Just a ramble/poem/letter thing. It might offend someone.
Once upon a time we went to the same hospital to be treated. We saw the same doctor. We were comforted by the same nurse. We laughed with the same orderly. Do you remember?
Once upon a time we went to the same school. We ate the same lunch. We sat together on the same bench. We were taught by the same teacher.
We played the same games. Sang the same songs.
Mā is white, whetu is red, kākāriki green...
You'd come over to my house. I'd go around to yours. We'd sleep in the same room, side-by-side.
We had the same government. We had the same land. We earned the same wage. The ways in which we were different from each other was not important to us.
That's been changing.
We've been trying to unpick the nation that our ancestors had sewn together. Stitch by stitch I'm losing you. You're cutting me free and pushing me away.
Free is not how I feel.
You see your own doctor now. Sometimes in the same hospital, but I read in the paper today that that will be changing soon.
Our children already go to different schools. They might eat the same lunch, but they won't sit together. They won't talk together or be taught by the same teacher.
They might play some of the same games. They might sing some of the same songs...
Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora...
You're still welcome in my house. I'm not sure if I'm welcome in yours anymore. Hone doesn't want you having relationships with me, after all.
We might still have the same government, but you have your own parties now. I think, in time, that will change too. New bills are passed every month that help to make your life easier. I'm happy for you, truly, but I feel a little bit like I've been left behind.
We still work for the same boss. I try not to notice when I do the accounts that you earn more than me now. Forgive me. I guess the interest in those 400 years that seperate our ancestor's arrivals amounted up to a fair bit.
I think we still have the same land. I'm uncertain now. You had complaints, some of which were understandable, but my ancestors bought that particular piece from yours with whisky, horses, rifles and gunpowder. You say he robbed your family. I'm willing to refund you the land, but you won't give me back what my ancestor paid. Who's robbing who?
You look at me now in a way you never used to. You look down on me and I don't know why. Can't you see my ancestors standing behind me? Do I not bring great spirits with me also?
The colour of my skin is important to you now. Where I come from, my blood, and my histories demean me in your eyes.
Snip by snip you're cutting the threads that bound us together. With mortar and stone you're building a wall between us. It's a slow decimation. It's a slow enslavement. Can you not see where this is going, or do you no longer care?
My friend, my friend, why do you beat my hands? When we were young you used to hold them.
Once upon a time we went to the same school. We ate the same lunch. We sat together on the same bench. We were taught by the same teacher.
We played the same games. Sang the same songs.
Mā is white, whetu is red, kākāriki green...
You'd come over to my house. I'd go around to yours. We'd sleep in the same room, side-by-side.
We had the same government. We had the same land. We earned the same wage. The ways in which we were different from each other was not important to us.
That's been changing.
We've been trying to unpick the nation that our ancestors had sewn together. Stitch by stitch I'm losing you. You're cutting me free and pushing me away.
Free is not how I feel.
You see your own doctor now. Sometimes in the same hospital, but I read in the paper today that that will be changing soon.
Our children already go to different schools. They might eat the same lunch, but they won't sit together. They won't talk together or be taught by the same teacher.
They might play some of the same games. They might sing some of the same songs...
Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora...
You're still welcome in my house. I'm not sure if I'm welcome in yours anymore. Hone doesn't want you having relationships with me, after all.
We might still have the same government, but you have your own parties now. I think, in time, that will change too. New bills are passed every month that help to make your life easier. I'm happy for you, truly, but I feel a little bit like I've been left behind.
We still work for the same boss. I try not to notice when I do the accounts that you earn more than me now. Forgive me. I guess the interest in those 400 years that seperate our ancestor's arrivals amounted up to a fair bit.
I think we still have the same land. I'm uncertain now. You had complaints, some of which were understandable, but my ancestors bought that particular piece from yours with whisky, horses, rifles and gunpowder. You say he robbed your family. I'm willing to refund you the land, but you won't give me back what my ancestor paid. Who's robbing who?
You look at me now in a way you never used to. You look down on me and I don't know why. Can't you see my ancestors standing behind me? Do I not bring great spirits with me also?
The colour of my skin is important to you now. Where I come from, my blood, and my histories demean me in your eyes.
Snip by snip you're cutting the threads that bound us together. With mortar and stone you're building a wall between us. It's a slow decimation. It's a slow enslavement. Can you not see where this is going, or do you no longer care?
My friend, my friend, why do you beat my hands? When we were young you used to hold them.