My bad date with a Māori podcaster

Readers note: I wrote this a year ago(ish) about an incident that happened a year(ish) before that. If it feels outdated, let’s take that as a good thing.

My date was tino purotu/very handsome. Like so purotu I wished I was wearing more makeup. He had huge muscles, a beautiful smile, flash as clothes, and seemed super friendly.

The raruraru/problem was that two minutes in, I already knew we had zilch chemistry. Even more awkward, I could tell he’d realised the same thing.

We steeled ourselves for small talk and I prayed thanks as the waitress came to take a drink order.

Now here’s where it got rough—and it’s the only negative thing I’ll say about him—the man ordered us a terrible, terrible drink. Not pia/beer, not wāina/wine, but the most outlandish shared cocktail I’ve ever seen in my life. 

It was a volcano shaped vessel, bigger than both our heads together, that looked like a child’s papier mâché assignment. It came with two oversized straws.

For a wahine who normally opts for a simple lager, this was a lot.

‘Nō hea koe?/Where are you from?’ he asked as he took his first slurp.

I wrestled with my straw and proceeded to give him my usual line, ‘Oh ya know, Te Kaha originally but the whānau moved to Rotorua so we’ve kinda mushed in with Te Arawa too. I’m a quarter cast Māori but pretty much just a mongrel.’

His eyes opened wide in an expression I can still picture clearly—a mix of anger (not toward me but toward an idea) and deep empathy. It cut through our conversation like a knife, launching us into a new level of—for want of another kupu/word, intimacy—that I certainly didn’t expect.

‘You don’t have to introduce yourself like that, you know,’ he said.

I was caught off-guard. I let my straw sink into a sea of weird purple bubbles, unsure if I should feel attacked. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘You don’t have to lower yourself to a blood quantum like that, as if you’re apologising or writing it off or something. If you whakapapa Māori, you’re Māori. That’s how it is.’

No one had ever said those words to me, let alone a beautiful Māori stranger. 

I didn’t know what to do with them. While we moved to lighter kaupapa, they rolled around inside me, sinking into the softest bits, then piercing sharply at something deep.

I couldn’t even count the number of times I’d introduced myself like that, the number of times I’d been asked under a raised eyebrow ‘But… how MUCH Māori are you?’, and even worse, the number of times I’d asked other people the same.

He dropped me home. We exchanged a peck on the cheek and mumbled something about maybe seeing each other again some time (we didn’t). 

That ‘bad’ date (that he won’t even remember) gave me the confidence I needed to start my cultural reconnection journey and changed my trajectory in life. And I’m so thankful.

If you’re reading this, Happy Valentines Scott. Ngā mihi nui for your words that night and I hope you’re slurping cocktails with someone special.