Arriving I immediately felt self conscious. Surrounded by an array of elegant sarai’s & beautiful harijabs, I looked down nervously at my jean skirt, tights & favourite ankle boots.  This was unapologeticly me.  Tidy, respectful, a splash of colour and a lot of insecurities.  Yes this was just plain me, arriving at the ethnic women’s conference.

I wanted to attend.  I wanted to soak up the sisterhood. Feel the empowerment of  standing along side those ladies, emerging from the shadows of oppression, and supporting their courageous journey’s.  For we were connected.  We stemmed from the same ancient blood lines.

I felt a sense of responsibility to balance the scales of my ethnicities.  In and amongst all the talanoa and koreo, the numerous fono and hui, this too was a part of me.

But somehow I felt as if I didn’t belong.  As if I wasn’t an authentic version of the people sitting next to me.  I just wasn’t quite ethnic enough.

I envied everything about all my ethnicities, that had somehow passed me by.  I would never be described as petite.  I had been selfishly blessed with an abundance of curves, and child bearing hips that were just a cruel taunt.  My hair was neither straight and smooth or thick and curly, but a somewhat in between kink.  I had flat feet, no athletic ability, and couldn’t hold a tune to save myself. I owned a jewelry box with a magic marker coloured brown ballerina inside.

But what I felt denied of the most, was the ability to converse in another language.  On entering tertiary education, I tried to reconnect with my culture.  I choose to sit my qualifications with a focus on my mother tongue.  But among the smirks of muffled laughter, I soon discovered that a “beginner” course for someone who grow up oblivious of their own whakapapa, was by no means the same experience as those who had grown up surrounded by it. Some how I was different.  I  just wasn’t quite indigenous enough. 

Looking back this had always been a bit of a dilemma for me.  Finding my identity in a world that seemed determined to force me to tick just one box.  Forever been asked “what are you.?”  after receiving a prolonged second once-over.  As if I needed an explanation to justify my very being.

I never thought I had an accent.  I was born and bred in the same country, and quietly confident I could articulate myself alongside my counter parts. After all I was the product of years of my grandparents crosswords, scrabble and endless word games.  I loved to read and write.  Yet somehow in adulthood, around the time I ventured south of the city I live in, I found people frequently commenting on this.  I was slightly dumbfounded on the realization of what they really meant.  I didn’t sound or talk “like them”.  And once again the echos of deja vu kicked in.  I just wasn’t quite brown enough.  

Did I dare admit that despite my caramel complexion,  truth be told I was probably more accustomed to the traditions, customs and values reflected upon me from the most influential people in my childhood – my European grandparents. As a child it never occurred to me why people would look puzzled and ask, “Is that your Grand(ma/pa)?  In fact I thought they were a little slow to ask again, when I had just been introduced as their grand daughter.  As an adult it just plain irritated me. Why are people rude enough to question, what I had already stated?

As a 5 year old new entrant,  I was pushed out of line at the drinking fountain and called a “marmite face“, knocking out my front tooth.  I defiantly turned around  and announced “No, I’m a princess.”  I don’t remember if it hurt. But I remember my Mum was angry when I showed her, and I know it made her sad.  As an adult I can still show you which tooth it was, because it grew back slightly crooked from being forced out prematurely.

On my 5th form history field trip, I struggled to understand why I was singled out from my (all white) class mates, and wrongly accused of shop lifting.  Though my teachers ran to my aide, ferociously defending me without hesitation,  it was the awakening.  The realisation that there was something different about me.  The first time it dawned on me, that I could be judged by the colour of my skin.  How crazy is that?

To this day, one of my biggest pet peeves is been told to tick just one box. “… But which do you identify with the most?…” None. I am the daughter of my mother and my father. I will tick them all, or be forced to tick “other”. Go figure!

I am Absolutely Ange. The teen who grew up attending one of the most prestigious girl schools in Auckland, who now chooses to own a home in one of it’s poorest suburbs. A contrast of all my bloodlines. A  combination of the good, the bad and the ugly. Or as a great poet once rapped, a “chocolate cross over”.  (Tupac Shakur)