If there’s one thing a Ngāpuhi likes, it’s arguing a case. Unfortunately for everyone else, I’ve always got one.
When I left Whangārei, most people assured me I was about to meet a whole new world of “like-minded” people. Unfortunately, I interpreted that as people I would share a wavelength with. In reality, I landed at what felt like an inescapable conference with no closing ceremony, where everyone was constantly introducing themselves, collecting contacts and (not-so) quietly working out where everyone else sat. Like-minded friendship, it seems, came with a sniff test.
The Taumaha Is Real
The thing about the sniff test is that nobody admits they’re doing it. There is no formal assessment or red buzzer when someone fails; though I’m sure that’d be preferred. It’s pretty subtle, actually. It feels like speed dating, except nobody is asking whether you’re romantically compatible. They’re sussing out whether you’re socially compatible, professionally useful, sufficiently interesting, or, simply put, worth the effort. And, without fail, it’s the same boring exchange: names, majors, hometowns, mutuals. Then comes the small talk and the moment when somebody decides whether you’re even worth remembering.
I admit, it’s basically a given. I did it too. Everyone does. You have to work out where you fit when you arrive somewhere new, and university is hardly the golden age of social certainty. But I had come from a community where my entire age-group were genuinely all my cousins. The only credentials worth mentioning there were your marae. Nobody needed to explain who they were, and no list of committees, internships or mutual acquaintances impressed anyone.
Friends With Benefits
It’s not as though I’d rocked up in Dunedin expecting the same; only a fool would dive into a completely foreign social ecosystem and hope for a whānau reunion. But the culture shock was incredibly real. It didn’t take long to realise I’d run from one end of the tall poppy field to the other. The rules changed, but the fall hadn’t. We call it making friends, but really, we’re taking stock. Who’s useful? Who’s interesting? Who’s worth knowing? Nobody wants to know you anymore. They want to know what you might be worth.
These days, nobody has to announce that they’re networking. We’ve become much more sophisticated than that. We call it “putting ourselves out there”, and sometimes it genuinely is. Other times, it’s a polite disguise for working out who’s worth knowing. We make friends with people we like, sure, but also people who might know someone, open a door, get us a seat at a table, or make us look a little more interesting by association. Perhaps that’s why uni friendships can feel so disposable. Not because everyone is calculating, but because we’re getting very good at keeping one eye on what comes next. Our peers aren’t just friends to be made anymore; they’re future colleagues, contacts and connections we’re quietly keeping in our back pockets.
Mutuals Matter
By now, playing the game feels like second nature. We know how to work a room, remember a name, make a connection and keep the right people close. I’ve done it too. Perhaps we all have. We’re surrounded by people we could be friends with, work with, collaborate with, recommend, introduce, or simply know for later. It all feels perfectly harmless until you realise how easily a person can become a possibility before they become a friend. I was told I’d meet “like-minded” people, but it turns out all we really share is a postcode.
So when did making friends become less about who we like, and more about who we might like to know?
Long Live the Question
