The Drowning Mermaid

Restrictions May Apply: Some Promotions Not Available In All Territories

2012-01-05T16:47:00.000-08:00

This morning, I just want to vent. In my last entry, I wrote about problems on this island that no one talks about. They are here, growing over things like mildew on concrete buildings. It’s ugly, but we’re not doing much to get rid of it and make Guam a nicer place to be. We just ignore it and accept that having ugly mold all over our buildings is part of living on a tropical island. Paint is expensive! Repainting stuff takes work! We would rather just let it sit for a while, even though mildew is unhealthy and can kill you if it gets out of hand.

The other day, a local news article circulating was titled “Chuukese Outnumber Any Other Ethnicity on Guam in Alcohol Related Arrests.” When I saw the headline pop on my twitter feed, I was disgusted. I heard quite a few people talking about it, many of whom were also disgusted with the headlines, which singled out a specific ethnicity on island. And unfortunately, I heard from some who used the headline as fuel for ugliness. I heard some really REALLY disturbing and ugly things come out of people’s mouths about our brothers and sisters from neighboring islands. I’m not even going to repeat them here on this blog, but one of the things that disappoints me most is that some of those things came out of the mouths of people I really care about, even some people that I look up to. Doesn't that suck?!

I went to dinner last night with some girlfriends and I brought up the article’s headline, wondering what in the world is happening on this island. My friend explained that there has been worse. She reminded me that not too long ago, an entire page was used within a local paper to provide detailed crime statistics for “Micronesians.” (What is a Micronesian again? I always forget. I mean, Guam is part of Micronesia and we get a booth at the Micronesian Fair every year, but the rest of the year, Chamorros don’t like to be Micronesian. Apparently, we’re only Micronesian during the Micronesian Fair.)

Sometimes, we decide to be Micronesian when we’re away in college and near other Micronesians who were privileged enough to leave our region and pursue study elsewhere. We sometimes even form clubs, like Pacific Island’s Clubs or Micronesian Clubs. But here on Guam, we don’t actually live day to day with the same unity and spirit of mutual Micronesian pride.

The women I had dinner with described the statistics published, explaining how NO OTHER ethnicities were discussed. No crime rates from the base, where domestic abuse is common. No crime rates on Chamorros, where we have more than our fair share of criminals. No mention of criminals of Asian descent who run notorious human trafficking brothels disguised as massage parlors, karaoke bars, or “gentlemen’s clubs.” Nothing. I guess the newspaper just felt the need to direct the entire island’s energy toward seeing ugly things done by ONE group. Never mind that every day, ugly things are done by people of all ethnicities.

This is something that has bothered me since I returned home a couple years ago. Because when you are in our island’s classrooms, you can see it very clearly. Some of my students don’t realize that I’m worried about it, but it even worries me when they exhale in relief or announce delight upon finding out that the tall, white-looking woman in front of them is Chamorro. I appreciate that they are happy to be taught by someone who shares their background, but I’m also bothered by the fact that they “loosen up” upon finding out “that I’m one of them.” I have lived my whole life like this: hearing what Chamorros say when they think Caucasians are not around and in turn, hearing what Caucasians say when they think Chamorros are not around. I am an undercover Chamorro! A double agent! ;P

One of the most interesting things has been the way in which my students can all find commonalities with each other (Chamorro, Filipino, Chuukese, Palauan, Yapese...) to voice feelings about differences between them and people from the Continental US. But once we start working on current events, particularly local current events, where specific groups are often highlighted (and those from the Continental US are routinely glorified), they start launching accusations at each other, forgetting that the people of Guam do not control their immigration laws, military dependents don’t get to determine where they end up, and that many of our residents from neighboring islands are here because of difficulties in their home that are the result of issues in US relations that are similar to the ones we have here.

One of this past semester’s most interesting class discussions began after a student from the Philippines read a reflection wherein she voiced that one of the reasons she came to Guam was because, she felt that where she was “from in the Philippines doesn’t feel like home anymore. There are all these other people and the culture is fading, and it’s hard to make a living because there are all these other people there now. It's so crowded. It's hard to make ends meet. I came here for opportunities.” When she shared this statement, an older student from Guam retorted that she found that strange because in her opinion, “Guam doesn’t feel like home anymore either” because “you are here doing that to us.” I also had a student from “Guam High” (the school on the base) explain how much he misses his home in the states and that he sometimes feels excluded or hurt when in ear shot of comments about statesiders.

One student announced, proudly, that “Filipinos were taking over Guam” and that he couldn’t “wait to see a Filipino Governor.” It became even more interesting when a student from Yap read about why he left his island. I remember the whole class staring at him in silence when he said, “My island, it was... it IS beautiful. I was always very happy there and I feel like I had a lot there when I was growing up. But everyone kept telling me that I need to have more and leave to Guam for opportunities. I am here now and I have a lot of things. I have all of this here, but I always feel like I have nothing. I never felt that way in Yap, even though I really had nothing.”

The people on this island, as simple as some people like to portray them, are thinking about some complex things, they are feeling complex feelings rooted in something real. Those heavy and sometimes misinformed thoughts or feelings of resentment do not disappear with a surfacey “Hafa Adai.” They will not disappear if we decide to focus on one group and ignore the rest.

Over a year ago, when the DoD released a study on crime rates associated with plans to relocate troops, DoD announced that if any significant increase in crime occurred, it would be due to those from neighboring Micronesian islands. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the integrity of our local media. It was suggested, through an organization I had just started to become active within, that I attend a weekend discussion session with one of our newspaper editors. I guess he met with certain people and spoke with them to get a nice, balanced discussion going before writing his big Sunday letter from the editor.

When I showed up, there was pizza, so my spirits remained high...until the actual discussion started. The editor explained that he would be focusing on the build-up and wanted to write about impacts to our social services and our island’s needs for social workers, probation officers, etc. I was surprised to see that in general, the other men at the table were largely silent on issues that I knew they must have had more to say about. When the editor said something, I noticed how their eyes glazed over and they provided really “safe” perspectives that, in my opinion, didn’t really do much to create a compelling, informative, or particularly balanced piece.

Being new and unfamiliar with what everyone else already seemed to know, I suggested that maybe one of the things we could do was to clarify who exactly needed these services. I explained that the recent string of articles made it seem as if we’d need more social workers and law enforcement officers because people from neighboring islands would be running around committing crimes like crazy and neglecting their children. I brought a very credible stack of research from a professor at Brown University who was hired by the local courts to explain what their needs might be. Her study showed that we would all be needing these services, even people on the base, who occasionally drive drunk, commit crimes, neglect their children, and commit sexual offenses as well. I know that might sound like an obvious thing to point out. But in all honesty, some people really pretend that everything going on within the fence is perfect. It's like a big 50's family sitcom in there, or that's what some on this island would like everyone to believe. The only people screwing up are us lazy, drunk locals. I figured, if we were going to talk about solutions, we should probably clarify the problem and do so fairly.

I didn’t realize that pointing out that more than one group of people on island committed crimes was unacceptable. A social worker from the university smiled at me appreciatively, and the two local males beside me looked at me in agreement, showing silent approval, but ultimately doing or saying nothing. The editor gave me a patronizing smile and reminded me that we were “focusing on solutions.” I guess I don’t think there’s any good in talking about solutions if we don’t even accurately identify the problem, so I pointed out that I brought some research to share. He rolled his eyes and said, paternalistically, “Desiree, you don’t need to bring out your ‘research.’” The Chamorro men beside me began to look down, as if trying to be invisible. Being so new to the process, I ended up wasting some energy by trying to use a statistic regarding sex crimes within the study to make my point. The editor of the newspaper sighed and said, “There’s no need to write about that. We’re trying to find solutions here. Women are raped everywhere and women will get raped no matter who is on Guam.”

I had just come from a working environment and community that would not tolerate a statement like that, and I looked around the table, speechless, wondering when the men beside me were going to look up. I didn't realize just how much we tolerated here yet. I hadn't really started the process of thinking about our "tolerance levels." I was so confused. I reminded myself that I had just got home and that I didn’t need to burn any bridges. I shut up and shut down for the rest of the discussion, which was empty and void of anything meaningful regarding “solutions.” I decided that if I was wasting my time with this bullshit, I was gonna make the most of it. I decided to get more pizza.

The editor politely ended the session and passed out his little card. I quickly got up and left, not wanting to talk to any of the men in the room. As I walked down the stairs, one of the older men tapped me on the shoulder. He asked me if I was “Gloria’s granddaughter.” I confirmed and tried to keep going. He walked beside me anyway, explaining how he knew her. “Oh, okay,” I said unenthusiastically. “By the way, I think you did very good in there. You’re right,” he said. I turned to look at him more closely, confused as hell. “Oh I was?” I asked, a little annoyed. “I didn’t know anyone thought so,” I said smugly. “Nen, one thing you will learn is that there is no point in trying to tell these guys anything,” he said motioning up toward the office we just exited. “After a while, you will see what I’m talking about.” That was my first very clear look at “how it goes here.”

Over the next few months, years... I watched as what the man said started to make more sense. I watched quotes twisted grossly out of context. I listened as conversations were framed on certain shows, how individuals who didn’t confirm the popular narrative had their calls cut off more quickly than others, how their questions were responded to with a little more condescension. I know that there isn’t a single place in the world where the media is clean, but I started to see that we were a little dirtier than usual. When working on a small fundraising raffle, which didn’t have anything to do with the build up, I had one radio station warn me that I couldn’t say anything “too controversial” and to keep it "light." I was told, "no build up talk." I didn’t even plan to. Actually, at the time, I was in a place where I was pretty uncomfortable doing anything but “keeping it light.” I've come a long way from there.

Before a speech at a certain academic conference, I had a superior speak to me with, what felt like, concern, asking me what community organizations I was part of and hinting that they preferred I not say anything about the build-up or political status... even though the conference was about this island’s future. They didn't even bother to ask what my perspective on the build up or political status was! I was baffled. No one questioned or warned people who openly supported the build-up or announced that we were just fine being a powerless territory. That seemed to be okay. It was an academic conference about the island’s future, but it was better that I dance around all the things looming over the island’s future and present a main point that was... “safe.” I actually ended up really stressed over that whole thing. I had some people nagging me about needing to say one thing and other people warning me not to say another. By the time it was all through, I decided that middle aged Guamanians are the most confusing f-ing people I have ever met in my entire life.

At the academic conferences I was used to, the more meaningful and exigent your topic, the better. The narrower, the better. But it seemed like I was being asked to keep it kind of broad by some people, and reminded how important it was to speak to the issue by another; and I was really worried about not pleasing both! I thought of the radio station reminding me to “keep it light” again. It seems like there are lots of reminders to “keep it light” all over the place. Half the time, I don't even plan on or realize that I am saying anything too “heavy.” Is it really too controversial to point out that it's screwed up to keep singling out one ethnic minority? Really? It was only after all the constant reminders to “keep it light” that I realized that “keep it light” meant “pretend nothing is going on and basically, never ever disagree.” If you do, some old white guy who knows lots of people could totally embarrass you, misrepresent you, or make fun of you in the newspaper or on the radio. Over time I realized that even if that small handful of microphone holders does that, there are lots and lots of people in the actual community who don't really subscribe to their mentality. (Even though those guys seem to think they have a monopoly on articulating what Guam is feeling.) For a while, it was enough stress to really shut me up. Do you know how freaking scary that is when you’re young and wanting to do well at work while keeping a steady pay check? This island is small! There are consequences! And when people keep giving you little warnings to “keep it light” and say “Hafa Adai,” you start to get paranoid that if you don’t, something bad might happen.

I didn’t really get what was going on here. I would call friends from the states, even former professors and describe the odd new alternate universe I was suddenly operating in. And then it all started to become clear.... this is how it goes in a “territory.” How could I forget? I grew up seeing it all over the place; it was even written on top of the pizza box at that little meeting with the editor, right on a little coupon and promotional pamphlet taped to the box: Restrictions may apply. Some promotions not available in all territories.

Because, in so many ways, a young woman asked me why I seem less bitchy these days.

2012-01-03T20:18:00.000-08:00

I can’t help but write a “New Year’s” blog entry. I tried not to, but as the first days of the new year roll by, it’s hard not to think of all the lessons you’ve learned and ways in which you’ve evolved as a person. Revealing my emotions and thoughts in this blog has had a profound impact on my life. Through regularly posting in this blog, I have learned that there are many people who identify with the things I thought I was struggling with alone.

I am often invited into classrooms to discuss the blog, pieces of creative work, speeches I have delivered, or particular entries. Each time, I leave moved by the deeply personal things students have decided to share. I’ve left a few sessions moved to tears by some of the emotion that individuals from various backgrounds have revealed. We’ve talked about ways they’ve been hurt by people like me and how they’re more aware of ways in which they hurt others in return. It’s surreal to walk into a room full of people you have never met and walk out feeling like you have known them for years. It’s beautiful- being able to connect with strangers and turn them into life long friends after a single conversation.

A graduate student from off-island called me to speak about my blog. One of the things she pointed out was, what she perceived as, a “change in voice” from earlier entries. I didn’t even remember writing some of the things she brought up during our interview. It prompted me to do some reading when I had the house to myself. As soon as my baby was whisked away to school for the morning, I began reading through early entries. She was right. My earlier entries were often written in a very desperate, panicked tone. Then there was a shift toward flat out anger and bitterness, then bouts of sarcasm and mean spirited humor.

While reading older entries, I watched myself move through the process of thinking about my family’s history, our island’s political status, narratives of history that had been marginalized in America’s framing of past events, our island’s uncertain future, and for the first time in my life, taking an honest look at who I am as a Chamorro, particularly a Chamorro who has been raised within a military family.

This blog has prompted many honest discussions with people around me. Close girlfriends from the states called, surprised that I had so much sitting inside me. They asked me why I never shared certain things with them. Some of them cried, remembering incidents I had wrote about, asking why I had not said anything in the moment. I would only show them things that kept them comfortable in the knowledge they currently had regarding island life, my patriotism after the “liberation” of my grandparents, and showing how many similarities we had.

I had two very different groups of friends that I kept separate from each other through much of my education. I had the friends I met in the states and my friends from Guam and Saipan. I was more honest about my feelings in front of the latter. And those of us who shared a heritage in the Marianas were not always forthright with certain subjects in front of friends from elsewhere. This hurt some of my friends. It even hurt relatives through marriage who are from the states. It came as a shock to those who had married into Chamorro families who weren’t entirely aware of some the feelings held by people around them. Some of them still insist that they “know” how Chamorro people feel because they “married a Chamorro.”

I had a friend e-mail me, saying he had come across my blog, began reading it and was suddenly sad thinking of comments he made. I had never said anything. He said that after reading a few entries, he couldn’t understand how I was able to hang around our friends. He was suddenly remembering the silence he received from certain relatives and thinking about it in a new way. He thought they were shy and inarticulate, not informed enough about certain issues to contribute to the conversation. He suddenly realized that there was much more behind the polite silence and indifferent hospitality. It was the same with girlfriends. They asked me if I hated them. I never hated any of them. Accepting comments like that had just been so much a part of me. I had been raised to absorb them and not confront them as problematic. I was raised to ignore anything rude, biased, or insulting and to focus on showing others that I was not hateful or racist, even in the face of blatant racism against me or people like me. Many times, they didn’t even realize I was identifying with the people they felt so harshly about. They forgot or didn’t realize that I was one of those people; because I was so busy prioritizing their cultural lens. I tried to be “Chamorro,” which I thought was being “accepting, giving, and tolerant.” Despite what many of those public service commercials from certain businesses and our visitor’s bureau tell you, there is a lot more to us than that.

All the effort put toward proving that I was not resentful actually ended up doing the reverse once actual scholarship and a broader understanding of my home’s history came clashing together with my emotions and upbringing.

It’s not that I feel there is no longer anything to feel panicked about. It’s not that I feel there is no longer anything Chamorros should feel angry or bitter about. I have just learned that in order to prevent those things from consuming you, you have to be honest about them. In order to stomp out feelings of resentment or racism, you have to first acknowledge that they are there. In order to fix a problem, you have to actually look at the problem and study it.

There is so much racism and resentment on this island because we spend so much time talking about how it’s not there, pretending nothing is going on. We pretend that everyone is getting along and that all military dependents stationed here are basking in the friendliness of islanders; and that in turn, locals are swinging their doors open for sailors walking down the street. We try to pretend we are living in a big Guam Visitor’s Bureau commercial. GVB's commercials are constant reminders that we need to be welcoming, share, invite foreigners into our home, and be diverse. The people of this island have never had to be reminded to do those things before. The sudden upswing of public outreach messages to be welcoming and “one” with everyone is a big indicator that something else is happening on this island.

I had a hard time answering the graduate student earlier because in the short span of time in which she asked me the questions, I didn’t have time to think about exactly WHY a subtle shift in tone had snuck its way into my entries. But now I have an answer for her: I am less bitter, less angry, and less hateful because I was honest with myself and with others. I allowed myself a space in which others could challenge my negativity, question it, and disagree with it. I made a space where I could challenge others in return. I feel less anger toward individuals associated with institutions and systems that I fundamentally disagree with because I have done something our island has largely refused to do without buffering the discussion with reminders of our friendliness and gratitude: I’ve acknowledged the reality of how I feel and went to the root of it in order to move forward (instead of trying to push aside the root of these feelings and pretend they are too far away to be valid parts of the discussion). They are valid parts of the discussion today because we never took the time to discuss them in the past.

Her questions make me think of a quote from Howard Zinn’s widely read book, The Peoples History of the United States. When explaining the emphasis on marginalized aspects of American history and our tendency to prioritize some things and ignore others, he wrote:

“One can lie outright about the past. Or one can omit facts which might lead to unacceptable conclusions.”

I feel that is something our island should take to heart if we ever want to get beyond some of the very real tension brewing around us. And trust me, there is some serious tension snaking around this community. We can keep omitting parts of our history and our actual feelings, or we can keep going back and forth over the unacceptable conclusions that fuel discussions regarding our culture, history, attitudes, and our futures.

When I began this blog, I began in a state of grief and anger. I let myself grieve appropriately and honestly, realizing there was legitimacy to my perspective. This helped me to move on and conserve energy for more meaningful work and progress in the present. The problems we face on this island are big. We have a long road ahead of us. A change in political status, the slowing of the build up, or getting swept away with the rhetoric of “oneness” and “buying local” aren’t gonna fix it. There is no single cure for our island’s many ailments. But one very important place to start is acknowledging just how unhealthy our home and our people are right now.

I'm No Judy Flores

2011-12-27T14:28:00.000-08:00

Stella Maris

I spent time this past couple of weeks speaking with older Chamoru women I know about, what seemed like, everything under Guam's bright sun. I always find my conversations with different generations of Chamorro's special. Hearing the experiences of others on this island always end up enriching my experience here. I confided in some of them about feelings I have been having toward the Catholic faith. Like many of the older women I ended up speaking with, I've grown up with an attachment to the Virgin Mary. I don't think I'm ready to write much about how I feel on this subject. I'm still sorting it out. But one of the things I saw clearly was that through different stages of our island's history after contact with Spain, Chamorro women have reached out to her, requesting that she protect this island and keep what we love in tact. When I went home, I tried to write a blog entry but realized I still had quite a bit of thinking to do. I ended up organizing my thoughts with color pencils, water colors, and a big window in front of the jungle. A picture I saw a few years ago of the Stella Maris has always been one of my favorite images of Our Lady. She was cradling a Spanish ship in the water, with images of European culture and travelers behind her. I always imagined her cradling a sakman instead.

I did this one after speaking with women who are from the MongMong, Toto, and Maite area. All of them have Cancer. They had spent many years eating kang kong near the river, eating fish from there, and washing their clothes. Again, I really didn't know what to say after hearing all they had to share and ended up playing around with my color pencils. I Saddok

Maila Hålom

2011-12-21T15:54:00.000-08:00

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.

Muñeka

2011-12-20T23:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Banidosa

2011-12-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

Ai na palao’an diaspora.

Silken hair, untouched by Guam’s humidity.

Hafa na klassen accent enao?

Tucking the gutteral stops of our rough language behind your ear.

Hinasoso’ taotao Mexico hao.

Sounding out the L’s in your “Quintanilla,” erasing the S from your “Perez.”

Hinasoso’ Españot hao.

Putting yourself away near that picture of your eldest in rank.

Kalan chåchago’ i kurason-mu.

Knew this was your house by the flag at your entrance, the sticker on your car.

Meggai na alåhas CHamoru yan duru na kuentutusi todu tiempo.

This rice ain’t that red.

Lao yangin hu fafaisen hao, “Ngai’an na un mamaila tatte?”

Just for a visit. Only for vacation; not to live.

I lek-mu, “NEVER.” Sa ti ya-mu lina’la giya Guam.

Your boy talks like he's from "the base" and cries too much.

Ya-mu “Target” yan taya minaolek na tenda giya Guahan.

No, I’ve never seen snow.

Umapoksai i patgon-mu kalan Gilagu’.

No, my house is not “two stories.” Too many stories in your house.

Ti un tungo’ i yo-mu lenguahi....

Embarrassed giggles punctuate your half-hearted attempts.

Sesso un falak i gipot CHamoru yan un silebra i “Pacific,”

I don’t wanna cha cha near “those people.”

Yan duru un a’ada’ yu’ sa å’paka’ i lassas-hu ... lao

Ti un tungo’ i familia-mu.

We don’t look related. Because you LOOK CHamoru.

Latte - Bringing Ourselves Out In The Open

2011-12-06T19:54:00.001-08:00

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

I Tatå-hu - Litråtu

2011-12-06T13:12:00.001-08:00

The above picture of my Grandfather is my favorite. It captures everything about him. Even in his old age, he loves animals and has always been a collector of pets. I think that's where I get it from. Sasayan and animals: that's my grandpa. So for me, this picture sums him up.

I've been spending some time speaking with various manåmko' in my family (both near and far) about their memories growing up. I have all their stories running through my head. I wanted to share this picture of my Grandfather, his siblings, and his mother (Tan Laura) shortly after the war. My Grandfather is currently in the Philippines receiving health care and I'm sending him love and prayers for a safe return home, hoping our Saina and Our Lady guide him back over the waters to our little island, where we are all waiting for him.

If you were hoping for a better read today, I want to direct you toward the Minagahet Blog's "Okinawa Dreams" series of entries. Within it, Bevacqua shares images, detailed summaries, and a sharp analysis of his recent trip to Okinawa with a delegation of inspiring young people (and a couple older, but not OLD people).

Munga Ma Sångan Na Kaduka Yu’.

2011-12-04T19:59:00.001-08:00