Teine lelei
Listen
watch this Te Fiti turn to Te Ka
because I could speak in many tongues,
articulate to the moon, reverent soul in the way
that as I clench my teeth and exhale I say:
I am sick of making the ipu ki’s for the guests.
Just me the obedient daughter.
Tulou. Tulou. Tulou.
In the corner of my eye sits my brother,
watching me bend my knees to show respect,
that little piece of... I straighten
the mismatched falas and wipe the portraits on the wall,
see my reflection in the glass,
how long must I wear this mask.
The mask of teine lelei: good.
Girl.
We have gotten so used to asking for forgiveness,
forgetting what apologies sound like when
they’re not coming from our own mouths.
It seems like our bodies are conditioned for labour
from all the bridges we have built getting over our invisibility.
Getting over forgotten faafetai and faamolemole
men playing hide and go sleep
men playing hopscotch and bourbon and
the critics with their ratings like we’re UberEats or something.
Or something.
Maybe our bodies are conditioned for labour
because our minds are conditioned to refill another’s cup
whilst ours is constantly empty. Nobody remembers
to ask if we have had enough to eat or drink
and despite this I am weighed down.
My hands shake. And it’s not because
of the 1321 cups of ipu ki I carry on my arms,
it’s not because they’re too heavy.
It’s just I carry with me my tongue, my goldmine,
and learning to hold the heaviness of it has me tired.
Learning to hold it has me tired.
Learning to hold it has me tired.
But what about my mum?
And her mother?
Maybe these expectations have me sinking
into myself because I don’t just carry my teine lelei.
I carry theirs. Their tatau of scars.
Rough hands that hold the same shape as mine,
yet hers feel too much like coal.
We have learnt to un shine.
Learnt to hide the gold we carry.
We have seen how the world treated West Papua.
We have seen what happens to goldmines in the Pacific.
Mum can I?
NO
Nan can I?
NO
Our mothers have tried to protect the treasures
wedged between our teeth
so that they aren’t stolen out of our mouths
for they know all too well how willing
the world is to take.
How willing they are to take our mothers’ teine lelei
and turn them into teine matuas.
We have been warned with every limping step
the effort it takes to lead a generation
when your backs have been used as stepping stones.
And so we are taught, to tulou, to smile,
to correctly guess how many sugars you want in your ipu ki
and so we offer up our backs for you to stand on,
only to uncrack our spine
retrain our minds
to lead
the next generation.
Because we have never been expected
to be teine lelei.
We have never been expected
to be teine matuas.
We have always just been expected
to be women.
Luisa-Tafu Tauri-Tei
'I've always felt attached to the narratives of the Pacific and I've always felt attached to my roots in the 267, Rewa, Auckland. Being a daughter of powerful speakers, I always feel like an orator before I a writer, so my poems are always written to be said aloud and it feels more comfortable that way, mainly because there's an exchange of emotions when performing so I don't always feel the magnitude of my vulnerability. This poem is rooted in my homes; the Pacific, Soufside, and my nana Falelima Tuiloma. A thank you to all the Sāmoan daughters who grew to be the backbone of a family, our mothers.'