The Ordination

Tu Tangata, Issue 28, 1 February 1986, Page 33

The Ordination

By Gayle Patuwai

On September 7th, 1985 two young men; Anthony Patrick Peter Chanel Brown, and Hamilton Nguha PatuwaiHuirama, were ordained priests of the Catholic Church. I attended this celebration. Over the years I have been associated with the family of one of these young men. I have shared, do now share much with this family. I do not share their faith, however, what we believe in, what we are taught, what we know, must at times move aside, for what we feel.... A little boy plays alone. He plays in the dirt. He wears shorts. They have holes in the seat. Bare skin shows through. The legs are frayed, not worth wearing really, nothing would be better especially in this heat, but that would be indecent and uncivilised. He draws in the dirt with a stick. His toy. His game. The dust stirs, disturbed at its rest as the stick makes shallow grooves, creating little sticklike figures. The dust settles over his rude drawings. A wipe of the hand and the stick figures disappear. The little boy squats in the dirt and watches the older children. They work. They must work. The kumara must be stored; properly. Winter meals to come depend on it. He thinks about the evening meal. It will be a good one. Some of the kumara are lying to one sideXThey cannot be stored with the others. They are damaged and could ruin the whole harvest. So, tonight's meal will be these kumara and fresh watercress, of course fresh kumara isn’t as good as the older ones, not as sweet, because kumara needs time out of the ground to be sweet. Nevertheless, tonight's meal will be a good one.

A woman crouches in the doorway of a crude corrugated iron dwelling. Another woman comes out of a weatherboard house and hangs washing on the fence. Dogs play. Cats stalk. Birds sing. The woman finishes hanging the washing out. She re-enters the weatherboard house. The washed clothing hangs on the fence and begins to dry. Steam rises. Evaporates. The other woman remains crouching in the doorway of the corrugated iron shack. The sun is hot. The little boys' head glistens with sweat. His nose glistens too. A wind stirs, dust swirls and clings to the moist stickiness on his head and face, making the grubby face more grubbier than usual.

A quick hard sniff of the nose and backward pull of the top lip, a quick back-handed wipe and the face resumes its normal state of grubbiness... swallow. The sun is hot. It is time for a nap. The little boy lies down in a nearby patch of grass. He thinks... maybe later the older ones will take me down the river for a swim. He is drowsy. He sleeps. This is his world... ... the hot sun... ... the shabby clothing... ... barefeet... ... clothes on the fence... ... nanny sitting in the doorway of her shack... ... the older ones working... ... the harvest... ... the next meal... ... dirt and dust... and a sleep in the long cool grass. This is his world. Happy with simplicity. Content with a bareness of necessity. It is the night before.

A silence fills the house. It reverberates from wall to wall to wall. We whisper when we speak for no-one wishes to disturb the peaceful hush that has settled in. So we entertain our minds in our minds. We love you. We are loving you... mother for son brother for brother sister for brother. Stay here now, stay wrapped in the warm arms of whanau stay wrapped in the korowai of closeness ... a solemnised quiet exists ... a sense of tangi pervades ... a joyful sorrow... tomorrow... tomorrow. The sun is shining. Blossoms brave the threat of a winter relapse and spring from their budded confines. Fresh pink petals play amongst the newly greened trees beautifying the day with colour and fragrance, sanctifying the process of birth and re-birth that is life. Tides of people drift toward the grounds. The church stands empty. Instead, a marquee has been erected over the asphalt carpark. It is a modestly plain shelter. It is large yet not large enough to accommodate the fullness of the large crowd. Some sit outside, some stand or lean against cars or fences or

each other. It is time. Rise people, rise from your restless seats and fill the air with song, ... kia hari tatou i tenei ra... The procession enters. Heads turn... heads bow... e noho. The ordination mass begins. You sit alone. Alone in this crowd. Look up at the men seated on the raised platform, soon you will be one of them. Look around at the people near you, beside you, soon you will lead them. Poised, you sit. Head, slightly bowed, eyes, ahead and steady mouth, set. No strain on your face. There is a serenity about you, coming from deep within you. Clasp, unclasp your hands as they open and close and open and close. Stop. Be still. Listen. You are being called. You stand. Kei konei ahau is your reply. Yes there you are, statuesque in your simple white gown stately in your humility. The crowd is pleased. The atmosphere is formalised by the holy sanctions taking place, yet joyous elation waits at the brim of these solemn rituals and a murmur of exuberence makes its impression.

The ordination mass continues. I am witness to an act of total belief and dedication to a faith. And I am moved, something touches the skeptic in me And I am moved ka tangi au I am not alone. Now you are lying face down on the floor I do not have the understanding yet I appreciate the signifiance of this action. A symbolic turning of your back on worldly things. YOU. The ordination mass continues. The players on the stage act out a play that is unfamiliar to me. Unknowing as I am of the story, the theme stings at my understanding and probes deep into my conscience until I know and I know.

Warm tears flow freely down my face I dry my eyes I am now looking at you for the first time.. ... e Pa. The ordination mass ends. Far away from here stands a little house overlooking the sea. New born lambs play in the grassy paddock. Manuka reach up and up and touch the sky. Hills bow down to meet the sea and greeness and blueness merge. There was a time... A simplicity dwelt there. At times the existence of being became a struggle for survival. You were there. There were hard times, without times, times when all you had was nothing and all you had to look forward to was another day filled with the same nothingness. You grew up with little, you learnt to be satisfied with less. Obedience brought you here. Poverty will keep you here. Purity will keep you.