Forget Voguing – Haka!

While channel surfing, a friend of mine came upon the New Zealand Women’s Rugby Team World Cup finals against Ireland. The women of the NZ team performed the Maori warrior ritual Haka Dance. He urged me to check it out and I found it on YouTube. It is great. Talk about fierce! These beautiful strong women executed their synchronized warrior dance with accompanying stomping and shouting – which I couldn’t make out, but my guess would be, “prepare to die.” The Irish team, who looked fairly formidable themselves – and the Irish are a formidable people – seemed a little rattled. They stood close together and made a barrier of themselves, but it was diminished against this wall of power. I don’t know anything about rugby but the message was clear; these women don’t play and they mean some serious business.

I don’t want to spoil the ending but this was last year and NZ won. I wonder what the Irish team made of all that. I remember in school while studying the Roman Empire, we learned that the Romans attempted to invade Ireland several times – unsuccessfully. As our teacher put it, the Irish were too fractious. Her words not mine. Obviously, they were excellent fighters too since the Roman Army wasn’t anything to sneeze at. Maybe the Roman generals finally thought: screw it – there’s a whole lot of world to invade, so move on.

Back to the Haka. The Maori tribe is, like many of our indigenous tribes, a warrior society. As my friend put it, there were probably *some* other indigenous tribes in NZ, but not for long. You can see why. After watching the women, I checked out the men’s rugby team performing the yang version of the dance against France. Another wall of fierce strength and power.

On a more serious note, having seen movies like Once Were Warriors, it is evident that the Maori have not had an easy time assimilating from a warrior culture to whatever it is we live in today. The same is true of many of our Native American tribes. Not that I am in favor of fighting, but what do you do to a people when you take their society away from them? 

The heroic ideal is an ancient concept, where the warrior class was held in the highest regard. Think of the Iliad, Beowulf, The Old Testament, the oral poetry of Scandinavia, the Balkans, Eastern Europe, Japan, Asia, Africa – it is worldwide. Prowess and courage were honored.

Women, feel not excluded in this category. There are women warriors and women of great courage and prowess in myth and legend too: Athena, Diana, Penelope, the Amazon tribe, Kali, Grendel’s mother, Scathach, Queen Maeve, Joan of Arc..the list goes on. No “goat yoga” for this bunch! I can only imagine their scorn for this bougie “fad.” By the way, did anyone ask the goat if he/she wanted to be part of such ridiculousness? I’ve heard the term goat f*&%king which is military slang – not bestiality – where everything goes completely wrong. Now that our warrior women would appreciate. 

How the hell did I get here? With the news, nearly daily, of some man in power doing something unspeakable and non-consensual to women who are subordinate to them, perhaps we should take a leaf out of the NZ Women’s Rugby Team’s book and meet that indefensible action with a wall of ferocity, roar and the right amount of fury. Strike the pose! Or better yet: strike.

Clare Irwin

 

 

 

P.S. Another wonderful movie from New Zealand about a young girl’s struggle and victory is Whale Rider – highly recommended. And for those who still read, Milman Parry was the preeminent scholar of epic poetry and the oral tradition. Might be time to revive the old boy.

Boyhood, Girlhood – Childhood

It’s been an odd summer. I was informed that significant planetary activity – retrogrades, eclipses, blood moons – is contributing to “the time is out of joint feeling.” Shakespearean, isn’t it?

Weather-wise summer never quite hit the target. I was out by the water days before the 4th of July and needed a fleece hoodie. Then we crashed into scorching heat advisory weather and thunderstorms…it certainly curtailed outdoor time. The flowers suffered, most weren’t all what they should have been, others couldn’t cope at all. Now the summer is winding down, not entirely, we often have a long Indian summer, but the flurried fever of back-to-school is in the air.

I was talking to a friend who has three boys, and I was marveling at  how she manages to organize and track their myriad activities. I think she would need a board bigger than what Eisenhower used for D-Day. She was ruminating over the brevity of childhood now, and remarked, “Remember when you would just lay in the grass for hours and look at the clouds and feel the earth moving beneath you…?” As she said this I saw the image (above) from the movie Boyhood – then other images flashed of my childhood experience: looking for four-leaf clovers, catching fireflies, exploring woods and fields, finding old horseshoes, arrowheads, swimming in the local swimming hole which had a huge old tree with a knotted rope to jump off from.

In my email inbox was an affirmation: “Today, I reflect on positive memories with genuine gratitude.” I regarded this as a sign to pen this post. While I was down by the sea I saw a childhood ritual in keeping with the eternity of things. There’s a small bridge that connects the island to the village and it spans a saltwater bay. High tide brings kids for the joy of bridge jumping. No equipment needed – just a swimsuit and some nerve. On my way home I saw two girls selling lemonade. I was transported back to doing that myself with my best friend on a quiet country road. The first foray into “commerce.” Our dads and friends would stop and buy a glass from us.

My mother used to read us a poem, “Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity.” It beautifully captures that heavenly time of summer in childhood. I hadn’t thought about that poem for ages, I found it online and untarnished. Worth a read.

This afternoon, I returned to the lovely coastal setting because the weather gods relented and gave us some fine summer days. There was a girl blowing bubbles that traveled far in the sea breeze, and the kids were again at the bridge – fathers, sons, and daughters.

More memories came flooding back. Once the gate is open it is hard to close. I remember a boy I knew from summers out at my parent’s place. I have two lovely memories of him. We were leaving for Europe – gone for most of the summer  – and he had stopped my sister who was walking ahead of me. He was straddling his bike and I could only see his profile, but he was smiling and wishing us a good journey. Some years later, I ran into him at a train station – again in summer. He was all dewy and moist from rushing to catch the train. He had that high color and glow that only sweet youth doth make, and he was wearing a seersucker jacket. I found that charming. We started a friendship, a small romance, which was simply sweet. No tears, no recriminations, just ripe and happy that only the young can manage. I saw him once again five years later; he was the same pleasant intelligent person, and had newly become an attorney. I could still see the young flushed boy in him, yet something a little darker had claimed his spirit.

At the end of my reverie I stopped at the village shop where they make their own ice cream. While I was eating my Moose Tracks cone, I thought about all and more of summers past, and as happy as they are, for a moment, I break a little inside.

Let’s seize the day and enjoy the salty and sweet pleasures of summer – shut out the noise, listen to the cicadas, keep it simple, enjoy the ice cream. Sweet summer is there to grasp – the gossamer silk of now and then. As our older and younger selves, we look together up at the clouds and imagine.

Clare Irwin

 

 

 

N.B. The poem “Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle…” was written by John Tobias and is in an anthology of poems of the same title edited by Stephen Dunning et al.