“You’re the One That Was on Uncle’s Wall!”: Identity, Whanaungatanga and Connection for Takatāpui (LGBTQ+ Māori)

Abstract

Takatāpui (Māori LGBTIQ+) challenge static notions of relationality and belonging or whanaungatanga for Māori. Explorations of Māori and LGBTIQ+ identity can often polarise experiences of family as either nurturing spaces or sites comprised of actors of spiritual and physical violence. However, such framing ignores the ways in which cultural practices for establishing relationality for takatāpui extend beyond dichotomies of disconnection or connection within families and into spaces of new potential. In this paper we outline a bricoleur research praxis rooted in Māori ways of being which underpins the research. We engage in photo-poetry as an analytic tool, constructing poetry from our interviews with Waimirirangi, a twenty-year-old whakawahine (Māori term for trans woman or trans femme) and bring them into conversation with the images she provided as part of the broader research project. As the interface between her ancestors and future generations, Waimirirangi demonstrates the potentiality of whanaungatanga as a restorative practice for enhancing takatāpui wellbeing.

Full text

genealogy
Article
“You’re the One That Was on Uncle’s Wall!”: Identity,
Whanaungatanga and Connection for Takat¯
apui
(LGBTQ+ M¯
aori)
Logan Hamley 1, *, Shiloh Groot 1, Jade Le Grice 1, Ashlea Gillon 1,2,3 , Lara Greaves 4, Madhavi Manchi 1and
Terryann Clark 3


Citation: Hamley, Logan, Shiloh
Groot, Jade Le Grice, Ashlea Gillon,
Lara Greaves, Madhavi Manchi, and
Terryann Clark. 2021. “You’re the
One That Was on Uncle’s Wall!”:
Identity, Whanaungatanga and
Connection for Takat¯
apui (LGBTQ+
M¯
aori). Genealogy 5: 54. https://
doi.org/10.3390/genealogy5020054
Received: 15 April 2021
Accepted: 27 May 2021
Published: 4 June 2021
Publisher’s Note: MDPI stays neutral
with regard to jurisdictional claims in
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iations.
Copyright: © 2021 by the authors.
Licensee MDPI, Basel, Switzerland.
This article is an open access article
distributed under the terms and
conditions of the Creative Commons
Attribution (CC BY) license (https://
creativecommons.org/licenses/by/
4.0/).
1
School of Psychology, University of Auckland, Auckland 1010, New Zealand; s.groot@auckland.ac.nz (S.G.);
j.legrice@auckland.ac.nz (J.L.G.); a.gillon@auckland.ac.nz (A.G.); m.manchi@auckland.ac.nz (M.M.)
2Te W¯
ananga o Waipapa, University of Auckland, Auckland 1010, New Zealand
3School of Nursing, University of Auckland, Auckland 1010, New Zealand; t.clark@auckland.ac.nz
4Politics and International Relations, School of Social Sciences, University of Auckland,
Auckland 1010, New Zealand; lara.greaves@auckland.ac.nz
*Correspondence: lham523@aucklanduni.ac.nz
Abstract:
Takat
¯
apui (M
¯
aori LGBTIQ+) challenge static notions of relationality and belonging or
whanaungatanga for M
¯
aori. Explorations of M
¯
aori and LGBTIQ+ identity can often polarise expe-
riences of family as either nurturing spaces or sites comprised of actors of spiritual and physical
violence. However, such framing ignores the ways in which cultural practices for establishing rela-
tionality for takat
¯
apui extend beyond dichotomies of disconnection or connection within families and
into spaces of new potential. In this paper we outline a bricoleur research praxis rooted in M
¯
aori ways
of being which underpins the research. We engage in photo-poetry as an analytic tool, constructing
poetry from our interviews with Waimirirangi, a twenty-year-old whakawahine (M
¯
aori term for trans
woman or trans femme) and bring them into conversation with the images she provided as part of the
broader research project. As the interface between her ancestors and future generations, Waimirirangi
demonstrates the potentiality of whanaungatanga as a restorative practice for enhancing takat
¯
apui
wellbeing.
Keywords:
takat
¯
apui; Indigenous LGBTIQ+ identities; re-membering; photo-poetry; case study;
whanaungatanga; relationality
1. Introduction
Takat
¯
apui is an umbrella term that describes M
¯
aori (Indigenous people of Aotearoa
New Zealand) of diverse gender, sexuality and sex characteristics (Kerekere 2017). How-
ever, it is important not to assert a monolithic link of Indigenous sexual and gender diversity
within and across Indigenous nations, colonial borders and global networks (Driskill et al.
2011). There is no single story. Furthermore, Indigenous linguistic terms conceptualising
historical gender and sexual diversity do not necessarily describe a minoritized group in
Indigenous societies that existed in opposition to a sexual and gender majority (Driskill
et al. 2011). Takat
¯
apui, as a distinctly M
¯
aori identity, moves beyond Eurocentric imaginings
of sex, gender and sexuality as somehow removed from other important aspects of who we
are. In this paper, we present one offering of creative theorizing, drawing on a narrative
case study of Waimirirangi (pseudonym), a twenty-year-old whakawahine (M
¯
aori term
for trans woman or trans femme) and how her experiences inform us of the enactment
of relationality and belonging or whanaungatanga for M
¯
aori. Through these practices,
Waimirirangi asserts an identity as takat
¯
apui, remaps practices of relationality and resists
the destabilising effects of colonisation. We foreground our analytic approach by detailing
a bricoleur research praxis rooted in M¯
aori ways of being which underpins the research.
Genealogy 2021,5, 54. https://doi.org/10.3390/genealogy5020054 https://www.mdpi.com/journal/genealogy

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 2 of 21
Takat
¯
apui as an identity has a contested history, with variations in the definition
between those who claim it as an identity (Kerekere 2017;Te Awekotuku 2005), within
M
¯
aori dictionaries (Moorfield 2005) and Aotearoa New Zealand society more broadly
(Aspin and Hutchings 2007
). These differences in the definition of takat
¯
apui relate to the
impacts of colonisation on the intergenerational transmission of knowledge and practices.
Takat
¯
apui as a term was separately (re)claimed in the 1980s by two M
¯
aori academics,
Ngahuia Te Awekotuku and Lee Smith, within the manuscripts of W
¯
ıremu Maihi Te
Rangik
¯
aheke (Kerekere 2017). In these manuscripts, Te Rangik
¯
aheke describes Te Arawa
ancestors Hinemoa, T
¯
utanekai and Tiki, and the erotic possibilities that existed between
them (Te Awekotuku 2001,2005). In this account, Tiki is referred to as the hoa takat
¯
apui
(intimate companion) of T ¯
utanekai, someone for whom T ¯
utanekai felt immense love.
This differs greatly from how the story was retold in George J. Grey’s—a colonial
administrator—anthropological text Polynesian Mythology, first published in 1855 and
adapted from the manuscripts of W
¯
ıremu Maihi Te Rangik
¯
aheke (Te Awekotuku 2001).
The legend of Hinemoa and T
¯
utanekai is one of the greatest love stories of the thermal
regions of Aotearoa New Zealand and of the M
¯
aori world (as above). The lovechild of a
warring chief’s wife, T ¯
utanekai was not of the same social pedigree as Hinemoa and thus
did not meet her parents’ approval. However, young Hinemoa was not to be deterred; she
was wilful and determined, but essentially feminine. She defied her parents’ wishes, and
as T
¯
utanekai passively waited playing his flute, she swam across the cool night waters of
the lake guided by his melancholic music and into his arms. It is retold over and over to
titillate tourists as they languish over the details of Hinemoa rising from the heated pools
on Mokoia Island after her swim where she rested, cloaked in night, naked from the waist
up, long hair moulded to her body as T
¯
utanekai watched in awe and worship. Here, Tiki is
reimagined as T
¯
utanekai’s clumsy but faithful servant and no more. The tribes are reunited
through the couple’s marital union, and the colonial fantasy of Romeo and Juliet with a
happier ending takes hold. It is George J. Grey’s version that still pervades today, and
W
¯
ıremu Maihi Te Rangik
¯
aheke’s that is silenced and forgotten—even to ourselves. Ngahuia
Te Awekotuku describes how she wept as she—a Te Arawa woman, a prominent takat
¯
apui
activist and an academic—interpreted and understood the words of her ancestor in a
university library where the manuscript was (with)held (Te Awekotuku 2001). Drawing on
the richly nuanced story of these Te Arawa ancestors, Te Awekotuku and Smith reclaimed
and regifted the term takat
¯
apui across M
¯
aori LGBTIQ+ networks where it began to grow
in circulation and power across the 1990s and 2000s (Kerekere 2017).
Colonialism, gender, sex and sexuality are irrevocably intertwined and cannot usefully
be extracted from one another (Roen and Groot 2019). Understanding the nuances of
precolonial sexual expression and gender diversity is severely hindered by colonising
practices that were and are commonplace. This includes the massacres of Indigenous
peoples, accompanied by rape and sexual mutilation of both Indigenous bodies and sacred
symbols depicting histories of gender and sexual diversity (Smith 2011;Te Awekotuku
2005). It is through these very mechanisms that Europeans were able to colonise Indigenous
peoples in the first place. Similarly, Smith (2011) asserts that the maintenance of such
cis/heteronormative systems prevents decolonisation and the assertion of Indigenous
sovereignty.
The inheritance of the British legal system was formalised through the English Laws
Act 1858 (Laurie 2005). This act criminalised buggery, and enabled cissexism and heterosex-
ism to become legally entrenched throughout the nation. The dichotomisation of sexuality
into heterosexual (‘normal’) and homosexual (‘abnormal/illegal’) and gender into man
and woman (with similar associations of superiority and inferiority) in the 1880s served
to further stigmatise sex, gender and sexual diversity (Aspin and Hutchings 2007). This
stigmatisation and shaming were normalised as M
¯
aori practices began to absorb colonial
heteropatriarchy through Christianity (McBreen 2012). Further, the ways in which coloni-
sation impacts takat
¯
apui today connects to how it has impacted on knowledge systems,
gender politics and cultural practices. Such complexities highlight how colonial processes

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 3 of 21
seek to control Indigenous identity and coerce Indigenous people to assume Eurocentric
ways of knowing and being (King et al. 2017). This is particularly relevant to scholarship
addressing the needs and rights of takat
¯
apui. In the following section we discuss the
ways in which belonging and relationality or whanaungatanga for takat
¯
apui move beyond
dichotomised framings of dis/connection within wh
¯
anau (community of related families)
and into spaces of infinite potential.
2. Whanaungatanga: Remapping Pathways toward Each Other
Whanaungatanga is a central concept and everyday practice for M
¯
aori wellbeing, de-
scribed as the ‘basic cement that holds things M
¯
aori together’ (Ritchie 1992, p. 67), and the
collective orientation of wh
¯
anau to nurture, protect and raise descendants is a key aspect
of this (Pere and Nicholson 1997;Metge 1999). It is the process of tying people together in
bonds of association and obligation through kinship ties or relatedness
(Groot et al. 2011)
.
However, takat
¯
apui challenge static notions of whanaungatanga and belonging for M
¯
aori.
Much of the literature regarding takat
¯
apui has highlighted the ongoing experiences of
heterosexism, cissexism and racism that takat
¯
apui experience, as well as the lack of support
takat
¯
apui face within and beyond their communities
(Glover et al. 2004
;Kerekere 2017;
Morgensen 2011;Pihama et al. 2020). Scholarship exploring M
¯
aori and LGBTIQ+ identity
can often polarise experiences of wh
¯
anau as either nurturing spaces or sites comprised
of actors of spiritual and physical violence
(Kerekere 2017)
. Such binarised framing ob-
scures the ways in which whanaungatanga for takat
¯
apui moves beyond dichotomies of
dis/connection within wh
¯
anau and into spaces of vast potential. In this paper we respond
to the urgent need for research which attends to takat
¯
apui understandings and practices of
whanaungatanga to strengthen efforts to promote wellbeing for takat¯
apui.
Ritchie (1992) introduces whanaungatanga as part of a conceptual framework that
allows us to explore the interrelationships between facets of everyday life for M
¯
aori
(Nikora 2007)
. This includes manaakitanga (reciprocal care), wairuatanga (the notion
that everything in the M
¯
aori world is spiritually connected), rangatiratanga (leadership
and getting things done) and kotahitanga (unity in complex relationships between status,
history, kinship and the human need for affirmation and esteem) (Groot et al. 2011;Ritchie
1992). None of these terms has a simple translation, and the use of any one concept draws
upon a host of meanings, all of which are irrevocably linked to one another. These concepts
can be abstractions that represent the atmosphere within which M
¯
aori enact and give
meaning to their lives (Nikora 2007). There is still space for greater theorizing about how
whanaungatanga can occur within experiences of marginality, and how the ever-expanding
networks of care crafted by takat
¯
apui inform us of the ways in which whanaungatanga can
offer restoration during moments of rejection and exclusion.
Many researchers will draw on ideas of an untainted ‘traditional’ M
¯
aori identity to
speak back to colonisation (Hokowhitu 2008). However, these portrayals of M
¯
aori may fall
into the different patterns of colonial representation, emphasising cisheteronormativity
in M
¯
aori practices, including romanticised assumptions that gender roles in the M
¯
aori
world were complimentary (Hokowhitu 2013;Kerekere 2017;Mikaere 2011). This binary of
traditional versus modern flattens the ways in which colonisation has shaped Indigenous
communities, often making it difficult to assert what is ‘modern’ and what is ‘traditional’
(Hokowhitu 2008)
. Further, it persists in promoting the idea of Indigenous communities
as fixed and belonging to the past, as opposed to being innovative and adaptive to our
needs over time. The ongoing colonisation of Indigenous peoples perpetuates inequities
which privilege white, cisgender bodies and intellects, while degrading Indigenous gender
and sexual diversity (Abustan 2015;Vandenburg et al. 2021). The embodiment of such
ideologies is experienced when Indigenous peoples view themselves as bodies, without
intellect and incapable of self-governance (Finley 2011).
On a cautionary note, prioritising an essentialised view of culture at the expense of
other relations or structures (such as class), may limit the opportunity for takat
¯
apui to
use cultural frameworks as a means of challenging oppression (cf. Lugones 2007;Roen

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 4 of 21
and Groot 2019). Indigenous peoples should be self-critiquing of Indigenous constructions
of ‘tradition’ and similar cultural nationalisms that are dependent on the exclusion of
takat
¯
apui (Roen and Groot 2019). M
¯
atauranga M
¯
aori, or M
¯
aori ways of being and engaging
in the world, are an ever-evolving knowledge base rather than a stagnant pool that is never
rejuvenated or questioned (Hoskins and Jones 2017). To support the wellbeing of this pool,
Indigenous research which resists static and binary representations of M
¯
aori communities,
theories and practices is important.
In the following section, we present one offering of creative theorizing, drawing on
a narrative case study of Waimirirangi (pseudonym), a twenty-year-old whakawahine
(M
¯
aori term for trans woman or trans femme) and how her experiences inform us of the
enactment of whanaungatanga for takat
¯
apui. Through these practices, Waimirirangi asserts
an identity as takat
¯
apui, remaps practices of relationality and resists the destabilising effects
of colonisation. This is followed by a section detailing a bricoleur research praxis rooted in
m
¯
atauranga M
¯
aori which underpins the research. We engage in photo-poetry as an analytic
tool, constructing poetry from our interviews with Waimirirangi and bringing them into
conversation with the images she provided as part of the broader research project.
How Waimirirangi and her wh
¯
anau enact whanaungatanga provides a core theme for
threading together the four sections of our analysis. Firstly, we address the malleability
of whanaungatanga for Waimirirangi when reconciling experiences of dislocation and
disruption to identity. Secondly, we explore how cherished familial objects become inter-
twined with our sense of self and can unlock deeper narratives regarding relationality for
M
¯
aori. Thirdly, we consider the cosmological and psychological elements of whanaun-
gatanga embedded within culturally imbued encounter spaces. Finally, the analysis is
completed through an exploration of how Waimirirangi herself embodies whanaungatanga
as the interface between her ancestors and future generations, creating new possibilities for
takat
¯
apui and M
¯
aori to resist coloniality. We conclude the paper by placing emphasis on the
potentiality of whanaungatanga as a restorative practice to enhance takat¯
apui wellbeing.
3. Ko wai au, ko Waimirirangi: Who Am I, I Am Waimirirangi
At the time of this research, Waimirirangi was a twenty-year-old whakawahine living
in Auckland—Aotearoa New Zealand’s most populous city. She had moved to Auckland,
where she was living with her sister, from a smaller Northland urban community at the
age of 18. Waimirirangi is the living descendant of two iwi or tribal groupings from
the Northland region where she had spent most of her childhood. In her interview, she
recounted how she had been raised by her grandmother there for a period while her
mother was training to be a teacher. She would often travel back and forth across the
greater North Island to see wh
¯
anau and attend tangi (mourning procedures laden with
ancestral and tribal symbolism) of wh
¯
anau members who had passed at her marae (M
¯
aori
cultural epicentre).
In a colonial context, wh
¯
anau is often unimaginatively translated as ‘family’, but its
meaning is much more complex. Wh
¯
anau can be multilayered, flexible and dynamic. It
is through the wh
¯
anau that histories, knowledge and practices from our ancestors evolve
and are adapted for the contemporary world. The most important features of wh
¯
anau that
distinguish it from neoliberal understandings of ‘family’ and other social groupings are
whakapapa (complex genealogical layering), spirituality and the responsibility to marae
and hap ¯
u (smaller tribal groupings).
Waimirirangi is the youngest child in her wh
¯
anau with four older sisters, each of
whom she has a very different relationship with. One sister lives in the Northland region
with their mother, another has down syndrome and is blind, the other lives in a different
area of Auckland with Waimirirangi’s nephews and Waimirirangi herself lives with the
fourth sister. Many notable ancestors who were the youngest child or p
¯
otiki are fondly
remembered for encapsulating the personality structure (intelligent, resourceful, cunning
and fearless) idealized in te ao M
¯
aori or the M
¯
aori world (Walker 2004). For example,
Maui P
¯
otiki, a popular and heroic figure, serves as a model to all t
¯
eina (younger relative or

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 5 of 21
mentee) and in particular the last born, that they have within them the will and determi-
nation to change their worlds—our world (Walker 2004). As takat
¯
apui, as whakawahine,
Waimirirangi embodies such ideals.
Waimirirangi described several moments in her life which had irrevocably impacted
herself and broader wh
¯
anau and their experiences of whanaungatanga. These include
her parents’ separation, moving between different towns in the Northland region, the
death of her cousin by suicide and moving to metropolitan Auckland. She notes in her
interview, ‘
. . .
a lot of people would look at it like “Oh yeah, the moving thing is kind of
insignificant in comparison to the others”, but yeah, it still really just shook me up a lot’.
Waimirirangi reflected on her wh
¯
anau experiences of intergenerational poverty to account
for the disruption and movement characteristic of her childhood. Frequent upheaval and
movement between communities and schools often disrupt young people’s educational
performance and community support networks in ways that exacerbate experiences of
precarity (Groot et al. 2017). She discussed having to get by without a lot, and how she and
her sisters would navigate these challenges through humour, even when they were fighting
with one another. The precariat is an emergent social class, overrepresented among M
¯
aori
and Pacific peoples, but also with a large P
¯
akeh
¯
a (New Zealand European) cohort, who
face various employment, income, housing and food insecurities (Stubbs et al. 2017;Groot
et al. 2017). This precarity is particularly evident among Waimirirangi’s wh
¯
anau whereby
pursuing educational opportunities and having a job is often not sufficient to resolve the
accumulative material, cultural, psychosocial and spiritual insecurities and complex health
inequalities they face every day (Rua et al. 2019). She described this precarity as a large
factor impacting the enactment of whanaungatanga in her wh
¯
anau where people often
struggled to find the time to care for one another.
This is perhaps most profoundly exemplified by the death by suicide of her older
cousin. Waimirirangi discussed how following the death by suicide of her cousin’s
boyfriend, her cousin absorbed the grief of all their friends and wh
¯
anau to support them
but had no means by which she could mourn her own loss. Shortly after the passing of
her boyfriend, she too would die by suicide. For M
¯
aori, suicide is intrinsically related
to a state of mind characterized as kahup
¯
o (Kruger et al. 2004), meaning the relentless
attrition of hope and purpose, followed by an enduring sense of despair (Lawson-Te Aho
2016). It manifests as the separation of the physical from the spiritual, and the psycho-
logical separation of the person from their community. The spirit comprises the core
of Indigenous wellbeing, and similar states of spiritual hurt and suffering exist in other
Indigenous cultures that experience colonisation (Lawson-Te Aho 2016). With colonialism
came urbanisation, displacement, disease, war and death, resulting in the degradation
of Indigenous kinship systems, economic capacity, culture and spiritual connectedness
(Groot et al. 2017). In contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand, such histories carry grave
consequences for health and identity. As such, the disproportionately high rates of suicide
completion for rangatahi M
¯
aori (M
¯
aori young people) have occurred through the machin-
ery of colonisation that continues to have an impact on lives today (cf. Groot et al. 2017). In
a void of deep mourning, Waimirirangi’s cousin’s passing reverberated throughout her
wh
¯
anau networks and propelled discussions of mental health for the first time. This also
provided the impetus for understanding and addressing Waimirirangi’s own experiences
of depression and how her wh¯
anau might support her, including living with her sister.
While Waimirirangi is ‘out’ to her wh
¯
anau as whakawahine, not all members of her
wh
¯
anau have accepted her or chosen to maintain connections with her. In the absence
of some of those relationships, Waimirirangi has drawn upon the cultural practice of
whanaungatanga and cast her net far and wide to establish a close-knit network of takat
¯
apui
who have become her ‘found’ wh
¯
anau in Auckland. The enactment of whanaungatanga
by young takat
¯
apui such as Waimirirangi gives rise to multiple relationships and ways
of belonging, perhaps transforming cultural lifeworlds, and in turn being transformed by
them (Groot et al. 2019). In the following section we outline a bricoleur research praxis
rooted in m¯
atauranga M¯
aori which underpins our engagements with Waimirirangi.

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 6 of 21
4. The Present Research Context
Our interactions with Waimirirangi were part of a broader kaupapa M
¯
aori project
investigating the cultural, material, spatial and relational contexts of whanaungatanga
and their links to wellbeing for rangatahi and their wh
¯
anau. Kaupapa M
¯
aori research
is an Indigenous approach to creating knowledge that foregrounds the importance of
relational ethics and the lived realities and experiences of M
¯
aori (Rua et al. 2021). Lead
investigators, interviewers and emerging researchers (including the authors) were all
M
¯
aori with experience on a wide range of kaupapa M
¯
aori and M
¯
aori-centred approaches
to research. The project aspirations were also supported by allied researchers (including
the final author) who worked alongside us. Research produced by M
¯
aori scholars and
allied colleagues is often subversive and exemplifies scholarship that seeks to disrupt
coloniality and to advance processes of decolonisation (Rua et al. 2021). Communities beset
by various forms of oppression, whose members have suffered from a diminished sense of
themselves through racism and classism, use such research to not only nurture community
understandings, but to help preserve cultural practices (Land 2015;Watkins and Shulman
2008).
Creative methods of engagement were woven together through a bricolage research
praxis. The term bricolage has etymological foundations in the French expression describ-
ing a craftsperson who inventively shapes new objects using only the tools and materials
‘at-hand’ (Vandenburg et al. 2021). The origins of bricolage research and researcher-as-
bricoleur can be traced to the works of Lévi-Strauss (1966), who drew upon the metaphor of
‘intellectual bricolage’ to signify creative practices of human meaning making and knowl-
edge production. We creatively bring M
¯
aori ways of being and engaging in the world
into conversation with concepts from the visual arts, including interpretation, abduction,
mimesis and bricolage (Hodgetts et al. 2018,2021). First, participating young people were
provided with a camera-equipped computer tablet and prompted to take photographs that
represented their experiences of whanaungatanga and wellbeing over a one-week period.
A photo-elicitation interview was then arranged in which young people reflected on their
photos, explicating their meaning and significance to the researcher.
In this article we draw upon the visual materials and photo-interviews produced by
Waimirirangi who was recruited with the aid of an LGBTIQ+ community organisation in
Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand. Within the broader research project, Waimirirangi was
the sole participant to position themselves as whakawahine, and the only participant who
reflected on how her identity as takat
¯
apui added complexity to the enactment of whanaun-
gatanga. For us as researchers engaging with the visual material and talk produced by and
with Waimirirangi, this necessitated a more dynamic understanding of whanaungatanga.
The selection of Waimirirangi’s photo-interviews provided a contrast to how other young
M
¯
aori understood what whanaungatanga meant for them. We utilise a case study design
to investigate a particular situation in relation to the wider social forces at play and as a
way of extending conceptual understandings (Radley and Chamberlain 2001;Small 2009)
of whanaungatanga. In total, Waimirirangi produced 13 images which she reflected upon
during her photo-interview with a takat
¯
apui researcher involved in the broader research
project. Through the accumulation of multiple data sources in the creation of our case study,
we seek to demonstrate how a myriad of events and relationships may be interconnected
and embedded in the life of Waimirirangi in a particular time and place.
Photo-elicitation is widely praised for bringing perspectives of minoritised groups to
the fore and facilitating social change (Harper 2002;Hodgetts et al. 2011,2018). Participating
young people led interviews with the images they produced to direct researcher attention to
specific issues, influence the analytic process and potentially extend research implications
(cf. Vandenburg et al. 2021). Further, during the photo-elicitation interview, participants
are invited into a reflexive reading of their images during which they assume a panoramic
view of their positioning (such as gender, sexuality, culture, class) and relationality to the
object(s) of inquiry and wider context (Hodgetts et al. 2011;Freire 1970). The meanings
of photographs are never fixed, that is, they are not contained solely within the image

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 7 of 21
themselves and rely on the reader/viewer’s own knowledge and understanding and the
context in which the image is seen (Nicholls and Ling 2020). As such, visual objects are
polysemic or capable of carrying multiple meanings and can be read differently. We treat
photo-elicitation as a creative dialogical practice, where photographs act as mimetic objects
that facilitate a process of negotiation and meaning making between young people and
ourselves as researchers (Hodgetts et al. 2018). The mimetic nature of visual objects—that
photographs are an act of imitation or reflection of participant lifeworlds—necessitates
processes of participant engagement and analysis that goes beyond ‘first impression’ and
extends beyond the frame (Vandenburg et al. 2021). Here, the researcher-as-bricoleur,
in collaboration with participating young people, works to assemble multiple methods,
meanings and concepts when interpreting images and talk.
As part of our analytic process, poems were constructed from the interview transcripts
to complement the images taken (Butler-Kisber 2020;Sjollema et al. 2012). Poetic inquiry
has been used within Indigenous research, for example, to explore complex issues relating
to incarceration and health (Kidd 2018;McIntosh 2018) and LGBTQ2S+ (Lesbian, Gay,
Bisexual, Transgender, Queer or Questioning, and Two-Spirit) identity and rights (Driskill
2004). Of course, poetry as an aesthetic practice is perhaps different to the style of poetry
presented here in our research. The intention, the analysis and meaning making of research
poetry is different from other forms of poetry, as the spaces into which these cultural
products emerge are different (Madge 2014). Our data poems were constructed through
selecting and refining quotes from the transcripts which spoke to takat
¯
apui identity and
engaged with the visual material to form an interconnected narrative of whanaungatanga
as enhancing wellbeing. This was an abductive process where quotes were selected by the
first author based on their ability to puncture the taken-for-granted. For example, these
may have initially elicited an emotional response (joy, sadness, regret and anger, among
others) which generated additional meanings within the visual material, enabling greater
appreciation of Waimirirangi’s lifeworlds. This aligns with Prendergast’s (2015) guiding
characteristics of research poetry, where aesthetic power, truth telling, insight and surprise
are all useful to the formation of poetry that engages the senses.
The term ‘photo-poetry’ and its various alternatives—photopoème, photoetry, pho-
toverse, photo-graffiti, etc.—attempts to describe an art form in which poetry and pho-
tography are equally important and symbiotically related (Nicholls and Ling 2020). The
relationship between poems and photographs was imaginatively explored by members
of the avant-garde in the early 20th century (Boškovi´c 2016). This includes the famous
collaborative publication by Paul Éluard and Man Ray entitled Facile (Éluard and Ray
1935), in which images and text create an integrated and unified design. Photographs
are often accompanied by various kinds of text—titles, captions, articles, etc. The text
helps to anchor the image which, otherwise, would be open to many possible meanings
and interpretations (Nicholls and Ling 2020). Photo-poetry then might be considered as
a unique example of this form of collusion between image and text. Notts (2018, p. 11)
suggests that ‘the relationship between poem and photograph has always been one of dis-
ruption and serendipity, appropriation and exchange, evocation and metaphor’. Works of
photo-poetry seek to connect poems and photographs whilst maintaining their distinctness.
The language of one can be used as a metaphor for the language of the other (Nicholls and
Ling 2020).
Poems and photographs are both representations of something. If the written word is
the ‘image’ of spoken language, then the photograph is the ‘image’ of the visual subject
(Nicholls and Ling 2020)
. Poems and photographs could be said to have ‘leaky’ frames as
they are both compressions, and abstractions, of reality (Nicholls and Ling 2020;Hodgetts
et al. 2018,2021). They both convey an experience of heightened perception, an intensity of
looking and feeling. As a creative dialogical research practice, we share a common interest
with poets and photographers when interpreting their creations, in transforming a lived
experience into a memorable evocative representation—a work of art (Nicholls and Ling
2020). In our analysis, we consider how images taken by Waimirirangi and found poetry

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 8 of 21
drawn from her interviews comprise ‘snapshots’ into the lifeworlds of takat
¯
apui. Such
abductive approaches to reasoning are primarily concerned with the relationship between
a situation and inquiry (Brinkmann 2014). This draws from a continental philosophical
tradition that speaks to M
¯
aori ways of being and knowledge production, more so than the
analytical philosophical tradition that is concerned with atomization (King et al. 2017;Rua
et al. 2021).
5. Analysis
How whanaungatanga is enacted by Waimirirangi and her wh
¯
anau forms the core
focus for her narrative across the four sections of our analysis. Each section is centred
on a photo (see Figures 1–4) and the associated stanza(s) of poetry which provide greater
explorations of the photos meaning as negotiated by us (the authors) and Waimirirangi. As
such, the poem is intended to be read in its fullness before we present our interpretations
of the stanzas and images. As a creative output, the poem and images capture different
elements of whanaungatanga for Waimirirangi and the complexities which underlie it.
In particular, our analysis highlights the diverse forms of whanaungatanga enacted by
takat
¯
apui, and the ways in which this is nurtured even when the threads linking us together
are strained. Whanaungatanga provides a bastion of strength which is asserted in the
conclusion of the poem centring on an image of Waimirirangi’s face and the possibilities of
a brighter, if not always certain, future for her, takat¯
apui and M¯
aori.
“Part of the wh¯
anau: Waimirirangi’s story”.
Genealogy 2021, 5, x FOR PEER REVIEW 9 of 23
Ducks like to raise their babies at our place
this family of ducks just growing up. 8 of them.
Seeing them getting older
Not as in getting old and dying
But more just like
Growth
Their own little family unit
Still hanging around with each other
I suppose I just kind of miss it
Growing up
Family all around me
We didn’t have much
There were times when
We were at each other’s throats
But we learned to make jokes about
Being without
(a.i & a.ii) (b)
Figure 1. This figure depicts (a.i) Stanza 1 of the poem; (a.ii). Stanza 2 of the poem; (b) A picture of ducklings.
5.1. Stanzas 1 and 2, Image 1: Evoking Absent Whānau
For Māori, to be human means understanding ourselves through our relational en-
tanglements, which are navigated in accordance with our core cultural values (King et al.
2017). This involves embracing our shared humanity and responding to the cultural ex-
pectations and obligations that texture the places in which we reside as well as the meta-
physical worlds that are at play in our lives (Groot et al. 2019). Everything and everyone
is related and interdependent in our world. We have a primary duty of care for others,
particularly those with whom we are related and/or reside (Nikora et al. 2017). For young
people, whānau constitute a foundational source of identity development and sustenance
(Moeke-Pickering 1996). However, there are many issues that impede the ability of pre-
cariat whānau to flourish and support one another, so where do young people look to
when the threads that connect us are stretched or, in some cases, may be irreparably sev-
ered? Our attention turns to how Waimirirangi draws upon the cultural practice of wha-
naungatanga to replenish those threads connecting her to whānau and beyond to establish
a close-knit network of takatāpui who have become her ‘found’ whānau in Auckland.
In Waimirirangi’s account, whānau were discussed as sources of great affection, love
and support and, sometimes, experiences of marginality (cf. Kerekere 2017). Waimirirangi
took a series of images of a paddling of ducks, including their ducklings (see Figure 1),
which frequently nested where she lived with her sister. In stanza 1 Waimirirangi de-
scribes observing the ongoing relationships between the ducks as the ducklings grew to
maturity. She then connected this to her own shifting experiences of whānau as exempli-
fied in stanza 2. All Māori can lay claim to multiple descent lines through maternal and
paternal lines that echo back to cosmological origins and ripple outwards across genera-
tions in particular places (Nikora et al. 2017). Kinship networks provide spaces for selves
Figure 1.
This figure depicts (
a.i
) Stanza 1 of the poem; (
a.ii
). Stanza 2 of the poem; (
b
) A picture of
ducklings.
5.1. Stanzas 1 and 2, Image 1: Evoking Absent Wh¯
anau
For M
¯
aori, to be human means understanding ourselves through our relational entan-
glements, which are navigated in accordance with our core cultural values (King et al. 2017).

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 9 of 21
This involves embracing our shared humanity and responding to the cultural expectations
and obligations that texture the places in which we reside as well as the metaphysical
worlds that are at play in our lives (Groot et al. 2019). Everything and everyone is related
and interdependent in our world. We have a primary duty of care for others, particularly
those with whom we are related and/or reside (Nikora et al. 2017). For young people,
wh
¯
anau constitute a foundational source of identity development and sustenance (Moeke-
Pickering 1996). However, there are many issues that impede the ability of precariat
wh
¯
anau to flourish and support one another, so where do young people look to when the
threads that connect us are stretched or, in some cases, may be irreparably severed? Our
attention turns to how Waimirirangi draws upon the cultural practice of whanaungatanga
to replenish those threads connecting her to wh
¯
anau and beyond to establish a close-knit
network of takat¯
apui who have become her ‘found’ wh¯
anau in Auckland.
In Waimirirangi’s account, wh
¯
anau were discussed as sources of great affection, love
and support and, sometimes, experiences of marginality (cf. Kerekere 2017). Waimirirangi
took a series of images of a paddling of ducks, including their ducklings (see Figure 1),
which frequently nested where she lived with her sister. In stanza 1 Waimirirangi describes
observing the ongoing relationships between the ducks as the ducklings grew to maturity.
She then connected this to her own shifting experiences of wh
¯
anau as exemplified in stanza
2. All M
¯
aori can lay claim to multiple descent lines through maternal and paternal lines
that echo back to cosmological origins and ripple outwards across generations in particular
places (Nikora et al. 2017). Kinship networks provide spaces for selves to rest, renew and
become energized towards collective action. When one part of the network is strained and
burdened, the network reconfigures as we attempt to meet our duties of care (Nikora et al.
2017;Groot et al. 2019;Le Grice et al. 2017).
Through the imagery of the ducks, there is a collapsing of time between past and
present contexts, where multiple realities converge to form a complex whole. In the
context of Aotearoa New Zealand, the metaphor of the p
¯
a harakeke is of relevance here as
it is invoked to describe the strength of wh
¯
anau and core aspirations to leave improved
legacies for future generations (Pihama et al. 2015;Rua et al. 2021). P
¯
a harakeke in a literal
sense refers to a plantation of selected varieties of flax native to Aotearoa New Zealand
that provide high quality fibre and leaf material for weaving. In this metaphor, the flax
plantation is symbolic of wh
¯
anau or a community of related families, with young people
positioned as the rito or central shoot of the bush. Enveloping the rito in a fan-like pattern
are successively larger leaves which are analogous to parents, grandparents, etc. To ensure
the vitality of the whanau—or the flax bush—the central three leaves of a fan should never
be harvested. In this metaphor, whanaungatanga is energized and enacted through other
concepts like wairuatanga (the notion that everything in the M
¯
aori world is spiritually
connected) and manaakitanga (reciprocal care).
A carefully selected site for the establishment of a p
¯
a harakeke will survive even the
worst of conditions and they survive because of the strength of its root system. It survives
through collective will, with each blade protecting the next. It survives because the outer
leaves provide shelter and care for the inner leaves, and in this metaphor, each generation
is critical to the survival of the collective, with young people acting as a centralizing force
(Pihama et al. 2015). In her interview, Waimirirangi recounted key events which had
irrevocably impacted herself and her wh
¯
anau and their experiences of whanaungatanga.
These include her parents’ separation, moving between small towns in the Northland
region, the death of her cousin by suicide and moving to Auckland. She reflected on
her wh
¯
anau experiences of intergenerational poverty to account for the disruption and
movement characteristic of her childhood.
In response to these destabilising experiences, aspects of Waimirirangi’s relationship
to her wh
¯
anau have been revised. This has necessitated recreating wh
¯
anau in Auckland,
where she has established networks with other takat
¯
apui who support her health and
wellbeing, inclusive of the sister she lives with. M
¯
aori moving into urban spaces have
always sought to foster whanaungatanga with other M
¯
aori living in the city to buffer

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 10 of 21
themselves against experiences of precarity and colonisation (Hill 2012;Rangiheuea 2010;
Edwards et al. 2007). The move to Auckland is not experienced as a complete disruption
to the enactment of whanaungatanga, but rather is recontextualized as part of a broader
hanau narrative marked by periods of affinity and distance. Central to her discussion
of the ducks is a yearning for closeness within her hanau and optimism for the future
where this can occur again. Whanaungatanga as a process of bringing people together is
constantly being renegotiated, reshaped and shifts in response to the ever-evolving needs
of the communities at its centre.
In the process, Waimirirangi can maintain a sense of cultural identity and mitigate
feelings of mokemoke (loneliness). A seemingly innocuous image of a paddling of ducks
provides continuity across places and spaces despite experiences of dislocation and dis-
ruption. If whanaungatanga is the ‘glue’ that holds M
¯
aori society together (McNatty
2001), then Waimirirangi’s account in these stanzas and the associated image highlight the
ways in which that glue can be malleable. The above section illustrates the relatedness of
Waimirirangi’s sense of self and the relevance of the idea that the people we interact with
complete us (Groot et al. 2019). In the following section, we extend this to consider the
material realization of whanaungatanga.
5.2. Stanzas 3 and 4, Image 2: Re-Membering and Re-Storying Wh¯
anau
Rejection from wh
¯
anau is still a reality for many takat
¯
apui young people, especially
for those who are trans or gender diverse (Aspin and Hutchings 2007;Pihama et al. 2020).
Although Waimirirangi is ‘out’ to her wh
¯
anau as whakawahine, not all members of her
wh
¯
anau have accepted her. In the absence of some of those relationships, ‘re-membering’
practices provide a context for Waimirirangi to revise or reorganise her relationships within
her wh
¯
anau. The hyphen is crucial for evoking distinctions between ‘re-membering’ and
‘remembering’, as it draws our attention to notions of belonging rather than to a simple
recalling of history (Carey and Russell 2002). Re-membering moments of connectedness is
another way of ‘thickening’ the longed-for story. They link the newly coauthored story of
identity to a sense of history and to the lives of other people (Carey and Russell 2002, p. 68).
When reflecting upon an image she had produced of her sister’s jewellery that had
been given to Waimirirangi when they were close (Figure 2), she spoke to the tensions
within her wh
¯
anau, unravelling the threads that hindered practices of whanaungatanga.
Since ‘coming out’ to her wh
¯
anau, her sister (who lives in another area of the Auckland
region) has forbidden Waimirirangi from having contact with her nephews. In Stanza 3,
Waimirirangi describes this as an all-too-common experience for takat
¯
apui who may not
be affirmed within wh
¯
anau (cf. Pihama et al. 2020). Perceptions that exposure to trans
people provide a ‘risk’ to children as ‘inappropriate’ role models who could ‘influence’
children (McBreen 2012) severely impedes efforts to support flourishing trans identities
(Pearce et al. 2020).
Trans women in particular experience further oppression and scrutiny
when accusations of gender deception and racist caricatures of Polynesian peoples as
criminals and predatory are conflated with bigoted paranoia of their ‘intentions’ with
children (Williams 2019).

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 11 of 21
Genealogy 2021, 5, x FOR PEER REVIEW 11 of 23
Although Waimirirangi is ‘out’ to her whānau as whakawahine, not all members of her
whānau have accepted her. In the absence of some of those relationships, ‘re-membering’
practices provide a context for Waimirirangi to revise or reorganise her relationships
within her whānau. The hyphen is crucial for evoking distinctions between ‘re-member-
ing’ and ‘remembering’, as it draws our attention to notions of belonging rather than to a
simple recalling of history (Carey and Russell 2002). Re-membering moments of connect-
edness is another way of ‘thickening’ the longed-for story. They link the newly coauthored
story of identity to a sense of history and to the lives of other people (Carey and Russell
2002, p. 68).
When reflecting upon an image she had produced of her sister’s jewellery that had
been given to Waimirirangi when they were close (Figure 2), she spoke to the tensions
within her whānau, unravelling the threads that hindered practices of whanaungatanga.
Since ‘coming out’ to her whānau, her sister (who lives in another area of the Auckland
region) has forbidden Waimirirangi from having contact with her nephews. In Stanza 3,
Waimirirangi describes this as an all-too-common experience for takatāpui who may not
be affirmed within whānau (cf. Pihama et al. 2020). Perceptions that exposure to trans
people provide a ‘risk’ to children as ‘inappropriate’ role models who could ‘influence’
children (McBreen 2012) severely impedes efforts to support flourishing trans identities
(Pearce et al. 2020). Trans women in particular experience further oppression and scrutiny
when accusations of gender deception and racist caricatures of Polynesian peoples as
criminals and predatory are conflated with bigoted paranoia of their ‘intentions’ with chil-
dren (Williams 2019).
my sister’s jewellery on the wall
thinking about my siblings
my relationships with them
some of them are great
other ones
a total mystery
I have four sisters
I’m the baby.
my oldest sibling
she lives in Manurewa with my nephews
My relationship with that sister is…
because of that
I don’t really get to see my nephews
It’s usual for a lot of takatāpui
having come out to her
she has sort of… kind of... been accepting
but is still a little weird
what is the deal with that
(a.i & a.ii) (b)
Figure 2.
This figure depicts (
a.i
) Stanza 3 of the poem; (
a.ii
) Stanza 4 of the poem; (
b
) Image of
jewellery given to Waimirirangi by her sister on her wall.
In her interview, Waimirirangi grieved for the cultural mentoring roles lost between
older-younger siblings and cousins (referred to as tu
¯
akana-t
¯
eina) due to her sister’s refusal
to embrace her reality as whakawahine. She discussed being particularly close to her
middle nephew, who she described as rejecting the idealisation of a ‘staunch masculinity’
and wanting to protect him from some of the same experiences of heterosexism and
cissexism she had endured growing up. Tamati-Quennell and Skinner (2005) describe how
objects (such as Waimirirangi’s sister’s jewellery) can unlock deeper narratives regarding
relationality and identity for M
¯
aori. These cherished items become intertwined with our
sense of self and connections to wh
¯
anau, as they embody physical representations of the
connections to people that have either worn the jewellery or gifted it to us.
There is also an issue here relating to the material basis of cultural practices among
M
¯
aori. Objects such as pendants and carvings or taonga (something treasured, both tangible
and intangible) are woven into a network of relationships, histories and cultural practices
that determine their placement in communal life (see De Vidas 2008). Cultural objects like
pendants and carvings, mentioned by Waimirirangi in Stanzas 3–4 and depicted in Figure 2,
are designed to be circulated amongst the living and absorb some of the previous wearers’
mana or spiritual status as well as the accumulated mana of succeeding generations (Te
Awekotuku 1996). Hurdley (2006) described how such material expressions of identity and
relationality provide a focal point for enabling people to build stories about their lives. In
this way, re-membering involves the material (re)construction of memories and familial
ties through the recollection of gifts given from the past, which entangle people within
practices embedded in another time (Pickering and Keightley 2013).
Re-membering was, and is, one of the revolutions needed to open doors that are not
available in conventional interpretations of wh
¯
anau relationships and identity construction.

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 12 of 21
It is the ‘life-saving’ impact of restoration of a relationship when a takat
¯
apui young person
is rejected by wh
¯
anau (cf. King 2019). This is because people’s lifeworlds do not develop in
a vacuum, ‘they have been shaped by the person’s history and relationships with others
and with the world. It is simply a matter of us finding ways to unearth these connections
and histories’ (Russell and Carey 2003, p. 26). Objects are fundamentally linked within
the social fabric of everyday life (Hodgetts et al. 2011), meaning that in matters of identity,
these aspects of life cannot be meaningfully extracted from one another (Ritchie 1992). This
reflects M
¯
aori notions of p
¯
utahi (flowing together), whereby aspects of the world are not
broken down into smaller distinct components or categories. Rather, everything must be
viewed within the larger context in which they are situated (Ritchie 1992).
For Waimirirangi, re-membering may involve reducing the influence of the people
who have undermined her identity as whakawahine, as takat
¯
apui. Russell and Carey (2003)
suggest that ‘
. . .
a person can reclaim the right to determine whose voices will inform their
opinion of themselves.’ (p. 27). When reflecting on disruptions to whanaungatanga and
the tensions that have sprung out of such entanglements Waimirirangi invokes notions of
‘absent presences’ (Hurdley 2006, p. 721). Enmeshed in the image of her sister ’s jewellery
are the complex social ties she has to each of her sisters. Some of these connections she
views as strong and unbreakable, while others are a ‘total mystery’ (Stanza 3). Wh
¯
anau
memories and practices are regularly anchored in specific familial objects, imbuing them
with broader sociocultural significance in the re-membering of who one is and where one
comes from (Olsen 2003).
5.3. Stanzas 5 and 6, Image 3: Connecting the Here, and There
The restoration of relationships for takat
¯
apui young people who are rejected by
wh
¯
anau is a crucial consideration for enhancing identity and wellbeing. Such interactions
are already being cultivated through dynamic relational practices that are situated within
particular encounter spaces, such as marae. In Stanzas 5–6 and the associated image (see
Figure 3), Waimirirangi refers to the recent passing of her koro or grandfather whose
tangihanga she attended at her marae. This was the first time where she was able to meet
members of interrelated networks of wh
¯
anau on her maternal side (Stanza 5). Here, we pro-
vide exemplars of the M
¯
aori cosmological and psychological elements of whanaungatanga
embedded within the encounter space of marae and set against a backdrop of mourning.
It is important to note that tangihanga is a cultural practice that is dynamic, responsive
and has always been with us, as M
¯
aori, as we navigate our lives and futures (Groot et al.
2019). Tangi refers to a range of procedural mourning rituals, their beginning marked
by the return of the deceased and the immediately bereaved to their marae. They are
commonly practiced within culturally distinct spaces, such as marae. It is understood
that once the deceased arrives at the marae, the death must be shared with a broader
grieving community, not just close family members (Nikora et al. 2012;Nikora et al. 2017).
Waimirirangi in her interview alludes to the practice of tangi as an enculturated pattern
learned through repeat engagements beginning in childhood (cf. Nikora 2007). At times of
death, such cultural practices provide a lifeline.
However, this process can be complicated for takat
¯
apui, who may be constrained in
their ability to perform different roles on the marae due to the collusion of colonialism,
gender, sex and sexuality. Nikora and Te Awekotuku (2016) note the varied responses of
wh
¯
anau to the passing of takat
¯
apui wh
¯
anau members. Some takat
¯
apui wh
¯
anau members
are left unmourned, forgotten and denied the spiritual rights to a tangi. Other wh
¯
anau
may opt to hold separate tangi, one for a bereaved takat
¯
apui community and the other
for grieving wh
¯
anau. Still, others will lovingly restore their deceased takat
¯
apui wh
¯
anau
member to their tribal lands and culturally imbued environment, layered with spirit and
memory. For Waimirirangi, as a living descendant, her koro’s tangi provided the impetus
to connect with broader wh
¯
anau never met before, and experience whanaungatanga as a
restorative force with the potential to unite.

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 13 of 21
Genealogy 2021, 5, x FOR PEER REVIEW 13 of 23
are already being cultivated through dynamic relational practices that are situated within
particular encounter spaces, such as marae. In Stanzas 5–6 and the associated image (see
Figure 3), Waimirirangi refers to the recent passing of her koro or grandfather whose
tangihanga she attended at her marae. This was the first time where she was able to meet
members of interrelated networks of whānau on her maternal side (Stanza 5). Here, we
provide exemplars of the Māori cosmological and psychological elements of whanaunga-
tanga embedded within the encounter space of marae and set against a backdrop of
mourning.
My marae
At my koro’s tangi
kind of feeling, again feeling
that kind of whanaungatanga
with people I’d barely met
uncles and aunties and cousins
a lot of them were like
oh! You’re the one that was on
Uncle’s wall
I just wish that my family all had more time
We all just overwork ourselves
My grandfather passes away
We all drop everything
Go back to the marae
Properly look after each other
It just comes back to I wish my family wasn’t
struggling
Able to keep each other
happy and healthy
(a.i & a.ii) (b)
Figure 3. This figure depicts (a.i) Stanza 5 of the poem; (a.ii) Stanza 6 of the poem; (b) Image taken by Waimirirangi within
her whare tūpuna (meeting house).
It is important to note that tangihanga is a cultural practice that is dynamic, respon-
sive and has always been with us, as Māori, as we navigate our lives and futures (Groot
et al. 2019). Tangi refers to a range of procedural mourning rituals, their beginning marked
by the return of the deceased and the immediately bereaved to their marae. They are com-
monly practiced within culturally distinct spaces, such as marae. It is understood that once
the deceased arrives at the marae, the death must be shared with a broader grieving com-
munity, not just close family members (Nikora et al. 2012; Nikora et al. 2017).
Waimirirangi in her interview alludes to the practice of tangi as an enculturated pattern
Figure 3.
This figure depicts (
a.i
) Stanza 5 of the poem; (
a.ii
) Stanza 6 of the poem; (
b
) Image taken
by Waimirirangi within her whare t ¯
upuna (meeting house).
It is useful here to turn our attention to the marae, as a physical and spiritual location
that remains central to M
¯
aori community life (Walker 2004). M
¯
aori are a tribal people with
each tribe comprised of allied smaller tribal groups (hap
¯
u) that through genealogy and
customary practices function to draw extensive networks of extended families (wh
¯
anau)
together as a political and caring community (Nikora et al. 2012;Walker 2004). The cultural
heart of hap
¯
u is the marae, a community meeting place, often with elaborately carved
buildings that symbolize the identity of those families that constitute the hap
¯
u (Nikora
et al. 2012;Walker 2004), and with the architectural structure itself symbolising a womb
(Le Grice 2014)
. The marae-complex itself can be understood as a M
¯
aori spatial formation
for everyday living that is based on systems of kinship and which takes form through
a collection of physical structures (Te Awekotuku 1996). It typically consists of a whare
t
¯
upuna (house of ancestors or the meeting house) with the marae
¯
atea (courtyard, public
forum) located in front of the house of ancestors, and a wharekai (dining hall) as well as an
ablution block. The marae, then, can be understood as both a place and as a network of
culturally patterned relationships, reflecting the interconnectedness of physical locations
and human action, and how such spaces are produced and reproduced in everyday life (c.f.
Lefebvre [1974] 1991;Tilley 1994).
Lining the walls of the whare t
¯
upuna are the carvings and photographs of ancestors
or people who have passed on (as pictured from a distance, see Figure 3). Waimirirangi
carefully pictured the walls of the whare t
¯
upuna of her hap
¯
u from a cautious distance as
each hap
¯
u have specific protocol surrounding taking images within the whare t
¯
upuna.
Each of these forms—the carvings and photographs, among others—is more than a visual

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 14 of 21
representation of ancestors. They each carry something of the mauri or vital essence
of the people they depict. Within this space, Waimirirangi experienced an aspect of
photography that is rarely discussed—the networked relations between photographer,
the photographed, and the lifeworlds of the communities involved (Ellis and Robertson
2018). Here, whanaungatanga for Waimirirangi is experienced and energised by the
three interrelated concepts of whakapapa (complex genealogical layering), manaakitanga
(reciprocal care) and rangatiratanga (sovereignty).
The act of taking photographs within a whare t
¯
upuna is to activate a relationship
between these facets. The camera for the photographer then becomes a medium for
communicating with the unseen world (Ellis and Robertson 2018). Such practices are
also carried over into private homescapes, where portraits of ancestors coexist alongside
the portraits of living descendants, aligning the walls of wh
¯
anau homes. It was through
this collapsing of time and generations that wh
¯
anau members at her koro’s tangi were
able to recognise Waimirirangi and her mother. When comparing portraits of ancestors
along the walls of the whare t
¯
upuna to Waimirirangi and her mother’s living faces and to
the memory of their faces aligning the walls in the homes of older wh
¯
anau members, an
uncle exclaimed, “Oh! You’re the one that was on Uncle’s wall for ages!” This recognition
facilitated connections to other uncles, aunties and cousins, further affirming genealogical
connectedness. In these moments of mourning, this coming together enables collective
grieving and healing, giving comfort through enacting rituals alongside more germane
moments of connection with wh
¯
anau (Nikora and Te Awekotuku 2016). For wh
¯
anau
members who may be estranged from other wh
¯
anau, such cultural practices provide
important avenues for the restoration of whanaungatanga. Not only does the image
taken within the whare t
¯
upuna provide an affirmation of whakapapa that previously
had been unknown to her, but it also foregrounds returning to the fold of her wh
¯
anau.
The importance of such portrait photography observed in marae and wh
¯
anau homes
exemplifies their power and significance which transcend time and space, reconnecting
present generations to an umbilical cord of genealogy, history and identity (Schorch and
Hakiwai 2014;Metge 1999;Nairn et al. 2021).
5.4. Stanza 7, Image 4: Takat¯
apui Self-Determination and Indigenous Futures
From the invention of photography, Indigenous people were a popular photographic
subject, producing a vast number of photographs that were subsumed into an already
flourishing traffic in colonial natural history specimens (Lydon and Wanhalla 2018). Yet,
more recently, the creative transformations of photographs produced by Indigenous peo-
ples themselves have become tools for establishing a ‘photographic sovereignty’ (Ellis and
Robertson 2018). For example, Waimirirangi stepped in front of the lens herself, when
applying for a youth identity card, which she shared as part of the research process. She
draws our attention to the significance of this act in Stanza 7, where, in the interview, she
described many points in her life when reaching ‘x age’ seemed an impossibility. This
all-too-real violent erasure is connected to the broader systemic and structural impacts of
cissexism and racism, where many trans women (especially trans women of colour) face the
potential for decreased life expectancy (Fletcher 2013). Waimirirangi’s own image serves as
an expression of the uncertain and contested boundaries between the past, present and
future, and how the establishment of whanaungatanga provides a pathway for weaving
these threads together.
The ongoing erasure of takat
¯
apui identities within familial and societal contexts
can make it difficult for takat
¯
apui to imagine a life for themselves as adults. This is a
particularly common experience for many trans and gender diverse young people, who
have limited examples of what a flourishing adulthood could look like for them (Pihama
et al. 2020;Tan et al. 2021). Furthermore, for whakawahine and trans woman of colour
this erasure occurs within racialised contexts of hypervisibility and invisibility that both
confer and deny identity and protect and subvert privilege (Collier and Daniel 2019;
Jones 2020). Trans woman of colour who do not embody white norms of womanhood—

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 15 of 21
domesticity, respectability and heterosexuality–risk visibility (Glover 2016;Tannehill 2018).
The everyday lives of those who do not embody such ideals are etched with humiliation,
violence and hate in the public war zone (Health Research Council of New Zealand
2008). Conversely, this hypervisibility is often centred on trans women as nameless,
voiceless, placeless bodies which experience violence, enforcing the continuing ‘invisibility’
of whiteness as a universalising category
(Carroll 2020
;Vandenburg forthcoming). As
such, Waimirirangi must navigate multiple layers of stigma, colonialism, legal ambiguity,
cissexism and heterosexism alongside classism and racism. For the trans community, the
uncertainty associated with reaching ‘
×
age’ is a common narrative whereby violence is an
embodied reality (Vandenburg forthcoming).
However, takat
¯
apui are more than just the passive victims of colonisation, heterosex-
ism and cissexism. Waimirirangi’s narrative highlights the multiplicities of experience for
takat
¯
apui. Growing up, Waimirirangi has had to navigate multiple hardships which im-
pacted her mental health and the wellbeing of her broader wh
¯
anau. However, throughout
these challenges Waimirirangi has fostered a community of takat
¯
apui and wh
¯
anau who
reinforce her identity, akin to generations of other M
¯
aori who bring practices of whanaun-
gatanga to urban contexts (Hill 2012). These found wh
¯
anau provide her with a strong
sense of whanaungatanga to resist structural and community experiences of marginality
experienced by whakawahine, and takat
¯
apui (Pihama et al. 2020;Tan et al. 2020). Alongside
her found whanau, she continues to receive support from her sister and other members of
her wh¯
anau, who influence how she lives her life.
Waimirirangi resists societal and familial attempts at erasure through centring her face
as the representation of wh
¯
anau, whakapapa and whanaungatanga. In a M
¯
aori worldview,
the body is both the holder of whakapapa and an expression of our whakapapa. The body,
especially the head, is sacred from a M
¯
aori worldview because of this legacy of whakapapa
(Le Grice 2014). There are many metaphorical expressions which relate to the face and
head, and the importance of kanohi kitea (the seen face) which emphasises the importance
of being present at a significant event as a sign of support and acknowledgment of the
event (such as koro’s tangi) (Rua et al. 2017). However, this phrase also can link back to
being the seen face of ancestors. As an extension of this, Waimirirangi is the kanohi ora (the
living face) that embodies the place and people from which she has come and maintains the
‘home fires’ between her hau kainga (ancestral homelands) and Auckland. Waimirirangi’s
face in this light can represent not just her own whakapapa, but also a broader takat
¯
apui
whakapapa that has confronted attempts at erasure through colonisation. As Rua et al.
(2017)
noted, kanohi kitea provide M
¯
aori a deeper sense of whanaungatanga to wh
¯
anau
who have passed on and manifest a richer collective identity.
The image of Waimirirangi embedded within photos taken for her ‘18+ card’ (see
Figure 4), and the accompanying stanza, move beyond simple affirmations of having
overcome hardships in her life to an assertion of herself as a person with the right to
self-determination. This is complicated by constraints placed on the validation of trans
identities through legal documentation such as an ‘18+ card’ (or similar identity cards cf.
Beauchamp 2009;Vandenburg forthcoming). It is important to be critical of the ways in
which medicolegal surveillance forces trans people to perform their identity in certain
ways to gain lawful recognition and the protections that come with it (if any, depending
on the national context) (Beauchamp 2009). Conversely, it is also one of few avenues
afforded to trans people when seeking societal acceptance and asserting their right to
self-determination. This is emphasized when Waimirirangi reflected on reaching the
milestone of twenty years old, something which had seemed an impossibility for her—
an all-too-real scenario for far too many young trans people and a profound loss to te
ao M
¯
aori (the M
¯
aori world) (Veale et al. 2019). Similarly, Indigenous peoples are often
historised and placed in the past, and our futures tinged with assumptions of expiration
and extinction in the colonial imagination (or lack thereof) (Nikora 2007). An ‘Indigenous
futurism’ encapsulates a space of potential where takat
¯
apui flourish beyond the limited
representations of themselves as marginalised, invisibilised or ignored. As a core part

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 16 of 21
of m
¯
atauranga M
¯
aori (or M
¯
aori ways of being and engaging in the world), whakapapa
(complex genealogical layering) also acknowledges future possibilities. The feeling of
remarkability that is associated with such images transcend time and space to remind
Waimirirangi that perhaps the future exists for her to.
Genealogy 2021, 5, x FOR PEER REVIEW 17 of 23
Growing up
Everything was always a question of
If I would make it to x age
Age of 20? Definitely not.
I was kind of thinking about just how much
I’ve changed
In less than a year
In these pictures for my 18+ card
I remember feeling a lot happier.
I felt it.
(a.i & a.ii) (b)
Figure 4. This figure depicts (a.i) Stanza 7 of the poem; (a.ii) Stanza 8 of the poem; (b) Images taken for an 18+ card (a New
Zealand identity card).
This aligns with the restorative healing that can take place for takatāpui who are able
to reclaim their whakapapa, finding space for their own identity journeys to connect to a
broader potentiality for takatāpui legacies (Pihama et al. 2020). This involves engaging
with the history of takatāpui identity, but also the potential for a future that is offered to
Waimirirangi. She embodies the possibilities of Indigenous futurisms where “the future,
or the idea of the future, is an unoccupied space” (Carlson 2018). As the descendants of
Pacific way finders and voyagers, Māori history has always been one of movement and
adaptation to shifting contexts (Groot et al. 2011). This has often meant moving past the
horizon, the familiar, and into the unknown. This can open us up to a maelstrom of emo-
tions, from uncertainty and hesitation, to fear and sadness and all the way through to joy
and the transformation of cultural lifeworlds. Pushing past conventional and stale bound-
aries of what it means to be Māori, as a modern-day navigator, Waimirirangi charters new
courses for herself, her whānau, takatāpui and Māori.
6. Conclusions
In this paper we have situated the relational practice of whanaungatanga within the
moving social, cultural, economic, and spatial contexts within which takatāpui have come
to dwell in response to colonial displacement (Nikora et al. 2017). Through engaging with
Waimiririrangi’s narrative, we have highlighted how takatāpui experiences of whanaun-
gatanga can inform broader understandings of the ways in which whanaungatanga plays
out in diverse and dynamic ways. Experiences of disruption within whānau are not abso-
lute, we can re-member our time spent together, renegotiating experiences of whānau.
Relationships are fluid and dynamic, nourished through different practices and expres-
sions of connection within whānau. These can be through formal rituals such as tangi,
which serve as powerful moments of whanaungatanga for Māori who live away from
ancestral homelands.
However, whanaungatanga can also be expressed in ways that are perhaps unex-
pected, such as through what is at hand—be it objects of familial significance or relation-
ships with wildlife. It is important not to overlook otherwise mundane practices that often
contain formative experiences of whanaungatanga, such as moments of humour, photo-
graphs taken together and even the pain of separation. These everyday moments form the
foundations for Māori identities, knitting people together through ongoing and nurtured
experiences of whanaungatanga. King et al. (2017) emphasise that what it means to be
Māori often resists static notions of identity and belonging, instead encompassing a range
of practices which may not always “seem” Māori at a surface level, when our minds are
Figure 4.
This figure depicts (
a.i
) Stanza 7 of the poem; (
a.ii
) Stanza 8 of the poem; (
b
) Images taken
for an 18+ card (a New Zealand identity card).
This aligns with the restorative healing that can take place for takat
¯
apui who are able
to reclaim their whakapapa, finding space for their own identity journeys to connect to a
broader potentiality for takat
¯
apui legacies (Pihama et al. 2020). This involves engaging
with the history of takat
¯
apui identity, but also the potential for a future that is offered to
Waimirirangi. She embodies the possibilities of Indigenous futurisms where “the future, or
the idea of the future, is an unoccupied space” (Carlson 2018). As the descendants of Pacific
way finders and voyagers, M
¯
aori history has always been one of movement and adaptation
to shifting contexts (Groot et al. 2011). This has often meant moving past the horizon, the
familiar, and into the unknown. This can open us up to a maelstrom of emotions, from
uncertainty and hesitation, to fear and sadness and all the way through to joy and the
transformation of cultural lifeworlds. Pushing past conventional and stale boundaries of
what it means to be M
¯
aori, as a modern-day navigator, Waimirirangi charters new courses
for herself, her wh¯
anau, takat¯
apui and M¯
aori.
6. Conclusions
In this paper we have situated the relational practice of whanaungatanga within the
moving social, cultural, economic, and spatial contexts within which takat
¯
apui have come
to dwell in response to colonial displacement (Nikora et al. 2017F). Through engaging with
Waimiririrangi’s narrative, we have highlighted how takat
¯
apui experiences of whanaun-
gatanga can inform broader understandings of the ways in which whanaungatanga plays
out in diverse and dynamic ways. Experiences of disruption within wh
¯
anau are not ab-
solute, we can re-member our time spent together, renegotiating experiences of wh
¯
anau.
Relationships are fluid and dynamic, nourished through different practices and expressions
of connection within wh
¯
anau. These can be through formal rituals such as tangi, which
serve as powerful moments of whanaungatanga for M
¯
aori who live away from ancestral
homelands.
However, whanaungatanga can also be expressed in ways that are perhaps unexpected,
such as through what is at hand—be it objects of familial significance or relationships with
wildlife. It is important not to overlook otherwise mundane practices that often contain
formative experiences of whanaungatanga, such as moments of humour, photographs taken
together and even the pain of separation. These everyday moments form the foundations
for M
¯
aori identities, knitting people together through ongoing and nurtured experiences

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 17 of 21
of whanaungatanga. King et al. (2017) emphasise that what it means to be M
¯
aori often
resists static notions of identity and belonging, instead encompassing a range of practices
which may not always “seem” M
¯
aori at a surface level, when our minds are closed, but
most certainly are M
¯
aori responses to our everyday realities. What we have offered here
is evidence of whanaungatanga as an adaptive and evolving practice exemplified by
takat¯
apui young people as they traverse new spaces, encounters and relationships.
The intimacy of a single narrative case study design embedded within a bricolage
research praxis allows us to investigate a particular moment in time in relation to the
wider social context and as a way of extending conceptual understandings (Radley and
Chamberlain 2001;Small 2009) of whanaungatanga for takat
¯
apui. The exemplar offers us a
way of engaging that demands creativity, continuity, humility and accountability, and which
will resonate beyond this paper. Abductive inquiry is invoked in situations of uncertainty;
as researchers, we are often trained to resist ambiguity. Images taken by Waimirirangi,
such as that of the ducks, create uncertainty because they do not fit a singular definition
of whanaungatanga. The image creates a moment of breakdown, confusion and wonder.
It becomes more than just ‘data’: it demands we extend our gaze beyond the stillness of
the frame. Similarly, photographs represent only a fraction of the time contained within
Waimirirangi’s poetic extracts. Poem and photograph encounter each other and demand
the practice of reading and looking that implores the reader/viewer to make connections
and imagine to create meaning between text and image. Here, we document facets of
an immersive collaborative Kaupapa M
¯
aori research design that emboldens community
self-presentation, self-determination and so much more (Rua et al. 2021). We leave behind
us a trail for other (LGBTIQ+) Indigenous researchers to map their own creative pathways
in research. This speaks to a form of research that transcends the binarism between scholars
and communities and instead implicates us within shared research practices of hope and
care.
In this paper, we have focused on the multilayered expression of whanaungatanga
as exemplified by Waimirirangi. Whanaungatanga creates pathways for managing the
uncertainties that often occur when people—genealogically woven together or otherwise—
come together to explore the nature of their relationships, to resolve or enforce tensions
and to decide on a future together. In this sense, whanaungatanga creates opportunities
to (re)negotiate relationships with one another. The rich expression of whanaungatanga
by takat
¯
apui young people is one which implicitly desires and seeks space for dialogue.
As such, there are many possible outcomes that could emerge from such encounters. This
is because, as opposed to a multiplicity of characters within a uniform world, there is
a plurality of consciousnesses located in diverse worlds (Mika 2015). Takat
¯
apui young
people such as Waimirirangi embolden us to traverse the dangerous night waters of an
assumed tribal ‘tradition’, the narrow constraints placed on identity and heterosexist and
cissexist orthodoxy (Te Awekotuku 2001). Cultural practices such as whanaungatanga are
not fixed or reducible to a single place or moment in time, but instead are informed by the
past, present and future. In turn, we must re-imagine, re-create, re-member and reclaim
our understandings of whanaungatanga.
Author Contributions:
All authors contributed to several aspects of the study, specifically, conceptu-
alization, L.H. and S.G.; methodology, L.H. and S.G.; investigation, resources, and data collection
J.L.G., T.C. and M.M.; writing—original draft preparation L.H. and S.G.; writing, review and editing,
L.H., S.G., J.L.G., T.C., A.G., L.G. and M.M. All authors have read and agreed to the published version
of the manuscript.
Funding:
The research was funded by the Health Research Council of New Zealand (HRC 17/315).
This kaupapa M
¯
aori research project is entitled: ‘Harnessing the Spark of Life’ explores how whanaun-
gatanga influences outcomes for rangatahi M
¯
aori (M
¯
aori youth). In particular, the project seeks to
explore the potential for m
¯
atauranga M
¯
aori to better inform social, health and educational outcomes
for rangatahi M¯
aori, and how whanaungatanga supports success in these areas.

Genealogy 2021,5, 54 18 of 21
Institutional Review Board Statement:
Ethical approval was obtained from The University of
Auckland Human Participants Ethics Committee in 2017 (Reference number 020085), and ethical
guidelines for Indigenous research were engaged with throughout the study.
Informed Consent Statement:
Informed consent was obtained from all subjects involved in the
study.
Data Availability Statement:
Anonymized data available only with approved data access proposal,
due to ethical restrictions.
Acknowledgments:
The authors wish to acknowledge Tycho Vandenburg for their contributions to
the development of the paper and insight into trans and gender diverse lifeworlds.
Conflicts of Interest: The authors declare no conflict of interest.
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