“Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!” – Fiddler on the Roof

Traditions and culture are firmly linked, the two preserving each other for generations. For example, the harvesting of titi for the Kai Tahu tribe. Chief Tahu Potiki claimed, “Our habits and customs, should be as much a flag to them that we are Ngai Tahu, as titi are, […] for our self-esteem.” (Stevens, 2006: Kāi Tahu me te Hopu Tītī ki Rakiura) The concepts of tradition and self-esteem are symbiotic. In partaking in culture, self-assurance is attained. They gain identity.

This makes sense – your culture shapes who you are. In this sense, I don’t exist.

I have no culture thus no identity.

Backstory: my parents bounced around the world: leaping across NZ; springing off to Australia; ricocheting over to Europe, eventually landing in Sydney, my birthplace. We barely touched down with the kangaroos and the spiders before catapulting back to Aotearoa.

Thus, I have no clear culture. I’m not Aboriginal, so thousands of years of culture are out of my reach. Although my bloodline likely traces back to Britain, that was so many generations ago that any connection is lost. I’m not Aussie, having left before ties were made. Nor am I Pakeha – I’m an immigrant.

I’ve grasped pieces of my cultural hodgepodge through food. Dad’s nachos – an Irish recipe. Mum’s pavlova, a kiwi dessert. Grandma’s spag-bol. Uncle Deano’s roast. Aunt Livvy’s haggis.

Delicacies spread like a tablecloth around the globe. I’m a cultural pariah, not because I lack traditions, but because I have many.

Food connects the dots, bringing my identities together like the titi did for the Kai Tahu tribe.