TIME MACHINE NATIVE
Part 3...
Fina’tinas Guahan
The
machine proudly proclaims if its origins.
Beside
it are notched the names of this sacrosanct ship’s architects
(in
no political or particular order)
Uncles
Robert, Ronald, Chris, Anghet, Eddie, Pedro,
Joaquin,
Francisco, Jose, Keith, Ricardo, Juan
Aunties
Laura, Hope, Rita, Maria, Jill, Anita, Elizabeth,
Anne,
Lee, Katherine, Benit, Rosa, Tina, Lolling
I
see these names and more following the currents and contours of the wood
Of
those whose lago’ whose hagga’ whose masahalom
Whose
determination built this vessel.
I
wonder if they too felt this piercing push into emptiness.
Upon
learning of their own non-existences
Had
they created this ship
To
travel across the seas of time
To
find that much discussed much inferred much bemoaned and much desired point
Where
we The Chamorro people did in fact exist.
Where
upon landfall at our destination
We
can return our trays and seats to their upright and locked positions
Bypass
customs with our pugua and contraband of cultural continuity intact
And
unpack our impure/uncultural baggage and live in harmony with ourselves
And
finally find that elusive place
Where
the past can be buried
Or
can be celebrated
Be
told
Be
written
Or
can be forgotten.
That
point where the past The present The future
Are
once again ours
Little
white bugs worm into the brown hull
Eating
away at its very soul.
Budweiser
cans discarded washing machines and abandoned cars
Litter
the area Seeming to obscure the identity the purpose of the vessel.
I
pause for a moment unsure what to do
Unsure
how such a machine would work
The
answer comes in the form of a paddle
Spray
painted aluminum silver
Leaning
on a short latte stone slumping nearby.
As
I take the paddle in my hand
I
feel the chips and nicks over its form
The
dull ifit feel and glow peering through the marks
Old
and worn but capable I hope of taking me on my way
But
while gripping the paddle in anticipation of my journey
I
again look at the time machine
Incomplete
as myself
And
then Hope springs internal
As
a brighter course dawns on me.
That
while the creation of this sacred hardly sacred vessel
Was
an affirmation of our liberation from life our external extinction proclamation
And
our sad meandering and denying ultimate acceptance of that cruel condition
Its
incompletion however
Alludes
at last to the long delayed epiphany of our survival.
The
fact that despite what all may say
We
are somehow still here.
In
spite of wars famines plagues and other imported horsemen of indigenous
extinction
And
the histories which still sell tickets to view live
The
rumblings and modernized mumblings of our apocalyptic death throes
We
still think of and consider ourselves as and are Chamorros.
How
could shoes lithographs monographs McDonalds research papers haoles annual
reviews social security Filipinos movie theatres concrete MP3’s automobiles
clothes electricity indoor plumbing Survivor military construction the English
language Coca Cola “democracy” computers air conditioning Micronesians
pollution Civil service Al Qaeda The United States Constitution SUV’s World
Wars wedding caterers and http://www.guamchat.com
Make
us forget that
The
beginning of this vessel was borne from a maladjusted consciousness.
Persistently
pestered by its stolen and missing pre-requisite proto-untypical purity.
First
colonized Last freed
We
were deemed underwhelmingly UnderChamorricized and overtly OverOthercized
Long
since deceased Not even worth calling Chamorro anymore
Now
Guamanian corpses who could only find life again through their American
passports
And
only reREM and regain consciousness again by importing American dreams.
A
bitter laugh instilled by a joke from my uncle escapes my throat
They
pawn and palm onto us their American dreams
Despite
the fact that we dreamed our already conquered seas
While
their parents threw their own shit and swang from trees
The
lack of an ending to this desperate construction
Speaks
at last to a refusal to relinquish any further
The
telling of our history
The
balance of our existence
The
course of our future
To
beachcombers contract teachers explorers who won’t ask for directions and
World
War II buffs
After
being lulled into a solemn silent and centuries long poisonous sleep
We
can at last spit out the anthropological/ historical/ so chatlocal kiss
of death
Sit
up and regain the pallor of cognizant agency
AND
GET ON WITH OUR LIVES