Bt Rebecca Thomas
It’s been a while since I’ve shared some words with educators.
It’s not for lack of trying—several half-finished blogs have been sitting in my drafts, waiting for a moment when the right words might come. But to be honest, I’ve felt a bit speechless lately—and not just because of the elections in America.
The best word I can find to describe it is melancholy.
There was a part of me, perhaps a little naive, that held onto hope—hope that the strong tide of willing educators could push back against the relentless political waves, carving out a space for a curriculum that truly honoured te ao Māori. I wanted so desperately to support the kaupapa that would give our tamariki the curriculum they deserve; one that was not just inclusive but faithful to the richness and depth of te ao Māori.
Yet, here I am, staring at my keyboard, feeling the weight of disappointment settle in like a heavy fog.
For years, I’ve advocated for teacher and student wellbeing to be at the forefront of policy conversations, especially since the disruptions of COVID. Back in those early pandemic days, ‘wellbeing’ became a buzzword, a hashtag. But to me, wellbeing has always been more than a trend—it’s a non-negotiable foundation for both educators and students. I’ve leaned on the wisdom of many thought leaders like Kathryn Burkett, Nathan Wallis, Dr. Helen Street, Melinda Webber, Dr. Sarah Ferguson, and so many others. Their research reinforces what we intuitively know: change isn’t just about introducing new strategies; it’s about understanding the profound impacts on those who are at the heart of education.
So, with the multitude of changes on the horizon, I thought it might be an apt time to crawl out of my despondent cave and reflect on the consequences of these shifts.
A Time of Transition
The reforms we had hoped for—the ones that could have been a turning point for te ao Māori—seem to have slipped through our fingers. There were glimmers of something transformational, something that might finally honour the stories, the languages, and the identities that have long been sidelined. Yet, as the tide of political power shifts, so too does the focus of our curriculum, and I find myself lamenting what could have been.
But here we are; I know that we cannot afford to stay in this place of mourning for too long.
Ki te kotahi te kākaho ka whati, ke te kāpuia e kore e whati. When reeds stand alone, they are vulnerable, but together they are unbreakable.
These words from Kīngi Tāwhiao seem fitting as we draw to a close on this turbulent year.
We have to move forward.
We must face the inevitable and march on, even if it means pacing the same old terrain under a different flag.
We all know that too often change is implemented with haste, driven by political agendas rather than thoughtful, evidence-based considerations of what’s best for our learners. This is the delicate dance we find ourselves in as educators—balancing between embracing innovation and protecting the integrity of what truly serves our communities.
Strategy, Patience and Wisdom
Think of our schools, our classrooms, our Kāhui Ako, as a game of Jenga. Every time a new policy or mandate is introduced, we are asked to move another block from the tower. Sometimes it’s a small adjustment, barely noticed, but other times it’s a critical piece that causes the whole structure to sway precariously. And just like in Jenga, every move has consequences—some predictable, others not so much.
The original Kujenga game, rooted in Ghana, teaches us the art of strategy, patience, and careful consideration. It’s a powerful metaphor for how we deal with change in our educational systems. Every shift, every initiative, carries with it potential wobbles—be they cultural, pedagogical, logistical, or technological.
In this time of transition keep asking ourselves:
- How will this change affect our students’ sense of belonging, their cultural identity?
- Are we at risk of further marginalising those who are already on the fringes?
- What impact will these shifts have on whānau engagement, student engagement, and the richness of our curriculum?
It’s tempting to dig in our heels, to resist the changes that feel imposed upon us. But perhaps there’s another way forward—one where we don’t just react to change, but proactively shape it. This requires us to be strategic, to gather our community, and to lean on the wisdom that already exists within our schools.
We are entering a season of uncertainty, but also of possibility.
As we face 2025, let’s not only embrace the wobbles, but let’s also plan for them.
And remember that in 2024:
You filtered the noise and continued nurturing young minds.
You transformed classrooms into havens of discovery and care.
Your steadfast presence said “you are seen” to every student needing light or guidance.
You lead schools through this stormy era with patience and wisdom - your strength inspired others.
You cared for both students and their whānau and all of your staff.
You lit sparks of passion, despite increasing demands and fatigue.
Educators you have been, and continue to be, the lantern bearers and the soul of our schools.
When lone reeds stand vulnerable, you bind together unable to be broken.
Let’s honour what we’ve lost, but also embrace what’s next with courage and conviction.
Difficult doesn't last forever.
Let dye run, dye fade -
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