This month has, by far, been one of the most interesting, soul searching months I’ve had in a very long time. I have been forced to look at myself and my beliefs in new ways. I think doing this is important. I’m wary of people who claim to have never had to engage in critical self-reflection (because they’ve NEVER doubted themselves or their faith). Doubt is important for human beings. Some people try to make me feel ashamed of feelings of doubt, but I figure “doubt” has been one of the greatest gifts that the universe (or GOD) has ever given me. Doubt is what tugs at the back of your mind when you see something wrong, something unjust. Doubt is what makes you think twice about blindly following the masses. I don’t think I like the idea of never doubting myself. Naturally, too much doubt is a little self-destructive, but you need a healthy dose of doubt, inhibition, and a lack of confidence in your knowledge in order to keep the world turning in the direction of progress.
This month, Thanksgiving passed by and I experienced the holiday in a completely different way than I have in the past. I’ve always known about Thanksgiving’s ugly history, but I always comforted myself by attending Thanksgiving celebrations understanding that I acknowledge the day for “different” reasons. I try to tell myself that I’m simply “giving thanks and being thankful for the family and people around me, sharing time with the people I love.” But lately, my mind has begun to make clear and quick connections between what I am thankful for and exactly where it comes from. My mind has begun the annoying habit of quickly lighting up arrows that point well beyond our waters toward things that were not previously in my field of vision. As I get in my car, I look at my tires and feel a quick tug reminding me who was violently displaced for them. When I hold my phone to my ear, I try to ignore the tug reminding me, at the back of my mind, that miles away, someone was put in a VERY unjust circumstance to make my morning smart phone facebook status update possible.
I'm actually just posting this picture because I want to show you all how cute my baby is. The irony of him wearing a bib from my mother-in-law, with a turkey in a pilgrim's hat, and my very strong, beautiful Chamorro activist (and a doctor) aunt behind him is just interesting to me. He is also being held up by my mother, a very loud, strong, and assertive Chamorro woman who has stressed the need to remember the spirits of my ancestors, while still encouraging me to "baptize the baby."
It has become harder and harder for me to be mindlessly positive and overcome with the spirit of the holidays. It’s not that I am now ungrateful for everything or suddenly determined to reject every comfort I have, but I am realizing that all that I have isn’t anything to feel too proud of. I feel like the best way to let the holidays, like Thanksgiving, pass by (especially as a person of indigenous decent) is to keep the reality of where everything I am grateful for is derived from clearly within eye sight. My mom seems occasionally annoyed or exasperated by my habit of “reminding” myself or the people around me of the little realities that dampen the usually mindless positivity and “spirit” of this time of year. I have to remind myself to bite my tongue more than usual these days. But I also know that if knowing the TRUTH makes it too hard for me to simply smile, celebrate, and be “thankful,” then I need to think a little longer about why that is. And I need to ask myself if GOD (no matter what you call her) wants me to be mindlessly thankful. Maybe that tug is God’s wisdom asking you to do more than simply “be thankful” and eat, shop, and be merry.
Just a few of the naughty little kids in my family that I am thankful for from this past Thanksgiving
All of this has become a very big thought turning around in my head today. For the past five months, my family has hassled me about taking so long to baptize my son. The Catholic church here doesn’t make it easy for you to get it done (with the bureaucracy and paper work); and I really didn’t find the delay all that disturbing. The old people in my family did though.
I was almost secretly winking at the jungle, wondering if our saina were in there, trying to send me a message. I kept thinking about the irony surrounding the sacrament of baptism within modern Chamorro culture. Baptism is the act that basically led to the violent destruction of us as unique indigenous people. Historically, baptism has been a huge act of violence against the Chamorro people, against us. I never thought about it much until I had my own child. As a matter of fact, I proudly stood by the marble font as several of my God children were baptized in fire and water, pledging allegiance to the faith that stripped us of so much of our unique identities. Today, the Catholic church has, ironically, come to be one of the few places that help to continue and preserve aspects of our language and culture that are in a tough battle against continued foreign occupation. It’s weird; the act that so deeply wounded us has become an act that can result in being ostracized if not done today. If not done, I feel scared and guilty. When done, I feel scared and guilty. Is this how the women before me felt?
When things finally came together and all the paper work fell into place, I found myself feeling bittersweet about the whole thing. Last night, I sat near my son’s crib, watching him sleep. I’ve made a habit of sitting in my son’s room, when my husband is gone, and talking to him in Chamorro, reading to him in Chamorro, and reminding him that our saina are still here. I remind him that he absolutely HAS to learn to talk to them and remember them. When I came home last night, with the ceremony all in order, I walked into his little bedroom facing the jungle feeling almost.... apologetic. I found myself whispering pleas for them to understand. I found myself asking them to give me a sign. “Will you be mad at me?” I wondered. I found myself asking them to please, please please keep following behind my baby, even after tomorrow. Then after asking them not to be mad, I began worrying the Catholic church would be mad! I went to sleep thinking about it, dreaming about it.
When I woke this morning, I took out my son’s white garments and laid them on the couch in front of me. In the same way that I couldn’t shake the fear of possibly disappointing my ancestors, I couldn’t shake the excitement and happiness I felt when seeing his little white socks in front of me. I immediately picked him up, grinning, and marched him around the house, asking him if he was excited for his “big day.” When I shared the picture of his little garments with friends, those who are also conscious of our people’s history began sharing their thoughts. I found that many of them saw the irony in it, but couldn’t shake their affinity they felt toward the sacrament either. I thought it was such an interesting testament to who we have become, who we are, and who we are fighting to continue being.
Tonight, I will be baptizing my son under the roof of a church that has literally murdered part of who I am, part of who my son is. Tonight, I am baptizing my son under the roof of a church that is part of who I am, part of who my son might be. Tonight, I am what I am: colonized.
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