My Intro to Maori Culture in Aotearoa

My wife Andrea and I just returned from a marvelous, month-long trip to New Zealand. We were generously hosted there by Andrea’s longtime (and my new) friends, Emily and Paul Morrow, who took us to many of their favorite places. Early on, I borrowed from Paul a book of short stories by the renowned Maori author, Witi Ihimaera. The book is titled “Pounamu Pounamu” and it served as my introduction to the rich culture of the first peoples of “Aotearoa” (the officially recognized alternate name for NZ). In order to better remember these marvelous little gems, I wrote out some summaries. I’m sharing four of those summaries here.

 “A Game of Cards”

A Māori college student returns home by train. His father greets him with the news that his beloved “Nani” is very ill. Throughout his boyhood, he and Nani Miro had been very close. It was she who had encouraged him to further his education.

Nani was a leader in the community. She had accumulated shares in tribal land and was considered rich. But she was also very generous with her money and her willingness to care for her many relatives in need. Nani lived next to her tribe’s meeting house and was the keeper of many of her people’s traditional treasures of jade, feathers, and various team athletic trophies.

Nani Miro had a passion for playing card games with other women in the community. She played any and all card games and her skill was legendary. Her principal opponent was Mrs Heta, described as “her best friend and worst enemy”. In the heat of their card rivalry, they often accused one another of cheating.

The student visits his Nani and their emotional bond is easily renewed, despite Nani’s complaint that he visits so seldomly. Nani has just checked out of hospital against her doctor’s advice. That night, she takes a turn for the worse and her closest family members are called to come to her. The student is forlorn at the sight of his Nani’s enfeebled appearance.

All her many relatives and friends have gathered to be with her as she makes her passage. Included in this retinue is Mrs. Heta. Nani regains consciousness and tells Mrs. Heta that she wants to play poker. Miraculously, Nani sits up in bed and pulls out a deck, eager to outplay her nemesis-friend one last time. The two play fiercely, accusing each other of cheating, raising their voices and trading harsh barbs. But then, Nani starts laughing hysterically and promptly dies. Mrs. Heta gently embraces her closest friend and fiercest opponent.

At the elaborate “tangi” (funeral rites) that followed, Mrs. Heta plays solitaire on Nani’s casket. Mrs. Heta dies shortly thereafter and is buried next to Nani so that the two can continue their lifelong card rivalry.

“Beginning of the Tournament”

This story begins like the first with our out-of-town Māori college student, “Tama”, receiving a phone call from his Dad urging him to come home for Easter and help him out with their town’s annual field-hockey tournament. The tournament had been started many years ago by Nani Miro as an annual reunion for dispersed townspeople as well as neighboring tribes. Dad had inherited Nani’s administrative role and needed help.

Tama is reluctant to go but senses the urgency in his Dad’s request and finally agrees to come. At Dad’s suggestion he even invites a pakeha (non-Maori) athlete friend, Jerry, to join him. Jerry is reluctant at first, but assents after he is lured by descriptions of Tama’s gorgeous Māori sister.

Tama and Jerry make the long drive from Wellington to Waituhi and are warmly welcomed by Tama’s Dad. The tournament begins the next day and a welcoming meal needs to be prepared for the 25 men’s and women’s teams that will be competing. In addition, the playing field needs to be marked off in white, and the teams oriented. Tama sets off to work on these tasks but Jerry keeps pestering him to meet his beautiful sister. He finally realizes he has been duped when he meets the 7-year-old sister, Meara. Jerry is very angry of course but is somewhat appeased when Tama then introduces him to an attractive young cousin.

Tama rises early the next morning to pay his respects to his recently deceased Nina Miro whose grave is in the communal cemetery nearby. Tama and Nina Miro had been very close, and seeing her grave again, he becomes strongly motivated to help his father continue a tribal tradition that she had initiated. He laughs aloud when he sees that someone has placed an Ace of Hearts card on her tombstone.

The rest of the story is lighthearted and often farcically funny. The first event is a parade around the field with everyone dressed in their team uniforms. But most of the male players don’t have uniforms! Except for Jerry that is. He sports a flashy gold jersey with matching shorts and wins first prize, although some of the Māori men joke about dirtying the pakeha up a a little.

The women are much better organized, and dressed. They play field hockey with great abandon, bending the rules radically as they go. Jerry makes a new lady friend by offering her the use of his stick and she happily accepts it. It soon becomes clear that winning is a minor element of the games. Everyone is mostly out for the fun of it. At the end of the day, souvenir trophies are given to everyone, and there’s great fun at the traditional feast that marks the end of the tournament.

Tama’s Dad approaches him at the end of the day, tired but happy. “Well, son, we’ve made it through to another year.”

“I thought of my Nani Miro and how she had begun the tournament as a way of keeping up our tribal links, one village with the others. You know: the family that plays together stays together. And what’s going to happen when it’s Dad’s turn to go and the sky falls down?”

“Fire on Greenstone”

 This story is about young “Tama’s” relationship with his grandfather, Nani Tama, after his wife, Nani Miro, had died. Much of the story centers on the old homestead where Nani Tama continues to live. It is next to the tribal “meeting house”, and itself contains many of the tribe’s artifacts and memorabilia.

Nani Tama spends much of his time on his front porch, remembering his rich life, and often drinking beer with visiting neighbors. He would also make a daily walk up the hill to his wife’s grave site and spend time communing with her.

Young Tama visits Nani on one of his infrequent visits from his college life in Wellington. They sit on the verandah, drink beer and reminisce. Nani Tama says:

“Your Nani was a great lady. All her life she kept Waituhi together. All her life she protected the land we live on and fought to get back the land that was taken away. Who will carry on the work now that she is gone?”

Nani Tama invites his grandson to join him in the sitting room inside. As young Tama walks through the house, he is flooded with memories of the many childhood hours he spent here, curiously exploring the Māori artifacts and mementos. He realizes that his grandparents’ homestead is the embodiment of their “whanau” — the extended family and friends of their local Māori community.

The sitting room was where Nani Miro conducted her weekly card clubs. The room also contained an old but still functional piano that young Tama had learned to play. He sits down at the piano and plays an old, melancholic Māori song that deeply affects his grandfather.

Just then some old friends of Nani Tama arrived outside and he leaves to join them on the verandah. Young Tama is left alone to take in the rich family history in the various artifacts displayed in the sitting room. He had spent many hours here as a child, curiously exploring the sacred objects, photos, and sports trophies.

Both of his grandparents had been athletic stars and their trophies, and those of other family members, are in full display. He sees an old photo of his grandmother smiling fully. He takes it in and smiles back at her. Then he comes upon a large ledger with handwritten names inscribed. The ledger is a written record of his family’s “whakapapa” — their genealogy going back many generations. The last entry is for his deceased grandmother.

Young Tama’s grandfather returns inside the house to invite his grandson for a meal. But young Tama has to get back to college and politely demurs. Nani Tama then drops to a more serious demeanor as he motions to a small carved box on a nearby table.

“You remember this?” he asks.

Young Tama nods yes and opens the box. It contains a “pounamu” — a sacred green jadestone. He had seen it as a boy and asked his grandmother if he could have it. She had brushed him off, saying he wasn’t ready.

As Tama describes it: “It was a big piece of greenstone, not the valuable dark green kind, but a smoky green like an opal. I used to like to hold it to the sun and look into it and feel the soft luminous glow flooding around me. And I used to whisper to myself, ‘Pounamu…pounamu…pounamu” and almost hear the emerald water rushing over the clay from where the greenstone had come.”

Nani Tama witnesses his grandson’s attachment to the “Pounamu” and remembers his wife’s instruction to give it to their grandson when he was ready. Nani Tama places the greenstone in his grandson’s hand and says:

“Are you ready, Tama? When you are, come home and, this time stay.”

Some months later, young Tama receives a late-night phone call from his father saying that the old homestead had burned to the ground. Nani Tama had survived but had gone crazy, staring incredulously at the flames and crying “Miro! Miro!”

Young Tama weeps at this news. He writes in his journal:

“That homestead was the ‘manawa’, the heart of the family, and my Nani Tama’s heart, too…

“But then I remembered the greenstone and Nani Tama’s words about carrying on Nani Miro’s work. There are some things fire can never destroy. And I saw not fingers of flame but a soft luminous glow reaching out and around me.”

“In Search of the Emerald City”

It’s moving day for 11-year-old Matiu and his family of four — with Dad, Mum and his adolescent sister Roha.

Overcoming his excitement, his first thought is to say goodbye to the family cow, Emere. It takes time to track her down in the muddy paddock and sidestep all the cow pies. Matiu tries to explain to the cow about their family’s move to the big city, but Esmere is disappointedly indifferent. Matiu is angry at Esmere for this but then finds some forgiveness and gives her a kiss.

Matiu hears his Dad calling him to help load the car. As he carries out a big box of his books and notebooks, his Dad frowns and says he’ll need to leave some behind. Matiu objects, saying that his English teacher advised him to take them all. Dad takes his copy of “The Wizard of Oz” out but Matiu begs to keep it and his father relents.

By mid-morning, their front yard fills with family and friends wanting to say goodbye. Then Matiu’s best friend arrives and invites him out to the woods for a last smoke. Matiu declines, but his friend presents him with a farewell gift— the head of a large eel that he caught that morning.

When Matiu returns to his house, a full-scale party has developed, with sandwiches and beer and even live music. Dad has many friends in their village and they try one last time to dissuade him from making the move. They keep offering his Dad more beer. Dad drinks. but remains adamant that he needs to find full-time work and that the big city is the best place to find it.

Mum sends Matiu to bring his Dad back for the last of the packing, but then has to go get him herself, scolding him loudly to the delight of the other wives there.

With the packing complete, the friends and relatives’ approach for one last tearful goodbye. The women are especially emotional, crying in each other’s arms. Matiu’s sister Roha is totally bereft at having to leave her boyfriend behind. Even Dad is beginning to sob. The family will be leaving everyone and everything most dear to them in life.

Witnessing all this, Matiu becomes melancholy as well. He had awakened that morning full of excitement at the prospect of a new life in the city, but all he can now feel is the dire loss of the people and places he has loved most in all the world.

As their car finally pulls away, all he can think of is Dorothy’s refrain on waking up from her dream of the Emerald City:

“There’s no place like home”.

John Bayerl, 3/13/2026

A Meditation on “The Song of the Earth”

I attended a beautiful rendering of Gustav Mahler’s symphonic song cycle, “Das Lied Von Der Erde”, on Sunday. It was performed by a masterful chamber orchestra, the Apollo Orchestra, that my wife Andrea and I have been following for some years in the Washington, DC area.

I had heard the work before and remembered its musical beauty as well as its stirring evocation of the magnificence of Nature. Listening to it again evoked even deeper feelings this time.

The chamber version of Mahler’s original scoring for a very large orchestra proved to be very effective in eliciting the lyrical intimacy of the work. “Das Lied” consists of six parts, each containing a vocal rendering of an ancient Chinese poem, translated into German. The work has two singers, a tenor and a mezzo soprano, alternating in their renditions of the six poems.

In this essay, I’m going to focus on the last of the six poetic songs, “Der Abschied” (“The Farewell”). It was sung on Sunday by the talented operatic mezzo, Jennifer Johnson Cano. This extended song/movement is about half an hour in length, almost as long as all five preceding songs.

The song is a farewell to mortal life, with an affirmation of eternity within the continuance of life on Earth.

Mahler wrote this work a short time before he died of heart complications in his early 50’s. At the time of composition, a young daughter had contracted a mortal illness, he had just learned of his own heart failings, and he had been summarily dismissed from his longheld leadership positions with the Vienna Opera and Symphony orchestras. In addition, Mahler reportedly felt painful isolation owing to his Jewish identity within a markedly antisemitic Austrian society. Despite a remarkable career as conductor and composer, he carried a heavy weight of melancholy.

In “Der Abschied”, he found the perfect text for expressing his deep love of the natural world and his deep sorrow in leaving it.

The song begins with a beautiful picturing of the sun setting behind a mountain, and a cooling darkness descending on the valley below. Soon a full moon rises “like a silver boat in the watery blue heaven.” The evening’s beauty continues to unfold:

“The brook sings out clear through the darkness.
The flowers pale in the twilight.
The birds roost silent in their branches.
The earth breathes in full rest and sleep.”

Within this hauntingly beautiful dusk, the singer stands and waits in the shadows of a pine forest. She is waiting to bid a final farewell to a beloved friend, longing for her friend’s company to share the beauty of her last evening:

“I yearn, my friend, to enjoy the beauty of this evening at your side.
Where are you? You leave me long alone!
I walk up and down with my lute
on paths swelling with soft grass.
O beauty!
O eternal loving and life-enebriated world”.

At this point, there is a long orchestral interlude, lyrically expressing the poignant, yearning feelings of someone about to pass into the next world.

Finally, the beloved friend arrives on horseback, handing her “the drink of farewell.” As she drinks, he asks why and where she must go.

Her answer is full of melancholic resolve:

“Ah my friend,
Fortune was not kind to me in this world.
Where do I go?
I wander in the mountains,
Seeking peace for my lonely heart.
I wander homeward to my abode.
I’ll never wander far.
Still is my heart, awaiting its hour.
The dear earth everywhere
Blossoms in Spring and grows green anew!
Everywhere and forever
Blue is the horizon!
Forever…
Forever…”

The renowned conductor Leonard Bernstein became a champion for Mahler’s music during his long tenure as head of the New York Philharmonic. He famously described “Der Abschied” as a depiction of attaining Nirvana.

A close friend has long crusaded for a deeper understanding of the great teaching and comforting role of this bounteous planet Earth that we take so much for granted. I felt my friend’s presence strongly at the end of this marvelous performance, and recognized on an emotional level the profound truth she had long been espousing.

John Bayerl, 11/13/2025

Gaithersburg (MD) Book Festival 2025, Part 1

Last Saturday was the long-awaited Gaithersburg Book Festival (GBF) in this Maryland suburban city north of Washington, DC. My sisters Marian and Anna arrived from their long drive from Buffalo around 2:30p on Friday. We had all attended four of the previous festivals, the last one being in 2022.

The three of us plus two of other sibs had been participating in a family book group for ten years. Over the years, our experiences with authors at the GBF had inspired our choices of many of the books we had selected to read.

I went down to greet my sisters and help them to get settled in their Guest Suite just down the hall from my wife Andrea’s and my apartment in our comfortable retirement community in Rockville, MD. Their room was still being cleaned so they came to our place for a nice visit with Andrea and me. They had shared the driving and were tired but in good spirits. Andrea had made us a 6:30 dinner reservation at the restaurant downstairs, so we all had time to rest a bit beforehand. Both Andrea and I always feel a lot of common ground and good cheer in being with my sisters.

After a delicious meal, we treated ourselves to watching a classic 1980’s film, Alan Alda’s “The Four Seasons”, which we all thoroughly enjoyed. We went to bed early enough to get up in time for the 10am festival start at Bohrer Park in Gaithersburg. Andrea drove us the four miles there, right to the entrance (and picked us up there five hours later.) It was a beautiful early summer day, mostly clear and warm, but not oppressively hot.

A Therapeutic Writing Workshop

My sisters and I wanted to attend the 10am writing workshop, “Healing Through Writing”. We arrived just as it was getting started, finding decent seats at one of the tables set up inside a large white tent. At each seat was a nicely bound notebook, pen, and a synopsis of the principles of therapeutic writing.

The presenter was a short, elderly woman, Diane Pomerantz, a “psychologist and author” as the program noted. She spoke in a calm, self-assured way about the documented therapeutic effects of personal writing as a way to achieve perspective and self-awareness after suffering emotional trauma.

She first talked about all our lives as a sequence of stories. While the events of our lives were sometimes outside of our control, she made a compelling argument that we all had the ability to frame and contextualize those events as healing stories. Consciously intending to gain perspective from even severe trauma was a good starting point. Then writing about a trauma and our emotional response to it gave us a vehicle to stand back from it and see it in a greater context.

Ms. Pomerantz had utilized writing to help her heal from a traumatic marriage, and had made that healing experience central to her published memoir. She had a strong personal basis for urging us to consider doing the same.

To get us started, she suggested that we make use of our handsome notebooks to write a 6-word memoir. That seemed like a daunting task at first, but after reflecting for a bit, I came up with a sentence that actually seemed to describe an important theme of my 75-year-old life:

“Cross eyed vulnerability made me different and special.”

I was the second oldest of ten children and was diagnosed early on with strabismus, a condition in which the two eyes don’t look at the same place at the same time (hence, “cross eyed”). By the age of 5 I’d already had two surgeries and wore glasses with a patch covering my “good eye” so that the “lazy eye” might gain strength. None of this actually worked. By the time I started school, I was still “cross eyed” and wore glasses, though the glasses did nothing to fix the underlying condition.

Even in the early years of my family life, I felt competitive for my mother’s attention with my older brother and then my younger baby sister. My vision problem helped to garner me that attention.

One of Ms. Pomerantz’s instructions had been to find some way in which a trauma had brought us some advantage. It didn’t take me long to experience that insight from my own childhood. Both my parents took time to take me to my eye doctor’s appointments across town, and otherwise tend to my vision issues.

But I can also see now that the attention I received for my vision issue contributed to seeing myself as faulty in some way, which fed a kind of victimhood, and a sense that I deserved extra consideration. I left the workshop with a deeper understanding of an important, but largely unexplored aspect of my early life that had had lasting repercussions.

Just Us Books

The GBF is structured as hourly presentations held in small tents scattered about the 40-acre lawn of Bohrer Park. There’s no registration process (nor fees) and seating is on a first-come basis. I was heading to an 11am session with well-known local author Judith Viorst when another tent captured my attention.

Projected on a large screen inside the tent were brightly colored pictures from a children’s book. An attractive African American couple were just beginning their presentation and I was immediately drawn in.

Cheryl and Wade Hudson are a 60-ish couple who are both writers and publishers for Just Us Books, Inc., a company they founded decades ago after mainstream companies had declined to publish their African American-oriented children’s books.

As I was passing by, Cheryl Hudson was reading and singing from her latest children’s book, “When I Hear Spirituals”. It’s about a little girl describing her feelings when she hears spirituals being sung in church. Ms. Hudson took us through each of the visually projected pages of her book, stopping to sing short segments from the spirituals being described by the little girl. These included “Wade in the Waters”, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, “Ring Them Bells” and many more. Her singing and the colorful illustrations really brought the book alive!

Then her husband Wade took us through the illustrations and text of a book he had penned based on the story of his mother voting for the first time in Louisiana in 1969, “The Day Madear Voted”. He beautifully conveyed the jubilation felt by his mother, her family, and other members of their church on finally being allowed to perform their constitutional right to vote.

Andrea and I had visited the civil rights “legacy sites” in Montgomery, AL, last month and the ugly reality of our country’s longstanding abridgment of basic human rights for African Americans was still fresh in my mind. I heartily concurred with Mr. Wade’s assertion that this history needed to be communicated even more at a time when the MAGA forces are attempting to whitewash essential parts of our American history.

There were three other author presentations that I attended and which I will describe in a subsequent post.

John Bayerl, 5/20/2025

Remembering Al Lubran, 1943-2024

[I’m posting this “Remembrance” that I wrote last summer after the death of my neighbor and friend, Al Lubran. I revisited this piece today and was especially taken with Al’s deathbed premonition of the dire effects on our government if DT were elected. Unfortunately, his premonition is proving to be all too accurate.]

Al Lubran was a new friend who lived just around the corner from my spouse Andrea and me in our retirement community – The Village At Rockville (TVAR). He moved in a few weeks after we did in March 2022.  We knew that Al had moved from Colorado Springs, where he was a longtime resident. Al was a rather private person, and it took some time before we got to know him better.

We shared with Al a love for live classical music, and we frequently ran into him at the Strathmore and other concert venues. Al also attended a lot of plays around town and often had good tips for upcoming concerts and other local cultural events. He regularly rode the Metro downtown to the Kennedy Center and other venues, even with his portable oxygen device for the last few months.

Al was an avid crossword puzzle fan – a passion he shared with Andrea and another neighbor on our floor. The New York Times Magazine weekly puzzle was one they always shared – making copies of it for one another and comparing their results afterwards. Al also regularly played bridge and poker at TVAR. He was active on TVAR’s Travel Committee and initiated some bus excursions to local concerts.

Al was a master of humor, regaling many of us here with his funny stories and puns. He had a keen appreciation for political satire, and filled our email inboxes with videos and cartoons, all with a decidedly anti-Trump bent. Al was also a regular attendee of TVAR’s monthly meeting of our Democratic Club.

We got to know Al more deeply after he came over one afternoon recently to tell us that his health was quite shaky and that he wouldn’t be around for long. We had been noticing him with a portable oxygen unit from time to time, but that soon became a constant companion. Al said that he had a fatal condition called pulmonary fibrosis and that his pulmonologist advised that he get his affairs in order and contact hospice. We were taken   assured him that we were available to help in any way.

We knew just a few elements of Al’s biography – that he was from Steubenville, OH, that he had served in the military and then worked for the Federal government for most of his career. We also learned that he had been an avid skier and world traveler, passions which he had shared with his wife Donna, who died in 2018. Al met Donna in Colorado, and they lived in Colorado Springs for decades. Al had moved to the DC area because he had two younger brothers (twins) who lived here. His doctor had recommended that he move somewhere with a lower elevation to facilitate his compromised breathing. Al celebrated the fact that he’d had two good years living at TVAR before his lungs started giving out.

I visited Al in his apartment a few times after he shared his dire news with us. He was remarkably sanguine about dying, accepting his fate with grace and dignity. He wanted to remain in his home to the end and contracted with the Jewish Social Services Agency for in-home hospice care. His two brothers, Bernie and Bob, supported him to the end, along with his devoted friend, Carol Stein. He died at home on the morning of June 18.

I learned from Al’s brothers a bit more about the arc of his life. He had gone to college at the Case Institute of Technology in Cleveland, OH and then enlisted in the Air Force, where he rose to the rank of Captain. Al was proud of his military service in Turkey and stateside. He then went to work for IBM but left in order to move to the place he loved, Colorado Springs. He then went to work for the Federal government as a contracting officer based in Denver. He spent the rest of his career as a devoted public servant, serving in a number of Federal agencies. He spoke proudly of the fact that he had saved American taxpayers millions of dollars with his keen procurement strategies.

My last visit with Al was the most memorable. He shared how afraid he was feeling. Given his acute breathing disability, I assumed he meant he was afraid of dying. But no, he waved that off, and said he was really afraid that all his hard work as a Federal civil servant would come to naught if Donald Trump was elected to a second term. I was taken by his pride in his accomplishments and his deep appreciation for the established system of government he had worked for in both Republican and Democratic administrations.

May Al’s spirit rest in peace. May his fear for the future of our country be alleviated.

John Bayerl, 6/26/2024