Hullo, come and sit down with me. Where are you in the world right now? What time is it there? Are you tired? I will wait for you to catch your breath. You’ve only just arrived. 

 

There. Do you want to go first? Tell me, what do people call you?

​

At university in New Zealand, I had a group of friends who’d called me Mousaka. Because they couldn’t say my name? Because it seemed funny? Yes, I understand the intention was camaraderie, just gentle japes, but it must be said that it was only myself and a friend with a Māori surname that ended up with these nicknames. Her’s was My-Hairy-Armpits. I hated it (did she hate it too? We never said. Both of us probably wanted to be ‘good sports’. To blend in). I loved my name. It connected me to my ancestors, to my mother-tongue, to the rhythm of the folk dances, to the food that sat in my belly. That food that my mother would pack for school, but by lunchtime would be flushed down the toilet by the other children. That food, too pungent with garlic and oregano, yoghurt and honey, would fuel my body and give me strength to move through my day. 

 

My mother spoke with a Greek accent and appeared ‘foreign’, but I had
red hair, prominent freckles, and could in fact blend in with Pākeha
(white European) New Zealand. So right there, there was a schism, a disruption - between what people saw, and who I was. 

​

There is no doubt that I am a product of the many experiences of growing up looking and sounding like one thing, and being another. Of witnessing, of experiencing the implicit and subtle xenophobia of New Zealand in the 1980s (and 90s and 00s and 10s…). The hostilities framed as jokes, as good natured laughs, but were in fact incessant acts of erasure, of cultural bullying, of Anglo-Saxon dominance and centricity.

 

Our solo mother determinedly sent us to Catholic schools, and me to Classical Ballet. It was particularly at Ballet where I learned that all opportunities were not available to all people. And even though I lived and breathed for dance, that did not mean I could afford the shoes, the ribbons, the leotards, the competitions that would legitimise my love, and allow me access to a world where I could identify as a dancer. 

​

Dance was my first language. Before English, before Greek. Everything thereafter was an act of translation. But was I to translate into my Greek, or into my Pākeha identity? Was it not possible to communicate in, to embody both?

 

(This act of physical translation is ongoing)

 

After graduating from Victoria University of Wellington with majors in Theatre and Film, English Literature and Classical Studies, I worked as a theatre actor for many years. I cannot tell you the countless times my directors told me to be ‘just a bit more Kiwi’. I am not entirely sure what that meant - what was I doing that gave the game away? This game of imitation, counterfeiting, impersonation.

 

(I think I am getting better at not pretending)

 

I have split much of my life between Greece, using one set of gestures, grimaces, and mannerisms, and Aotearoa, where a whole other set is employed. There was (and to an extent, still is) a severance going on.
An undeniable cultural masking.

 

It is this nullification of identity, this insistence on a ‘norm’, when that ‘norm’ is very much Western, Anglo-Saxon and white that I am drawn to challenge. Even now, here in Aotearoa, a Pacific, post-colonial nation with a strong indigenous culture, any ethnic identity separate to that pakeha-kiwi-ness is still seen as novel by most of the country. 

​

Within most of the organisations I work for, the dancers and dance-makers are in fact, not majority Western, Anglo-Saxon or European, and yet, that remains the default template. The dancers come from vastly diverse backgrounds, cultures and stories. Often, all the most authentic, potent aspects of themselves are avoided, stymied or disguised. What is embedded in their bodies is complex, layered, multitudinous and valid. 

 

My wonderful art teacher, Irene Packham, taught us that if we blend all the colours, we get a homogenous, indecipherable grey. She taught us that it was wise to wait, to let the paint dry, to layer, to give depth and definition to our work. This same principle applies to dance, to language, to all ekfrasis. There is too much in danger of being lost, or not discovered at all, too many missed opportunities, potentialities, futures if we insist on blending in. 

 

My practice then, is determined to make space, to hold space for the many and rich selves resident in each body. I often return to a quote that guides my research and my practice, echoing through all the enquiry;