Muñeka

A week or two ago, a distant relative of mine said something that hurt my feelings a little bit.  After a long time apart, we reconnected and she had spent a little more time than usual making stinging little comments about my very light complexion, as well as my son’s.  I’ve written about this before, because the truth is, it has happened to me all my life.  The poem I posted within the last entry is a slightly mean-spirited reaction to our conversation. 

Every time I think that I’ve made peace with this issue and decided that mindless comments about the way I look no longer bother me, someone says or does something that manages to annoy me.  The only difference between then and now is that I think the annoyance comes from somewhere very different.  It used to come from a sense of shame and regret for being born looking the way I do. Now, it comes from a newly found confidence in who I am and frustration for what I perceive as evidence of our people being very confused about who WE are.  Does that make sense?  Probably not, right? 

Anyway,  I came across a video online of children who provided a clear example of ways in which colonized people struggle with self-image and their identities.  The video clip is not in English, but what is happening is obvious (even to those who can’t speak a lick of Spanish).  The video reminded me of a memory that has always been very clearly etched into my mind.  The children are being asked: "Which doll is ugly?," "Which doll is pretty?," "Which doll is good?" and "Which doll is bad?"

When you’re a child, you tend to associate whatever is being made fun of with what you don’t want to be.  For a very VERY long time, I found myself wishing I looked like other girls around me.  I was desperate for the sleek black hair, light brown skin, and petite build that managed to escape scrutiny or comments.  

One day, my mother took me to the Navy “Toy Land” and allowed me to pick out a doll before going to my grandfather’s house.  I saw a doll in a ballerina costume that I claimed to “need.”  My mom told me I could grab one.  As I reached up for the blonde ballerina, I accidentally knocked down the pink boxes lined along side it.  The fallen boxes revealed a set of dolls that were not placed at the front of the shelf.  It was the same ballerina doll, only she had brown skin and brown hair.  I remember grabbing the box and gazing at her as if I had found the holy grail.  I literally stared at her face for a few minutes, just admiring her.  

“Mom, can I have this one?!  She’s the one I want!” I exclaimed.  

My mom smiled, told me she was beautiful, and bought her for me.  No questions asked.  My mom has always been the kind of woman who sees beauty in everyone, no matter what society tells her is pretty.  She doesn’t know it, but I really admire this about her.  Because, I am, in many ways, very infected by what the mainstream media puts in front of me, even when I know there isn’t much common sense in the unrealistic image I am sometimes processing.  

I sat in the back of car and stared at the doll from Santa Rita all the way to Dededo.  I brushed her hair, imagined what it would be like to look like her, and decided that she was the BEST doll I ever had.  When we pulled into my grandfather’s drive way, I remember my mom suddenly turning around and looking at me, then looking at the doll.  

“Are you bringing your new baby in?” she asked, curiously.

“Yes,” I told her without hesitation.

I remember the short, thoughtful pause between us after I answered. But as a child, I didn’t find it very significant. I remember her glancing at my grandfather’s screen door, as if she was about to tell me something, but ultimately decided not to.  I walked into the little house, lugging my new doll and her many accessories with me.  I made a point to åmen both my grandparents, and then settled  into the chair by the door.  My grandfather asked my mother what we did today.  She explained that we went to the base to do some shopping.  “What did you buy?” he asked me, happily.

I held up my doll and smiled. When I held her up, I remember looking at the back of her head, mesmerized by the wavy brown hair on the doll and thinking what a treasure she was.  They really didn’t make many dolls that pretty, I thought to myself.  My grandmother gave a muffled chuckle and my mom nervously looked at me, then at my grandfather.  My grandfather’s face was twisted into the same expression he had when he used to watch the nightly local news and hear something that irritated him.  He said something harshly to my mother in Chamorro.  I don’t remember or know exactly what he said, but I remember being aware of his tone and recognizing that something was wrong.  I remember my mom saying, “Isn’t that a pretty doll?” in an expectant tone.  Then she gently looked at my grandfather, with pleading eyes and said, “Munga ma sångani, Dad.”  

Even though I didn’t know what my grandfather said in Chamorro, I knew that he didn’t like my doll.  I really didn’t know why though.  My mom explained that I chose her and that I really liked her. But my grandfather sat there, tensely looking at the doll, almost disgusted.  “What kind of doll is that, Desiree?” he asked me. I pulled the doll closer to me, worried it might get taken away.  I was suddenly very worried they would make us march back to the Navy Toyland and give her back.  “Dad, she likes the doll.  She’s very pretty.  She looks Chamorro, right baby?” my mom gently told him, while presenting me with the question.  I nodded, intimidated by my grandfather, who could be a very tough guy when he wanted to.  My grandfather asked if there were any “regular” dolls and why my mom didn’t buy one.  My mom explained that there were “regular” dolls, but that I selected this one.  My grandpa looked at me in a way that baffled me.  I couldn’t figure out if he was mad at me, my mom, or the doll.  “Ti Chamorro na muñeka enao” he said gruffly before standing up and walking away.  

When he left, I remember looking up at my mom in confusion.  She smiled at me reassuringly and forced the conversation elsewhere.  Wherever I brought the doll, I noticed that my mom would start speaking in Chamorro, explaining something to the relatives who would look at her questioningly.  I didn’t know what they were saying, but after a while, I gathered that some of my relatives didn’t think my doll was all that great.  I ended up refraining from bringing the doll out when certain relatives were around.  I usually brought it out when I played alone or with cousins my age who didn’t seem to notice or mind.  My grandfather’s dislike had always confused me.  The doll actually resembled some of his daughters; and I didn’t want the “regular” doll, because she looked more like me... and they seemed to make fun of me for looking that way.  It’s a very strange memory that motivates me to think of the messages I will or might send as an adult and mother.  

I remember praying that my son wouldn’t look like me when I was pregnant.  When he was born with my complexion, I didn’t even think about it.  He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  When I brought him to a relatives birthday party, some of my male cousins immediately swiped him up, lovingly hugging him but gruffly yelling “Hafa you haole boy!?  How come you look like that? You haole!”  My husband, who is not from here, looked a little hurt and panicked.  In their very pronunciation of the Hawaiian word, you could tell that it wasn’t exactly a compliment.  But at the same time, their love for him was apparent.  The sincere affection they showed was obvious.  The way people refused to put him down showed how much he was accepted and loved as a part of the family; but through the entire party, as my little guy moved from one set of hands to another, the familiar jokes about his color were made audible.  

They called him “Vicente’n donngat,” “Haole boy,” and joked repeatedly about how he looked like he was “from the base.”  “Taimanglo?  Siguru hao?” they asked him while kissing his face lovingly.  I could see the restrained irritation and pain spreading across my husband’s face.  I think his reaction was very natural.  If you think your child is being teased, your protective instincts come into play immediately. I was grateful that he was such a good sport.  When we got in the car, my husband looked at me.  “Is that what they did to you?” he asked, curiously.  “Yeah, except it’s worse when you’re a girl!” I laughed.  He shook his head in disapproval.  I was quick to defend my family.  “But they love him!  And now that I’m older, I see it all very differently.”  “But still,” he said worriedly.  “He’s going to have to grow up with that,” he pointed out. “That does things to a kid!” he said, concerned.  “Yes, but like me, he’ll also grow up knowing he’s CHamoru, lucky to have these people, and very very loved.”  

“That’s true,” he said, still deep in thought.  He started his truck and we drove home, thinking as we stared out the truck’s windows, watching coconut trees pass by.