Beyond Sweetness

"Kāore te kūmara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka."

The kūmara does not speak of its own sweetness.

 

It is a whakataukī I have heard my entire life.

Like many Māori, I was taught that it was about humility. Don't boast. Don't elevate yourself. Let your actions speak for you.

There is wisdom in that.

But lately I have been wondering whether there is more to this kōrero.

Not because I believe the whakataukī is wrong.

But because I wonder whether we have narrowed its meaning.

You see, I have watched this phrase used countless times to keep people small.

Don't speak about your achievements.

Don't acknowledge your gifts.

Don't celebrate your successes.

Don't stand too tall.

Don't take up too much space.

And while these words are often offered with the best intentions, I have seen the unintended consequence.

People begin to shrink.

They stop recognising their value.

They stop speaking about the things they are capable of contributing.

They become so concerned with appearing humble that they forget they have something important to offer.

Too often, especially within Māori and Indigenous spaces, humility can become confused with invisibility.

We are taught not to place ourselves above others, yet somewhere along the way some of us learned not to stand beside them either.

We become reluctant to speak about our strengths, our achievements, or our gifts for fear of appearing whakahīhī. 

Yet there is a difference between elevating ourselves above others and acknowledging the value of what we have been entrusted to carry.

When humility becomes invisibility, everybody loses.

The individual loses confidence in their contribution.

The whānau loses access to their gifts.

The community loses a source of strength, leadership, and possibility.

I do not believe our tūpuna intended for humility to diminish us.

I believe they intended it to keep us grounded while still allowing us to stand fully in service.

What if the whakataukī was never telling us to ignore our gifts?

What if it was asking us to look beyond the obvious ones?

After all, sweetness is only one attribute of a kūmara.

It may be the first thing we notice, but it is far from the most important thing about it.

The kūmara nourishes

It sustains.

It stores well.

It feeds whānau through difficult seasons.

It provides energy, resilience, and strength.

Its contribution extends far beyond the momentary pleasure of sweetness.

Perhaps that is the lesson.

Don't become fixated on the part of yourself that receives immediate praise.

Don't define yourself by the quality that others find most appealing.

Look deeper.

Understand your function.

Understand your form.

Understand what you were designed to contribute.

The sweetness of the kūmara serves the tongue.

Its nourishment serves the people.

I wonder how often we confuse the two in our own lives.

We celebrate the things that make us look good.

The things that attract attention.

The things that gain applause.

Yet our greatest contribution often lies elsewhere.

Not in what makes us appealing.

But in what makes us useful.

Not in what gratifies instantly.

But in what sustains over time.

Perhaps the whakataukī is not asking us to deny our sweetness.

Perhaps it is asking us not to stop there.

Because when we only focus on our sweetness, we reduce ourselves to our most superficial quality.

We overlook the depth of what we contain.

And perhaps that is where another lesson lives.

Sometimes even our most cherished sayings can be applied in ways that limit us.

Not because the wisdom is flawed.

But because we forget to keep exploring it.

Wisdom is not static.

It asks to be revisited.

Questioned.

Experienced anew through each generation.

The phrase "Jack of all trades, master of none" is a good example. For years it has been used to suggest that breadth is weakness. Yet the fuller version tells a different story:

"Jack of all trades, master of none, though oftentimes better than master of one."

The second half changes everything.

It reminds us that context matters.

That wisdom can lose its depth when we only carry forward part of the story.

I sometimes wonder whether we have done something similar with the kūmara.

Not by changing the words, but by narrowing the lens through which we view them.

When "Kāore te kūmara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka" is used to silence people from recognising their gifts, something important is lost.

Because understanding your gifts is not arrogance.

Knowing your value is not ego.

Acknowledging your contribution is not boastfulness.

In fact, there may be times when refusing to acknowledge your gifts serves nobody at all.

Your whānau miss out.

Your community misses out.

The people you are here to serve miss out.

Perhaps the invitation is not to become smaller.

Perhaps it is to become deeper.

To move beyond sweetness and understand nourishment.

To move beyond recognition and understand contribution.

To move beyond what makes us appealing and understand what makes us valuable.

Perhaps the whakataukī was never asking us to hide our gifts.

Perhaps it was asking us not to become consumed by the parts of ourselves that attract praise.

To understand that our true value lies not in our sweetness, but in our contribution.

Not in what makes us desirable, but in what makes us nourishing.

Humility was never meant to make us invisible.

It was meant to keep us connected—to our people, our purpose, and our responsibility to share the fullness of what we contain.

The kūmara does not speak of its sweetness.

Not because sweetness is unimportant.

But because there is so much more to the kūmara than sweetness alone.

And perhaps the same is true of us.

The real work is not learning how to be smaller.

The real work is understanding the depth of what we contain, 

and then offering it generously in service of others.

 

 

Image: GEORGE FRENCH ANGAS / J.W. GILES/P