The clip above makes my heart ache. It features local mayors debating whether or not they think our latte stones should be removed from federal property and placed within the villages where the people can be near such significant links to their heritage. When I listen to the mayors going back and forth, I'm not really disturbed by any one particular side of the argument. What concerns me most is that the argument is taking place at all. You can hear their fears of disrespecting their saina while feeling simultaneously desperate to be closer to them as our island is shoved toward the future. You can hear the panic in their debate. I think that sense of panic and confusion is deeply embedded within the hearts of many Chamorros. When I watch this clip, I am struck by the disempowerment of our local leaders. One of the mayors brings up Sumay. Sumay is an area of particular interest to me. It is where my paternal grandfather was born. The former village is opened once a year for the public to access. All that remains of the once bustling village is a cemetery and the remnants of an old church.
Sumay's history predates American, Japanese, and Spanish occupation. It was once the second most populated village next to Hagåtña, and I recall many stories shared by my elders about the place. Sumay was taken from its residents during Japanese occupation and by Americans after WWII. Instead of allowing Chamorros to return, the US found it necessary to take the village for federal purposes. The families who were originally from Sumay were relocated to the surrounding areas (like Agat, Piti, and Santa Rita). Many people, even families who reside there today, do not realize that Santa Rita is a village that the Navy created after taking Sumay. Also discussed in the clip is the Fena massacre. While watching the clip, I realized that many younger Chamorros who might see it on the news may not even know what Sumay or Fena is. This realization added to the sadness I felt while watching it.
This past semester, my students participated in the Navy's PAP (Public Access Plan). When we were discussing areas of historical significance on federal property, many of them were clueless about Sumay and the Fena massacre. When I told them what I knew of the massacre, many of them fell silent, shocked by this seldom spoken about event in our history.
They listened attentively as I explained that toward the end of the war, as Japan realized it wasn't faring so well, Chamorros were taken to Fena to work. Japanese soldiers worked the people (women and children) in the hot sun, exhausting them. After the rigorous day of labor, they gathered the Chamorros and offered them refreshments as rewards for their hard work. They gave them sake and allowed many of them to become inebriated. Once the people were full, intoxicated, and exhausted from the labor, they began violently executing them. People were beheaded, shot point blank, and women were brutally raped. Their bodies were thrown into a mass grave. Amazingly, there were survivors of the Fena massacre. Some Chamorros who had been stabbed and who had even had their throats slit were still breathing. They laid still in the ditch full of bodies and played dead, waiting for it to be over. My students listened with the same expression I must have had when I was a little girl and I first heard the story.
I was no older than the third grade when a survivor of the massacre (I cannot remember his name) was brought to my school to share. I remember crying, feeling scared of the story. I remember my classmate sitting beside me in equal horror. We may have been too young to have been exposed to the story. I remember being very bothered by the old man's retelling that day in school. When I rode the bus to my grandparents' house after, I remember asking my paternal grandmother if it was true. I think a part of me had a hard time understanding how something so horrible could have happened. I thought about it during the bus ride home, staring out the window and replaying the story in my head.
My grandmother confirmed the massacre and explained she was familiar with the old man. I hope that if a former classmate from Saint Anthony is reading this entry, he or she will remind me. Fortunately, my grandmother was not at Fena that day. But the story opened the door for her to share other memories with me. She told me about her experiences under Japanese occupation. To be honest, I do not remember all that she shared. I remember that her story was hard to follow and that she didn't connect the timeline in a way that I could easily make sense of at that young age. All I can remember is a portion of the story, where she explained that after being overworked and tired as a little girl, a Japanese soldier noticed that she was thirsty. He offered her water and she gratefully took the small container he presented her with. When she began to drink, she immediately recognized that it tasted strange and spat water tinted a brownish-red on the ground. The soldier had given her water that was mixed with blood. He and his friends laughed at her; and she explained that in humiliation, she continued to drink anyway because she was so thirsty.
When my grandmother shared this story with me, I remember that she didn't cry as hard as I thought she should have. I remember seeing her eyes mist over; and I remember seeing her remove her glasses to pat away small tears, but she didn't cry out. Even at that young age, I recognized the amount of emotion she was repressing. My paternal grandmother did not share much with me regarding her experiences in the war. My maternal grandmother has shared quite a bit, but not Grandma Taimanglo, Vicenta. I think the reason I might be able to remember this part of her story so clearly is because I knew it was rare for her to talk about these things. I really don't know why my paternal grandparents didn't share as much about the war as my maternal grandparents did. They were much older when it happened; and I am sure there are many things that they took to their graves.
The only other story my Grandma Taimanglo told me was years later, when I had Chamorro homework. Again, I don't really remember how old I was. I know that I was at Saint Anthony and I had a Chamorro instructor with the last name of Cepeda. Like most Chamorro and Guam history classes, our history was chopped apart and presented as if Guam didn't exist until WWII. As I was reading the book, I started sharing what I was learning. On this occasion, she told me that my grandfather had once been beaten so bad by a group of Japanese soldiers that he lost his bowels and his ears had bled. That's all she told me. She didn't explain the context surrounding the beating or anything. She simply dropped the story on my lap, ending it with "they were very bad." I remember nodding. When I think about those rare moments when she decided to share with me, I now wish I had asked her more questions. I wish that I had shown more empathy for the experiences she disclosed. Instead, I sat in front of her, in a blue-checkered pinafore and stared like an idiot.
Just a month or two ago, my father told me that after the incident, my grandfather snuck back to where the Japanese soldiers were spending their evening, playing cards and drinking. He explained that he brought a gun, and with his very sharp eye, shot the soldier who had initiated the beating. My dad, like my grandmother, did not provide much context surrounding the shooting or the beating. He simply ended it with, "but he only killed one. He could have killed more, but he only killed the one." There is so much that my parents and my grandparents hold inside them. During the rare moments when the memories find release, I slip into a silence, knowing that it might not happen again for a long time. I listen quietly, afraid of interrupting. I worry that if I ask a question or push them too hard, they will stop sharing.
My dad is the same way. He is still young (at least to me), but he occasionally lets experiences as a Chamorro within the US Army slip. Random and tragic stories that he keeps locked inside. I will not write them here. My father is still alive and kicking; and I think he still has much to sort through. When I saw this clip and heard the local mayors bringing up both Fena and Sumay, I thought of my paternal grandparents: Vicenta and Vicente Taimanglo. My son is named after my paternal grandfather. Actually, on my father's side, almost every male child has "Vicente" or "Vincent" in his name. My grandfather made such a profound impact on all of us. He was a very tough guy. I can't imagine anyone beating him. I can't imagine anyone humiliating him.
There were some people who criticized me for choosing a name that is of Spanish origin. They felt I should have chosen an actual Chamorro name. But today, seeing the discussion regarding the latte stones, Sumay, and Fena remind me that following my heart was the right thing to do. I don't regret giving my son this "bihu" name at all.
My father also shared this piece information from part of our genealogy with me one day, explaining how far back the name reaches into our family's history: Vicente Guzman Sablan (Born 1841), married Vicenta Borja Delgado (Born 1846), who had several children, one of which is your Great Grand Mother, Ana Delgado Sablan (Born 1874), married to Juan Jose Leon Guerrero (Born 1867), who had several children, one of which is Vicenta Sablan Leon Guerrero (Born April 4, 1913 - Grandma Taimanglo), who married Vicente Mendiola Taimanglo (Born January 29, 1914), who had several children, of which one is named Raymond L.G. Taimanglo (Born Sep 17, 1956), who married Gwendolyn Borja Nelson (Born May 3, 1059), who had one child Desiree Nelson Taimanglo (Born December 28, 1982), who married Jeffery Ventura, who had one child name Vicente Jose Taimanglo Ventura (Born June 9, 2011).
Throughout the family, since 1841, the names Vicente and Vicenta were given to children of the families in honor of the elders before and to keep the ones who have passed alive in our family history.
I don't know what is going to happen to the latte stones. I don't know if the people of this island will get to reconnect with the history of Sumay on more than one day out of the year; and I don't know if Fena will ever become a place we can freely access. A good friend of mine decided to host her son's birthday party at Sumay within the next week. She is a civilian, so she had to secure all of our social security numbers a week or so in advance. I felt uncomfortable sharing my SS number with someone else, but I went ahead and gave it to her. I can't wait to bring my little Vicente to Sumay, where his great-grandfather was born. I will also be able to drive him by the USO. My grandfather, Vicente Mendiola Taimanglo, used to own the property before it was forcibly sold to the military. He was offered a few dollars for the beachfront property, but did not take it. He was insulted by the offer and knew there was little he could do to prevent them from taking it. To this day, I still cringe whenever I hear statesiders claim that all the property was "freely given" by happy, grateful Chamorros. I think that by the time the Navy started condemning property (after Japanese occupation) my grandfather had been insulted and humiliated enough. It wasn't that he was a dumb Chamorro who was easily swindled out of a beach front lot, or that he was so happy to see Americans that he handed over everything he had. It was just that he had been displaced from his village by both occupiers, been through enough trauma, and was probably just tired... and he was ready to try and live.
I hope to write an entry after our trip to Sumay for the birthday party. Let's just hope my friend doesn't use my SSN and steal my identity! ;oP
2 comments:
can
can we just move the military and keep the latte?
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