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

Restrictions May Apply: Some Promotions Not Available In All Territories

This morning, I just want to vent.  In my last entry, I wrote about problems on this island that no one talks about.  They are here, growing over things like mildew on concrete buildings.  It’s ugly, but we’re not doing much to get rid of it and make Guam a nicer place to be.  We just ignore it and accept that having ugly mold all over our buildings is part of living on a tropical island. Paint is expensive!  Repainting stuff takes work!  We would rather just let it sit for a while, even though mildew is unhealthy and can kill you if it gets out of hand.

The other day, a local news article circulating was titled “Chuukese Outnumber Any Other Ethnicity on Guam in Alcohol Related Arrests.”  When I saw the headline pop on my twitter feed, I was disgusted.  I heard quite a few people talking about it, many of whom were also disgusted with the headlines, which singled out a specific ethnicity on island. And unfortunately, I heard from some who used the headline as fuel for ugliness.  I heard some really REALLY disturbing and ugly things come out of people’s mouths about our brothers and sisters from neighboring islands.  I’m not even going to repeat them here on this blog, but one of the things that disappoints me most is that some of those things came out of the mouths of people I really care about, even some people that I look up to.  Doesn't that suck?!

I went to dinner last night with some girlfriends and I brought up the article’s headline, wondering what in the world is happening on this island.  My friend explained that there has been worse.  She reminded me that not too long ago, an entire page was used within a local paper to provide detailed crime statistics for “Micronesians.”  (What is a Micronesian again?  I always forget.  I mean, Guam is part of Micronesia and we get a booth at the Micronesian Fair every year, but the rest of the year, Chamorros don’t like to be Micronesian.  Apparently, we’re only Micronesian during the Micronesian Fair.)

Sometimes, we decide to be Micronesian when we’re away in college and near other Micronesians who were privileged enough to leave our region and pursue study elsewhere.  We sometimes even form clubs, like Pacific Island’s Clubs or Micronesian Clubs.  But here on Guam, we don’t actually live day to day with the same unity and spirit of mutual Micronesian pride.  

The women I had dinner with described the statistics published, explaining how NO OTHER ethnicities were discussed.  No crime rates from the base, where domestic abuse is common. No crime rates on Chamorros, where we have more than our fair share of criminals. No mention of criminals of Asian descent who run notorious human trafficking brothels disguised as massage parlors, karaoke bars, or “gentlemen’s clubs.”  Nothing.  I guess the newspaper just felt the need to direct the entire island’s energy toward seeing ugly things done by ONE group. Never mind that every day, ugly things are done by people of all ethnicities.  

This is something that has bothered me since I returned home a couple years ago.  Because when you are in our island’s classrooms, you can see it very clearly.  Some of my students don’t realize that I’m worried about it, but it even worries me when they exhale in relief or announce delight upon finding out that the tall, white-looking woman in front of them is Chamorro.  I appreciate that they are happy to be taught by someone who shares their background, but I’m also bothered by the fact that they “loosen up” upon finding out “that I’m one of them.” I have lived my whole life like this: hearing what Chamorros say when they think Caucasians are not around and in turn, hearing what Caucasians say when they think Chamorros are not around.  I am an undercover Chamorro!  A double agent! ;P

One of the most interesting things has been the way in which my students can all find commonalities with each other  (Chamorro, Filipino, Chuukese, Palauan, Yapese...) to voice feelings about differences between them and people from the Continental US.  But once we start working on current events, particularly local current events, where specific groups are often highlighted (and those from the Continental US are routinely glorified), they start launching accusations at each other, forgetting that the people of Guam do not control their immigration laws, military dependents don’t get to determine where they end up, and that many of our residents from neighboring islands are here because of difficulties in their home that are the result of issues in US relations that are similar to the ones we have here.  

One of this past semester’s most interesting class discussions began after a student from the Philippines read a reflection wherein she voiced that one of the reasons she came to Guam was because, she felt that where she was “from in the Philippines doesn’t feel like home anymore.  There are all these other people and the culture is fading, and it’s hard to make a living because there are all these other people there now.  It's so crowded.  It's hard to make ends meet.  I came here for opportunities.”  When she shared this statement, an older student from Guam retorted that she found that strange because in her opinion, “Guam doesn’t feel like home anymore either” because “you are here doing that to us.”  I also had a student from “Guam High” (the school on the base) explain how much he misses his home in the states and that he sometimes feels excluded or hurt when in ear shot of comments about statesiders.  

One student announced, proudly, that “Filipinos were taking over Guam” and that he couldn’t “wait to see a Filipino Governor.”  It became even more interesting when a student from Yap read about why he left his island.  I remember the whole class staring at him in silence when he said, “My island, it was... it IS beautiful.  I was always very happy there and I feel like I had a lot there when I was growing up. But everyone kept telling me that I need to have more and leave to Guam for opportunities.  I am here now and I have a lot of things. I have all of this here, but I always feel like I have nothing.  I never felt that way in Yap, even though I really had nothing.”  

The people on this island, as simple as some people like to portray them, are thinking about some complex things, they are feeling complex feelings rooted in something real.   Those heavy and sometimes misinformed thoughts or feelings of resentment do not disappear with a surfacey “Hafa Adai.” They will not disappear if we decide to focus on one group and ignore the rest.

Over a year ago, when the DoD released a study on crime rates associated with plans to relocate troops, DoD announced that if any significant increase in crime occurred, it would be due to those from neighboring Micronesian islands.  At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the integrity of our local media.  It was suggested, through an organization I had just started to become active within, that I attend a weekend discussion session with one of our newspaper editors.  I guess he met with certain people and spoke with them to get a nice, balanced discussion going before writing his big Sunday letter from the editor. 

When I showed up, there was pizza, so my spirits remained high...until the actual discussion started.  The editor explained that he would be focusing on the build-up and wanted to write about impacts to our social services and our island’s needs for social workers, probation officers, etc.  I was surprised to see that in general, the other men at the table were largely silent on issues that I knew they must have had more to say about.  When the editor said something, I noticed how their eyes glazed over and they provided really “safe” perspectives that, in my opinion, didn’t really do much to create a compelling, informative, or particularly balanced piece.  

Being new and unfamiliar with what everyone else already seemed to know, I suggested that maybe one of the things we could do was to clarify who exactly needed these services.  I explained that the recent string of articles made it seem as if we’d need more social workers and law enforcement officers because people from neighboring islands would be running around committing crimes like crazy and neglecting their children.  I brought a very credible stack of research from a professor at Brown University who was hired by the local courts to explain what their needs might be.  Her study showed that we would all be needing these services, even people on the base, who occasionally drive drunk, commit crimes, neglect their children, and commit sexual offenses as well. I know that might sound like an obvious thing to point out.  But in all honesty, some people really pretend that everything going on within the fence is perfect.  It's like a big 50's family sitcom in there, or that's what some on this island would like everyone to believe.  The only people screwing up are us lazy, drunk locals.  I figured, if we were going to talk about solutions, we should probably clarify the problem and do so fairly.

I didn’t realize that pointing out that more than one group of people on island committed crimes was unacceptable.  A social worker from the university smiled at me appreciatively, and the two local males beside me looked at me in agreement, showing silent approval, but ultimately doing or saying nothing.  The editor gave me a patronizing smile and reminded me that we were “focusing on solutions.”  I guess I don’t think there’s any good in talking about solutions if we don’t even accurately identify the problem, so I pointed out that I brought some research to share.  He rolled his eyes and said, paternalistically, “Desiree, you don’t need to bring out your ‘research.’”  The Chamorro men beside me began to look down, as if trying to be invisible.  Being so new to the process, I ended up wasting some energy by trying to use a statistic regarding sex crimes within the study to make my point.  The editor of the newspaper sighed and said, “There’s no need to write about that.  We’re trying to find solutions here.  Women are raped everywhere and women will get raped no matter who is on Guam.”  

I had just come from a working environment and community that would not tolerate a statement like that, and I looked around the table, speechless, wondering when the men beside me were going to look up.  I didn't realize just how much we tolerated here yet.  I hadn't really started the process of thinking about our "tolerance levels." I was so confused.  I reminded myself that I had just got home and that I didn’t need to burn any bridges. I shut up and shut down for the rest of the discussion, which was empty and void of anything meaningful regarding “solutions.”  I decided that if I was wasting my time with this bullshit, I was gonna make the most of it.  I decided to get more pizza.

The editor politely ended the session and passed out his little card.  I quickly got up and left, not wanting to talk to any of the men in the room.  As I walked down the stairs, one of the older men tapped me on the shoulder.  He asked me if I was “Gloria’s granddaughter.”  I confirmed and tried to keep going.  He walked beside me anyway, explaining how he knew her.  “Oh, okay,” I said unenthusiastically.  “By the way,  I think you did very good in there.  You’re right,” he said.  I turned to look at him more closely, confused as hell.  “Oh I was?” I asked, a little annoyed.  “I didn’t know anyone thought so,” I said smugly.  “Nen, one thing you will learn is that there is no point in trying to tell these guys anything,” he said motioning up toward the office we just exited.  “After a while, you will see what I’m talking about.”  That was my first very clear look at “how it goes here.”  

Over the next few months, years... I watched as what the man said started to make more sense.  I watched quotes twisted grossly out of context.  I listened as conversations were framed on certain shows, how individuals who didn’t confirm the popular narrative had their calls cut off more quickly than others, how their questions were responded to with a little more condescension.  I know that there isn’t a single place in the world where the media is clean, but I started to see that we were a little dirtier than usual.  When working on a small fundraising raffle, which didn’t have anything to do with the build up, I had one radio station warn me that I couldn’t say anything “too controversial” and to keep it "light."  I was told, "no build up talk."  I didn’t even plan to.  Actually,  at the time, I was in a place where I was pretty uncomfortable doing anything but “keeping it light.”  I've come a long way from there.

 Before a speech at a certain academic conference, I had a superior speak to me with, what felt like, concern, asking me what community organizations I was part of and hinting that they preferred I not say anything about the build-up or political status... even though the conference was about this island’s future. They didn't even bother to ask what my perspective on the build up or political status was!  I was baffled.  No one questioned or warned people who openly supported the build-up or announced that we were just fine being a powerless territory.  That seemed to be okay.  It was an academic conference about the island’s future, but it was better that I dance around all the things looming over the island’s future and present a main point that was... “safe.”  I actually ended up really stressed over that whole thing.  I had some people nagging me about needing to say one thing and other people warning me not to say another.  By the time it was all through, I decided that middle aged Guamanians are the most confusing f-ing people I have ever met in my entire life.

 At the academic conferences I was used to, the more meaningful and exigent your topic, the better.  The narrower, the better.  But it seemed like I was being asked to keep it kind of broad by some people, and reminded how important it was to speak to the issue by another; and I was really worried about not pleasing both!  I thought of the radio station reminding me to “keep it light” again.  It seems like there are lots of reminders to “keep it light” all over the place. Half the time, I don't even plan on or realize that I am saying anything too “heavy.”   Is it really too controversial to point out that it's screwed up to keep singling out one ethnic minority?  Really? It was only after all the constant reminders to “keep it light” that I realized that “keep it light” meant “pretend nothing is going on and basically, never ever disagree.”  If you do, some old white guy who knows lots of people could totally embarrass you, misrepresent you, or make fun of you in the newspaper or on the radio. Over time I realized that even if that small handful of microphone holders does that, there are lots and lots of people in the actual community who don't really subscribe to their mentality.  (Even though those guys seem to think they have a monopoly on articulating what Guam is feeling.)  For a while, it was enough stress to really shut me up.  Do you know how freaking scary that is when you’re young and wanting to do well at work while keeping a steady pay check?  This island is small!  There are consequences!  And when people keep giving you little warnings to “keep it light” and say “Hafa Adai,” you start to get paranoid that if you don’t, something bad might happen.  

I didn’t really get what was going on here.  I would call friends from the states, even former professors and describe the odd new alternate universe I was suddenly operating in.  And then it all started to become clear.... this is how it goes in a “territory.”  How could I forget?  I grew up seeing it all over the place; it was even written on top of the pizza box at that little meeting with the editor, right on a little coupon and promotional pamphlet taped to the box:  Restrictions may apply. Some promotions not available in all territories.  

Because, in so many ways, a young woman asked me why I seem less bitchy these days.

I can’t help but write a “New Year’s” blog entry.  I tried not to, but as the first days of the new year roll by, it’s hard not to think of all the lessons you’ve learned and ways in which you’ve evolved as a person. Revealing my emotions and thoughts in this blog has had a profound impact on my life. Through regularly posting in this blog, I have learned that there are many people who identify with the things I thought I was struggling with alone. 

I am often invited into classrooms to discuss the blog, pieces of creative work, speeches I have delivered, or particular entries. Each time, I leave moved by the deeply personal things students have decided to share.  I’ve left a few sessions moved to tears by some of the emotion that individuals from various backgrounds have revealed. We’ve talked about ways they’ve been hurt by people like me and how they’re more aware of ways in which they hurt others in return. It’s surreal to walk into a room full of people you have never met and walk out feeling like you have known them for years.  It’s beautiful- being able to connect with strangers and turn them into life long friends after a single conversation. 

A graduate student from off-island called me to speak about my blog.  One of the things she pointed out was, what she perceived as, a “change in voice” from earlier entries.    I didn’t even remember writing some of the things she brought up during our interview.  It prompted me to do some reading when I had the house to myself.  As  soon as my baby was whisked away to school for the morning, I began reading through early entries.  She was right.  My earlier entries were often written in a very desperate, panicked tone.  Then there was a shift toward flat out anger and bitterness, then bouts of sarcasm and mean spirited humor.

While reading older entries, I watched myself move through the process of thinking about my family’s history, our island’s political status, narratives of history that had been marginalized in America’s framing of past events, our island’s uncertain future, and for the first time in my life, taking an honest look at who I am as a Chamorro, particularly a Chamorro who has been raised within a military family.  

This blog has prompted many honest discussions with people around me.  Close girlfriends from the states called, surprised that I had so much sitting inside me.  They asked me why I never shared certain things with them.  Some of them cried, remembering incidents I had wrote about, asking why I had not said anything in the moment. I would only show them things that kept them comfortable in the knowledge they currently had regarding island life, my patriotism after the “liberation” of my grandparents, and showing how many similarities we had. 

I had two very different groups of friends that I kept separate from each other through much of my education.  I had the friends I met in the states and my friends from Guam and Saipan.  I was more honest about my feelings in front of the latter.  And those of us who shared a heritage in the Marianas were not always forthright with certain subjects in front of friends from elsewhere. This hurt some of my friends. It even hurt relatives through marriage who are from the states. It came as a shock to those who had married into Chamorro families who weren’t entirely aware of some the feelings held by people around them.  Some of them still insist that they “know” how Chamorro people feel because they “married a Chamorro.” 

I had a friend e-mail me, saying he had come across my blog, began reading it and was suddenly sad thinking of comments he made.  I had never said anything.  He said that after reading a few entries, he couldn’t understand how I was able to hang around our friends. He was suddenly remembering the silence he received from certain relatives and thinking about it in a new way.  He thought they were shy and inarticulate, not informed enough about certain issues to contribute to the conversation.  He suddenly realized that there was much more behind the polite silence and indifferent hospitality.  It was the same with girlfriends.  They asked me if I hated them.  I never hated any of them.  Accepting comments like that had just been so much a part of me.  I had been raised to absorb them and not confront them as problematic. I was raised to ignore anything rude, biased, or insulting and to focus on showing others that I was not hateful or racist, even in the face of blatant racism against me or people like me.  Many times, they didn’t even realize I was identifying with the people they felt so harshly about.  They forgot or didn’t realize that I was one of those people; because I was so busy prioritizing their cultural lens.  I tried to be “Chamorro,” which I thought was being “accepting, giving, and tolerant.”  Despite what many of those public service commercials from certain businesses and our visitor’s bureau tell you, there is a lot more to us than that. 

All the effort put toward proving that I was not resentful actually ended up doing the reverse once actual scholarship and a broader understanding of my home’s history came clashing together with my emotions and upbringing.    

It’s not that I feel there is no longer anything to feel panicked about.  It’s not that I feel there is no longer anything Chamorros should feel angry or bitter about.  I have just learned that in order to prevent those things from consuming you, you have to be honest about them. In order to stomp out feelings of resentment or racism, you have to first acknowledge that they are there. In order to fix a problem, you have to actually look at the problem and study it.  

There is so much racism and resentment on this island because we spend so much time talking about how it’s not there, pretending nothing is going on. We pretend that everyone is getting along and that all military dependents stationed here are basking in the friendliness of islanders; and that in turn, locals are swinging their doors open for sailors walking down the street. We try to pretend we are living in a big Guam Visitor’s Bureau commercial.  GVB's commercials are constant reminders that we need to be welcoming, share, invite foreigners into our home, and be diverse.  The people of this island have never had to be reminded to do those things before.  The sudden upswing of public outreach messages to be welcoming and “one” with everyone is a big indicator that something else is happening on this island.  


I had a hard time answering the graduate student earlier because in the short span of time in which she asked me the questions, I didn’t have time to think about exactly WHY a subtle shift in tone had snuck its way into my entries.  But now I have an answer for her:  I am less bitter, less angry, and less hateful because I was honest with myself and with others. I allowed myself a space in which others could challenge my negativity, question it, and disagree with it.  I made a space where I could challenge others in return.  I feel less anger toward individuals associated with institutions and systems that I fundamentally disagree with because I have done something our island has largely refused to do without buffering the discussion with reminders of our friendliness and gratitude:  I’ve acknowledged the reality of how I feel and went to the root of it in order to move forward (instead of trying to push aside the root of these feelings and pretend they are too far away to be valid parts of the discussion). They are valid parts of the discussion today because we never took the time to discuss them in the past.

Her questions make me think of a quote from Howard Zinn’s widely read book, The Peoples History of the United States.  When explaining the emphasis on marginalized aspects of American history and our tendency to prioritize some things and ignore others, he wrote:

“One can lie outright about the past.  Or one can omit facts which might lead to unacceptable conclusions.”

I feel that is something our island should take to heart if we ever want to get beyond some of the very real tension brewing around us.  And trust me, there is some serious tension snaking around this community.  We can keep omitting parts of our history and our actual feelings, or we can keep going back and forth over the unacceptable conclusions that fuel discussions regarding our culture, history, attitudes, and our futures.  

When I began this blog, I began in a state of grief and anger.  I let myself grieve appropriately and honestly, realizing there was legitimacy to my perspective. This helped me to move on and conserve energy for more meaningful work and progress in the present.  The problems we face on this island are big.  We have a long road ahead of us. A change in political status, the slowing of the build up, or getting swept away with the rhetoric of “oneness” and “buying local” aren’t gonna fix it.  There is no single cure for our island’s many ailments.  But one very important place to start is acknowledging just how unhealthy our home and our people are right now.