TIME MACHINE NATIVE
Part 2...
I
mourn the loss of such hope
As
I mourn the loss of my own life
Though
it sticks in the mind like it would stick in my throat to say
I
along with all other Chamorros on Guam were massacred Yet again.
Just
a few hours ago
In
class
A
haole professor
Who
seems to have all the answers for questions about other peoples cultures.
Fresh
off his big bad American dream boat
Still
static clinging to his degree in Western self-absorption
Wiped
me from the face of my island
The
way he wipes sweat from his pale pink pikatdiha brow.
His
maliciousness bristled in his moustache as he spoke splendidly
That
there were no more Chamorros
That
there was no Chamorro culture
My
mind swirled and splintered too fast for me to joke
That
I hadn’t gotten the memo From the authentication committee.
I
don’t exist My family doesn’t exist
Panas
Funas and an
island of people vanish
Kept
alive only because of their cryogenic ignorance of their own extinction.
My
bubb na balutan from class was an emotional typhoon of theoretical
Androcentric
Eurocentric Stupidpastydeadwhitemalehaolecentric debris
That
whipped about me within uprooting and hurling into the Philipine Sea
My
usually peaceful countenance.
My
refusal to bend beneath the blaring blows of a storm which sought to put me in
My
right(unwhite)fully brown place somewhere near or six feet under the ground
My
determined disbelief in my own demise
Forced
me to seek shelter in the halom tano’
That
escape unknowingly led me down this jungle path
To
a locally grown time machine