The Girl and Her Age Group

Until a child is six or seven at least she associates very little with her contemporaries. Brothers and sisters and small cousins who live in the same household, of course, frolic and play together, but outside the household each child clings closely to its older guardian and only comes in contact with other children in case the little nursemaids are friends. But at about seven years of age, the children begin to form larger groups, a kind of voluntary association which never exists in later life, that is, a group recruited from both relationship and neighbourhood groups. These are strictly divided along sex lines and antagonism between the small girls and the small boys is one of the salient features of the group life. The little girls are just beginning to “be ashamed” in the presence of older brothers, and the prohibition that one small girl must never join a group of boys is beginning to be enforced. The fact that the boys are less burdened and so can range further afield in search of adventure, while the girls have to carry their heavy little charges with them, also makes a difference between the sexes. The groups of small children which hang about the fringes of some adult activity often contain both girls and boys, but here the association principle is simply age discrimination on the part of their elders, rather than voluntary association on the children’s part.

Until a child is at least six or seven, she spends very little time with children her own age. Brothers, sisters, and young cousins living in the same household do, of course, play together. But outside the household, each child stays close to her older caregiver. She meets other children only if the young girls caring for them are friends. But at about seven, children begin to form larger groups. These voluntary groups draw members from both relatives and neighbors, a kind of association that never exists in later life. The groups are strictly separated by sex. Hostility between the young girls and boys is one of the most noticeable features of their group life. The young girls are just beginning to “be ashamed” in front of older brothers. The rule that a young girl must never join a group of boys is also beginning to be enforced. Boys have fewer responsibilities, so they can roam farther in search of adventure. Girls, meanwhile, have to carry the heavy little children in their care. This difference in responsibilities also separates the sexes. Groups of young children gathered around the edges of an adult activity often include both girls and boys. But these groups form because older people separate children by age, not because the children choose to gather together.

These age gangs are usually confined to the children who live in eight or ten contiguous households.² They are flexible chance associations, the members of which manifest a vivid hostility towards their contemporaries in neighbouring villages and sometimes towards other gangs within their own village. Blood ties cut across these neighbourhood alignments so that a child may be on good terms with members of two or three different groups. A strange child from another group, provided she came alone, could usually take refuge beside a relative. But the little girls of Siufaga looked askance at the little girls of Lumā, the nearest village and both looked with even greater suspicion at the little girls from Faleasao, who lived twenty minutes’ walk away. However, heart burnings over these divisions were very temporary affairs. When Tua’s brother was ill, her entire family moved from the far end of Siufaga into the heart of Lumā. For a few days Tua hung rather dolefully about the house, only to be taken in within a week by the central Lumā children with complete amiability. But when she returned some weeks later to Siufaga, she became again “a Siufaga girl,” object elect of institutionalised scorn and gibes to her recent companions.

These age groups usually include only children living in eight or ten neighboring households.² The groups form by chance, and their membership is flexible. Members show strong hostility toward children their own age in neighboring villages, and sometimes toward other groups within their village. Family ties cross these neighborhood boundaries, so a child may be on good terms with two or three different groups. An unfamiliar child from another group could usually find shelter beside a relative, provided she came alone. But the little girls of Siufaga viewed the little girls of Lumā, the nearest village, with suspicion. Both groups were even more suspicious of the little girls from Faleasao, who lived twenty minutes’ walk away. However, hurt feelings over these divisions did not last long. When Tua’s brother was ill, her entire family moved from the far end of Siufaga into the heart of Lumā. For a few days, Tua lingered sadly around the house. But within a week, the children of central Lumā welcomed her with complete friendliness. When she returned to Siufaga some weeks later, however, she again became “a Siufaga girl,” singled out by her recent companions for the customary scorn and teasing.

No very intense friendships are made at this age. The relationship and neighbourhood structure of the group overshadows the personalities within it. Also the most intense affection is always reserved for near relatives and pairs of little sisters take the place of chums. The Western comment, “Yes, Mary and Julia are such good friends as well as sisters!” becomes in Samoa, “But she is a relative,” if a friendship is commented upon. The older ones fend for the younger, give them their spoils, weave them flower necklaces and give them their most treasured shells. This relationship aspect is the only permanent element in the group and even this is threatened by any change of residence. The emotional tone attached to the inhabitants of a strange village tends to make even a well-known cousin seem a little strange.

No very close friendships form at this age. Family and neighborhood ties matter more within the group than individual personalities. The strongest affection is also always reserved for close relatives, and pairs of little sisters take the place of friends. In the West, people might say, “Yes, Mary and Julia are such good friends as well as sisters!” In Samoa, if someone comments on a friendship, the response is, “But she is a relative,” instead. The older children look after the younger ones and give them the things they have gathered. They weave flower necklaces for the younger children and give them their most treasured shells. Family ties are the only lasting part of the group, and even these are threatened by any change of home. Feelings toward people from an unfamiliar village tend to make even a familiar cousin seem a little strange.

Of the different groups of little girls there was only one which showed characteristics which would make it possible to classify it as a gang. An accident of residence accounts for the most intense group development being in the centre of Lumā, where nine little girls of nearly the same age and with abundant relationship ties lived close together. The development of a group which played continually together and maintained a fairly coherent hostility towards outsiders, seems to be more of a function of residence than of the personality of any child particularly endowed with powers of leadership. The nine little girls in this group were less shy, less suspicious, more generous towards one another, more socially enterprising than other children of the same age and in general reflected the socialising effects of group life. Outside this group, the children of this age had to rely much more upon their immediate relationship group reinforced perhaps by the addition of one or two neighbours. Where the personality of a child stood out it was more because of exceptional home environment than a result of social give-and-take with children of her own age.

Of the different groups of little girls, only one had the traits needed to call it a gang. By chance, the strongest group developed in the centre of Lumā because of where the girls lived. Nine little girls of nearly the same age lived close together and shared many family ties. The girls played together constantly and were fairly united in their hostility toward outsiders. The group seems to have developed more because the girls lived nearby than because any child had unusual leadership abilities. These nine girls were less shy, less suspicious, more generous toward one another, and more socially adventurous than other children their age. In general, the girls showed how group life helped children develop socially. Outside this group, children of this age had to rely much more on their close relatives. Perhaps one or two neighbours joined these family groups. When a child's personality stood out, an unusual home environment was more often the reason. It was less often the result of social give-and-take with girls her own age.

Children of this age had no group activities except play, in direct antithesis to the home life where the child’s only function was work—baby-tending and the performance of numerous trivial tasks and innumerable errands. They foregathered in the early evening, before the late Samoan supper, and occasionally during the general siesta hour in the afternoon. On moonlight nights they scoured the villages alternately attacking or fleeing from the gangs of small boys, peeking through drawn shutters, catching land crabs, ambushing wandering lovers, or sneaking up to watch a birth or a miscarriage in some distant house. Possessed by a fear of the chiefs, a fear of small boys, a fear of their relatives and by a fear of ghosts, no gang of less than four or five dared to venture forth on these nocturnal excursions. They were veritable groups of little outlaws escaping from the exactions of routine tasks. Because of the strong feeling for relationship and locality, the part played by stolen time, the need for immediately executed group plans, and the punishment which hung over the heads of children who got too far out of earshot, the Samoan child was as dependent upon the populousness of her immediate locality, as is the child in a rural community in the West. True her isolation here was never one-eighth of a mile in extent, but glaring sun and burning sands, coupled with the number of relatives to be escaped from in the day or the number of ghosts to be escaped from at night, magnified this distance until as a barrier to companionship it was equivalent to three or four miles in rural America. Thus there occurred the phenomenon of the isolated child in a village full of children of her own age. Such was Luna, aged ten, who lived in one of the scattered houses belonging to a high chief’s household. This house was situated at the very end of the village where she lived with her grandmother, her mother’s sister Sami, Sami’s husband and baby, and two younger maternal aunts, aged seventeen and fifteen. Luna’s mother was dead. Her other brothers and sisters lived on another island with her father’s people. She was ten, but young for her age, a quiet, listless child, reluctant to take the initiative, the sort of child who would always need an institutionalised group life. Her only relatives close by were two girls of fourteen, whose long legs and absorption in semi-adult tasks made them far too grown-up companions for her. Some little girls of fourteen might have tolerated Luna about, but not Selu, the younger of the cousins, whose fine mat was already three feet under way. In the next house, a stone’s throw away, lived two little girls, Pimi and Vana, aged eight and ten. But they were not relatives and being chief baby-tenders to four younger children, they had no time for exploring. There were no common relatives to bring them together and so Luna lived a solitary life, except when an enterprising young aunt of eleven came home to her mother’s house. This aunt, Siva, was a fascinating companion, a vivid and precocious child, whom Luna followed about in open-mouthed astonishment. But Siva had proved too much of a handful for her widowed mother, and the matai, her uncle, had taken her to live in his immediate household at the other end of the village, on the other side of the central Lumā gang. They formed far more attractive companions and Siva seldom got as far as her mother’s house in her occasional moments of freedom. So unenterprising Luna cared for her little cousin, followed her aunt and grandmother about and most of the time presented a very forlorn appearance.

Children of this age had no group activities except play. This was the exact opposite of home life, where a child’s only role was work. That work meant caring for babies, doing many small chores, and running countless errands. The children gathered in the early evening, before the late Samoan supper, and sometimes during the afternoon rest hour. On moonlit nights they roamed the villages, taking turns attacking or fleeing from gangs of small boys. They peeked through closed shutters, caught land crabs, ambushed wandering lovers, or sneaked up to distant houses to watch births or miscarriages. They feared the chiefs, small boys, their relatives, and ghosts. Because of these fears, no group of fewer than four or five dared to go on these nighttime outings. They were truly little bands of outlaws escaping the demands of routine chores. Strong ties to relatives and neighborhoods shaped these groups. Play depended on stolen time, and group plans had to be carried out immediately. Children also faced punishment if they went too far to hear someone calling. For these reasons, a Samoan girl depended on having children nearby just as much as a child in a Western rural community. True, the distance isolating her was never as much as one-eighth of a mile. But the glaring sun and burning sand made that distance seem greater. So did the many relatives she had to escape by day and the many ghosts she had to escape at night. As a barrier to companionship, that short distance equaled three or four miles in rural America. So a child could be isolated in a village full of children her own age. Ten-year-old Luna was one such child. She lived in one of the scattered houses belonging to a high chief’s household. The house stood at the very end of the village. She lived with her grandmother, her mother’s sister Sami, Sami’s husband and baby, and two younger aunts on her mother’s side. Those two aunts were seventeen and fifteen. Luna’s mother was dead. Her other brothers and sisters lived on another island with her father’s relatives. Though ten, she was young for her age, quiet and listless, and reluctant to take the lead. She was the kind of child who would always need an organized group life. Her only relatives nearby were two fourteen-year-old girls. Their long legs and focus on nearly adult tasks made them far too grown-up to be her companions. Some fourteen-year-old girls might have tolerated Luna’s company, but not Selu, the younger cousin. Selu had already woven three feet of her fine mat. In the next house, a stone’s throw away, lived two little girls, Pimi and Vana, aged eight and ten. But they were not relatives, and they were the main caregivers for four younger children. They had no time to explore. They shared no relatives who might bring them together, so Luna lived a lonely life. The exception was when an adventurous eleven-year-old aunt came home to her mother’s house. This aunt, Siva, was a fascinating companion, a lively child who was mature beyond her years. Luna followed her around in open-mouthed amazement. But Siva had proved too difficult for her widowed mother to manage. The matai, her uncle, had taken Siva to live in his own household at the other end of the village. His household was beyond the central Lumā gang. The gang offered much more appealing companions. So Siva seldom reached her mother’s house during her occasional free moments. Lacking initiative, Luna cared for her little cousin and followed her aunt and grandmother around. Most of the time, she looked very forlorn.

In strong contrast was the fate of Lusi, who was only seven, too young to be really eligible for the games of her ten- and eleven-year-old elders. Had she lived in an isolated spot, she would have been merely a neighbourhood baby. But her house was in a strategic position, next door to that of her cousins, Maliu and Pola, important members of the Lumā gang. Maliu, one of the oldest members of the group, had a tremendous feeling for all her young relatives, and Lusi was her first cousin. So tiny, immature Lusi had the full benefit of a group life denied to Luna.

Lusi’s experience was very different. She was only seven, too young to really qualify for the games of the ten- and eleven-year-olds. If she had lived somewhere isolated, she would have been just a neighborhood baby. But her house was in a key location, next door to her cousins, Maliu and Pola. Both were important members of the Lumā gang. Maliu was one of the group’s oldest members and felt great affection for all her young relatives. Lusi was her first cousin. So tiny, immature Lusi enjoyed all the benefits of group life that Luna was denied.

At the extreme end of Siufaga lived Vina, a gentle, unassuming girl of fourteen. Her father’s house stood all alone in the centre of a grove of palm trees, just out of sight and ear-shot of the nearest neighbour. Her only companions were her first cousin, a reserved capable eighteen-year-old and two cousins of seventeen and nineteen. There was one little cousin of twelve also in the neighbourhood, but five younger brothers and sisters kept her busy. Vina also had several brothers and sisters younger than herself, but they were old enough to fend for themselves and Vina was comparatively free to follow the older girls on fishing expeditions. So she never escaped from being the little girl, tagging after older ones, carrying their loads and running their errands. She was a flurried anxious child, overconcerned with pleasing others, docile in her chance encounters with contemporaries from long habit of docility. A free give-and-take relationship within her own age group had been denied to her and was now denied to her forever. For it was only to the eight- to twelve-year-old girl that this casual group association was possible. As puberty approached, and a girl gained physical strength and added skill, her household absorbed her again. She must make the oven, she must go to work on the plantation, she must fish. Her days were filled with long tasks and new responsibilities.

At the far end of Siufaga lived Vina, a gentle, modest girl of fourteen. Her father’s house stood alone in the middle of a grove of palm trees. The nearest neighbour was just out of sight and hearing. Her only companions were her first cousin, a quiet, capable eighteen-year-old, and two cousins aged seventeen and nineteen. Another young cousin, aged twelve, lived nearby, but five younger brothers and sisters kept her busy. Vina also had several younger brothers and sisters, but they were old enough to look after themselves. So Vina was relatively free to follow the older girls on fishing trips. She therefore never escaped the role of the little girl, tagging along behind the older girls. She carried their loads and ran their errands. She was a flustered, anxious child, too concerned with pleasing others. Long habit had made her obedient, even in chance encounters with others her age. She had been denied an equal, easygoing relationship with others her age, and now she would never have one. Only girls aged eight to twelve could spend time in these informal groups. As a girl approached puberty, gained physical strength, and developed more skills, her household once again took up her time. She had to prepare the oven, work on the plantation, and fish. Her days were filled with long tasks and new responsibilities.

Such a child was Fitu. In September she was one of the dominant members of the gang, a little taller than the rest, a little lankier, more strident and executive, but very much a harum-scarum little girl among little girls, with a great baby always on her hip. But by April she had turned the baby over to a younger sister of nine; the still younger baby was entrusted to a little sister of five and Fitu worked with her mother on the plantations, or went on long expeditions after hibiscus bark, or for fish. She took the family washing to the sea and helped make the oven on cooking days. Occasionally in the evening she slipped away to play games on the green with her former companions but usually she was too tired from the heavy unaccustomed work, and also a slight strangeness had crept over her. She felt that her more adult activities set her off from the rest of the group with whom she had felt so much at home the fall before. She made only abortive attempts to associate with the older girls in the neighbourhood. Her mother sent her to sleep in the pastor’s house next door, but she returned home after three days. Those girls were all too old, she said. “Laititi a’u” (“I am but young”). And yet she was spoiled for her old group. The three villages numbered fourteen such children, just approaching puberty, preoccupied by unaccustomed tasks and renewed and closer association with the adults of their families, not yet interested in boys, and so forming no new alliances in accordance with sex interests. Soberly they perform their household tasks, select a teacher from the older women of their family, learn to bear the suffix, meaning “little” dropped from the “little girl” which had formerly described them. But they never again amalgamate into such free and easy groups as the before-the-teens gang. As sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls, they will still rely upon relatives, and the picture is groupings of twos or of threes, never more. The neighbourhood feelings drop out and girls of seventeen will ignore a near neighbour who is an age mate and go the length of the village to visit a relative. Relationship and similar sex interests are now the deciding factor in friendships. Girls also followed passively the stronger allegiance of the boys. If a girl’s sweetheart has a chum who is interested in a cousin of hers, the girls strike up a lively, but temporary, friendship. Occasionally such friendships even go outside of the relationship group.

Fitu was one such child. In September she was one of the leading members of the group. She was a little taller and lankier than the others, louder and more ready to take charge. But she was still very much a wild, carefree little girl among little girls, always carrying a large baby on her hip. By April, however, she had handed the baby over to a younger sister of nine. An even younger baby was entrusted to a little sister of five. Fitu worked with her mother on the plantations or went on long trips to gather hibiscus bark or catch fish. She took the family’s washing to the sea and helped prepare the oven on cooking days. Occasionally, she slipped away in the evening to play games on the green with her former companions. But usually she was too tired from the heavy, unfamiliar work. She had also begun to feel a little out of place. Her more adult activities seemed to separate her from the group where she had felt so comfortable the previous fall. She made only unsuccessful attempts to spend time with the older girls in the neighbourhood. Her mother sent her to sleep in the pastor’s house next door, but she returned home after three days. Those girls were all too old, she said. “Laititi a’u” (“I am but young”). Yet she could no longer fit into her old group. Across the three villages, there were fourteen children like Fitu, just approaching puberty. They were absorbed in unfamiliar tasks and renewed, closer contact with the adults in their families. They were not yet interested in boys, so they formed no new friendships based on romantic or sexual interests. They go seriously about their household tasks and choose a teacher from among the older women in their families. They learn to accept losing the suffix meaning “little” from the term “little girl” that once described them. But they never again come together in groups as free and easy as their childhood group. At sixteen and seventeen, these girls will still rely on relatives. They gather in groups of two or three, never more. Neighbourhood ties fade. A seventeen-year-old girl will ignore a neighbour her own age and travel the length of the village to visit a relative. Family relationships and similar romantic or sexual interests now determine friendships. Girls also passively followed the boys’ stronger loyalties. A girl’s sweetheart may have a close friend who is interested in her cousin. If so, the girl and her cousin form a lively but temporary friendship. Occasionally, such friendships even extend beyond the circle of relatives.

Although girls may confide only in one or two girl relatives, their sex status is usually sensed by the other women of the village and alliances shift and change on this basis, from the shy adolescent who is suspicious of all older girls, to the girl whose first or second love affair still looms as very important, to the girls who are beginning to centre all their attention upon one boy and possibly matrimony. Finally the unmarried mother selects her friends, when possible, from those in like case with herself, or from women of ambiguous marital position, deserted or discredited young wives.

Although girls may confide in only one or two female relatives, other village women usually sense their sexual status. Friendships shift and change on this basis. The range begins with the shy adolescent who distrusts all older girls. Next comes the girl whose first or second love affair still seems very important. Then come girls who are beginning to focus all their attention on one boy and possibly marriage. Finally, the unmarried mother chooses friends, when possible, from women in the same situation. Or she chooses women whose marital position is uncertain, young wives who have been deserted or lost their good reputation.

Very few friendships of younger for older girls cut across these groupings after puberty. The twelve-year-old may have a great affection and admiration for her sixteen-year-old cousin (although any of these enthusiasms for older girls are pallid matters compared to a typical school girl “crush” in our civilisation). But when she is fifteen and her cousin nineteen, the picture changes. All of the adult and near-adult world is hostile, spying upon her love affairs in its more circumspect sophistication, supremely not to be trusted. No one is to be trusted who is not immediately engaged in similarly hazardous adventures.

Very few friendships between younger and older girls cross these group boundaries after puberty. A twelve-year-old may feel great affection and admiration for her sixteen-year-old cousin. (Although such enthusiasm for older girls is mild compared with a typical schoolgirl “crush” in our society.) But when she is fifteen and her cousin is nineteen, things change. The entire adult and nearly adult world is hostile. With greater caution and sophistication, adults and near-adults spy on her love affairs and cannot be trusted at all. No one can be trusted unless they are currently involved in similarly risky adventures.

It may safely be said that without the artificial conditions produced by residence in the native pastor’s household or in the large missionary boarding school, the girls do not go outside their relationship group to make friends. (In addition to the large girls’ boarding school which served all of American Samoa, the native pastor of each community maintained a small informal boarding school for boys and girls. To these schools were sent the girls whose fathers wished to send them later to the large boarding school, and also girls whose parents wished them to have three or four years of the superior educational advantages and stricter supervision of the pastor’s home.) Here unrelated girls live side by side sometimes for years. But as one of the two defining features of a household is common residence, the friendships formed between girls who have lived in the pastor’s household are not very different psychologically from the friendship of cousins or girls connected only by affinity who live in the same family. The only friendships which really are different in kind from those formed by common residence or membership in the same relationship group, are the institutionalised relationships between the wives of chiefs and the wives of talking chiefs. But these friendships can only be understood in connection with the friendships among boys and men.

We can safely say that girls do not make friends outside their kinship group, except under artificially created living conditions. These conditions arise in the local Samoan pastor’s household or in the large missionary boarding school. (The large girls’ boarding school served all of American Samoa. In addition, each community’s Samoan pastor ran a small, informal boarding school for boys and girls. Girls were sent to these schools if their fathers wanted them to attend the large boarding school later. Other girls were sent because their parents wanted them to spend three or four years in the pastor’s home. The pastor’s home offered better education and stricter supervision.) In these settings, unrelated girls live side by side, sometimes for years. But living together is one of the two defining features of a household. So friendships between girls who have lived in the pastor’s household are psychologically much like friendships within a family. These include friendships between cousins or between girls related only by marriage who live in the same family. Only one kind of friendship truly differs from friendships formed through living together or belonging to the same kinship group. These are the formally established relationships between chiefs’ wives and talking chiefs’ wives. But these friendships can only be understood in connection with friendships among boys and men.

The little boys follow the same pattern as do the little girls, running in a gang based upon the double bonds of neighbourhood and relationship. The feeling for the ascendency of age is always much stronger than in the case of girls because the older boys do not withdraw into their family groups as do the girls. The fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys gang together with the same freedom as do the twelve-year-olds. The borderline between small boys and bigger boys is therefore a continually shifting one, the boys in an intermediate position now lording it over the younger boys, now tagging obsequiously in the wake of their elders. There are two institutionalised relationships between boys which are called by the same name and possibly were at one time one relationship. This is the soa, the companion at circumcision and the ambassador in love affairs. Boys are circumcised in pairs, making the arrangements themselves and seeking out an older man who has acquired a reputation for skilfulness. There seems to be here simply a logical inter-relationship of cause and effect; a boy chooses a friend (who is usually also a relative) as his companion and the experience shared binds them closer together. There were several pairs of boys in the village who had been circumcised together and were still inseparable companions, often sleeping together in the house of one of them. Casual homosexual practices occurred in such relationships. However, when the friendships of grown boys of the village were analysed, no close correspondence with the adolescent allegiance was found and older boys were as often found in groups of three or four as in pairs.

Little boys follow the same pattern as little girls, moving in groups held together by neighborhood and family ties. Respect for older boys’ authority is always much stronger than respect for older girls’ authority. This is because older boys do not retreat into their family groups as girls do. Fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys form groups just as freely as twelve-year-olds do. The dividing line between small boys and bigger boys therefore keeps shifting. Boys in between sometimes boss the younger boys around and sometimes follow their elders, eager to please. Boys have two established relationships called by the same name, and these may once have been a single relationship. The name is soa, meaning both a companion at circumcision and a go-between in love affairs. Boys are circumcised in pairs and make the arrangements themselves. They seek out an older man known for his skill. This seems to be simply a matter of cause and effect. A boy chooses a friend, usually also a relative, as his companion, and the shared experience brings them closer together. Several pairs of boys in the village had been circumcised together and were still inseparable companions. These boys often slept together in one of their homes. Casual sexual activity between boys occurred in such relationships. However, an analysis of older village boys’ friendships found little connection with their adolescent attachments. Older boys were found in groups of three or four as often as in pairs.

When a boy is two or three years past puberty, his choice of a companion is influenced by the convention that a young man seldom speaks for himself in love and never in a proposal of marriage. He accordingly needs a friend of about his age whom he can trust to sing his praises and press his suit with requisite fervour and discretion. For this office, a relative, or, if the affair be desperate, several relatives are employed. A youth is influenced in his choice by his need of an ambassador who is not only trustworthy and devoted but plausible and insinuating as a procurer. This soa relationship is often, but not necessarily, reciprocal. The expert in love comes in time to dispense with the services of an intermediary, wishing to taste to the full the sweets of all the stages in courtship. At the same time his services are much in demand by others, if they entertain any hope at all of his dealing honourably by his principal. But the boys have also other matters besides love-making in which they must co-operate. Three are needed to man a bonito canoe; two usually go together to lasso eels on the reef; work on the communal taro plantations demands the labour of all the youths in the village. So that while a boy too chooses his best friends from among his relatives, his sense of social solidarity is always much stronger than that of a girl. The Aualuma, the organisation of young girls and wives of untitled men, is an exceedingly loose association gathered for very occasional communal work, and still more occasional festivities. In villages where the old intricacies of the social organisation are beginning to fall into disuse, it is the Aualuma which disappears first, while the Aumaga, the young men’s organisation, has too important a place in the village economy to be thus ignored. The Aumaga is indeed the most enduring social factor in the village. The matais meet more formally and spend a great deal of time in their own households, but the young men work together during the day, feast before and after their labours, are present as a serving group at all meetings of the matais, and when the day’s work is over, dance and go courting together in the evening. Many of the young men sleep in their friends’ houses, a privilege but grudgingly accorded the more chaperoned girls.

Two or three years after puberty, a boy’s choice of a companion is shaped by a social convention. A young man seldom speaks for himself in love and never when proposing marriage. So he needs a trusted friend about his own age to praise him and argue his case with enough enthusiasm and discretion. A relative takes on this role, or several relatives if the situation is desperate. The young man’s choice depends on his need for a representative who is trustworthy and devoted. This representative must also be convincing and persuasive in arranging a romantic relationship. This soa relationship is often mutual, but not necessarily. In time, someone skilled in courtship stops using an intermediary, wanting to enjoy every stage of courtship fully. Meanwhile, others seek his services, if they have any hope at all that he will act honorably toward those he represents. But boys must also cooperate in matters besides courtship. Three are needed to crew a bonito canoe. Two usually go together to lasso eels on the reef. Work on the communal taro plantations requires the labor of all the young men in the village. So, although a boy also chooses his closest friends from among his relatives, his sense of community is always much stronger than a girl’s. The Aualuma is the organization of young girls and the wives of men without titles. It is a very loosely organized group, meeting for very occasional communal work and even less frequent festivities. In villages where the old, complex social arrangements are beginning to fade, the Aualuma is the first to disappear. But the Aumaga, the young men’s organization, is too important to the village economy to be ignored in this way. The Aumaga is, in fact, the most enduring social institution in the village. The matais meet more formally and spend a great deal of time in their own households. But the young men work together during the day and feast before and after their work. They attend all meetings of the matais as a group of servers. When the day’s work ends, they dance and go courting together in the evening. Many young men sleep at their friends’ houses. Girls, who are more closely chaperoned, are allowed this privilege only reluctantly.

Another factor which qualified men’s relationships is the reciprocal relationship between chiefs and talking chiefs. The holders of these two classes of titles are not necessarily related, although this is often the case as it is considered an advantage to be related to both ranks. But the talking chiefs are major domos, assistants, ambassadors, henchmen, and councillors of their chiefs, and these relationships are often foreshadowed among the young men, the heirs-apparent or the heirs aspirant to the family titles.

Another factor shaping men’s relationships was the two-way relationship between chiefs and talking chiefs. People holding these two kinds of titles are not necessarily related, although they often are. Being related to people of both ranks is considered an advantage. But talking chiefs serve their chiefs as household managers, assistants, ambassadors, loyal followers, and advisers. These relationships often begin to take shape among young men expected to inherit family titles or hoping to inherit them.

Among women there are occasional close alliances between the taupo and the daughter of her father’s principal talking chief. But these friendships always suffer from their temporary character; the taupo will inevitably marry into another village. And it is rather between the wife of the chief and the wife of a talking chief that the institutionalised and life-long friendship exists. The wife of the talking chief acts as assistant, advisor, and mouthpiece for the chief’s wife and in turn counts upon the chief’s wife for support and material help. It is a friendship based upon reciprocal obligations having their origins in the relationship between the women’s husbands, and it is the only women’s friendship which oversteps the limits of the relationship and affinity group. Such friendships based on an accident of marriage and enjoined by the social structure should hardly be classed as voluntary. And within the relationship group itself, friendship is so patterned as to be meaningless. I once asked a young married woman if a neighbour with whom she was always upon the most uncertain and irritated terms was a friend of hers. “Why, of course, her mother’s father’s father, and my father’s mother’s father were brothers.” Friendship based on temperamental congeniality was a most tenuous bond, subject to shifts of interest and to shifts of residence, and a woman came to rely more and more on the associates to whose society and interest blood and marriage entitled her.

Among women, close alliances occasionally form between the taupo and the daughter of her father’s principal talking chief. But these friendships always suffer because they are temporary. The taupo will inevitably marry into another village. Instead, the socially established, lifelong friendship is between the chief’s wife and the wife of a talking chief. The talking chief’s wife serves as assistant, adviser, and spokesperson for the chief’s wife. In return, she relies on the chief’s wife for support and material help. Their friendship rests on mutual obligations arising from their husbands’ relationship. This is the only friendship between women that extends beyond the group connected by blood and marriage. Such friendships arise from the chance circumstances of marriage and are required by the social structure. They should hardly be considered voluntary. Even within the kinship group, friendship follows such a fixed pattern that the word becomes meaningless. I once asked a young married woman whether a neighbor was her friend. Her relations with this neighbor were always deeply unsettled and full of irritation. “Why, of course, her mother’s father’s father, and my father’s mother’s father were brothers.” Friendship based on compatible personalities was a very fragile bond, subject to changes in interests and residence. So a woman increasingly relied on the companions whose company and attention she could claim through blood and marriage.

Association based upon age as a principle may be said to have ceased for the girls before puberty, due to the exceedingly individual nature of their tasks and the need for secrecy in their amatory adventures. In the case of the boys, greater freedom, a more compelling social structure, and continuous participation in co-operative tasks, brings about an age-group association which lasts through life. This grouping is influenced but not determined by relationship, and distorted by the influence of rank, prospective rank in the case of youth, equal rank but disproportionate age in the case of older men.

For girls, grouping by age may be said to have ended before puberty. This is because their tasks are highly individual and their romantic adventures require secrecy. Boys, however, have greater freedom, a social structure that draws them together more strongly, and ongoing participation in shared tasks. These factors create age-group ties that last throughout life. Family relationships influence these groups but do not determine them. Rank, however, distorts the age-based grouping. Among young men, this distortion reflects the rank they are expected to hold. Among older men, it reflects equal rank despite large differences in age.