In the 1950s, a young Ngāhuia is fostered by a family who believe in hard work and community. Although close to her kuia, she craves more: she wants higher education and refined living. But whānau dismiss her dreams. To them, she is just a show-off, always getting into trouble, talking back and running away.In this fiery memoir about identity and belonging, Ngāhuia te Awekōtuku describes what was possible for a restless working- class girl from the pā. After moving to Auckland for university, Ngāhuia advocates resistance as a founding member of Ngā Tamatoa and the Women’s and Gay Liberation movements, becoming a critical voice in protests from Waitangi to the streets of Wellington.Roaming between the beauty and violence of the 1950s, 60s and 70s,the personal and the political, this is a coming of age memoir about a resilient, raging young girl who grew up with the odds stacked against her but who had the strength and courage to carve a path of her own.

Ngāhuia hadn’t thought of writing a memoir. As she says:‘I recorded many of my teenage adventures as short fiction and, although oblique, I felt that was enough. Pieces of my life story, safely disguised despite some readers recognising me as the main character. Others around me, including close kin, suggested that writing my growing-up may help and inspire other young Māori, Pasifika and Indigenous girls dealing with similar issues. Believe that you can do anything! Never give up! Seize the time, take that risk! Hit back! The hope was that this book may also help others outside our world to understand us, get to know us better, as Māori, as queer, as native women, as survivors and fighters. So I decided to have a go, and here it is.

’This extract (from p15-17) speaks of her younger days and inspiration from her kuia and koro:

Facing the stove was The Safe, a cupboard door that opened into a stout mesh box attached to the outside wall. Fresh cool air constantly moved through it. There were two shelves: the bottom one for meat, like chops; the top one for special treats. The best was Highlander condensed milk, gulped down by the secret heavenly spoonful, worth my mother telling me off.Most of our meals were prepared in the ngāwhā and a cooking box that we shared with neighbouring families. Where our properties linked on the riverbank, there was a concreted well of continually seething water. From this cauldron, we collected enough to wash our dishes and do other chores.To one side was the open cooking box with thick pipes lining its bottom, their holes exhaling a steady flow controlled by a crusty lever at the side. To outsiders – Māori and Pākehās – this looked like a dangerous way to cook and wash; for us it was ordinary, everyday living. We knew where to put our feet, and how much water to take, and when to be there. In wet weather and on frosty mornings, we’d takeextra care, and we kids would never go down after dark. Ngāwhā killed people; we all knew that.The cooking box was the view from my koro Tiawhe’s office.This room had a panelled upright desk and a big metal lamp. He owned two precious books, The Coming of the Maori by Te Rangihiroa Sir Peter Buck, and Te Paipera Tapu, the Bible in Māori, which could be found in most homes in the pā. But there was one item special to my koro, and no one else had one. On his desk was a globe of the world on a sturdy brass stand. For me it was an endless source of fascination and promise. It was The World.Sometimes we’d play a special game, the three of us together. Koro would flip down the desk’s writing surface and place the treasure in its centre. Then he’d spin it slowly, and they’d both watch me, their eyes shining. I basked in their attention.‘Ki hea ināianei, Huia? Where are you going now?’‘Here!’ I’d squawk, my fingers extended, until I’d concentrate on stopping the smoothly turning ball with a careful poke. ‘Here! What about here?’Somehow I’d usually end up in the northern hemisphere, and my grandparents would chuckle with glee. One night I said, ‘Plymouth!’‘Yes, we’ve been there. That’s where we got off the boat.’Another try, this time lower and slightly skewed. ‘Suez Canal!’‘Oh, the kai – good meat, and those sweet dates and the nuts, too,’ my koro reminisced. ‘Tasty and different, and their coffee, oh, real coffee –’‘And their weaving –’ My kuia had gone off rummaging, then returned with a flat cushion cover. ‘Just look at this! Same patterns as us, but different how they do it! Tight knots at the back, very different.’ She didn’t take it apart to show me, but she’d watched the Arab women working in the market, making small souvenirs, just like she did. She loved it there; weaving was her language.Next time: ‘Glasgow!’‘Oh, that was lovely but cold. We brought home those warm rugs.’ And out they came, two dark woollen blankets, one a weighty Black Watch and the other a deep-green Douglas. ‘Warm. Ka rawe.’One time, I jabbed at the big blue Pacific Ocean and landed in: ‘Vancouver!’They both paused at that one and looked at each other, like they were deciding what to say.‘That was not a nice place. We had to stay on the boat, all of us. They knew we were on our way to England.’ My koro’s eyes went cold.‘They had a Colour Bar,’ my kuia whispered. ‘We had to stay on board the boat for six days, and they had rough looking men with guns there watching us. Night and day. They made us women feel funny. No one tried to get off –we didn’t want to. It was horrible.’‘Colour Bar.’ My koro closed down the kōrero. ‘That was not a nice place.’Another time, I pushed my finger into the side of England and landed in: ‘Calais! Clever girl!’ said my kuia. ‘That was a really short trip, though. We had to turn around and go straight back to Dover because the concert organisers were worried about a war.’‘So they cancelled all the concert bookings – all of them.They said they were looking after us. Auē. I wanted to go to Paris, ooh la la.’ The old man pulled a funny face.‘But we ate some flaky pastries in France, and that delicious hot chocolate,’ my kuia chirped. ‘And they did have a war …’‘But when we came back that time we saw the White Cliffs in the sun, and oh, they were beautiful, glowing high and pure white, just like in the song –’ And Koro’s pristine tenor soared high throughout our whare, filling us all with memories of the places they had seen and the adventures they’d enjoyed.I vowed that one day I’d follow in their footsteps, visiting all the poked-at places on my koro’s magic sphere.