“Every day that I haven’t taken them to their marae adds up. It builds a mountain of guilt and inertia that gets harder to cross.”

Kim Mcbreen was adopted into a Pākehā family and grew up at the opposite end of the country from her marae. Like many Māori who’ve been disconnected from their whānau and whakapapa, she’s been trying to reconnect.

I’ve never lived near my marae. I’ve only visited a handful of times, and never as a worker. My last trip back was for my aunty’s tangihanga, well over 10 years ago, not long before my first child was born. Now my partner and I have two kids, and neither has ever visited the marae I’ve taught them to name in their pepeha.

Every day that I haven’t taken them to their marae adds up. It builds a mountain of guilt and inertia that gets harder to cross. Useless. Another day more useless.

Another day teaching my kids that whakapapa is just memorising words and names of places and people we don’t know. Somehow those days have grown to the size of an 11-year-old and a five-year-old. Somehow I’ve gone grey, and still, no one at my marae knows me or my children.

I know how slack that is.

In my head, I’ve been planning a trip to my marae for years, telling my partner it’s a priority. But all these years and we haven’t made it yet. There are always reasons to put it off. It’s a long way to go (it couldn’t be further). I don’t know who to talk to or how to go about it. Do I think there’ll be a day when it feels easier?

I’m adopted, and I grew up about as far away from my marae as is possible on these motu. That’s not just an excuse, it’s a reality of colonisation forcing itself between me and my whānau. Like so many of us, disconnection is part of my whakapapa.

I want to move down and join in. I know it’s the right thing to do. I’ve watched friends choose to go home and build relationships that should have been their birthright. I’ve seen them push through shame to do the work so their kids will have that birthright. Whakapapa. Start now, build, layer upon layer upon layer. Like a Sara Lee pastry.

It is time to make a start. Past time. I am finally organising a trip to my marae, introducing my children to the whenua and landmarks of our pepeha. Hopefully, a step towards reconnecting.

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Ko Hananui te mauka, ko Te Ara a Kewa te moana, ko Te Rau Aroha te marae, ko Anglem, ko Pōtiki kā whānau. I adopted ahau. I tipu ake ai au i Whangārei i roto i taku whānau Pākehā. Kāore rawa au i te mōhio ki tōku mauka, tōku moana, tōku marae. Kāore rawa ēra i te mōhio ki au.

Mō tātou, ā, mō kā uri ā muri ake nei, me timata anō. Me hono, me whakapapa kia tāngata whenua ai ngā uri rā. Pea. He tūmanaako ia.

So I booked this trip a few months ago and wrote to my marae to try to connect with someone. And I wrote again. Over and over, trying different addresses. For months no response. Which I get. Who has time for someone they’ve never met or heard of, who’s trying to “connect”? It’s a marae, not a tourist stop, and no one’s employed to be our tour guide.

It reminded me of a whakataukī Huia Winiata shared with me about pepeha and the importance of showing up to do the work: “Ahakoa he uri nō te tupuna, kāore anō kia rongo i te pīrau ki te kāinga.” What I took from his explanation was a reminder that all relationships have obligations. And here I am, first time in years contacting my marae, and I’m asking what they can do for me.

Kāore anō kia rongo i te pīrau. I haven’t done the mahi.

So maybe we won’t get to visit the marae. It’s not ideal, but it’s okay. At least my kids will see the whenua, the mauka and moana of their pepeha. See the marae from the road, see the island from the lookout. Feel the smooth rocks, the heavy ocean, the cold, cold wind.

Two days before we leave, someone who can help gets back to me. We hastily organise a sly visit, no whakatau, just a look around. It’s still a great start.

When we get to the wharenui, I realise I am not prepared. My memory grapples against time. All the stories my aunty shared with me, all the pou whose names I can’t remember. I don’t even have notes.

And still, my children have seen our marae. They don’t even care yet about the names of the tekoteko, or why we have three. They don’t miss the stories I couldn’t share about the wharekai or the wharenui.

But they saw the photo of their taua, Aunty Bessie. They saw the whakairo and tukutuku their pōua and taua contributed to. They know the shape of the whenua, the smell of the moana. They have looked from Motu-pōhue to Hananui. Touched the fine-grained stone.

And we will be back.

“I am finally organising a trip to my marae, introducing my children to the whenua and landmarks of our pepeha. Hopefully, a step towards reconnecting.” Pictured, Kim’s five-year-old, on the path to Motu-pōhue lookout, Bluff.

As we drive north, the kids complain about all the time in the car. Every time we release them, they burst out, more rowdy and rambunctious. We stop at playgrounds and tourist spots. I know so little of this whenua that is supposed to be home. I wish we knew more — more people, more meaningful places to visit, more stories. Why am I dragging them on this long drive through my ignorance and disconnection?

Finally, we arrive in Christchurch, and there’s another piece worrying at my mind.

We’re visiting my aunt and uncle, who have always been generous and welcoming. But still, I am bringing whanaunga who they haven’t met yet, who I should have brought sooner. Small, restless, full-on whanaunga.

I will meet a cousin and his family for the first time. It’s only a couple of days, but I’ve dragged my children to too many places already and they’re over it. We are all exhausted. Will it be too much for them? Will we be too much for our whanaunga?

I should have guessed that this would be the highlight of our trip. Why was I worried about our kids? They are more charming than I could ever be. Effortlessly connecting in ways more real than I had imagined.

They are too young to care about mountains, oceans and buildings. They care about people, and the people those people care about, and the places they go.

That’s what ties us to people, places and objects. Our kaumātua used to take care of this, using tikanga like whāngai and taumau to pull the threads of whakapapa back in when they got loose. Now I have to work it out for our wee whānau, and I’ve learned something important from this trip.

It is people, it is people, it is people.

Relationships, connection, memories, stories. This is the real start. Each layer building on and cementing the ones before. There is so much to be done, but the relationships that matter most are with each other.

The lists of names and places can wait for now. At least for the kids.

Kim Mcbreen is Waitaha, Kāti Māmoe, Ngāi Tahu and Pākehā. She was adopted and grew up in her Pākehā family in Whangārei. She lives with her partner and two children in a small coastal town.

E-Tangata, 2024