The direct opposite of fa’taotao is fa’ga’ga’. To fa’ga’ga’ someone translates to treating her or him like an animal—you bear no regard for that person’s feelings or position. You presume that the onus is on the 2^nd or 3^rd person to immediately accept your misbehavior or your misrepresentation of your intentions; thus, you decide that there is no need for an apology, an excuse, or a pardon.

If an elder realizes and recognizes your inability to exercise the act of fa’taotao, you’ll be corrected.

Recent events have reminded me about the value of fa’taotao. Every mentor, elder, or respectable peer of mine knows and understands this value—it is something we take very seriously. This is why I take it personally that when the Draft Environmental Impact Statement for the military buildup was released to the people of Guam, we were initially given only 45 days to comment on the 10,000-page document. After much public dissent, the comment period was extended to 90 days.

A few months later, there were four public hearings conducted in Guam, one in Tini’an, and the last one in Sa’ipan. Each of these public hearings took place between 7 pm to 9 pm. With respect to the hearings in Guam, it was anticipated that on only four occasions at least 160,000 people were given the opportunity to speak publicly on a document that was filled with 10,000 pages of strategies and mitigation recommendations. At each hearing, those who wished to speak were given only three minutes to discuss their concerns. To the credit of the Department of Navy, we were given the chance to submit comments on-line (limited) or by mail. Regardless of the options on comment submissions, the time we were allotted was ridiculously hampering and discouraging.

Luckily, We Are Guåhan decided to fa’taotao their people and held multiple workshops and trainings to help people voice their opinions in one way or another.

I read somewhere in the news that officials from DoD were making a mockery of us, talking about how they had to figure out what ‘sweeteners’ to use to get us to fall for their tactics and their plans of action. (How very taffo’, by the way.)

These are but a few examples of how to fa’ga’ga’ people, or to treat people like they’re dumb and undeserving of anything that warrants dignity.

This past week, announcements were made that President Obama and Secretary of State Clinton both made a stop in Hawai’i to address APEC. President Obama was going to make a stop in Australia after, and Clinton was to head on to the Philippines. Neither one of them planned to stop on Guam for a visit—with the exception of refueling stopovers. I take this as a projection of the president’s lack of desire to extend any courtesy to our people and is exactly compliant with the concept of fa’ga’ga’.

The people aren’t important—only their land is. If they don’t vote for me, they’re not worth my time. Humanitarian efforts are only necessary for news worthiness and international cooperation. Fuck the people of Guam! (Pardon my English.)

It is very American and patriotic to enter other countries to be big sisters and big brothers to people who suffer from dictatorship, feed the poor, or interfere in civil conflicts (if there are American interests).  But for Guam and the Marianas Islands? Aah… let’s just keep them entertained and pissed off for our amusement.

Kada biråda, ma sangångani hit na mantaibali hit guini. Ti manentirisao siha nu hita sa’ i tano’-ta yan i tasi-ta ha’ minalago’-ñiha. Ayu na gof empottånte este i asunto ni’ para ta ditetminan maisa hit sa’ ni’ u ngai’an na para u ma nå’i hit respeta guini astaki in chennek i direcho-ta giya siha. Ta na’påra este esta! Dalai ya ti mano’son hamyo. Yanggen ti klåru på’go, pues un diha siempre un li’e’ lao puedi ha’ mohon na ti atrasao hao. Sigi ha’ manmafa’bababa yan mafa’ga’ga’ga’ hit guini. Tåya’ entires-ñiha para u mafa’taotao hit.

It is true: one does not have to be CHamoru to live on Guam, nor does one have to live on Guam to be CHamoru. But if you claim Guam to be your home, or if you claim to be a proud CHamoru then I expect that you understand what it means to fa’taotao others. Remember this article of mine, because if you haven’t already noticed it, we have been fa’ga’ga’ three too many times.

Every Friday, the students at this school are required to wear “Island Wear.” This has been a long-standing tradition and one that I have done my best to adhere to in the four yours that my older son has attended this school.

Being the 8-year-old that he is, Matua Ånghet thought it would be cool to wear his t-shirts that identify him with his CHamoru roots—phrases printed in CHamoru… images of the åcho’ latte… the images and names of chiefs—elements that I think are worthy for “Island Wear” days.

But one night, my confused son took a few minutes to scold me for not paying attention to his school’s rules and told me that I wasn’t supposed to make him wear those kinds of shirts. He told me he was embarrassed to go to school the following Friday, because his teacher told him that he’s only allowed to wear “button-down, island print shirts” with any bottoms that aren’t denim. To avoid risking his feelings and further embarrassing him I have adhered since, but every now and then I dare to allow him to wear his CHamoru Language Competition t-shirt which he wears very proudly since their school took 1st place last year.

At first, I didn’t put too much thought into the rule; I shrugged it off like many other parents probably have. But every Friday morning, I have felt more and more disturbed by the rule instead of feeling that good ol’ island pride!

For many, many years the culture of the indigenous people of Guam has come close to utter suffocation from other influences; we have come to fuse ourselves with every other group of people in this world—from the Spaniards to the Japanese to the Filipinos. And sadly enough, many of our people market this and buy into this concept as though it’s cool and hip to be anything BUT CHamoru.

Barring the fact that so little of our history is known to us or that we have been prevented from learning more about who we were, why do we subject our culture to every mediocre opportunity of what we commonly refer to as “preservation” or “perpetuation” when it’s not even our culture we’re preserving or perpetuating?

Is it possible that we can manage to exist solely as CHamorus without lumpia or Hawai’ian print patterns?

It is my firm belief that we are a legitimate people who come from a very rich, deep, and meaningful past that we are still learning about, but if we continue to use other cultures to demonstrate ours, we will push ourselves further from learning and closer to aping what was likely never ours to begin with.

If it is truly cultural, ethnic pride that my son’s school and every other institution on Guam is attempting to achieve with their requirements to wear “island wear,” I would really like to know how their efforts have helped people to appreciate the culture that is known to us as the CHamoru culture.

Over the last few days, this professor decided to defend himself and his OpEd. The more he commented, the more I realized that his replies were very immature and bore no academic or intellectually substantive value. Every time someone challenged him to enter into discourse on the topic, he chimed back with a mocking comment or something that seemed to be a drunken comment. As if that wasn’t childish enough, he later sent messages to a few of my friends, attempting to explain himself or to seek some sort of pity from them after he had already insulted them.

Other than his very irresponsibly misleading comments about the presentation, the other thing that disturbs me about this man is the fact that he gets paid quite a hefty salary to teach at the University of Guam. Quite frankly, this is evidence of tax dollars going to waste if he’s going to behave this way.

His annual salary gives the false impression that he costs us so much money to supposedly provide the best information and factual guidance for his use in educating our children and our future leaders of this island. But the quality of his comments and his feedback on these very serious issues speaks to the quality of what he might be teaching in the classroom.

If I knew anyone who was contemplating on taking his class, I’d tell her that she’s being cheated out of her money! I mean, after being taught by truly distinguished professors and surrounding myself with very bright people during my college experience, I’d like to think that I have a good idea of how truly great professors ought to conduct themselves.

I’m not sure what the policies of the university are, but if this man claims to be their representative, I would expect a lot more class, professionalism, decorum, or natural maturity from him.

Too bad we’re paying so much for so little in return.

I copied this from a post on another site that I frequent.

At the height of last year’s gubernatorial campaign season, I saw the above ad on a web forum I used to frequent. I was immediately appalled at its portrayal of the two kids who looked na’ma’ase’ about the fenced-in playground and jungle gym. But a few minutes of deeper thought into the ad made me more and more ma’ggodai, because the ad completely misrepresented the anger I feel when I think about the militarization of Guåhan.

I kept thinking about how this particular team was focused on the fenced-in playground instead of the radiation in our water and the occupation of the land that has been stripped away from so many of our people. Of course, the text of the ad shows an attempt of trying to convince us of their concerns about life “outside the fence,” but as skillfully written as it was, I was removed farther from the idea that this campaign would ever promote my indigenous right to determine for myself whether or not I want tens of thousands more people to come to the island as swiftly as I would take a sip of lukewarm åhu.

I have very little tolerance and very much disdain for those among us who believe that without the militarization of the island that we couldn’t prosper. While it is true that there have been many contributions made by the military community those contributions will never be tantamount to the destruction that’s been left behind for us to deal with.

Someone once passed along a note to me to let me know that something had gone wrong inside the fence that caused the leak of thousands upon thousands of gallons of raw sewage, but nothing of the sort was ever reported by local media sources. Whether or not we will ever find out the truth is beyond me at this point.

And now they want more land—land that is already occupied or owned by our people. They want to take this land to screw it all up for war games and to practice how to kill people (otherwise known as defending my right to write freely). And then when they decide to leave, we might be lucky enough for the feds to return the shitty land back to our people so we can try to grow cucumbers or watermelons to build futures for our children only to find out later on that the soil is far too contaminated for anything to grow.

But the ad… the ad says nothing about how the gubernatorial hopefuls were going to address these issues. Why would they? It would cost them their reputation of being unpatriotic to the mother nation—surely it wouldn’t be wise to claim patriotism to their “Guamanians” first.

The ignorance of this team to their indigenous constituency is na’mamahlao to me. But now that they’re in office, it’s even sillier to me that they want to continue to announce that they’re looking forward to exercising our right to self-determination. Scary thing is: I don’t think they know what they’re talking about—but they’re in charge now.

Ten years ago, at almost 9 a.m. on September 11, Vincent and I were stuck in rush-hour traffic to get to our classes at San Antonio College. We were (at the time) big KTSA talk radio fans and were tuned in, listening to whatever pompous conservative comments were being made about the immigrants in Texas. Suddenly, Elizabeth Ortiz came on the air to announce that one of the towers at the World Trade Center was on fire from some sort of unknown explosion. Moments later, she came back on the air to advise that it seemed like the explosion was caused by a small aircraft, air carrier unknown.

Vincent and I weren’t as stunned as we would be when almost 20 minutes later, Elizabeth came back to frantically explain that a second plane had crashed into the other tower. Vincent and I were quiet until she finished her last report. By the time we reached the campus parking lot, we were wondering if it was safe for us to be anywhere near downtown since the city is surrounded by several military bases. We reluctantly got out of our truck and parted company to enter our classrooms.

I was surprised to see that many people had no idea of what was going on, and the ones who heard the news were already suspicious that Bin Laden had something to do with what was now being referred to as “attacks.”

“It’s him—I know it’s him,” said one classmate.

Another one quickly chimed in, “How the fuck would you know”?

 “Who the fuck else would be crazy enough to do this shit”?

 A third classmate who was obviously irked said, “Where the hell is the president”?

Suddenly, the door swung open and another classmate walked in. “They’re saying that the Pentagon was hit and the next target is supposed to be the White House”!

Now, I was literally quivering, wondering if my 16-year-old brother was okay since he was clear across town at school. Then I felt a chill, thinking about how Guam was so close to China—expecting the worst to happen (as ignorant as that seems now). My mind was racing, and before I knew it, it was time to go to the next class—Cultural Anthropology.

Luckily, Vincent and I had this class together so I was relieved to see him walking my way. The halls were quiet; people were stuck in their thoughts. When we got settled in class, my instructor thought she’d educate us on the Taliban since the word was going around that they were responsible for the attacks. She told us about the ultra-conservative movement in the Middle East that was spurred by the Taliban and how Al Quaeda was this and that. Some people were trying to link the date with the day that the Camp David Accords were signed (September 17, 1978).

All the questions were raised, but no one in the classroom had answers…

How many planes are there?

What or who will they target next?

How come the military wasn’t activated yet?

      Why doesn’t anyone know what’s going on? 

How could three planes have already hit these landmarks without a trace?

               How will this change our security?

 Those fuckin’ Arabs—why can’t they just leave us alone?

 Our class time ended, and the announcement was made that classes were cancelled for the rest of the day. We walked outside the building and met up with some friends who were completely dazed and confused—they just witnessed footage of the twin towers collapsing, before the buildings were cleared.

I looked around to see many people with their faces buried in their hands. I had a classmate who was an Air Force Reservist, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew he was about to be activated.

People were softly crying to themselves, while others comforted them. We all knew… we all knew that this day would change everything.

Vincent and I headed home, and I was still afraid for my brother, Charlie.

He finally came home from school just as Vincent and I were getting ready for work. Charlie explained that their campus was on a complete lockdown. Shortly after the attacks, every person on campus at his school was instructed to stay put; no one was allowed to neither enter nor exit the premises. They remained in lockdown until the city gave the all-clear.

Vincent and I both worked as Customer Service Representatives at a call center for Travelocity.com. We were wondering how travel plans were going to be affected, and we were preparing ourselves for the madness on the phones that we were sure would overwhelm us for the rest of the evening.

But when we walked into the building, we noticed that our co-workers were sitting still, staring at the headlines across their computer screens. For once, the phones were not ringing, and people had time to browse the internet. Just about every screen was logged on to Yahoo and CNN websites with horrifying images from the day’s events.

I plugged in my headset, sat there, and waited a long time till my first call came in (hours after my shift started). When I got the whisper tone, I was startled—it was so quiet that I had just about forgotten where I was. The caller called just to let us know that she knows that all aircrafts were grounded and that she’s willing to wait for as long as it takes to be re-accommodated. I documented her account, and that was the last call I received that day.

September 11 lasted for about three to four days at the call center and everywhere else around us.

Almost no one called in to the call center, and when they did, it was to either tell us to hang in there or to let us know that they were okay with the flight schedules that were held up.

About a week later, the rumor went around the office that some of the highjackers might have purchased their tickets from our websites. (The FBI apparently came to retrieve whatever information they could find, and with the sensitivity of the situation, it was never divulged to us whether or not that story was true.)

After September 11, our coursework in college took a drastic turn towards domestic/foreign relations, warfare, and social conservatism. We studied the controversial Patriot Act and the Sneak and Peek Clause, and we critiqued the five color codes for the alert system. Everything changed, and eventually, the White House tried to justify an invasion in Iraq with the deaths of over 3000 people and the trauma of survivors and surviving family members.

Ten years later, and we still don’t know the truth about why the reports of terror threats were ignored, why the president didn’t activate NORAD, or why we went after Hussein and not after Bin Laden.

But soon… we might be able to buy fancy bedding, made in Pakistan, at a discounted price.

September 11 is not for anyone else but for the people who lost their lives that day, the survivors who now suffer from respiratory illnesses, and the surviving family members who still struggle to cope with their loss. I think it is most proper that this day belongs to them; there are other holidays and days of remembrance for the events that followed that horrific day.

The recent onslaught of bills that have been introduced to push this agenda (as though it’s something new or something hip that we can all rally ’round the flag about) is pretty disturbing when the reality is that this issue has been long discussed and debated by those who are truly engaged in the topic of self-determination and our political status.

To better understand why I do not support the idea of “residents of Guam” being included in my vote for the political status of the island, you must first understand what self-determination is about. Then I think the discussion will be a healthy one.

I will never dare to settle in Palau and expect that I am entitled to make decisions on their islands’ political future just because I have called Palau my “home.”

The elevated arrogance and presumptive position of people who feel that they are entitled to this vote is beyond my imagination. You see, if you “call Guam home,” then I’m under the impression that you understand what the indigenous people have been through so that you could now “call Guam home.”

This is what the conversation was like.

Vincent: There, Boys. That’s the place where they keep naughty people. Some of those people have been inside there for longer than you’ve been alive. Just imagine being stuck in this car for eight years—never being allowed to go outside to see your friends or your family.

Magåhet: Is that fence there so the naughty people don’t escape?

Vincent: Yep.

Matua: Is that why they have all those twisty wires too—so they don’t escape?

Vincent: Yes.

Matua: Wow! That’s a lot of fences.

[Long pause]

Matua: Dad? Are there a lot of prisons at your work?

Vincent: No, Son. We don’t have any prisons where I work; that’s only in the states. Why, Son?

Matua: Then why are there are a lot of fences at your work?

Vincent was in so much shock from our son’s observation that he fell silent and started thinking about the question posed to him.

It seems there were two lessons to be taught and learned.

I don’t try to force-feed CHamoru language, but I will use it when I can. When I speak CHamoru to people, I come across many different reactions. These are among the most common reactions: 

1. The other person will respond in CHamoru,
2. The other person understands what I am saying but hesitates to respond in CHamoru for fear of making mistakes or sounding silly,
3. The other person will respond with CHamoru words interspersed here and there, waiting for my approval or my corrections in the middle of the conversation,
4. The other person tells me to speak English (in a mocking, condescending way), or
5. The other person tells me that CHamoru is not practical and isn’t necessary for commerce and business operations.

I have no problem with Numbers 4 and 5 UNLESS it comes from the mouth of a fellow CHamoru (or “Guamanian,” whatever floats yours). It makes a big difference to me who makes these sorts of comments because I refuse to believe that if I was not bilingual that I would be any more successful with my education or my career path. I’m not sure what else bothers me about these comments, but they just do. And if that makes me arrogant, then I’m not sure how else to relay my sentiments (maybe you can comment on this).

***

Sometimes I feel like we get so caught up in finding ways to attack other people whenever they’re calling us out on this so-called “identity crisis,” and we never really pay enough attention to the substance of these comments.

Perhaps this man, whom I shall not name or give too much credence to (lest I be guilty of spreading his very inaccurate statements), does not have the opportunity to expose himself to what would formulate the exact opposite of his observations. I will, however, give the topic of his letter some credit because I think it was necessary for us to read what he wrote. A lot of times, we have to be reminded. And for a lack of better ways to write about this, the cliché that “the truth hurts” fits best in this case. But never mind what he says. Let’s focus on what we say and what we do (or don’t do) that hurts our language’s chance for survival in the coming years.

I think the CHamoru language deserves nothing less than for us to recognize that it should be more widely practiced and passed on. No matter its present-day shape or form, our language is—without a doubt—alive and kicking, but some of us have failed to pronounce this and proclaim this by not moving past the “interested” stage and in to the “practicing” stage of the CHamoru language.

Regardless of the debates on issues of spelling and the components of standardization across the islands, the most important thing you can do for yourself (if you’re interested in speaking CHamoru) is to practice and use it. Let the experts and those who devote themselves to the orthography do the technical work of figuring it all out for us. Meanwhile, it is up to the rest of us to pick up and take what we can. Sure there is ongoing dialogue about what is correct in usage or what is truly CHamoru. And yes, we have adopted many words from other languages, but this does not give us a reason to discount the authenticity of our language.

If we continue to ignore our language (although largely morphed since the pre-contact era) and excuse ourselves from its usage then we will surely drive it into its grave. But if we perk up, learn it, make mistakes, re-learn it, and use it, there’s no chance that opinions like what’s his name’s will mean anything of substance.

Do not perpetuate the rumor that our language is dying, as so many of us have already and continue to disprove and dispel this notion.

Rather than using English to say, “Our language and culture is dying,” use CHamoru to say, “Fino’ CHamoru på’go.” Håfa mohon?

CHa’mu hinalang… lå’la’la’ ha’ i fino’-ta ya siña ta na’fåmta’ ya ta na’hanaomo’na i kinalamten ayu siha ni’ manmanå’na’gue i fino’ CHamoru.

Vincent was more cautious and thoughtful than I was though. He reminded me of the fact that some kids could be cruelly creative with the names of their peers, which gave me a whole new approach to finding a name. At first, I thought I’d attempt to be poetic, but after listening to Vincent’s comments, I found myself thinking of the many ways in which the names I originally picked out could be converted into humiliating banter.

We pondered and consulted and debated. By the time I went into labor, we hadn’t yet found a name that he and I both agreed on—for a boy or a girl. But I made use of my time as I lay there waiting in labor and made the long-distance calls to my family on Guam. As soon as my dad got on the phone, I explained to him that we had come up with a variety of names but none really satisfied us yet. I asked him for his suggestions with the explanation that if I was to have a boy, I wanted to name him after Uncle Angel. And in an instant, my dad said, “How about Matua Ånghet, you know as in noble angel?”

THAT WAS IT! How could I not think of something like this? (Maybe because it was a little too deep for my reach or that my dad has a way with stuff like this.)

I repeated the would-be name to Vincent, and we finally hit the jackpot—if I was to deliver a boy, that was.

Even though I can’t remember what name we came up with for a girl, it seems like shortly after we decided on Matua Ånghet, it was time for me to deliver.

After 22 hours of waiting, there he was… my baby boy who was to be known to the world as Matua Ånghet. That was seven years ago.

He is now joined by his youngest brother, Maga’låhi Christopher, who was also named after someone whose character is befitting of the title, maga’låhi.

Whenever I introduce my boys to someone, I say, “I lahi-hu este, si Matua Ånghet, yan estague’ i neni-hu, si Maga’låhi Christopher.” Knowing that we spent so much time thinking of their names and knowing how meaningful their names are to my family, I make the effort to say their names completely. 

But very often (more often than I’d like to hear it), people will ask, “What do you call him for short”? Or, “Does he have a nickname”? These are times when I feel like I need a muzzle to keep me from being rude, but my usual response is, “They don’t have nicknames.” (As if I need to say anything at all.)

Sometimes, I want to say, “Håfa na para un nå’i i patgon-hu otro na nå’an yanggen esta hu nå’i gue’ i na’ån-ña?” (Why do you want to give my child a different name when I’ve already given him one?)                                     

For many of us, choosing names for our children is a very meaningful process. Let it not be boiled down to just nicknames—especially if they’re not nicknames you and your family have come up with among yourselves. If you have decided to name your daughter, Sumahi, then that is the name I will use to call her. If your son’s name is Ka’isa then I will know him as Ka’isa.

I’m tired of people trying to rename others for the sake of sounding less accented—especially other CHamorus. Nåhnalao… munga mamåhlao.

In many ways, it reminds me of how a lot of the place names and our peoples’ names have been changed or even completely renamed for the convenience of Guam’s past and present occupiers. Ta na’påra adei este na bishu.