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(Image: Archi Banal)
(Image: Archi Banal)

BooksSeptember 10, 2023

Witi Ihimaera: An icon and an inspiration

(Image: Archi Banal)
(Image: Archi Banal)

This year marks 50 years since Witi Ihimaera’s novel Tangi was published. Here, five Māori writers look again to their favourite of his works and reflect on the words that have shaped their love of literature.

It wasn’t until I was Year 11 at High School that I was exposed to my first pieces of Māori Literature. Like many readers, I suspect, my well-meaning, most often non-Māori English teachers decided to roll out the holy trifecta of Māori writing; Hone Tuwhare, Patricia Grace and of course Witi Ihimaera.

For those of us who were Māori and for those of us who would go on to become storytellers, Witi Ihimaera’s writing marks a turning point in our reading lives. In Witi Ihimaera’s works we could look into the characters and narratives and see our own selves, our whānau, our struggles and our pain – but more importantly our joy, our gifts and our magic too. Witi Ihimaera held a mirror to it all and for the first time in English writing, we could see ourselves so clearly. 

When collating this piece I braced myself for the writing group to negotiate who was going to write about which piece. I told the writers to consider a couple of texts, in case their first pick had been dibbsed by another writer. Almost each writer responded that they had strong feelings over which text they would want to write about – and not a single one was a double up. That’s the thing about being a literary icon, I guess.

The body of work is so vast and varied that there is no possibility of compiling a top 20 ranking list. Matua Witi’s writing has served so many of us in as many ways as there are works to read. At times its role has been that of rongoā, for others it’s been a hype girl, for some it’s been a Nanny giving a clip round the ears, or an Uncle a proverbial kick up the ass and in the right direction.   

Readers across the country have been reaching for Witi Ihimaera’s works since the 70s – not just because he was the first, not just because he is Māori, but because the storytelling is powerful. Being the first of your people to do anything, is courageous. It takes grit, determination and resilience. When I think of my own writing journey, I often wonder if I ever would have considered writing to be something I could do, if it wasn’t for Witi Ihimaera. Matua Witi’s words cracked open a world of possibilities, cementing the notion that our stories deserve to be told, paving the way for generations of Māori and takatāpui writers today and tomorrow. 

Whiti Hereaka: ‘The Makutu on Mrs Jones’, published in Pounamu Pounamu

I first read The Makutu on Mrs Jones when I was 14. Thirty years later I think of it whenever I cut my nails. Imagine writing a story that can wind its way into everyday life — resurfacing in the reader’s mind as they go about their day. It’s something I hope that I can do one day.

In high school, we focused on Tawhai’s naivety about what is actually going on between Mrs Jones and Mr Hohepa — his belief in makutu was “proof” of this. Reading it now, he isn’t naïve — he sees exactly what happens to Mrs Jones: as her feud turns to “love” she loses herself. Reading it now, the makutu is real. Reading it now, I wonder about Tawhai’s own marriage.

In the frame story, Tawhai has been banished from his marital bed to cut his toenails. In the cold, quiet sitting room he tells us the story of Mrs Jones – and the makutu that befell her. What does this story tell us about his life now?

A great story allows a reader to find new insights every reading. I’ve read and reread this story most of my life and I always find a new way of seeing it. (Whiti Hereaka)

‘He mea tautoko nā ngā mema atawhai. Supported by our generous members.’
Liam Rātana
— Ātea editor

Anthony Lapwood: The Uncle’s Story

In The Uncle’s Story, Michael Mahana discovers his father had a brother – expurgated from the family history – and that they’re bonded by a secret: Michael and his uncle Sam are gay. Viewing a photograph of Sam, Michael experiences a moment of recognition across time and space: “Suddenly it seemed he looked past the camera. By some trick of the light he was looking at me.”

When I read this novel nearly 20 years ago, it was the authorial eye of Witi Ihimaera I felt looking at me – by some trick of language. Michael, Sam, and I have led very different lives. But that prickling question in the heart every queer person feels, and the quest for connection and community: these are familiar depths that Matua Witi portrays achingly well.

In the content and kaupapa of his writing, Matua Witi creates windows into te ao Māori – a place to which I whakapapa, but in which I was not raised (this is the disenfranchising grind of colonialism). Even now, reading as the characters in The Uncle’s Story navigate Māori and Pākehā worlds, I feel again a remote gaze catch me. As when another familiar question with more than one answer is bellowed at Michael’s twin, Amiria, by their father: “What kind of Maori are you!”

A solution Matua Witi offers those searching for community: we must recognise each other, but the real trick is knowing we always belonged. (Anthony Lapwood)

Marama Salsano: A variety of introductions

Witi Ihimaera has written various introductions to books, which provide Te Aitanga-a-Māhaki writers an insight into the mind of a cherished hau kāinga writer. Many introductions, especially those found in the Te Ao Mārama anthologies of the 1990s, remain well cited foundational texts about Māori writing in English. And while there are now more voices contemplating earlier questions he posed about who we are and what we want to achieve moving into the 21st century, his 2007 assertion that “we [Māori] do still have to shout, ne?” still resonates, and is a sobering reminder that there is much work to be done in the realm of English language literary studies across Te Moana-nui-a-Kiwa. Yet, in the 2019 introduction to Words of a Kaumatua, Witi recognises the “optimistic vision about the future for Aotearoa New Zealand” in the poetry of Te Aitanga-a-Māhaki elder, Haare Williams. Into this shared vision, Witi’s introductions will continue to resonate as curated stories, archival legacies, and iwi imaginations of the future. (Marama Salsano)

Tangi: 2023 and 1973 editions (Image: Tina Tiller)

Matariki Williams: ‘Fire on Greenstone’, published in Pounamu Pounamu

The stories in Witi’s first book share the experiences of a whānau and a town as a whole universe, filial complexities as relatable, laughable, comforting. Though the Wizard of Oz provides an allegorical constant throughout the collection, the fire of this title is real, sharing that the whānau homestead has burned down along with the whānau whakapapa books. I can still feel the bereft emotions of the narrator and his Nanny as if the loss is my own. A later story in this universe takes them on a journey to Rūātoki to recover the whakapapa that is lost in the fire, where my whānau is from. Reading this, I envisaged headlights striking reflector poles, a scene I experienced many times in the knowledge that I was heading home.

At times, Witi’s stories dealt with the urban drift of Māori into larger centres and the impact of leaving and being left, of elders dying and uri rushing home for tangi. I’ve always known that that journey was too far for me, so after having left the Bay of Plenty for Wellington for 18 years, my whānau and I returned in 2022, for there is no place like home. (Matariki Williams)

Nicole Titihuia Hawkins: ‘The Seahorse and the Reef’, published in The New Net Goes Fishing

I’ve loved it from the opening passage, the “soft green water” and the dreamy Seahorse “shimmering and luminous with light”. It is pure magic. I’ve continued to love it and use it in my own classrooms for its humour, its political message, the beautiful imagery and vivid characters which create a snapshot of our people – all undeniably Māori, and a far cry from a lot of the negative stereotypes on offer elsewhere. The short story traces a struggle with the government to preserve our taonga, our tino rangatiratanga and our ability to serve as kaitiaki. Fast forward 46 years since it was first published, and sadly the themes of profit over the planet are still so painfully relevant. A modern classic in every sense.

This piece was co-commissioned with Te Waka Taki Kōrero – Māori Literature Trust: E tuhi, taki mai i te ao Māori ki te ao whānui – Taking Māori voices to the world. In 2000, MLT established a charitable trust to deliver programmes that promote and foster Māori literature and its place in the literature of the nation. Guided by our own cultural values, we seek to grow Māori writers’ skills, confidence and opportunities. We encourage Māori writers to stand tall as Māori and to support each other and become a strong force within the literary community of Aotearoa New Zealand.

Ngā Kupu Wero: a powerful collection of non-fiction from contemporary Māori writers, edited by Witi Ihimaera (Penguin NZ, $37) can be purchased from Unity Books Wellington and Auckland.

Keep going!
(Image: Archi Banal)
(Image: Archi Banal)

BooksSeptember 8, 2023

For the girls and the gays: an interview with Joy Holley

(Image: Archi Banal)
(Image: Archi Banal)

Sinead Overbye interviews Joy Holley about writing Dream Girl, a book of short stories that uplifts the private lives of queer women, published earlier this year by Te Herenga Waka University Press.

Sinead Overbye: Kia ora Joy!

Joy Holley: Kia ora Sinead! 

What inspired you to write Dream Girl?

The girls and the gays! I wanted my friends (you!) to feel seen and represented by these stories, and to give everyone else a little window into our world. 

Throughout my teenage years and early twenties, I have often felt a kind of anticipatory nostalgia for all the good times we’re having, and even some of the bad times. Dream Girl is one of many attempts to capture the fun, chaos and magic of these years. 

I’ve lived in Wellington pretty much my entire life, so inevitably Wellington was another big influence: the flats, the parties, the queer scene, the history of specific places. 

Some stories started with a “what if” from my own life. What if I’d actually got what I wanted, what if I did that thing I know I shouldn’t do, what if I could adopt a pet snake in New Zealand? This led to some especially bratty characters, bizarre situations, and sometimes the supernatural. 

For me, one of the driving forces of the book is queerness. The book is full of sapphic images, innuendos, queer sex and secret codes. Could you talk a bit about how queerness influences your writing?

It was really important to me that this collection was a celebration of the communities that I exist in, where queerness is accepted and flourishing. There’s so much art about the struggles of being young and queer, but it can also be so fun! 

Most of the characters in Dream Girl are openly queer, and they aren’t repressed by it. Their actions aren’t determined by the patriarchy or heteronormativity. They also don’t really have a pre-established romantic model to follow. Anything goes: they can invite their crushes strawberry picking rather than on a dinner date, they can flirt via public playlists, they can sleep with their best friends. This is pretty liberating from a writing perspective! There’s so much potential for drama, complicated power dynamics, and the absurd. 

Writing short fiction meant I could include many different queer relationships: platonic, romantic, sexual, and all mixed up. There are also stories about teenagers who aren’t yet aware of their own queerness, including one set in the 1950s. So many queer relationships have been erased from history, but I love how fiction allows us to write them back in.

The feeling of being watched is a major theme in these stories. You quote your IRL grandma in the story called Manifesto saying “There is nothing more romantic than feeling a man’s eyes watching you and following you in the streets”. And often these girls are performative – they want to smell nice for their crushes, and do beautiful things like picking berries and participating in beauty rituals. Can you talk a bit about how these ideas shaped your book?

I’m really interested in how this idea of an imagined audience can exist outside of the male gaze. It’s something I’ve thought about since I was a teenager, when I started having big crushes and constantly wondered how that person would perceive me (even when I was alone in my bedroom, in a maths class, etc). 

The first time I remember reading about this experience was in John Berger’s Ways of Seeing:

“A woman must continually watch herself … She has to survey everything she is and everything she does because how she appears to men is of crucial importance for what is normally thought of as the success of her life. Her own sense of being in herself is supplanted by a sense of being appreciated as herself by another.”

Some of this felt true, but I have imagined myself through a woman’s eyes much more often than a man’s, and I suspect this is the case for many other queer people!

I saw the film Portrait of a Lady on Fire just before I started writing Dream Girl, and that felt like the first time I’d seen these ideas explored through a queer lens. It reminded me of all the ways in which only women can really see each other, and the intensity of that! Director Céline Sciamma has called the film a “manifesto about the female gaze”, which isn’t far off what I wanted Dream Girl to be. Although entirely different to Portrait, the story ‘Manifesto’ was written as a kind of ironic manifesto to performativity as a bisexual woman.

Most of the main characters in Dream Girl see themselves as main characters: they’re constantly romanticising themselves and their lives. This was an easy source of comedy, but I also didn’t want to judge them. I’m sure different readers will make different judgements, but the girls that get it, get it!

Joy Holley (Photo: Ebony Lamb)

Dream Girl has a real materiality to it. The stories are all so vivid, and objects are cherished by the characters. I feel like the girls’ fixation with ‘things’ could be written off by some as being shallow – but for me it felt far more complex than that. Could you talk a bit about this rich imagery and why that is important for the book?

I wanted Dream Girl to be unapologetically femme, so there are a lot of pretty things and feminine iconography! I love the way girls can turn even the most everyday objects (Vicks VapoRub, seaweed, a tangerine) into totems of magic, and the intimacy of all the things girls share (makeup, hair ties, vapes…).

Early in the writing process I read this piece by Emma Cline on The Virgin Suicides (TVS), and became interested in the idea of “hyperspecificity”. I agree that it’s “one deep pleasure” of TVS, but also that it can be used to “obscure the larger picture”. In ‘Fruit’ and ‘Blood Magic’, including lots of sensory detail and imagery was a way of distracting the reader from something else going on; something darker.

Some people could get the wrong impression of this book – the characters are very dreamy and fanciful. But there’s a sinister underbelly to your work that I think many readers won’t be expecting. There are truly spooky moments, and the dangers of being a young woman are ever-present. Can you talk a bit about those dark moments, and why they are important for the book?

During my MA, Emily Perkins (my supervisor) and I talked about Dream Girl’s utopia of girls as an act of resistance, or rebellion. I wanted to emphasise their pleasure and joy, and I didn’t want them to be defined by their trauma. Emily encouraged me to find ways of contextualising this stance: showing the cracks in the fantasy, the burnt edges.

One of the ways I tried to do this was by writing about Wellington’s past. ‘Moral Delinquency in Children and Adolescents’ is set in 1954 — a time of moral panic and conservative fear for New Zealand. The girls in this story are much like the other characters in the collection, but they face much darker consequences. It’s possibly the saddest story in Dream Girl.

Unfortunately the threat of violence is a reality of girlhood and often exists very closely alongside the best stuff (sex, parties, adventures in nature…). This kept coming up while I was writing, even in places where I didn’t expect it. I still consider most of these stories to be optimistic overall, though!

Some of my favourite parts of Dream Girl are the moments where we teeter on the precipice between reality and magic. There’s an otherworldly vibe that intrudes on our sense of reality, but also, the supernatural elements are depicted in a very real way. What appealed to you about crossing that borderline between reality and magic? 

I wanted all of the stories in Dream Girl to exist in the same “world”, and for that world to feel real. But I was also interested in the kinds of magic that could exist in this world, and settings where it might slip under the radar. I find parties especially good territory: it’s nighttime; there are drugs, rituals, communion. ‘Blood Magic’ and ‘Ghost Story’ were inspired by these ideas. 

I also like thinking about how the past can live on inside a building/space, and find the presence of history can be quite magic in itself. This influenced how I wrote about Erskine College in ‘School Spirit’, and the murder of Phyllis Symons in ‘Girls in the Tunnel’. 

In this piece by Carmen Maria Machado, she talks about how non-realism “is a way to tap into aspects of being a woman that can be surreal or somehow liminal.” She points out, “Being queer, too, can feel surreal. There’s this sense that you’re seeing things that other people don’t, which I think is true of many groups of people who exist apart from the more culturally dominant perspective … It’s very surreal to have this perspective where you experience reality in a slightly different way.”

I think these ideas are woven all through the book, but especially ‘Blood Magic’: a story about a vampire, and/or a story about lesbian infatuation. 

There’s also a lot of music. One of my fave stories is ‘Ghost Story’, where the whirlwind romance between two girls is told through the playlists they create for each other. What’s the importance of music in this book? 

For the characters in Dream Girl, every song is a message – almost always aimed at a crush. Music is a love language for many people, but I think this is especially true in queer communities. Songs are a way of confessing your feelings without actually confessing, which can be high risk if, for example, you don’t know the person you’re into is queer. 

I also love how mentioning songs (movies, art…) can add another layer of context and imagery, or even be an inside joke. I made a Dream Girl playlist for these reasons!

Dream Girl by Joy Holley (Te Herenga Waka University Press, $30) can be purchased from Unity Books Wellington and Auckland.