Name Ms QP
Hometown Grew up in Te Whanganui-ā-Tara Wellington, lived in Porirua, lives in Stratford currently
Age when entered care 11 years old
Year of birth 1960
Time in care 1971-1975
Type of care facility Orphanage – St Joseph’s Orphanage in Te Awa Kairanga ki Uta Upper Hutt; schools – Wellington High School Special Unit; girls’ homes – Miramar Girls’ Home in Te Whanganui-ā-Tara Wellington, Kingslea Girls’ Home in Ōtautahi Christchurch; psychiatric hospital – Porirua Hospital
Ethnicity Cook Island Māori
Whānau background Ms QP’s father died when she was two, and she didn’t have a good relationship with her mother. She is the third of four children – with an older brother and sister and younger brother. Her older brother died in his sleep, and her younger brother committed suicide. She has had no contact with her sister for 16 years. She has a large wider whānau but doesn’t have much contact with them.
Currently Ms QP gave birth to seven children. Some spent time in the care system and one was raised by his father’s family. One daughter passed away in 2007 and Ms QP brought up her son. She is now a great-grandmother and has a good relationship with her remaining children.

“I never really had a relationship with my mother”

I have experienced a lifetime of abuse that can’t be erased or forgotten, from family members and various partners, as well as the events at Miramar Girls’ Home. There are still flashbacks and memories that haunt me.

I never really had a relationship with my mother. I remember her staring at me one day, drunk, and she said: “I knew from the minute you were born, you were evil.” That really hurt.

Dysfunction was part of the problem in my family. I love my Cook Islands heritage, but my mum would never let me embrace it. She didn’t want to know her people. There seems to be a lot of shame in my mother’s family.

I remember lots of beatings. It is now thought my deafness came from those frequent beatings with the vacuum stick, and a shoe with a stiletto that went in my ear. I can vaguely remember hearing things when I was about 2 years old. After that, when I was getting hidings, I sort of felt things went quiet. No one in my family ever acknowledged I am Deaf. I was always thought of as stupid, and I was always called “stupid”.

Mum’s brother talked about what happened to my hearing – how my mum used to hit me, what happened with the stiletto shoe, how I went Deaf and all that.

My youngest daughter said to him: “So why didn’t anyone do anything?”

And he said: “Because she's the oldest sister, we have to respect her. So, we aren’t allowed to interfere.”

That’s why I don’t bother to reach out to my whānau. I feel like they were never there for me when I needed them.

I had no inkling I was Deaf, but I was aware that kids were making fun of me, and teachers at primary school were always annoyed with me. I also stuttered. I was always put at the back of the classroom because they thought I was a problem child. I wanted help with my schoolwork, but reports said I didn’t want to learn and wouldn’t listen. That, of course, just got me another hiding. When I think back, the school didn’t do right by me or the other kids who were disabled. There was a lot of prejudice in those days.

At home, I remember the bangs and the hits, and being picked up by my arm and thrown into a room. I think the most embarrassing part was going to school on swimming day and hiding. One of the girls saw bruises going down my backside and my legs. She ran and got the teacher, but they didn’t do anything. I think that was when you didn’t get involved. But it was embarrassing that kids saw it. They were all talking about it.

When I was 10 years old, I went to stay with my aunty because my mother was in hospital. I went to New Lynn School and got speech therapy for my stutter, but they still didn’t pick up on my hearing loss.

In 1971 I went to St Joseph’s Orphanage in Upper Hutt because Mum was still in hospital. My sister and I were sent there for a few months, but I chose to stay for another two years because I felt safer there. It wasn’t a good place, just better than home.

I went to St Joseph’s School and the teacher there noticed my deafness. I had just turned 12 years old. The head nun told me I could get hearing aids, then I got special help for my learning. It was a good feeling, but it was short-lived. Happiness doesn’t last long, I discovered.

When I turned 13 years old, I had to go home. I was safe for a wee while as my uncle and aunty were living with us but then they moved into a new house. I was alone again. I needed protection from my mother but that wasn’t happening. When is enough, enough?

I ran away when I was 13 years old. I didn’t know anything about the streets, I just knew I had to get out. Eventually my mum caught me. I told her I wouldn’t go home, and we went to Social Welfare. I told them I’d run away again if they sent me home. That’s when they placed me at Miramar Girls’ Home. I thought I was going to be safe.

Some staff at the home were good, but some weren’t. They ignored the bullying that went on. There were lots of violent girls and many had gang affiliations. I was mocked for my stutter and some of them would hold me up against the wall, four to one, and one of them punched me in the eye. I told the staff, but they didn’t do anything. It was a common thing. There was always someone getting a hiding.

There was no pastoral care and no compassion or understanding. No one tried to make us feel safe or wanted. I would call it neglect. The only time they’d pay attention was if someone stepped out of line.

I’d think: “Is this normal for a girls’ home?” Every time I tried to approach a staff member it was like, “oh, just go away, just sort it out”. They certainly weren’t caregivers.

I started at Wellington High School when I was 13 years old. After about six weeks at the girls’ home, I was allowed to go back to school, where I’d been put in a special learning class with a lot of intellectually disabled kids. I thought I did know quite a bit and I wanted to learn more but felt I was still being taught at primary school level. When we came out of our class the more academic students used to give us shit, like: “Oh, here goes the dumb dumbs, the retards.” That just really sets you back.

When I went to school, the girls at the home expected me to bring smokes back. I had to buy them with my own money, which was meant to be my lunch money. When I didn’t bring the smokes, they would be bitches, walk past and slap me across the head.

One day six of us girls were told we were going to the hospital for a checkup. It was actually a checkup for venereal disease. I had no idea what was happening. I was put in stirrups, and it was really painful. I was still a virgin then. The doctor doing the procedure was a cruel bastard. I tensed up and he said: “Why are you crying, you must have liked it.” Some of us were only 14 or 15 years old.

I was never told anything about sex. I was still in care when I was gang raped by four guys, and I got an STD then. One of the girls set me up. It was my weekend out, but instead of going home this girl encouraged me to go to her uncle’s house – it was actually a gang pad. No one from the girls’ home checked I got home safely. Mum was angry because I got home late that night. Of course, I didn’t tell her what happened.

The social worker at the home didn’t believe me when I told her. She said it didn’t happen. She shut me down. And I just felt like, because of my disability, it’s another tale coming out of my mouth. So, I just kept quiet.

There was one social worker I did like. He was the one my mum punched in the face, because he called her a child abuser.

After about three months at the girls’ home, I was sent to Porirua Hospital. I was told they would put something on my head and use waves or something. I had to lie on the bed and hold onto the bars because it hurt. It was like lots of zaps in my head. No one told me why I was having it. I only went once but it seemed like I was there for ages.

I was so glad when I got out of the girls’ home and went to Kingslea. It was a good place for me. At Kingslea they told you what was going on. I think that was one of the best homes I went to.

I’m now seeing a counsellor who has not only helped me with the sexual abuse, but also with my experience at the girls’ home. I’m feeling a lot better for it – I feel like I’m free. Counselling has really cleared up a lot of bottled-up pain, hurt, betrayal, confusion and injustice. I’m feeling good that a lot of this has gotten out.

I was that child who wanted to be loved and nurtured but that love never came. I know I was trying to get out from where I was, to get away from violence and just trying to find a happy space. But I’m happy with my life now. My kids tell me I broke the cycle.

Thinking about my experience, we need to be really careful with the people some of these poor kids are going to. We need to protect our kids more. [523]

Footnotes