My Dad, His Dad

One of the fears a migrant parent must have, is whether their child will receive the same positives, same influential experiences and ultimately cultural findings or conclusions in life that they did. Regardless of class, there are blessings of identity, family and national pride - that most gain through daily existence in any country…. These are held deep and a desire for offspring to adopt these values and ultimately ideals surely cause distress.  I imagine there would be a lot of angst experienced that these children may not understand or share these same beliefs if they are important to you… cause ultimately it also may mean that your children won’t understand you.

 Growing up in a mixed racial community where Western ideals are the norm, it is easy to mistake these traditions and beliefs as your own.

Chatter about boyfriends and girlfriends, parties, pocket money, the tooth fairy, debutants, debating with parents, teenage sex, abortion and leaving home at 18 were easily found in the playground and in the classrooms…and you quickly accepted that in everyone else’s home these things were not myths or fairy-tales… they were real.

My parents had been raised differently to each other. One in a very traditional home, the other in a very spiritual one. Dad tried to imitate his own upbringing as closely as possible in the rearing of his 8 children. Hoping (I’m sure) to instil in us the same passions, lessons, loyalties and loves that he had. Not an easy task in a world foreign from his own, that didn’t believe in the laying on of hands, village law or very much religion let alone Samoan tradition. But he tried his very best nonetheless.

Now a parent myself, I realise that being human I can’t 
help but make mistakes. It’s hard. Hard not to make mistakes and hard to accept them when you do. Especially when you want to bring up a respectful, intelligent, humble, confident, well spoken, musically talented, creative minded, mathematical genius that can dance and grow up to be an honest, spiritually sound and ultimately successful human who is a positive contributor to life…. J     I read a lot about parenting and it seems the common component in all my readings (when success is the goal) is consistency. I’m hopeless at it. In every aspect of life. I wish I wasn’t but I am.

My Dad on the other hand….was the epitome of consistency. We never missed a piano lesson. He always made our lunches. Weekdays we didn’t watch TV. Saturday mornings were for cleaning. Sundays were for church (although, this was more thanks to Mum) and if he said while we were out somewhere that you’d get a hiding when you got home. You’d wanna bet he wouldn’t forget. He was consistent and strict and although I knew I would have to be on my best behaviour always or else … I knew I my boundaries. I knew the expectation and I was safe. And although he never told me as a child that he loved me…

I felt his love fiercely.

I knew his love was shown through actions. He worked tirelessly to help provide for us. He would come home and while Mum was at work he would put away his male pride and exhaustion to do the washing, the cleaning, the cooking, whatever needed to be done.

We were always fed and well taught. When we got into trouble we were smacked but our lectures were on another level. They would last hours. Some nights the sun would start to rise and then he’d say… “oi, ua leva le po, o loa e momoe!” “oh, it’s late, go to sleep now.” When I was old enough to go out at night… those who knew my Dad were shocked I was allowed out. He was a taxi driver then and when a taxi would pass us by, even they would be on high alert incase it was him. Everyone knew how very strict he was.

He told me last weekend that he missed his Dad. And then went on to tell me how strict his Dad was and how everyone in the village knew as much. It made me smile. He said everyone knew that if his father would “miki” (tight high pitched call/whistle) more than twice him and his brothers would definitely be getting it. He said his father hardly spoke or instructed. That everything he learnt was from watching. And that the only thing he remembers his Dad telling him to do is how to clean a pig after the kill.

One day he went out hunting for wild boar with “Loli” and a nest of wasps attacked him. Loli said “pi i lau lima ae olo ai au maka” “pee on your hand and put it on your face” … he said nothing in him wanted to do it but he was so scared of his Dad that he did… and then he laughed and said “but you know what?  It really worked!!! Whenever anyone gets stung by wasps their face is swollen badly but mine was fine! That’s how I know it works!”

He spoke fondly of his final conversations with his brother Laufika who passed away late last year.

Dad: “Do you remember anything from when we were kids?”

Uncle: “I remember everything!”

Dad: “Like what?”

Uncle: “Like that night we were hanging out with the rest of the kids from the village down at the malae (field) and we all heard Loli miki three times. Everyone freaked out. So we walked home … I had my Ukulele with me and as we got to our next door neighbours house you said ‘Let me see your ukulele’ then as we got to Loli he went to hit us and you guarded yourself with my ukulele – that ended up in pieces’

My Dad said they spoke a lot of their childhood in Samoa, a little about their young adult lives in New Zealand but more about Samoa and their parents.

My father tried to be just like his Dad … but I know without doubt that he was better than him and Loli would be proud!!!!