Their Descendant, Not Yours.

Flicking through books, I notice a name I haven’t uttered in years. James Burney, a name I used to proudly announce I was related to, tainted with shame and disgust. The first ancestor I was taught about, a writer, an adventurer, an inspiration. The only ancestor I am able to study by books, but not an ancestor I choose to study in my heart. 

You called the people of Rotterdam Island, Nomuka, “thievish people, (who) steal everything they can get at.”  
You called the people from Mohua, murderers and villains. 
For it was only wrong if it was brown. 
It was only murder if the skin that was piereced was white.
It was only stealing, if it was from your pockets. 
It wasn’t murder when you shot at them.
It wasn’t stealing, if it was their land, people, culture and resources.
For it was only wrong if it was brown. 

“Not so civil or friendly in their behaviour,” you called the people of the Marquesas, as if you are on the morality council. 

Firing a gun and placing a flag on their island, you signalled them to return. Return to where? Their Island, where you stand. For it is you who should return. 

“Noses not so flat”
“These people were naked” 
“Their bodies quite black”
“These people are black as Hottentots can be” 
Degraded to a list of physical characteristics, you saw the world from behind a telescope, “studying” yet not understanding. It was a zoo to you, each island had a new species different from the last. 

What would you think knowing that your descendant was “one of them”? What would you think knowing that I am proud to be their descendant, not yours? What would you think knowing that I read my peoples books now, not yours?

An explorer exploring what was already explored. Navigating seas that were already plotted. Finding things that were never lost. Discovering things that were long established. Mapping areas already known in and out.

The only difference was that you wrote it down. We tatau’d it on our tongues, embedded in the reo we speak, forever dwelling in our memories. 
All you did was write a book of what you saw. 

We re-write the history you wrote, every, single, day.

Written by Meilani Jean Te Pua Inano Payne