Mahalang

I'm stuck grading and having trouble focusing because I'm so mahalang today.  So, this is my way of getting it out of my system and finding focus again.  ;)

Cindlekuh, Fu'una, and A Husband with No Taste Buds.

My student, a young man from a neighboring island (Kosrae), told me a story the other day.  The story was about the bread fruit goddess who people say “used” to live on his island.  He shared the story with me after I casually mentioned that I had a craving for lemmai. A lunchless day had images of the thick fruit dancing through my mind, soaked in coconut milk.  My husband says he doesn’t like it.  When I first brought him home, I excitedly placed a thick slice of pale yellow perfection on a paper plate, proudly announcing that it was “the best!”  As he chewed, I watched his face, waiting for a look signaling impressed agreement. His face remained indifferent.  “It tastes like nothing,” he said unenthusiastically.  I grabbed the plate back, offended. “What would YOU know? You’re from California,” I said, annoyed.  What do you mean it “tastes like nothing?”  I explained that the taste was subtle, but there.  “Once you learn to taste it, once you find it, you’ll understand why the rest of the family has it on their plates.”  “It tastes like nothing,” I thought to myself, mimicking him. Party after party, I placed a slice on his plate, waiting for him to find the taste.  Each time, he confirms that “it tastes like nothing.” To me, it tastes like everything. 

I heard this story from Kosrae before, this tale of the “bread fruit goddess.” It was once shared by another student from Kosrae in a paper.  The bread fruit goddess keeps coming back to visit me through students who teach more than their teacher, young minds full of wisdom that slips through the cracks of a remedial writing requirement.  The goddess, Cindlekuh, is (in this student’s version) a “powerful ghost” who provided the people of Kosrae with bread fruit, taro, fish, banana, and other types of food.  She gave them these things in exchange for their faith in her.  She controlled agriculture in Kosrae. When I first read a version of her tale in the other student’s paper, I wrote, “She’s the Demeter of Kosrae!” in the margins.  My student, confused, asked me who Demeter was after class. “She’s the Cindlekuh of Greece,” I responded.  “They know Cindlekuh in Greece?” he asked, joking.  I bring up Demeter again in this conversation.  The name doesn’t ring a bell.

When Cindlekuh was annoyed by the people, she’d send them natural disasters.  She would call forth floods and typhoons in irritation and anger.  As I hear this story the second time around, I think to myself, “If I were Cindlekuh, and I were watching over Guam, the island would be in a constant state of natural disaster.”  The people of Kosrae respected Cindlekuh until the missionaries showed up.  My student says that the missionaries “demoralized Cindlekuh” and chased her from the island.  He says she only survives in legends.  I think of Cindlekuh’s face, imagining what I think she would look like.  Each time, a new version of her takes shape: angry and beautiful; beaten, demoralized, and departing; happily sending gifts; and most often, I imagine her calling forth storms of punishment.

My student asks me if Chamorros have a Cindlekuh too.  In all honesty, I tell him, that I’m not sure.  I think of Fu’una, our mother, our creator.  Did she know Cindlekuh?  Did Fu’una and Cindlekuh talk to each other about us?  Do they both peer at us in disgust from the outdated “book of legends” we pass around?  Do they laugh, conspiring together, knowing that they are treating us the way we have treated them?  Have our islands given up on us because we have given up on them?  I listen as my student tells me more about his home, but my mind wanders back to Cindlekuh... and Fu’una...and lunch.

Before we part, my student asks me if Fu’una still exists here, to Chamorros.  I sigh, not really sure what to say.  “Well, some think she does.  I think she does, but many will remind me that it’s ‘just a legend’ and think it’s silly,” I say, laughing half-heartedly.  “Miss, you think Fu’una is here.  I can tell,” he says, smiling.  “How can you tell?” I ask him.  “You are just too embarrassed to say you think she is here because you are a smart teacher,” he accuses.  “No, I’m not that smart if I’m too embarrassed to talk about someone as important as her!  Don’t you think?” I say thoughtfully.  “Miss?  I’m smarter than you.  I don’t know who Demeter is, but I think Cindlekuh is still around Kosrae,” he said pointedly.

JUS-TICE! JUS-TICE! JUS-TICE!

Earlier this month, my students and I made our way to the University of Guam field house to listen to Justice Sonia Sotomayor address the island’s students.  Months before her arrival, we were asked to identify students who might be interested in going and submit their information in order to receive security clearance. We were also asked to forward any questions they may want to ask for approval in advance. Not wanting my students to miss the opportunity, I quickly e-mailed those who had registered for classes early and extended the invitation.  I would have invited all my students to submit their information, but the semester had not started, and I was only able to to contact those who were on my roster for pre-registration.

My students were looking forward to Sotomayor’s “Conversatorio” with Guam’s students.  I instructed them to become more familiar with her background in order to enrich their experience.  They were excited.  They liked, what struck them as, the exclusiveness of it all.  They seemed to want their peers to know that they would get to go, because they “were invited and cleared.”  I reminded them that it wasn’t as much about exclusivity as it was about turning in personal information before a deadline.  None the less, the rumor of it being “invite only” seemed to embed itself in their understanding of how Guam’s students were selected for entry into the event.

My students, many of whom come from backgrounds of economic or social struggle, have a heightened awareness of “who is who in the zoo.”  There have been occasional instances when I have seen this awareness rear its ugly head in their every day interactions with each other and in their descriptions of others.  I always find myself wishing that there were some kind of a recorder in the classroom.  I find myself wondering if some of the figure heads they are discussing realize the way they are being perceived by the island’s young adults, particularly those our privileged groups do not cross paths with at events. I mean, don’t get me wrong.  They make their appearances in economically struggling areas, do some waving, and shake all sorts of hands, but do they REALLY know what some of the people who live here are seeing?  Do they know what some of the people who live here actually HEAR when they are talking?  A great example of this was the poor way in which an innocent comment by the Governor resonated with quite a few people.  While attempting to explain a positive encounter with a couple at a restaurant, he awkwardly described them as “not looking like they eat at restaurants” often.  The comment, which I’m sure was not intended to be insulting, created a bunch of questions regarding how a person who “can regularly eat at Carmen’s” looks.

I felt guilty and embarrassed when some of my students asked me if “Carmen’s was high class.”  And for the record:  No, it’s not.  Apparently, to some of them, I look like I’m eating at restaurants often, but that could just be the last ten pounds of baby weight too.  ;P

I’ve written about this before, but I can’t say it enough: our community doesn’t make a habit of articulating what they are feeling in public ways; but carefully studying the silent faces around you, listening to the mumbling on the ground, an honest conversation after developing a deep and sincere relationship with a person can teach you quite a bit about this island.  If you’ve been here long enough (and a few years isn’t always long enough), you will find that nothing should be taken for its face value.  What is said within official dialogues seldom captures it all. In fact, recorded, official dialogues and some of the “surveys” frequently mentioned in certain popular forums seldom get to the root of public sentiment.  After all, we’re from a “high context” culture here.  Much of the information around us rests in the context or in the person.  The emphasis on “face saving” is more prominent here than within the “low context” culture many from the Continental US tend to be products of.

The Sotomayor “Conversatorio” proved to be a very interesting example of my class’s heightened awareness of where they are on the power totem pole.  I’m writing about it today after getting through a stack of papers wherein student journal entries, once again, took a turn toward resentment. Ironically, the prompt they were responding to had nothing to do with local government or local current affairs. But when you discuss things, you support the discussion with what you know and what you’ve seen; and my students are constantly reminding me of what they see.  They are continuously teaching me things about this island.  Their writing made me think of what happened during Sotomayor’s visit,  an event where some of our island’s privileged groups unknowingly stung some of them.

We made our way into the field house and positioned ourselves on wooden bleachers.  Sotomayor was a down-to-earth woman who seemed to sincerely enjoy meeting our island’s students.  And in turn, the students (particularly the high school students) seemed very eager to meet her.  It was obvious that quite a few of them didn’t entirely understand who she was or what she did, but they knew that she was important, had lots of security, and was someone of significance from “the states.” As she moved through the rows of students, taking pictures, and getting images with the people, I smiled at how quickly they rushed toward her and cheered, shoving each other to make sure they were in the shot, waving each time the camera passed over them and lit up a big screen over the auditorium. Questions were presented to Sotomayor in an orderly fashion.  A student representing each school was placed at a microphone and as their turn approached, their respective school was introduced. Sotomayor would make her way toward them to say “hello” and respond to the questions while sitting with the students.  Each school was pleasantly (and quickly) introduced by one of the island’s established attorneys.

However, one school in particular received a more elaborate introduction than others.  As the island’s only private, all-boys school was enthusiastically introduced to Sotomayor, the local attorney leading the program hardly seemed able to control herself.  It was almost as if we were at a pep rally and the star quarter back were about to enter the room.  The all boys school stomped loudly on the bleachers, yelling confidently as the attorney announced that her son went there, and so did the sons of another local judge, and it was the alumni of another local judge, in addition to the alumni of her five brothers.... and of course, the governor!  I watched Sotomayor’s face as the attorney repeatedly interjected praise for the school.  At one point, Sotomayor paused, politely and humorously asking if there were any other alumni from the school that needed mentioning.  As this was happening, I noticed that the camera connected to the big screen was focused in the direction of a public school seated across the boys’ school.  As I turned toward the screen, I felt an immediate stab of panic, hoping the camera would turn its attention elsewhere.  I jabbed a colleague beside me, signaling for her to look at the screen.  She looked up and winced, “Oh no!” she mouthed.  For a few seconds, that big screen TV provided a shot of the most realistic representation of Guam youth I had seen that whole morning.  It was an image of rows of silent public school students, many of them boys, staring in resentment across the auditorium at an obliviously happy group of Guam’s wealthier sons.

These were not stares of simple rival school competition.  School rivalries are loud, accompanied by the loud, mocking cat calls of humans in puberty.  No, this was not school rivalry.  It was silent, still, tense, angry, resentment...and some won’t like that I say this, but there was even a little bit of envy.   In front of me, my students, graduates of our public schools, mumbled sarcastic comments. I looked at the other public schools seated around us.  The same, still and uncomfortable faces stared across the room.  At this point, a female judge from the island stood up, walked across the stage and whispered in the ear of the emceeing attorney.  The attorney, not seeming to notice anything out of the ordinary, announced that the female judge wanted to point out that she was a graduate from our island’s public schools.  The female judge stood up and happily gestured toward her former high school.  The still faces of the students beside me gradually softened as they processed the judge’s mentioning of them. And as young people do, they quickly grabbed hold of the opportunity to cheer, have fun, and push the moment of discomfort away.

My colleague glanced at me, and professors from another higher-ed institution exchanged knowing glances with us.  “Thank God,” the woman beside me mumbled.  I heard the women to my left whispering, disappointed in the amount of attention poured on the boys school.  The rest of the event was meticulously planned; the questions were light, non-controversial, a little redundant.... and safe.  As our local figures stood and brought the ceremonies to a close, one of them asked the students to join in on a “cheer.”  The “cheer” was straight out of a frat party; it was a boyish, repetitive chant of “JUS-TICE, JUS-TICE, JUS-TICE.”  I watched as the students looked around in a little bit of confusion, seeming to ask themselves if they seriously wanted them to do it.  The young men from the boys school eagerly joined in, and after a little more encouragement, the rest of the schools politely cooperated, half rolling their eyes.  As the whole auditorium (including myself) awkwardly called for “JUS-TICE, JUS-TICE, JUS-TICE,” I heard the woman beside me mumble something else: “he graduated from there too.”

It was such a strange event for me.  The speaker, Justice Sotomayor, seemed to be trying to tell the island’s students that no matter where they are from or what their background is, they could go as far as their dreams could take them.  But the message sent by some of our local figures seemed to overpower it for some of them. When I walked out of the event, I heard people quietly commenting on the boys school more than the event itself.

When I got home, relatives who were at the event for other reasons asked me if my students and I noticed the continuous nods toward the boys school.  They asked how we “felt” about it.  I was careful to respond.  The truth is that quite a few of my male relatives have graduated from that boys school.  The truth is that many of my friends, who are young men on their way toward success, are proud graduates of the school.  In true “Guam” fashion, I replied by reminding the people who asked me that the other judge had also pointed out her public alumni.  And in turn, the person who asked would say, “that’s true” and we would move on with the conversation, refraining from directly speaking about the question that prompted our discussion in the first place.  It's only after I behave this way that I realize how much my upbringing here has influenced the way I communicate. And I teach Human Communications for Christ's sake.

When I write about the way I dodged the question, I'm amazed at how automatically I responded that way.  Dodging an actual response came so easily, so naturally.

I wonder what Sotomayor saw when she came to Guam.  I wonder what Sotomayor heard when she came to Guam.  I wonder what she’ll tell people when she is asked about Guam.

In my tub, beneath murky water, is a plug,

made circa 1956.

It holds dirty water in; sealing itself tightly over a drain meant to suck out filth.

When I turn the knob right, expecting clean liquid, 

anticipating something cool to dunk in....

it makes sure there’s no room; 

because tubs can only hold so much water;

and this tub is full.

Clear water laps over porcelain walls, falling to the floor: wasted.

Pushed elsewhere, rushing its way through cracked tiles: disconnected, frantic.

Thinking of taking a bath; 

but you wash in there, with that kind of water?

The kind of water that old plug is holding in?  

Come out dirtier than you started.

Tinane

I wrote this on a Sunday.  I love Sundays here.  I keep busy doing nothing. I usually take Vicente to the beach when I want him to swim, but we set up a small baby pool and he enjoyed Guam all the same.

I was inspired by a student who shared that he moved to the island from one of the states.  I sat with interest as he discussed his move to Guam with his classmates.  His classmates, all having grown up here, are prone to forgetting how much this island has to offer.  When you're constantly hearing how bad things are going on Guam, you can slip into taking what we actually do have for granted.  The student explained that he and his family were struggling to make ends meet and keep business afloat in the states.  They came to Guam hoping for a new start.  They were baffled by that. The student explained how their quality of life had improved since the move and how positive his experience was while transitioning into life here.  He referred to his former home as "boring," explaining how there was really "nothing to do."  He explained how Guam struck him as a place with more opportunities to enjoy life and have fun. His classmates were truly confused.  They were so used to hearing how hard it was to make ends meet on Guam, that they didn't realize that in many ways, it's harder (or just as hard) to make a comfortable life in the Continental US.  Without the traditional system of support from your extended family, things can feel much more stressful.  I enjoyed hearing them go back and forth with each other on whether or not Guam was a better place to be than the United States.  I smiled as the student from the states defended the island, listing all its advantages, bringing up everything from the personalities of our residents to the beaches.  It was such a good experience for them; because sometimes, you can forget how great you are, how special you are.  And sometimes, when all you hear are negative things (or empty trite things that are supposed to sound positive), you need someone to remind you.  After a while, my students realized that everything their classmate brought up was essentially true.  I laughed when one of them smiled and said, "Yeah, I guess Guam is pretty bad ass.  Guam does rule."

I thought about how "bad ass" Guam was this Sunday while watching Vicente swim in his little pool.

Chebut hands slamming through water,

Happy screams colliding with the sound of a proud gayu.

Dirty dogs lay happily in front of a black truck painted red by island roads.

And they say there’s nothing to do on Guam.

Uncles slicing niyok with rusty machetes,

A single piece of fåha grabbed by three aguaguat boys.

Rain plays chicken; coming and going,


 just as meat over a makeshift grill is pulled to safety.

And they say it’s boring here.

Bushcut ninjas wrapping their heads in damp t-shirts,

making graceful half-circles over stubborn grass.

Little legs sliced by sakati, sagi after an hour of oblivious jungle joy.

A black device signaling the arrival of urgent messages.

I’m busy. 

Tough Questions

*My friend sent me this clip after discussing some of these issues with him.  I thought it was worth sharing in this entry.  You may already be familiar with the piece.


This past week, an old, angry, and beautiful face has been imprinted in the back of my mind.  I thought of her, yelling uncomfortable words, over and over in front of a microphone, pleading with the audience before her.  I thought of her as I sat in front of a blank computer screen, waiting for my fingers to create words.

I was asked to participate in an event to “help women heal” and "raise consciousness."  I was asked to write about an experience and share it on a stage with a crowd staring back at me.  I was supposed to share it along with other women, who would take turns sharing their experiences, assuming that the audience before me would somehow reach a kind of awareness about the crimes we leave hidden in the dark corners of our collective consciousness.

As I sat in front of my computer, trying to write. I realized something as the memory of the older woman yelling forced its way from the back of my mind.

No one helped her heal.  Our community wasn’t there for her.

I once sat in an audience, with other members of my community, as an elderly woman disclosed something deeply painful, deeply personal, and deeply disturbing.  As she pleaded with the audience to heed her warning and be aware, I fought the weight of heavy tears and a kind of desperate discomfort that I had never felt before.  I saw fear, pity, understanding, and pain on the faces of women who sat near me.  I felt the silent desire to rush toward her and cry, wrapping our hands around her; but more than anything I felt... I saw the restraint we all showed as she stood there, strong enough to yell it, pointing a finger at the audience.

She is an older woman who does not lie, a woman who has never lied about the ugliness we refuse to talk about on this island.  Well, we refuse to talk about it unless we address it in a way that doesn’t require that we actually talk about it.  We like events with pretty ribbons we can wear that represent ugly things. She is a woman who has done her homework and can support her every belief, but she is a woman that has been marked unstable: a typhoid Mary that many are afraid to be around or associated with.

Their fear of being too closely associated with her isn’t because they believe her anger and message are unwarranted: their distaste for her stems from a deep discomfort with her honesty and her ability to say something ugly aloud, something we know is true, but something too upsetting for us to articulate ourselves.   She doesn’t package herself in a way that our community is comfortable with.  As a matter of fact, we push her away because in general, she refuses to package herself at all.

I kept thinking of her...and this memory.  I remember how some in the audience stood up and walked out of the community center.  When discussing it with some of them later, they shared that it wasn’t because they didn’t believe her that they left. It wasn’t because they didn’t share her anger over it that made them get up.  What forced them from the room was a kind of embarrassment with the rawness of her words.  Over the few weeks following this incident, I listened closely to people as they discussed the old woman’s words.  They shook their heads in disapproval of the vulgarity of her story, feeling embarrassed that she shared it.  Oddly, she didn't use a single cuss word.  She didn't use inappropriate language; what they found vulgar was the truth of it. They felt that saying it out loud was rude; they said that she could have said it “more nicely.”  I remained silent during these discussions, wondering how in the world she could have made something so innately ugly “nicer.”  I listened in quiet disappointment as they expressed more disgust over the packaging of her words than the incident itself.  There was more anger over her loss of composure and her decision to hurt publicly than the fact that a member of this community had been hurt.  They said cruel things about her for being so vulgar, wishing she had kept it to herself.  Later, I realized how much courage it takes to do something like that.  Later, I realized what a deep act of love for this island that was.  It was shared out of a concern for us, for our island, and our well being.

Within the same span of days that this memory was dancing around my head, I watched as a dialogue reared its head over a popular forum.  A controversial professor at our island’s University called one of our island’s female social workers a “barfly”  after simply disagreeing with him. He mocked her, implied unfair things and never once responded with anything of substance to her initial point.  He just personally attacked her (as he had done often in the past to other members of this community, including students from the University). Later, two older women, frustrated with the disrespect the professor had been repeatedly showing, expressed their frustration, telling him to “shut up and go home.”  At first, I thought the dialogue was funny, very funny. Then I noticed something.  The older, respected woman from the community, who told the man to “shut up and go home” was called a “bitch.” The person who called her the name admitted that he didn’t appreciate or agree with the man’s perspective or his behavior, but that he was “appalled” by the lack of “hospitality” shown by the older woman who had lost her temper.

I entered the dialogue, trying to steer the discussion back toward the topic, but instead of getting back to the issue, the man kept veering off, making personal attacks and implying insulting things about the women who responded to him.  Some of my aunties, disgusted by the man, told me to ignore him.  They said that I needed to “consider the source.” I was truly shocked by the lack of respect and professionalism shown by a man who represents our island’s education system.  I remembered how in the past, he had even asked my cousin to tape herself so he could see how worked up she was when she responded to him.  When I walked around in real life, people constantly brought up how shocked they were with his behavior too, but I noticed that aside from expressing their shock and disgust in smaller conversations, they never truly came to any of the women’s defenses in more public spaces (where it would actually count).  They sat by and watched in pity and anger as women they knew, love, and respected were being insulted.

As I sat in front of my blank computer screen, trying to write in order to present at this event. I thought of all of this and I asked myself some questions:  Would this really heal anyone?  Would sharing this heal me?  Can I trust my community with this?  I take pride in being from Guam, in being Chamorro, and I often write about the strength of our people, our women in particular.  But this week, I asked myself some very tough questions.  Is it really strength I see in the stoicism of our women?  Is it really our island’s “ability to be the bigger and better person” I see when we refuse to respond to injustice and disrespect?

We like to tell ourselves that we are refusing to dignify the situation by reacting, but I started to wonder if, in our refusal to “lower ourselves” to come to each other’s defense, if we have lost some dignity ourselves. We allow ourselves to be abused, disrespected, and taken advantage of.  How can I trust a community that doesn't even protect itself to be there when I need protection?  What kind of a community are we anyway? Are we really the loving stuff of those big ad campaigns calling visitors to our island to witness the "island spirit?" Is there sincerity in our claims to hospitality and mutual concern for each other's well being?

 I don’t know what conclusion I came to.  I'm still thinking about it.  I think it is hard for me to figure out because of the deeply personal things I was mulling over. By the time the deadline for the piece rolled around, I decided not to submit anything.  Instead, I edited an old blog entry, discussing something “safer,” addressing another issue entirely.  I did not trust that I would find any kind of “healing” from contributing what I originally worked on.  My friend tells me that I am wrong.  She tells me that my fears are rooted in more.  Maybe they are.  I hope they are.

I disappointed her by not wanting to participate entirely.  She was shaken by, what struck her as, my negativity toward our people. I don't know how to describe the feeling I have right now about it all, but it's not negativity.  I love Guam, but sometimes Guam doesn't love itself.

She reminded me of some of the great people on this island who have been attacked or ridiculed after acts of honesty and love, trying to encourage me.  I thought of those people and how our island has treated them: made some of them social pariahs, mocked some of them, excluded some until they gave up and turned coats, and for some of them, only appreciated them after they’ve died, given up and stopped fighting... or left, giving their talents to other communities who recognized the talent we were ashamed of.  Ironically, those places that end up with the people we mistreated are places or communities we seem to put on a pedestal.

(Guam makes a habit of rejecting some of its own, taking what the place we look up to won't, and then sending our own somewhere else, almost as payment for their leftovers.)

I even thought of Dr. Underwood: a man I have admired since childhood who seems to have given up, seeming to jump on a train before it runs him over. Accepted and respected in a position of influence after toning down what once seemed to be his truth.  Has he found a new truth?  Maybe.  I still love listening to him, reading everything he wrote, and learning from him. I don't agree with everything he says anymore, but there hasn't been a time when I haven't truly appreciated hearing him speak.  I just always find myself wondering what happened to him at the same time too.

Will I be that way? Will I give up and get on the train too?  Is there even a seat left on that train? It already seems so full. Do people who are comfortable care about justice? We often forget that comfort and justice are not the same thing here.

My friend was right, but all I could say in response was that I’m no “great” social figure like those people.  And even though she reminded me that I wasn't alone, I couldn't help but remind her that doing that kind of stuff FEELS lonely.

In some ways, I wondered if this community was even worth hurting like that for. 

I’m just like everyone else here.

I won’t be reading the piece I originally intended to share.  I don’t even know if I want to participate at all, but I know that this whole situation has forced me to dig deep inside and look at myself, my opinions, and our island critically; and I guess for whatever that is worth, I grow from it.

Page 195

Taininangga.

It means “hopeless” or “desperate.”

I looked up the word after talking to an aunt this morning.  I stared at her face, watching her eyes, cheeks, and mouth:  dams preventing anything of substance from breaking through.  I respectfully nodded, appearing to soak in her wisdom.  I hear her girlfriends echo her call for composure.  I slip into auto pilot, letting the familiar speech loop in circles around my head, then I pop them like colorful bubbles floating down in front of me.

PoP pOp PoP.

When I push my finger through the pretty film of their soapy syllables, the air fills with nothing.

A tiny, pathetic drop of water slips to the floor.  I would mop it up, but it’s no flood.  It’s just a tiny, shiny droplet.  No one will see.  No one will mind. Everyone will just walk right over it.

Her mouth moves; and I can tell, by the shape of her pretty lips, that they are shaping words with love.

I love her too.

PoP pOp PoP.

I slowly reach my hands up to catch the airy words, catching reflections of light... almost looking like hope until my fingernail slices through to reveal that the light was just a reflection. Loving aunties blowing bubbles in the air for me to chase and pop.

She begins a sad story... another sad, indignant, story full of choked words and repressed anger.  I watch her skinny hand move to her little chest as she says, “excuse me, I just get so worked up when I talk about these things.”  I watch her palm rest, pausing with her story as she finds the will to continue.

But I’ve heard this story before.  I know how this story will end.  It will end in bubbles reflecting hope, bubbles reflecting strength, bubbles reflecting fight.  Pretty bubbles that will swirl around me, making me forget the ugliness, making me feel hopeful and excited until they all silently explode.

I stopped feeling joy when my aunties blew bubbles a long time ago.  I got tired of watching little droplets dry up before the next little splash fell.

Evaporating.

Disappearing.

Twenty-five minutes creep by and I am still on auto pilot.  Trained too well not to obey.  Trained too well to disagree.  I agree.  I consent.  I promise.

I vow to be too good to hear it all, too good to see it all, too good to respond to it all... too good for it all until it all buries me, until my auntie and I are somewhere blowing bubbles for my son together in the sky, watching his little body chase the pretty orbs that catch light and make rainbows for him to smile at.

And when she leaves the room, I open the dictionary she presented me with two Christmases ago.  I flip the pages and land on page 195.  I stare in silence at the word, surrounded by evaporating droplets.

Tainninangga