We are Tangata Whenua, but this is not our Tūrangawaewae
A story about waiting room chairs, stolen treasures and Alex's dead dog
I’ve been reading this book ‘Ghosts of the British Museum - a true story of colonial loot and restless objects.’ It’s the story of all the items on display and in storage at the British Museum, that have been acquired (a.k.a plundered, looted & stolen) that once belonged to indigenous people from around the world.
I revisited some old albums from my O.E in the early 00’s and found photos I excitedly took of American Indian regalia, ancient Roman sculptures, ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, stone Moai from Rapa Nui (Easter Island). Nowadays I don’t think I’d be so quick to visit a museum full of such treasures so far from their home. It doesn’t align with my beliefs, or in other words, the vibes are off.
The author tells the story of how a group of ex British museum staff caught up at a pub and realised they’d all had similar experiences while working. Some called it paranormal, others just classed it as unexplainable. It discusses the energy around “restless objects held against their will.”
This isn’t a korero about museums, it's not really about our imperial past either. It’s actually a korero about a doctor’s appointment I had last week!
“When you play a violin, the violin retains your energy.”
It had been years since we had been in the developmental paediatricians waiting room. We were discharged from child development services three years ago, because the doctor said there was nothing more they could offer us, and they need spaces for new diagnosis patients. I agreed, the annual check ups were becoming nothing more than a chat, and I’d hate to hold a space that could be used by a family waiting for a diagnosis. Nothing new or helpful was ever offered, just a pair of free winter pyjamas at the end of each appointment. So we were discharged, just shy of my daughter’s 13th birthday.
I don’t recommend anyone do this, because teen years present a whole new raft of challenges, that would have benefited from ongoing support. But hey, hindsight is a great thing.
So we sought another referral through our GP and were placed at the bottom of a waiting list. We were declined places on both a mainstream and kaupapa māori mental health service, based on her diagnosis, which is a trauma to discuss another day, another blog! Over a year later we finally got an appointment letter for the same place that had discharged us in the first place.
So much had changed for us in three years - we had moved from specialist to mainstream school, from primary to secondary school, her communication, physical and sensory needs had completely changed, and we were struggling without support. We had made it through lockdowns and covid restrictions, and entered the doctors waiting room with new, yet old (and tired) eyes.
The waiting room looked exactly the same - all that was missing was the old rocking horse that she outgrew over the years from pre-school to tween. The chairs were the same ones my husband and I had sat on the edge of with clenched cheeks through assessments, reassessments and reviews and discharge appointments for our two children.
The noticeboard was still full of invites to take part in research projects, coffee groups and workshops. The toys were well loved. It was nice to see that the ride on car had stood the test of time.
The chalkboard was still there too, someone had been playing ‘hangman’ that day - which struck me funny as we all feel like we are facing a judge and jury sat amongst the gallows in this place.
One by one the families trudge off to their appointment down the hall, and then float back out, past the office and out the magic doors, back into the world, sentenced to all sorts of torturous events - home visits 😩 WINZ forms 😖 and IEP’s 😱 oh my…
There’s a mum and dad and a small child there. They watch and chase after him, they rock to soothe him in this unfamiliar place, they talk softly and slowly to him. They smile from their eyes and say thank you to the doctor on their way out, and are so appreciative of the free pyjamas.
I used to be that mum, appreciative and smiling. A silent tear falls down my face as I mourn the loss of that ‘me,’ she has gone. I think about how hard life is going to get for this mum as she walks past, how she has no idea how shitty it will all get.
Fuck this place and its broken dreams.
I wonder, who has sat on these chairs, waiting for an absolution that would never come? What hopes and dreams were crushed, dashed and rehashed as a result? Was there an understanding hug, a reassuring smile or an affirming chat waiting for these poor souls? Or were they destined to float aimlessly, haunting the lives they once had?
The last time we had sat in these chairs, another child had drawn a truly gruesome scene in chalk. A grim reaper, Alex’s dead dog and a creepy game of hide and seek. I love kids art - the stranger the better, because the explanation is always the best part. But I didn’t hang around to meet Alex that day!
There’s an energy in this room, we don’t say it, but we all feel it. And it’s not nice. It’s inauspicious, and a bit menacing. Which isn’t surprising when you read the history of the whenua it sits on. A stones throw from both a cemetery and the site of an old psychiatric hospital, with a dark past. I felt it before I googled it. So much of my life before coming here for the first time was based around intuitive parenting, when everyone was too scared to mention my daughter’s quirks to my face. So I always ‘feel’ before I think.
And just like the museum workers sitting around sharing stories in a pub, parents talk - and lots of us have weird stories about our times in this place. While other parents share sweet stories of their child making friends with another child in a waiting room, our small child is talking to a new invisible friend, or asking who the (invisible) man with scratches on his faces is in the carpark out the window. It’s another completely alien experience that binds parents like us. Maybe I should write that book.
I’m thinking about residual energy. Like a family heirloom that collects memories with every generation it is passed down through. Like a violin or another musical object that connects with the feelings and energy given to it by its owners in every note it plays. Like every object stolen from a person and placed in a museum far from its whenua.
If objects absorb the energy of the people they are connected to, what happens to that energy? Is it passed on to the next person that uses it? Does it stay dormant in the the object?
It’s been over a week since I revisited that place. I feel restless and angry. I resent the way my child and I were made to feel in that place. We are Tangata Whenua, but that is not our Tūrangawaewae.
I think about that Moai, far from Rapa Nui, calling back to his ancestors, from a cold museum far away in England.
Sitting on a chair that has held countless nervous and fearful parents, anxious, angry and grieving parents, confused and desperate parents… I think about what has happened a day, a week, a month after they have left this place. Have they found what they were looking for, or are they more lost than before?
I wonder, are we the ghosts, or are we the haunted?
I remember that place and that weird energy. I thought it was just me. But that whole hillside feels creepy with 150 years of incarceration and forgotten people.