Knowledge and Knowing

As a "scholar," sometimes I feel as if my "spirit"/my creativity is being held hostage by my intellect.  Lole Usoali'i, in her song/video Tu i Luga reminds me that it is on the shoulders of our ancestors on which we stand.  It will be on my/our shoulders on which "those who come after" will stand.  What sort of legacy will I/we leave them?

In Pacific Island Studies, we do quite a bit of reading, and after reading, we then play countless games of "esoteric catch."  We accumulate a bit of knowledge, but what do we actually know?  I have an entire essay  that speaks to the changes we need to make (in Pacific Island Studies) in regard to our understanding of "interdisciplinary" and indigenous ways of knowing, but, I don't really want to talk about that tonight, and since this is a Blog, I can be as artisitc, academic or silly as I choose to be.  So...tonight I want to adress something I recently came to know and after having come to know it, I want to speak to some of the statements made by Albert Wendt in his beautiful chapter Afterword: Tatauing the Post-Colonial Body, which can be found in the book titled Inside Out (edited by Vilsoni Hereniko and Rob Wilson).

I agree with Wendt in that the malu and tatau (pe'a) while works of art, are not artwork.  They are a legacy and unlike the Western adaptation of the tatau, rather than separating one from the group, or setting one's self apart, these two ceremonies/rights of passage are inclusive rather than exclusive.  They show that one is ready to take on new roles within their families, extended families, village, etc. Wendt's metaphor of  a tataued Samoa ready to assume its place in this "global" society is lovely.  As with many things foreign, Samoans have a unique way of either ignoring or "Samoanizing" them. So that nothing is lost in text, let me say that I make this last statement with greatest of admiration.

Regarding the tatau, there is also a binary aspect that extends all the way back to the story of the twins Taema and Tilifaiga who on their journey to Fiji (in the timeless custom of exchange of goods and ideas between Pacific Islanders) brought the tatau to Samoa. (Although there are tufuga who say the twins brought back a new pattern rather than the tatau itself and that the older pattern came to Samoa in the migration...I will leave that debate for another time.) The traditional tatau is never on one side of the body.  It is always both legs and in the old days, the malu many times included both arms and both hands. This is also in line with Wendt's definition of tatau as "balanced."  To tatau only one leg would leave the body off balance. Here I want to mention that while the traditional pe'a and malu are being "tapped" by tufuga in a many places outside of Samoa, there is an emerging tradition of neo-Polynesian tattooing taking place in the diaspora.  While I will not address that in this post, I will come back to it.

The first time I read Wendt's piece (and before I received my malu) I sat and thought of so many levels of meanings for the names of the designs.  For instance, the aso.  I thought not only of the rafters of the house, which form the frame that protects the family underneath it, but of the ribs of the body, which protect the vital organs.  I got so excited about the language and all its various levels of meaning, that I all but forgot the va the space in between...the relationships.

The tatau, both male and female, are all about roles and relationships.  One of the definitions Wendt gives for tatau is to be wrung out.  His suggestion is that one feels wrung out after experiencing such long periods of intense pain.  On first reading this, I thought, "like giving birth " and in actuality, when one receives a traditional tatau, there is usually an umasaga.  The body is rubbed down with olega (tumeric) and coconut oil, songs are sung, speeches made and an egg is cracked over the head of the soga'imiti, signifying that this person has now be "born/re-born" into his new role. 

I cannot speak to the pain of the pe'a, but I can speak to that of the malu.  Once it is over, it is over.  The pain is in the doing.  I had been told about searing, pain that was absolutely inexplicable. That was not my experience.  Yes, it was painful, but not so that I felt wrung out.  In fact, I felt invigorated.  However, sitting on the mat with the tufuga are his assistants who stretch the skin and wipe away the blood (and ink).  The "wiper" then has to wring out the cloth he uses to wipe.  There is also the need to fofo the legs and wring out the excess ink.

Malu means to protect, to soften, to shade and it is also the lozenge shaped motif on the back of the leg.  The malu does not protect the wearer, however, when I think about roles...what is the woman's role?  She provides a nurturing environment for her family. She is the soft one.  She is the one her children run to for comfort (at least until they are big enough to catch the salu or the slipper). 

My malu connects me to every women who wore the malu before me.  It connects me to all who wear it now, and to all those who will wear it in the future.  Unlike the young man walking down the street in shorts and sneekers, eating McDonald's proudly sporting his tatau for all to see, out of respect for the malu, in public, only my knees and just above can be exposed. However, at home, for my children and grandchildren, every time they see my legs, they are reminded (on some level) of where they come from.

Although I stand on the shoulders of those who came before (in all things), in this one thing, I have provided something tangible for those who will come after.