Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

Later that night, however, my thoughts turned to Jason.

‘The thing is that I do think I love you,’ he’d said. ‘If I do come back to you it would be nice to know that you will be waiting.’

I truly believed Jason. I wanted to believe him. Love was always the problem. Before you knew it you could only think of one person to the exclusion of any others. I had to admit to myself that I loved Jason. Although I was now writing myself a new history, I wanted to include him in it. I wanted a partner to walk with me into that brave new world. Too much time had passed already. There was a shapeshifter at work in my life, shifting the shapes according to forces I had myself set in motion. The shapes were out of control now, and I was afraid if too much time went past they would move Jason and me further apart. And I needed him. Physically as well as emotionally.

The next morning I telephoned Jason at work. I was so confident. I felt that all I had to do was talk to him and he would melt. That all I had to do was to say ‘I miss you’, and he would come running back.

But Jason wasn’t in. ‘Sorry, Michael, nobody knows when he’ll be back. Do you want to leave a message? All right, I’ll tell Jason you called.’

I put the receiver down. I was frustrated. I replayed the conversation I’d just had back in my head. You know what it’s like. You start becoming suspicious. You begin to imagine a hidden, unspoken text:

Sorry, Michael, Jason isn’t in, not to you . No, nobody knows when he’ll be back, but even if he was he wouldn’t talk to you anyway . Do you want to leave a message? You can if you like, but it’ll end up in the trash can . All right, I’ll tell Jason you called, but quite frankly, Michael, can’t you take a hint and take a hike ?

I was really spinning out of control. I needed somebody to talk my anxieties out with. Who better than Margo, Jason’s analyst? I decide to telephone her.

‘I’ll see if Margo can talk to you,’ her secretary said. ‘Yes, she’s just finished with a client. I’ll put you through.’

The phone clicked and buzzed, and Margo’s voice came down the line. ‘Hello, Michael, how lovely to hear from you.’ She sounded warm, reassuring, like a soft couch you could sink into.

‘Margo, I need your help. Jason’s left me and I haven’t heard from him since. Do you know where he is?’

‘You don’t know where he is?’

‘No, and I’m going out of my mind with worry. When he first started to go to you I thought it was for simple issues. Like why is he unhappy? Or what he wanted out of life.’

‘You thought those were simple issues?’

‘I never anticipated that they would escalate like this. Three months down the track and he’s questioning everything and everybody. What’s happening to him, Margo? How can I help him?’

‘You don’t know what’s happening to him? You want to help him?’

I began to feel my temperature rising. Sometimes, talking to Margo was like listening to an echo or having a talking parrot in the room.

‘Michael, there are two issues here. One of them is what Jason wants and the other is what you want. Are you sure you’re ringing because of your concern for Jason — or is it because you’re really concerned about yourself? Have you considered that the reason Jason hasn’t let you know his address is because he doesn’t want to be found? He needs time to think these things out. He’s given himself permission to explore who he is, what he wants and where he wants to be —’

I listened as Margo put it all on the line for me. She was right: I was concerned for myself. Secretly I had hoped to hear her say that Jason had spoken about me, that he had told her he loved me and that he wanted us to be back together. Instead:

‘I have had to guide him through some very serious matters. While this might mean that some of us might not be happy with the outcome, what is more important is that Jason defines the outcome for himself. So if he chooses not to be in touch with anyone, we have to respect that choice.’

It all sounded so reasonable. And, obviously, if Margo knew where he was staying, she wasn’t telling. I tried another tack:

‘In that case, Margo, can you give me Graham’s telephone number?’

A pause. ‘You know about Graham?’

‘Yes.’ Her intonation had risen a few decibels. Why?

‘Well, I suppose it will be all right.’

A few moments later, I was talking to Graham, the buddy who had become Jason’s closest friend.

‘You’ve got a nerve ringing me,’ he said. ‘But if you want to know, Jason’s moved in with me.’

Moved in?

Graham went for the jugular.

‘Why don’t you leave him alone, Michael. Why don’t you admit that all he ever was to you was another scalp you could hang on your belt.’

Later that day Roimata asked me to meet her for lunch to talk about the submission I had written for Toi Maori — her Board was delighted with it. As usual she had chosen a restaurant where we would stand out: the only brown people in the room. She liked to make visual her political position — that Maori were a minority but, dammit, we could still walk through the front door and play with the family silver.

‘So things look really bad for you and Jason, right?’

‘You don’t have to sound so pleased.’

‘Well, you know how I feel about Jason. We’ve never liked each other.’

‘Can you blame him?’ I reminded her. ‘Who was that certain Maori maiden who tried to break us up by introducing me to an alternative candidate!’

‘He wasn’t only an alternative,’ Roimata said. ‘Don was Maori, he had mana and, from what I’ve heard, he wasn’t called Long Dong Silver for nothing. He was totally suitable but what did you do? You rejected him and became a — a potato queen.’

‘Look,’ I answered. ‘I like white boys. When I put my brown hands on them it makes me feel so dirty.’

Roimata knew I was joking. Even so, she couldn’t resist pushing home her point.

‘I only wish, Michael, dear, that you would see that you’ve been colonised twice over. First, by the Pakeha. Second by the gay Pakeha. Even in the gay world the White majority holds the power, the money, the decision making power — and it is their images which tell you what is desirable, what you should be like and what you shouldn’t be like.’

Roimata always had a particular strength, a particular vision. It came from her university training in Maori studies, women’s studies and art history — a potent combination that had turned her into an outspoken Maori activist. Add to this her lesbian identity and world, watch out.

‘Take, for instance, the Pakeha gay attitude to family,’ Roimata continued, warming to her subject and talking academic-speak. ‘The Western model de-privileges any notions that gay men or women might have children. Therefore, the White gay species is the only one which doesn’t replicate itself. But our Maori model is a tribal one. It should therefore include the possibility of growing a tribe. Of having children.’

Roimata’s passion was overwhelming, pouring out of her, and her eyes were glowing and luminous.

‘Don’t you understand, Michael? The issues of identity and space — of sovereignty, of tino rangatiratanga — that our people have been fighting for within Pakeha society are the same issues for gay Maori within Pakeha gay society! That gay tribe that your Auntie Pat asked about won’t just happen — it will have to be created, God dammit —’

Sometimes Roimata’s words weren’t expressive enough for her and, before you knew it, you became the target of her spontaneous passions. This time, she reached over the table, grasped my head in both hands and kissed me. Roimata was always helping herself to my body, leaving lipstick all over my face, so I wasn’t surprised. However, this wasn’t just a kiss. It was strong. Deep. Long.