Bang. More antlers for the wall.
At each sentencing the defendant bowed his head and nodded as if all this was to be expected. His family group did the same. They were passive in their acceptance of the law and of te rori Pakeha. The Pakeha’s place was to be the punisher and the Maori’s place to be punished. There was a sense of implacability about the process, as if they were always right and we were always wrong.
Why didn’t we fight back? We didn’t know how.
Bang Bang BangBangbang ang ang
By the end of the court session my whole world had been shattered. When Miss Dalrymple asked me to give my speech of thanks to Judge Forbes I shook my head –
‘No.’
‘Just do it,’ Miss Dalrymple commanded. The judge was still in his chair, waiting.
Do it do it it ititit it.
The courtroom was not quite cleared. A family group was sitting waiting for their son to come out from the holding room. He had been found guilty of indecent exposure. I knew the family and was embarrassed to have witnessed their shame. For most of the proceedings I had kept my eyes on the floor, flexing and unflexing my fists.
‘Simeon!’ Miss Dalrymple hissed again.
I wasn’t angry, really. Just lost and bewildered. I looked at the judge in his ridiculous wig and –
‘Sir, I am fifteen years old. I mean no disrespect. All my life people have been saying to me, “Do this, do that,” and I have for the most part appreciated their advice. But there must come a time when you have to do something not because other people tell you to but because you want to do it yourself. I have come to that time in my life.’
I tried to swallow. There was a huge stone in my throat.
‘Your Honour, I want to make choices for myself. To say “No” if I do not believe what is happening is right, even if other people are telling me to do it and that it is right. To say “Yes”, if I believe it is right, even if other people are telling me don’t do it. I have to start listening to me. I thank you for enabling our class to visit. But I cannot thank you for what we have seen today.’
By this time Miss Dalrymple was trying to get me to shut up.
‘There is something wrong, Your Honour, with a place like this, if the majority of the cases which come before you are Maori and are placed by Pakeha against Maori. I cannot thank you for being part of a court which enables this to happen. I cannot.’
Someone in the family group began to sob.
‘How can I thank you for all the Maori people you have jailed or sentenced for one crime or another? All those names in your book, do you know that I am related to all of them? Or that I know them? Sir, what is more, I know them as good people, not as names that you bang your hammer at or put in prison or make pay huge fines. That boy we met when we were just coming in, he was my cousin’s boyfriend, Your Honour. And what was his crime? That he swore at his employer! You call that assault? Are you telling me he should be sent to jail for that? If I thank you, what am I saying to my relations? My aunts, uncles and cousins who have appeared before you this month? That they deserved it? They didn’t —’ It was a cry from the depths of my heart. ‘They didn’t.’
I was almost done.
‘Therefore, Your Honour, I will not thank you.’
Miss Dalrymple was grim-faced as she apologised to Judge Forbes. He was thoughtful and answered –
‘No, the boy is entitled to his opinion. I commend him for that.’
I was told to go out to the bus at once and wait there.
The family group of the boy found guilty of indecent exposure was waiting beside the kerb, hoping to see him before he was taken away. The boy’s mother nodded at me, and as I passed she laid a hand to stop me. She kissed me and I felt her tears against my cheek.
Then somebody else was there. I knew who it was.
‘Ka pai tena korero,’ he said. ‘Ka pai. Kia kaha e tama. You spoke very well, young one. Very well. Your grandmother would have been pleased. Continue to be strong.’ He shook my hand and motioned that we should hongi. Then Saul Poata came out, and his mother, Agnes Poata, began to call to him.
I touched my nose and forehead in hongi with Saul’s grandfather — Rupeni Poata.
Chapter 40
It was my misfortune that somebody from Waituhi saw Rupeni Poata shaking my hand outside the courthouse. When I tried to explain to Grandfather, he wouldn’t listen. He raged and vented his anger on Mum and Dad for allowing me to go to Gisborne that day. His reaction, however, only added to my father’s rebellion against him. Grandfather insisted that Dad give me a beating, but Dad refused, saying I was too old to be thrashed.
Then, one night, I heard Mum and Dad whispering together. When Glory joined me to listen — I put a glass against the wall to hear the conversation more clearly — we realised that something was going on.
‘We can’t keep on like this,’ Mum said.
‘We must bide our time,’ Dad answered.
‘For how long?’
‘When the right moment comes, we’ll take it.’
At the family gathering that month, the moment came. Our father, haltingly, took it and changed our lives for ever.
Dad made his move just as the meeting was ending. The korero had, as usual, mainly been between Grandfather and Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. The rest of us — the younger aunts and uncles, spouses and children, grandchildren and friends — were the respectful audience, bound together by a common fear that Grandfather would turn his attention to us — and by relief that we had escaped some censure or other. Grandfather had asked my uncles to give an accounting of the contracts for the next season — how many contracts we had received, how many still had to be negotiated, whether there were any problems now that the agreement with the Poatas had broken down, and so on. The meeting had subsided into small-talk and my aunts were getting up to go into the kitchen to prepare the family kai.
Then I noticed Miriam, who was sitting scared-eyed and staring across the room at Pani. Grandfather was laughing with Mohi, remembering the brilliant sidestep the boastful bastard had made in the rugby game against Hukareka. Sitting next to Grandfather, Grandmother Ramona was serene and as silent as always — Grandfather and his Queen. From the corner of my eye I caught again that scared-eyed look of Aunt Miriam’s, this time directed at my mother. Aunt Miriam was in on something.
‘Kaati ra,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. ‘Kua mutu?’ I saw the light dying in Aunt Miriam’s eyes. ‘Are we finished then? Good. Let’s have the karakia and grace. This champion of ours —’ he slapped Mohi proudly on the back, ‘he’s getting hungry, ne?’
Grandfather went to kneel in karakia. We were following him down on our knees. Somebody coughed. Everybody looked up. Grandfather, surprised, wobbled and then stood. So did the rest of us. Aunt Miriam’s eyes widened with terror as if to say, No let’s forget the whole thing.
Somebody coughed again. Grandfather’s eyes swept the room. He saw my father Joshua next to my mother. Both of them were still kneeling, their eyes on the floor.
‘Is that you, Joshua?’ Grandfather asked. He seemed surprised. His voice was dark. ‘He aha te mate?’
My father and mother inched on their knees toward Grandfather. I saw my mother breathing deeply, her eyes firmly closed. When our father began to speak she exhaled a soft sigh.
‘I would like a piece of land, Bulibasha,’ Dad said.