Cindy Te Ata
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A pūtātara (conch-shell trumpet) starts playing
I always admired these women that had kauae moko, I always looked at them and thought, oh my God, they look just majestic. And funnily enough when I got mine done, my partner said that to the kaitā Said "you made my misses look majestic". That word just wasn't in my vocabulary at the time. But when he spoke it, I thought, actually that's quite appropriate. 'Cause I felt that way.
I felt empowered. I guess you could say I felt empowered. And when I first came back to Nelson, 'cause I was probably one of the first faces that had moko and the racial comments that I got and this guy , this pākehā dude with like a mullet and his BMW drove past me and I could read his lips and he goes, "Ooh fucking ugly" and I thought, well, that's cool. And that just made me feel stronger. And I thought, okay, so I'm pissing you off! But he had no idea what was happening within me at the time.
Te Ata plays taonga pūoro plays in the background.
You know, I, I feel so privileged and so honored to carry this on my face because it's a story not just about me, but about my ancestry, my children, everything. And it's also about Te Ao māori, Te Ao Tawhito. But mum broke down crying and she goes, I said, "what's wrong Mum"? And she goes, "oh, you look like Nanny". So we found these old photos and stuff and it's identical to what my grandmother had…
Taonga pūoro interval.
My māori name is Te Ata, named after my great, great grandmother. I was so privileged to take on my nanny's name because she was a warring fighting female chief that came down in the hekenga, in the migrations from the North Island. I was a little bit apprehensive at first, 'cause I thought, damn these are big shoes to fill. And I did meditate and spend time by myself, talked to my tīpuna, had karakia, had prayers to make sure that I wasn't stepping on anybody's toes. And only one uncle come back to me and said, "no, you can't do that". And once again, my mum came to the battle and she goes, "step the fuck off, my daughter's got every right to have this name". And Te Ata means the Dawn, the emergence, the awakening, which in some ways I feel like I've been part of with my family, with myself and yeah. But the, the crappy life that I went through, I think I earned that name pretty much. And that's what I said to my family, you know, it was a, it was an awakening that I had to go through at the time. My mother had to leave us when we were very young because my father beat her up and, and being the oldest, I had to answer the door to the police and everything and hide my sisters in the wardrobe. But nine times out of 10, my mother would be driven away by an ambulance. She'd have a fractured skull or something really nasty had happened to her from dad.
Taonga pūoro interval.
She didn't grow up learning the language or didn't want to know about the culture because she was so badly mistreated. She did love her family. She loved being a Māori, but she didn't know how to, um, work her way into this world really. And she still felt unaccepted because of the treatment that my dad gave her. But my mother was so hospitable. She used to take anybody in and look after them, give 'em a bed, feed them. And sometimes dad would get upset just through his own insecurities. 'Cause my mother was beautiful. She was absolutely beautiful lady and she still is to this day. In a way it's a shame. It's a shame that dad was insecure and mum was beautiful. <laugh> otherwise that probably would've worked out different, but I'm sure we're not the only family that went through that stuff.
Taonga pūoro interval.
You know, I love being the oldest aye, I do. Sometimes I think, oh Jesus, I've got so much responsibility. I've gotta be an upstanding one. And actually it's quite the opposite. <laugh> What I went through with mom and dad was the drinking and the abuse and everything. My sister and I, and then our younger sisters are about eight years, nine years difference. So by that time mum had left. She had no choice. Otherwise she wouldn't be alive. Dad was in rehab and I think I was 10 at the time. 'Cause I know my sisters were freaking out and you know, they used to huddle up to me and go "Cindy, we don't wanna be separated". I was the mother up until the age of 14, I left home. I went to Māori Affairs Trade Training. Seeing my, my sisters off to their first day at school as well. That was pretty magic.
Taonga pūoro interval.
Probably the most embarrassing thing for me was when at that stage, you know, I started having my period. Dad would go, "oh, so do you need some plugs?". I'm like, "what?", these were tampons. Oh God, how embarrassing is this? When I first got one, I thought, oh shit what do I do about this? And, and I remember telling my dad and he says, "oh nah, it's normal". And that was it. It's normal. And I thought, well, so what do I do with normal? <laugh> Especially when you're young and you usually menstrate for at least a week. And honestly, I even said to my sister, Jules, I says, "Sis if I die, can you look after the girls?", like the twins, she was like, "why are you bleeding?" I said, "I don't know. I can't fucking stop it". <laugh> Nah, it was, it was scary. Honestly, it was very scary, not having a woman to talk to and not understanding what's happening. And I, I tended to cling on to women that I admired, whether they were teachers or, um, church people. So I found my way through it. <laugh> put it that way.
Taonga pūoro interval.
All I wanted to be honest was to have a happy family. I wanted to dispel all those myths about, you know, breaking the cycle, and, I was hoping that would work out. So when my first child was born healthy, 'cause I had two miscarriages and an abortion. So my oldest is 29 now, she's the most beautiful girl you'd ever come across. But with my boys, my oldest son is 18, that's Jordan, and yeah, Israel's 16 just turned 16 in August. Oh, like 16 going on 18. Jordan's 18 going on 24 <laugh> . Well, mentally you know, I can't even finish the sentence, he goes, "I know", and I said, "do you know what I'm gonna say?", and he goes, "I know!" <laugh>. But I was like that. So I'm thinking, yeah, this is payback, but no I'm proud of my kids, and they're very respectful. And plus I had my daughter who would be 21 this year.
A waiata begins in the background
She would've been 21, my baby that I held in my arms for half an hour 'cause uh, it was incompetent cervix and she was born premature, but we were poor and a Māori family. They gave her to me in this little bloody fruit basket and said, "there's nothing we can do". And I pleaded with them, honestly, I was crying. I said, "oh, please, please can we do?". "No, we can't do nothing". And they were really cold <dip sigh>. So yeah. I just thought stuff you guys, you know, I'm gonna get my, my daughter the best quality of life she's got while she's here. So yeah. I held her and cuddled her so tight. And when she did pass away, I mean, we had those few minutes together and they kept coming in. I just said "fuck off" because I just wanted that me and her time <quiver of sadness in her voice>. So I named her Anahera, which means angel in Māori. And she's buried out at Richmond and we go and visit her quite often. So she was one of the graves that got trashed out there. And all these vandals went, went through the children's cemetery, fuck I was gutted. See, that's probably the hardest thing I ever went through. So I felt responsible 'cause I was in an abusive relationship and the autopsy said later on, you know, too many beatings. It was bloody hard <exhales>. You know, that's something, something I, it's a strength that I can share with other females that go through that. So I, I used to go up to the hospital and visit women that were going through the same thing. Although I didn't tell them at the time, you know, I've been through the same thing. I just wanted to be there to help them and nurture them through. So, somewhere in heaven she's playing around.
Taonga pūoro interval.
And I have to remind myself, you know, just because I'm a Māori and I've been through this shit, it doesn't mean that pākehā's don't go through that. And some of them have been ruthlessly, honest with me and told me what they've gone through. I'm like, holy Cindy, pull your head in, you know, these guys are just - sorry, these women -are going through similar or the same stuff that you've gone through. So some of my best friends now are Pākehā's. As Māori, people always point the finger - crime, incest the whole lot and to meet pākehā ladies that are going through that, or have been through that, I can empathize with them. So I, I really had to, um, pull my head in, I think, shit Cindy, you know, there's some genuine people out there doesn't matter about the colour of their skin. And wahine as, as wahine!
Taonga pūoro interval.
To be a wahine Māori, a staunch one as well, you have to factor in all of those things, every crap that you've been through. Put them all onto one big bloody box and chuck out the stuff that you don't want anymore. And it took a long time for me to come to terms with that. Sit down and meditate and kick that to the curb, that's not gonna do any favors and carry that one on 'cause that that will help you. So my best suggestion to wāhine, deal with the baggage. Deal with the baggage, get rid of it because it's always gonna have an impact on your life if you don't.
Taonga pūoro interval.
Going back to us as māori women, we were warriors back in the day, but we were also mums. We were lovers. We were caregivers. And in today's world, we need to accentuate that more. Everyday I try and live and uphold what my female ancestress did as well. My mother and my grandmother and I look at them, I envy them because they're so selfless. Everybody else is before them. And I think if we all acted like that, then the world would be a much hip place.
The waiata ends with Taonga pūoro.