I stand on the hill and before me a dance troupe, performing the ubiquitous haka, is on show, on display, but in control. I revel in a feeling of blending in. Everywhere, in this place where I am used to standing out, everywhere are faces like mine. Almost but not quite. Everywhere are people like me, caught somewhere in between what white people like to say is 'two cultures'. But for us in the middle we're stuck only between two expectations that make sense of us, for us.
"Look at their beautiful Island hair - I love how they grow it long. Look at the beautiful Island girls with their hair pulled back." She says, as though speaking a thought.
"Sooo... Islander!" She says it again.
It leaves me feeling, with a sense of wonder, that I am being made privy to what white people say when they think they're alone. And she says it to me.
It's then that all I begin to see are people who are 'real'. The more I see, the more I feel like a thumb beginning to smart. All around me are people who know who they are, who grew up with a culture that matches their skin. They're not stuck between two worlds, they're straddling them. Being stuck between two worlds is all about being a mis-match. When your world doesn't match your colour. I'm brown but grew up white. But being brown I'll never be white. And being white of course, I'll never be brown.
When I get home from watching the dancing I stand in front of the mirror and pull my hair back and pin it tight on the top of my head. It makes my eyes look smaller than they should be. And it makes my Island-nose and my cheeks look broader. Mis-matched and strange. My hair is too short so the bun is small and mean. I look at it on the side. Do I look real?
This morning I sit out in the sun. Ten minutes and my skin has darkened two shades. At home they are buying skin 'brighteners'. Ten years ago they were called skin 'lighteners'. My cousins look at me and see white, money, and distance. I look at them and see belonging, identity and beautiful dark skin. So I get as much sun as I can. It makes me feel real to be brown. And then at least I can fool some white people and perhaps through them make myself feel brown. But only just. It's a tenous grip that can be ripped, ripped away by a focussed gaze.
"Look at their beautiful Island hair - I love how they grow it long. Look at the beautiful Island girls with their hair pulled back." She says, as though speaking a thought.
"Sooo... Islander!" She says it again.
It leaves me feeling, with a sense of wonder, that I am being made privy to what white people say when they think they're alone. And she says it to me.
It's then that all I begin to see are people who are 'real'. The more I see, the more I feel like a thumb beginning to smart. All around me are people who know who they are, who grew up with a culture that matches their skin. They're not stuck between two worlds, they're straddling them. Being stuck between two worlds is all about being a mis-match. When your world doesn't match your colour. I'm brown but grew up white. But being brown I'll never be white. And being white of course, I'll never be brown.
When I get home from watching the dancing I stand in front of the mirror and pull my hair back and pin it tight on the top of my head. It makes my eyes look smaller than they should be. And it makes my Island-nose and my cheeks look broader. Mis-matched and strange. My hair is too short so the bun is small and mean. I look at it on the side. Do I look real?
This morning I sit out in the sun. Ten minutes and my skin has darkened two shades. At home they are buying skin 'brighteners'. Ten years ago they were called skin 'lighteners'. My cousins look at me and see white, money, and distance. I look at them and see belonging, identity and beautiful dark skin. So I get as much sun as I can. It makes me feel real to be brown. And then at least I can fool some white people and perhaps through them make myself feel brown. But only just. It's a tenous grip that can be ripped, ripped away by a focussed gaze.
