Juneteenth Reflections from Guåhan

For my Pacific Daily News columns over the past month, I was focusing on providing some reflections for the recent passage of Juneteenth as a national holiday in the United States. This was partially in response to some young activists and educators on Guam, hosting a special Fanachu! episode discussing the issue from a Guam perspective. There was so much more that I could have addressed in more columns and I may return to the issue of African American history in Guam or Chamorus navigating US racial hierarchies at a later date in my column. But until then, here are the columns:

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Juneteenth celebration connects history of CHamorus, African Americans

Pacific Daily News
By Michael Lujan Bevacqua

 Jun 25, 2021

 

Last week the United States recognized Juneteenth as a federal holiday. This is an important day whereby the U.S. can reflect not only the history of slavery, but the legacy of that inhuman institution and how it continues to impact African Americans today. Although I happy to see some celebrate this holiday locally, I vocalize this support with some caution about holidays in colonies in general. 

 

As I have written about in previous column, holidays can be another way in which colonization or cultural change happens, without people even being aware of it. As an empire stretches out across foreign lands, it establishes itself in a number of ways, some more forceful than others. One way in which it more passively, but nonetheless effectively, carries this out is through holidays. 

 

When a holiday is first established in a distant land, it may seem strange, especially for those who are first told that on this day, you may not have to work, and that we are supposed to remember these stories and these symbols. This was the case in Guam when prior to World War II, CHamorus were told to celebrate things like Thanksgiving or Independence Day. 

 

But within a generation or two, these holidays can become normalized, even if there may not be any actual history to connect us to that commemoration. Your great-grandmother may have thought it ridiculous to celebrate turkeys or pilgrims. But chances are good their grandchildren will be cooking turkey and sending pilgrim emojis into the family WhatsApp this November. 

 

This is why understanding the relationship between the CHamoru experience and the African American experience is crucial in ensuring that this celebration is not an empty one. It is also a chance for us to commemorate the history of African Americans in the Marianas. Over my next few columns, I’ll be talking about some of these issues and possible connections.

 

It is important to remember that it wasn’t too long ago, that CHamorus were met with the same treatment of African Americans in terms of discrimination and segregation. For example, CHamorus serving in the U.S. Navy prior to WWII could only be cooks along with African Americans, Latinos and other minorities. Daily forms of discrimination, whether economic, social or political were also experienced.

 

As with other minority and indigenous groups, this type of treatment was a constant reminder of the gap between the rhetoric and the reality of America’s greatness. 

 

For example, the first generation of CHamorus to travel to the US after the war, was enamored by the fantasies of the U.S. as a long-filled with opportunity, freedom and equality. They were sometimes shocked at the discrimination they encountered. 

 

I interviewed one CHamoru man who moved to Virginia in the 1950s, and paid no attention to the signs that said “Whites Only,” assuming it had nothing to do with him.

He sat in a restaurant waiting to be served, only for an hour to pass and no one waiting on him. He asked a waitress for help, who told him that there wasn’t any food for him here. He explained he had money and they continued to just ignore him. Frustrated and increasingly angry, he refused to leave and stayed until they closed, but still never received his meal.  

 

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CHamorus struggled with US social, racial hierarchy

By Michael Lujan Bevacqua 

For Pacific Daily News

 Jul 8, 2021

 

For CHamorus, navigating the racial politics of the United States in the first half of the 20th century was difficult. Even prior to leaving Guam, there were already pressures to stop speaking their language and assimilate.

 

The Navy started these sorts of programs prior to World War II and they continued in both public and private forms after the war.

 

Once CHamorus migrated to the U.S., they would struggle to find a place in the existing social and racial hierarchy. The stories that we often collect about people not knowing what Guam or what a CHamoru is nowadays are not new. In fact, the ignorance of the U.S. was a lot less forgiving a century ago.

 

Assimilating

 

CHamorus, like other groups, were sometimes forced to change their names to make them easier for the dominant group to pronounce. They were denied opportunities or paid less because of their skin color. CHamorus who were lighter in complexion were able to avoid some forms of discrimination.

 

Many of them ended up assimilating into other similar ethnic groups. Some, because of their last names already being Spanish in origin and knowing some Spanish, became Latino or Mexican. I know of several CHamorus in the early 20th century, who decided to pass as Arabic or Middle Eastern, since those groups were often considered to be legally “white” in the U.S. at the time.

 

Every year, a handful of people from the states who have recently learned about their CHamoru heritage contact me, wanting to know more about a great grandparent and their island home.

Starkest examples

 

In my oral history research, I remember finding one of the starkest examples of these difficult choices that CHamorus faced in the experiences of two men who joined the Navy in the 1930s. This was a time when both men, despite their abilities, were racially restricted in terms of their service.

 

Like other non-white groups, they could only work as cooks and stewards. They served alongside African Americans, Filipinos, Latinos and other groups, all of whom were considered to be “lower” than the white Americans who commanded them.

 

One of these CHamoru men saw how Black sailors were often treated the worst of all the crew and developed feelings of antagonism to them. He heard the racist rhetoric that his white superiors used with Black sailors and ended up using it himself.

 

His unconscious hope was likely that by parroting his white superiors, he would move closer to them on the racial hierarchy of America, further away from Blacks that he perceived to be at the bottom.

 

Solidarity

 

The other CHamoru sailor also saw how his fellow non-white sailors were being treated, but instead of looking down on them, felt solidarity with them.

 

He described how the stewards would look out for each other and help each other navigate the racist system. One way that CHamorus and other groups would do this is by participating in extracurricular activities within the Navy, hoping that their fellow white sailors might see them as more than just a skin color.

 

Looking to the conversations around racial justice that persist today that helped lead to the passage of Juneteenth as a holiday, we can see ourselves still navigating that racial hierarchy. We are still trying to figure out our place within in, hopefully not losing ourselves in the process.

 

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Vicente Cruz Blaz appalled by treatment of Blacks in US

By Michael Lujan Bevacqua 

For Pacific Daily News 

Jul 1, 2021

 

Vicente Cruz Blaz, known as Vicenten Dero, was born in 1893 and joined the Navy in the early years of the U.S. naval administration of Guam.

 

In the 1930s when the largest numbers of prewar CHamorus joined the Navy, there were severe racial restrictions and segregation. CHamorus, like African Americans, Filipinos, and Latinos, were only allowed to serve as mess attendants or officer stewards. Tun Vicente joined during World War I and he worked on deck with the hopes of eventually becoming a boatswain’s mate.

 

As soon as he left Guam for the U.S., he joined the boxing team to develop a good rapport with his crewmates.

 

While at sea, Tun Vicente contracted tuberculosis and was transferred to a naval hospital in Charleston, South Carolina. Tun Vicente was familiar with American racism of the era, for part of it was imported to Guam.

 

CHamorus had little to no rights on their own island; the Navy treated them like children in need of civilizing. But this racism was diffuse for most CHamorus, not really a regular part of their lives. When they were in their homes and on their ranches, the racism dimmed and seemed distant.

 

But when entering into the realms run directly by the Navy, it became hardly to dismiss.

Appalled by American racism

 

For Tun Vicente, seeing the treatment of Blacks by whites during his time in the U.S. appalled him. Some CHamorus assumed that they were met with American racism because of their status as non-citizens. But Blacks were supposed to be “real” Americans, and he witnessed them being treated as less than even someone like him, who wasn’t even a U.S. citizen, and wasn’t considered to be American at the time.

 

This experience was one of many that gave Tun Vicente pause in terms of reckoning with the reality of America versus the rhetoric about it.

 

In 1931, Tun Vicente joined the Guam Congress, representing the village of Piti. The Congress had been created by the Navy and had no real authority; it could only offer the naval governor suggestions and recommendations.

 

Tun Vicente joined others such as B.J. Bordallo and F.B. Leon Guerrero in advocating for U.S. citizenship and greater political rights for the CHamoru people.

 

When the decision was made to send representatives to Washington, D.C., to lobby directly, Tun Vicente joined those efforts and had his children join with others to walk door to door in Hagåtña, singing songs and requesting donations to support the costs of the long trip.

 

One of his children would later go on to a very successful career in the Marines, becoming the first non-white Marine to reach the rank of general in 1977. He would also be elected the second non-voting delegate from Guam to Congress.

 

His name was Ben Blaz.

 

In reflecting on his life, his father’s and the wider quest of the CHamoru people for self-determination and justice, Ben Blaz wrote about a simple question his father had asked him before he left island to join the Marines; “Why are we equal in war, but not in peace?”

More than a hundred years after Tun Vicente’s visit to South Carolina, questions like this still persist for us in the U.S. territories.

 

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Post-Liberation race riot was censored by Navy

By Michael Lujan Bevacqua 

For Pacific Daily News

Jul 15, 2021

 

Historian Bernard Nalty writes in a pamphlet on Black service in the Marine Corps during World War II about there being three battles of Guam in the 1940s.

 

The first was the Japanese invasion of the island in December 1941. The second, the U.S. retaking of the island in July 1944. The third took place later that year — Christmas night 1944.

But rather than a fight between Japan and the U.S., it was between white and Black soldiers, in what historians have termed the “Agaña Race Riot.”

 

In a series of conflicts involving members of the Navy and Marine Corps between Dec. 23-26, 1944, several lives were lost and more than 40 were put in prison. But if you look in newspapers of that year, you won’t find any mention of the event.

 

The Navy censored what took place for six months, and the truth came out after the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People challenged the trials that stemmed from the riot as severely punishing Black troops while scarcely punishing white troops.

 

Racial discrimination

 

In previous columns, I’ve talked about the racial discrimination non-white troops met while serving in the U.S. military. Despite their willingness to pay the ultimate sacrifice through military service, they faced terrible treatment from the military and white servicemen.

 

For months after the U.S. had retaken Guam from the Japanese, Black troops on island had reported harassment by white troops. Black soldiers who were given liberty to come to Hagåtña for recreation were harassed or attacked by white soldiers. Most of the incidents centered around the white soldiers wanting local women to themselves.

 

Blacks were segregated into camps away from white soldiers. Sometimes, white Marines would drive by the Black camps to yell racial insults and throw rocks at them. On more than one occasion they threw smoke grenades into the camp, once while very flammable octane gas was being handled.

 

Black soldiers reported these problems, but commanding officers, all of whom were white, refused to do anything about them.

 

Several killings

 

On Dec. 23, the issue became more than incidents. First, a white sailor shot a Black Marine to death in a quarrel over a CHamoru woman. Then a Black sentry killed a white Marine who was harassing him. On Christmas Day, a Black serviceman was shot and killed by a drunken white soldier.

 

Early in the morning on Dec. 26, a group of white Marines began shooting at one of the Black camps. The guards returned fire, injuring some of the Marines, forcing them to retreat. Blacks grabbed whatever weapons they could and followed the white Marines back to Hagåtña, where they were arrested for unlawful assembly, stealing US military property and attempted murder.

In the aftermath, more than 40 Marines were convicted, the majority of them Black, with white servicemen either receiving no punishment or slaps on the wrist.

 

Walter White, the executive secretary for the NAACP at the time, was on Guam and collected evidence and also acted as counsel to many of the Black troops. After years of lobbying and disseminating the story to the national press he, and the NAACP were able to get the Black convictions overturned.