It's Christmas on Guam...

To save me from the fate of spending my first Christmas on Guam eating hard-boiled eggs alone in my apartment, a colleague of mine invited me to his annual Christmas gathering.

The thing about Guam I am quickly figuring out, is that everybody knows everybody, and chances are, it's because they are related.

That being said, I was still surprised to arrive at a family gathering to find out that I was attending was actually a very large, seemingly public party, held at the regal, cliff-side estate (above) of one of the better known local patriarchs, who owns a beer distributing company on the island.

There were large outside tents decorated with lights, a live band (or at least, one guy who spent the whole night singing on a stage on the side of the property), a sprawling front-yard parking lot lit by stadium floodlights and attended by a group of 12-year-olds, who had either been stuck with the task of chauffeuring the many attendees parked in the far away regions of the property, or were just incredibly fond of the golf cart someone had loaned them.

There was a roasted pig (left) and the governor (apparently), a mixture of people who looked like family and people who were clearly not, like myself, and the young white guy from D.C. who is heading up the 2010 census on the island.

When I asked my colleague (I will call him "Jojo Santo Tomas") about the gathering, he said something about "65 first families." I thought maybe it was like, a Guam heritage thing, until he explained that no, in fact, it was literally the 65 families that made up his wife's side of the family. Apparently, her mother's family had 11 kids, who had among them 65 (or so) kids. Hence, the tents, the parking, the copious amounts of food, and well, the everybody.

It was pretty fascinating for me to think that the gathering, a veritable who's who of islanders, was actually one extended family reunion.

Other than that, the party was lovely, and much like parties everywhere, I talked to a drunk guy, who seemed to have story to tell me, but then forgot it, and then refused to carry on the conversation until I had seen the movie Avatar.

Toward 10pm, I found Jojo, who was busy in an large, open-air kitchen. There were still trays of unfinished desserts, main courses, a half-eaten pig and appetizers lying about, but he showed me a fully baked, brand new ham in a roast pan. Apparently they used to make sandwiches with leftovers for the second-wave of gorging, only for it to become a tradition on its own, thus requiring a ham.

Jojo started chopping and deep frying it, while a couple of women sliced open reams of Hawaiian rolls, still attached to one another, slathered on mustard and mayonnaise while shaking themselves to the music of the band.

Being a vegetarian, and somewhat sick with my usual Christmas plague, I couldn't actually eat the sandwiches. But I still enjoyed watching Jojo deftly slice and fry, and was reminded of my own somewhat smaller and quieter -- which is sort of a feat given my family -- holiday gatherings.



And it was nice.

the view from the tower...

It may be the wall-to-wall commercial radio that plays an endless rotation of songs about drunken girl brawling, suicide games and cartoonish sexual longing, but I think I might be getting into Bob Dylan.

Having previously scorned all Bob Dylan songs because the sale his album of contemporary hits at Starbucks deeply offended my post-college ideologically purist impulses as a member of the proletarian barista class, my change of heart stems mainly (entirely) from the one song I heard this weekend about tarot.

The song was introduced to me not accidentally, as it features lyrics about the moon, and swords and Kings and Queens, the burning of Eden and the Tower, evoking obvious tarot interpretations, that or Christian religious revelation, whichever.

I started reading tarot cards after I graduated college, having ganked a deck of Victorian-themed cards I had bought for a former friend with whom things were not working out.

At first I read for myself -- timidly laying out the cards in repetition while trying to read into them the things I wanted, only to find out that no, actually, tarot does not just tell you the things you want to hear. It then turned into sort of a party trick; it allowed me to both avoid social interaction, and gain access to the intimate details of the lives of people I was otherwise too awkward to make conversation with.

And then, I don't know, it became a habit, a frame of reference, and later a kind of shorthand for the things in my life I couldn't quite express or explain any other way.

Certain cards became stand-ins for people -- the Sun, the King of Wands, the Emperor, the Dilettante.

I could quickly sum up other people's convoluted emotional dramas with pat phrases: the "slutty girl" card, the "first date" card, the "boon" card, the "wandering up the hillside by yourself" card, the "doing stuff you're not supposed to be doing" card, the “orgy” card.

Cards whose more esoteric meanings had been lost on me at 22, suddenly became clear as I walked my way through those experiences you think you understand until you actually have them, and realize, that yes, it's just like everyone said it would be when you rolled your eyes at 15.

I got lost in the rituals of labyrinthine institutions (the Hierophant), tried to be the change I wanted to see through sheer force of will (Temperance), and when that failed, I tried more rigorous methods (Justice), and repeatedly had to move myself instead of the mountain (Death).

The Tower, however, is a card that I always understood, even in the first days of experimenting, probably due to my proclivity for burning down my life every three to four years.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Tower, it is best explained as being less like death and more like an earthquake -- a shattering force that cannot be reasoned with or controlled and must be ridden, down to the bottom of the burning rubble pile, to see what is left.

Its emergence in one’s life usually has to do with the destruction of things we cannot maintain, whose collapse is inevitable.

Like a forest fire that, you know, renews the soil or something, I've always told myself this was a healthy and natural process. And like that other song that appeals to adolescent girls everywhere, I have always found the jumping to be easy, and falling fairly fun.

This has never sat well with my boyfriend, who has always had a less cavalier attitude toward change, especially the painful and destruction kind (go figure), than me.

I met him when I was 22, as I was assessing the Rest of My Life working amongst the dusty tottering bookshelves and the rotating cast of grungy post-college wanna-be hipsters, whose ranks I had just joined at the Strand bookstore.

He was 23-year-old slouching former film student, still recovering from dashed college aspirations and coasting into the surreal world of adult disappointment, unable to grasp the grinding day-to-day reality of being untethered from the hopes of what would be, for more concrete tasks, like reorganizing window displays.

He was the first person I recognized as a person, someone who was not just an object to be scrutinized, but with whom I would actually have a human relationship. And, as I told myself when we briefly passed each other pushing Strand carts down the crowded aisles, I would have an affair with him.

I remember that I used that phrase exactly, in my mind. I still wonder why, because I didn’t have affairs at the time, let alone with boys. Maybe a day later, when I learned his full name, an honest, no frills Anglo-Saxon name, I thought to myself, "I'm going to marry someone like this."

I have told this story many times, somewhat apocryphally, with a twinge of irony and a sly smile, but I still believe it, I think.

Because from then on I chased him, and he dodged and occasionally came my way, and then changed his mind often enough to keep me interested. And I kissed him often, in parks and on corners, and in the rain and the back of the Strand.

And the first Towers I received in readings from circa 2004 had to do with him. But even as far back as those days, he was part of my Plan. He was my only plan.

I moved away; I came back. We moved in together, and survived New York apartments, unemployment and crazy retail bosses and temp jobs, bed bugs, cockroaches, film school roommates, anarchists and academics, each other, and, until now, my propensity for jumping off things.

I've burned down things before -- things I knew I was too young for, things I realized I never wanted, things I knew would never be mine -- but it has never occurred to me, until now, I think, that there could be important things, things that we are meant to do, that might not survive the ashes.

I still don't wholly believe it.

Last year, he and I ran into a gypsy on a subway car. We assume she was a gypsy because she looked vaguely Eastern European, and also spoke a language I didn’t recognize to what we presumed to be her daughter and grandson. Plus, we had just seen that Sam Raimi movie about gypsy curses, so, it seemed likely.

At any rate, she offered us palm readings, after Keith volunteered to help her redesign her home-computer-made psychic reading flyer, advertising “tarrot” readings and other illuminating psychic services.

For some reason we acquiesced, and there on the subway car she told him things he had heard before, about difficulties and strife, and overcoming challenges, after which there would be celebrations and parties. And she told me things I assumed she thought I wanted to hear: that I was still learning, was particularly sensitive to the need for the sun, and that I was going to move someplace tropical.

He last prediction, which I dismissed out of hand, and to which Keith scoffed disdainfully, "she can say whatever she wants..." was that I would be married in a year.

Things in my life have worked out differently than I have expected in almost every way possible, and none of my Plans have really ever worked out the way I wanted them to.

But, now I am living on a tropical island, and learning new things, and actually enjoying the sun.

So, at least for now, I am going to believe that there must be some truth in gypsy palm readings, and in those flashes of insight we have, even when we’re too young to know what they really mean.

The flame tree

Not to be confused with the native and almost extinct fire tree, this is one of the many flame trees growing around the island.

According to wikipedia, the knower of all things, they are native to Madagascar, but grow well in tropical locations around the world.

I noticed them because they are often barren, making me wonder if all the island trees had been stricken by some terrible disease, or if Guam experienced a tropical autumn I was unaware of.

Not so, someone explained, they just bloom after it rains and then immediately drop all their leaves.

Also, they are pretty:

because I have always been fond of institutions of higher learning...

I visited the campus of the University of Guam today.

I've been there before, but I was extremely late for what felt like a very important appointment to photograph Japanese dolls the last time, so I forgot to take pictures.

Today, I was in a little bit less of a hurry.

The campus is surprisingly far from the downtown centers of activity and commerce. It sits on a cliff on the far west side of the island, I think -- I can't really tell direction on the island.

Not having gone to like, an actual school where people learned useful things (non-useful things, however, abounded) I think I've always felt like the most valuable aspects of institutions of higher learning tend to be the aesthetic appeal of the architecture and/or sculptures, and the availability of places to lie on one's back and look at the sky, leaves of trees, etc.

By those standards I would say UOG definitely gets a pass, plus bonus points for the view of the ocean.

Hagatna at night

I took this tonight from the top of the hill at Saint Vincent's friary. It's a view of Hagatna and Agana Bay -- you can see Two Lovers' Point way off in the distance, and in the very far left corner, that building that says "DNA" is the building where I work.

a summary

My friend Judi (hi Judi) found me on skype today, and we had a long conversation in which she enthusiastically peppered me with questions about my life on Guam.

As I have thus failed to provide any thrilling accounts about my daily life here, I thought I would indulge Judi (who may be the only person who finds this interesting) with a summary of my time here to date.

So, I live in a pretty normal apartment complex (above).

My favorite thing about it, besides being a place I can sleep and afford the rent is the plumeria trees outside my building. (below) I didn't know anything about plumeria until I wikipedia'd it about five seconds ago, but, apparently, they are indigenous to tropical and sub-tropical areas of the Americas, have spread to tropical locales all around the world, including Hawaii where they are used to make leis, and are poisonous.























My apartment is a fairly normal suburban unit - I have carpeting, an air conditioner and a place to hook up a washer and dryer, if I were ever able to afford one. (Not likely).
















I also have a really awesome veranda, or something, that I never use due to the fact that it seems, of late, to have been colonized by a couple of reproducing spiders. But the view, when I enjoy it, is a lovely scenescape of jungle and a few wayward chickens who seem to have moved in.
















My kitchen (below), however, feels like a palace. I have more counter space than I could have ever dreamed of in New York, a stove and more cabinets than dishes, which makes the fact that I don't have a dishwasher tolerable, as I don't own very much stuff to wash.
















I still spend a very large amount of time baking (see below), because it is pretty much all I have to do in my apartment, as I have yet to invest in furniture (also below).








































I do have a bed now, however, compliments of a very nice guy I work with, who gave me a mattress he had in storage. It kind of didn't occur to how weird that sounded, that I had a random co-worker with a mattress in storage until just this instant. But then, this guy lives in a shack in a jungle, being one of those free-spirited world travelers who eschew all things material (including, I hope, the internet).

At any rate, yes, all the worldly possessions I have are stacked delicately on a few cardboard boxes I have left over from my purchase of kitchenware in my mostly empty living room. I'm sure at some point I will get furniture, but right now it seems like less of a priority than say, buying a plane ticket to Thailand to see my little sister.
















Oh, and also, making car payments, as I am now the proud owner of a mostly working Toyota Echo, which I have to drive to work in downtown Hagatna (below).































And yes, I realize that is mostly a picture of a parking lot, but it is also, incidentally, downtown Hagatna.

feasts and saints...

I took this photo last week during the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the annual procession in front of the Hagatna cathedral-basilica.

All the villages in Guam have catholic feast days to honor their patron saints.

In this case, thousands of people show up outside the Hagatna cathedral (downstairs from where I work) and walk the statue of Santa Marian Kamalen, the patron saint of the island, around a circular route of a few city blocks, while singing songs and reciting rosaries (or something like that, my understanding of Catholic traditions is particularly lacking.)

It seems that the statue is a stand in for the Virgin Mary, and the fiesta marks the unofficial beginning of the Christmas season for Catholics (pretty much everyone).

Local legend says that the statue of the saint, which is this somewhat small wooden figure adorned with real human hair (it's donated, apparently), floated onto the shores of the island on the back of two candle-wielding crabs, sometime during the Spanish-forced conversion of the all the local inhabitants to Catholicism. This is, apparently, just one of several origin stories related to where the statue came from, according to the above very helpful link from my new favorite Guam history and culture encyclopedia, Guampedia.

In any case, the statue seems to originate from the Philippines, and could have sunk with a Spanish galleon off of the coast of Merizo, where it was supposedly found three hundred years ago.

Being somewhat fond of ritual, with my undoubtedly misguided proclivity for mystical thinking, I was intrigued by the event, and lingered along the edges of it for a little while listening.

As I bopped between crowds of families huddled under umbrellas in the half-rain of mid-afternoon, I found myself reminded of my life in New York, running around at protests between armies of puppet-wielding anarchists, liberal moms and dads pushing strollers, moaists in jaunty caps and those guys who always seem to wear the same orange anti-torture t-shirts.

Despite the somewhat different objectives, it seemed that at least on a surface level, the two kinds of events, one a gut-wrenching yell of opposition against forces too large to be embodied by a single person, the other a call and response of soft hymns repeated back in old tongues and newer ones to venerate the icons of a God too large to comprehend, were achieving a similar effect.

In New York, when I was still new to the whole protest scene, before I knew exactly what it was I was protesting or how exactly the aims of the demonstration would achieve the ideals I had set forth to realize, I rationalized my participation by realizing the greater good, generally, that can be achieved by putting people in a space together, to commuicate, share and organize.

I liked that protests made people walk -- and made businesses shut their doors, out of both lack of patronage and perhaps a healthy fear of rioting. I liked that I talked to people I would never have talked to before, and that streets and lampposts and garbage cans and corners, when used as vantage points and lounge chairs, took on a significance they lost when simply passed by the tsunami of daily traffic.

Even as other, more concrete motives drew me further into my work with grassroots media and activist organizations, I think it was that larger idea that motivated me to continue.

While listening to crowd sing Catholic songs on the streets together last week, I got that same feeling I got during the best moments of protest.

On island where so few people walk anywhere anymore, even the effort of making a trip of a few blocks on foot seems to be a revelation. And, instead of the sidewalk in front of the cathedral being filled with a handful of Japanese tourists undocking at scheduled times of the day, there were people gathered together, families, long lines of school girls in matching blue uniforms, current and former choir boys, some still clutching their own miniature saint replicas well into middle age, people with heads bowed, people repeating prayers or talking, people waiting impatiently in lines to march.

And instead of the silence of the humid empty air, I heard something older, something deeper -- a communal cry recalling a shared space beyond K-marts and car dealerships and empty streets.

Or, well, I think anyway. I'm new here.

'People of Guam You're Still the One'

I pass by this sign every day on my way home -- it's located at the mouth of the road to my apartment complex.

I'm told that it's a leftover from one of the last governor's races -- which one I am unsure. Although, I guess there are a limited number of options since it's from sometime in the last decade.

At any rate, I haven't been on Guam long enough to figure out exactly the ways in which this is ironic.

Still, next year is an election year, so I expect I will shortly.

the things we pack...

I got a box -- six actually -- in the mail this week, belatedly from New York.

My boyfriend (whom I love and appreciate deeply for all the hard work he did packing) sent these boxes a few days before he finally got out of our apartment in Brooklyn.

Some had been hastily packed by me -- others by him.

For my part, what I decided to send, versus what got left was always going to be a bit of an arbitrary process. Some of it depended solely on what fit in the box; other stuff made it through simply because I didn't want it to get thrown away or end up languishing at a box at our respective parents house.

Still, having spent more than a month away from the things that I decided I needed enough to send them across 7,000 miles of ocean, I couldn't help but be a little shocked by the ill-fitting pieces of my life, as I unraveled them on the floor of my empty apartment.

There was an odd assortment of clothes, some long-missed, like my favorite blue dress, a purchase from a midwestern department store that always made me feel pretty, during the most dull and most Important of moments, a pair of well-worn pajama pants that are too hot for Guam anyway, a stained frilly shirt I am not sure what to do with, underwear, which is always useful. Others were less missed than aspirational: fancy shirts that I never quite had the heart to where while working office jobs in New York, which I will no doubt have use of in Guam, a vintage green 1970s top that I meant to put back in the Goodwill from whence it came, but did not.

There's my pair of laced up leather boots, which I really meant to throw out because who needs winter boots in Guam, but they remind me too much of Xena Warrior Princess, and days spent wearing torn stockings and inappropriate skirts to temp jobs to be able to do it.

There were books -- things I'd read (the book on SDS organizing in the 1960s, something on the philosophy of morality, a tarot book), things I haven't read (Mark Twain, Hunter S. Thompson, that really long book on racism that I've been meaning to get to) and things I will probably never read but wanted them with me no less (Ulyssess, a zine on anarchist organizing, an analysis of sexuality in Emma Goldman's writing -- I tried on that one, I did.)

I found the self-published 70s book on herbs (thanks Maxine) called "Let Herbs Do It", right next to the self-published 70s book on actual doing it found years ago on the dollar rack of the Strand (thanks Keith).

And lest any of us forget my propensity for self-reflection, there were the host of journals I have kept -- or at least the ones I have carried around with me -- in different notebooks, and in different hands as I have gotten older.

I found a blank notebook of Strand paper, which I used to lift injudiciously from the front desk when I worked there, the King Arthur baking sheet I got for my birthday this year (thanks again Maxine), which is much lighter than the actual King Arthur baking book that I had to excise from my luggage before coming here, and which I hope to be reunited with at some point.

And there were all sorts of papers in enevelopes -- collected over the years in lieu of journal entries, because, well, I'm prolific where these things are concerned. My favorite collection is a manilla envelope labeled: 'Shitty Corporate Temping 2004-2006', which is awesomely specific as far as titles go.

It's not like I've actually forgotten any of this stuff. It's all mine. It all shuffles around in the back of my head the way all the things we own do.

Now that I have it though, I feel compelled to do something with it, or add to it, and it makes me think of everything else I have left behind. And it occurs to me that it might have been easier had it all stayed in a box somewhere.

But then, things have a way of finding their way back to us, I think, until we are ready to let them go.