We are rich.

My Mum got me a second hand bike. She bought it from the family of a boy who I went to school with. It was his bike but he got a new one. He got a Chopper. Choppers were the best bikes, and expensive too. They had banana seats, ape hanger handlebars, a flag at the back and a gear shift on the frame.

His old bike, the one my Mum bought, did not resemble a Chopper. But it was my first bike and I couldn’t believe that I had one of my own. It was dinged and dented and old, and Mum paid $20 for it. I loved that bike.

My Mum said, “It’s all I could afford.”

To this day, those words make me sad.

I was too young to tell my Mum that it was okay and that I understood that money was really tight; that I knew $20 was a lot of money. That I really appreciated her getting me that bike and it didn’t have to be a flash new one. I knew you loved me, Mum.

When I had a problem my Mum would say, “why don’t you go for a bike ride? Leave your problem here. We can deal with it when you get back.” Best advice ever.

Some of the kids would yell out, “hand me downs!” when I rode past. It did hurt but I loved that bike.

A year after I got my bike it got stolen. I didn’t think about a lock for it. It was old and beaten up.

I looked everywhere for it. I had to pretend to my Mum that it was at a mate’s house getting fixed. We couldn’t afford another bike and to be honest, I would rather walk than put pressure on my Mum to find money for another one.

It led to a number of really tricky things to manage at high school. As I got better at sport there were suddenly rep teams and prem teams that I made which meant I had to travel away, which cost money.

I heard my Mum on the phone to my Aunty Frankie one night asking her if she could lend her some money so I could go on a trip to play volleyball in Christchurch. She said she could pay her back each week. My Aunty Frankie must have said that it was fine and that Mum didn’t need to pay her back. I clearly remember my Mum saying “Frankie Bryant, I don’t need a koha. I will pay you back. I don’t have much and it’s hard to swallow my pride and ask for help, but I will pay you back!”

Two days later before she went to work my Mum had left my lunch on the kitchen table with a note that said: ‘Have a great day at school and here is the money for your volleyball trip.’

I went to school and told Mr Turnball, the coach of the Volleyball Prems, that I couldn’t go as I had a tangi to go to.

I gave the money back to my Mum and said the tournament had been cancelled.

I didn’t go to school for three days the following week while the team was away and I was at the “tangi”. On each of those days I had to pretend to Mum that I was heading off to school.

These things always have a reckoning.

I was in Period 4 and a boy came to my class and said to the teacher, “Sir, the Rector wants to see Glen Denham.” A very loud ooohhh went round the class. One of the boys shouted out, “you’re gonna get the cane!” I looked at my teacher and said, “Is that me, Sir?” He said, “unless there’s another Glen Denham then it’s you boy.” I got up and went to leave. The boy who delivered the message said, “Oh the Rector said you have to bring all your stuff.” Another chorus of ooohhh went around the class. The same boy, who had previously shouted out, then said, “You’re gonna get the cane and expelled from school.”

I got my things and I couldn’t think for the life of me what I had done. As we were walking to the Rector’s Office I said to the boy, who was older than me, “Do you know what it’s about?” He said, “No, but is your Mum a Māori lady?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “She’s here as well.” I started to run down the corridor. Is Mum okay? Is my whānau okay? I got to Mr Simpson and knocked on the door. He said, “Come in Glen.” My Mum was sitting bolt upright in a chair facing Mr Simpson’s desk. I said “Mum, what’s the matter?” She turned around and said, “Sit down and be quiet.” I sat next to my Mum and I suddenly realised what it was about. A feeling of dread flooded through me.

“Glen, I’ve called your Mum in because you missed three days of school and told Mr Turnball that you had a funeral to go to. Is that right?”

“Yes Sir,” I replied.

My Mum said, “Speak up son, Mr Simpson can’t hear you.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Yes Sir, I bunked school for three days and I lied to Mr Turnball about going to a tangi.”

My Mum just stared at me. She was angry and upset, but I could tell she was so disappointed. I would rather have the cane than disappoint my Mum. I would rather be expelled than disappoint my Mum.

Mr Simpson said, “Why?

My Mum looked at me and said, “You tell the truth.”

I said, “We don’t have much money at home Sir, and my Mum has to borrow money to pay for trips that I have to go on. I feel guilty about going when we can’t afford it so I lied to my Mum and said the tournament was cancelled. And I lied to Mr Turnball about the tangi. I pretended to go to school and just mucked about for three days by myself.”

I looked down at the floor. I didn’t have to look at my Mum. I could feel the tears on her face.

Mr Simpson, who to this day is one of my heroes, said to my Mum, “Ani, we can help with these things and we can sort something out. Everybody needs help and there is no shame in that.”

My Mum said, “Thank you Sir, but I can’t take charity. We are fine.

We walked home in silence.

The consequence for me was a week spent in the school holidays helping the caretaker at school. That was the easy part. Regaining my Mum’s trust was the hard part.

That night Mrs Simpson, our Rector’s wife, called and said she had sorted out a cleaning job for Mum at school and she could pay for any school trips by helping clean the school when she could at night.

To this day I am grateful to Mr and Mrs Simpson.

Sometimes it’s hard for our boys to express themselves and their worries. I don’t have all the answers to this. I say to our boys at Assembly that we love them and that vulnerability is a superpower and our doors are always open. But how do we give our boys the language to untangle their hearts? What they do will sometimes defy logic and common sense. It’s those moments when we, as adults, may be angry, upset, confused and hurt, that we have to show the greatest aroha and kindness. Consequences of choice will always be important but can be done with seeking to understand with a gentle voice and thoughtful heart.

When my Mum finally spoke to me about why I had done what I had, she held my hand and said, “We are so rich it’s crazy! We are the richest people in Dunedin. We have so much that we don’t know what to do with it all!” Confused, I said, “I don’t understand.” She said, “Love son, love. We are rich in love!”