Photo of Attorney Therese Terlaje (second to the left) presenting at the Legislature's Public Forum on Decolonization. Listening around her are Senator and Judge, BJ Cruz; attorney Leevin Camacho, and attorney Julian Aguon. Photo by J. Crisostomo
To the annoyance of some of the very lady-like, composed women in my family, I dive into periods of sarcasm and politically incorrect humor to confront issues and information that greatly disturb me. I believe that everyone needs a healthy place to dump emotions or anger, because if feelings are not allowed to run freely (within safe spaces), those feelings can rear their heads in destructive, divisive, or counter productive ways. I find writing in my blog, sarcasm, and humor to be important tools in helping me navigate through information I am forced to weed through while completing projects in more formal settings. I use creative blogging and humor as a way to help me remain... composed. Lately, I've been thinking about this need to constantly feel "composed." I've been exploring the idea of just how unhealthy it can be to be preoccupied with putting on a composed front. I've also been really struggling to find a healthy balance between being composed for the sake of productivity and being emotionally healthy and emotionally dishonest with myself. Sometimes, we trick ourselves into thinking that being UNEMOTIONAL is the bigger indicator of sanity and critical thinking. But the truth is that the complete lack of emotion regarding issues of human rights is a very big sign of something very wrong... something very UNHEALTHY happening in society.
I launch into these dark humor campaigns when basic logic stops working. When the logical gaps around me become so big that they’re literally rejecting common sense, I tend to become the court jester. This sometimes disturbs my mother, who seems to both appreciate the message imbedded in the joke, while simultaneously wishing I would share the message in a way that wasn’t so disruptive to her comfort level. The thing is, in order to become more informed, more critical, and in general, less colonized, you have to become UNCOMFORTABLE. Discomfort is necessary.
Last week, a presentation from a local attorney at the legislature’s Decolonization Forum made a huge impact on me. I wanted to write about the presentation, by Attorney Therese Terlaje, days ago, but I needed time to process and cope with what she shared and information I had been studying that week (regarding the history of US economic development within Micronesia, political status, and self-determination). To be honest, I just felt overwhelmed. Our world’s problems are huge. The injustices happening globally are overwhelming. It’s no wonder that people turn a blind eye to them so often. Looking at them straight on is hard; acknowledging the world’s crimes against humanity is, in every single way, uncomfortable.
I think of Therese when I think of the idea of becoming “uncomfortable,” because during her presentation last week, it was obvious to me that she was uncomfortable speaking about our island. It was obvious that the gravity of her presentation’s content was so upsetting to her that it was, at some points, difficult for her to deliver. Many people on our island do not talk about these things because they are hard to say out loud. Some of the women in my family don’t like to talk about them because, even though they are very well-versed on the realities of our island, they don’t think they can remain composed if they were to speak honestly and openly about it with others (especially if people argued with them or questioned them about the validity of their feelings). The fear of losing composure sits across their mouths like duct tape.
Therese immediately reminded me of some of the women in my family: soft-spoken, beautiful, smart, well educated, not outwardly confrontational, but deeply concerned...deeply devastated. She represented the voice of Chamorro women that I wish our younger generation could hear more often within public dialogue. We hear voice’s like Therese’s in our homes, during one on one conversations, and within small social circles, but seldom within public discourse. I think that is sad, considering how valuable the voice of Chamorro women used to be within our culture before colonization.
I hold many of the beliefs that I currently do because the women in my family have planted seeds of concern there. I have grown up being quietly reminded not to “forget,” ignore, or allow certain... “things.” I have reached young adulthood; and the seeds long ago planted have firmly taken root; they have evolved into very strong, tall, impossible-to-ignore trees. And now that I can’t stop watering the tree, I sometimes find it confusing that the women who gave me the seeds to plant will only speak bluntly about branches, leaves, and roots when we are by ourselves: as if a big beautiful tree were something we need to be ashamed of, something we need to whisper about.
The other members on the panel last week were also impressive and informative. They were smart, articulate, and, at times, funny Chamorro males who presented their concerns and arguments regarding self-determination, decolonization, and political status with the utmost composure. Their arguments were tight and confident. It was obvious that they were ready to defend their positions within different contexts. They were ready to engage in light banter, tossing the issue around in ways that could be both entertaining and thought provoking. Therese didn’t approach the issue from the same angle. She didn’t seem to be there to engage in a friendly presentation of opposing positions. She wasn’t there to stress a point and graciously accept the critique of it. She wasn’t there to encourage a scholarly legal debate. That wasn’t her angle at all, even though it is the angle that has taken the forefront of many media exchanges on these topics.
Therese’s presentation struck me as different from the presentations of the other lawyers on the panel. There was no buffering of her perspective with witticisms, disclaimers, or levity to make an ugly conversation more palatable.
Her presentation was framed in a way that was immediately familiar to me. It wasn’t an argument about whether or not a limited vote was “constitutional.” It was not about whether or not “International or US law” was the basis for the discussion. The information and argument Therese presented didn’t hinge upon technicalities or grey areas that were “up for debate.”
She spoke to the root of the issue, linking her argument to very obvious, over arcing problems that have long colored the conversations held within many Chamorro living rooms. She didn’t put clothes on the ideas or sweeten the island's history to make the points less offensive for others.
The first words out of her mouth were not mood setting statements to calm any resistant minds in the audience. She began with, “The impacts of historical injustices continue to plague the standard of living and quality of life for the people of Guam, manifested in medical, economic, environmental, and political aspects. The delay and denial of justice for the inhabitants of Guam have impeded past efforts to achieve a sustainable economy for Guam following World War II, and to this day contribute to an identity crisis in our children and overall crisis in families and in our government.”
Like those next to me, I leaned forward to make sure I could hear her.
To be honest, in order to hear and follow Therese’s presentation, you had to be quiet, still, and attentive; and that’s what the room was when she spoke. Her small voice immediately commanded the attention and respect of the room. The things she said were not framed in comfortable ways or presented as arguments that you could use "in case" someone tried to corner you in a debate. It wasn’t a short presentation either. It was much longer than those who went before and after her, but it was a presentation that I had a very hard time ignoring.
She listed one example after another of ways in which our home has been hurt and continues to hurt by our failure to secure more rights for ourselves. After a while, the list of examples became so overwhelming, that I didn’t know what else to do but let the painful knot in my throat untie, allowing tears to fall. I looked at the young woman to my left and realized that tears were also falling down her face. When I turned around to look at some of the women behind me, I realized that they too were connecting with Therese. Many of them were wiping away tears, obviously struggling to fight them off, or listening in earnest. When the session was over, my mind kept wandering back to Therese. I could barely remember every point she made. She made so many points. It was too much, too overwhelming. All I could remember was her little voice and the truth it released in the room. All I could remember was her sincerity and the way in which every part of it spoke to the desperation within hearts of Chamorro women in the audience.
Therese didn’t have the same amount of “stage presence” as the men who presented around her. All she had was her truth. She reminded me that even though our people have been forced to operate within systems that have greatly muted the voices that were once most important to us, if we pay attention and give them a place in which they can be legitimately heard, the power and wisdom of those once influential voices are still here.
I don’t want to summarize or chop apart Therese’s words from that day. Instead, if you are interested, I’ve included a link to it for you to read. You can get copies of Therese’s presentation (and the presentations from all the others who shared that day) from the Guam legislature.
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