Educating the Samoan Child

Birthdays are of little account in Samoa. But for the birth itself of the baby of high rank, a great feast will be held, and much property given away. The first baby must always be born in the mother’s village and if she has gone to live in the village of her husband, she must go home for the occasion. For several months before the birth of the child the father’s relatives have brought gifts of food to the prospective mother, while the mother’s female relatives have been busy making pure white bark cloth for baby clothes and weaving dozens of tiny pandanus mats which form the layette. The expectant mother goes home laden with food gifts and when she returns to her husband’s family, her family provide her with the exact equivalent in mats and bark cloth as a gift to them. At the birth itself the father’s mother or sister must be present to care for the new-born baby while the midwife and the relatives of the mother care for her. There is no privacy about a birth. Convention dictates that the mother should neither writhe, nor cry out, nor inveigh against the presence of twenty or thirty people in the house who sit up all night if need be, laughing, joking, and playing games. The midwife cuts the cord with a fresh bamboo knife and then all wait eagerly for the cord to fall off, the signal for a feast. If the baby is a girl, the cord is buried under a paper mulberry tree (the tree from which bark cloth is made) to ensure her growing up to be industrious at household tasks; for a boy it is thrown into the sea that he may be a skilled fisherman, or planted under a taro plant to give him industry in farming. Then the visitors go home, the mother rises and goes about her daily tasks, and the new baby ceases to be of much interest to any one. The day, the month in which it was born, is forgotten. Its first steps or first word are remarked without exuberant comment, without ceremony. It has lost all ceremonial importance and will not regain it again until after puberty; in most Samoan villages a girl will be ceremonially ignored until she is married. And even the mother remembers only that Losa is older than Tupu, and that her sister’s little boy, Fale, is younger than her brother’s child, Vigo. Relative age is of great importance, for the elder may always command the younger—until the positions of adult life upset the arrangement—but actual age may well be forgotten.

Birthdays matter little in Samoa. But when a baby of high rank is born, a great feast is held, and much property is given away. The first baby must always be born in the mother’s village. If she has moved to her husband’s village, she must return home for the birth. For several months before the birth, the father’s relatives bring gifts of food to the expectant mother. Meanwhile, the mother’s female relatives make pure white bark cloth for baby clothes. They also weave dozens of tiny pandanus mats to complete the baby’s supplies. The expectant mother goes home loaded with gifts of food. When she returns to her husband’s family, her family gives her an exactly equivalent gift of mats and bark cloth. These are gifts for her husband’s family. At the birth, the father’s mother or sister must be present to care for the newborn baby. Meanwhile, the midwife and the mother’s relatives care for the mother. There is no privacy during a birth. Custom requires the mother not to writhe, cry out, or protest against the twenty or thirty people in the house. These people stay up all night if necessary, laughing, joking, and playing games. The midwife cuts the cord with a fresh bamboo knife. Then everyone waits eagerly for the remaining cord to fall off, signaling that it is time for a feast. If the baby is a girl, the cord is buried under a paper mulberry tree. This is the tree used to make bark cloth. The cord is buried there to ensure that she grows up to be hardworking at household tasks. For a boy, the cord is thrown into the sea so that he may become a skilled fisherman. Or the cord is planted under a taro plant to make him hardworking at farming. Then the visitors go home, and the mother gets up and returns to her daily tasks. The new baby stops attracting much interest from anyone. The day and month of the baby’s birth are forgotten. The baby’s first steps or first word are noticed without excited comments or ceremony. The child has lost all ceremonial importance and will not regain any until after puberty. In most Samoan villages, a girl receives no ceremonial recognition until she marries. Even the mother remembers only that Losa is older than Tupu. She also remembers that her sister’s little boy, Fale, is younger than her brother’s child, Vigo. Relative age is very important, because an older person may always give orders to a younger one. This holds until their positions in adult life change the arrangement. But their actual ages may well be forgotten.

Babies are always nursed, and in the few cases where the mother’s milk fails her, a wet nurse is sought among the kinsfolk. From the first week they are also given other food, papaya, cocoanut milk, sugar-cane juice; the food is either masticated by the mother and then put into the baby’s mouth on her finger, or if it is liquid, a piece of bark cloth is dipped into it and the child allowed to suck it, as shepherds feed orphaned lambs. The babies are nursed whenever they cry and there is no attempt at regularity. Unless a woman expects another child, she will nurse a baby until it is two or three years old, as the simplest device for pacifying its crying. Babies sleep with their mothers as long as they are at the breast; after weaning they are usually handed over to the care of some younger girl in the household. They are bathed frequently with the juice of a wild orange and rubbed with cocoanut oil until their skins glisten.

Babies are always breastfed. In the few cases where a mother’s milk fails, the family seeks a wet nurse among their relatives. From the first week, babies also receive other foods: papaya, coconut milk, and sugarcane juice. The mother chews the food, then puts it into the baby’s mouth with her finger. If the food is liquid, a piece of bark cloth is dipped into it for the baby to suck. This is how shepherds feed orphaned lambs. Babies are breastfed whenever they cry, with no attempt to follow a regular schedule. Unless a woman is expecting another child, she breastfeeds her baby until the child is two or three years old. This is the simplest way to soothe the baby’s crying. Babies sleep with their mothers as long as they are breastfed. After weaning, babies are usually placed in the care of a younger girl in the household. Babies are bathed frequently with wild orange juice and rubbed with coconut oil until their skin glistens.

The chief nurse-maid is usually a child of six or seven who is not strong enough to lift a baby over six months old, but who can carry the child straddling the left hip, or on the small of the back. A child of six or seven months of age will assume this straddling position naturally when it is picked up. Their diminutive nurses do not encourage children to walk, as babies who can walk about are more complicated charges. They walk before they talk, but it is impossible to give the age of walking with any exactness, though I saw two babies walk whom I knew to be only nine months old, and my impression is that the average age is about a year. The life on the floor, for all activities within a Samoan house are conducted on the floor, encourages crawling, and children under three or four years of age optionally crawl or walk.

The main caregiver is usually a child of six or seven, too weak to lift a baby over six months old. But the caregiver can carry the baby straddling the left hip or the lower back. A baby of six or seven months naturally takes this straddling position when picked up. These small caregivers do not encourage babies to walk, because babies who can walk are harder to look after. Babies walk before they talk, but it is impossible to say exactly when they begin walking. Still, I saw two babies walk when I knew they were only nine months old. My impression is that the average age is about a year. All activities inside a Samoan house take place on the floor, and life on the floor encourages crawling. Children under three or four years old choose whether to crawl or walk.

From birth until the age of four or five a child’s education is exceedingly simple. They must be house-broken, a matter made more difficult by an habitual indifference to the activities of very small children. They must learn to sit or crawl within the house and never to stand upright unless it is absolutely necessary; never to address an adult in a standing position; to stay out of the sun; not to tangle the strands of the weaver; not to scatter the cut-up cocoanut which is spread out to dry; to keep their scant loin cloths at least nominally fastened to their persons; to treat fire and knives with proper caution; not to touch the kava bowl, or the kava cup; and, if their father is a chief, not to crawl on his bed-place when he is by. These are really simply a series of avoidances, enforced by occasional cuffings and a deal of exasperated shouting and ineffectual conversation.

From birth until age four or five, a child’s education is very simple. Children must be toilet-trained, a task made harder by the usual lack of attention to very young children’s activities. They must learn to sit or crawl inside the house and never stand unless absolutely necessary. They must never speak to an adult while standing. They must stay out of the sun and avoid tangling the weaver’s strands. They must not scatter the chopped coconut spread out to dry. They must keep their skimpy loincloths at least loosely fastened around them. They must be properly careful around fire and knives, and must not touch the kava bowl or kava cup. If their father is a chief, they must not crawl onto his sleeping place when he is nearby. These lessons are really just a series of things to avoid. They are enforced with occasional slaps, a great deal of exasperated shouting, and talk that has little effect.

The weight of the punishment usually falls upon the next oldest child, who learns to shout, “Come out of the sun,” before she has fully appreciated the necessity of doing so herself. By the time Samoan girls and boys have reached sixteen or seventeen years of age these perpetual admonitions to the younger ones have become an inseparable part of their conversation, a monotonous, irritated undercurrent to all their comments. I have known them to intersperse their remarks every two or three minutes with, “Keep still,” “Sit still,” “Keep your mouths shut,” “Stop that noise,” uttered quite mechanically although all of the little ones present may have been behaving as quietly as a row of intimidated mice. On the whole, this last requirement of silence is continually mentioned and never enforced. The little nurses are more interested in peace than in forming the characters of their small charges and when a child begins to howl, it is simply dragged out of earshot of its elders. No mother will ever exert herself to discipline a younger child if an older one can be made responsible.

The next oldest child usually bears the brunt of the punishment. She learns to shout, “Come out of the sun,” before fully understanding why she needs to do so herself. By sixteen or seventeen, Samoan girls and boys have made these constant warnings to younger children part of their conversation. The warnings run through everything they say, a monotonous, irritated undertone. I have heard them interrupt their remarks every two or three minutes with, “Keep still,” “Sit still,” “Keep your mouths shut,” “Stop that noise.” They give these orders quite mechanically, although all the little ones present may be as quiet as intimidated mice. On the whole, the demand for silence is constantly repeated and never enforced. The young caregivers care more about peace than about shaping the character of the small children in their care. When a child starts howling, the child is simply dragged out of the older people's hearing. No mother will ever make the effort to discipline a younger child if an older child can be made responsible.

If small families of parents and children prevailed in Samoa, this system would result in making half of the population solicitous and self-sacrificing and the other half tyrannous and self-indulgent. But just as a child is getting old enough so that its wilfulness is becoming unbearable, a younger one is saddled upon it, and the whole process is repeated again, each child being disciplined and socialised through responsibility for a still younger one.

If small families of parents and children were the norm in Samoa, this system would make half the population caring and self-sacrificing. The other half would become domineering and self-indulgent. But just as a child grows old enough for their stubbornness to become unbearable, they are burdened with a younger child. The whole process then repeats, with each child learning discipline and social behavior through responsibility for an even younger child.

This fear of the disagreeable consequences resulting from a child’s crying, is so firmly fixed in the minds of the older children that long after there is any need for it, they succumb to some little tyrant’s threat of making a scene, and five-year-olds bully their way into expeditions on which they will have to be carried, into weaving parties where they will tangle the strands, and cook houses where they will tear up the cooking leaves or get thoroughly smudged with the soot and have to be washed—all because an older boy or girl has become so accustomed to yielding any point to stop an outcry. This method of giving in, coaxing, bribing, diverting the infant disturbers is only pursued within the household or the relationship group, where there are duly constituted elders in authority to punish the older children who can’t keep the babies still. Towards a neighbour’s children or in a crowd the half-grown girls and boys and even the adults vent their full irritation upon the heads of troublesome children. If a crowd of children are near enough, pressing in curiously to watch some spectacle at which they are not wanted, they are soundly lashed with palm leaves, or dispersed with a shower of small stones, of which the house floor always furnishes a ready supply. This treatment does not seem actually to improve the children’s behaviour, but merely to make them cling even closer to their frightened and indulgent little guardians. It may be surmised that stoning the children from next door provides a most necessary outlet for those who have spent so many weary hours placating their own young relatives. And even these bursts of anger are nine-tenths gesture. No one who throws the stones actually means to hit a child, but the children know that if they repeat their intrusions too often, by the laws of chance some of the flying bits of coral will land in their faces. Even Samoan dogs have learned to estimate the proportion of gesture that there is in a Samoan’s “get out of the house.” They simply stalk out between one set of posts and with equal dignity and all casualness stalk in at the next opening. By the time a child is six or seven she has all the essential avoidances well enough by heart to be trusted with the care of a younger child. And she also develops a number of simple techniques. She learns to weave firm square balls from palm leaves, to make pin-wheels of palm leaves or frangipani blossoms, to climb a cocoanut tree by walking up the trunk on flexible little feet, to break open a cocoanut with one firm well-directed blow of a knife as long as she is tall, to play a number of group games and sing the songs which go with them, to tidy the house by picking up the litter on the stony floor, to bring water from the sea, to spread out the copra to dry and to help gather it in when rain threatens, to roll the pandanus leaves for weaving, to go to a neighbouring house and bring back a lighted fagot for the chief’s pipe or the cook-house fire, and to exercise tact in begging slight favours from relatives.

Older children are deeply afraid of the unpleasant consequences of a child’s crying. Long after they need to, they give in to some little tyrant’s threat to make a scene. Five-year-olds bully their way onto outings where they will have to be carried. They force their way into weaving parties where they will tangle the strands. They enter cookhouses where they will tear up the cooking leaves or get covered in soot and need washing. All this happens because an older boy or girl has grown used to giving in on anything to stop an outcry. This practice of giving in, coaxing, bribing, and distracting troublesome infants happens only within the household or extended family. There, elders with recognized authority punish older children who cannot keep the babies quiet. But older girls and boys, and even adults, unleash their full irritation on troublesome children from neighboring households or in crowds. If a crowd of children comes close enough, pressing in curiously to watch some spectacle where they are unwanted, they are soundly whipped with palm leaves. Or they are scattered with a shower of small stones, always readily available on the house floor. This treatment does not seem to improve the children’s behavior. Instead, it only makes them cling more closely to their frightened, indulgent young caregivers. Perhaps throwing stones at the children next door provides a much-needed outlet for people who spend weary hours appeasing young relatives. And even these bursts of anger are nine-tenths for show. No one throwing stones actually intends to hit a child. But the children know what may happen if they intrude too often. By the laws of chance, some of the flying pieces of coral will hit their faces. Even Samoan dogs have learned how much of a Samoan’s “get out of the house” is for show. They simply stroll out between one set of posts. Then, with equal dignity and complete casualness, they stroll back in through the next opening. By six or seven, a girl knows all the essential things to avoid well enough to care for a younger child. She also develops several simple skills. She learns to weave firm, square balls from palm leaves. She learns to make pinwheels from palm leaves or frangipani blossoms. She learns to climb a coconut tree by walking up the trunk on her small, flexible feet. She learns to split a coconut with one firm, well-aimed blow of a knife as long as she is tall. She learns several group games and the songs that go with them. She learns to tidy the house by picking up litter from the stony floor and to bring water from the sea. She learns to spread coconut flesh, or copra, out to dry and help gather it when rain threatens. She learns to roll pandanus leaves for weaving. She learns to fetch a burning bundle of sticks from a neighboring house for the chief’s pipe or cookhouse fire. And she learns to be tactful when begging small favors from relatives.

But in the case of the little girls all of these tasks are merely supplementary to the main business of baby-tending. Very small boys also have some care of the younger children, but at eight or nine years of age they are usually relieved of it. Whatever rough edges have not been smoothed off by this responsibility for younger children are worn off by their contact with older boys. For little boys are admitted to interesting and important activities only so long as their behaviour is circumspect and helpful. Where small girls are brusquely pushed aside, small boys will be patiently tolerated and they become adept at making themselves useful. The four or five little boys who all wish to assist at the important business of helping a grown youth lasso reef eels, organise themselves into a highly efficient working team; one boy holds the bait, another holds an extra lasso, others poke eagerly about in holes in the reef looking for prey, while still another tucks the captured eels into his lavalava. The small girls, burdened with heavy babies or the care of little staggerers who are too small to adventure on the reef, discouraged by the hostility of the small boys and the scorn of the older ones, have little opportunity for learning the more adventurous forms of work and play. So while the little boys first undergo the chastening effects of baby-tending and then have many opportunities to learn effective co-operation under the supervision of older boys, the girls’ education is less comprehensive. They have a high standard of individual responsibility but the community provides them with no lessons in co-operation with one another. This is particularly apparent in the activities of young people; the boys organise quickly; the girls waste hours in bickering, innocent of any technique for quick and efficient co-operation.

But for little girls, all these tasks are merely additions to their main job of caring for babies. Very small boys also help care for younger children, but they are usually freed from this responsibility at eight or nine. Any rough edges that caring for younger children has not smoothed away are worn away through contact with older boys. For little boys are allowed to join interesting and important activities only as long as they behave carefully and helpfully. While small girls are roughly pushed aside, small boys are patiently tolerated and become skilled at making themselves useful. Four or five little boys may all want to help a young man with the important task of lassoing reef eels. The boys organize themselves into a highly efficient team. One boy holds the bait, another holds an extra lasso, and others eagerly search holes in the reef for prey. Still another tucks the captured eels into his lavalava. Small girls are weighed down by heavy babies or must care for unsteady toddlers too small to explore the reef. The small boys’ hostility and the older boys’ scorn also discourage the girls. As a result, the girls have little opportunity to learn the more adventurous kinds of work and play. So little boys first learn discipline by caring for babies. Then they have many opportunities to learn effective teamwork under older boys’ supervision. The girls’ education, by contrast, is less well-rounded. The girls have a high standard of individual responsibility, but the community gives them no lessons in working together. This difference is especially clear in young people’s activities. The boys organize quickly. The girls waste hours bickering, knowing no methods for working together quickly and efficiently.

And as the woman who goes fishing can only get away by turning the babies over to the little girls of the household, the little girls cannot accompany their aunts and mothers. So they learn even the simple processes of reef fishing much later than do the boys. They are kept at the baby-tending, errand-running stage until they are old enough and robust enough to work on the plantations and carry foodstuffs down to the village.

Women can only go fishing by leaving the babies with the young girls in the household. Because of this, the girls cannot go with their aunts and mothers. So the girls learn even the simple methods of reef fishing much later than boys do. The girls are kept caring for babies and running errands until they are old enough and strong enough for plantation work. Then they can work on the plantations and carry food down to the village.

A girl is given these more strenuous tasks near the age of puberty, but it is purely a question of her physical size and ability to take responsibility, rather than of her physical maturity. Before this time she has occasionally accompanied the older members of the family to the plantations if they were willing to take the babies along also. But once there, while her brothers and cousins are collecting cocoanuts and roving happily about in the bush, she has again to chase and shepherd and pacify the ubiquitous babies.

A girl is given these harder tasks around puberty. But the timing depends entirely on her size and ability to take responsibility, not on her physical maturity. Before then, she has occasionally gone to the plantations with older family members, if they would take the babies too. But once there, her brothers and cousins gather coconuts and roam happily through the bush. Meanwhile, she must once again chase after, look after, and soothe the babies, who are everywhere.

As soon as the girls are strong enough to carry heavy loads, it pays the family to shift the responsibility for the little children to the younger girls and the adolescent girls are released from baby-tending. It may be said with some justice that the worst period of their lives is over. Never again will they be so incessantly at the beck and call of their elders, never again so tyrannised over by two-year-old tyrants. All the irritating, detailed routine of housekeeping, which in our civilisation is accused of warping the souls and souring the tempers of grown women, is here performed by children under fourteen years of age. A fire or a pipe to be kindled, a call for a drink, a lamp to be lit, the baby’s cry, the errand of the capricious adult—these haunt them from morning until night. With the introduction of several months a year of government schools these children are being taken out of their homes for most of the day. This brings about a complete disorganisation of the native households which have no precedents for a manner of life where mothers have to stay at home and take care of their children and adults have to perform small routine tasks and run errands.

As soon as girls are strong enough to carry heavy loads, the family benefits from shifting childcare to younger girls. The adolescent girls are then freed from looking after babies. It may fairly be said that the worst period of their lives is over. Never again will they be so constantly at their elders’ beck and call. Never again will they be so bullied by two-year-old tyrants. In our society, all the irritating, detailed routine of housework is blamed for warping grown women’s souls and souring their tempers. Here, children under fourteen do all that work. A fire or pipe needs lighting, someone calls for a drink, a lamp needs lighting, a baby cries. An adult wants an errand run on a whim. These demands haunt the children from morning until night. With the introduction of government schooling for several months each year, these children now spend most of the day away from home. Their absence completely disrupts the local households, which have no precedent for this way of life. Mothers must now stay home and care for their children, while adults must do small routine tasks and run errands.

Before their release from baby-tending the little girls have a very limited knowledge of any of the more complicated techniques. Some of them can do the simpler work in preparing food for cooking, such as skinning bananas, grating cocoanuts, or scraping taro. A few of them can weave the simple carrying basket. But now they must learn to weave all their own baskets for carrying supplies; learn to select taro leaves of the right age for cooking, to dig only mature taro. In the cook-house they learn to make palusami, to grate the cocoanut meat, season it with hot stones, mix it with sea water and strain out the husks, pour this milky mixture into a properly made little container of taro leaves from which the aromatic stem has been scorched off, wrap these in a breadfruit leaf and fasten the stem tightly to make a durable cooking jacket. They must learn to lace a large fish into a palm leaf, or roll a bundle of small fish in a breadfruit leaf; to select the right kind of leaves for stuffing a pig, to judge when the food in the oven of small heated stones is thoroughly baked. Theoretically the bulk of the cooking is done by the boys and where a girl has to do the heavier work, it is a matter for comment: “Poor Losa, there are no boys in her house and always she must make the oven.” But the girls always help and often do a great part of the work.

Before the little girls are freed from babysitting duties, they know very little about any of the more complicated skills. Some can do simpler food preparation, such as peeling bananas, grating coconuts, or scraping taro. A few can weave a simple carrying basket. But now the girls must learn to weave all their own baskets for carrying supplies. They must learn to choose taro leaves of the right age for cooking and to dig up only mature taro. In the cookhouse, the girls learn to make palusami. They grate coconut meat, season it with hot stones, mix it with seawater, and strain out the husks. They pour this milky mixture into a properly made little container of taro leaves with the aromatic stems scorched off. They wrap these containers in breadfruit leaves and fasten the stems tightly to make durable cooking wrappers. The girls must learn to lace a large fish into a palm leaf. They must also learn to roll a bundle of small fish in a breadfruit leaf. They learn to choose the right leaves for stuffing a pig. They must judge when food is fully baked in an oven of small heated stones. In theory, boys do most of the cooking. When a girl has to do the heavier work, people comment: “Poor Losa, there are no boys in her house and always she must make the oven.” But the girls always help and often do a large share of the work.

Once they are regarded as individuals who can devote a long period of time to some consecutive activity, girls are sent on long fishing expeditions. They learn to weave fish baskets, to gather and arrange the bundles of fagots used in torch-light fishing, to tickle a devil fish until it comes out of its hole and climbs obediently upon the waiting stick, appropriately dubbed a “come hither stick”; to string the great rose-coloured jellyfish, lole, a name which Samoan children give to candy also, on a long string of hibiscus bark, tipped with a palm leaf rib for a needle; to know good fish from bad fish, fish that are in season from fish which are dangerous at some particular time of the year; and never to take two octopuses, found paired on a rock, lest bad luck come upon the witless fisher.

Once girls are considered able to spend a long time on one continuous activity, they are sent on long fishing expeditions. They learn to weave fish baskets and gather and arrange bundles of sticks for fishing by torchlight. They learn to tickle a devil fish until it leaves its hole and climbs obediently onto a waiting stick. The stick is aptly called a “come hither stick”. They learn to thread the large, rose-coloured jellyfish, lole, onto a long string of hibiscus bark. Samoan children also use the name for candy. A palm leaf rib at the end of the string serves as a needle. The girls learn to tell good fish from bad fish, and fish in season from fish dangerous at particular times of year. They also learn never to take two octopuses found paired on a rock, lest bad luck strike the foolish fisher.

Before this time their knowledge of plants and trees is mainly a play one, the pandanus provides them with seeds for necklaces, the palm tree with leaves to weave balls; the banana tree gives leaves for umbrellas and half a leaf to shred into a stringy “choker”; cocoanut shells cut in half, with cinet strings attached, make a species of stilt; the blossoms of the Pua tree can be sewed into beautiful necklaces. Now they must learn to recognise these trees and plants for more serious purposes; they must learn when the pandanus leaves are ready for the cutting and how to cut the long leaves with one sure quick stroke; they must distinguish between the three kinds of pandanus used for different grades of mats. The pretty orange seeds which made such attractive and also edible necklaces must now be gathered as paint brushes for ornamenting bark cloth. Banana leaves are gathered to protect the woven platters, to wrap up puddings for the oven, to bank the steaming oven full of food. Banana bark must be stripped at just the right point to yield the even, pliant, black strips, needed to ornament mats and baskets. Bananas themselves must be distinguished as to those which are ripe for burying, or the golden curved banana ready for eating, or bananas ready to be sun-dried for making fruit-cake rolls. Hibiscus bark can no longer be torn off at random to give a raffia-like string for a handful of shells; long journeys must be made inland to select bark of the right quality for use in weaving.

Before this time, their knowledge of plants and trees comes mainly from play. The pandanus provides seeds for necklaces, and the palm tree provides leaves for weaving balls. The banana tree supplies leaves for umbrellas and half a leaf to shred into a stringy “choker”. Coconut shells cut in half, with cinet strings attached, make a kind of stilt. The blossoms of the Pua tree can be sewn into beautiful necklaces. Now they must learn to recognize these trees and plants for more serious purposes. They must learn when pandanus leaves are ready to cut and how to cut them with one quick, sure stroke. They must tell apart the three kinds of pandanus used for different grades of mats. The pretty orange seeds once made attractive, edible necklaces. Now the seeds must be gathered for use as paintbrushes to decorate bark cloth. Banana leaves are gathered to protect woven platters, wrap puddings for the oven, and cover the steaming oven full of food. Banana bark must be stripped at just the right point to produce even, flexible, black strips for decorating mats and baskets. They must distinguish bananas ripe for burying from golden, curved bananas ready to eat. They must also recognize bananas ready to be sun-dried for making fruit-cake rolls. Hibiscus bark can no longer be torn off at random to make a raffia-like string for a handful of shells. Instead, they must make long journeys inland to select bark of the right quality for weaving.

In the house the girl’s principal task is to learn to weave. She has to master several different techniques. First, she learns to weave palm branches where the central rib of the leaf serves as a rim to her basket or an edge to her mat and where the leaflets are already arranged for weaving. From palm leaves she first learns to weave a carrying basket, made of half a leaf, by plaiting the leaflets together and curving the rib into a rim. Then she learns to weave the Venetian blinds which hang between the house posts, by laying one-half leaf upon another and plaiting the leaflets together. More difficult are the floor mats, woven of four great palm leaves, and the food platters with their intricate designs. There are also fans to make, simple two-strand weaves which she learns to make quite well, more elaborate twined ones which are the prerogative of older and more skilled weavers. Usually some older woman in the household trains a girl to weave and sees to it that she makes at least one of each kind of article, but she is only called upon to produce in quantity the simpler things, like the Venetian blinds. From the pandanus she learns to weave the common floor mats, one or two types of the more elaborate bed mats, and then, when she is thirteen or fourteen, she begins her first fine mat. The fine mat represents the high point of Samoan weaving virtuosity. Woven of the finest quality of pandanus which has been soaked and baked and scraped to a golden whiteness and paper-like thinness, of strands a sixteenth of an inch in width, these mats take a year or two years to weave and are as soft and pliable as linen. They form the unit of value, and must always be included in the dowry of the bride. Girls seldom finish a fine mat until they are nineteen or twenty, but the mat has been started, and, wrapped up in a coarser one, it rests among the rafters, a testimony to the girl’s industry and manual skill. She learns the rudiments of bark cloth making; she can select and cut the paper mulberry wands, peel off the bark, beat it after it has been scraped by more expert hands. The patterning of the cloth with a pattern board or by free hand drawing is left for the more experienced adult.

In the house, the girl’s main task is to learn to weave. She must master several different techniques. First, she learns to weave palm branches. The leaf’s central rib forms the rim of her basket or the edge of her mat. The leaflets are already arranged for weaving. Her first palm-leaf project is a carrying basket made from half a leaf. She braids the leaflets together and curves the rib into a rim. Then she learns to weave the Venetian blinds that hang between the house posts. She lays one half-leaf over another and braids the leaflets together. Floor mats woven from four large palm leaves are harder to make, as are food platters with intricate designs. She also learns to make fans. She becomes quite good at simple two-strand weaves. More elaborate twined fans are made only by older, more skilled weavers. Usually, an older woman in the household teaches a girl to weave. The woman makes sure the girl makes at least one of each kind of item. But the girl is only expected to make simpler things, like Venetian blinds, in large quantities. Using pandanus, she learns to weave ordinary floor mats and one or two kinds of more elaborate bed mats. Then, at thirteen or fourteen, she begins her first fine mat. The fine mat represents the highest level of Samoan weaving skill. These mats use the finest pandanus, soaked, baked, and scraped until golden-white and as thin as paper. The strands are a sixteenth of an inch wide. The mats take one or two years to weave and are as soft and flexible as linen. They serve as the unit of value and must always be included in a bride’s dowry. Girls seldom finish a fine mat before they are nineteen or twenty. But the mat has been started. Wrapped in a coarser mat, the unfinished mat rests among the rafters, showing the girl’s hard work and skill. She learns the basics of making bark cloth. She can select and cut the slender paper mulberry stems and peel off the bark. Once more skilled hands have scraped the bark, she can beat it. Decorating the cloth with a pattern board or freehand drawing is left to a more experienced adult.

Throughout this more or less systematic period of education, the girls maintain a very nice balance between a reputation for the necessary minimum of knowledge and a virtuosity which would make too heavy demands. A girl’s chances of marriage are badly damaged if it gets about the village that she is lazy and inept in domestic tasks. But after these first stages have been completed the girl marks time technically for three or four years. She does the routine weaving, especially of the Venetian blinds and carrying baskets. She helps with the plantation work and the cooking, she weaves a very little on her fine mat. But she thrusts virtuosity away from her as she thrusts away every other sort of responsibility with the invariable comment, “Laititi a’u” (“I am but young”). All of her interest is expended on clandestine sex adventures, and she is content to do routine tasks as, to a certain extent, her brother is also.

Throughout this more or less organized period of education, the girls maintain a careful balance in their reputations. They must seem to know the necessary minimum, without showing exceptional skill that would lead to too many demands. A girl’s marriage prospects suffer badly if word spreads through the village that she is lazy and unskilled at housework. But after completing these first stages, she spends three or four years without advancing her skills. She does routine weaving, especially Venetian blinds and carrying baskets. She helps with plantation work and cooking, and does very little work on her fine mat. But she avoids exceptional skill just as she avoids every other kind of responsibility. Her response is always, “Laititi a’u” (“I am but young”). All her interest goes into secret sexual adventures. She is content to do routine tasks, as her brother is too, to a certain extent.

But the seventeen-year-old boy is not left passively to his own devices. He has learned the rudiments of fishing, he can take a dug-out canoe over the reef safely, or manage the stern paddle in a bonito boat. He can plant taro or transplant cocoanut, husk cocoanuts on a stake and cut the meat out with one deft quick turn of the knife. Now at seventeen or eighteen he is thrust into the Aumaga, the society of the young men and the older men without titles, the group that is called, not in euphemism but in sober fact, “the strength of the village.” Here he is badgered into efficiency by rivalry, precept and example. The older chiefs who supervise the activities of the Aumaga gaze equally sternly upon any backslidings and upon any undue precocity. The prestige of his group is ever being called into account by the Aumaga of the neighbouring villages. His fellows ridicule and persecute the boy who fails to appear when any group activity is on foot, whether work for the village on the plantations, or fishing, or cooking for the chiefs, or play in the form of a ceremonial call upon some visiting maiden. Furthermore, the youth is given much more stimulus to learn and also a greater variety of occupations are open to him. There is no specialisation among women, except in medicine and mid-wifery, both the prerogatives of very old women who teach their arts to their middle-aged daughters and nieces. The only other vocation is that of the wife of an official orator, and no girl will prepare herself for this one type of marriage which demands special knowledge, for she has no guarantee that she will marry a man of this class.

But the seventeen-year-old boy is not simply left to his own devices. He has learned the basics of fishing. He can safely take a dugout canoe over the reef or handle the stern paddle in a bonito boat. He can plant taro, transplant coconut trees, and husk coconuts on a stake. He can cut out the coconut meat with one quick, skillful turn of his knife. Now, at seventeen or eighteen, he is pushed into the Aumaga, the society of young men and older men without titles. The group is called “the strength of the village,” not as a polite exaggeration but as a statement of fact. Here, competition, instruction, and example pressure him to become efficient. The older chiefs who supervise the Aumaga judge failures and overly early achievements with equal sternness. The Aumaga of neighboring villages constantly challenge his group’s standing. His companions ridicule and harass any boy who fails to turn up for a group activity. Such activities include working on the village plantations, fishing, cooking for the chiefs, or recreation. Recreation may take the form of a ceremonial visit to a visiting young woman. Furthermore, the young man has much more encouragement to learn, and a wider range of occupations is open to him. Women do not specialize, except in medicine and midwifery. Both are reserved for very old women, who teach their skills to their middle-aged daughters and nieces. The only other occupation is being the wife of an official orator. No girl prepares herself for this particular kind of marriage, which requires special knowledge. She has no guarantee of marrying a man of this class.

For the boy it is different. He hopes that some day he will hold a matai name, a name which will make him a member of the Fono, the assembly of headmen, which will give him a right to drink kava with chiefs, to work with chiefs rather than with the young men, to sit inside the house, even though his new title is only of “between the posts” rank, and not of enough importance to give him a right to a post for his back. But very seldom is he absolutely assured of getting such a name. Each family hold several of these titles which they confer upon the most promising youths in the whole family connection. He has many rivals. They also are in the Aumaga. He must always pit himself against them in the group activities. There are also several types of activities in one of which he must specialise. He must become a house-builder, a fisherman, an orator or a wood carver. Proficiency in some technique must set him off a little from his fellows. Fishing prowess means immediate rewards in the shape of food gifts to offer to his sweetheart; without such gifts his advances will be scorned. Skill in house-building means wealth and status, for a young man who is a skilled carpenter must be treated as courteously as a chief and addressed with the chief’s language, the elaborate set of honorific words used to people of rank. And with this goes the continual demand that he should not be too efficient, too outstanding, too precocious. He must never excel his fellows by more than a little. He must neither arouse their hatred nor the disapproval of his elders who are far readier to encourage and excuse the laggard than to condone precocity. And at the same time he shares his sister’s reluctance to accept responsibility, and if he should excel gently, not too obviously, he has good chances of being made a chief. If he is sufficiently talented, the Fono itself may deliberate, search out a vacant title to confer upon him and call him in that he may sit with the old men and learn wisdom. And yet so well recognised is the unwillingness of the young men to respond to this honour, that the provision is always made, “And if the young man runs away, then never shall he be made a chief, but always he must sit outside the house with the young men, preparing and serving the food of the matais with whom he may not sit in the Fono.” Still more pertinent are the chances of his relationship group bestowing a matai name upon the gifted young man. And a matai he wishes to be, some day, some far-off day when his limbs have lost a little of their suppleness and his heart the love of fun and of dancing. As one chief of twenty-seven told me: “I have been a chief only four years and look, my hair is grey, although in Samoa grey hair comes very slowly, not in youth, as it comes to the white man. But always, I must act as if I were old. I must walk gravely and with a measured step. I may not dance except upon most solemn occasions, neither may I play games with the young men. Old men of sixty are my companions and watch my every word, lest I make a mistake. Thirty-one people live in my household. For them I must plan, I must find them food and clothing, settle their disputes, arrange their marriages. There is no one in my whole family who dares to scold me or even to address me familiarly by my first name. It is hard to be so young and yet to be a chief.” And the old men shake their heads and agree that it is unseemly for one to be a chief so young.

For the boy, things are different. He hopes that someday he will hold a matai name. Such a name will make him a member of the Fono, the assembly of headmen. It will give him the right to drink kava with chiefs and work with chiefs rather than young men. He will be allowed to sit inside the house, even if his new title ranks only “between the posts”. A title of that rank does not entitle him to a post to lean against. But he is very seldom certain of receiving such a name. Each family holds several of these titles and awards them to the most promising youths throughout the extended family. He has many rivals, who are also in the Aumaga. He must constantly compete against these rivals in group activities. There are also several kinds of work, and he must specialize in one. He must become a house-builder, a fisherman, an orator, or a wood carver. Skill in some craft must set him a little apart from his companions. Fishing skill brings immediate rewards in the form of food gifts to offer his sweetheart. Without such gifts, she will scorn his advances. Skill in house-building brings wealth and status. A young man who is a skilled carpenter must receive the same courtesy as a chief. People must address him in the language used for chiefs, an elaborate set of respectful words for people of rank. Yet he also faces constant demands not to be too capable, too outstanding, or too accomplished for his age. He must never surpass his companions by more than a little. He must not provoke their hatred or his elders’ disapproval. His elders are far more willing to encourage and excuse someone who falls behind than to accept unusually early achievement. At the same time, he shares his sister’s reluctance to accept responsibility. And if he stands out just a little, without being too obvious, he has a good chance of becoming a chief. If he is talented enough, the Fono itself may discuss his case and find an unfilled title to give him. They may then summon him to sit with the old men and learn wisdom. Yet young men’s reluctance to accept this honor is so well known that one condition is always included: “And if the young man runs away, he shall never be made a chief. Instead, he must always sit outside the house with the young men, preparing and serving food for the matais. He may not sit with those matais in the Fono.” More immediately relevant is the chance that a gifted young man’s relatives will give him a matai name. And he does want to be a matai someday. But he wants that day to be far away, when his limbs are a little less supple. By then, his heart will have lost its love of fun and dancing. As one twenty-seven-year-old chief told me: “I have been a chief for only four years, and look, my hair is gray. Yet in Samoa, hair turns gray very slowly, not in youth as it does among white men. But I must always act as if I were old. I must walk solemnly, with slow, measured steps. I may dance only on the most solemn occasions, and I may not play games with the young men. My companions are old men of sixty. They watch my every word in case I make a mistake. Thirty-one people live in my household. I must plan for them, find them food and clothing, settle their disputes, and arrange their marriages. No one in my whole family dares to scold me or even address me casually by my first name. It is hard to be so young and yet be a chief.” And the old men shake their heads and agree that being a chief so young is not fitting.

The operation of natural ambition is further vitiated by the fact that the young man who is made a matai will not be the greatest among his former associates, but the youngest and greenest member of the Fono. And no longer may he associate familiarly with his old companions; a matai must associate only with matais, must work beside them in the bush and sit and talk quietly with them in the evening.

Natural ambition is further weakened because a young man made a matai will not outrank his former companions. Instead, he will be the youngest and least experienced member of the Fono. And he may no longer spend time casually with his old companions. A matai must associate only with matais. He must work beside them in the bush and sit and talk quietly with them in the evening.

And so the boy is faced by a far more difficult dilemma than the girl. He dislikes responsibility, but he wishes to excel in his group; skill will hasten the day when he is made a chief, yet he receives censure and ridicule if he slackens his efforts; but he will be scolded if he proceeds too rapidly; yet if he would win a sweetheart, he must have prestige among his fellows. And conversely, his social prestige is increased by his amorous exploits.

And so the boy faces a far more difficult dilemma than the girl. He dislikes responsibility, but he wants to stand out in his group. His skill will bring him closer to becoming a chief, yet he is criticized and ridiculed if he eases up. But he will be scolded if he moves ahead too quickly. Yet if he wants to win a sweetheart, he must have status among his peers. And in turn, his romantic exploits increase his social status.

So while the girl rests upon her “pass” proficiency, the boy is spurred to greater efforts. A boy is shy of a girl who does not have these proofs of efficiency and is known to be stupid and unskilled; he is afraid he may come to want to marry her. Marrying a girl without proficiency would be a most imprudent step and involve an endless amount of wrangling with his family. So the girl who is notoriously inept must take her lovers from among the casual, the jaded, and the married who are no longer afraid that their senses will betray them into an imprudent marriage.

So while the girl settles for a “pass” level of skill, the boy is pushed to try harder. A boy avoids a girl who lacks these signs of competence and is known to be stupid and unskilled. He is afraid he may come to want to marry her. Marrying a girl without skills would be very unwise and lead to endless arguments with his family. So a girl known for her incompetence must find lovers among men seeking casual relationships, men jaded by experience, and married men. These men no longer fear that their desires will lead them into an unwise marriage.

But the seventeen-year-old girl does not wish to marry—not yet. It is better to live as a girl with no responsibility, and a rich variety of emotional experience. This is the best period of her life. There are as many beneath her whom she may bully as there are others above her to tyrannise over her. What she loses in prestige, she gains in freedom. She has very little baby-tending to do. Her eyes do not ache from weaving nor does her back break from bending all day over the tapa board. The long expeditions after fish and food and weaving materials give ample opportunities for rendezvous. Proficiency would mean more work, more confining work, and earlier marriage, and marriage is the inevitable to be deferred as long as possible.

But the seventeen-year-old girl does not want to marry, not yet. It is better to live as a girl without responsibility and with a rich range of emotional experiences. This is the best time of her life. She has as many people below her to bully as there are people above her to boss her around. What she loses in status, she gains in freedom. She has very little childcare to do. Her eyes do not ache from weaving. Nor does her back ache from bending over the tapa board all day. Long trips to gather fish, food, and weaving materials give her plenty of chances for romantic meetings. Becoming more skilled would mean more work, more restrictive work, and earlier marriage. And marriage is inevitable, something to put off as long as possible.