ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED: THE PIN, MAY 2020
There’s a weird sense of shame that I think a lot of biracial kids experience growing up, particularly those of us who don’t have that constant presence of their culture in their lives. We might not know the language past the bare basics a lot of the time, we might not have spent time back home. There’s a disconnect there that can be hard to overcome.
Growing up in the western suburbs of Adelaide in the 90s, I was pretty far removed from my Samoan heritage (I’m Aussie on my mum’s side). It took me until I was a teenager to fully get over the weirdness I had imposed on myself. My parents divorced when I was ten and not long after, I moved with my mum to Darwin.
I spent my adolescence performing in Pasifika dance groups, an avenue not only to engage in the arts early on, but also to connect with other mixed race Islanders, doing their thing and being proud of it. I credit my mum with these deeper connections to my heritage, always making sure I remembered where I came from and encouraging me to be proud of it. My dad has always been a big champion of being proud of one’s heritage too, so I do feel lucky to have had two parents who supported from the sidelines as much as they made sure I was learning as much as I could about where I came from.
The first tattoo I got was a Samoan taulima (arm band), a few days shy of my 18th birthday. It came four months after I visited Samoa for the first time - an experience that completely shifted my view of what it meant to have such an intricate and unique culture running through one’s veins. My dad had tattoos of his own, and he designed mine. A few years later, my mum would follow suit and get her first tattoo - a similar band above her ankle.
I didn’t realise at the time, but traditional skin markings would become a defining part of my life and cultural journey. In my early 20s, I got a thicker band tattooed above my ankle. The design was larger, and far more painful. It’s still one of my favourite pieces today. Over the next four or so years three more tattoos would come, each of various significance (and not of Samoan design). I began researching the importance of the Samoan malu - the most significant Samoan tattoo a female can be bestowed.
The history of tattooing in the Pacific is an incredible one (I’d urge you to look it up and get lost in the stories). Traditionally, only a daughter of a Paramount Chief could get the malu. However, in more recent history, there has been less emphasis on qualifications. A debate still goes on today over who should be eligible to receive the malu, just as there is surrounding men and the traditional pe’a. There’s an overarching energy applied to both the male and female tatau - to receive it and to endure the process signifies one’s connection to family and tradition, as well as an opening of a new chapter of adulthood.
For me, I was well aware that when it came to the old-school, traditional checklist...well, I wasn’t ticking many of the boxes. I was not the daughter of a chief. I was not raised in Samoa. Should I get the malu, I would be doing the process solo (traditionally it is done in pairs). Still, there was something that always pulled me back towards the malu and I knew it was something I needed to, in a way, complete this journey of identity I had been on since age 13.
Credit: Julia Mage’au Gray / @melanesianmarks
I was 26 when I received my malu. The process took ten hours. It was a highly emotional experience. It was painful and exhausting. I have endless respect for tufuga ta tatau (master tattooist), Lawrence Ah Ching, for his expert eye, talent and diligence in completing it for me. The significance of me getting this tattoo ran deeper for my dad and our family back home than I thought at the time, too.
As with many other Pacific Islander families, my dad’s was rooted in strong religious beliefs. The arrival of Christian missionaries brought with them widespread colonisation, the effects of which can still be seen heavily today. The ancient practice of tattooing was wiped out by missionaries throughout the islands - though Samoa seemed to hold off the most against this - yet for many religious families, the process was still something that was very much anti-Christian.
“In this very funny but strange way, even though our parents and great-grandparents were so into Christianity and would be very against it, they would still be very proud of you,” Dad told me.
During my research, I asked him about our family history with the malu. According to my dad, I was the first female in the family since his grandmother to have these marks. In a weird twist that I didn’t plan, she was also my namesake. Even weirder, she was missing a partner too. It all fell into place for me.
With my malu, I felt more connected to a culture that had always been there, but now that aspect of my identity and story was whole. The term malu means ‘sheltered’ or ‘protected’ and I can acknowledge that protection of ancestors through these marks. At the end of 2019, I received malu on my hands from the talented Tyla Vaeau. In the same month, my dad became a High Chief - the name he has been bestowed can be traced back to the original owner of his village, through his grandfather’s family.
Connection to culture can come in many different forms. This proved to me that the development of these cultural ties don’t stop once you leave home or reach a certain age. And that’s pretty amazing.