Changing Land and Changing Stories

The end of the novel, “Potiki,” suggests a strong connection between the physical land on which we live and the art of storytelling. Both the land on which these characters grow and the stories they tell are shared between everyone yet can never belong to any single person. The land that the Maori cultivate and the intricate stories they pass from generation to generation may seem as if they are actually possessed, or even “owned” by these people, but the novel’s characters reminds us otherwise. As connected as Roimata’s family and tribe are to the land, they draw a similarity between the stories they tell and the physical terrain that is forced to be distributed and take on the qualities of the new settlers. Both the Maori’s stories and land take on the secrets and memories of the people, but are eventually shared and passed on to another generation, culture, or age of people.

Growing up in an old school house, I have always been fascinated by the thought, “Who stood on this exact spot of land before me?” Built in 1866, my family’s house still contains traces of its use as an elementary school, with two original chalkboards and multiple student engravings found on windowsills in our living and dining rooms. My sister and I have found button-up leather shoes, wooden rulers, and even a small tree house in our backyard left behind from the schoolchildren over 100 years ago. While the thought of moving here may have frightened me when I was three, I have since developed a greater appreciation for the history and small artifacts left behind in the place where I now call home.

What first attracted my parents to our house was the surrounding historic community where it is located. In addition to the school, there is the original general store, cobbler’s shop, firehouse, and barn that comprised the first town. Today, a historical committee maintains these buildings and seeks to preserve their original appearance. The committee holds routine meetings and other events for the surrounding residents to attend and discuss means of continuing this preservation. While not every town member attends, there still remains an established respect and reverence for the land. While there are permits, regulations, and a variety of historical society laws that limit what can and cannot be built in the area, the unspoken respect for the land is what remains most powerful. Our community sees the land as its own unique story, a part of history that remains despite the incessant construction of “mcmansions” and Hollywood-sized homes. Rather than a mere backdrop to the neighborhood, the land is itself the focal point of where we live. As much as our house tells a story, it’s the ground upon which is was built that holds even more.

Toward the ending of “Potiki,” Roimata says, “The hills did not belong to us any more,” yet “at the same time we could not help but remember that land does not belong to people, but that people belong to the land” (110). Perhaps one of the most startling assertions this novel makes is that land owns us as human beings, not the other way around. We do not actually “own” the land as a for-sale sign may lead us to believe, but rather, the land gives us permission to relish it. Roimata and her husband, Hemi, along with the rest of the Maori people demonstrate a sort of gratitude toward the earth and all that it offers, specifically the ocean. The land takes on a character of her own in this novel as Roimata remembers, “We could not forget that it was land who, in the beginning, held the secret, who contained our very beginnings within herself” (110). When the settlers encroach upon the Maori’s land, Roimata seems to suggest that the land decides what is best for the current people and what comes next in the world. “It did not seem right to us,” she says, “to sit on land that no longer belonged to us” (98). At the very least disappointed, Roimata still resolves not to show anger or hostility for what is happening to her people’s homeland. Her ability to accept this reality demonstrates a reverence and respect for the land as if it was the land’s own decision. The land determines what is best for Roimata and when her life story will change.

In speaking of his father, Toko, too, expresses this sense of communion shared with the land and sea. “My father Hemi,” states Toko, “said that the land and sea was our whole life, the means by which we survived and stayed together” (98). Very similar to a story, the land and sea weave together what the characters know and remember about their past and present lives as a culture. The land and sea take on a part of the culture’s identity, much like their tradition of oral story telling. “We were busy telling and retelling the histories of a people and a place,” says Roimata, “and learning or relearning a language which was our own, so that we could truly call it our own again” (107). Remembering and sharing stories is as important to the Maori’s physical land. Despite one being intangible and the other being tangible, both parts of the Maori’s culture can never actually be “bottled up” and owned by a particular possessor. They are in a sense fleeting and unable to be labeled according to one specific individual’s ownership.

Both the Maori’s land and their stories are a part of their everyday life, but they also extend past the present day and onto the generations that follow. “What Toko said was true,” states Roimata, “the stories had changed” (103). Just as physical pieces of land in our own culture pass from different owners, renters, or even within the same families, the land carries traces of the people who walked and lived upon it before. Similarly, the stories we tell change as we share them with others and embark on new adventures, challenges, and accomplishments in our life. The land and the stories that the Maori people shared could never remain exactly the same, yet their presence was as integral to their identity. Neither was ever "claimed" or owned by a single person, but rather shared among the group as what defined their home.

Historical Analysis

It is very rare that I have read something that gives off such history as this book. Grace has a wat of bring inviting in how she uses each little story to weave together a piece of the culture. It is through this that we are able to see what is important to the people of the land, and how they view their homeland. In a way, this invitation that Grace gives us allows us to take away what we want to from the history of New Zealand. The fact that there is no specific time period really annoyed me when I first started reading, but now it really doesn't bother me, In reading the second half I can take what is interesting, and it really doesn't matter when things occurred, it is the cultural identity, and the idea of the homeland of the Mauri people that is interesting to me.

However now there is a change in the history of the home of Toko and his family: they are being invaded by others. The beauty of their home is gone and they have to start all over again also. Even the loving man is burned and has to be reconstructed. I almost saw a crucifixion type thene with the fire when reading about Mary pulling him from the "ashes" and Toko helping her fix him. It was kind of sad, but beautiful at the same time. Despite the fact that he had to be restored, at least they found d him at all and he was not completely destroyed.

Another theme that also brings true, with the fixing of the loving-man is the idea of love itself. What is the best part about being home? Being around the people you love and care about. In this instance the loving-man is not a person, but he was as important as a person to be restored by Mary and Toko, and like we talked about in class with the Christ/Mary reference, it is what you see when he is repaired.

A really stirring image of the new home that has been built is of Toko laying between the loving-man's feet. It is stirring and creates a really wonderful idea of what kind of comfort is associated with the statue. It is almost a metaphysical idea of what he represents for Toko and the family. In a way, like a Christ reference, his aura gives afeeling of comfort. This is true with our view as Christians towards God; He is not seebalem, but the comfort is still there in church and on holidays. The loving-man is even appropriately named, and I'm not sure if Grace wants us to think of him as a Christ figure but the name certainly gives off an image of someone whose love is unconditional for those around them. This is especially needed for the family at this point in the novel when they are questioning so much in their lives.

Potiki brief analysis part 1

In the Foreword of Potiki, it is written that “…the story is never ‘told’ rather, and more subtly, we come to understand it as we read in another’s voice” (pg 9). The stories which make up this novel are more than mere memories, but they in fact represent a Māori way of life. Each story invites the reader to gain a better understanding of what is important to the Te Ope people. We see their love of the land—how it essential for their survival; their sense of community and spirituality which continuously unites a spread out people; and also the hardships they endure within their families and against foreigners. Through the stories each character is sharing a special part of themselves and of their people with the readers.
Grace’s writing is very subtle throughout Part I of Potiki when addressing the numerous problems the Te Ope people have faced over their history. We gain suspicion about the intrusive European presence in their community that disrupts a peaceful community. This is relevant, but never explicitly stated when Hemi falls in love with the white girl, Sue. He realizes that they can never be together because their people would never allow it. We see that the young teenager Mary becomes pregnant from a man named Joseph Williams, which is a very European name. Toko, her child is described as being “crooked” and different. Toko also possessed a special kind of “knowing” as shown during the eel-fish catch. Toko is a child that could be half European and half Māori, which would be seen as unusual during the time. This might explain why Toko is so special, maybe hinting at the compatibility between the two cultures in the future.Nevertheless, Roimata and Hemi have an unwavering love of the child nonetheless. And in the end we learn about the story of Reuben, who was sort of a peaceful martyr, who sacrificed himself to save the people. He was fighting to save their ancestral land, which represented the history of the Te Ope people, and therefore it also represented the Te Ope people as a whole because their histories, their stories, are everything.
The way Grace writes Potiki is also emblematic of the Māori emphasis on storytelling and history. It is made clear when Roimata has an epiphany discovering that all her ancestors, herself, and her children make up one single history which defines their people. There is no real past, present, or future; there is only the Māori way of life that is continuously passed on through each generation. In this way it is important that the different stories throughout the novel are not in chronological order because it proves that the Māori believe that whatever order they really happen doesn’t really make any difference. They still are one people who live off the land and tell stories which are their histories.
At the end of the story of the old carver who makes a forbidden poupou to represent himself, he he blows on the wood and is killed because the wood falls on top of him. He knew this would happen, but did it anyway This prologue is emblematic of the Māori way of life. A person’s history and stories are more important to him than anything else in the world and they are worth dying for. The old carver wanted desperately to be remembered. “End is always beginning. Death is life” (pg 68). The man knew that even though his life was over, he could never truly die because his stories would be told on through the generations. He would be remember because of the carvings he made and be omnipresent with the past present and future generations of the Māori people. Potiki wants readers to learn the Māori way of life, respect it, and realize why it is worth fighting for.

The Land And The Stories

In Potiki, the land and the stories of the people presented are both integral parts of their homeland, and both of these elements of homelands were ones to which I felt connected. I’m from Arnold, MD, near Annapolis, and much of my family is in the surrounding area. My aunt and uncle, as well as one cousin until she gets married this October, live three houses down the street from me. For me, homeland is partially about just what is in the word: land. It’s about a place. I have lived in the same house since I was two, and I’ve have heard the stories of how difficult, even dreadful, I was about moving as a toddler, but the only home I’ve ever really known or can remember is the one I live in now. My relatives have also always lived just down the street or nearby. For me, everything about my home is distinct and is what makes me feel at peace: the smells of the house and even the woods in my backyard. I have an intimate connection to it all. Miranda Lambert has a song called “The House That Built Me” that I think perfectly describes the connection between people and their homes. She describes returning to her home and the details of the house that she remembers, and all of the memories come flooding back to her. She realizes what many people may realize: that there is a relationship between you and your home. Like transculturation, both are affected by one another. Rather than you just building your home, your home also builds you. And your house, as well as the area from which you come, truly affects who you are in many ways. Maybe not everyone enjoys the smell of boat engines revving, or even being by the water, but for me, it can be intoxicating. I remember once being surprised while spending time with some friends from high school. Since I went to a private school, we didn’t all live in the same exact area, and I was on a beach off the Severn River one day with some friends who lived much further west. They refused to swim in the Bay because they thought it was far too dirty, and I remember laughing at them a bit (especially since I was the only girl in this situation and yet the only one who wasn’t afraid of the water). To me, it’s always been my Bay, I’ve always gone out crabbing and cruising in our boat, and I’d never thought twice about jumping into the water. What I mean to say, through this anecdote, is that things become second nature to you because of the land on which you grew up, and those second-nature things, those dispositions and quirks, truly become a part of who you are, so that you are intimately tied to your land and the land is tied to you.

If you’ve lived in one place for your whole life, you know every detail of it, and the details take on a greater significance. Each spot holds a memory; every piece of furniture has a story. Not only is home about the land and the physical space, but it’s about the stories that are tied to it and the people who have lived there. My family is definitely filled with story tellers, and we tell stories about our family all the time. We remember things that were particularly funny or important or memorable in any way. I know stories about great-grandparents I’ve never met, anecdotes that tell me something about who they were as people. I think that that is one of the beautiful things about family stories. An obituary can tell you facts, but stories give you a greater sense of the essence of a person. And they are absolutely shared items. Once a story is told, especially in our family, it is repeated until everyone has heard it, and repeated time and again when an occasion calls it to mind. One person may tell the story one time, and another may tell it the next time. The story does not belong to one person or another, but to all of us. Each story, as well, makes up a part of me and a part of my home. In my house, we have a wall filled with family pictures, and each picture has with it a story, or many stories. Since I know that wall of photos so well and the stories also, both the land and the stories are a part of me, just as I belong to that house and to the people in the stories I know so well.

In Potiki, both the land and the stories are integral parts of homeland. Grace writes that “They knew that they belonged to the land, had known all along that there had to be a foothold otherwise you were dust blowing here there and anywhere – you were lost, gone” (61). This idea of being blown like dust if one isn’t tied to a homeland is repeated time and time again, often almost verbatim, throughout the novel. And the entire story is one of relying upon and fighting to retain the land. The land, truly, is the one stable thing throughout Potiki, even when it is changed and “scarred” by corporations or flooded or set on fire. The land changes, but it remains. The Te Ope people, as well, understand the value of their homeland, but also seem to understand that the land is not always the same. They seem to understand that what is defined as the land, as your home, is not always your ancestral land alone. Reuben says that “Tents are now a part of our history and part of our lives. They are part of the identity of the Te Ope, part of our pride” (142). Reuben’s words, here, seem to have a double meaning. The Te Ope people are proud of the fact that they fought to win back their land, their home. They did so with the tents, and so the tents are a part of their proud history of winning back the land. However, the tents are also a part of the land that they call their homeland, partially because they were so integral in helping the Te Ope people win back their ancestral lands, and partially, and quite simply, because the Te Ope people did live in the tents. They have memories tied into the tents and the homes they created out of them. Those tents contain memories for them and are a part of them and of their home. You, then, help to give significance to the land you occupy and call home, whether that be your ancestral home or a tent. Roimata, Hemi, and their family have memories and a connection to the land on which they live, and this is why it is their true home.

I think that another important part of home in this novel is apparent through even the organization of the book: stories. Roimata speaks, early on, of all “the things I came to realize as we told and retold our own-centre stories” (39). Stories, then, can be our center, which I tend to think of as almost a synonym, in many ways, for our home. Stories are spoken about often in this novel, and sometimes the stories are told by people who have only heard about them and are repeating them. At certain times, like in the case of Toko’s big fish story, the story is strung together through details accumulated from the telling of that event by multiple people. The entire novel, as well, is separated into chapters that are told more or less from the perspective of different people. Yet, in the end, it is all one story. Each person may tell it and add to it, because the stories, and the greater story of home, are shared by everyone who belongs to that home. Each person is entitled to the story of home and each adds to the story of home with his or her own individual stories. The sharing of tales creates home in Potiki. In fact the penultimate chapter of the book is in fact titled “The Stories” and the final chapter focuses on Potiki, the youngest child, Toko, who is a great story-teller. In fact, Toko is extremely valued in this homeland, yet, because of his disfigurement, all he can really contribute in many ways is his story-telling. He is often revered because of his “knowing” in this area, and his ability to tell stories with a knowledge that would seem to be beyond him. It is the stories and the little story-teller, Potiki, who are so vital to the homeland Grace shows us in this novel.

Generations at Home

Patricia Grace introduces a new way of living within one’s homeland. She obviously stresses the importance of the sea and the land, but I believe that it is in the stories that Grace claims the true “homeland” exists. This point refers back to the notion that a homeland is not simply a location but rather a feeling or an “at home” realization that one experiences when they are surrounded by those who love them. Throughout Potiki I began to realize the importance of generations within a homeland. A home cannot truly be a home without stories of the past, present, and future.
Grace encompasses a number of generations in her novel in order to show the many different aspects that make up a homeland. From Granny’s old stories of her troubled childhood, to Roimata’s memories of growing up with Hemi and Mary, to Toko’s special “knowing” and connection with his siblings, we are able to get a clear understanding of the Maori people and their concept of home. I began to think of my own home and how my family’s generations affect who I am and where I live. Through generations, traditions are passed down and wisdom is obtained through grandparents stories of their past. A homeland truly is an ongoing circle of knowledge. From the elders we learn of the time before us and through our contemporary knowledge our parents and grandparents are able to adapt to a modern society.
Through the generations, a circle is formed that is indestructible. I believe that it is through this circle that a true homeland is formed. This concept is demonstrated in Grace’s work through the importance of the wharekai, or meeting-house. It is in this house that stories are passed from generation to generation. This concept of an everlasting circle is also seen through death and rebirth. For the Maori people, death is not an end but rather a new beginning. It is through death that new life is introduced. When Hemi’s mother dies, a part of his life has ended but a new part has just begun when Roimata re-enters his life. One of the most remarkable scenes in the novel is when the wharekai is burnt to the ground and the villagers must come together to gather up the stories of the past and rebuild a new home, a new place to tell new stories. After a long summer of rebuilding the meeting-house, Roimata claims, “In spite of the threat in our lives there was excitement about, and energy” (151). Through the death of the old meeting-house the people are able to bring new life and vigor to a new home.
The main concept I took away from this novel is that a home is not a home without death and rebirth, past and present, old and young. Through generations and time, a true home is formed and memories are made to be passed on and learned from. Through all of the hardship and struggle the Maori people experienced, they were still able to stand firmly within their homeland and hold strong onto the memories of the past and the hopes for the future. It is this constant circular motion of life that completes a home and makes each homeland unique. Towards the end of the novel, Grace writes, “And the stories continued well into the night, moving from one person to the next about the house until the circle has been fully turned” (180). This conglomeration of stories is the very heart and soul of what makes a home a home.

Faith and Understanding

I found myself very interested by Kolvenbach’s descriptions of propaganda in social justice. In Part A: The service of faith he explains how for centuries “The Society had been officially and solemnly charged with “the defense and the propagation of the faith” (25). In other words the congregation was being depicted as a strict group who constantly tries to impose their religion on others using propaganda. Kolvenbach quickly follows this point by explaining how more currently (1995) Jesuits have made it their mission to prove this proclamation wrong. He explains that “the Congregation wanted our preaching and teaching not to proselytize, not to impose our religion on others, but rather to propose Jesus and his message on God’s Kingdom in a spirit of love to everyone” (26). I think that this point is very important to recognize regarding the Jesuits and the Catholic faith. Faith is not something to be forced upon someone, rather it is a choice that someone makes in their life based upon what they feel spiritually. Being raised Catholic I have often felt that I was forced into this religion, but once I took myself out of that mindset and looked at my faith as a whole I realized that I was not living in a world where I had no choice in the matter. I realize that my parents raised me Catholic because they saw something in that religion that enhanced their lives and made them better people. As we are taught in Church, faith is about spreading the word of God to others, meaning sharing something you love and believe in with others so that they may hopefully find a similar connection to it.

In Part B The promotion of justice Klovenbach makes an excellent point that reminded me a lot of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. He wrote “a general congregation is not a scientific academy equipped to distinguish and to define, to clarify and to classify” (27). This statement reminded me of the District Commissioner in Achebe’s novel, “They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance” (174). The District commissioner clearly failed to realize that faith is not about imposing religion, which is probably why his plans to convert the whole Igbo tribe failed. Mr. Brown on the other hand followed Klovenbach’s idea of the “service of faith” more closely. He took time to talk to the Igbo’s and listen to their religious views and share his own so that they could find commonalities or agree to disagree. In Klovenbach’s words Mr. Brown followed a path where he “chose to inspire, to teach” (27) rather than force. I believe that choosing to inspire and teach faith to others is what helps bring more followers into congregations.

More Than Service

Kolvenbach's speech regarding Jesuit education and ideals is a celebration of the Jesuit mission, and a call to action to continue said mission. Kolvenbach declares that the beauty of Jesuits and their corresponding universities is that they have a deep heart for not only service for others, but justice for others. They are not, he implies, the same thing. Service is well and good, and something that the Jesuits have always practiced with their Christ-centered attitudes, but recently the service of justice has become part of the official mantra. Kolvenbach uses the example of affirmative action in Jesuit universities to show the dedication to giving opportunity to those less fortunate. While this is a service to them, it is more strongly a justice given to them because it is giving them a chance that the circumstances of their lives never allowed them to have.

As I was reading this article, I admit I was confused about how it is relevant to the class or the discussion of homelands. As I've been thinking about it, I've been considering that perhaps the issue is the apparent division between the poor and well, the not-so poor. Someone who has grown up in the inner-city will have had a very different experience than someone who has grown up in a rich suburb. The Jesuit mission would be to find justice for the inner-city person so that they might have all the chances at education and success that the person from the suburbs would have. Let's say, for example, that these two people both come to Loyola. They will have very different homelands which they come from. But under the Jesuit mission, these homelands, (and here we use homeland to imply a difference in background), might grow thinner as justice and equality becomes more apparent. Though from a disadvantaged background, the person from the inner city may no longer be from "so far away," because he is now an equal.