Debate | Issue 6 | Homegrown

DEBATE ISSUE 6| HOMEGROWN | MAY 2020

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EDITOR Rebecca Zhong debate@aut.ac.nz DESIGNER Ramina Rai ILLUSTRATOR Yi Jong NEWS REPORTER Jack Pirie CONTRIBUTORS Esther Mackay, Casta Lawson, Jessy Thurston, James Tapp, Seth Nicholls, Taylor Davis, Andrew Broadley, Emma Gadd, Hazel Buckingham, Lyric Waiwiri-Smith, Ruth Stowers ADVERTISING Jesse Jones jesse.jones@aut.ac.nz PRINTER Nicholson Print Solutions

DISCLAIMER Material contained in this publication does not necessarily represent the views or opinions of AUTSA, its advertisers, contributors, Nicholson Print Solutions or its subsidiaries.

This publication is entitled to the full protection given by the Copyright Act 1994 (“the Act”) to the holders of the copyright, being AUT STUDENT ASSOCIATION (“AUTSA”).

Reproduction, storage or display of any part of this publication by any process, electronic or otherwise (except for the educational purposes specified in the Act) without express permission is a break of the copyright of the publisher and will be prosecuted accordingly. Inquiries seeking permission to reproduce should be addressed to AUTSA. Debate is a member of the Aotearoa Student Press Association (ASPA).

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contents 3 Editor’s Letter 4 Another “Shambles” 8 Lads without Labels 10 Sex with Casta 12 Vibes in the Vines 14 Pākehā Privilege 17 Skin Coloured Crayon 18 Down the Drain 20 A Kōrero on Cancel Culture and Cultural Appropriation 24 Three Taniwha 26 She’ll be Right...Right?

28 At the Bottom of the Bottle 30 Ripship is Online 33 Support your Local 34 Puzzles

So, to say the least I am thrilled to return to a bit of normal. But although normality does seem to be returning at some level (level 2), the Aotearoa we will be seeing will be a very different one to the one we may remember. Summer has passed and stringer singlets and flip flops have retired to their drawers. Bunnings are closing stores because they couldn’t sell sausages which equated to nearly 70% of all their profit. And Simon Bridges actually had an okay week. Yes, it’s scary entering into this new New Zealand.

from the editor Kia Ora e hoa mā, It is the last day of level 3 as I write this, and also the last day of living in this hostel (my parent’s house) which has somehow managed to house every Asian on the Whangaparaoa peninsula

for her three siblings. This makes me sound really spoilt and they do have a point, but these are immigrant problems and I miss complaining to my white friends whose biggest struggle was their parents making them vacuum for their pocket money.

(all ten of us). It’s not the most culturally diverse place, not to say utes and stringer singlets aren’t culture, but my parents' sweet and sour pork is about as ‘oriental’ as it gets here. If you know anything about Chinese immigrant parents, it’ll come as no surprise that you can’t complain about anything when you’re around them. When I wanted to go to KFC (but have no car) my dad was quick to remind me that when he was young, he ate nothing but plain rice and kumara, and one hard-boiled egg on his birthday. When I told my mum that I didn’t want to babysit the other night she was quick to remind me of how she left school at an early age to care

As an aspiring journalist/writer, the only person I could talk to about current affairs for over six weeks (besides the wonderful editorial Debate team) was my mum, who exclusively sources all her material from WeChat. This is basically the Chinese equivalent of Facebook with the journalistic credibility of The Onion.

Among the many other things she has recommended, my mum stood behind placing raw onions around our house in order “to suck the virus out of the air.”

Even when we were low on onions for cooking, we weren’t allowed to use the “virus sucking” onions in fear that they would infuse into our food.

This week at Debate we wanted to focus on New Zealand. The good, the bad, the homegrown. We are a small but proud nation, with a lot to offer, and a lot to critique. COVID-19 has given us the opportunity to return to a new normal, to be gone with the default (see last issue) and to try find some form of bright spark in all this mess.

So far, we have fared better than many countries, but as Simon Bridges has said, in what turns out to actually be a pretty catchy slogan, “We’ve flattened the curve, let’s not flatten the economy.”

I just quoted Simon Bridges without ridiculing him, this really is a new New Zealand. In all seriousness, many local businesses and companies are really struggling, and just because we are now out of the worst of the lockdown doesn’t mean this struggle will let up. So do go out there and support Kiwis and Kiwi businesses.

Ngā mihi, Rebecca

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NEWS

Another “Shambles”

AUT leaves student accommodation in the dark during lockdown with no safety precautions in place. Why were residents still forced to pay rent?

By Jack Pirie Disclaimer: Before writing this article we approached the Vice Chancellor to discuss various student issues.

After setting a date he later chose to postpone this interview for over a week. For this reason, this article has been written with the various evidence provided from staff members, residential assistants (RA) and AUT hall residents. In the next issue we hope to see a follow up of what the Vice Chancellor has to say in response.

Hopefully by now we all know that communication between AUT and its student body has been less than consistent, to say the least. After guarantees from the Vice Chancellor and AUT of an improved relationship with its students after its rocky start at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, there seems to be little to no evidence of this “progressive relationship.” How do we know this? All we have to do is look at the current situation with AUT Student Accommodation.

That’s right people, the tea continues to spill here at AUT and there has been absolutely no attempt to clean the mess up. In case you need to be briefed on the current situation surrounding the Student Accommodation debacle, here’s a quick right run down of what is occurring. Students are being forced to pay rent whether they are still living in

the halls during lockdown, or even if they decide to move home and reside somewhere else.

Many students residing in university halls of residence made the decision to go home and spend level 4 with their close family and loved ones. In times of a pandemic this decision seems justifiable. However, in an official letter sent out to residents, AUT Vice Chancellor Derek McCormack says “very few students were in situations that meant they had to leave.” According to an RA who has asked to remain anonymous from Wellesley Street Accommodation (WSA), this was not the case at all. The WSA RA tells us that leading up to lockdown “we had 48 hours to get ready, no one wanted to be there because there were no safety precautions, no social distancing and absolutely no plan in place” to prepare for alert level four. This statement from Derek McCormack comes across as both bold and insensitive, given that we know that AUT did next to nothing in contacting or assisting residents during this particularly turbulent time.

With no consultation or check-ups, how was our Vice Chancellor able to even gauge the situation, let alone presuppose that students were in an environment that could support them in the midst of a pandemic? Does this presumptuous statement from the VC insinuate that leaving to be with loved ones, in a stable environment, is an insufficient reason to leave the accommodation? We will leave that up to you to decide.

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NEWS

The same WSA RA tells us that they can only describe the management into alert level four as “a shambles.” RAs were reaching out to AUT and CLV (Campus Living Villages) in order to get some sort of information update on anything that might help them better understand what was going on. Despite the multiple emails sent, no reply was seen. Over lockdown there were 100 students residing in WSA out of the usual 500 residents, meaning 400 students had moved out as a result of getting ready to enter alert level 4.

At the time lockdown was announced, WSA had no head manager, no guidance and no leadership, “the safer option was to go home,” says WSA RA. The only communication that the RAs had received during the lockdown period was a message sent via Facebook to see when some of the RAs were returning to work.

Residents were expected to pay $300 a week to effectively secure their room.

However, a $60 utilities credit was issued to residents who had since moved home.

AUT does not own either of the accommodation buildings that students reside in. The Vice Chancellor says, “We don’t not make a profit from offering oncampus accommodation. Whether students are there or not we have ongoing costs including our regular rent payment to the owners.” However the operational costs of these living facilities are met by AUT who independently contract CLV. All RA’s are under a contract with both CLV and AUT, and at the end of May this contract will move to an entirely AUT contract.

Mistreatment towards RAs has been well documented in the past; we understand that RAs are often the first responders to issues which they simply aren’t trained for, including overdoses, alcohol poisoning and mental health events.

Anonymous WSA RA tells us, “At times you don’t feel like you’re trained to deal with those situations. We’re the first responders, and we’re only paid minimum wage.” The sole training that RAs receive, is a one day mental health and first aid workshop, and to be left in the dark to deal with these issues on a regular basis, alongside the many other issues that have risen during a pandemic, is simply unacceptable. In moving forward, we would like to think that AUT recognises the faults at play here, and provides amendments to these contracts to better support both RAs and residents.

At the time lockdown was announced, WSA had no head manager, no guidance and no leadership, “the safer option was to go home,” says WSA RA. Additionally, a resident in WSA has said that “they [AUT] like to flaunt their prime location, social environment and access to student services as an excuse to make their rent astronomically high, yet the elevators break down almost every day, the roof leaks, broken insinkerators, towel rails broken. Even the front gate fails to work.

We are paying for a building that’s in no way fit to house students.” It is clear that the AUT halls were simply not a stable enough environment for students to stay in during the lockdown period.

The lack of communication between the institution and student body is AGAIN dreadful. This time AUT has blatantly

ignored questions from its own staff members concerned with the student accommodation issue. As prior to lockdown a senior lecturer submitted a question to the Vice Chancellor regarding how students in accommodation will be looked after during that period of time.

This question was meant to be addressed during a meeting, only for the question to be moderated out in order for the Vice Chancellor and AUT to tippy toe round an extremely relevant question.

This either shows their unwillingness to answer questions that will affect people’s everyday life OR it shows the sensational lack of management and organisation.

Let’s all hope it isn’t both.

Some staff members have failed to see the validity of this situation as they claim they only see few students fighting for this cause in various zoom calls that have been held, to which AUTSA staff member Jesse Jones made the clear point “that regardless of whether 4 or 400 felt this way, it’s important that students feel heard.” The Vice Chancellor has said, “AUT is not established to provide financial assistance.

That role is the government and we have added our voice to the calls for the government to increase student support at this time.” Leaving us questioning why, only now have AUT decided to lobby the government knowing that they were never going to be financially able to assist students?

With the situation developing day by day, with politicians and media outlets getting involved, isn’t it time for AUT to be held accountable for its actions? When will these questions that desperately need answering be addressed? People are mad and just want to know what is going on.

Can anyone give the people the answers they deserve?

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We might even chuck some $$$ your way to help fund those text books you can no longer afford because you spent all your course related cost money during O-week. Shhh we won't tell.

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Lads Without Labels

By Esther Mackay New Zealand has some of the worst statistics in the world when it comes to mental health. The statistics are there for everyone to see, but every day we lose another one of our young men to mental health struggles. Not only that, but we lose three times as many men to suicide as we do women. The importance of reaching out to your mates is not lost on many of us, but I personally find it difficult to know where to start the conversation.

Kiwi blokes are often stereotyped as strong, hardworking lads who are full of banter, however, this mindset means many of our young men can feel like they aren't living up to the expectation of being a ‘real man.’ Telling someone what they should or shouldn't be will always be damaging, which is why Lads Without Labels focuses on dropping the labels and being a ‘real man’ by being your authentic self.

Lads Without Labels is a Christchurch based, university run club centred around creating a safe and welcoming space for our young men to talk about mental health and wellbeing. We decided to sit down and have a chat with the execs at Lads Without Labels to start a much-needed conversation about mental health in our young men.

At what point did you realise more needed to be done for the mental health of our young men in New Zealand?

SAM: For me personally, it was always obvious that men’s mental health needed to be improved. I always struggled to find a way which was actually effective. Mental health is present in everyone’s lives in some capacity, and I’ve often struggled at times myself. One of the first things that gave me inspiration for the club was seeing the success of so many clubs which are improving women’s welfare on campus. I started thinking why a club like this doesn’t exist, especially in today’s climate, where men in New Zealand have the highest suicide rates in their age groups among the world.

Have you had any negative responses in advocating for this cause?

ELLA: We did actually have a few people who said some pretty rude things about why this is just about the mental health of men. But just like we have always said, we ALL have men in our lives that we care about. This particular demographic is extremely vulnerable and subject to mental health issues, and we think the conversation takes a different form to that of women’s mental health.

TAYLA: Not a negative response, but a lack of response from women. I understand our club is directed towards men's mental health, but what kind of world do we want to live in if we continue to create a divide between issues? We can all support men’s mental health, regardless of gender or further divides.

What can friends/family do to support the men in their lives?

ISAAC: It is all about creating an environment where it is more than okay to speak up and talk about how you’re feeling. A bit of banter is all good, here and there, but it is important to look into how your mate is acting, whether there is any difference in the way he is acting, and when this is noticed, bringing it up to them, asking if they are actually okay.

SAM: As said above, making sure that you’re regularly checking

just a simple “how are you doing mate?” Making sure to keep in regular contact with them, or taking the time out of your day to grab a coffee or just a yarn is such an underrated way of letting your mates know you’re available or that you enjoy spending time with them.

Frequently in New Zealand we hear the phrase “man up” in response to a lot of our young men’s personal/emotional struggles. What do you think of this sort of mindset/attitude?

ELLA: I think this one is really hard because it depends what you define ‘man up’ as. Maybe we need to rethink and redefine ‘manning up’ as being open, honest, vulnerable and supportive.

CONNOR: To me, at the root of a lot of mental health issues, is the way that men hold themselves to a different standard than they would their mates. I’d never tell a mate of mine to “man up” but I’ve told myself that. This is more dangerous because it means that people don’t see the struggle. It’s so important for everyone to be public and really obvious about it being ok to ask for help, especially that guy trying to internalise his whole world.

Understanding that this is a university club, is there anything you’d like to say to those young men out there feeling a little lost about this time in their life?

LWL: It is totally normal to feel a bit lost. It’s okay to hand in an assignment late, or miss a lecture, or have a completely unproductive day. The most important thing is recognising that it’s happened, and not letting it define you moving forward. It is okay not to be okay. It is even more okay to talk about your feelings without fear. If you don’t have someone to talk to, then that is what we are here for, please don’t ever feel like you’re alone because we are here to talk it through with you.

You can check out the good people at Lads Without Labels doing great stuff at @ladswithoutlabels on Instagram and Facebook, because we all have men we care about.

in with your mates and making sure they’re okay, more than

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Sex with Casta

I am the all wise and knowing hoe – I love sex and am here to answer any questions thank you for coming to my ted talk.

By Casta Lawson (IG: castalawson)

Thoughts about hooking up with your best friend’s boyfriend at a festival?

ABSOLUTELY NOT. Unless the three of you have some kind of polyamorous arrangement then that’s ok but going and hooking up with your best friend’s boyfriend at a festival is one of the lowest things a person can do. Firstly, you’re at a festival that’s literally full of horny 18-25year olds that you can choose from so why choose your mate's man? Secondly, what fucking thought process runs through your mind that leads you to the conclusion that this is an appropriate decision to make? The boyfriend would also be in the wrong too, like are you both genuinely that dim-witted? If you go around your everyday life thinking that it’s ok to do that kind of shit, then you’re nothing but a cockmonging wet wipe.

Will coronavirus have an effect on NZ hook up culture?

The only effects coronavirus has had an impact on so far is the amount of people who use PornHub. Once we go back down to level two it will honestly be like letting a bunch of wild rabbits out of the cage, all anyone will want to do is fuck (myself included).

Why are all the nice guys done dirty?

Speaking from my own personal experience and opinions, as a girl, I want what I can’t have. Nice guys are always available, so I usually get bored within the first few days or week of talking to them.

Nowadays I think most nice guys fall into the ‘simp’ category and although some people may enjoy that, I personally do not.

It just seems desperate to me and I am heavily turned off by even the slightest trace of desperation. Also, most nice guys that I have talked to on Tinder honestly have some of the worst chat. Which makes me feel so bad when I end up ghosting them because they are genuinely nice people. I can’t make the claim that all girls have the same mindset as me, but hopefully this sheds some light on why you feel like nice guys are done dirty.

Had a dream we fucked That’s cute love hold onto that, it’ll be the closest you get to the real thing x

How do I get p*ssy Look up a wikihow article. In all honesty though Tinder is literally there for that purpose and is probably the easiest way of getting a hookup. Just make sure you don’t start off the conversation too hard with a mind-blowing opener of “hey.”

How to identify/tell if someone is safe to go home with?

I think this is something that will never be easy to tell, as people can be so misleading. In my life I’ve only gone home with someone I’ve just met in town once, and that experience was not the best. Me and my friend met these two older guys in Ponsonby and through miscommunication we ended up going back to their flat with them. One of the guys was very insistent on me hooking up with his mate and kept pushing me to do so (I really did not want to – sorry Johnny) and I was very fucked on drugs/alcohol at the time so it resulted in me running outside to the corner of their backyard and calling my dad at 5am to come and pick me and my friend up. Obviously, people have experienced

far worse situations than me, and that’s a scary thought. But I think some good ways to tell if a person is safe to go home with is the kind of people they’re with (if they’re alone then I would probably steer clear), how pushy they’re being with you, and if they’re respecting your personal space or not (i.e., making cheeky grabs, etc.). Also PLEASE make sure to always keep an eye on your drinks in town.

Are people obligated to be upfront and honest if all they want is sex?

I don’t think it’s an obligation, however if one of the people involved is hinting at something more than I think it is the morally correct choice to tell them in order to avoid anyone being misled.

How to navigate the anxiety and pressure of NZ’s intense hookup culture e.g., feeling pressured to have casual sex If you don’t want to have casual sex, then don’t. It’s nobody’s business what you get up to behind closed doors and it isn’t something that should make you feel ashamed. Sex is sex, you are allowed to go at any pace you choose whether that’s fucking as many people as you can in a month or only wanting to have sex with people who you have an emotional connection with. If it’s causing you anxiety, then identify what’s giving you the most anxiety and separate yourself from it. So if you see it all over social media then give yourself a break. If your mates are giving you shit then firstly, they’re not very nice mates, and secondly tell them to get fucked. You should never be made to feel like you have to do something, especially if it’s something as personal as sex.

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Vibes in the Vines

By Jessy Thurston The Rhythm and Vines experience is a wild gathering of classic kiwi love. There’s a unique power in 20,000 people sharing multiple nights of parties and a mass hangover together! I went to RNV for the first time last year and I wish I had done it sooner.

There are a few tips I picked up on, which might prepare any new ravers for the madness that ensues once you start your road to rhythm.

The Road to Rhythm First of all, if you are travelling from Auckland you should try to split the journey to Gisbourne in two. I highly recommend doing this so you and your clan manage to stay hyped, instead of being drained from 6 hours cramped in a car after waking up at ungodly hours to make it there before the gates open. I was the only one with a full license last year, so taking a break to explore Papamoa beach, wind down, and get some sleep in between the drives was a must. Also, make sure you create a playlist or two for the drive.

There is nothing worse than having people fight over the aux or reconnecting to the bluetooth in between song choices.

Rhythm and Lines Once you arrive at the vines there’s a full car search, and then you’ll have to lug all your stuff up to the entrance and wait for everyone to have their bags thoroughly checked. Do not make the mistake of taking two trips to get all of your stuff in. The lines don’t get any shorter, so make sure you drag all your gear that you’ll need for the first night with you to avoid waiting any longer than needed. I would say the day one lines are one of the worst things you’ll encounter at the festival. The bag check is pretty thorough, so if you’re thinking of sneaking things in, you’ll have to get super creative. For the gals, try using an old push up bra and hollowing out the foam to wear on the day to stash your essentials in. For the guys, I’ve heard putting small things inside your shoes or even loading your undies with the goods is most successful. Remember, everything is legal if you don’t get caught!

Luxury Living I purchased VIP tickets for the festival, purely because I heard how horrible the porta-loos get and how nice it is to have real, flushing toilets. This was a solid game changer in the RNV experience. The lines for the porta-loos near the stages were seriously long every night, and the one time I got stuck and had to use one, it was not pleasant...enough said. If you can afford it, get a VIP ticket! You’ll also get a powder room with mirrors and straighteners, a conveniently placed camping site near the food trucks and entrance, a coffee cart that doesn’t get absolutely swamped in the mornings, a sheltered relaxing area, and a VIP bar right next to the main stage. If you get in quick and book super early, you could also rent out an Airbnb for the festival. Splitting the price between a group would make the cost bearable and you’d only have to buy day passes to the festival instead of camping.

This means you’ll have your own space to pre and avoid all the hassles with porta-loos and shower lines at the festival!

Just be mindful of having to walk all the way out to the bus stop to get home every night, and make sure your fanny packs are filled with everything you’ll need. Top tip for ravers though - things like gum and sunscreen are available on site if you ever find yourself in desperate times.

Suss out the Spots On the first night, scope out the entire place and explore everything available to you while there are no huge acts playing. Get a sense for the whole place, there are so many hidden gems scattered

across the venue. It will be handy to know exactly where to get your hands on those reasonably-priced dumplings when you’re in need of a feed after going all out in the

experience really starts to pick up. The nights are when you really start to see the festival come to life. Rave mothers and fathers come out from the depths of the

mosh during a set on night two.

vines in the hundreds. It’s organised chaos in the best way. You end up bumping into people that you forgot you knew at some point of your life, and making unlikely friends who will probably end up chucking you on their shoulders at some point.

Tips for coming back from the dead During the days, most people head into town and it’s hard to find somewhere to eat that isn’t packed with lines of RNV goers. It's kind of amazing that you can walk through the hub of a small town and 90% of the people you see are all from the festival! We found it was best to avoid places like Maccas and aimed for bakeries, kebabs, roast shops and more lowkey spots when going out to eat. We tried one morning to find a nice café and get a good brunch in, and even the one with the shortest line had a wait time of an hour and a half for food. The beach was packed everyday too, so we used snapmaps to try and find other places to go and chill before heading back to the vines. We managed to find a reserve near the lake one day, and we laid down a towel and some blankets and all took a nap since we were the only ones there. Naps are a great idea to get you refreshed for the night ahead, but trying to do it back at the campsite was too hard. The tents become oven boxes in the sun and it gets too hot to stay inside for longer than a couple minutes.

Rhythm Love and the Magic of the Mosh

Trying to capture the essence of the festival in words is incomparable to the euphoria of standing in the mosh, watching the crowds dripping in glitter and throwing their heads back in bliss.

Whether you’re a front-of-the-railing or a sit-on-the-hill kind of festival goer, the energy that fills the Waiohika Estate is contagious over those four nights. Many of the artists jump on stage and share the love for all of the Kiwi ravers looking back up at them. It was rare to go to a set that didn’t end with a heartfelt “We love coming to Rhythm and Vines and seeing all of you beautiful New Zealanders here!”

It’s not just the music that makes the festival what it is either. It's the people, the security in knowing everyone is there to have a good time, and the energy that pours over the entire place no matter which corner of the festival you find yourself in.

At its core, RNV is a festival of heart.

It’s showered in love and classic Kiwi connectedness over celebrating music, looking out for each other, and spreading good vibes and transcendence as you enter the new year in the best way you can.

Once you get back to the festival after exploring the Gisbourne community, the

13

Pākehā Privilege

By James Tapp It's only been a year and half since I started university, but sometimes that's enough time to realise more about the world than you could ever imagine. For me, the biggest thing, the one thing intertwined into every part of my life, is privilege. I'm a white male, and if society loves anything, it's straight white males.

It was only when I left my all boys high school that I became aware of the license that my physicality held. It seemed so normal to me at the time, so much so that I never had the tendency to question or reflect on my own privilege. But in my day to day life, I continued winning the lottery.

I think an important place to start on a topic like this is representation. Not just the statistics around what percentage of the population is Pākehā, Māori, Pasifika, Asian and Middle Eastern, along the many other ethnic backgrounds in Aotearoa, but also what we, as individuals represent, as well as how we present society. Last year we saw Statistics New Zealand release a report that reflected NZ diversity in the form of a 112-person village. The village was composed of 17 individuals having a Māori ethnic background, 70 with European, 15 Asian, 8 Pacifica, and 2 from the rest of the world. Of course,

this representation is not going to be the same across all areas of society, but it could be a hell of a lot better.

When it comes to making change, for me it is in my career choices. I want to represent my country, whether it's at an embassy, working as a journalist or even a business leader. Yet I remind myself that if New Zealand society is going to have good representation across the board, it probably shouldn't be me. Because there's 1,001 white men in business suits already 'representing' New Zealand. You've got to ask, how many of them cared about Ihumātao, and if they were representing that struggle? Representation in New Zealand is always going to be difficult, especially in areas such as Auckland and Wellington which are melting pots of culture with so much to represent. So, as students going into the workforce, remember you bring a new perspective, which also comes with great power. It is vital to keep both your privileges in check and that of your peers, while also putting in the effort to make sure diversity is celebrated.

While that is all about under representation, which is not amazing, the statistics around overrepresentation are far more shocking. In 2019, 51.8% of the prison population was Māori, while they

only make up 14.6% of the population.

Since the English arrived in New Zealand, anyone who they considered different has been on the backfoot, with a lack of acknowledgement of minority and indigenous ideology and way of life. In saying this, it is important to remember these are not the only populations within Aotearoa; with our country being exposed to globalisation we have seen an influx of diversity and culture. One of these major ethnic groups is the Asian population, which includes a number of ethnicities, such as Chinese, Indian, Sri Lankan, Singaporean and Malaysian among so many more. The Chinese population particularly have a stronger representation in New Zealand in good light as well as not so good. With history in gold mining in Arrowtown, having the longest running produce stores in the country, as well as running so many other small businesses, it is truly saddening to see xenophobia still so present in New Zealand when they are part of the backbone that our country depends on.

With the Asian population expected to rise above 1 million by 2038, we will need to be able to embrace this past by eating sushi for lunch and going to the lantern festival, instead realising terms such as ‘token Asian’ are outdated and inaccurate which instead facilitate casual racism.

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New Zealand may pride itself on being multicultural and accepting, but all it takes is a quick scroll down a New Zealand Herald article about welfare issues to see Pākehā privilege. And many of you, including myself, realise these people are our grandparents or maybe even our parents. If they're as bad as my grandmother, they'll say they can't understand someone on the phone who has an accent which isn't from a country where English is their first language.

Racism is still very much a problem in New Zealand, whether it is ingrained into our history due to the land wars, or it's taking clothing of traditional significance and incorporating it into everyday life without recognition (kimonos as dressing gowns, for example).These everyday events may seem harmless at the time, however research has shown these can slowly but surely build up to oppression, discrimination and violence without recognition and intervention. This is how events such as the Christchurch attacks happen. While they weren’t an accurate representation of the Pākehā population, just imagine if he had been of any other ethnicity. Imagine what would have been different in the media. Imagine what my grandparents would have said. This can all go unchecked, and that's what unrecognised white privilege can look like.

I think it's also important to point out Pākehā Privilege is part of New Zealand

culture, whether we like it or not, and because it's part of daily life for many, it goes unrecognised as culture. And it's not as simple as saying to someone “hey this is your culture, also guess what, it's done a lot of damage.” Culture among white people is thriving, but because of the dominance of Western society, we just don't see it. Hence, we get the "white people have no culture” comments, but we also get ones about Karen's and typical middle-class white dad jokes, and whether you like it or not, that's part of it.

Culture among white people is thriving, but because of the dominance of Western society, we just don't see it. Hence, we get the "white people have no culture” comments, but we also get ones about Karen's and typical middle-class white dad jokes.

If society, particularly in New Zealand, is going to progress, we need to recognise where Pākehā stand in relation to the rest of New Zealand and why. But as many things go, small things at a young

age will go far. What would things look like if we looked past just Pākehā and Māori culture at school, but also a number of others which are now prominent in Aotearoa? What if we saw more incorporation of Māori schools of thought into business on a managerial level? What if this also applied to the government with a greater recognition of Te Tiriti o Waitangi? We currently operate in systems that are westernised, because that was version 1.0 that was brought to Aotearoa by colonists. But with so much more here now, what is there to stop us from growing and expanding and reaching 2.0?

I’ve covered a miniscule amount of information surrounding society in New Zealand, but if there's anything I want you to take away from reading this, it's that if you are Pākehā, or even just have white skin, recognise your privilege on a constant basis, and use it to help others.

I've been given a lot of opportunities while I've been at university, and while I've worked hard, I still think about how other factors may have played a part. And while this has focused on Pākehā privilege, think about what other privileges you may have and how they play a part in your life. Talk with those who you consider 'other' instead of the same, find out where people's viewpoints stand and why. You never know, you might learn a thing or two.

skin coloured crayon

By Taylor Davis Ko Taupiri Te Maunga, Ko Waikato te Awa Ko Tainui te waka Ko Ngati naho tōku hapu Ko Ngaa-tai-e-rua tōku marae Ko Taylor tōku ingoa.

When my nana went to school she was beaten for speaking an ancient dialect of Māori Reo, one that was passed down from her nana and all nanas before her.

I heard somewhere that Te Reo Māori originates from the sounds of birds in the forest. It is a wonder that something so beautiful could be brutally smacked out of the mouths of children by the government following the early 1900s policy among educators. My nana and koro built a house in South Auckland following the post-war urbanisation of Māori and had my dad shortly after the release of the 1960 Hunn Report. The government document was made to record the progress of whitewashing Aotearoa. The non-Māori minister of native affairs Sir Jack Hunn stated that Māori were "living a backwards life in primitive conditions" whose culture “only the fittest [of] elements would survive" and encouraged us to “fall into line.”

When my dad went to school he was called racial slurs by his teachers. Despite this, he was the first in his family to attend university, and the only Māori in his class when he graduated with a Bachelor in Science majoring in Chemistry. Then he met my Pākehā mother. My parents wanted my sisters and I to have better

opportunities and resources than they grew up with, and gave everything so we could have a safe childhood of abundance and privilege. But privilege isn’t divided equally among races.

When I went to school, it was a white school, with white friends, white teachers and white role models on TV. My whiteness was so ingrained that I drew myself with the ‘flesh’ coloured crayon, which Crayola rebranded to ‘peach’ in 1962. It was 2006 and my classmates only ever called it ‘skin colour.’

At a young age, I was aware of my Māoriness in the same way I was aware that my dad went to work. I knew it to be true, but I didn’t understand what it meant, or why it was important. I didn’t realise that while I was ignoring my brown-ness, my teachers, friends and acquaintances were not. I felt confused when a white person would ask me where I was from. I would say “New Zealand,” they would repeat themselves, so I would too. Eventually we would both come to understand that their real question was “why are you brown?” In retrospect, I have never thought to ask a white person why they are white. I’ve come to learn that although my mother is white, my rearing is white, I can speak the white language and understand the white culture, I will never be white. White is an exclusive cultural identity, which bars anyone with melanin-rich skin.

My friend circles may have considered me to be ‘white’ in that I was “not like other Māori.” To the average person in

my hometown, I was a brown girl. I was Māori, and my father deeply instilled Māori values and some cultural practices and words in my upbringing, but when I was around other Māori, I suddenly did not feel brown. I felt displaced, I felt ‘too white.’ I didn’t speak the way I was told Māori spoke; I didn’t look the way I was told other Maori looked. I didn’t suffer the same discrimination as culturally rich Māori. I felt stuck in a racial limbo, unable to belong completely.

As I became more involved in my culture as an adult, white contempt for non-white ways of living became more noticeable.

I would go to work and white coworkers would complain to me that the pōwhiri in the workplace was ‘silly’ and a waste of their time. Friends would whine about karakia making them uncomfortable, even some classmates would question if their papers really needed to include Te Tiriti O Waitangi. All of them throwing an enthusiastic- ‘right?’ my way, asking me to validate their racism.

I’ve met other people who feel like I do.

They call themselves ‘plastic’ Māori, or Pasifika. That because colonisation has affected us so deeply, it has taken our identity and made us feel fake. I am still struggling with the grief that colonisation has and still is causing by severing me from my culture and my people. But because I feel at home when I listen to the birds' korero, I know I am Maori in my heart. My hope is that when my future children go to school, they will not reach for the peach coloured crayon if someone asks “can you pass me the skin colour?”

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Down the Drain The war on water quality in New Zealand. By Andrew Broadley

I can feel the thumping in my head growing stronger with each bend. My small frame swings left crashing into my sister and swings right crashing into the other. I do my best to steady my vision, to focus on the translucent heat waves that are emitting from the asphalt in front. As the car continues to move across the road beneath, the heat rippling up from it seeps through the metal belly of our station wagon and through the inner workings and cranks and shafts until it seeps through the fabric of the seat and wraps itself all around us. The windows are rolled all the way down but being crammed into the middle seat I am unable to throw my head out of it like I want to, much like a dog would. The sunroof above me

remains firmly closed.

“The windows are down.”

The response my father always gave when we requested he open it. For some reason I have never learned, he always had reservations about opening the sunroof. It was as if he believed for a car to function it needed its sturdy walls and that in opening all the windows, we were pushing our luck. Creating too many holes in its structure. That if we were to open the sunroof in addition to the windows, we would be hollowing out the vehicle beyond repair. I knew it was pointless to ask again so I stayed as steady as I could and hoped for the thumping to ease. The thumping did ease

eventually. When I dived into the deep cool of the watering hole that lay at the end of the series of winding, dusty roads. I ate chicken and coleslaw rolls and my brother got sunburnt and we moved around the hole with the sun’s light, avoiding the patches that grew dim with the fading afternoon.

Last Christmas, my family and I returned to that same watering hole. But when we arrived there would be no cool swim to relieve the sunburn and heat. Warning signs had been put up all around.

Signs that looked similar to the ones that lined the stream near my childhood home, where I had grown up playing. I remember running along its banks with swords I had cut out of cardboard.

I remember getting inner tubes and drifting down it. I remember wading through it to get to the other side to avoid the long walk to the bridge. I remember the year my mother told me I was no longer allowed to. I remember the days walking home from school where the banks full of children had been replaced by banks of workers in fluorescent orange overalls and mossy green boots, pulling trash and muck from its belly.

As of 2019, 0% of Auckland’s rivers and lakes are graded as good, and 62% overall are considered poor.

The consistent degradation of our waterways has long been hidden behind an effective marketing campaign. A clean green image so prevalent, we have managed to convince ourselves it’s true.

But we can’t pave over the sewage forever. Two thirds of our rivers are no longer swimmable.

Half our lakes are irreversibly damaged. Three quarters of our native freshwater fish are facing extinction. In 2016, 3000 people were poisoned, and three people died in Havelock North when sheep faeces contaminated their tap water. A harsh reality to the side effects of the massive economic boom our agriculture industry has brought. The National Institute of Water and Atmospheric Science (NIWA) has stated that pastoral farming – which accounts for 40% of New Zealand’s land area – is undoubtedly the main

source of diffuse pollution (indirect sources of water pollution). Our farming industry, in particular our dairy industry, has gone largely unchecked due to its integral role in both our economy, and identity. A country founded on farming, it has provided an avenue for economic growth (we are the largest exporters of dairy in the world) and been integral to the livelihoods of countless rough and tumble Kiwi men (and women).

Questioning its practices or its role in polluting our country is deemed political suicide.

Labour’s attempts to introduce tough environmental regulations has led to protests in Jacinda’s hometown. In shifting our farming practices, we can’t simply expect our farmers to comply without huge financial assistance. If we are to keep the livelihood of both our rural workers and our land, the government is going to have to provide incentives and assistance in ensuring this shift doesn’t create an environment unprofitable to those in it. A difficult task that I am lucky enough to sit here and think about without having to have any involvement in trying to solve.

But it is one that needs to be solved. Because soon, it will be too late. The rigorous, irrigation heavy approach our farming is currently geared towards has to end, but serious and achievable alternatives need to be there for when it does. Farming is the

backbone of our country and our economy. But we can’t allow it to go unchecked. We need to be looking into viable and realistic means of shifting the industry to align more with our climate targets, because at the top of our backbone you find our tourism industry, one that has thrived on a platform of lush greenery and free flowing beauty. An industry that is on the verge of collapse post COVID-19. An industry that cannot continue if our water is toxic and our land degraded.

This past summer my friend went for her evening swim, a ritual she partakes in the months December through February, longer if the weather allows. On her way home she stopped for an ice cream, and an iced tea. She drove the coastal road back to her house, a breeze pouring through the open sunroof.

When traffic allowed, she would run her fingers down the length of her hair from top to bottom, still wet. Once she arrived home, she read that her local beach was now among the most polluted.

The coarseness and texture that saltwater brings to hair suddenly lost its charm. Her fingers no longer seemed to run through her hair with ease, but now they ran through mangled knots of locks.

The next day she finished work and went for another evening swim. Though this time she added a new step into her routine. googling her local beaches to find which one was cleanest.

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A Kōrero on Cancel Culture and Cultural Appropriation

By Rebecca Zhong | Illustration by Yi Jong

A cutie has just matched with you on Tinder, and after two days of chatting you notice a follow request sitting in your notifications. You scroll through your feed, making sure your photos show that you’re just the right mix of hot, social and chill before you accept. Thankfully your feed is perfect, curated with all the right filters. Everything is good to go, you then tap onto the dreaded ‘tagged’ photos.

It’s 2013, Cotton On is still hot and so is Jason in his ‘Tail Tee.’ You and your girls have invited all your crushes over to Ella’s for Halloween, and you’re about to get lit on three cans of Smirnoff Ice. Sitting on your head, a Native American headdress. You’re doing a duck face, and Jason has commented “cute x” on Ella’s picture of you. You quickly untag yourself and scope out any further pictures that give off the impression that you’re not woke. It’s now 2020, you’re 40k in debt thanks to your arts degree, and the only thing you can show for it is your extensive podcast recommendations.

Okay, well the above was an example of call out culture (namely on myself) which I’m also not a fan of. But we’re here to tackle another beast, cancel culture in relation to cultural appropriation.

Cultural appropriation is the act of adopting elements of an outside, often minority culture without understanding or respecting the original culture and context. We see examples of cultural appropriation almost every day, but I want to point particular attention towards non-Māori artists using Māori narratives and bodies in their work.

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attempt to “find space and respect for each other.” However, if we are taking proactive measures to reconcile and move forward from the hardship we have imposed onto Māori, shouldn’t we also take active responsibility by providing avenues to empower Māori? How does occupying the position of ‘storyteller’ and ignoring criticism by Māori allow us to empower those that have been subjugated for generations? More than anything, Hall seems to be asserting his post-colonial privilege. I am not discrediting Hall’s ability or license to produce art, rather I am saying if you were truly an advocate for reconciliation you would allow Māori artists to occupy this space and share their own stories, instead of what you might perceive that story to be.

Lester Hall is not simply a Pākehā who is not versed with the nuances of Te Ao Māori. He actively engages in these dialogues, but also implies that tikanga is sexist and that he has his own set of core values that he chooses to embrace instead. When I initially began engaging with commentary around the ethics of Hall’s artwork, I was taken aback by the sheer volume of individuals that supported and stood behind his artwork. Like many of my friends, I had made the move to ‘cancel’ Hall and any of his supportive allies.

This issue was first brought to my attention in my final year of study when I was conducting an independent research project on Lester Hall’s artwork. Lester Hall is a Pākehā artist who has been met with scrutiny for his sexualisation of indigenous women in his artwork. Furthermore, Lester Hall has claimed he feels ostracised and marginalised as a white male by Māori academics and advocates. Hall has effectively founded a career off of rebranding and on selling the narratives and lived experiences of Māori. And despite the overt criticism he has received over the years, he argues that he is simply respecting the culture and his work is an

When I told my mum about the conversations I had regarding Lester Hall’s art she responded with “maybe these people just don’t know about the impact. No one has ever been patient enough to explain this to me.” My mum is a Chinese immigrant who left school at 14, she has not received any additional education and has been working ever since.

Cancel culture has become a reliable way to achieve upward mobility, and identify both allies and enemies through isolating people who have violated rules around a whole number of issues, namely sex, gender and race. I agree that there should be no exception to homophobic, sexist or racist behaviour, and it is vital to keep people accountable for their actions.

However, I would argue that cancel culture has also become the breeding ground for toxicity for those who are simply misinformed. As I scroll through the comments of Hall’s artwork, I notice a number of individuals from all kinds of backgrounds praising Hall for his work. Unlike Hall, some of them are oblivious towards the harm that his art imposes on Māori, and simply value his work for the artistry.

However these supporters also face the same scrutiny as Hall himself endures. They are met with judgement from strangers who hold degrees or exposure into other environments and culture that not everyone gets.

cancel culture has also become the breeding ground for toxicity for those who are simply misinformed.

I am a non-Māori who is passionate about learning more about Te Ao Māori, and my initial gateway into accessing this information was through tertiary education. Prior to entering university, I was not well versed on the implications of cultural appropriation on indigenous narratives, and while I may be embarrassed about my prior ignorance, I am also aware that it did not come from a place of malice or hate. Cancel culture has seen us dig through decade-old homophobic (in the case of Kevin Hart) and racist-tweets, and hold people accountable at present for actions they did in the past. But what if they haven’t

made any mistakes since? What if they have since started engaging in conversation regarding these issues? Do they deserve to be shamed in such a vocal and public way?

It takes a lot of energy to unpack your own internalised racism, bias and privilege. And fortunately, I was able to start my journey during my studies. But not everyone has this opportunity. Unlike Lester Hall, many of his supporters are simply unaware of how damaging supporting his artwork can be. Hall deserves to be kept accountable for his use of cultural appropriation in his art, but his supporters often do not deserve the same level of criticism. My 40k student loan means I won’t be able to buy a house in Auckland ever, but it does enable me to think more critically and holistically about how my actions or inactions impact wider groups. I sit in a very privileged position. And rather than sitting on that privilege and choosing to ‘cancel’ others for what simply could be ignorance, I encourage us to think about how damaging this act can be. Cancel culture has created some amazing and much needed outcomes, in the case of outing celebrities like Kevin Spacey and Harvey Weinstein. However, it has also created toxic online spaces that are not conducive with learning.

It assumes that individuals are born either woke or not. It fails to recognise that people are able to, and routinely do, develop new ideologies over time and shed ones they’ve outgrown. Imagine waking up one day and finding out that your Native American headdress photo from 2013 is the reason your political career is in turmoil. I’m not saying that all past actions should be forgiven, but before we cancel people we should take into account the trajectory they have taken since and whether they have had the opportunity to learn. Furthermore, many people in low socio-economic environments simply do not have the opportunity to ponder the nuances of race, gender and culture. Rather than contributing to an environment where we shame, we should take active measures to create online environments that are conducive towards growth.

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Three Taniwha A story by an English/Ngā Puhi Aucklander, attempting to make sense of Māori identity in the urban hellscape.

By Seth Nicholls Three taniwha remain living in the city’s depths. There used to be many more.

Some, like Dr Swamp and Dr Rock-Pool, were driven out by the branching roads and railway lines running their homes into the ground. Dr Hearth and a couple of her siblings are buried in the foundations of luxury shoreside apartment blocks. Dr Storm was pulled out of harbour with nets and harpoons and sliced up, the stew of his flesh filling the bellies of sailors.

And poor, poor Dr Spear is now just a frame of polished bones strung up in the museum hall, among all the other corpses.

Grandmothers point to him, telling old stories of great battles to their gasping mokopuna. It is truly a pity they’ll never see his glittering rainbow scales, nor the terrified look on his face as he was driven through with bullets and bayonets. Now, there are only three taniwha left alive in the city.

Daniel went about the city to visit each of the three. Daniel had seen them all, in poems and parades and posters, but had never spoken a word to any of them. They

were always a little too distant. Today was the day that was going to change. Daniel was going to ask all of them their wisdom, demand it in fact.

The first on Daniel’s list was Dr Carving, a great and glorious feathered Taniwha who had once lived in the depths of the forests. Daniel had been told that Dr Carving was one of the greatest teachers of all. Hundreds of Māori, young and old, men and women, had journeyed out to see him and learn how to weave beautiful patterns and carve designs so intricate and wondrous, that they would lure in the eye with its patterns and keep it trapped there forever. Dr Carving would teach his lessons smiling.

Daniel questioned people around the city and got a slew of answers from the denizens within. A drunkard told Daniel that the great teacher would be found in Daniel’s local Kiwi gift shop, where tourists bought tikis cast in plastic. A businessman told Daniel that Dr Carving could be found in the factory, where workers make the same thing over and over again. An elderly woman told Daniel

that Dr Carving could be found in a marae in town, nestled between the skyscrapers.

Daniel checked all these places first, but Dr Carving was not there, at least not in person. Daniel scowled at the marae when he saw. It had fewer calluses than him.

After talking to many tired customer service workers and smug executives one after the other, Daniel eventually found Dr Carving living out of a penthouse workshop in the middle of the city. Daniel had to bribe a rat-haired guard just to get the elevator. When Daniel had made it to the top he saw a grand display of patterns and carvings, beautiful things on every wall. There were so many beautiful creations that it covered all the windows overlooking the city. Dr Carving was hard at work on a new design, carving the curves of the piece in a new mold for the factories. He was tall, yes, but he had become hunched. He was covered in a rainbow of gorgeous feathers, yes, but there was a trail falling to the ground behind him. Upon seeing Daniel enter in his abode, the taniwha flashed his needlelike fangs before quietly going back to work.

Daniel kept his distance and called out

feet had worn to the ground from the hot

of camo greens and greys and a sleazy

to Dr Carving, asking him how his work was going, how the land used to be, any memory or story to share, anything at all.

Still, Dr Carving just kept working at his next product. Daniel stood there trying to get the great teacher’s attention but his raised hand was left unattended. If he neared, the great teacher would just bare his fangs. Danny slumped back to the elevator. Perhaps the next taniwha may be more accommodating.

paved roads. She could only scream and recite speeches, both at the very top of her lungs. Daniel's wide eyes had never seen something so torn up and terrified.

grin under those damned red eyes.

Daniel winced at the sight but slowly approached.

The second taniwha was the darling Dr Statue, who Daniel was told was a beautiful spirit. She was to be treasured forever, every smiling face had told him.

Dr Statue was the first taniwha the missionaries met when they came to New Zealand. The British and the French alike ran their hands through her silky fur, marvelled at her towering colourful frill, and bowed at the sight of her maddening size. Daniel had seen her before, on the television, in parades around the world.

The directions were all universal this time, any tour guide or cab driver could tell you where to go. Dr Statue could be found in the Domain, in a glow-worm cave off several beaten paths. Everyone said “go as deep as you can and you’ll find her.” And there she was.

Dr Statue was chained up in a cave in the depths of a glow-worm cave in the depths of the Domain. She was so small, her fur had become dirty and wet, and her frills had ripped and wilted. Spray paint stung her skin and eyes, and her

The third taniwha was Dr Fall. Everyone knew where Dr Fall was but nobody liked to talk about it. Daniel knew all the same.

He needed no directions. Daniel walked down off an alley onto another alley, down unswept stairs and under bridges.

Daniel found Dr Fall in the dark of a stinking sewage tunnel, past where all graffiti ended. Dr Fall wasn’t here before the English came. He was born in the depths of woodwork they had brought across the ocean, a parasitic wyrm tunnelling through their ships. Dr Fall was long and snake-like, with soulless eyes that shone red like they were caught in a camera. Daniel knew he could meet Dr Fall at any time, but he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to. Dr Fall would always accept another visitor, and so he stayed in his keep.

The great serpent was twisted over and between the pipes, his trunkish body splitting into branches of junglegreen scales. Musket holes and slashed scars covered the bulging beast from a thousand dirty battles with a thousand heroes, so sure they would slay him. The False Taniwha, the murderous Dr Fall, ate them all up and shit their bones out in some distant hole where they would never be laid to rest. And so there the monster sat coiled, with leathery skin

Dr Fall lowered his head to the ground, a slop of noxious gloop dropping off him as he moved like wet snow off trees in the spring sunlight. The great wyrm steadied its head above the ground, its pointed nose sniffing the air like a bloodhound. Daniel shuffled onwards as the beast eyed him. Two red spotlights, bright like cannon flame, shone down upon the quivering boy. Dr Fall lay his head upon the damp concrete ground, crushing discarded needles and bones, and opened his jaw wide. Rows of teeth like the pews of a church. A pillowy tongue rolled out in carpet red. Daniel came to a stop and stared at the depths of Dr Fall’s mouth, laid out like a bed under starlight. With another step he could sleep in there forever. In peace and calm. Just a step in the good Doctor’s mouth. Daniel knew better. He took a step back, then another. Further from the ledge. He pulled his eyes away from that blood-stained bed and ran away. Fled the dark of the cavernous tunnels as the serpent Fall rattled off a laugh through his kingdom. He had other appointments that day anyway.

Surely there could be better taniwha, anywhere else. Surely there must be some. There are three taniwha in the depths of Auckland city. They live fates worse than death.

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She’ll be right ...right?

By Emma Gadd When it comes to the way people view New Zealand, there’s definitely some key images and icons that spring to mind. Like fish and chips, L&P, rugby games, native birds and sheep farming. These things are omnipresent in our lives and get featured in media and advertising to strike a chord with us. Another aspect of classic Kiwi culture that’s baked into our national identity is the classic “She’ll be right!” mentality. This phrase is everywhere in New Zealand, and it’s become the default answer to our problems. The saying, attitude and mentality are quintessential to who we are as New Zealanders. At least, that’s how it looks most of the time.

Most likely, you’ve had a mate or relative, or even a plumber or handyman say that phrase to you at least once. Guaranteed it’s also appeared in a Mitre 10 ad or two.

She’ll be right! It’s a classic kiwi attitude!

Why exactly is this attitude so popular amongst New Zealanders? On the surface, the idea that we don’t sweat the small stuff is admirable to a lot of people. We’re not fussy, we’re not hard to please, and we can shrug off anything. We don’t take anything too seriously, we just keep a cool head, no matter what. The phrase is optimistic, and people love optimism. The phrase isn’t particularly deep, it’s just a bit of broad positivity. By insinuating that she would, in fact, be right, a negative mood would be eased. At least, that’s the idea behind the phrase, and why us New Zealanders seem to like it so much.

But if one looks a little deeper at this

phrase and its prevalence, it’s easy to see the negative impacts this mentality has.

Positivity is good, and it has its place in the world, but there are times where that kind of baseless positive sentiment feels counterproductive. As nice as it would be to live in a world where any and all negativity can just be shrugged away... we don’t exactly live in that reality. It’s 2020, a look at the news proves that alone.

Different situations require different reactions. And in some more severe situations, simple and vague positivity isn’t particularly helpful. From personal tragedies to serious injuries, the idea that you’re just supposed to shrug away any negative feeling is a harmful concept. In some situations, you have to be able to feel things properly. It helps you process the emotions so you can recover quicker.

As such, a pat on the shoulder and a “she’ll be right!” are both dismissive and counterproductive.

On the subject of the culture “she’ll be right!” inspires, the topic of masculinity in a Kiwi context comes up. “She’ll be right!” fits right in with this topic, it’s right there with beer, working with your hands, and (of course) rugby. “She’ll be right!” is generally used by more masculine types, as a kind of default answer to... anything, be it injuries or negative personal events.

There have certainly been enough articles highlighting that plenty of men won’t be safe in a dangerous environment like water or care for their injuries or talk to anyone if they’re struggling emotionally.

And they end up citing men’s internalised “she’ll be right!” mentality as a reason why these men are so resistant to medical care

or counselling for depression and anxiety and the like. Not that mental health issues are strictly a masculine domain, we’re just not really encouraged to discuss mental stress with our male friends. The mentality isn’t the sole culprit, but because this phrase is propped up by our overwhelming blokey culture, it influences people. You can only be around absorbing a mentality for so long before it starts to affect your psyche. People just say “she’ll be right!” enough times and we’ll be influenced by it.

Furthermore, mental health in New Zealand is something that’s been brought up a lot recently. For a nation as developed and successful as we are, our depression and suicide rate is on the higher end of the scale. 16.6% of New Zealanders have been affected by depression and 11 out of 100,000 people have lost their lives to suicide. This data shows that New Zealand has some of the worst mental health statistics in the Western world. Additionally, men play a bigger role in those numbers than women.

This shows that men are more susceptible to mental health issues. This isn’t entirely the fault of one mentality men have collectively internalised. But there’s a very strong case for this attitude influencing these statistics. “She’ll be right” can easily be used to bottle up emotions and let them fester internally. When you’re not encouraged to share your emotions because “she’ll be right!” you’ll have this emotional roadblock that stops you from seeking proper help. As such, you can easily see that this nationally approved catchphrase has its issues. It’s something worth thinking about, at least.

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At the Bottom of the Bottle

By Hazel Buckingham It seemed to begin as a humorous coping mechanism in the early days of the murmurs of COVID-19 in New Zealand.

Snapchats of people with baskets of wine and beer “stocking up on the essentials” before lockdown and memes circulating about ‘entertaining’ home-schooling methods teaching children fractions with a wine glass. Then came the determination by the government that alcohol was an ‘essential service’ via supermarkets and Trusts, and an amendment to that decision later on that saw online sales and delivery also classified as

necessities. Zoom happy hours are now the new norm, and drinking during work hours is increasing too, with many Kiwis noticing that the five weeks of lockdown may have been the start of new drinking habits that are pretty damn difficult to shake.

There’s been reports and research released all over the show regarding alcohol sales and drinking habits during this time and it’s hard to get an accurate picture of what is really going on.

Some suggest alcohol spending has dramatically increased – the New Zealand Alcohol Beverages Council reported some liquor stores saw a 1800% spike in their daily sales prior to lockdown.

Others claim we are actually decreasing our drinking habits, for example research by Nielsen and our Health Promotion Agency suggests 34% of New Zealanders are drinking less than usual.

Regardless, it’s clear that alcohol is a hot topic surrounding COVID-19. While some suggest the crisis has simply highlighted our already unhealthy Kiwi drinking culture, I think it goes a bit deeper than that…

Tobacco was deemed an essential product, despite the decades of evidence stacked against it regarding people’s wellbeing. Where do we draw the line between demonising an addiction and normalising one?

When you start trawling through media coverage of the alcohol debate, some key players pop up. The NZ Alcohol and Beverages Council (NZABC) referenced above is one of them, as is The Tomorrow Project who is running a ‘responsible drinking campaign’ called Cheers. Cheers touts that “#drinknormal is the new normal” and is encouraging Kiwis that their new normal drinking guidelines should be the same as the old ones. If these messages seem a bit suss, that’s because they are. Both of the groups are industry funded, with NZABC admitting that they are in fact an alcohol lobby group. The thought leaders that appear to be not only contributing,but leading the debate regarding alcohol access and sales during this pandemic have their own deeply rooted interests.

Okay, but we’re smart consumers, we can do our research and choose what information to consume, right? Yes, absolutely, but The New Zealand Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) has noted that under Level 4 our advertising landscape has changed dramatically, and they have reported an increase in alcohol advertising and promotion. While there is a Code for Advertising and Promotion of Alcohol that requires alcohol marketing to meet a higher standard of social responsibility than other products, this ‘requirement’ is self-regulated by the industry, and in the messy world of social media and usergenerated content, is often forgotten. Who gets held to account for those memes suggesting wine o’clock is 9’oclock, or the livestreams of musicians or comedians that are ‘hosted’ by alcohol companies?

It’s no longer a case that advertising is something that plays in a designated break in your TV schedule. Advertisers are smart, and they team up with public relations experts, marketers and psychologists to get even smarter. Chances are you’ve read, liked, shared or laughed at content funded by a company and put there to increase brand credibility, engagement or visibility, without you even knowing it.

The ASA has been clear that advertisers need to make sure their material protects people from harm, and specifically states it must not “Feature, imply, condone or encourage irresponsible or immoderate drinking.” I can’t help but wonder how this is regulated in the Facebook groups such as ‘Quarantine Beer Chugs’ which has more than 330,000 members who connect online to ‘chug’ as many beers as possible, or the “see a shotgun do a shotgun” trend circulating on Snapchat where you down a drink as fast as possible and challenge others to beat your time, uploading videos of it as proof.

Another requirement is to make sure advertisers do not “depict alcohol as a necessity or that it is required for relaxation or that it has any therapeutic benefit.” This one is puzzling. While the New Zealand government (and many others around the world) deems alcohol to be an essential service, advertisers cannot depict it as one. What of the alcohol company that ran a social media ad resembling an official COVID-19 alert stating “Stay home, drink wine, save lives” or the sharing of those memes by various alcohol companies' social media pages suggesting wine and beer to be necessities?

Alcohol availability and consumption is a moral issue and is touted by lobbyists as a “personal choice.” Sure, but I wonder how much of a personal choice is it really when we are being infiltrated by marketing messages from alcohol companies in ways that we aren’t even aware of, in an industry-regulated advertising environment, which has no specific guidelines for social media and user generated content. If we jump across the ditch to Australia we can see even dirtier tactics, with one beer company going so far as to give a three month supply of beer to anyone who adopts or fosters a dog from a particular shelter during lockdown.

We need to be careful, conscious and aware. The journey to alcoholism is a slippery but quiet one. As one drinker put it, “I don’t feel like I’m becoming an alcoholic,” and that’s the thing, you don’t.

Particularly when it is normalised around you in the media, on social media, in Zoom sessions, and deemed essential by the government. It’s a curious moral provocation to ask – why was cannabis not classified as essential, considering the risks and consequences the halt in the supply chain for this products may cause/ is causing?

For example, public health experts have suggested we might see cannabis users experimenting with different, more harmful drugs due to not being able to access their usual. In a similar vein, tobacco was deemed an essential product, despite the decades of evidence stacked against it regarding people’s wellbeing. Where do we draw the line between demonising an addiction and normalising one?

Let’s be careful that the alcohol industry doesn’t use COVID-19 as a time to execute some very effective lobbying and secure its place as New Zealand’s drug of choice. It is a group one carcinogen (in the same group as asbestos) that kills 15 people a week in New Zealand, after all….

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Ripship Is Online Interview by Lyric Waiwiri-Smith

Hailing from Auckland, musical duo (and real life couple) Callum Lincoln and Eva-Rae McLean make up the self-described ‘scifi psych-rock’ band Ripship. Following multiple gigs around Auckland’s local venues, and the release of their first single Man after Man (which spent multiple weeks in 95bfm’s Top Ten list), Ripship are set to drop their debut EP ‘Greebles’ on May 8th. You can find it “anywhere you listen to music.”

So, what exactly is sci-fi psych-rock?

R: We call it ‘psych-rock’ because the bands we’re most influenced by are psych-rock.

C: Psych-rock has got more of a focus on tones - guitar tones, drums tones - the sonic textures rather than the structure of a song.

R: And then “sci-fi” because all of our songs are kind of sci-fi inspired. It’s a good launch point for writing songs, like what kind of robot can we sing about today?

How long have you guys been working on this EP, and what is a greeble?

R: We wanted it out, like, November last year. We’ve had these recordings for ages ... And a greeble is what you call the details of model spaceships to give the illusion of scale and complication that isn’t really there. We thought ‘greebles’ was nice because the songs on this EP are like little bits ... they’re just little bits, you know, kinda like a greeble.

One of the standout songs on the EP is Lube The Cube.It’s a fantastic live song because it’s about lubing up a Rubik's cube, which is totally crazy and of course a crowd is gonna go wild for that. Where did that idea come from?

C: It’s really not crazy at all ... competitive cubers always lube their cubes. The idea came from Rae saying “lube the cube” because it rhymed, and then being like “we should write a song about that”.

R: I remember distinctly coming up with those lyrics while on a walk around a playground. I don’t know the exact circumstance, I think we were just writing ... I was like, isn’t it so ridiculous that professional Rubik's cubers have to lube their cubes so they can spin fast?

The recording of that song sounds great, it transports me back to being in Whammy Bar dancing to it. Where did you guys record your EP? R: About 15 meters away from where we’re sitting right now, just using mics that my dad had lying around because he’s big into music.

C: We bought a cheap interface with our gig money ...

R: We just wanted to do it, and we didn't want to have to pay ... well, one, we didn't have the money to pay someone else to record professionally and two, we just wanted to get it done.

Did you send it to someone to mix and master?

C: I mixed the majority of it, but I did everything with Rae’s vision.

We also got some help from our friends, Taylor Doherty, and Peter Ruddell from Wax Chattels. He helped us reamp our recordings because they sounded like shit.

R: We mastered it with an AI ...

C: ... Which sounds a lot cooler than it is.

Is there a vision in place for a full album yet?

C: Yeah, there’s a couple demos already.

R: We’ve kind of finished four songs that will be on the album, and we’ve got two - maybe three - skeletons. We’re definitely keen to put out a big cohesive body of work; record it well, mix it well ...

C: We want it out a lot sooner than the EP came out.

R: It just depends how fast we can write, because we don’t have all the material for it yet. We are keen for a 40 minute album full of bangers.

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Who introduced you to the local scene?

C: I saw Miss June open for Foo Fighters and I was like, “they’re really good!” I looked online to see when their next gig was on, went to it, and realised there was a whole scene. A few of my friends were there and they were like, “you don’t go to gigs?”

R: I went to Green Bay High School which is where Title Pending and Courtney Hate came from. I grew up at the Green Bay music night assemblies seeing all ages bands, which was kinda cool. Then I’d see a Facebook event pop up because I was friends with those people, and I slid in.

It's NZ music month, and this issue's theme of Debate is ‘Homegrown’, so I'm gonna quickfire some questions about kiwi music to you guys.

Who is your favourite Kiwi solo artist and band?

C: Sidekick Nick is my favourite solo artist at the moment.

R: Mine is Aldous Harding and ... I’m torn between Wax Chattels and Yukon Era. Maybe Wax Chattels because they’re still together and I’m really excited for their next album.

C: Wax Chattels ... Mint Chicks ... There’s so many good ones ... Mermaidens ... Earthtongue ... My Anatomy ... I’ll go with Mermaidens.

I read that you guys met at a Miss June gig. What were your first gigs ever, respectively?

C: A Miss June gig for me, actually. Not the same one.

R: Mine was a Mucus Kids gig at UFO. They were so out there, and they put so much effort into their live performance - it got to a weird prayer circle on the floor, and little 14-year-old me was like “what the fuck is going on here? Is this some cult?” But I was also like “I love this. I feel cool, I feel like an adult.” Very influential.

Mine was Messed Up in 2015.

C: Oh, I went to that!

I remember Miss June and The Moots and Joe Says No were there.

C: It was such a good live show ... Yukon Era and Courtney Hate ... It was just every good band.

R: The Auckland music scene is so good. I feel like so many bands are international level talent and song writing and we were so lucky to see it for $10.

What’s the greatest Kiwi live show you’ve ever been to?

R: There was a particular Yukon Era gig, I don’t know when it was, but it was at Old Folks and it absolutely slapped. Instead of a stage they had all their gear set up in the centre of Old Folks and everyone huddled around them. Everyone was drunk and underage, it was rowdy, shirts were taken off, sweat was dripping off the ceiling.

C: The Naenae Express recently at Townhall - It was just a solo set, he didn’t really play any of his usual songs - and everything that could’ve gone wrong went wrong. His mics were cutting off, there were heaps of feedback and glitchy noises, everytime he tried to loop something it wouldn’t loop in time ... It was a 50% comedy set, 50% music set, and it was a really good time.

Favourite Kiwi album?

R: I’m gonna go with a current favourite, ‘Milk’ by Milk. I listened to the album and I was like “this is what I want music to be.”

C: Mint Chicks, maybe ... ‘Crazy? Yes! Dumb? No!.

Finally, are there any local artists you want to shout-out?

R: I wanna shout out everyone at Whammy. Dick Move, Sulfate, Bozo, Na Noise ...

C: All the Whammy guys.

Support your local What’s the big deal with supporting NZ business? Ruth Stowers chats to the founder of the new uber successful Facebook page that is providing businesses a platform during COVID-19.

“Support your local” and “back NZ made'' are phrases becoming increasingly prevalent on social media, particularly now with Aotearoa in a strange sort of limbo. And it’s no surprise, with some of the devastating economical and personal effects of COVID-19, that people want to show their support of the businesses and the people behind those – and importantly so. But what does supporting your local actually look like? And why is it so important right now?

I (virtually) sat down with project manager, youth and community coordinator, former politician, wearer-of-many-hats Sarah Colcord who recently set up New Zealand Made Products on Facebook. This Facebook group, modelled off a similar Aussie version, provides NZ businesses a platform to promote their products and services to what has grown to over 200,000 members within two weeks.

Like many others, Sarah is a business owner.

And also like many others, at the start of lockdown, she lost contracts and income.

In trying to figure out a way to boost the profile of her business without having to resort to costly marketing and ads, she came across the Australian Made Products group on Facebook. That group had only been up for four months and already had 1.5 million members. There was no version for New Zealand and so that’s when Sarah founded the kiwi version: New Zealand Made Products. And the growth has been exponential – with over 300,000 members and posts in the 5000s that are still waiting to be checked and published.

Sarah attributes the huge interest and success to two things predominantly.

community. From wooden ramps for small dogs, to incredible art, hand-knitted clothes, retreat lodges, and pink gin, there is a plethora of NZ made products and businesses to support. People are tagging their friends, families, expressing amazement at the talent of others, many thanking Sarah for the opportunity, and many more editing their original post to say they have since sold out.

Sarah Colcord.

Firstly, COVID-19 and the lockdown has somewhat forced us to look in our own backyard for things that we used to and would typically get overseas for a much cheaper price. As borders have closed and shipping restrictions have been put in place, we haven’t been able to get things that we used to so easily, so we’ve been forced to look around locally for those things.

Secondly, it offers an alternative that many NZ businesses – many of them small businesses – desperately need during this time. Small businesses have been hugely impacted by the lockdown and just like Sarah was, are looking for other ways to advertise and promote their businesses without having to fork out. NZ businesses already have enough barriers during this time and money is tight, so they have been flooding the page for the opportunity to get their products before a community of hundreds of thousands of new eyes.

And the page does really feel like a

Supporting New Zealand businesses not only keeps them going during times like this, but it contributes to a bigger picture as well. Money that is kept in our country can create jobs, support our local economy, and get reinvested into our local communities in things like infrastructure and services.

So how can you get involved? Join groups and pages like NZ Made Products, follow NZ businesses’ social media pages, support their websites and bring them traffic. There are some awesome initiatives such as SOS café at sosbusiness.nz where you can buy a voucher for a café or restaurant that is currently closed so you are still supporting them and providing income but will also use their services in the future – a rain check mocha! Try to make a conscious effort to choose your local fish and chip shop over McD’s for dinner, or NZ made clothing or products over huge international brands.

At the expense of sounding cheesy, Sarah has shown it really does just take one person to make a difference. Because then another person joins in, then they tag their friend, and they WhatsApp their auntie who emails her book club. So, celebrate alert level 2 with a treat from your local café and a Facebook like for your favourite NZ business.

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PUZZLES (PRINT THIS PAGE OUT IF YOU WANT)

Level Festival Quarantine Cafe Normality

Homegrown Friends Bubble Masculinity Toxic

Privilege Ute Art Cancel Culture

Representation Diversity Treaty Reconcile

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Make the most of our many services such as Advocacy, Clubs, Volunteering, Foodie Godmother, and contributing to Debate Mag! Any questions or concerns can be sent to autsa@aut.ac.nz For more info, head to autsa.org.nz We'd love to hear from you!

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