Out from Te Pō: My year in Rumaki Reo

FEATURE | TE AO MĀORI | MATARIKI

Written by Elise Sadlier | @elise.sadlier | Contributing Writer

Hurihia tō aroaro ki te rā tukuna, kia taka ki muri ki a koe 

Turn your face towards the sun, let the shadows fall behind you 

In ancient times, Rangi, the Sky Father, and Papa, the Earth Mother, held each other in a tight embrace. Their children dwelled in the darkness between their eclipsed bodies. They were discontent and ached for the light. Over time, their longing grew. It grew despite the weight of their parents, despite the pressing of the darkness enclosing like a black hole around them. 

It was too late; once they knew of the light, they wanted nothing but to chase it. 

This is what learning Te Reo was like: like coming in from the cold and dark. And sometimes it is—except you’re tripping over the doorstep, stubbing your toe on every corner, and you’re attempting to warm your hands around the day's fourth cup of coffee. 

pō 

1. (noun) darkness, night. 

pōnānā 

1. (verb) to be frustrated, flustered, anxious. 

During my year in Rumaki Reo, I came to understand this balance and tension between the light and the dark in Te Ao Māori; about the prominence of the kupu “Pō” in words that often carry dark or negative connotations, and the overarching metaphor of this transition from Te Pō to Te Ao Mārama. 

The night is long, but the light will come.

My first day of kura, I felt like I was going to vomit. I had been plagued for weeks by nightmares of social isolation, study link holds, and the irrational fear that someone from high school would be in my class. Despite reading the acceptance letter over 20 times, I was convinced that there had been a massive clerical error. I was sure that as soon as I dared to show my face in the classroom, everyone would see me for what I was: an impostor. 

pōwhiri 

1. (verb) to welcome, invite, beckon, wave. 

2. (noun) invitation, rituals of encounter, welcome ceremony on a marae, welcome. 

whiri 

1. (noun) flock (of birds). 

2. (verb) to twist, plait (a rope, etc.), weave, spin. 

When I scanned the crowd at the pōwhiri, I could feel my stomach sink. I could feel my body wiri as the karanga pulled us forward. We were a flock of migratory birds; of manuhiri flittering, ushered in from the night — waiting to be cast under the protective cloak of the Wānanga. 

nohopuku 

1. (verb) to be silent, quiet, inactive. 

noho 

1. (verb) to sit, stay, remain, settle, dwell, live, inhabit, reside, occupy, located. puku 

1. (noun) (anatomy) stomach, seat of emotions 

The first face I recognise pulls me into a warm embrace. He issued a wero for me: “I know you love your books bub, but you have to really listen.”

He manuka nui, kia nohopuku au. 

rumaki 

1. (verb) to immerse, drown. 

Hold tight to that waka nē? 

I had come to kura prepared to stifle my personality and maybe not be an insufferable know-it-all for once in my life. I told myself that I would not be loud in class like I usually was, or be the only tauira who put up their hand. I would try to listen and take as much in as possible. The first day in our new akomanga; PikiTūRangi (Hi!), I realised that I was surrounded by people with strong personalities who were unafraid to speak up. Where in some environments Māori people are considered “loud” and “disruptive” all while laughing like a kēhua, I was around people who, at the very least, matched my intensity. 

I didn’t know that my brain had the capacity to hold that much new information. Each day we drilled kupu hou with mahi ā-ringa, stringing rākau whaikano into sentences, and sang waiata until we lost our voices. Then I’d go home, draw the curtains, and sit in the dark of my room. My mind was saturated, flooded with kupu. I had always been an academic overachiever, but for the first time, I felt truly stupid. Some of my classmates could stand and give whaikōrero after only a week, while I was still mixing up te and ngā, fumbling over pronouns. The kōrero washed over me. The more I learned, the more I realised I did not know. 

Sitting in a circle, we went around the class and each took a turn to speak. Constantly writing and trying to find the right order for the words, the kōrero passes to me. I shake my head, set my jaw and say, “Next.” 

pōuri 

1. (verb) to be dark, sad, disheartened, mournful, sorry, remorseful. 

uri 

1. (noun) offspring, descendant, relative, kin, progeny, blood connection, successor.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit my pōuritanga and my whakamā didn’t constantly follow me like a shadow. 

Over a year before, I had been fussing over the enrollment, reading the expectations for the course: 80% attendance, 30-hour weeks - the expectation that by the end of the year I would stand and kōrero māori - and māori only—for one hour. There was an urgency I had to confront this thing. I had decided if I was going to do it, like most things in my life, I was all in. Baptism by fire. 

And ultimately, it meant confronting the unrelenting question that had been following me for years: 

How can you even call yourself Māori? 

I had hang-ups to be sure, ones that were deep-seated and ached in the back of my mind. I felt like my life needed context, like people needed the full picture to understand, and therefore not judge the way I felt separated from my māoritanga. How could I call myself Māori when I had never been welcomed on my own marae, let alone stay there— I could barely string together a single sentence. I stammered through basic karakia. I had only a handful of kupu to begin to explain my upbringing in the church and the way they denounced Te Ao Māori, the internalised racism, and imposter syndrome. Why this, why now? 

I desperately wanted people to know and validate the whakapapa of my pōuritanga, but at the same time, it felt too tapu to share. 

It still does. 

mahanahana 

1. (noun) warmth 

I’ve always been partial to the back table. It provides a safety zone, one where you can opt in or opt out of class discussion and maybe even get away with whispering to your mates in Te Reo Pākehā. When you’re just learning to speak, your conversations dry up quickly.

“Kei te pēhea koe?” 

“Kei te ngenge ahau.” 

But that’s where I made my first friends. When no one was looking, Mitch and I would build towers from the rākau whaikano, do lunch runs to Blue Rose Cafe with Wiki and Te Amo, and have after-school drinks at Wapiti. It also meant going off on side quests where necessary, and that was usually on a Monday, during whānau hui where they didn’t take the roll. 

At Takiura, parents are encouraged to bring their children, so we were blessed to have four babies in our class. Within a few weeks, I was stealing them away. They were a welcome distraction when I zoned out during lessons, and their cuddles were the highlight of my day. 

For most people, learning Te Reo really is that deep. We had tauira ranging from 23 to 80, and we all carried our reasons with us. 

It takes one generation to lose a language and three to restore it. For tangata māori, we can pinpoint these places in our whakapapa. We can recount at which point it was beaten by members of our whānau, when they went to school and had their mouths washed out with soap, and when their parents ultimately discouraged them from learning it for their own protection. When our parents didn’t have the kupu to teach it to us themselves. 

Our future generations weigh in our minds, and we prepare the way for them. In our quest, we encounter ourselves. 

“I think what you are doing is actually finding your other self, the one that’s missing.” Nanny Kaa Williams (on learning Te Reo Māori ) 

rongoā 

1. (verb) to treat, apply medicines. 

My akomanga, and learning te reo became my rongoā. The more I learned at Rumaki, the more I fell in love. I fell in love with its layers, its depths. I fell in love with the art of the mihimihi, with the poetry we wrote for one another, with the way we showed up for one another. 

Very quickly, we realised that there was no hiding. When you were expected to stand, you stood. When you were expected to speak, you spoke. When you were expected to do interpretive dances and silly whaakari, organise costumes, and write pao, stand in front of everyone at whānau hui, you did. Even if it meant stumbling, dare I say, face-planting through your reo, you needed to confront it. It was during times like these that our class became undone. Emotions running high, tension bubbling, and the shadow of whakamā hanging over all of us. I was not the only one who felt stupid, who felt like they were falling behind, who was whakamā, and pōuri and pōnānā. We were not alone. 

mārama 

1. (experience verb) to be clear, to understand. 

2. (modifier) light 

When Tane Mahuta, the God of the trees, could want the light no longer, he lay on his back; stretching out the tree trunks of his legs. With all his might, he began to push the sky from the face of the earth. His parents' embrace tightened, resistant to the force. But Tane was stronger, and finally, as their skin separated, the mārama flooded in. Where the sky had been nothing but black, it became blue. And for the first time, he and his brothers could see clearly. For the first time, they understood. 

In te reo, we draw this comparison; the idea of finally understanding something as a spark. The first light after aeons of darkness. Our realisation becomes a guiding light for us. 

Mine came as a series of sparks. 

The first spark: doing the Haka for the first time when our classmate Rachel spoke about her mamae. In response, we performed Ka Mate for her. That was the first time I had done a haka the way it was meant to be done — not choreographed, not rehearsed, but one that erupted from adrenaline, pride, and aroha.

I felt the spark of kupu, of finally grasping my foundations, understanding grammar and being able to speak from the top of my roro. In my fifth whakapuaki, I spoke for half an hour, kōrero māori anake, and the words flowed from me in a way they never had. I finally addressed my mamae and my whakamā for the first time. 

I felt the flame light during the trip to Koroneihana, where everyone around me was speaking Māori. Our class sang for Kiingi Tuheitia. Where previously I had been too nervous, I maintained a ten-minute conversation in Te Reo. 

During a class noho at Purekireki Marae, I did my first karanga. I had spent all day nervous for it, and in the moment, those nerves left me. 

That night, for the first time, I slept beneath the whakairo of Porourangi; my tipuna. I woke up to see the paua shell eyes looking down at me. 

In November, we had our graduation. A bittersweet feeling. A hundred haka were performed that day–waiata sang. Piki, my kaiako, gave me a personal mihi, and I stood to collect my diploma and hongi. I turned to walk off, truly not expecting a mihi on my behalf. But my father stood and began to sing Taku Manawa. 

Taku Manawa, ko te Tairawhiti 

He began to spin me around as everyone laughed. I could see and feel his pride at seeing his daughter chase something we had lost. 

It was a healing moment for me, full of light. 

I have a piece of paper now — a Diploma of Māori Language Fluency, Level 5 — and it’s precious to me. It’s not just a qualification; it’s a tohu of the countless hours I spent listening, crying, stumbling, laughing, and showing up anyway. It comes with the hours spent standing in front of my class while speaking a new language. It comes with Kapa Haka practices, late-night study sessions, and reminding my friends: “Kia kaha ki te kōrero Māori.”

My reo is still a work in progress — some days it feels rusty, and other days it flows like water from my ngutu. But it’s mine now. 

I didn’t expect to be fluent in a year. What I did expect — and what I found — was a doorway. A journey of healing. A deepening. A long-awaited homecoming. A fire to feed. 

Nothing came easily. Nothing was born from pure luck. It was fought for. It was carried through grief and joy, confusion and clarity, ngā piki me ngā heke, by me, my classmates, my kaiako, and everyone who came before us. 

With my friends, my whānau, and my tīpuna behind me, I turn to face the light.