Thoughtful conversation

It was thoughtful conversation with a young scholar equipped with steely determination, natural intelligence and depth. He took me on a quick visit to issues and writing going back 40-plus years.

Specifically, he wanted to know what inspired me to scribble for over four decades now. I wanted a voice on issues that matter. I expected healthy discussion, agreeable or disagreeable a reader may be. It has been and still is a journey in “search of the truth!” At day’s end I’d like to go home with a clear conscience, ready for a restful night. My world begins with being at peace with myself.

Have my views on various issues changed over time? Indeed, ripe age occasionally requires retreating for intellectual and spiritual nourishments but there are issues to which I remain resolute, unwavering.

Foremost is colonialism, specifically the shift in colonial masters each of whom came with total racial arrogance to annihilate our way of life. Each simply trashed our dignity as a people. It speaks volumes how they see us—slaves—in complete condescension. It’s an indelible scar in my mind and spirit. What gall to destroy our dignity and way of life!

Attempts at cultural genocide failed successively. It’s the iconic vestiges of colonialism that shifted or changed hands from Spain, German, Japan and now the U.S. Did we meet this with adulation or contempt? I take the latter. How do you end a language we were born with? But they succeeded fostering divisiveness via the use of divide and conquer.

The shift in colonial masters forced a cultural journey that never ended in terms of coming to terms with our cultural identity. It seems an endless glide into nowhere land except disruption and disorientation. But take a look at the sun at dawn. Hold it in your eyes for a few seconds for you will see the light and everything else around you. It begins by meditating on our ancestral relationship with the land and sea.

It’s the disruption of our cultural tradition that took the wind out of our sails of sound village level unity and indigenous resiliency. Appalling how some of our very own advocated the master’s dictates, substituting as coconuts. I have no apologies for the pejorative use of the term coconuts even against those who resorted to avarice, ignoring the fate of the innocent.

Understandably, the landscape shifted so drastically where the absence of strong indigenous leadership gave way to neocolonialism. It was embraced as a new normal for shielding the adequacies of local elected elite to “plan for” our future. Are casinos, food stamps, Medicaid and other entitlement programs we can’t afford on our own the future of our children? Would not their powerful erosive effects forever compromise traditional cultural values of the NMI?

Interesting too how we’ve used the term “indigenous” as a convenient cane stick to support half-cocked political agenda. If anyone wishes to claim otherwise, name one single indigenous program so designed to help indigenous families deal with the challenges and impositions of modernity. It’s one big fat zero! Nada! Then comes the final insult—more spouts about cultural values—often maligned in ill-defined political agenda. And that seems the humiliating extent and commitment to culture!

Moreover, the election process has changed from a true expression of “we the people” to who has the “deepest pockets.” Rich donors have simply selected their pet dogs from among candidates, funneling money for their election. Servile puppies in turn guard their boss’ interests in legislative chambers and administrative offices. The people’s interest takes second fiddle. I could see the young scholar’s jaw drop in amazement. “Has it come down to deep pockets now?”

We decided to take a break, though I’m pleasantly convinced that the young scholar would be the torchbearer of the truth as he sets sail to become a journalist.

Writing in vernacular

My young friend said he’s impressed with my decision to write in Chamorro. Indeed, I did it recalling the last lessons in the second grade, the conversations I’ve had with my late grandfather Elias P. Sablan, my Uncle Bill and his wife, both of whom were teachers and masters of the language, mom, aunts and uncles. It was the basic reconstruction of what became my Chamorro writing foundation.

Actually, I wanted to write our stories from within. I wanted to share stories from fellow Chamolinians, their aspirations, problems and concerns. Nothing is more credible that telling what’s known in the business as the “inside story of the story.”

Sickening listening to our story told by others from without who failed to put context into their materials. Hoping too that down the stretch we would engage more indigenous writers.