The House Of Pine

Written By Falepaini

Shifting Identities to Belong

The Princess of Tonga

I once told a group of kids at school that I was the Princess of Tonga.

Not in a pretend-for-fun kind of way.
I meant it.

There I was, scalp pulled tight in a French braid so sharp it could slice air, thanks to Mum’s ironclad rules about school appearance. I slayed the day in my starch-pressed school uniform, buttoned to the top like obedience stitched into fabric, with a chunky church necklace perched on my head like my own crown.

I wasn’t playing dress-ups. I was royalty.

I stood in the playground, my crown sitting slightly off-centre on my forehead, looked a group of kids dead in the eye, and told them with full conviction that I was the Princess of Tonga.

Maybe it was the movies. I lived for Matilda, Cinderella, The Princess Diaries, any story where the overlooked kid gets plucked from misery and dropped into magic. Wishful thinking? Probably. But I held onto those stories like secret prophecies.

Little signs that maybe, one day, someone would recognise the sparkle in me and say, “Her. That one.”

I’d never known my biological father, which meant, technically, he could’ve been anyone. A stranger. A hero. Even a king.

If movies had taught me anything, it was that missing parents always came back with answers and magic.

Sporty Spice Energy

In my head, I was royalty.
In real life? Beyond the fantasy, I was a full-blown tomboy with scabby knees and a mean sidestep.

One minute I was curtsying in the corridor insisting people call me Your Highness. The next, I was out on the grass field at lunch, the only girl taking on the boys, shouting “Knock on!” or “Advantage!” like I was refereeing an NRL final.

I was quick. Loud. Determined to win. It didn’t matter if I got trampled. I popped right back up, formal school uniform dress flapping, bike pants underneath, grass streaks on my shins like battle paint.

If I had to pick a Spice Girl, I was Sporty Spice, no question. Minus the crop top, plus a whole lot of attitude. Tough, scrappy, and built for the chaos. I didn’t just play hard. I played like I belonged, tiara and all.

Because deep down, I knew I wasn’t just one version of a girl. I was all of them.

I was always switching roles. Girl, tomboy, royal, rebel.

Soft and scrappy. Pretty and powerful.

I didn’t know it back then, but it was the beginning of learning how to survive, by being everything, all at once.

The Multiverse of Me

By the time primary school kicked into gear, I had built my own multiverse of identities.

I was a musician in the school band, squeaking out sour notes on my clarinet, and still convinced I was destined for centre stage.

My big break came at the school fête. My besties Ana and Laura, the Irish twins, and I performed Barbie Girl by Aqua like it was our ticket to international stardom. We’d been rehearsing in their lounge room for weeks, blasting the CD on an old CD player that skipped whenever we danced too hard, still synchronising our moves like our entire legacy depended on it.

On show day, we came out swinging. Glitter lip gloss so thick we could’ve blinded the front row, high kicks that nearly took out someone’s sausage sizzle, and choreography we took very seriously. Elbows sharp. Hair flicks fierce.

In my mind, I was the lead vocalist. Obviously. Centre stage. Mic, hairbrush, in hand. Ana and Laura flanking me like bedazzled bodyguards. They were the sparkle. I was the spotlight.

It was messy, magical, and mildly unhinged in the best possible way.

I don’t even know if we sounded good. Honestly, probably not.

But in that moment, we were stars. Loud. Committed. Unbothered.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

The Good Girl Performance

My Catholic school era had me swinging the other way, too. For First Communion, I chose Saint Mother Teresa as my holy hero. Goodness, humility, peace. Iconic, really.

But let’s be honest. I was more chaos goblin than saint.

My Communion photos looked angelic. White gloves, soft curls, sweet smile. But little did anyone know what would come next.

One night, Mum shook me awake.

“I wrote you your speech,” she said.

I blinked at her, half-asleep. “What speech?”

“For school captain,” she replied, like it was obvious. Like it had already been decided.

I didn’t want to be school captain.
I wanted to be sports captain.

I was Sporty Spice, remember? The girl who got age champion in every event she could enter.

But I knew that voice.

The voice that meant this wasn’t a discussion.

So I got up and recited her words line for line like my life depended on it, because in a way, it did. Getting it wrong was not an option. Saying it without conviction was also not an option. If I didn’t perform like I meant it, I’d be stuck repeating it until I did.

I was selected as school captain, and suddenly I was being paraded like a trophy. Both my parents glowing with pride. Their polished prodigy.

Looking back now, I think that was the first time I learned something dangerous. If I performed well enough, I could earn love.

I was Saint Mother Teresa on the outside.

Full goblin on the inside.

All starch and halo up top. Goblin in the basement.

Then Grade 7 camp was where she finally broke free.

We’d been warned. No pranks, no sweets, no nonsense. Being school captain, I was expected to be responsible. Sensible. The good girl.

So naturally, what did the goblin in me decide? To pack like I was prepping for war. A stash of lollies. Multiple chip bags. Two fart bombs. And a plan.

First came the lolly ring.

We were crouched low between bunk beds, whispering in code, trading snacks like mini drug dealers. Sour straps, Wagon wheels, and Dunkaroos, all changing hands like they were hot commodities. My stash was the most stacked, obviously. I was running the operation like a seasoned snack lord with a reputation to protect.

Then came the fart bombs.

They were tiny silver sachet packets that needed a gentle squeeze to activate. The smell of rotten egg, readily available on the side of the counter at the local $2 store. Chaos in a small bag.

With a cheeky grin, the goblin in me leaned in and whispered, ‘My precious,’ full Gollum mode.

I waited until just before lights out, pressed them carefully, and slid them under the dorm beds. They inflated in silence, ticking away beneath our feet, and then bang.

Chaos.

Screaming. Gagging. The room smelt like sulphur, shame, and the sweet smell of victory

Royal by day, rogue by night.
My captaincy was quietly revoked until I’d had time to “think about what I’d done.”

I’d blown my shot on night one. Rookie mistake. Very on brand.

I spent the rest of camp benched, watching the other kids do archery, climb ropes, and toast marshmallows while I sat there reflecting.

Slight regret.

Still worth it.

But the part that stayed with me wasn’t the punishment.

It was Mum.

She was the one who helped me buy the fart bombs. The one who told me to pack the snacks. We stood side by side in the aisle, scanning shelves and picking out lollies like we were planning something important.

For once, she wasn’t the enforcer.

She was my accomplice.

And I clung to that version of her like proof that she saw me.
Proof that a sneakier, cheekier, more playful mum did exist.
A mum who didn’t just see me.
She got me.

Maybe that’s where I got it from. The cheek. The mischief. The rebellion wrapped in charm.

Maybe somewhere inside her, behind all the rules and routines, was a little girl who never got the chance to stir the pot herself.

And maybe, just maybe, she was letting me do it for the both of us.

Everywhere and Nowhere

Of all my memories from primary school, what I remember most is how easily I could adapt. Shift. Become whatever the moment asked of me.

I was good at adapting. Too good.
I could shift identities like outfits. Girl. Tomboy. Hustler. Clown.

Sometimes authentic. Sometimes performing. Whatever version kept me safe. Whatever version helped me belong.

One memory that still sticks with me.

In Grade 2, a boy who would later become a close family friend slipped me a love letter under the desk.

I panicked. Slammed the lid shut on his fingers.
He screamed. I screamed.

Mrs Hannah asked why it upset me. All I remember saying was that I didn’t want to be loved.

I didn’t want to be loved by him. I hadn’t even done anything to earn it.

Affection with no rules felt terrifying. But applause, performance, rehearsed validation, that kind of love I understood.

It wasn’t just one moment like that. It was a pattern. Snapshots from my primary school years. Versions of me, popping up and disappearing depending on what the day required.

The playground was my Wall Street. I traded my best Pokémon cards for food. Pikachus for pork buns. A rare holofoil Charizard for half someone’s lunch.

Then came the bikes.

The boys in the neighbourhood would knock on my door, asking if I could come out. We’d cruise the block, kick footies, and crack dumb jokes like we owned the street.

I was the only girl who could drift between groups like that. The girly girls and the rough footy boys.

I remember one of the girls in my class once writing me a letter asking how to talk to the boys so easily. Like it was some kind of skill. Like I had a secret language they didn’t.

Truth was i slipped between them all like it was nothing. Changing shape. Changing tone. Changing colours.

It worked.
Until it didn’t.

All that switching. All that shrinking and stretching to fit. Being everywhere meant I was always a little bit nowhere.

Echo of M.E.E

Back then, I didn’t know I was already surviving through code-switching, shape-shifting, and smile-keeping.

I didn’t realise that the Princess of Tonga was a scared little girl protecting her softness in plain sight, that the tomboy in rugby shorts was already learning to carry the weight, that the desk-slammer wasn’t mean but guarding her heart.

That Saint Mother Teresa wasn’t holy, just performing goodness to stay safe. That the goblin wasn’t bad, just hungry for freedom. That the playground hustler wasn’t greedy, only resourceful, solving her own problems.

And that the Barbie Girl dancer didn’t want fame at all. She just wanted someone to see her. To really see her, not for what she did, but for who she was.

And maybe all that shifting, all that bending and stretching to belong, wasn’t some grand performance at all. It was just a girl who thought she had to be everything, when really she was just trying to be enough.

Maybe all these years later, writing this and filling the margins of my journal with her story, I’m realising something as I start to reflect on the Echoes of M.E.E.

The person she’d been waiting for all along was me.

And finally, I see her, crown slightly crooked and all.

xx