E oho! Mana takatāpui

Speakers

Fiona Lam Sheung, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, Lynne Russell, Kassie Hartendorp, Kevin Haunui, Nate Rowe

Welcome

Fiona Lam Sheung:

Kia ora e te whānau

And thank you National Library for a warm welcome. We're really pleased to see so many people here in the whare, especially because Wellington is freezing today. How cold is it? Yeah it's cold, it is below 10 degrees. So for all of those who are in the house, we thank you for making the time to come out today.

In this moment, I also want to say thank you to Kevin, who is on the screen looking handsome. And it doesn't add even 10 kgs on this man. So thank you Kevin. Also my accolades to Tīwhanawhana.

Coming out of my days, these women held my hand, looked after me, and created a community that I felt safe in. Inclusive. So it's funny how full circles come around and I find myself back in the spaces of our sisterhood. So thank you.

Performing up here is not easy. Just being up here is not easy. But these experts are going to show you how easy it is.

So just before we launch in to today, the event falls into two kind of areas — gay liberation, which Te Awekotuku, you're gonna share some great stories with us there. And then we're going to look at what that looks like in current environment.

We also have questions in the webinar. So if you're joining us online, tap your questions in. I'm not promising that all questions will be answered or relayed. But if you are in our audience here in the whare, just raise your hands and we'll see how that goes.

We're going to be organic in our delivery today. So where the conversation takes us is where we're going to go. If it goes to an unsafe place —because this is a very safe place — we're just going to say our safe word, which is 'purple pants', and we're going to stop the conversation. We'll just redirect it. Hopefully no one has purple pants on today, or they'll make you stand up. But that's not really keeping you that safe, is it?

So without further ado, we're going to go first to the man on the screen, Kevin, to do a introduction of yourself. Thank you, Kevin.

Introductions — Kevin

Kevin Haunui: Kia ora. Kia ora, Fi. Kia ora, Ngahuia. Kia ora, Lynne. Kia ora, Kassie.

It's my honor really to be speaking at this particular forum. And I guess if there are any messages that I wanted to have a kōrero about, was really just questioning the, you know, I think the brief was how I took it up, we paved the way for gay liberation, and of course, typically, I looked at what the impact of gay liberation means today through my lens.

And I'm thinking "Oh, perhaps takatāpui paved the way for gay liberation by just being who we are. Just being, knowing who we are. Knowing who our whanau are, knowing our whakapapa, knowing the ways of our world. Because, in my view, gay liberation was basically catching up with where we ought to have been.

And so, there are issues that of course affected takatāpui, and I think, through my lens at the moment, it was an opportunity to leverage that opportunity, to declare who we were, but also, that we are Māori, and inextricably linked to being Māori.

So, you know that was, for me, did we pave the way for gay liberation? I'm thinking that gay liberation had an opportunity to catch up with the world as it has always been for us as Māori. So that was something I thought about, quite succinctly, in terms of how we are today. Again, I think just being who we are.

But we've had to create spaces also to enable our community to build, to enable us to recognize ourselves. We've had some really challenging experiences and I'm just a newbie on the block, really. But the ones that I do remember, particularly around the Destiny Church March, caused me to think about how that was challenging myself as an individual takatāpui and what that was saying about me as Māori, or what people might have been saying about me as well.

And so, you know, I wrote a song in response to that called He takatāpui noa ahau which, in the first instance, was to highlight that we were in every part of our society, in every part of our culture, whether we were speakers, whether we were singers, artists. We carried all the memories, whether we were sentries, you know we were everywhere.

And so to me, I was trying to, I guess, reflect back to myself that, yes we are a valued part of our community and we need to be reminded about that so that we don't get, you know, caught up in the vitriolic of the day, which was trying to isolate and attack people of varied sexual orientations, the way we might express our gender, the way that we might identify ourselves within our gender, and even, you know, that our sexual characteristics are all not necessarily exactly the same. That type of thing.

So being part of Tīwhanawhana, who provided some tautoko, kia ora whānau, you know, that was an opportunity for us to create spaces, to build community, takatāpui community, our wider links to our rainbow communities, our wider links to our Māori communities, all those sorts of things, and to be able to tell our own stories. So for me, those are some of the ways that I think we have taken advantage of what gay liberation, so to speak, brought about. But to me, it was also about being Māori, and being takatāpui. So I throw that in there as bit of a my speak.

You know, Tīwhanawhana comes from this korero called Tīwhanawhana ai he kahukura i te rangi. And the way that I've always understood that phrase was that a rainbow was forming in the sky. And so, for me, the sky represented the whole of humanity, and that Tīwhanawhana ai he kahukura i te rangi was about us as takatāpui coming to claim our place within society, as equal members of society. And that's how I saw also what gay liberation was possibly about. As equal members of society, free in our sexual orientation, free to be who we are. But the difference is, I think, as takatāpui and being Māori, we also understood, as Māori, our collective responsibilities and our connection to whanau, to Papatūānuku, all of those things that are very important for our well-being.

Nō reira ka mutu i konei, tēnā koutou katoa.

Fiona Lam Sheung: Kia ora, Kevin. Such a beautiful introduction into our korero today. Also about Tīwhanawhana and the spectrum. Isn't it interesting how the spectrum is used for lots of terms today.

But if you live in Pōneke, and you want to join kapa haka, well join Tīwhanawhana. It's on every Monday night, 6:30. They have a web page, so click the link. Join. Join this group, be inclusive, learn our waiata, and be invited to gigs like this.

Introductions — Kassie

I am going to hand over the rakau, well the mike rakau to Kassie.

Oh, you've got one.

Kassie Hartendorp: Kia ora tātou. Tēnā koe Nate, mō tō karakia me te mihi i tēnei wā. Tēnā kōrua Reuben, ko Tānia me ngā kaiwhakahaere o National Library mō tō kaihautūtanga me te kaiwhakahaeretanga i tēnei wā, ngā mihi nui ki a koutou Tīwhanawhana, āe, aroha nui ki a koutou. Ko wai au, i te taha o tōku pāpa nō Ingarangi, nō Kōterani nō Itāria ahau. I te taha o tōku māmā, ko Tararua te maunga, ko Hokio te awa, ko Tainui te waka, ko Ngāti Raukawa ki te Tonga te iwi, ko Ngāti Pareraukawa te hapū, ko Ngātokowaru te marae. I te taha o tōku māmā whāngai, nō Ingarangi ahau. I te taha o tōku pāpā whāngai, nō Hōrani, Holland ahau, me te ingoa Hartendorp. Āe ko Kassie Hartendorp tōku ingoa.

Kia ora tātou, my name is Kassie and I whakapapa to a few different places, and just acknowledging my many families that bring me here, and to the people who've created this event. It's a real joy to be able to sit here. I think if Kevin is a baby then I don't know what that makes me. So I'm feeling like have I even been conceived yet? (Laughter) At this point.

And I guess — Kevin, man, like you always just go straight to the heart, to the ngako of the kōrero, nē. Just right there and bringing it forward and revealing about what this is all about. And so I guess in response to that, what I want to say is that, you know, if it weren't for the people who were in this room, on this call, opening our waiata, if it wasn't for the people here, well I certainly wouldn't be in this room.

To me the the kupu takatāpui has always meant more than this kind of Pākehā idea of, you know, oh we are who we are, we choose who we love, or our identity in this very kind of narrow sense. Takatāpui has always been more than that for me. It has been about whakapapa. And it is about whakapapa who, yes, you come from, but it's also the people who nourish you and feed you and look after you.

Nē? Like Fi, what you were talking about before, most certainly people like Kevin, and people like Chanel and Renee who are here at the front. If it wasn't for them looking after me when I was a young one in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, I wouldn't be here.

And so takatāpui has always been about the collective. It's about bigger than just us as individuals. It goes beyond space and time. It stretches into the past, into the present, but also into the future as well, because I think we often don't talk about how takatāpui also our own whakapapa and our own whanau and our own families.

And so, yeah, I'm proud to have, I guess, received this tradition, this kōrero, that was never offered. It was reclaimed, it was taken, it was held on to, it was resisted, it was — I mean, the picture before of Te Awekotuku, just the fierceness in your eyes in that picture, it's that. It is that. And so I just want to mihi to everyone here who has been a part of keeping takatāpui alive as it is today. Kia ora.

Fiona Lam Sheung: And this is why she is on that panel. Isn't she lit? I mean you bring us full circle even though you are the youngest on this panel. So kia ora. We speak about freedom. That's what Kevin spoke about, Cassie, it's all about freedom — freedom to be who you are.

Introductions — Lynne

I'm going to hand the rakau over to Lynne.

Lynne Russell: Tēnā rā koutou katoa. Te mea tuatahi he mihi atu ki te hau kāinga, ki ngā mana whenua, tēnā rā koutou. Ki ngā kaiwhakahaere, tēnā kōrua, tēnā koutou. Ki te whānau o Tīwhanawhana ka nui te aroha ki a koutou. Ki ngā whaea ki ngā tāne ki ngā tāngata ka nui te mihi aroha. Ki aku hoa mā, tēnā rā koutou katoa. Ko wai au? He uri tēnei o Kāi Tahu, Ngāti Kahungunu, Ngāti Porou. Ki Te Waipounamu, Ko Aoraki te mauka, ko Waitaki te awa, ko Takitimu te waka, ko Kāi Te Ruahikihiki te hapū, ko Tākou te marae. Ki Te Ika-a-Māui, nō Takapau taku pāpā, ko Rākautātahi taku marae, Ko Ngāti Mārau me Kikinoterangi ōku hapū, Ko Lynne tōku ingoa.

Kia ora koutou. I'm not sure why Kevin started us off on that way and telling us he was the baby because, honestly, I have spent a couple of days moaning in Awe's ear that, "Why am I on this panel?" Like, I'm not sure what I have to say. So I thought I'd just throw a whole lot of things out there, to begin with.

The reason I say that is because, as I've expressed, and as Kassie has already explained, I feel like I'm a recipient of the — I'm an end user, I'm one of the lucky ones, who has been able to come through on the hard graft of people in this room. You know, the rangatira, who've paved the way for us.

I feel like I need to get some context to that a little bit. So — I didn't know where to throw this in so I'm just going to go straight for the — (Laughter)

In my previous life.

When the homosexual law reform was being fought for, I worked in Scripture Union Bookshop. I know right, you didn't know this, right eh? And so now it's coming out. I sold Bibles. I was really good at it. I knew every version of the Bible there was. And, you know, I was so good at it that I had been able to take over the buying and selling of all the music, because Christian music, man I knew it back then.

I also — this is the part that's scary, oh God. I used to be in the Salvation Army. I know that nobody really knows that. This is usually a party game eh. Tell me one thing — tell us three things about you that no one knows and guess which one's a lie. No one ever picks that. But it's the truth. And it's part of my truth.

And, you know, I describe myself these days as a storyteller. And I'm really passionate about that because, you know, if we don't tell our story someone else will tell them for us and, if there's one thing that really, you know, gets me going, it's when other people define me or define us and tell my story, or tell our stories differently than how we know them to be.

So that is part of my story. And yeah, that's part of my story. I am married to the most gorgeous woman from Te Āti Haunui a Pāpārangi. And I'm well aware of the fact that I can sit here so casually and say I'm married to this beautiful wahine. It is a different story than what she and others tell. And I'll just share this one story before I — (Laughter) — hand the mic over to you Awe.

On the night — oh no, on the two readings of the Marriage Amendment Act, I was sat at home and we watched. And we're both bawling our eyes out, crying like babies, but for very different reasons. And my privilege was very evident to me that night. So my darling turned to me with anger and said to me, "What fucking right do you have to cry?" And I was crying for the human rights. You know, the absolute wonder and — oh, I was so freaking happy. But she said to me, "What right do you have to cry, because you haven't had to, you know, go through the shit or lose the friends, or all that kind of stuff, or live a different life."

And that's correct. So that is the reason why, today, I felt for all those skeletons that I — I don't think I've ever disclosed that public — (Laughter) — just so you know. But it's part of my story and, as I say, storying is really important.

So my mahi is actually — I'm a researcher and my work is primarily in mental health, suicide, trauma-based research. You know, the really ugly stuff that people — that we don't really like to talk about. Which is another part of our collective story. And so that's kind of where I see my place in this world is making sure that our voices, in those spaces, are heard correctly and honored. Yeah. Kia ora.

Fiona Lam Sheung: Kia ora Lynne, who has just renamed the series E oho — Confessions.

(Laughter)

Ladies and gentlemen, bring it on. This is what freedom and privilege allows us to do is share what those pioneers have carved for us. I mean who would have imagined, in 1972, these words would have started this movement? Who out there is crazy enough to join me? Let's start gay liberation.

Introductions — Te Awekotuku

Without further ado, I hand it over to you, Te Awekotuku.

Ngahuia Te Awekotuku: (Singing) He kura nō te ao, tēnei te kura hou, te ao takatāpui. Ki a tātou nei, Tīwhanawhana mai te kahu i te rangi. Tēnā anō tātou te hunga takatāpui.

Kia ora everyone! And kua mihia ngā mihi, kua poroporoakingia ngā poroporoaki. Heoi anō ki a koe Nate, ngā mihi kau ana mō tō hanga whakamoemiti ki ngā atua, nō reira ka mihi anō au ki a tātou katoa.

Thank you to the National Library, and to these glorious women sitting at my side.

And to those of you out there, there are at least three who remember 1970, 71, and the early days. And I actually think you should be up here with me, he kōrero takatāpui tēnei. So we're talking now about our experiences of that time.

Most of you are probably aware of what happened when I won a fellowship to the USA in 1971. And around that time, I was writing a lot and thinking a lot and entangled in the sex, drugs, and rock and roll of the various activist movements at that time. So that Ngā Tamatoa was conceived.

Women's Liberation was running hot. And of course. within that particular group, there was the fascination, the absolute erotic intrigue and sense of adventure with each other. And in the middle of all that, as a young Māori raised in a relatively traditional environment, I ended up in Auckland and I was like that. I was camp.

We always looked for each other. But I was really conscious, in the University context, I would never find one like myself. And so I ended up, and this is in the mid 60s, running with the queens and the [INAUDIBLE] girls, and the women of that time. I fell in love with Natasha. And she loved me back.

And I got into all sorts of very strange situations. And as a result of that, as a writer, I was a compulsive writer. I recorded everything. And I'd noticed stuff that was happening with my mates. And particularly, as a child growing up in a very tourist environment, with my uncles, with my uncles, with the men in the village, with various human beings who impacted on my life in a really major Way.

So I thought about why should we be invisible. And being described as a stroppy show-off, I wanted to make a noise about that. So I did. And also though, in those days — and this is something that people don't really think about now because it's a totally different era — University study was funded by government. And all you had to do was pass your exams. And pass them well. And then you got your fees paid. And if you were extra good, you got a boarding allowance as well. And if you were a teacher's college student, you got a salary.

Now this is another world. But it was a world of privilege in which we had the time and the energy to get into political activism. We don't have that now. The kids don't have that now. But we had it. So I think at that time too, we took the responsibility and we made a noise.

And part of that was applying for things like the USA Student Leader Grant, which I got — which I applied for and I got. And of course they found out I was the Māori girl writing all this absolutely scurrilous nonsense about being gay and proud and stuff. Or actually, no. In the beginning you saw on the screen a paragraph from a piece I did for Craccum in July 1971 called 'Lesbianism: the Elegance of Unfettered Love'.

(Laughter)

And it was a full two pages. A few months later in March I interviewed Germaine Greer. And most of that was actually deleted. The printers wouldn't print it. But that's another story about Aotearoa and sexualities.

Remembering Them

Anyway, what I wanted to do today is just read you a story. Rather than talk about myself. And it's a story that came out around the time I reprinted my book, Tahuri. And it's — I'll just read it. And it'll kind of tell you about how I grew up and who I grew up with and where I grew up. And I didn't mark it so I've got to fumble about, sitting in the library, looking for a page.

The name of the story is Remembering Them.

Oh God, I can't find it. Sorry, I should get someone to — no, no I'm good. Ah, 139.

“The Last Post floated over the water, faint notes folding into the steam. Remembering them at dawn. Princess was supervising the cream cans. His real name was Pirirākau. But close relations, we called him Princess. Willowey, sleek, but always fashionable. Though this morning's outfit was more The Working Man. Gumboots, pressed jeans, and a bulky olive swandri, hair smoothed down beneath its hood. Tiny sleepers twinkled in his ear lobes.

He examined the nine bottles of rum. Six Corubas, two Plantations, a classic Captain Morgan. All donations, three for each can. The nephews, Eru and Ra, heaved the large metal containers out of the concrete steam boxes and placed them on a low slat table in the kitchen. Their young arms bulged with effort; the liquids sloshed.

The milk was scalding hot from 15 minutes in the thermal steam box. Perfect. Eru had the valves exactly set right. Princess, both hands wrapped in old tea towels, carefully removed the first lid, then peeled the protective cloth off his fingers. Whiteness bubbled and hissed, then settled as he poured two bottles of Bushells coffee and chicory with a swift precision. Eru, a sturdy youth, folded the mix with a long wooden paddle, breathing in the fierce fumes, when his auntie uncle emptied the rum into the gaping metal mouth and took the stirrer from him. Strong, brown, sinewy hands blended the rich aromatic liquid.

They repeated the process two more times, re-fastening each lid. The cans were set together in a straight line, ready for the coffee pots and the small kettles. Ra had wandered off. Eru stayed and watched. Most days, she's my Auntie Princess. But today, he's my Uncle Pirirākau. He whispered to himself, proud. Doing the special coffee to warm the koros up at the ANZAC service after the path.

It was still dark outside. Heavy clouds hung close upon the surface of the Ruapeka, hiding the soldiers' cemetery that hunkered low in the shallows across the lagoon. The activity had shifted, in well-disciplined and somber ranks, to the marae of Paretehoata.

Tables outside, tables inside; plates of crackers, cabin bread, cheese; trays of tiny bread, butter, golden syrup. The big breakfast took place later at the Cenotaph in town. This memorial was for the boys, for the ones who did not come home in the 28th. This time, it was for the pa to cry, and to remember them.

Light moved in thin lines of dawn through the vaporous dark, glimmered on male faces moist with memories. Around them moved the gentle bustle of wives, aunties, sisters, nieces, offering hot drinks with or without. And Princess, quiet smiles, a steady touch, a firm hand on a frail elbow. He positioned chairs and assisted the old and tottery. He found single gloves and ornate tokotoko, wooly hats and lumpy knitted scarf. He was very busy.

Uncle Tei was sitting alone at the end of a table, downing his third cup. He touched the fine badge on the black beret. He'd just finished rolling more smokes. He sat there. Tahuri knew all about him. And he knew that each one of his wonderful medals told a special story. She wished she knew them all. She offered the koroua another cup. He motioned her to sit and pass her the coffee pot to a niece working nearby. He was watching Princess.

The olive swandri had been removed to reveal a dark blue ribbed pullover with red and white stripes of the v-neck. It looked very patriotic, and set off the scarlet poppy and its tiny white tag, matching the crisp shirt with one button undone at the collar. Shining patent leather shoes had replaced the gumboots.

Princess was enjoying herself. Ordering the females about, issuing instructions, relishing his role as head waiter in training. He was in his second year at the elegant Waiwera house, only five minutes walk from the pa. He loved food. He loved people. He wanted to them happy, to make them laugh. He wanted them to need him. He flirted shamelessly with his aunties and his uncles. He winked at the younger boys and girls. He parted the glossy waves of hair down the middle and wing and smiled wickedly in all directions. He cocked a shaky eyebrow at Tahuri. She cocked one back. Uncle Tei was watching him.

The old man seemed to be gazing behind Princess, peering into another place, another time. He looked slowly, thoughtfully at Tahuri.

'You know that boy Pirirākau. I knew boys like him. Sissies. We used to call them sissies.'

He paused as Princess sauntered over to a nearby table, settled out more food, and flicked the koro a rather saucy glance. Uncle Tay lowered his voice.

'You were lucky if you had one with you. In your section, or your platoon. They were the best barbers, wuu, they did the neatest haircuts. Really good. Not short back and sides, oh no. But style, real style. And they were good field medics too. But niece, when everything around us was wrecked and mud, rubble, broken walls, broken houses, broken roads, wrecked, blown up, everything falling down, trenches, bomb craters, bullets flying, wrecked, they could find us a feed. Anywhere. Pūhā, wenoweno, nettles, beetroots, corn, turnips, vine leaves. One boy even scrounged us a lettuce. A lettuce! In the middle of the war, they found it. Kai. They found it. Even on the hoof or on the wing, they found it. And cook. Oh, they could cook.'

Memories made him lick his dribbly chin, wipe the damp from his eyes. Concerned, Princess started hovering in the background.

'Marvelous, they were. Tau ki te mahi kai. And niece, they could fight. And they could kill. They had no fear of death. Or pain. They went straight in, those sissies. No more bullets, bayonets out, in they went. Those sissies always cleared the way. They had no fear. They were the real heroes, girl. Not us. And most of them got left behind.'

He sighed, breath heavy with grief.

‘They never came back. But I remember them.’”

It was stories like that, and the ones that did come back. And ended up in jail , that drove me into thinking about freedom for us. And even though I listen to my co-panelists and think of how they perceive themselves as end users, there is no end to this war.

I think of Henare te Ua the kaua, whom we all remember and revere, and the work he did. And in his biography he said, "The fight will never end." Now, I don't want to be negative. But when we look around us, when we think about Roe versus Wade, and how it took 50 years for them to flip that, so easily, we must never take stuff for granted. So you're not end users. You're warriors, and the battle will continue. But now, because it's 2022, we fight this battle with joy, because we have tasted that freedom.

We have enjoyed the privilege of civil union. We have changed our passports. We have been able to marry each other. So it's from, I think, a much stronger position, we continue the fight. But until every one of us is safe, the fight will continue. I think of kids living in the rural areas, in the regions, and how vulnerable they are. And is their only choice to come to the metropolitan cities? What future is there for them?

Heoi anō rā e te whānau, ngā mihi kau ana ki a koutou. Thank you.

Fiona Lam Sheung: Kia ora Te Awekotuku. Thank you so much for reading that for us. I know we all feel privileged in the space to, one, hear you read to us; and then two, remind us that we are still in the movement, we are still fighting for our freedom in various ways.

Battle of recognition

Kevin, you've been really handsome on that screen up there. We'd love to hear from you now that we've done a round of the panel.

Kevin Haunui: Kia ora. Tuatahi, ngā mihi ki a koe Ngāhuia.

Really inspiring. You know, we talk about, we follow in the footsteps of our leaders, and they, in turn, inspire us to encourage other leaders. But I agree, totally, with the fact that this is a never-ending battle of recognition of who we are. And quite likely so, Ngahuia pointing out some of those things that can change very, very quickly.

And I'd just like to to encourage our younger ones, who are watching, to you know, really get in there, and think about how to respond to messages which look to isolate us, which look to impose social conditions which are not our social conditions, which is not our social normalcy. That type of thing is what we have now and it actually can be improved even more so. To be aware of the complex intersections that we, within rainbow communities, and us as takatāpui in particular, have challenges around.

But I'm sure that there are younger ones who are listening who might be interested to also carry those battles through. Because you're hearing it from people of lived experience, and you will have your experience, and you'll be able to translate that into what's needed now and what's needed going forward in order to ensure that the world that we live in goes the right way, not the wrong way.

A bit of a kauhau there, eh. But I think I'll leave some for Kassie. She's really good at this stuff. Kia ora, Kassie.

(Laughter)

Coming out — Kassie

Fiona Lam Sheung: I'm gonna just redirect our conversations. And it's about courage and freedom. So the question is to our panel, when you came out and took the stage, owned your sexuality in a public way, how did that feel and what was the thing that made you push out to stand up and say, "This is who I am"? And yeah, how did that feel? Over to you, Kassie.

Kassie Hartendorp: I'd like to say that there was a moment when I was public out in the world and everything was fantastic and I just felt so full of pride and joy and all these kinds of things, but I don't know if I can think of that moment. And what I mean by that is that homophobia and biphobia have been so insidious within not just my life, but many lives. That there's always like this kind of thorn. There's always a something that is there that has meant that there is a feeling of shame, ultimately, around who you are.

Now how I've dealt with that, is I often don't get up and speak on panels about myself and my own experience around my sexuality in te mea te mea. I talk about the kaupapa. Nē? I talk about the kaupapa because the kaupapa is actually kind of safe. The kaupapa keeps you slightly distant from the personal because, you know, I was born in 1989, right? So like, the true baby here. Let's just be real about when we use the word 'baby' we mean that.

And so I grew up in a time that was probably inconceivably free and wonderful compared to many people in this room and on this panel. Even so, it was still so entrenched about how unnatural it was to feel as some of us feel.

I remember one of the first times that I was cognizant of the word 'lesbian' was in relation to a local high school teacher. And I didn't know anything about — I don't even think I'd heard the word 'lesbian' before. Nothing about it — it didn't seem like an event to me. It was like, "Oh okay, yeah, you know. This is how people feel towards other people."

But the reason I knew about this word is because it was associated with a local high school teacher who was known to be a lesbian and she was disgusting. Everyone knew how disgusting she was, it was the talk of the town, it was constant. The main point of reference for the word lesbian was this specter of a woman who I don't even know the name of, I don't know the face of, I wouldn't know her if I met her in the street, but she was disgusting. That's all I knew. And you wouldn't want to be like her, talked about by strangers who you're never gonna meet again.

So yeah I'd like to say that everything was fantastic and there were all these moments where everything felt prideful and amazing but I don't know if I've ever felt that. I remember — and Kathleen will know this here because Kathleen's in the audience. Kathleen Winter directed a film that I was begrudgingly the subject of. You know, she asked me, "Do you have any ideas about what what a cool film would be? What stories need telling in this particular moment?" And I was like, "Yeah! There needs to be more queer indigenous stories. Tell those." She's like, "Cool. So do you want to be the subject of my film?" And I was like, "Fuck you." (Laughter)

But I kind of had to put my money where my mouth was at that point, and so, was the center of a very short Loading Docs film. And it was horrifying. I had spent, till that point, maybe eight to ten years being openly queer, going into school assemblies, and talking about queerness and sexuality and gender diversity to very homophobic, unfriendly places.

I'd been, you know, picking young people up off the pavement. I'd been helping young people through all kinds of stuff, giving them homes when they had nothing, getting them off the street, getting them off drugs, whatever was going on, bandaging their wrists up. And I've been doing that for years. And when there was a moment for me to tell my story, it suddenly became hugely confronting about how that thorn had seeped so far into my psyche and into my heart and who I was.

So poor Kathleen just had the worst time of trying to even get me on a film because, once the camera was on me, my sexuality, it just brought up so much stuff. After the film was released, I had to go back home, and I had to be just around no one for a long time. Because even though I knew how it was okay to be me, and how it was okay to be us, the thorns, you could still feel it and you still knew it.

And so, yeah. Like maybe that moment has never come. I know who I am. I stand proud in who I am. I have no problem with any of that. And I will fight for the right, always, for anybody to be who they are, and I still do. But I just want to name that even the most sometimes out there people might still feel that thorn in them, that poison in them, and I'd like to think that one day, on my deathbed, that will no longer exist, that poison has run clear. I'd like to think that.

But if it doesn't, you know, we still deserve to be free. We still find joy. We still get up every day. We still laugh, we still love the people that we dearly love. And and we still keep going.

So that's just my whakaaro on that, that korero.

Fiona Lam Sheung: Beautiful. We're all gonna log into TVNZ on Demand and do Loading Docs. Brave. Thank you. That ihi coming through strong. Thank you so much for sharing, and over to you Lynne.

Coming out — Lynne

Lynne Russell: 1989, 1990 I was born.

(Laughter)

We went to the same school. I knew that teacher.

And that was — even though it may not have been the right year — that was pretty much my first memory of lesbianism as well, was the teacher that everyone took the shit out of and and spoke derogatorially about. In that other life that I lived, I probably didn't — I don't remember much about...

I think I just call it the privilege of not having to even consider who I was. The first time I ever spoke publicly was in a church. (Laughter) And the church was like a a collection of churches that were coming together. And they wanted to know how they could be more compassionate to the rainbow community. And I had been asked to speak, so I took the opportunity to tell them that I didn't need any compassion, thank you very much. But it was the first time that I publicly kind of said, you know, kia ora my name's Lynne and I'm a lesbian.

I remember being somewhat confronted by it because I kind of didn't think that there was a need to define anything or, particularly not myself. And I've only ever been asked to go back to a church once.

That's all.

Coming out — Te Awekotuku

Ngahuia Te Awekotuku: Kia ora, Lynne.

Well I was born in the 1940s. So that's another era, though there are some of us in the room that share it. And so there was no word for it in my community. It was like your auntie's like that. Your uncles are like that. And so it was about being like that. You might be like that. So I didn't hear the L word until — oh well, you know, I was a great reader and constantly haunted the library and was a bit peculiar. I would only go to the sports field to watch the other girls.

Anyway, I don't know I grew up in Ōhinemutu in Rotorua. Born and raised there. And we all went bathing together. And everybody was naked and lots of us went looking for the soap and so there was stuff that was done that was called — this is the boys as well — that was called mucking around. And sometimes you really like mucking around. But did it make you like that?

And so there was a whole realm of sexuality in our communities — and I'm saying Māori communities, Pacifica communities — where sex was never actually defined. It was like mucking around, you know. But there were a few of us that were definitely like that. And most of us sought the anonymity and the safety of the larger cities.

The L Word came into my life. And I think this is in a book which was published many years ago now, about the events in Christchurch and the killing of someone's mother. And I speak to the issue in that book. Edited, or put together, by Alison Laurie and Julie Glamusner.

And I ended up, aged 15, being driven home after a meeting, which was extraordinary, with a personage later identified as Drac Howland, who was the superintendent of Arohata Women's Prison. And she had come to Rotorua to give a talk about the prison. And I found her completely extraordinary. In fact, I was fascinated. And the teacher who had taken me to this talk was driving me home.

Anyway, she stopped and she talked about being like that. And she mentioned the Cashmere Hills Case. And she said, "And those girls were lesbians. And that's not good. And you have to be careful." Well that never dawned on me because I was like that. And it wasn't until I got to Auckland that I realized what she had told me.

Coming out publicly — God, Women's Liberation. And I did that article because I was so proud of the L word, and there were only two of us who were out in the movement. And we were interviewed, a group of us, including Sue Kedgley and Sharon Cedarman and I, had this mad woman as a lover at the time, who had just come out of our Arohata. There you go. And she was a working woman. And in the television interview, she's standing behind me, carrying the dog.

And we were asked why we were members of Women's Liberation. And I said, with great pride, and this is on National Television, "sapphic women —"

(Laughter)

I couldn't quite say the L word, but "Sapphic women have been in the vanguard of women's rights for centuries." And on the next day, there was a luncheon called for the women leaders of Auckland. And Connie Purdue and a couple of others came up to me and accused me of being completely irresponsible and saying I put the movement back 50 years. All 'cause I bounced gayly down the road and really didn't give a damn. Because I was like that.

But what is interesting is that, when we got gay liberation going, we did actually have a really interesting gallery interview with Dairne Shanahan. And someone has recently excavated it — I'd really love to see it. Because there I was, showing off, talking about my being like that, proud to say the L word. And my poor mother ended up being bombarded with phone calls from people all over the par.

In fact, the entire tribe — well not quite. But there was one person who stopped her in the street — I will not name him but he was a renowned and prominent orator and composer and community leader. And we knew he was like that. But it was a secret. Because he was married with a big family and quite a prominent local personality.

He got my mother aside and he said to her, in Māori, "I'm proud of our girl. Tell her it's okay. Tell her I told you I'm proud of her." And so I saw mother, and she immediately conveyed that to me and I said, "Yes. There's no stopping us now."

And it's stuff like that which really, I think, gives us the energy and the faith and a sense of hope. And it's the sense of hope that we have to keep alive. Kia ora.

Coming out — Kevin

Fiona Lam Sheung: So beautiful. I'm aware we only have two minutes left on the clock, but I do want to give Kevin the opportunity to tell his story, because our session today is about gay liberation. Kevin, over to you.

Kevin Haunui: I've got a big story but anyway, just to to cut it short, I was born in 1960. I was born in Rotorua, actually, and my parents were teachers based at Motuiti and Motukawa. So my first memories were in Rotorua.

I think I've always been like that. I remember being attracted to males from a newly age. I also was very conscious of how people talked about characteristics, you know, if your a sissy or, particularly because I was male. You are sort of very aware of how people in our community spoke or didn't speak, actually.

And for me, I was brought up in a Māori family and quite strong Māori whanau. But we all lived in separate areas. And of course that has an impact on the connection within whanau.

But aside from that, I guess the story I wanted to talk about was I went to boarding school and so, you know, there were lots of — it was a male boarding school, boys boarding school. And I think this — I agree Ngahuia, you know, mucking around was just what it was. Exploring sexuality. It wasn't really until I got to about 15 or 16 or 17 where you had to start making choices, in my view, for me anyway, about were you going to be like that in public or not like that.

And so, I'm a pre homosexual law reform takatāpui. And, you know, all of those things had an impact on me, in terms of the choices that I made to actually not be out for quite a while.

Coming out in public I think wasn't the important thing for me. It was coming out to my whanau that was most important. And, you know, it was the story of coming out to my whanau, actually was because I was in a relationship that broke up and I needed support and I was, you know, pretty devastated by that breakup. And this would have been when I was probably around 30 so...

It was when I came out to my parents and then my sisters and then their husbands — and this all happened within a day or so — that nothing then mattered, whether I was in public or not.

But that thorn that Kassie talks about has always been in my side about that —that little fear. That little fear of being not treated with respect about who I am, irrespective of my sexual attraction and so forth.

Yeah so, for me, coming out to my my family was the key turning point for me to then be able to come out in public. And even then, I'm fairly shy, really. And I've never really been one to be too forward with revealing myself. And sometimes I don't know what layers still are there in terms of revealing myself to.

But that's a little bit of my story. Kia ora.

Closing

Fiona Lam Sheung: Kia ora, Kevin, and thank you. We could go on for hours. I know we could. I know there are questions probably sitting in the webinar but the iPad is locked and the time has come to an end.

On behalf of the National Library, I would like to give thanks to our panelists who have shared with us their story and their truth, and have reminded us that the fight still continues in every way. And that thorn, that's our privilege and we should use our privilege to uplift those who need it.

So thank you everybody for making time together today, for being here in spirit, on the webinar. Thank you Kevin for logging in and being present. We're so glad that you were able to join this event. I'm just going to hand it over to our brother, Nate, who will close us in karakia.

Nate Rowe: Just very quickly, before saying this karakia, I'd just like to give some background. It's called Hei Ata. And it talks about the time when the night and the day, the night starts to fade, and the day — or Tama-nui-te-rā, the Sun —starts to rise, which is a very special time of day. It reminds us every day that it's a new opportunity. So, koi na.

He ata, he ata ki runga, he ata ki raro, he ata ki te whakatūtū, he ata ki te whakaritorito, he ata whiwhia, he ata rawea, he ata taonga, he taonga. Tūturu whiti whakamaua ki a tina, tina. Haumi e, hui e, tāiki e. Kia ora.

---

Any errors with the transcript, let us know and we will fix them. Email us at digital-services@dia.govt.nz