She told me she was adopted and has a Samoan boyfriend, so she knows what it’s like to be Māori. She, the daughter with Snow White’s complexion, adopted by the banker and the Lawyer with the house on Waiheke, knows what it’s like to be Māori... apparently. She whipped out her Visa card of struggle and used it as a shield, once she dared to cross into territory that she knew would be difficult to return from. The no-man’s-land of casual conversation. She dares to wander into unfamiliar waters with the confidence of the great navigators. She knows what it’s like to be Māori, without even being one, so she may educate me thoroughly. I am curious to interrogate, because what kind of DC-comics-Zack-Snyder-fuckin-bullshit-superpower is this? What an ally she is! The courage it must take to share your unwanted, unnecessary opinion as a white woman. The girl boss awakens from its slumber like a fire-breathing Karen, and if she wishes to speak to the manager- wish granted. She is entitled to her opinion. Her opinion that wāhine Māori are, quote, far too aggressive and angry when they talk about colonialism. It scares her. And the first word in that egregious sentence that I took away? They. They. The othering of it all. The othering of our mamae. The othering of our kakaritanga. I guess her DC-comics-Zack-Snyder-fuckin-bullshit-superpower doesn’t quite extend as far as she made it out to. Because calling a white woman "hysterical" is the first domino tipped and will instigate entire pussy hat movements, but a brown woman‘s anger is still violent. She expands upon said opinion as though it were a commencement address. Every word that leaves her over-lined lips is the most interesting thing a person could ever say. All of the hot takes. But it’s okay! Because every time her man fucks her, she has a little bit more brown skin in the game. And though there is a wahine sitting three feet in front of her, she still refers us as “they." And so do I. She leans into me comfortably, the dutiful recliner I am, cushioning the blow of her ignorance. I am the picture-perfect reference point for what our people should be. Calm. Collected. Educated. Understanding of her blatant racist double standards. I curl myself into banisters and railing. I am trying to guide her slowly, like a child walking for the first time, attempting to avoid the impending tantrum she will undoubtedly throw at a moments notice. Yet she is scared of me? While I tip-toe over her trip wires, step slowly across her creaky floorboards of white fragility willingly. I make mental notes of all the malicious intent, every micro aggression becomes bricks with which I may build arguments. Build reasoning and logic, so she can understand. So she can prey upon my secret worst fear; to be overlooked as another angry Māori. I put aside every promise I’ve made to myself and my tūpuna who laid down their lives only so I may lay myself down for Snow White and her brown association. So I may earn her gold star sticker, because I eased her into not being racist. She was right. She does know what it’s like to be Māori. So, she may manoeuvre me thoroughly.
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