English,
Room 12,
Period 1,
Friday.
Dear Lenny,
Be like Whetu o te Moana,
Beat Boredom,
Write a Letter.
How slack finding myself the only one of the old gang in the sixth form. How slack and BORING. And it’s so competitive around here – No chance of copying a bit of homework or sharing a few ideas. Everyone’s after marks and grades coz that’s what counts on ACCREDITING DAY and Nobody Never tells Nobody Nothing – No Way. ACCREDITING DAY – it’s ages away yet everyone’s in a panic. It’s like we’re all going to be sorted out for heaven or hell, or for DECIDING DAY, and I really don’t know what it’s all for. I’ve thought and thought but just don’t get it. I tell yuh it just doesn’t add up. Must tell you about DECIDING DAY inaminnit.
See . . . it seems we get put through this machine so that we can come out well-educated and so we can get interesting jobs. I think it’s supposed to make us better than some other people - like our mothers and fathers for example, and some of our friends. And somehow it’s supposed to make us happier and more FULFILLED. Well I dunno.
I quite like Fisher, I kind of appreciate her even though she thinks she, and she alone, got me through S.C last year, and even though she thinks I’ve got no brayne of my own. Little does she know that I often wish now that I’d fayled. How was I to know I’d be sitting here alone and so lonely learning boring things. Why do we learn such boring things? We learned boring things last year and now we’re learning boring things again. I bet this letter’s getting boring.
I sometimes do a bit of a stir with Fisher, like I say ‘yous’ instead of ‘you” (pl.) It always sends her PURPLE. The other day I wrote it in my essay and she had a BLUE fit. She scratched it out in RED and wrote me a double underlined note – ‘I have told you many times before that there is no such word as “yous” ‘(I wonder if it hurt her to write it). Please do not use (yous heh heh) it again.’ So I wrote a triple underlined note underneath – ‘ How can I yous it if it does not exist?’ Now that I think of it that’s really slack – what lengths I go to, it’s really pathetic. I mean she’s OKAY, but I’m a bit sick of being her honourable statistic, her minority person MAKING IT.
I’ll tell you something else, that lady sure does go on. And on. And on. She’s trying to make us enjoy K.M. Kay Em is what she calls Katherine Mansfield, as though she and K.M. were best mates. Well I suppose Fisher could be just about old enough to have been a mate of K.M’s . . . I’ll tell you what she’s doing. She’s prancing about reading like she’s gonna bust. Her lips are wobbling and popping, and she’s sort of poised like an old ballet dancer. She does a couple of tip-toes now and again. Sometimes she flaps the book about and makes circles in the air with it. I don’t think she’ll burst into tears.
Do you know what? When she waves and flaps the book about she doesn’t stop ‘reading’, so I suppose that she means she knows her K.M. off by heart, bless her HART (Halt All Racist Tours) , punctuation and all. I don’t think her glasses will quite fall off – Beat Boredom, wait and hope for Fisher’s glasses to fall off and cut her feet to ribbons.
Gee I enjoyed our day at the beach last weekend, and us being all together again first time for ages. Andy looks great. All those hours in the sea and those big waves lopping over us. Hey why don’t we save up and get us a surfboard?
I got my beans when I got home though, boy did I get my beans. Yes, and we’ll take some food next time, and some togs and towels (to save our jeans from getting so clean). What about this weekend, but we’d have to contact Andy. Anyhows think on it. Really neat. It wuz tanfastic bowling around in those breakers hour after hour.
And what about those new songs we made up – haven’t done that since fourth form. Soon as I got home, after having my ears laid back by Mum and Dad, I went and wrote that second song down so we wouldn’t forget it. I like it, I really do. I’m writing out a copy for each of us and I’m sending Andy’s with his letter which I’ll write period 4. I’m writing letters to all of you today. Gonna post them too, even though I see you all at lunchtime (except Andy).
Can’t remember the words to that first song, there must’ve been about twenty verses, and what rubbish. I can remember the ‘Shake-a Shake-a’ and the ‘Culley bubba’ bits, and I remember Iosefa’s verse,
Tasi lua tolu fa
Come a me a hugga, hugga
Shake-a Shake-a Shake-a
Culley bubba longa-a long-a.
And
Tangaroa Tangaroa
Little fish belong-a he a,
Shake-a Shake-a . . .
Then there was another one about a shitting seagull – well never mind. Great music you and Andy made for it though, and only the waves to hear.
She’s still flapping, and poncing, and I swear there’s a tear in her eye.
And yes. I said I was going to tell you about DECIDING DAY. Went to the library on Monday, and opened a book which I started reading in the middle somewhere. Well this story is all set in New Zealand in the future ay, and there’s been a world war and wide devastation.
There are too many people and they’re short of stuff – goods, manure, natural resources and all that, so it’s been agreed that all the cripples, mentals, wrinklies and sickies have to be sorted out and killed, then recycled. DECIDING DAY is the day the computer comes up with who’s human and who’s ‘animal’. They’re going to make them (the dead mentals, etc.) into energy, and use their skins for purses, etc. The kid down the road becomes your new knife handles, buy a bottle of drink and it’s your granny stoppered inside ready to fizz. Turn on your light and there’s your nutty uncle. After that there’ll be a perfect society and a life of ease so they reckon. Neat story?
After DECIDING DAY the fires are going for weeks and weeks, and there’s smoke and stink everywhere. The remaining people (not very many coz the computer doesn’t find too many ‘humans’) try to make out they can handle it, but they can’t. They can’t hack it at all, and they want to chunder over and over, or fall about mad screaming.
Well e hoa. Fisher’s winding down, and period one almost over. Love talking to you, not bored at all. See you lunchtime but you won’t get this til next week. Gonna get me some envelopes and stamps and do some lickin’.
Arohanui,
Whetu o te Moana.
(I was named after a church.)
Mathematics,
Room 68,
Period 2,
Friday.
Dear Ani,
The new maths teacher is really strange. He never calls the roll but just barges in, goes straight to the rolling blackboard and starts writing. At the same time as he’s writing he’s mumbling into his whiskers and flinging the board up. His face is only about six inches from the board and you keep thinking he might catch his nose in it. I think he’s half blind.
When he gets to the end of the rolling board he starts rubbing out with his left hand and keeps on scribbling his columns and numbers with his right. At the same time he keeps up his muttering and his peering. All he needs now is a foot drum and some side cymbals. When the bell goes he turns round as if he’s just noticed us, his specs are all white and chalky and his whiskers are snowy, and he has a tiny pyramid of chalk pinched between his finger and thumb, all that’s left of a whole stick. What a weird-o. Then he yells out page numbers and exercise numbers for homework and says, ‘Out you go. Quickly.’ As we go out he’s cleaning his bi-fokes and getting out a new piece of chalk ready for the next lot of suckers. No wonder I’m no good at maths (not like Lenny who’s got a mthmtcl brayne. What say we save up for a srfbrd and Lenny can be the treasurer).
Trust you to get stuck halfway up the cliff. Hey I got really scared looking at you, then I got wild with the boys just leaving you there and doing all that Juliet stuff with the guitar. Wasn’t til I started up to help you that they decided to come up, and even so they were only assing around.
Then it was really beautiful up on that ledge after all. Wasn’t it? You forget, living here. Living here you never really see the sun go down, or you don’t think of it as being anything really good. Sometimes if you’re outside picking up the newspaper or the milk bottles you see the sky looking a bit pink, or else it just gets dark and you know it’s happened. But you don’t think ‘The sun’s going down,’ you only think ‘It’s getting dark.’ Mostly we have the curtains over the windows because of people going past, and you think they might LOOK IN, or something TERRIBLE like that. And what if one of them HAD A GUN and aimed it at you? What if there was a loud bang, and a little hole in the window the size of a peanut, and a big one in your head the size of an orange? What a splash of colour, what a sunset and a half that would be. Yes and anyway we need the curtains over the windows because of the telly being on. Telly is a sort of window too, with everything always on the other side of the glass. After a while you don’t know the difference between ‘looking out’ and ‘looking in’. Well you know what I mean fren, you don’t ever think how it is sitting halfway up a cliff making up songs, with the sun dropping behind an island.
You weren’t scared anymore once we all got up there, and the sun settled at the head of the island like a big bloodshot eye just for a sec. Then it dropped behind like a trick ball.
You don’t ever think of the sky slapped all over red and orange, and the sea smothered in gold-pink curls. When you think back you can see it all again, but can’t quite feel the same, like your skin is stretching tight over your body, like your eyes are just holes and it’s all pouring in.
Well what a climb down in the dark, then the hunt in the dark for shoes. If we hadn’t had to look for our shoes we’d have caught an earlier train home. God I got my beans when I got home. Then of course there was that long wait in the greasy shop for our greasies. I was starving.
When we were little we always used to go to the beach – every low tide even in the cold weather. But now that us kids have grown up I don’t think Dad likes it anymore. Anyway he’s so busy and on so many committees – marae committee, P.T.A., Tu Tangata, District Council – and Mum’s almost as bad. We’re never home together these days, especially now that Hepa’s flatting and Amiria’s married. As for Koro, he’s never in one place for a day. He gets called north south east west, if not to a tangi then to a land meeting, if not to a land meeting then to a convention. Well it’s no wonder we never get to the beach or see each other much.
Er um! Hepa turned up on Saturday, so Dad went and got Amiria and John. Er! Koro was back from Auckland, so, er, I was the only one not home. And NOBODY knew where I was. Tricky huh? Well we didn’t know we were going to the beach did we? We started out to meet beautiful Andy off the train and ended up getting the train north.
Hey old chalk-chewer is yelling out page numbers, he’s remembered we’re here. He looks like a sort of constipated old Santa – I’d better end this letter inaminnit.
Yes Dad cracked a fit and I took a bit of flak from Mum as well. They were all dressed to go out and they’d been waiting hours for me. Of course what Dad really thought was that I was out getting myself popped, it’s what they all think but won’t say. Ding Dong. Got to bed midnight. Or was that the time we got home, heh heh?
The beach. It beats late shopping nights by a long way. Gotta go. I’m the only one left, goodbye fren. Writing to Iosefa next period. See you lunchtime, but you won’t get this til next week.
Much love,
Yours ake, ake, ake,
Star.
(I’m a Star
I’m a Star
I’m a Monstar.)
Geography,
Room 3,
Period 3,
Friday.
Dear Sef,
I write to you amid a shower of topographical maps, aerial photos, fault lines and air masses. What a circus. Lattimer arrives loaded with books which he bangs on to a table. Then he starts spouting – So you SEE, So you SEE – producing his cross-sections, graphs, map keys, land formations like tricks out of a hat. After a while he bounces round the room dealing out worksheets and slamming books down in front of us, creating his own earthquakes.
Writing to Ani I remembered how we always used to go downtown on late shopping nights. She and I used to make all sorts of excuses so we’d be allowed to go, and so did you. You used to tell your mother you were going on a training run, then you’d run into town and we’d all meet and spend our money on take-aways and junk. Then we’d hang round the fountain with the other kids and hope a fight might start up between our college and the one up the line. We always knew who was out to get who, and who was ripping off what from where. The night we caught the taxi home (with Lenny’s money) you had to run up and down the road to get puffed and sweaty before you went inside. I got home wet from you throwing half the fountain on me. We’d all swapped clothes as usual.
Well parents get upset about funny things. Wasn’t allowed downtown for ages and ages and used to feel really slacked off on late-shopping-nite-nites because I wanted to be out there having FUN, that was winter. Hey what babies we were, running round, hiding in doorways and hoping all the time that something really awful would happen.
Yes Lattimer’s got a great act there. Maybe we should all crouch on our desks like circus tigers and spring from table to table and roar, and swipe the air with our paws.
What about the time we took your little cousins to the zoo, and Andy got smart to the ape and it went haywire. Then Andy walked away whistling and looking at the sky. Remember the ducks zooming in, and the tiger that turned its bum round at feed time and pissed on the people. And Ani pissed herself laughing. Oh Ani, what a roly-poly, what a ball. Ani’s really neat.
Well the ape was bouncing all over its cage with its big open mouth as pink as undercoat paint, baring his old smoker’s teeth and trying to wrench the bars apart. Then he began snatching and grabbing at his own arm, his own shoulder, his own head, and at the same time he kept opening his mouth and slamming it shut, and putting his bottom teeth almost up his nose. His eyes were as black as print and glinting like flicked pins.
Our mate Lenny looked at the ape and said, ‘Honey baby come to my pipi farm and I’ll give you a gink at my muscles.’ Spare It! Poor monkey, with its thumbs on back to front. The palms of its hands looked like cow turds.
I really wonder about Lattimer. The way he throws himself about the room you’d think he was really trying to knock the walls down and make a run for it, or perhaps he wants to give himself a crack on the head so he can be pulled out by the feet.
Anyway he’s all right – busts out in a sick grin every so often. Remember Harris (harass) and her screwed-up face, and how she used to walk in and shove open all the windows because we all stank. I really wanted to walk out that time Andy left, if only I’d had the guts. Everytime she got on to him I felt like dying, even before I knew Andy properly. She’d never believe what Andy’s really like, she was just so scared of him, of his looks, of the way he talks, of his poor clothes. Most of all she must have realised Andy had her taped, over and over, although he never said anything. On that last day I reckon it was his quietness and his acceptance that got to her. She was screwed up with hate, and screaming. Writing to Andy next period and won’t forget to tell him about Palmer’s DISGUISE.
Sometimes I can’t hack the thought that I didn’t follow Andy down the road that day, instead of sitting here waiting to ‘realise’ my ‘potential’. Hey Sef, when and how does potential become whatever it’s meant to become? I mean Mum and Dad have all these IDEAS, they’re both getting their THRILLS over my education and I reckon I’ll be sitting behind a desk FOREVER.
Funny though, if it had been either one of them they’d have gone out the door with Andy without thinking twice, because they really know what’s important. It’s only me they’ve got under glass. Anyhows I’ll leave it before I start thinking what a sucker I am.
And now I’ll talk about the beach. Nex’ time we’ll take all our gears, especially FOOD. If you’re wrkng next wknd, or if Ani’s wrkng, or if Andy can’t come, we’ll go another time. Soon. But gee Sef, the dropping sun and the bleeding sky and those great fat humping seas, the seagulls . . .
I often dream about flying, and sometimes in the dream I’m afraid of what I’m doing, and other times I’m so happy and free flying about, up above everyone and everything, going anywhere I want . . . If I wasn’t me I’d be a seagull belting out over the sea and throwing myself at any storm, ANY STORM. What would you be, e hoa, if you weren’t you?
Gotta go Iosefa, he’s snapping up all his books and handouts, and now, slurp, they’ll all back in the trick box. Howzat? See ya lunchtime, which is now.
Much love from
Star of the Sea.
History,
Room 42,
Period 4,
Friday.
Dear Andy,
Great to see you on Sunday, you and your old guitar. I hardly remember going to the beach, only being there. When we came to meet you off the train we didn’t quite expect to find ourselves on the next one heading north. Suddenly we were off the train again and legging it to the beach all those miles. But it seemed no distance, the road just rolled away under us and only our talking tongues were in a sweat. Hey, that neat car, ‘You got the Mercedes, I got the Benz’ (according to Len). I’ve been writing letters all morning as part of my anti-boredom campaign.
What I want to tell you is that Iosefa has got a black eye. On Tuesday, Palmer, who is the new VICE principal, disguised himself (as a flasher) and pounced on Lenny, Iosefa and some other boys who were all puffing up large on the bank by the top field. True. He put on his old raincoat, ankle length no less (a real flasher’s job), and one of those work caps that have advertisements printed on them – Marple Paints. The boys thought it was a member of the public taking a short-cut to the road so didn’t take much notice. Instead it was old P. ready to pounce, wearing his usual greaser’s grin.
All the letters went home to parents as usual –
‘Dear , I wish to bring to your notice that your son/daughter was discovered (!!!) smoking in the school grounds on (date, etc…etc.).
Iosefa got thumped by his old man, and Lenny’s mum screwed up the letter and laughed her wrinkled old head off. On Wednesday, Palmer’s blackboard was covered with compliments – ‘Palmer’s a wanker’ and all the usual things. Someone drew a spy glass with a gory eye looking through. And you know Rick Ossler? His old man came up and shook ‘the letter’ in Palmer’s face and called him a Creeping Jesus. Well I laughed and laughed. Never heard that expression before, but when I told Mum she said it was an oldie.
Anyway enough of that. Neat fun sitting up on that ledge singing up large, we must’ve been there for hours. Every now and then I’d think of all our mates from fourth form days, and how we’d all go over to D6 and sing and act like fools, and make up funny songs.
But Angie and Brian, Willy, Judy, Vasa, Hariata, lots of others . . . I was thinking too of how we all used to terrorise the town on late-shopping-nite-nites. Wonder what they’re all doing now?
Before I went to bed on Saturday (and after I’d had my ears blasted for being back late), I wrote down the words of our song so we wouldn’t forget them. It seems there are things to know about our songs, even the rubbish ones, things we don’t really know yet. There are so many things to know, and I really envy you because you’re learning some of them. I want to know important things, and also I want to know what’s important.
Slitting the throat of a sheep and hanging it up kicking seems to be a real thing, like picking watercress, and even though it’s something you can do and I can’t, I still want to know about it. Even though I wouldn’t want to cut the belly and haul the guts out I know it must sometimes be all right to have blood on your hands. Or if not blood then dirt, or shit – on the outside where you can see it. You see I’ve got this bad idea that I’m sitting here storing all the muck up inside me, getting slowly but surely shit ridden. As for you, you’ve never held any shit, ever, and never will.
But other things, so many things, I mean, I want to know what goes on in houses, especially in houses on hills with trees round them. What do the people there say to each other? What do they laugh about and what do they eat? Are their heads different from them being up higher? Do they chew gum, how can I know?
Are girls who work in clothes shops just like me, or do their faces fall away when night comes, and does someone hang them limp on a rack until morning? Does central heating dry people out and make them unable to face the weather? Well I could go on and on.
E hoa. I want to walk all over the world but how do I develop the skills for it sitting in a plastic bag fastened with a wire-threaded paper twist to keep the contents airtight. You sit cramped in there, with your head bowed, knees jack-knifed up under your chin.
If I walked round the world I’d wear two holes in my face in place of eyes and let everything pour in. I reckon I could play an alpine horn.
The other day two fifth formers bought pot from the caretaker then potted him. And a lot of fourth formers are getting high from sniffing cleaner fluid which they pour on their sleeves. Peter got his arm blown up when his mate lit a cigarette, and now he’s in hospital (luckily). Were we that suicidal two years ago, screaming round town in our jackets wishing to see someone slit from eye to knee with a knife?
I saw a girl nick a bottle of the stuff from a stand in McKenzies yesterday but I didn’t do anything. There were two rows of it on a glass shelf at 89c a bottle.
And now the bell rings and we’re almost through the day. No more letters to write, but next period (last one) I’ll write out THE SONG for everyone (see yours below). If I write slow enough it might use up the hour.
Well dear friend, write back straight away and tell us when you can come down again. WE’VE GOT PLANS and WE SEND OUR LOVE.
Yours 4 eva,
Whetu.
Sky love earth
Shine light
Fall rai-ai-ain.
Earth give life
Turn breast
To chi-i-ild.
Child
Steal light
Turn away rai-ai-ain.
Thrust bright
Sword
Deep into ea-ea-earth.
Mother bleed
Your child
Die.
Bleed mother
Child
Already dead.
W – o – te –M.
‘Letters from Whetu’ was first published in The Dream Sleepers and other stories (Longman Paul, 1980).
Patricia Grace is one of New Zealand’s most celebrated writers. She has published seven novels and seven short-story collections, as well as a number of books for children and works of non-fiction including her recent memoir From the Centre. Patricia has won numerous awards for her books including Potiki, Dogside Story and her children’s story The Kuia and the Spider. Patricia was born in Wellington and lives in Plimmerton on ancestral land, in close proximity to her home marae at Hongoeka Bay.