Way back in 1972 as a
very new and cautious New Zealand resident I was expecting my new country to be
much the same as the one I had left, not quite as lively as London perhaps but maybe
very nearly. After all they spoke
English so it couldn’t be too different could it? The first thing I was unprepared for was that the English
spoken was quite different from the English I had left. The second surprise was the dearth of
ordinary run-of-the-mill cafes and restaurants together with the preponderance
of fish and chips and indifferent Chinese takeaways. The astonishing competence of the average
housewife to turn out gourmet meals for eight to ten at the drop of a hat was
intimidating and I was genuinely appalled at the level of alcohol regularly
consumed. Very soon spoken English
really didn’t come into the equation.
Quite early on I began to
hate the way the men looked because they loved to wear shorts, denim and linen
for weekends and horrific garments called Work Shorts for the working week, the
latter worn with neckties, long socks and highly polished shoes. I shriveled with embarrassment for the then
Mayor of Auckland, Sir Dove Myer Robinson as he was interviewed by the BBC on
some subject of great moment simply because he was wearing the obligatory Work
Shorts, blue serge from memory. Well it
was mid-week but my feeling was that he honestly should have known better
having originated in the North of England, he was British for God’s sake. Sheffield would never have tolerated such
attire and that’s a fact. When I tentatively mentioned my discomfiture
to a new Good Friend she looked at me with wide eyed bewilderment and said she
thought he looked very smart.
There were things I
admired about the country of course like the way children happily went to
school shoeless and there were no such things as School Lunches for them to
complain about and they routinely played a game called Bullrush that excited,
injured and definitely tired them out and was soon to be banned. I wasn’t nearly as keen on Lolly Scrambles
that revolved around adults hurling buckets of toffees and wine gums into the
air and all nearby under twelves launching themselves towards them to gather as
many as possible. Such odd activities
seemed to go directly against the values that had been so lovingly instilled by
the London pre-school my son had attended. Strange new customs, whether I liked
them or loathed them proved to have nothing to do with the reassuring English
the locals were said to speak and very nearly did.
Once I became a New
Zealand mother of locally born pre-school children and had semi-adjusted I
ventured towards an organisation called Playcentre where I met a range of new
Good Friends, Geraldine in particular who coming from Hungary via Melbourne was
definitely not local and with whom therefore I felt quite comfortable. Unlike London pre-schools where the idea was that mothers deposit their children to play whilst they go off to shop or drink
coffee together, Playcentre, founded in 1941 with branches throughout the
country was a totally different kettle of fish and definitely much more of a
commitment. It demanded to be taken
seriously and if you proved your mettle you might even find yourself being
invited onto the Committee. New Zealanders seemed to really love Committees. To be
fair none of this was completely obvious at first but it was rapidly realised
that those taking part were under an obligation to grow with their children and
perhaps even gain a Certificate in Early Childhood Education as they did so
because another thing that loomed large in those days was Certificates. Well one of the reasons was that mothers did
not work outside of the home.
Although much of what New
Zealand offered at that stage seemed to have come from an earlier time and was
not to every new immigrant’s taste, and there was still no sign of an Indian or
Thai restaurant in either Auckland or Wellington, we outsiders were surprisingly
in accord when it came to the indigenous culture of the country. We found it as exotic as the Early Settlers
undoubtedly did and in the latter part of the 1970s it was Geraldine who
suggested we should make an attempt to learn the Maori language. The
particular Playcentre we were now members of had close connections to the local
Marae which had further stimulated our interest of course and we had by this
time become totally involved in and absorbed by the philosophy of the Playcentre
organisation. My London cohorts would
not have recognised me at this point.
At
that time the first language of the local Maori people seemed to be English
though my GP husband claimed to have several elderly patients who only spoke
Maori. However, a certain amount of the
language had already been absorbed by osmosis as a large number of words and
phrases were already frequently heard within New Zealand English. We embarked
upon the venture with great enthusiasm which sadly waned within a month or two as
it became clear that a formal approach did not suit our particular learning
needs. Geraldine even said she thought
we might be Slow Learners in the old-fashioned sense but whatever the reason we
switched our fervour in the direction of a course of lectures called something
like The New Zealand Child in Home and Family.
Now, forty years on, with
Maori language much more to the forefront it seems pertinent to wonder how much
we might have learned had we stuck to the original task rather than gratefully
dropping out at the first hurdle. Or would
we in fact have been better supported to be daily exposed to words,
phrases and casual bits and pieces of conversation in all aspects of modern
media as we are today whether we like it or not – and some of us certainly do
not. Jessica even says that it’s language learning
by stealth and is forced upon us like it or not. But quite honestly if only French could have
been presented similarly back in the Wombwell Hall days when I was really
struggling with it my life could have been made much less stressful.
Though I defend it I can’t honestly recall
when this current partial immersion and envelopment of New Zealand society in the
language actually began and it’s very clear that I paid no heed to any of the
prior discussion as I would certainly have done all those years ago. Whenever the significant decision to plunge
us all into language learning was made though, it does seem to have happened
quite precipitously and coincided neatly and fortuitously with the Covid
pandemic which anyone with any sense would have foreseen was going to keep us
at home with half an eye on the tv at all times.
Though that can’t be totally accurate because
more than a few years ago I already knew I lived in Aotearoa and my family could
be described as my Whanau. But it wasn’t
until the Virus was all around us that I learned my city of residence was Tamaki
Makaurau, however, when there was a break-out from a quarantine hotel and the
escapees were said to be prowling the streets of that unfamiliar sounding place. I wondered where on earth it was – and how I
could have lived here for 49 years and had never heard of it previously.
I’ve come a long way in
the last couple of years and now know that my children were at one time my
tamariki and should I ever have a grandchild it will be my mokopuna together
with a range of vocabulary I would have been proud of back in 1978 despite the
lack of an accompanying certificate. Like it or not you have to admit this present
language learning strategy is definitely working!
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