Maila Hålom

A few entries ago, I mentioned that a friend of mine invited me to a party on the Naval base.  I explained that I was excited to go because I would get to bring my son to Sumay, the village my grandfather was born in.  I wanted to write an entry, but I guess I wasn’t sure what to say about the experience.  As a Colonel’s daughter, I have been to the base many times growing up.  I can’t even count how many times I’ve been to the Navy base.  But I don’t think I ever realized that I was experiencing the base in a very unique way.  Trips to the Naval or Air force base had always been to purchase food at the Commissary, shop at the exchange, or run some other kind of errand.  It was always “get in and get out.”  We didn’t linger.  We didn’t really spend time using the recreational facilities or anything like that, because... well, we’re from Guam.  

I never really thought about it before.  And I don’t think that I ever fully processed that there were entire lives being lived within those gates that starkly contrasted life outside of the gate.  I knew there was housing in there, but it always just seemed to be the place where we bought groceries.  I had a few friends, met through my father’s military career, who lived on the base.  And on rare occasions, I would go in for a sleep over or something, but I was pretty spacey as a kid.  I remember not feeling particularly comfortable sleeping at some of those houses, but excited because one of them had a trampoline and their mom let them get away with all sorts of cool things that my mom would have probably slapped me over.  I remember noticing the differences between sleep overs on and off the base, but never really pausing to think about it.  One of the times that I was aware of two completely different cultures at work was when I had to go to church with the acting Navy admiral’s daughter.  I remember feeling really uncomfortable and out of whack attending mass on the base.  It’s actually very funny now that I think of it.  I remember double checking whether or not “this was Catholic mass.”  They were Catholic, but for some reason, it felt different to me. I remember going home and, just to be safe, asking my parents if they were “sure” those people were Catholic, because I had taken the body of Christ in some weird church and I wasn’t sure if that was okay or not.  

During all those trips to the Naval base, my family never mentioned Sumay, our roots there, or Gab Gab beach.  One of my girlfriends, a Navy man’s daughter,  owned a boat docked within the base, and she mentioned Gab Gab many times, but we never went there.  She even introduced me to her friends who lived on the base and I was polite, but kept a kind of distance between us without ever really thinking about it.  

When we went to the base for my friend’s party, I went through those gates as, what felt like, a completely different person.  I no longer had an 06 decal on the front of my windshield, signaling that I should be waved through.  I no longer had that little card that made me “okay” to go in.  I realized that for the first time ever, I was going on the base as a civilian.  It was a very odd feeling.  For some reason, I felt nervous as we drove up to the sentry gate.  I worried they would tell me that I couldn’t go in and that I would be embarrassed.  I found myself looking out of the window with a new kind of curiosity.   As we approached the sentry gate, I explained to the guard that we were going to a party and that we submitted our SSNs in advance.  He was a very friendly guy and he smiled, waving us through.  He even made sure that we knew where to go and gave us directions.  I remember feeling relieved and saying “that wasn’t so bad!” to my husband as we drove in.  On the way to Gab Gab, I started noticing things I had never seen before (because my parents had never really driven me past the commissary or exchange).  When I was there as a teenager, visiting my friend with the boat, I guess I just never paid attention.  As we passed the street sign that said “Sumay,” I immediately reacted.  I was excited.  I pointed it out to my husband, like a tourist.  As we drove further along, I noticed the DODEA high school on the left.  

As a teacher, I immediately paused, looking at the beautiful school.  “Wow,” my husband whispered as we passed it.  I immediately thought of all my students, products of our public schools.  I remembered some of the bitter comments they made when talking about what “they’ have and conversations held between them that were fueled by a kind of envy and resentment.  I had never felt that growing up. I never envied children on the base because I subconsciously knew that if we chose to use those things, we could.  My father just decided not to.  I could have gone to DODEA if I wanted, but my parents chose not to have me go there.  I never felt jealous. I am very lucky to have grown up the way I did.  I attended a private school until high school; but even my private schools were no match for the school I was looking at.  “It’s like the schools in the movies,” I said to my husband as we drove by.  As we continued, I noticed the Sumay cemetery on my right.  A strange, sad and excited feeling rushed through my body.  “Look!  There’s the cemetery!” I said, softly.  I stared out the window.  “I have relatives there,” I noted.  “Can we stop there on the way out?” I asked.  My husband nodded.  

I stared at the Navy housing facilities.  I realized that I didn’t even feel like I was on Guam.  Everything in there looked and seemed foreign.  How could anyone in here possibly experience “life on Guam” and entirely understand what it is like to be from here... to be really from here.  As we drove into Gab Gab, even my husband let out a little sound of surprise.  “This is NICE!” he said as we drove in.  He was right.  It was beautiful.  I observed the military families relaxing in lounge chairs, diving into the water under the watchful eye of a life guard, rock music playing as young enlisted men with sunburns spoke loudly.  It really, truly didn’t feel like Guam at all... or at least, it didn’t feel much like the Guam I was used to.  As we approached the group hosting the party, other locals who had been cleared to attend made comments about how beautiful it was.  It was the first time quite a few of them had been in there.  Some explained that they had been in “once or twice” and I listened as some of the guests explained their family’s links to Sumay.  It was a very beautiful day and I had a wonderful time. 

One of the people I spoke with at the party admitted to feeling “weird” while driving in.  She said it felt like a “homecoming” or like she was seeing an “old friend.”  Another explained that as she drove into Gab Gab and saw its beauty, she was immediately excited, but then immediately bitter or angry when she saw the military families frolicking around (and she was a local Chamorro military wife as well).  Another guest quietly mentioned the school.  No one was angry at the military families.  Everyone pretty much understood that it’s not really their fault that they get access to the village we were once connected to.  They were just following orders and living where they were stationed.  The bitterness seemed to be coming from the knowledge that this was once a part of them and their families... and now it is foreign to them.  It’s like leaving for a while to come back and find your house being lived in by some nice strangers.  

On our way out, my husband stopped by the cemetery.  I stood in front of the entrance placard, where the names of those known to be buried in the cemetery were listed.  I immediately recognized names from the genealogy my father had sent me earlier in the month.  I had the sudden urge to call some of my friends, recognizing some of the names of their relatives on the list.  I made the sign of the cross, asked permission, and began studying the grave markers, which were written in Chamorro, Spanish, and some in English.  It was hard to read most of the markers, but I was able to locate the quadrant of the cemetery that my relatives (my grandfather’s relatives) were buried in.  I stood in front of the graves for a while, praying as my family has taught me to do.  I apologized and explained that I would like to take pictures.  I wanted to show this to my father, my cousins, my friends, and those I knew who were linked to the people beneath me.  It was beautiful.  

As I opened the door to get back in my car, an SUV drove past me and I immediately locked eyes with the familiar face in the passenger seat.  It was a friend of mine, the wife of a Navy man who lived on the base.  She knew I did not live on the base and I saw the look of question on her face.  I saw the SUV turn around, as if it were coming back toward me.  I realized that my friend, was going to stop and say hello, asking me what brought me here.  For some reason, I didn’t feel like talking to her.  I turned my head the other way and got in my car.  I saw her SUV slow down near my car and when she recognized that I did not seem to see her or be paying attention, she continued on.  I don’t know why I did that.  Even now, I don’t know why I did that.  I know I will bump into her in a few weeks and I should probably apologize.  

When I went home, I showed my father the pictures and we talked about my grandfather and what he knew of Sumay.  I asked my father why he never talked about it or brought me there.  “I brought you there once, Des.  I brought you to Sumay before, but you were very little.  You don’t remember,” he responded.  “Why?  Why only once and why didn’t you ever say more about it?” I asked him.  “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully.  He had never got down to walk through the cemetery either, despite years of having to go on the base to work.  He stared at the pictures and listened with interest as I showed him who was buried where.  He got excited when I mentioned certain names that he recognized, explaining who was related to them and encouraging me to send the pictures to the family.  

I told him about Gab Gab and how beautiful it was.  “I know,” he said.  “It’s very nice,” he confirmed.  “You’ve been there?!” I asked him, surprised.  “Yes, I was there just last week.  I had to give a presentation there,” he said.  “Dad!  Why haven’t you ever taken me there!  That whole time, growing up, we could have been enjoying that beach!” I exclaimed, confused.  “Why do you wanna go there?” he asked, with a kind of sneer, as if the place weren’t worth it.  “Because it’s nice!  Can you sponsor us on one weekend, so we can take the baby there?” I asked.  “I don’t like going up there.  I’ve always known those things were there.  I just am not interested in going there,” he said, a little too quickly.  “But why?  You just got excited and interested to see the names at the cemetery and stuff.  What’s wrong?” I asked him.  “Why go, Des?  It’s insulting,” he said harshly.  I wasn’t thinking of it that way and his response immediately made me feel sorry for nagging him about not taking me there or wanting to sponsor us in more often.  I dropped the issue but let him continue to look at the pictures.  He smiled to see all the Vicentes on the list and I let the discussion fade away.  I later uploaded the pictures on my facebook page.  When I did, friends who could trace their roots back to the village immediately commented, explaining who in their families were born there and sharing what they knew of the place that was once ours.