Two Shores by Glenda Wallace

Commissioned by Ōtepoti Writers Lab.

I always hid my name, like I hid me.
If spoken, I feared becoming
undone
unraveled.

My grasp of me, myself and I was precarious.
Sheathed in an epidermis
translucent and fragile
between two worlds
two nations.

Christened for my Scottish mother – Frazer
my Māori father – Te Rangi Ata
conjoined with the family name – Russell
no doubt a colonial who ‘took’ a wāhine Māori
who begat my grandfather
and on that goes.

Frazer – strong male.
Te Rangi Ata – dawn sky.

Can you imagine how that would go down at school?
Red headed and named after the morning sky.

The external validation of my internal world.
Vibrant
energy
life.

Te Rangi Ata called
to my inner knowing
who I was.

Not the taciturn male
replicating the misogynistic world
through which I have been dragged.

Te Rangi Ata spoke of softness and transition
the person I wished to be
and wanted the world to see.

Frazer Te Rangi Ata Russell
in speaking these words
I do not speak my sooth.

“You belong,” Te Rangi Ata said.
“How?”
“You can choose your name
your colours
your music
to move into this world.”

Silence arose
around me
instead of fear of reprisals
the first seeds of acceptance
gifted from ancestors.

Self
me
curves
lines
light
shade.

Te Rangi Ata – dawn sky.
Ata Rangi – belonging.

“Ata Rangi Russell,”
fits as a key in a lock.
Holds me, to just be.

I arrived on this windswept coastline
ascended beside The Burn
to the cairn
overlooking the land
and the sea.

The ocean roars
the wind howls in the sails
as your ship rides the storm.

The loss of hope
from those on board
as unseen rocks
tear boards from the hull.

Fear wafts in the air
the ionized clash of electrons
lightening your destiny in flashes.

This mild Irish morn
birds accompany
remembrances of that doomed day.

Lament your death
rue the loss of all lives on board
requite
you having been.

Just a cairn
a pile of stones
place for tourists to stop and take photos of The Burn.

Yet I know this place is where you hooked
your fierce hope
to survive.

In bursts of lightening
you saw this coastline
your soul soared
as your body was dragged to the depths.

Pink
orange
purple.
Colours of dawn.

At Moeraki
the sun rises
over the sea and boulders.

I am here – from Ōtepoti –
to greet this new day
as
Ata Rangi Russell.

Waves fold and unfurl
change and hope.

Light transmutes
relieving the skeleton of Frazer Te Rangi Ata Russell
from my body.

His essence reaches towards the waves,
towards another kēhua across the seas.

“Mo Grá,” keens another seeking soul
across the sea.

“I am here,” I breathe East.
“Always here,
my love
Taku Aroha.”

“My love,” whispered on the wind.
My hair unleashes around my head.
It will take time and patience to brush it out tonight.

My words spin back to me
in English
with echoes of another language.

I lean towards the stony ground
bracing against the wind.

“Mo Grá.”

Red speckles the rocks.
My broken skin.

The pieces of cairn are sharp and many
small indentations
a large gash
deep from the pressure of the wind.

“Taku Aroha,”
seeps into my laceration
a hush
settles my heart.

Remembering
as I look to the West
those who have passed
those who are here
and those
yet to come.

Embodying Ata Rangi
– and yes –
there is an and –
movement
from across moana.

Papatūānuku
rolls into a new form
a new surface.

Are transformation all like this
for all creatures on earth?

A change
within ourselves
and Papatūānuku?

What will the end of this day look like?

My hands
the burl of Frazer Rangi Ata Russell
the tenderness of Ata Rangi Russell
some dim indentations from
the ground
soft sand
smooth rocks
and yet.

With my hand over my heart
the change tremors within me.

Papatūānuku responds.

Rehearsing the sounds
as I descend
alongside The Burn
to find the meaning
on the Internet.

It seems to find what I mean
when I make typos
or the autocorrect flings
in often-used words or phrases
unconnected to the subject.

“Taku Aroha,”
my love
just like
“Mo Grá.”

In Te Reo
I bet I am saying “Taku Aroha” wrong too.

With a translation app I practice
over and over again.

“Taku Aroha,” to the cat.
“Taku Aroha,” to the chocolate.
“Taku Aroha,” to my reflection.

“Taku Aroha,” to my ancestors in my reflection.

Burnished red with flecks of gold – “Taku Aroha.”

Another shade of red hair
glazes
in the broken glass.

Slightly to the left
hmm a nose
different to mine
to the right
a strong brow
newly plucked.

Whakamā
am I being watched?

“You live alone for goodness’ sake, woman.”

Yet
I was.

“This won’t do, get a move on.”

Throughout the day
longing
a potential loss
teemed my veins.

Not Mo Grá
at the bottom of the sea.
Someone unseen
unexplained.

Wriggling down Internet worm holes
seeking
stories of migration.

Waka.

Could there be a waka to take me back to Mo Grá
or forward
to a new love?

Aroha.
I learnt that word today.

With Aroha
I inhale warmth
sunrise pulls
from the East.

A deep peace
settles
as I face West.