Annie

Reviews

It is easy to see why Annie has continued to delight generations of audiences, with her feisty optimism accompanied by an array of timeless musical numbers. But it would be a 30 year wait, before I got to see one of my favourite childhood movies, come to life on the stage.

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My expectations were high, wrapped in the nostalgia of a timeless classic. The 2014 Jamie Foxx rendition had failed to impress, having strayed from the much loved classic 80’s film. These were the anthems of a little girl, who had warmly embraced the red headed freckled face heroine, and was eagerly anticipating the opportunity to walk down memory lane with an old favorite.

In hindsight, I should have paid closer attention to the fact that this theatrical performance of Annie, was to be delivered by NYTC (The National Youth Theater Company) NYTC is an organisation dedicated to supporting and encouraging youth, by providing opportunities to perform in musical theater. A noble cause, and one of great value for aspiring young performers. Though not entirely in lines with my expectations.

At times the stage felt a little over crowded, in an attempt to give every budding young artist a chance to take the spot light. Unfortunately there were several musical numbers that seemed more aimed at “proud parent” moments, that that of a paid theater ticket audience.

The portrayal of Daddy Warbucks, was quite in contrast with the gruff billionaire, I had grown accustomed to. Though this may have been an unfortunate side effect of such a young cast, it failed to capture the true magic of Annie’s ability to thaw his icy temperament. On the contrary, Mrs Hannigan was a stand out, skillfully delivering each of her musical numbers with a breathless intoxicated twang. The actress was on point in her portrayal of the alcohol swizzling, cruel yet endearing, orphanage matron. Mention should also be made of her brother Rooster, who shared the same ability to play a villain so charismatically. Both provided memorable sing a long’s with Little Girls and Easy Street.

Another young star in the making, was the charming little boy who played the role of Bert Healy (“the ultimate radio personality) He was a delight to watch, singing in true style and character. The visual effect of lighting up a blue triangle to represent the TV screen, was a clever way to divert the audience’s eye and create the illusion of a 3D effect. His performance of You’re Never Fully Dressed without a Smile was one of my favourites

Surprisingly Tomorrow failed to woo me with the same charm. It’s sugar coated sentiment was unable to deliver the same punch as It’s a Hard Knock Life and Maybe. One full of spunk and clever choreography, the other showcasing the talents of a promising young ensemble, who vibrantly captured the youthful optimism at the true heart of Annie.

My biggest “problem” with Annie, was resisting the urge to sing along. Rediscovering after all these years, the things that brought joy as a little girl – could still delight and entertain as an adult. Thank you NYTC. Annie, you were a true star and every bit as enchanting and captivating as I remembered you.

NB: I have searched high and low, but Goggle has neglected to provide me with a list of cast names. So please excuse the fact that the actors/actresses have not been credited accordingly.

Believe

Poetry

Why do I give you power,

To stomp upon my pride.

Hold my worth inside your palm

Then break me down inside.

Questioning my value.

Does kindness make me weak?

Confidence is shattered

Your approval I still seek.

Don’t ask so many questions.

Stop speaking off the cuff.

So if I be, less like me.

Will that be good enough?

Shrink into your shadow

Try to mute my laughter.

Know my place, to save you face

Is that what you’re after?

Grandma said i’m precious,

I know she wouldn’t lie.

Maybe you are jealous.

Maybe I’ll just cry.

I thought this was my place to be

Where my light would shine

Yet now I fear, it hurts to care.

My dream no longer mine.

But I still have a vision

A passion to achieve

Don’t get stressed, just stay blessed.

If I choose to Believe

Dear Gramps

Poetry

I waited for you last night

But you didn’t hear me call,

So I wake up the next morning

And I slowly start to fall.

Cause the waves they keep on crashing

And they pound against my head.

And I’m trying to keep swimming

Cause that’s what you would have said.

But the current keeps on moving

And the thunder is so loud.

I wish that I could find a way,

To try and make you proud.

My strength is slowly draining.

My efforts all in vain.

My sunshine slowly fading

My heart is full of rain.

As I sink into the sand,

Washed up against the tide.

Silent screams and empty dreams

Broken, shattered pride.

I hold tightly to my sanity,

And try to find a way.

To play the cards dealt to me

And hang on another day.

For my love, he is a blessing

And it’s selfish to complain,

When my family stand beside me

Despite my constant drain.

So I’m not going to ask for me

I’ll ask for – – – instead

Please shine your lamp upon him

And get inside his head.

For the darkness it still haunts him.

And only you would know,

The shadows that surround him

And the hurt he won’t let show.

For he is my deepest scar

My constant nagging fear.

My greatest dread, to find him d***

A pain I can not bear.

So I’ll fight away my burdens

I’ll smile away the tears.

If you just hold him tightly

I know you hear my prayers

Being Me

Blog

There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while now. A stigma forced upon me by society’s expectations, crushing my self worth and causing my heart to drop to the bottom of my stomach, while I nervously force back tears. For what seems to come so naturally for the majority of people, has passed me by.

Without divulging my medical history, or corresponding unfortunate circumstances, I have come to peace with it. No doubt it helps I have an incredibly loving husband. So let’s just stop and think about it, before you go opening your patronizing big mouth. There is obviously a reason why

I am now in my 40’s. Stop asking when I’m going to have children.

Yes. I’m always the first one to offer to hold the baby. Yes. Aunty Ange remembers all her nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays. And just to add salt to the wounds, of course I am painfully aware of how children are magnetically drawn to my husband. I agree, he is great with kids.

I am content feeding off other people’s happiness. I definitely don’t begrudge my friends or family when they excitedly announce their big news. To the contrary I delight in the fact that I can indulge in being an Aunt again. I suck up the sting of yet another baby shower. I swallow the hurt of attending endless birthday parties of my friend’s and relative’s offspring, childless. But the pain is raw.

There will still be those relatives, perfectly aware of my age, who insist on asking. Almost like an accusation, waiting for an answer, oblivious to my awkward silence. Or those condescending friends, so wrapped up in their own delights in becoming a parent, that suddenly it gives them the authority to demand why aren’t I. (Like I would actually choose to deny myself one of the greatest bonds of love life can offer us).

Then there’s the “Keep trying, your turn will come.” Back up Sherlock. I’m not trialing for the soccer team, or learning to ride a bike. Practice does not make perfect. We ain’t getting any younger. Go figure!

Or what about the complete stranger who feels entitled to some kind of explanation, on discovering you don’t have any children. Hey, I was making polite conversation. That doesn’t require you to judge me. Nor does it mean I am suddenly obliged to bare my soul to you. Guess what? Not having kids doesn’t make me a bad person.

Now I know there are other options available, but my scars cut many ways. Not only have they robbed me of my natural right to carry life inside of me, they have shaped & defined some of the most significant decisions in my life. They have also caused me to be judged by my medical challenges, instead of my ability to love & nurture. They have robbed me of time & forced me to make decisions for my own wellbeing, But this is not a sob story about why I haven’t had my own child. You see this time, it’s not about me – it’s all about YOU. Your attitude. Your expectations!. Stop asking me like I’m already a terrible Mother, for not having a child.

Instead have a little compassion, and bite your tongue. I have patiently (& painfully) already told you. I have learned to come to peace with it. So why can’t you?

I am not my skin

Poetry

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I descend from Warriors, whos hook fished from the sea.

An island grand, my mother’s land.

Bestowed at birth to me.

Voyagers of the ocean,

Skin kissed by the sun.

Pacific migration, westernization

Woven into one.

The henna of a goddess stained across my heart

Bindi on the forehead

Red sea at the part.

Statistics do not phase me.

I ‘ll surpass your expectations.

Educated, Under rated.

I am God’s creation.

My book has many pages

If you read beyond the cover.

LOVE is thicker than water

I’m not defined by colour. .

Moana – Our Polynesian Princess

Reviews

Moana (meaning “ocean” in many Polynesian languages) is a 3D computer animation showcasing the legends and stories of our Pacific ancestors. The creative talent is impressive. The animation filled with rich and vibrant colours. But what really sparks my childhood nostalgia, (growing up as a young girl on the other side of the world) is that Moana is a ātaahua Polynesian Princess.

Que Jaedyn Randell, the talented young wahine voicing the Maori Moana. Beating off over 250 other hopefuls, Randell shines in her debut acting performance. The first ever Disney film to be translated into Te Reo Maori.

“..I’m very proud to be a part of such a beautiful kaupapa and I’m hoping that this will support the revitalisation of our language..” Randell

Feisty, courageous and brave, Moana is a mana wahine. With no Prince Charming required, she breaks away from the traditional mold of Disney princesses. Instead, she is focused on the well being of her people, a natural voyager with a warrior spirit; every bit worthy of her heroine title.

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Moana is set around 2,000 years ago, before the intrepid voyages that discovered many of the countries making up the Pacific Islands today. This is portrayed gracefully through the blend of cultural influences we see reflected in Moana’s story. The Maori haka Maui performs before battling the lava monster; the adaptation of the Samoan legend Sina and the eel (explaining why the coconut has three eyes) and the Kakamora, cave-dwelling goblins from the mythology of the Solomon Islands, portrayed as vicious (but cute) coconut pirates. When the characters break into traditional Disney song and dance, the movements are carefully choreographed to capture the skills and grace of the Polynesian siva and hula.

Above all the common theme binding together all Pacific people through out the film, is the importance of the ocean. “Way-finding” or ocean exploration, was an integral part of ancient Polynesians’ way of living, and sparks the ignition in Moana’s epic voyage.

Moana delivers on everything magical we love about Disney, with the added sparkle of pasifika flavour. Our Polynesian culture is showcased to the world, in a sweet and charming story of a heroic young lady, definitely a cut above her predecessors in girl power.

Taika Waititi, a proud ambassador of Kiwiana , worked as both a writer and director on the original English-language version of “Moana,” After approaching Disney about translating the film into Te Reo, he and his sister, Tweedie Waititi, went on to produce the Maori language version.

“..For indigenous audiences to hear films in their own language is a huge deal, helping to normalize the native voice and give a sense of identification. It also encourages our youth to continue with their love and learning of the language, letting them know their culture has a place in the world..” Taika Waititi.

Next week marks the start of Te Wiki o te Reo Maori, a week full of activities celebrating and promoting our Maori language. Following the Hikoia te Korero (Walk the Talk) departing outside my Manukau campus of MIT, I will proudly join the crowds of people, who gather in our theater for our very special screening of Moana Reo Maori .

& so it begins

HOME PAGE

When I was a little girl, I always use to think I would grow up to be a writer. I use to enjoy dreaming up elaborate stories, writing poetry, or making newspapers for my family. But some where along the road to adulthood, the mundane tasks of going to work and paying the bills took over. Slowly my imagination gave way to conformity, and the creativity was pushed to the back of the mind; along with the realization that maybe nobody but my Grandpa was interested in my little stories.

My Grandpa was my hero. I miss his non-judgmental wisdom, his ability to see the good in the most trying of people and his unwavering faith in all my hopes and dreams. I loved to sit and talk with my Grandpa. I would follow him to the museum as he gave tours. Join him on explorations of extinct volcanoes with his geology group. Drag him to primary school to give class talks (like on how Auckland first got electricity). I would even ring him up (& occasionally get through) to chat while he was conducting his talk back radio segments.

Grandpa read a lot, and he was always writing. I use to think how clever he was when I would see his name in the newspaper or in a magazine, even on the cover of his own books. Be it his regular weekly articles, or his Sunday sermons, Grandpa always had a story to tell.

Grandpa told me my words were a gift. He always encouraged me to keep writing. He bought me my first type writer when I was still very young, and I loved it. Standing there taping away on the keys, I somehow envisioned that they validated the authenticity of my words, and made me a real writer. Every weekend when he picked us up for Sunday school, I would produce him with a piece of my writing. He would pay me a couple of dollars for it, and then proudly stick it in to a little blue notebook. (regardless of how cringe worthy they may have been, looking back on them now)

Many years later my Grandma gave me the notebook, after he had passed away. Turning the pages, I felt a huge sense of guilt that I had just stopped. That I just gave up on something that use to mean so much to me. I regret seeing the irony in now working at the very institute, I once applied to study Journalism at. (I was advised there was not enough interest in the course, and therefore they would not be running it) Nonchalantly I applied for the same course my friend was interested in, instead.

I miss the feel of Grandpa’s whiskers, when I’d rest my face against his cheek. The wrinkle of his skin when I’d entwine my fingers in his, as we went on one of our walks. I miss our random chats, his advice which never actually gave me the answer, but somehow guided me to find it my self. He was always challenging me to write my next story.

As time continues to pass me by, I suddenly find myself sitting in front of my lap top and deciding it is now or never. Just try it. Start a blog. Keep writing