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Voices of the Diaspora

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Voices of the

Diaspora

Brought to you by

Fanachu! Podcast

@fanachupodcast

Publication design by

Amara Rose

San Agustin

@kimchimara

The Next Great Voyage

Annai kahulo’ yu’ gi båtko

Hinasso-ku gua’ot i langhet

Hinasso-ku na u libianu

Lao ai para hu maså’pet

When I was going up to the ship

I thought it was the stairway to heaven

I thought it would be easy

But no, I am going to suffer

This verse is drawn from a pre-World War II Chamoru song documenting the ups

and downs in the lives of those young Chamoru men who joined the US Navy in the

1930s and left Guam for the United States. Chamoru scholar Robert Underwood

quotes this passage in his 1985 article “Excursions into Inauthenticity: The

Chamorros of Guam” which was one of the first critical articles to tackle the issue of

migration, identity and the development of a Chamoru diaspora.

The Chamoru diaspora to the United States has its earliest origins during the late

Spanish period, the second half of the 19th century, when hundreds and perhaps

thousands of young Chamoru men left island as whalers and settled in places like

Hawai’i and California. The Chamoru diaspora as we know it today has its most

direct origins in those who left the islands through US military service, first through

the US Navy and later through the US Army and other branches of the US military.

These men left island with their eyes dazzling about glorious promises of

opportunity and prosperity in the United States. But as the song makes clear, far from

paradise, life in the diaspora was just as complicated as life back home. It came with

new opportunities, but also new challenges and barriers. The Chamoru diaspora at

this point has evolved far beyond communities around military bases. Chamorus can

be found in every corner of the United States.

Thousands of miles away from their home islands, some families have continued to

maintain a strong connection to the Marianas. Others have minimized or erased those

ties. Across the diaspora some families have found innovative and heartwarming ways

to retain a sense of identity, a feeling of rootedness. Others have not, leaving children

and grandchildren with questions as to what is this heritage that has been kept from

them, and why has it been kept from them at all? The artwork, poetry and writings

collected in this zine are meant to reflect the diverse range and depth of experiences

from those Chamorus who have lived outside of the Marianas sometimes for just a

few years and others for a few generations.

This zine comes at a critical moment where every 10 years a new census reminds us

of the new reality: for the first time in 4,000 years, the majority of the Chamorus in

the world, do not live and breathe most of their lives in the Marianas. Our diaspora,

the communities small and large of Chamorus living across the United States now

represent the majority of the Chamorus in the world.

This zine has not been created in the spirit of lamentation of loss, but is instead

represents call for us to challenge and move past the old ways that our own people

have understood ourselves, our settlements and migration. In the past, the Pacific has

divided our people between those at home and those in the diaspora, and we have at

times accepted this division and reinforced it as if we lived in separate universes or

were distinct species. This way of dividing ourselves must be rejected.

Our resiliency in today’s world, how well we can overcome these geographic divides

re dependent on the stories we tell, the networks we form, the technologies that we

make our own, and the ways we can reimagine things such as chenchule’ and

inafa’maolek across time zones, to create possibility and empower our people.

Our people sailed thousands of miles across uncharted, open oceans in order to the

settle the Marianas. They likely did this long before any other people on this planet.

Some historians call that journey, the first great voyage in human history. Traversing

the diasporic divide is but another great voyage that on our horizon. We hope that this

zine is but one of many stars in the sky that can help guide on our way.

Michael Lujan Bevacqua

CONTRIBUTORS

TÅDDONG GOGUE TEDPAHAGO HA/GUI/ÑA (ALEX M. WHITE)

JESSIE RAÏSA

MINA FLORES-CANTRELL

JACOB JARDEL

ROSWENA BRENNAN

RANDIZIA CRISOSTOMO

ZACHARY BELCHER

MORG/HOBBYOFSLIVERS

DREW DAMES

LADISA DAWN QUINTANILLA

TOR SHIMIZU

CLAIRE TAIJERON JOKERST WHITE

DILLON QUITUGUA

DANIELLE WILLIAMS

SHAYLIN SALAS

DAVID CHARLESWORTH

BRIANA MAZZOLINI-BLANCHARD

JOEY SWATZELL

JOANNA MALPICA

BRIKI CAJANDIG

DEREK NOCHEFRANCA

PATRICIA ANN POCAIGUE BEUKE

DOLORES TAIJERON

LATECIA MESNGON

HOPE MESNGON

KULU’LO’ÑA

TAYLOR ‘PAIGE’ AGUON

GABRIELLE MONIQUE TOVES

COURTNEY BOWEN

ED SABLAN

CARRERA DIEGO

ANGELA CARRIER

HURAO PABLO-COOK

FELISA CONCEPCION

CONNIE ANN EBIO SANTOS

EMILY WOOD

NATALIE "SISSY" SANTOS VELASCO

AREN KERR

JEREMY CASTRO

ROLDY AGUERO ABLAO

GUMA’ GELA’

JAY CASTRO

ISA GAGARIN

"Throws of water

away, drown

drinking

for brush and blood

/ color and such

Look yourself in the

eye and reel,

<< but tell me how

you really feel>>

Mirror holds space

portal through face,

time, water

Daughter, everyone

is afraid of the

ocean."

Jessie Raïsa

ZACHARY BELCHER

“WRITE AS IF EVERYTHING YOU LOVE IS ON

THE LINE.

BECAUSE IT IS.”

JULIAN AGUON (2021)

Randizia Crisostomo

1- prep

a spoonful of rice

passing through my lips, provides a sense of

comfort.

i stand, my mother sits

the sound of metal against plastic board fills the

air.

a spoonful of rice, of home

accompanied by salty meats and sour treats

this is how we care for each other, on soil that is

not made to carry the weight of our name.

a spoonful of rice, of love

passing through my lips, nourishing me as learn

and grow.

2- restituyi (to return, to undergo restoration)

the pure joy upon landing on the tarmac

i am home. the home i will always know,

always yearn and dream of.

i am still suspended in midair

when my family surrounds me.

my life resumes as we order food

from everyone’s favorite places.

laughs on top of laughs fill the home.

Daze of Assimilation

Courtney Bowen

4- growing pains

the earth has settled around me- i

warm under the pressure. the seal of

comfort is thin.

my mind buzzes and blurs. time

passes and goes.

but i relish the whirlwind. the ache is

welcomed.

comprehension be damned.

home is but a memory.

the earth has entered and consumed

me.

my body is indistinguishable from

land.

3- drifting further

constant volley of decisions

needs and wants for comfort.

familiar pains trouble me once again.

arms ache for release.

but what once soothed me has changed,

as the waters surrounding me have.

and struggle against the wind.

the sweet heat of home

settles in my blood.

shall i let the earth swallow me

and reclaim me?

5- acceptance

cold and clear skies over a foreign

home I've grown to love.

the cold bites and I must bite back.

my mother tongue has left me, but I

long for her sweet embrace once

more.

harsh and bumbling words come from

my mouth now.

the rhythm and dance of my

language still

thunder deep inside me.

the cool heat from my native home

calls and calls until I return.

but this once barren and

desolate land I reside in grows lush

with every passing season.

Daze of Assimilation

Courtney Bowen

6- tradition

I wear the face of long dead ancestors.

Have they stories of wondrous victories and memories of peace?

Is there a blessing I have yet to realize?

Do they look upon me and are reminded of glorious youth?

Will my efforts be enough for them and those after me?

My children-

Will they call upon my name and sing their praises?

I shall gift my face to inheritors long after me.

7-a fortress

built up and broken down

o, isolation- my lonely mistress

have i exhausted all my efforts to

stand tall and proud for those before me?

am i bound to stumble and

to be buried under iron and steelthe

instruments of destruction and separation.

to have a fate sealed by other’s greedthe

green eyed monster that stalks the land.

to long for release from perpetual solitudethe

tower of shame and confusion.

the endless view from our point reveals a tired path.

Photo by

Joanna

Malpica

As we sit by the pool,

sucking our sticky-fingers,

slurping the sugary streams that

slowly drip down our elbows,

stillness sits beside me.

Some, we pluck from saplings or

spot sprouting in the sod.

Seedlings of all varieties

seduce our playful kisses,

and we savor each bite- slowly.

Strands sticking in our teeth,

sap of orange spilling across t-shirts,

shucked skin scattering across sand

that soothes the strain of time.

Skies and oceans separate us now.

Seasons pass as if in slumber,

but,

standing at city fruit stands,

some times, these secrets I see.

“A Song for Mångas”

Mina Flores-Cantrell

Over

(Being)

Grown

I drew these two pictures as one art piece that reflects on my life growing up as

a Micronesian American in the states.

My mom is Chamoru and she was raised on Guam but after she married my

Chuukese dad and he joined the Army, we moved to the states where I spent my

whole childhood in the scraggly suburbs of Virginia.

The two pictures show my wildness as a happy child that is overshadowed by

the overwhelming reality of adulthood, something intensified by the realization

that I never got to truly get to know my island culture and my uncles, aunts,

grandparents, and cousins across the sea.

Upon deeper reflection, I like to view this piece conversely as my inner child

forever happy and yelling for adventure — and how I never want to forget that

excited island girl.

Roswena Brennan

Visiting

Grandparents,

2015

Shaylin Salas

Jacob Jardel

“It’s like I know more about Guam than you do.”

He has countless / memories of Guam / from when his dad was stationed there

/ for a couple of years, / remembers it with / a pre-teen fondness / that borders on

infatuation: / eating kelaguen and rice / while his dad did his military work, /

going to Micronesia Mall / with his family, / taking trips to the / touristy parts of

the island / that made him marvel— / things native Chamorus typically bond

over / with our mainland friends. // The Guåhan I remember / comes in faded

snapshots: / eating roast pig / at my nino’s fiestas / while nina shooed flies away /

with a paper plate, / taking baths in outdoor sinks / during visits with my mom’s

cousins, / watching Power Rangers / and playing with my Pogs / while grandma

made rosketti, / visiting my grandpa’s siblings / whose identities blend into / one

collective nginge’, / one collective ñot-ñora— / things that come with the

territory of living on the island. // All I’m missing / is the island— / the part of

the territory / I can’t replicate stateside.

“Funny how that works.”

Sometimes, we are niyok

Traveling by twilight and current

With hånom from the homeland

Prepped for survival

Sometimes, we are isa

Two feet straddling two lands

Looking to the sky

Untouchable

And sometimes, our leaving

Is also returning

When we meet those

Who help us remember what we have

lost

Together,

We braid and we weave and we root

And we tend and we heal

And we grow

Tor Shimizu

ZACHARY

BELCHER

A Letter

to the

Taotaomo’na

Mañaina,

I can’t seem to explain what I am feeling…

My heart is too heavy with the weight of my

emotions it cannot bear. I miss you with every

fiber of my body and it feels like the longer I

am away from you, the more I decay from the

inside out. I pray for your wisdom and

guidance, because I know you understand

what it is like to travel far from home when

you would voyage through the ocean. Let the

past of our people move me through this

turmoil that is my life.

Do you remember the conversations we

would share as I trekked through our

abundant island? I would imagine the kind of

experience-filled advice you would bestow

unto me when I am acting too rash or being

harsh on myself. Hågu i rason na tumatachu

yu’-you are the reason I am still standingbecause

you act as that quiet voice in the

back of my head saying, “Hoggen maisa hao

yan cho’gue ha’ (Believe in yourself and just

do it)”.

You taught me how to be strong and

resilient by always pushing me to my limit,

but never over the edge. I wish I felt as

strong a connection to you now as I did

back home. Until then, I will continue to

imagine the words of wisdom you would

share with me.

Gof mahålang yu nu hågu. Hågu i

fuetså-hu yan i kinahulo’-hu.

I miss you so much. You are my strength

and my resiliency.

Love,

A Girl Who Misses Home

Gabrielle Toves

Fruit Bats in the Belfry

by Disa Dawn

A novel released December 1, 2022.

Book 4 in the Tennessee England series. Tennessee is part of the

CHamoru diaspora.

As the series progresses, Tennessee reclaims her cultural

identity while battling demons and all sorts of supernatural

misfits.

ZACHARY

BELCHER

THE WIND AND THE SEA ARE ALL THAT I NEED

I CAN THINK OF NO GREATER BLISS.

FOR ON THE DEEP BLUE I FEEL BORN ANEW

AND NOTHING IN LIFE IS AMISS.

IN THE DARK IT’S THE STARS THAT I COUNT ON TO

GUIDE ME

AND THEY DO SO EACH NIGHT WITHOUT FAIL.

IN THE LIGHT IT’S THE SUN GIVING SITE TO THE

WORLD

AND FROM WHOM I HIDE IN THE SHADE OF MY

SAIL.

I SHALL BE NOT AFRAID WHEN THE GULLS

SEARCH FOR LAND

AS THE WORLD BECOMES WINDY AND GRAY.

WITH TILLER IN HAND AND BOW POINTING WEST

MY VESSEL GOES NEVER ASTRAY.

THOUGH I MAY BE TOSSED AND PULLED BENEATH

WAVES

UNDYING IS THE FLAME IN MY CHEST.

FOR MY LOVE OF THE SEA IS WILD INSIDE ME

AND NOTHING MAY PUT IT TO REST.

SHALL BE NOT AFRAID WHEN THE GULLS

SEARCH FOR LAND

AS THE WORLD BECOMES WINDY AND GRAY.

WITH TILLER IN HAND AND BOW POINTING

WEST

MY VESSEL GOES NEVER ASTRAY.

THOUGH I MAY BE TOSSED AND PULLED

BENEATH WAVES

UNDYING IS THE FLAME IN MY CHEST.

FOR MY LOVE OF THE SEA IS WILD INSIDE ME

AND NOTHING MAY PUT IT TO REST.

JOEY SWATZELL

Morg/HobbyofSlivers

In this latest garment, I took inspo from pre-colonial

CHamoru wear, Mestiza, and designs of CHamoru

pottery and blended it with my preference of Alternative

Subculture and also put the Runes on there. "Raidho"

("R" looking rune) to symbolize a "Journey" and "

"Kenaz"("C" looking rune) to symbolize "Torch" which

often associate with passion to pursue knowledge and

truth. This skirt shows how I try to embrace all that love.

JOANNA MALPICA

Zachary Belcher

Snow Flower

Thick, black California cotton could not conceal

the pallor of her welcoming

like the meat inside the fruit of the niyuk tree:

fresh, shredded.

She is a ghost that set foot onto the land

of cocoa skinned warriors

baked bitter and broken

by pressure of the sky’s relentless red

Their slanted brows and hard mouths

the edge of jungle machetes.

They need not eyes to see through the thing.

They need not words to reveal rancor.

They pricked, they poked,

pulled each petal- mixed in to potions and spells

but the sun failed to burn the babe dry.

She bloomed quietly instead.

Mina Flores-Cantrell

ZACHARY BELCHER

ETCHED

KULU’LO’ÑA

ALTHOUGH MY SKIN IS WHITE,

THERE ARE THREE THINGS

I KNOW ARE RIGHT.

MY SKIN IS LIGHT LIKE MY

COLONIZERS’

BUT THE BLOOD I BLEED IS

CHAMORU.

UNDERNEATH THIS SKIN IS

CENTURIES

OF SAINA ETCHED INTO MY

VERY SOUL.

I LIVE AND BREATHE

THE SCENT OF THE OCEAN

AND THE SOUND OF THE

WAVES.

RESPETU, INAFA’ MAOLEK, YAN

CHENCHULE’

ARE ENGRAVED IN MY HEART.

JUST AS I WAS BORN FROM THIS

SACRED LAND,

SO I WILL RETURN TO FO’NA YAN

PONTAN,

ENGULFED BY THEIR LOVING

EMBRACE.

Everywhere my heart

EVERYWHERE

Is Breaking

into fractals

CLAIRE TAIJERON JOKERST WHITE

All at once

Nanoseconds away

Everywhere is

manufacturing silos

To Get Us off

Our balance

Seems like every Child

Naturally Gravitates

Toward Dancing

the Sunlight

through Her veins

whether on the street or field

She radiates upon our faces

She provides the Fruit blood

Reaching Her hands

Through the dirt

Tending to Her/Their seeds

Providing us nutrition

We didn't Know We Needed

Will Always Need

Feel the wind

They breathe out

The water They spin

round and round

Our life force

Tends to Us

as much as We allow

Let me Transmute carbon for You

Let me Keep Dancing for You

Gof Mahålang-yu

gof mahålang-yu:

to deeply long for something or someone.

Randizia Crisostomo

TWO SONNETS / FOR MOTHERS

DANIELLE WILLIAMS

any foreign mother knows america

has it’s own fees / so do we / the children

the slow erasure / the vessels crossing many

seas / these high-tides strong like rush hour highways

to nowhere / which way is america? / how long

til water becomes dirt? / til the journey brings us

to safety? / safely? / we’ve been promised / lives / land

there is a trigger- / fish stretched over saipan

trace the points along it’s body / let the rising and

setting stars become a guide / find whatever it is that

serves you / in america / being a color / not white / is

serving time / chain bolted to feet bolted to ground

the ash of dust / collecting at your ankles / the sound

of the waves / so close / so close / how long til dirt

becomes grave?

any foreign mother will point / you / to the wall

closest to the door / motion for you to take off your

shoes

in her home / my own / mother /

is a complicated woman

for most of our lives / we have been foreign /

to one another

watching afar / biding / waiting for a place to call

our own / we live on the surface / drown with our

backs turned / who knows what we yearn / I don’t

know her well / she doesn’t know / me / I am a rogue

wave / my own way / I am destruction / sometimes

I am / saving lives / my own way / writing away

from the chaos / from the blood / that bonds us

sometimes / I am afraid / to ask / what haunts you?

sometimes / I am afraid / that / you / won’t / bring

yourself

to show me / you / at my home / there is a mat at the

door / for shoes

DILLON QUITUGUA

I was raised in Hawai’i, a world away from Guam.

A world away from nana’s cooking. A world away from Tata’s smoked meat.

I grew up learning about my culture from my father, but never understanding my culture

was more than just my household’s red rice, my household’s hu guiyas haos, or my

households way of prayer.

When my family had enough flight miles, we would go home.

Home to a place where I did not fit in. I was a Chamorro, but I wasn’t.

“He wasn’t raised here” they said. Chamorro was spoken to me, but never spoken back.

I’d look to nana to ask what they said. She’d say, “ they say you're so handsome.”

A foreigner in my own home. Alien to Guam, alien to Hawaii. A third generation child

who didn’t belong where I was from, and who didn’t belong where they lived.

I live now to be just who I am. A Quitugua from Dededo who climbs mountains and runs

hundreds of miles for an island I love and for voices I don’t understand.

REMEMBERING THE DANCE

One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

I did not know then what she was doing, my grandmother, calling my sisters and me into her kitchen.

But I smell Gram’s cigarette—smell the cucumbers pickling in soy sauce and vinegar, the spare ribs

simmering, the rice steaming—and I know I’m home.

“Come here, triplets,” Gram says, handing us each a pair of sticks. “I want to show you something from

Guam.” She presses play on the boombox and fills that familiar kitchen with a bouncing waltz and voices

singing in an unfamiliar tongue. Tipi tipi tip, tipi tan,

Kada un kånno’ i kek, kånno’ i pån.

Tipi tipi tip, tipi tan,

Tipi tapi tipi tip.

I had heard Gram use that same language when she phoned her family back on the island, or when that

family flew to visit her, their sister marooned in Massachusetts, gathering in that same kitchen where

Gram now herded my sisters and me.

Here, in her kitchen-turned-dance-studio, Gram joyously sings along to Johnny Sablan as she

demonstrates a Chamorro stick dance. The first step is easy: tap the sticks on the floor—one—then twice

against each other—two, three. “There you go, my boy!” Gram beams, her hands over my hands syncing

my tapping to the beat, then doing the same for Kristen, then Jessica. But things soon unravel. Between

the next step—reaching over my head to tap sticks against my sister’s—and the next—tapping

over the head while touching one foot to hers—Gram does all the work. Maneuvering us into the proper

position, bending down to pick up our feet, she is stubborn, a headstrong puppeteer resolved to make us,

her stiff marionettes, do the dance. But if anything is on display that day in that kitchen, it’s that this stick

dance isn’t sticking.

After some time, Gram relents, turns away to check the ribs and ash her cigarette. In this brief privacy,

what, I wonder, was Gram thinking? Was she figuring when this pre-dinner diversion would end?

Concerned about overcooking the meat? Or did she interpret this moment within the larger scope of her

story, which was also our story, and her history, which was ours, too? Was she transported to her

earliest memory of the stick dance, reminded of the loved one who first showed her the movements

she’d fossilize and unearth decades later and nearly 8,000 miles away? Seeing our clumsy bodies, was

she overcome with the generational loss, or at least the losing, of her Chamorro customs and culture? Or

did she see in us a kind of hope? For the sweat and sacrifice that so sanctified her life—a life achieved

despite her husband’s vodka breath and violent hands, despite six mouths to feed with little means but

prayer, despite the everyday ache for her island home—were we the reward?

Or the nightmare?

For these questions, I can’t have answers. About a decade after that dance lesson, Gram was stricken

with ALS, a disease that slowly imprisoned her mind in her body. In her final months with us, even the

headstrong puppeteer could not have done the stick dance. What I do have is enough, though. The

sound of her joyous singing mixed with the smell of those soy-soaked cucumbers and simmering ribs.

The glint in her eye and

the awesome charge of her “There you go, my boy!” Her warm hands cocooning mine, shaping a legacy,

showing me the way.

I did not know then what she was doing, my grandmother. But I now know that she was laying seeds to

live on. I now know she was surviving. Once, twice, three times.

D A V I D C H A R L E S W O R T H

Indigenous Lands

MANY THINGS COME UP FOR ME WHEN I REFLECT ON LIVING

AWAY FROM GUÅHAN. ONE THAT STANDS OUT, THOUGH, IS A

CONCEPT THAT I DIDN'T ALWAYS APPRECIATE MYSELF. THE

CONCEPT THAT WHETHER YOU ARE HOME OR NOT, WHETHER

YOU ARE HERE OR THERE, ALL LAND IS INDIGENOUS LAND.

THERE ARE BEAUTIFUL AND DEEP CONNECTIONS WITH

PLACES WHEREVER YOU GO. AND IT'S UP TO YOU TO

CULTIVATE THOSE CONNECTIONS.

BIBA INDIGENOUS LANDS.

Shaylin Salas

TOGETHER AND APART

I Am an island

In the infinite Swallowing

of Life and death

I Am the echo

Isolated in the mud

wind kissed bustle

of so many words

Hunting each other

for the sake of Being seen

I am under the table

Hiding loudly

Wiping the sediment

of your gaze

Sequestering our chaos

Establishing the next call time

What time do You Go on stage?

Where Does it hurt?

As my neurons Codify dopamine

through actions that mean nothing

Feelings that mean more

i Kneel to Pay penance

To the revolutionaries of love

Of feeling

why have We Made

Ourselves islands

To Drown in the noise

Forgetting the thread,

the beauty of mundane touch

and bread breaking

together and apart

CLAIRE TAIJERON JOKERST WHITE

PHOTOS

JOANNA

MALPICA

FELISA CONCEPCION

Scattering seeds

That are near and far

Håfa adai, that is you and me

We have ventured beyond the reef

To find our greatest destiny

But alas, it has always been inside

Within the soul, is home to where our very seeds have been

planted

Our roots connected

As we are all connected as one

One living breathing collective ecosystem

Depending on each other in order to survive

Tåno, Tåsi, yan TauTau

Thanks to you, I am alive

We come from a great land

Full of natural medicine that lies inside her heart,

For our marianas trench you unlock all of life's greatest

mysteries

You are right beside me, no matter how high I fly

Who am I?

I am a warrior

I am a daughter of a chief

I am the daughter of the sea

I am the creation of Fouha

I am a slave to mankind

I am the trees,

I am the very air you breathe,

I am no different from you

As you are no different from me

Diaspora

Paige Aguon

We are all one,

From one seed

We have bloomed into these amazing things called human

beIngs

Colour does not define the path of our very life Instead it

gives us a sense of identity

Americanized

Militarized

Colonized

Diaspora

Paige Aguon

No matter where I go my voice remains unheard

Washington D.C.

Emmitsburg

Maryland

Simply know nothing about me

Oh, so you live inside huts?

As thy bicker and taunt me

Oh, you have no technology?

So how do you know all about me?

I replied..

We have been forced to learn about you all,

And yet you know nothing about our roots.

You have no knowledge in regards to what we do.

I am trapped inside…

Inside the plastic lining of this mass destruction

Who am I?

I am a turtle

I am a wave

I am a cave

I am a coral

I am a whale

I am a phytoplankton

I am a bird

I am a bat

I am the very tree you cut down

I am the land you burn

I am the very trash you effortlessly pass by

I am the change that i’ve been waiting to see

Will you join me?

On this greatest discovery

The voyage of a lifetime

To finally join the fight for what is right.

Patricia Beuke, Todd Beuke, Elise Beuke, Calista Moore,

Madison Moore, Lucas Hoffman, Mark Metzger,

Aidan Moore

GOING TO GUAHAN FOR THE FIRST TIME AS A FAMILY

UNITED US WITH OUR HERITAGE AND

ILLUMINATED CHAMORRO CUSTOMS THAT WE WERE UNFAMILIAR WITH

LIVING IN THE DIASPORA. OUR SOULS WERE

NOURISHED IN WAYS WE HADN’T REALIZED WE WERE STARVED. THE

APPRECIATION WE HAVE FOR THE BEAUTY OF OUR CULTURE IS

IMMEASURABLE. WE

YEARN TO RETURN TO THE MARIANAS

AND ARE EMBOLDENED TO EMBODY THE INIFRESI.

Patricia Ann Pocaigue Beuke

October 16, 2022

Fananchan

Briki Cajandig

ZACHARY BELCHER

Munga Maleffa

Do Not Forget

Jay Baza Pascua “Sinangan”

06.10.06

Submitted by Angela Carrier