A Lament

Oi aue

In Samoan love stories

We would turn into

Turtle and shark.

Nature tells us

One will consume the other.

Oi aue

In Samoan love stories

Sina’s prince is an eel

And happily ever after

Is when her beloved

Is beheaded

Transformed into a niu

So she can finally (safely) drink

His sweet sweet juice.

Oi aue

In Samoan love stories

Men chase beautiful white women

Into woods

and are never seen again.

And one

blessed so that he could not lose in battle

was beguiled by beauty

into bed

and ambushed, betrayed, killed dead

a pale of lau maile

still around his head.

They say the fires of A’ana

Burnt bright

Fuelled by fury

and revenge

and lit John William’s journey

into harbour.

Oi aue

Aue

Aue

Aue

For mine is a Samoan love story

And we all know

How they end.


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Author's Postscript

What effect do our stories have on us?

The Samoan love stories I grew up with all contained dire warnings about investing too much of yourself in romantic love... after all that may distract one from the all consuming love for the aiga so

important in our culture

Of course no race has an exclusive claim on charm (and of course I am biased), but I have always found my people charming- quick to laughter and to song, with an easy confidence and a fantastic sense of humour. Conversely, there is a cavalier attitude to relationships and to monogamy. Not for us the outrage and universal condemnation when someone steps out on what is supposed to be a committed relationship.

This poem is a reflection and a lament

on Samoan love

34 years of Independence

To celebrate Samoa's 51st year of Independence, I'm going to blog a bit about the 34 years of mine (because I'm self-involved like that).  

 Samoa is the country of my heart, it has shaped me into the plus plus plus size model that I am today, it is a central part of who I am.  And so I have always been happy not to have a name like Jane or Jennifer.  Even though person after person struggles and stumbles over the eight syllables, even as they mispronounce and mutilate it, I have always loved my name.  I have loved it for its very foreignness- for the fact it pronounces me Polynesian in each softly rounded vowel. That it is Samoan. Like me.

So the subject of changing my last name has been a heated topic between my beloved and I.  He who carries the two-syllabled British last name of his much-loved grandpa, while I carry the Samoan first name of mine (Samoans traditionally take the first name of their father as their last name, this is how we 'tala le gafa', how we recite our genealogy). 

 My name is a part of me, it is who he met, it is who he fell in love with.  Though I love Shakespeare, even my 13-year-old self was not impressed by Juliet's plea:

 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name, which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

And it's not just because I felt that these two were less star-crossed lovers, more melodramatic, naïve teenagers. Our names grow with us.  We have lived and loved and laughed with our names.  Our names have defined us and we have defined them. Indeed since I was 13, I have only grown more attached to it.

Certainly in Australia it seems a rose by any other name is not as sweet.  A recent Australian National University study  found that you're significantly less likely to get a job interview if you have a non-European name. The researchers sent fake CVs in response to job ads, changing only the name of the applicant.  The study found that those with Chinese and Middle- Eastern last names had to submit at least 50% more applications to receive the same number of job interviews as those with Anglo last names.  Those with Indigenous last names were similarly disadvantaged (though not to the same level).  The study didn't test Polynesian names, but I'm certain the results would be similar.  Perhaps this is the reason so many migrants anglicise their names.  According to the same ANU study, specialist job seeking companies for migrants certainly advise it.   I don't judge changing your name, it's pragmatic. It is also something I could never do. I have carried my name proudly all 34 years of my life and (despite the study and the stats) I have forged what I consider to be a pretty good career with it.  I can’t just shrug it off as you would an old ‘ie lavalava.  Not even if it is for something some may think prettier or easier to pronounce.

Over the course of that career I have often been confused as the Katies, Elizabeths and Amys of my acquaintance would shed their last names (so routinely used by us, their colleagues, to identify them) to take on their husband's.  Each conversation became long-winded. 'Amy Randwick is the contact point on that, you should call her.'  'Amy Randwick?' 'Yes, Amy, you know, she's in criminal justice, she's got straight brown hair.' 'Amy Gibbs?' 'No, that's a different Amy, Amy Gibbs is Amy Marion now'. 'Amy Randwick' she used to be in MA, I can't remember her maiden name, maybe Thomas or Smith' 'Oh Amy Smith, ok, yep I know her'.

My mum tells me she chose to take her husband's name, for what was her last name, except her father's name and his father's before him.  She felt that, since the whole system was patriarchal, she may as well take her husband's last name, a name she would share with her children. 

For my fiancé, it’s a declaration of love and respect and togetherness.  But he will not change his name for me.  There-in lies the rub. For I proposed a compromise (being the charming and reasonable person that I am).  That he change his name by deed poll to include my last name and I would change mine to include his.

'Guys don't change their names. It's just how it is.'

And beneath that is the sub-text, that people will think he is whipped, less of a man, that this will somehow signal some type of submission.  While not considering what giving up my last name would symbolise to me.  For me it would be an admission that my name is not mine, that it merely is some sort of marker of who I belong to (because being a woman I couldn't possibly just belong to myself). It would symbolise entering into a sexist institution that requires sacrifice... which would be fine, if it were not only from me.   That is not the marriage I want or can believe in.  I love and respect my partner and myself enough to want to be in the only type of marriage that could sustain our relationship.  A marriage of equals. 

As Samoa celebrates its 51^st year of Independence, I also celebrate mine.  It 1997 Samoa changed its name to the name of her birth.  Refusing to be determined in relation to arbitrary lines of colonisation. We have come so far, my country and I. 

She works hard for the money

If you're a child of the eighties like me, it's likely that you danced around to Donna Summer's 'She works hard for the money' with a mop or broom in hand. Though perhaps not as likely to admit it (you are probably thinking 'Have you NO SHAME?!?' -The short answer is no, not really...but that is a different topic altogether). I think I first heard it watching some Disney show where Cinderella was dancing around to the song. Unfortunately I wasn't watching in Disneyland with Mickey in fulfillment of all my 5 year old fantasies. Rather I was in Samoa, with my head at an angle, trying to make out what was happening through all the 'snow' on a fuzzy tv screen, that was trying but not really succeeding, at picking up a signal from Pago. Nevertheless it had a big impact on me. Obviously I related to a girl who only had to do a bit of housework before being whisked away to a ball.

So, for my first week back at work after almost 7 months of maternity leave, it was the soundtrack in my head. I was rocking to it while I was in meetings, having serious discussions and generally being very busy and important! Of course my work is a lot different from Cinderella's. No chimneys or ashes are involved, my boss is no evil step-mother, my colleagues are not demanding step-sisters who need a reality check about their real charms, and (very sadly) there are no helpful little dancing and singing mice. Still, after 7 wonderful months of FREEDOM mat leave I expected to feel very sorry for myself.

But (to my surprise) it really wasn't all that bad. My office had physically moved to (very plush) new premises in my absence. So a lot of time had to be spent admiring the natural light and the panoramic views of the city (both of which were noticibly absent in the previous premises).

The first day my love, brought in the bub and a lovely picnic lunch, and took me to the Royal Botanic Gardens. The sun shone down and I susu-ed Lagi lying down on a picnic rug in the park overlooking the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge. This was truly lovely except for the fact that I was competing with an ibis, and apparently my bub takes after the ancient Egyptians in finding them fascinating. After that first day though, my smart little one realised he had to make the most of the opportunity and would latch on with gusto every lunch time and when I hurried home to him every night. So though I missed him and his beautiful smile, I knew he was with my mum and his dad who love him almost as much as I do and who can look after him almost as well as I can.

Of course I was bombarded with e-mails *bing, bing, bing, bing*. But this was exciting as well as slightly overwhelming. It's amazing what excites you after you have been away from work for so long.

So it really wasn't all that bad. But it's Sunday now, and I'm looking down the barrel of another work week. And I find myself humming *she works hard for the money, so hard for it honey*.... and thinking 'Where's my bloody pumpkin?'

Motherhood and Darwin's Descent of Man

Six months ago we welcomed my beautiful baby into the world. I am sure this is a bit of a surprise because despite well-founded fears based on my previous inability to keep any living thing alive (yes including cacti, the type that survive the Sahara, but apparently not my black thumb), Lagi is a healthy, hearty, happy baby, already raising one eyebrow inquiringly, in that very Samoan way.

What has suprised me most about parenting is how utterly primal it feels. I lie next to my baby at night, and listen to him breathe, and feel so innately protective I could almost growl (or rip out someone's throat). As you can imagine my poor partner has to approach the bed very very carefully.

I am surprised at how much I love the way he smells. And how much I hate it when I can smell other people, particularly females, on him. No matter how good they smell. No matter if the person I can smell on him is my darling mum, who has taken him, to try to give me some much needed sleep. I can't explain it. I figure it's some throwback to that animal ancestry.

Sometimes when he has had tears streaming down his face, I hold him in my arms, and I almost feel like licking him. Like a cat. I would like to state categorically that I have never done so. I restrain myself by kissing away his tears.

I love his smile. He's too young to know any artifice, his smile lights up his whole face. When he smiles up like that at me, his whole face glowing because he sees mine, I know he loves me and my heart feels like its going to burst out of my chest. I couldn't have imagined love so elemental. It's no wonder that in creation stories, people are said to be born of the earth. That's how this love feels, like the earth- deep and old, though he's just six-months-old.

When we have been away from each other, we collapse into each others arms in mutual need. My breasts hard with susu, he seeks out hungrily until he latches on, and we both sigh with relief and happiness.

I expected that I would find motherhood difficult. And it is sometimes. But I have never felt so in touch with myself. It's so basic this need to look after this baby, to love him, to do anything for him. Maybe Darwin didn't need to do that whole study of finches. The survival of the species must be based on mums' (and perhaps even dads') feeling this way.

Long Distance Love

Despite having determined almost a decade ago that long-distance relationships sucked were very difficult, and I would never ever enter into, or entertain one ever again (never ever ever), I somehow find myself in a relationship where my partner works overseas. I would blame the baby (refer to previous post) but unfortunately this is not a chicken and egg situation. This particular chicken (and yes I am referring to my relationship as a chicken… I am going there) had to precede the egg- that's just biology or perhaps if you're more romantic... chemistry.

Not only is my partner always ‘leaving on a jet plane’, he is flying the bloody thing. Which means unless I crush all his childhood dreams that he has worked damned hard to attain he independently decides to changes careers, this long distance thing is going to be pretty much a permanent fixture in our lives. Let’s not go into how I obviously shouldn’t have fallen in love with someone in his profession. I have heard all about ‘AIDS’ i.e. ‘Aviation Induced Divorce Syndrome’. I have sneakily avoiding that by not getting married (yet). I am pretty sure that particular solution won't work indefinitely.

I don’t think it’s insecurity. I’ve always been a confident person. This is the greatest gift my parents ever gave me. You know how when you’re really young, you don’t realise your parents lie. You think they are like God. Literally. That their word is gospel. Well my parents would constantly tell me- ‘you’re so intelligent, you’re so beautiful’ AND. I. TOTALLY. BELIEVED. IT. WAS. THE. GOD. HONEST. TRUTH. I didn’t know they were capable of telling anything other than the truth. You’d think that reality would have struck when I started school and had to socialise. But apparently I take things on face value (especially when that face is telling me I look good). I don’t remember which kid tried to shake this notion, or what they said, but I do distinctly remember reporting it to my parents. They were dismissive, ‘Princess, they’re just jealous.’ You may have picked up that we weren’t big on humility in my home. Yes this could have turned me into a narcissistic precocious brat. But hey, my parents reckon that never happened! And I TOTALLY believe them! Instead I developed what I consider a distinctly male trait- the ability to back myself (without any reasonable basis). So I really don’t think it’s insecurity.

It’s just reality. My love and I fitted easily together. I was delighted to discover how easily. We grew up on the same small island, and while we didn’t know each other then, it seemed to result in us having many of the same values. As the child of a palagi mum and a Samoan dad, I am all for inter-racial relations, but I know first-hand the cross-cultural miscommunication that can occur. Of course I dated non-Samoans, but being with my love was like coming home. We didn’t have to explain things to each other. So many things were just understood. But though we fitted easily together, the reality is, ALL relationships require work. ALL relationships are hard. And it’s a lot bloody harder when you’re away from each other half of the time.

Especially if you’re from a country that is rather laissez-faire when it comes to relationships (or at least faithfulness in those relationships). I was genuinely surprised by the outroar over Tiger Wood’s infidelity. Every magazine in the western world seemed to puzzle over this behaviour. The analysis seemed to be that the only answer could be that he was a sex addict! Meanwhile all the Samoans I knew were universal in their conclusion… he was... wait for it... a man. No other explanation was needed and a number of us asked ourselves, ‘Are we truly sure he’s not at least part Samoan?’. More about this phenomena has been rather wittily related in Coconut Girl's "The state of affairs in this country founded on God". As if that post needed more publicity!

I trust my partner even though he is Samoan with all the charm, charisma and greater likelihood of cheating that that entails. I really do. But I’m not naïve. I don’t really believe distance make the heart grow fonder. Ha! More like, distance makes the eye wander. And I don’t mind as long as it’s just the eyes (see I’m realistic and reasonable like that). I appreciate that my partner may actually be attracted to other women. Even though I would never ever ever be attracted to any other man (particularly not the men that regularly feature on Sleepless’ page). However I truly believe he loves me, and that he would chose me, yes even over Beyonce (my parents confirm that I am, in fact, more attractive than her).I believe that he respects me like I respect him. That he wouldn’t act on any such attraction. But it is still hard being apart where I can’t monitor his ass despite that belief.

Of course it’s not just the increased likelihood of infidelity (at this point I should admit that I haven’t done actual polls or statistics on this). It’s also just not having him here. I mean it’s pretty simple- I miss him. I am in love with the guy. I want to share my life with him. I want him to see our son grow. Every day. I want to share my days and my nights with him. Most All of my days and nights. And of course I need him to take out the rubbish (and oh he’s also pretty good at cooking).

Long distance relationships really are hard. And here’s my little piece of wisdom. Yes finally, what passes for some wisdom in this long-winded piece. You have to be absolutely sure that the person you are in that relationship with is the right person. You don’t want to waste time or effort or, most importantly, your heart. Life is difficult, and you can’t always choose your circumstances. But you can choose how you deal with them. So I’m choosing to work damned hard! Because he is worth it. And so am I.

Love takes time

Love takes time. I don't mean that to fall in love takes time. I couldn't make that statement with any credibility, given that I fell (first in love and then pregnant) in the first few months of meeting the love of my life (but that, my dear readers is for another blog- scintillating isn't it- you'll just have to start following the blog to get all those juicy details). I am talking about the time that disappears when you are fully and sickeningly in love.

I have noticed the amount of time I have free while my love is away. When he is here we are ALWAYS busy. Busy playing scrabble and chess (as if our lives depended on it as we are both competitive like that), busy watching re-runs of 'The Office', which I introduced him to, or 'Bros and Hoes', which he introduced me to (and I ridiculed until I also became addicted). Busy snuggling, picnic-ing in the park, shopping (mostly for food- that's as glamarous as it gets when you have a five month old) cooking and (more importantly) eating, busy just doing nothing together.

I should have started with a disclaimer that all those sick of love or just sick of me going on about it should avoid this post.

When he's not here I bake, I put photos in albums, I start a blog. I get so many things done. When he's not here I become super woman. All the things I can't do for myself when he's here (like take out the garbage, change light bulbs, move furniture) I can do in a single bound (I would like to stipulate that that energy is put to much better use when he is here... awola!!!)

When he's not here I just wish (hard) that he was- here, home,and happily taking up all my time!

So Crazy in Love

We just got back from the fatherland (there will be at least one blog on that subject shortly). Both me and my love were and are exhausted. Our trip was unexpected and unplanned. My love's dear Grandpa passed away and, as soon as we heard, he went directly from PNG where he had been working for 3 weeks, to Auckland and then to Samoa. I had two days to organise my travel with my darling four month old. Needless to say the house was left in a state of chaos. Even greater chaos then me alone for 3 weeks with a 4 month old could produce (for those of you who don't know me, that is a considerable amount of mess).

But when we walked in the house after virtually no sleep, my love didn't comment on the fact that we were tripping over clothes and clothes hangers. We took our baby and collapsed on our bed. When we (finally) woke up, he went shopping and then barbequed up a storm. He happily tramped around Sydney yesterday as we spent time with my youngest brother. Today my love took me out to brunch, and then when we got home and I was susu-ing Lagi, he managed to unpack our bags and clean EVERYTHING even behind the back of the fridge without me asking (although it is widely known that I am not a domestic goddess and thus the likelihood of me asking or thinking to ask about cleaning anything let alone behind a fridge is zero to none). So today he is officially PERFECT.

It's not the big dramatic expensive gestures. Love isn't a movie. It's the every day thoughtfulness, the every day considerations, it's the every day LOVE. These are the things that show me that I am treasured, adored, loved by the man I love. It's the every day things that have you humming that stupid Beyonce song (the one that you don't even particularly like). So yes I realise this sort of love is sickening to the public at large but I can't help it- I guess I am just 'looking so crazy in love'.