Some people might not be bothered knowing their family history. For me, understanding who I am has always been important.
My paternal Irish connection was easy. Being called Colleen, having a nana with family links to Tipperary, afather with dark Irish looks –green eyes, ateller of good yarns. Iticked that box (it didn’t matter that I was the odd one out with my blonde curls and hazel eyes).
As a university student, I learnt that my maternal grandfather, James Bateman, who died when I was a toddler, was Ngāi Tahu, from Riverton, at the bottom of the South Island. That was a revelation. My mother, Brenda Bateman, the eighth of nine children, seemed to have missed out on this critical piece of information. Apparently, her siblings knew, but she, besotted with sport, reading and her numerous friends, seemed unaware of this fact.
Poring over old black-and-white photos of my grandfather revealed a man with fair colouring and aquiline features, highlighting why it was hard for Mum to make the link.
Family connections get lost. A mother dying young, a family regularly shifting homes for work, moving to another island, a horde of children, a depression and two world wars will put paid to the best of intentions.
In the busy-ness of daily life, especially when times are tough, talking about family links becomes a low priority.
Grandfather James worked
