No Ngati Whatua, Ngati Kahu, Ngapuhi, Ngati Wai ahau. He kairangahau Maori ahau i roto i te Kura Para-Whakawai. He kaihautu ahau o te ropu rangahau o Te Koronga hoki.

My whakapapa (genealogical links) on my Mum's side are to Ngati Whatua, Ngati Kahu, Ngapuhi and Ngati Wai. These iwi (tribes) are located in Te Taitokerau (Northland). My Dad, who is non-Maori, is from Milton, a small town in South Otago. I grew up in rural Southland, a long way from my ancestral places, yet we were fortunate in that our Mum often took my younger sister and me to Northland as children, and we spent many summers as well as some of our schooling in Northland. There is a geographical aspect to identity, of belonging and of turangawaewae, or the places where one's feet (waewae) are literally woven (ranga) to their standing place (tu). In reflecting on my childhood, I can see now how, despite the geographical disconnect and growing up during the 1980s where there were heightened racial tensions, our parents strengthened our identity. I remember experiences from my own childhood that framed my identity, and one of the constants was the water--the ocean and rivers.

When I grew up I was always scared of the ocean. We spent a lot of time swimming and fishing in rivers around rural Southland. I think when you grow up in Southland, you always hear about the stories of Foveaux Strait, and of different whanau who may have died due to a boating or fishing accident. These considerations, coupled with what at the time appeared to be odd superstitions, or scare tactics directed at a child, were in fact different tikanga that my Mum would teach us, which made us cautious of the ocean. For example, my Mum would often say, "We don't go to the ocean to go swimming, we go to get a feed." She grew up in the Far North, in and around Dargaville on the west coast. The beaches there, Baylys in particular, are extremely unforgiving and are certainly not swimming beaches. However, Baylys is renowned for its kai, and this is a place where we would frequently collect kai, especially toheroa. I would always be told to "never turn your back on the ocean," "not to swim at night," or "not to go when you had your period" when I was a teenager.

As I have grown older, I have come to realise that these different korero (stories) were part of the tikanga or guidelines that were laid down for me as a child as protection mechanisms for being in and around the water, and the ocean in particular. Much of my research work today is about trying to understand the tikanga for activities in and around the water and how these relationships have changed today.

We spent a lot of time in summer in the backblocks of Northern and Western Southland, where the days are long and the nights are short, floating on lilos or rubber tyres down the rivers and streams. I would bike around with my best friend at the time, my next-door neighbour, to catch cockabillies down at the creek. As a whanau, we would be down at Blackridge, a local swimming hole, swinging off the rope and jumping into the river. I grew up in a time when you could get a key to the local swimming pool, and it would cost each family around $10 for the whole summer. These experiences were what framed my relationship with the water. As I think about some of my current research, the experiences that whanau share with me, our researchers and our students, illustrate their limited access to their waterways, or their freedom--due to the cost of living, for example--to be able to engage in these activities.

Growing up under the shadow of the Takitimu mountains, it was probably not until I was older that I realised the significance of the mountain range that I saw every day as a young person, and the stories, knowledge and connections that Takitimu holds in relation with the ancestral waka, Takitimu. We would spend hours on end fishing and eeling with my Dad around Takitimu and Fiordland; we were probably more hindrance than help. After a good day, I would watch him travel around to the old people's homes in the communities and drop off a fish, or shellfish, eels or whatever it was that we collected on that day. As a child and as a teenager, you are exposed to these normal practices as a whanau, which at the time you pay little attention to. Some of the work we undertake now is focused on trying to understand the significance of korero and matauranga (knowledge) relating to significant sites that frame the relationship that we have with the water. (1)

Growing up in Ngai Tahu, I have probably taken for granted some of the practices--and the kai in particular--that were a normal part of my upbringing. As a child of the '80s, I have distinct memories of muttonbirds or titi "stinking out" our house, with my Mum having stern words with my Dad about "cooking those birds outside!" Now, as an adult, I recognise the significance of titi in particular and the rich history of titi when you grow up in the deep south. I have memories of collecting toheroa (which I have written about previously) as a child, and also of having to mince paua, smoke eels, gut trout with Dad, and help him prepare the hangi at my primary school--the list goes on. These practices of mahinga kai are still relatively intact today, and certainly impacted on my own identity and relationship with the water. (2)

There are many things that I have missed out in this narrative, and I have painted a somewhat romantic picture of growing up in rural Southland in the 1980s and 1990s. There were significant issues at the time such as strained Treaty of Waitangi relationships; being "the Maori family" in a small town; growing up outside of your ancestral landscape and how this shapes your identity; and growing up in a rural, agricultural town with 'limited educational opportunities,' which led to us attending boarding school in 'town,' in Invercargill. Each of these issues impacted on my identity in different ways. On reflection, my parents each shaped our identity through tikanga of the water in their different ways. Mum did this through tikanga via korero and oral guidelines and her upbringing in the North. Dad shaped our identity through the practice of tikanga--through fishing, for example. Tikanga through the water, and through kai in particular, have certainly shaped my own identity as a Maori person, and this is a lens through which I engage my son, who is 11, in his Maori identity.

If I think about my own experiences of childhood and those of my son now, there are some similarities, yet many societal differences that he is faced with, which were not evident when I grew up--or perhaps they were, but I just didn't notice them. The nature of our relationship with the water has certainly changed due to contextual factors such as environmental degradation, urbanisation--and also living in a risk-averse society. As a concluding statement, I want to emphasise that what has not changed is the underlying importance of tikanga, guiding our interactions with the water and thus framing our identity.

No Ngati Whatua, Ngati Kahu, Ngapuhi, Ngati Wai ahau. He kairangahau Maori ahau i roto i te Kura Para-Whakawai. He kaihautu ahau o te ropu rangahau o Te Koronga hoki. Anne-Marie Jackson is a Maori researcher in the School of Physical Education, Sport and Exercise Sciences at the University of Otago. She is also co-director of the research group Te Koronga.

(1.) A-M Jackson, N Mita and H Hakopa, "Hui-te-ana-nui: Understanding Kaitiakitanga in our Marine Environment," report prepared for Nga Moana Whakauka--Sustainable Seas National Science Challenge, 2017 Accessible at https://sustainableseaschallenge.co.nz/sites/default/ files/2018-04/SusSeas%2C%20Hui-te-ana-nui%20 -%20Understanding%20kaitiakitanga%20in%20our%20 marine%20environment%2C%20July%202017%20 FINAL_0.pdf.

(2.) C Phillips, A-M Jackson and H Hakopa, "Creation Narratives of Mahinga Kai: Maori Customary Food Gathering Sites and Practices," MAI Journal, 5:1 (2016), 65-75.