sit in the sun of the late afternoon, enjoying each other’s company. Slowly but surely, we open ourselves to the world outside of our tiger blanket, and take our last few sips of kawakawa tea. Tāwhirimātea sifts through the rākau above us before sailing off, carrying Summer away from us as we go about preparing ourselves for dinner.