Diasporic Projections

The term Diaspora can be tricky, even if it is something that I use regularly and work with and around regularly, even more so during the pandemic. 

The Chamoru diaspora used to be a divide. A fairly sharp divide where Chamorus on the island side were fundamentally different than those who were from the stateside. It would come about in an avalanche of anecdotes that could be heard from both ends of the Pacific. Chamorus in the states would complain that Chamorus on Guam were too backward thinking and stuck, not progressing and not advancing. Despite often very similar problems in their own areas in the US, they would speak about things like government corruption or inefficiency as if they were Guam-brand products and certainly didn't exist in the land of Olive Gardens and Costcos. 

Chamorus from the island would speak about those from the states as if there had never been a tribe of people more stuck up and full of themselves. For everything back home, there were stories about how the states did everything better, had everything the islands did not, and that life back home was just never good enough and shouldn't be considered good enough to any thinking person. Those who roots in the states would see fit to take credit for every single positive thing the states could offer. For example, even if Mr. Cruz had just left island 20 years prior, he would still act as if he sat beside Thomas Jefferson writing the Declaration of Independence and had handed Abraham Lincoln water to drink for the Gettysburg Address and was in the garage with Bill Gates and Steve Jobs when they revolutionized home computing. 

Those in the diaspora would be awash, drowning in prosperity and opportunities. The live in the land of progress and improvement. In contrast those in the islands are the ones with the culture, the roots, the feeling of identity. Being in the diaspora means the chance to get to be a "real American." Being in the islands, back home means being stuck with being Chamoru. 

These distinctions are of course silly. They don't make any actual, fundamental sense. There are opportunities for those that remain in the islands, and there are chances to perpetuate and embrace culture even far away from one's homelands. This is why these divisions are simple matters of projection. That which is projected to one side of the Pacific, already exists on the other. The lost of culture and disconnect is something plenty of Chamorus feel in the Marianas. The lack of opportunities and feeling of economic dispossession is something plenty of Chamorus feel in the United States. 

But like with any projection in relation to identity, it is something you do precisely so you don't have to confront the thing you are talking about. You talk about the splinter in the eye of another, so you don't have to think about the massive beam in your own. You project your own feelings of insecurity or instability onto someone else, so you can imagine that it exists over there, and isn't something that we have to deal with or own up to. 

You talk about how Chamorus in the states can't speak the language, to excuse or obscure the fact that you probably don't either, and your children most certainly can't. You talk about how there are no opportunities on Guam, as a way to limit your own obligation to your home, to speak about it in negative and empty ways not only to justify leaving it behind, but also not feeling any further responsibility for it. 

Some say that these are colonial divisions, but they really aren't. You can argue they are imperial, but that is only part of the equation. These types of divisions are common in a family, in a neighborhood, in a village, in a nation, they are everywhere. They exist for petty and self-protective purposes. They exist to win the tiny and easy fight. They exist for troll victories. The small win, that doesn't actually solve or do much. All you get is a momentary feeling of being better or having some key knowledge of the world. This feeling doesn't actually create more prosperity, more opportunities. It doesn't teach language or culture. So even if this dynamic is normal, we have to learn to recognize that it doesn't help us in our larger goals. It only hurts us. It doesn't save the language, but just makes you feel like you dunked on someone while the language was going silent all around you. 

When people ask me why I do so much to try to engage with the diaspora, to find ways to more normally include and collaborate them despite the distances, it is my way of now wanting to fall prey to the pettiness. 

I was inspired to reflect on this when I re-read recently this poem by Pedro Onedera, in which he talks about 

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Håssan

By Pedro Onedera

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Put para bai hu li’e’ ta’lo i ke’ko’.

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya hu li’e’ na malingu i kostumbren Chamoru.

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya hu li’e’ na ti manmanginge’ esta i manmåmko’

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya duru ma sångan na mampos maipe tano’-hu

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya manmåssa siha nu Guåhu sa’ put i ti “fancy” yu’ kumuentos.

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya ilek-ñiha na tåya’ labonitu para u mali’e’ gi tano’-hu

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya ma sangåni yu’ na taisetbe i fino’-hu.

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya meggai sumångan na ti Chamoru esta siha

Humånao yu’ para i sanlagu

Ya ilek-ñiha na Guamanian siha

Pues påra håfa di bai hu ta’lo humånao para i sanlagu?

Maolekña yu’ gi papa’såtgen tano’-hu!

Magåhet na senhåssan Chamoru no?