Sticking with my language journey

Making the decision to learn te reo Māori is often the easy bit. Sticking with it is much tougher.

Here’s Renee Karena on starting her journey later in life and reaping many rewards along the way.

 

At 42, I became a student of te reo through kurapō, night school. I could already say my pepeha, and I knew a few words like “haere atu”, because it’s what Dad would say when the dog snuck inside the house: “Get out!” But really, I started from the beginning.

I’m lucky to be connected to marae on both sides of my whakapapa. Not everyone has that, and I feel for those who don’t. Growing up, I went countless times to my marae, Te Pai o Hauraki in Paeroa and Te Tahaawai in Kaeo.

But I didn’t understand what was being said in the pōhiri. The kaikaranga always seemed serious and sad. The men on the paepae appeared to be saying something meaningful. The reaction of others who spoke te reo was all I had to go on for some modicum of understanding.

Seven years on from my first reo class, I’m still going.

Still going because I’m learning about karanga. I know now that the kaikaranga is sad and serious because she is invoking te ao wairua, the spiritual realm. She is delving into a very sacred part of Māori culture.

Still going because I can finally understand what the kaikōrero are saying. In one kōrero alone, I’ve heard the speaker connect to every single person in the room either by reciting that person’s whakapapa or through good old-fashioned storytelling.

Still going because I’m realising how creative our people are in expressing ourselves. In one of my class assessments, I was required to do a pao, a short impromptu song to support the kaikōrero. I had to make it up on the spot. Nil preparation.

So, I’m still going on my language journey because there’s always something to learn, some challenge to overcome, something or someone to research, some hapa or mistake to fix. He haerenga mutunga kore. It is a journey without end.

I’m now on the cusp of graduating from Te Pīnakitanga ki te Reo Kairangi through Te Whare Wānanga o Aotearoa. My story is likely similar to other Māori in my age group. I missed the boat for Te Kōhanga Reo and Te Kura Kaupapa Māori — they came after my time. And we didn’t have the strongest reo Māori programme at my high school, which was an all-girls school in Auckland.

When I started out, I didn’t have a language plan. I went to my first lesson because I heard some colleagues talk about the fun they were having in a class, which happened to be up the road from work. I’m a lawyer practising at the Manukau District Court. The classes were for beginners and were taught in Lambie Drive through NorthTec. Even though it was rumaki reo, total immersion, and I was freaked out by that, my FOMO got the better of me. So one night, I tagged along.

The kaiako (teachers) spoke the Ngāpuhi dialect. I’m Ngāpuhi, so that appealed to me. They were sisters, Vivien Nathan and Del Evans, who were kind and patient. They were patient simply by virtue of their personalities, but also because they’re trained in the learning method of Te Ataarangi. A philosophy of Te Ataarangi is that students must never be corrected outright for their hapa, or mistakes. The belief is that, in time, with help and guidance, the answer will come.

I experienced that — sitting in a circle and not getting it — while everyone else got it. But eventually, I got it, too. I struck it lucky with my first class. My classmates became whānau.  They were all down-to-earth people from all walks of life. He waka eke noa. We were first-timers to rumaki reo on the waka together, soaking up new information for four hours every Thursday night.

I had no idea during that first class that I was about to embark on a path that would see me return to the classroom every year. I’d finish at one language institution and move to another. I became a kura reo (language school) junkie. Kura reo brought me lessons from home — the dialect, pūrakau, waiata, tikanga and haka from home. Having grown up in Auckland, these things connected me to my rohe. I felt compelled to keep returning to the classroom and kura reo.

How easy is learning te reo in a total immersion environment? It ain’t easy! Yes, there are fun games and waiata. Singing waiata is cathartic and makes me feel good. And yes, you get to widen your circle and form good friendships. But the reality is that learning te reo can be a hard gig.

Grammar has been my weak spot. I don’t see the formula straight away, and I have to write things down many times before they sink in. I’ve felt dumb when others get it, and the kaiako has moved on to the next structure while I’m still stuck on the previous exercise. In my experience, the engineers in the class tend to be grammar gods. They can see the structure of a sentence straight away. But for someone like me, there’s no quick fix to learning grammar. You have to work at it in your own time. I’ve spent many hours in my home office writing out structures. Study groups are helpful for going over the structures together.

How has having te reo helped me? Understanding what’s being said on marae continues to be a real eye-opener. I leave classes and noho marae happy because my cup is full from learning about our culture.

I work in a high-pressure job, and te reo has become a form of wellness. I’ve made solid friendships — we only use te reo with each other, and I enjoy that.

I’ve been put in situations that force me outside my comfort zone. Doing whakaari, skits, all in reo Māori, is an example of that. What if I make a mistake and get the kupu wrong? Added to that is the pressure of putting something worthwhile together in a short time while working as a team. If that sounds like a recipe where strong personalities clash, well, it is.

Over the years, I’ve learned to relax and not take these challenges too seriously. A whakaari is not the Oscars. Having to stand and present your aromatawai (assessment) in front of a room full of people is daunting but also confidence-building.

Not all of it has been pretty. That’s why you often hear the saying Ngā piki me ngā heke — the highs and lows when you’re learning te reo. There is the whakamā, shame, that you feel when you make mistakes in class. Even with the kindest kaiako and classmates in the world, the whakamā is real, and not something that someone else can fix for you.

Then there’s sometimes the snobbery in other students. Those who whakaputa mōhio, who know it all. They think and behave like their reo is superior to yours, and they only want to converse with proficient speakers. Don’t let this behaviour put you off. Surround yourself with classmates who support your journey. Offer support in return and get through it together because that is the spirit of mahitahi, teamwork.

What’s beyond the classroom?

There are master’s programmes. But for a more relaxed vibe, simply meeting up with your classmates and only using te reo is just as rewarding as classroom learning.

I’m part of a group that walks in Hobsonville. We take a two-hour hīkoi, speaking only te reo, and top it off with a beer at the local. Send voicenotes to your mates in te reo. There are so many resources online — make use of them.

Although there is always something more to learn, and always mistakes to fix, I recently decided to mark my time as a student of te reo by receiving a kurawaka — a forearm tattoo.

I found a kaitā, tattooist, from the same rohe as me. Keanu Manuel of Tutamure Arts has whakapapa to Hauraki, Ngāti Porou and Ngāti Kahungunu. He is raukura, a graduate of Te Wharekura o Manaia. I told him about my kaupapa before the big day, and we went from there.

Central to the design are many lines. They represent every kupu, every kīwaha (idiom), every whakataukī (proverb) and every kupu whakarite (metaphor) that I’ve learned and am yet to learn. The kōwhaiwhai acknowledge Hauraki, done in the particular style that is seen throughout marae in my rohe.

It amazes me that someone I hadn’t met before was able to get it so right. The kumara is not supposed to speak of its own sweetness, but I’ve been speaking about my kurawaka because I love what it represents.

Over three and a half hours, I felt every line, every turn and every curve of the needle. It was ridiculously painful.

I tried not to think of my pain. Instead, I thought about people who weren’t allowed to speak te reo. That is pain.

I thought about the reality of our most vulnerable communities and whānau who will never get the opportunity to immerse themselves in te reo. That is pain.

I thought of the Māori language petition and the women and men behind the reo revitalisation movement. That is gain.

I thought of an Indian woman who was behind me in the aisle of Woolworths recently.  Through a strong accent, she told her daughter: “Please āwhina me because Whaea said we all need to āwhina each other.”

When I’m surrounded by reo, when I can hear and understand, that is gain.

 

Renee Karena (Ngāpuhi, Hauraki, Ngāti Maniapoto) has worked as a barrister for 15 years, specialising in criminal defence. She is currently writing her grandmother’s biography.   

E-Tangata, 2025