Nice Dress

* I would like to thank Dr. Ann Perez Hattori from the University of Guam. Like many other Chamorro scholars, activists, residents, and historians, she has she made herself accessible to me and many other young Chamorros who are continuously hoping to find new ways to reconnect with their history and identities as unique people of the Pacific. Her book has, like many other pieces of work written by our own people, helped me to see myself more clearly.

One of the first encounters I had with my husband while attending college took place at our University’s yearly “Pacific Island Review.” The Pacific Island Review is a night-time festival hosted by students of Pacific Island heritage. It’s a time when all of us showcase the unique customs of our respective islands and unite in solidarity, sharing dances, food, and other aspects of our identities with the rest of the student body. It’s a popular event, not just for those of us who are from the Pacific, but for students from the Continental US who select Hawaii as a place to earn their education and use their college years as an opportunity to “be in the islands.” My husband was one of those students. He flew all the way from California’s Bay Area to experience the sun and beach (and to get a degree).

I never thought much about this encounter with him, but it seems to be one that he remembers clearly. It’s one of the times when he claims to have “noticed me.” I remember other conversations in passing more clearly (or at least as more significant in our relationship) but this has remained a fond memory for him. When he brought it up once, I was immediately irritated and even a little embarrassed at the clarity with which the event seemed to be embedded in his mind. I didn’t like that he associated me with that night, or at least... with what I was wearing that night.

I was an enthusiastic member of our University’s “Mariana’s Club.” It was a club where students from Saipan, Tinian, Rota, and Guam came together to represent themselves at the institution. Some of my happiest memories (and my best friends) were made as a result of being in the Mariana’s Club. I also credit my life long friends from the Mariana’s Club with helping me to become more deeply rooted in our culture and more interested in becoming proficient in our language. The students who made the most profound impact on me through this club happened to be students from Saipan.

During the particular year in discussion, the Mariana’s club hosted the event’s food services. We put long hours into preparing our food for the event. Other students at the university, upon meeting and spending time with Chamorro students, had learned that they really enjoyed our food. We figured this was an excellent time to showcase something that we knew would get us noticed and remembered. (It’s very intimidating to want to try to dance or perform after the Samoan club.) While other groups prepared dances and other types of performances, the Marianas club spent the day commandeering the cafeteria kitchen and barbecuing. It may not sound like fun, but those hours spent cooking with my friends were some of the happiest hours I remember from all four undergraduate years. I remember feeling very connected, particularly with the other young women in the club, as we cooked.

As we laid the food on the tables and students lined up, eager to fill their plates with our food, a friend from Saipan approached me, holding a small bag filled with what looked like a T-shirt. I thought he was giving me another “Mariana’s Club” T-shirt, but he wasn’t. When I looked in the bag, there was a familiar, simple, white cotton top and a colorful floral skirt: a mestisa. I remember staring at it in confusion. “What’s this for?” I asked him. “For you!” he said, laughing. “I’m not wearing this,” I told him. “I already have our shirt. I thought we were wearing our shirts,” I said. “No, the boys are wearing shirts. We want you girls to wear this,” he said, smirking. I immediately starting laughing, thinking he was teasing me. I saw that two other girls weren’t wearing one. “Well then how come she doesn’t have to wear it!?” I asked, pointing to them. “They didn’t have one that fit them,” he said. “Come on Dessa, you have to represent our culture and wear this. It’s very nice!” he said, still seeming to be teasing me. “But I look White! Everyone is going to wonder why the hell this White girl is wearing this!” I exclaimed. “Desiree, you’re Chamorro!” he said in surprise. “I know I’m Chamorro, but I LOOK white!” I said. “You just want me to look stupid!” I said to him, this time more seriously and determined not to put it on. His tone changed and I could tell by the tone of his voice that our conversation was about to shift into more serious territory. “You’re very light, Des; but YOU’RE CHAMORRO. You’re going to wear this. You’re going to look nice. It looks nice on you girls,” he said a little more seriously. I quietly took the bag, feeling defeated. “Desiree, you better stop saying you’re white. I don’t care how much you need a tan; you’re Chamorro. My God, your last name is ‘Taimanglo!’ Go put it on and take the tickets,” he instructed me.

I remember staring at him in panic. “I have to take the tickets!?” I asked. “I have to stand in front?” I asked. I was hoping I would be able to stand behind the table, hidden by a large pot of red rice. “Go!,” he said, pointing toward the women’s restroom. I stood in the hot bathroom stall, slipping the white top over my very highlighted head of hair and stepped into the skirt. It was comfortable. It felt nice. It was kind of fun being in it, but I didn’t want to leave the bathroom stall. “Are you done yet?” he yelled from the outside. “SHUT UP!” I retorted from the bathroom. I slowly opened the bathroom door and walked toward the mirror. I stared at myself. I had not worn one of these since I was a little girl. “I look stupid!” I shouted. “No you don’t! Come out! Hurry up, Desiree. We have to start.” I walked out of the stall pouting, my feet dragging heavily on the ground. I felt like choking him. “You look good!” he said, pleased. I gave him a warning look, signaling that he should stop talking and leave me alone.

I walked, red faced toward the food table. Immediately, the other boys in the club started to whistle, making fun of me. I held up my longest finger and stood at the front of the line, ready to take tickets. I was even more superficial as an undergraduate than I am now. If it wasn’t a brand name, I usually wouldn’t wear it. I remember my husband walking up to the line to hand me his ticket. I didn’t know him that well. I had him in a few classes, but I’ve been anti-social from day one. I never spoke to him. In all honesty, I only spoke to people from other Pacific Islands for most of my undergraduate years. My small-mindedness prevented me from meeting quite a few good people. He handed me his ticket and I remember refusing to make eye contact with him. “Nice dress,” he said happily. I looked at him, irritated and grabbed the ticket. Shortly after he passed through the line, I turned around to the boy who forced me to wear the mestisa and handed him the ticket box. “I’m helping in the back!” I told him firmly. I took off the mestisa and slipped back into jean shorts and my t-shirt. I thought it was much cuter. When I saw my husband again later that night, he asked me “what happened to my dress?” I remember being annoyed with the question. “Asshole,” I thought.

Years later, when he reminded me of the night, I remember telling him to “shut up” again. I thought he was making fun of me. “Why do you think I was making fun of you?! I’m serious! I thought it was nice. I meant it!” he claimed. I let it go and we never really talked about it much after, but today, I remember it clearly.

While reading Ann Hattori’s book, Colonial Dis-Ease: US Navy Health Policies and the Chamorros of Guam, 1898-1941, I came across a passage discussing the “nice dress.” Apparently, in addition to a string of other ethnocentric, paternalistic, colonial, and even racist policies mandated by the Navy, there was one prohibiting the long mestisa skirts. The Navy felt that the “dust” that the long skirts stirred as the ladies walked was a health issue. They went through great lengths to abolish the mestisas. They sent out official orders for Chamorro women to wear shorter skirts. They had a hard time enforcing this rule. The women refused to slip into shorter, more fashionable skirts, like those worn by Navy wives. They came down particularly hard on the girls in school and threatened that if they didn’t stop wearing them at school, they were going to start working to enforce the rule in their homes, forcing their mothers to stop wearing them too.

I wasn’t reading Hattori’s book looking for this information, but it’s a passage that I can’t get out of my head. The women before me refused to take their mestisas off. I had refused to put one on. I immediately thought of the Pacific Island Review night from my college years, replaying it in my head. There are many people who say they don’t regret anything, that everything happens for a reason. They say they have “no regrets.” I admire those people. Because when I think of that night, I regret quite a bit.