When I first started writing this entry, I was sitting at the Guam airport drinking my first (substandard) cup of merchandised coffee. I had left Xavier and Chuuk the day before, and it certainly was a scene. I spent the night and most of today at the Guma Pedro Jesuit house in Guam using fast internet, watching a big flat screen tv, driving a newly bought SUV and of course, reflecting back on my last few moments in the FSM.
My last couple of weeks were packed with mini adventures, and even though they usually entailed going to the same places, they were all vastly different experiences. A few weeks ago, during one of my many travels downtown, I visited the Chuuk Preservation Society – a tiny, 2 room “museum” located in Iras village on the second floor of a quiet, almost hidden “business building” in bad need of a paint job. I’ve been there before, but only to get free posters. This time, the man inside insisted on showing us around. He showed us some traditional and cultural articles and tools from Chuuk’s past. He had both Chuukese and Japanese weapons left over from WWII, and pictures of the bombing at Tonoas Island. Some of the stuff really caught my attention: axes made out of shell, wood, and stone; a tool for preparing and pounding breadfruit, miniature canoes, fish traps, navigation equipment, and of course love sticks. I asked him how many visitors they generally received, and he said not many. Some students from College of Micronesia go there for cultural research, but he said he had never had any visitors from Xavier or many of the elementary and high schools on Weno. As I already knew from teaching history this past year, he said that for the most part, Chuukese and Micronesian history and culture is neglected or all together ignored in schools. In his own words, he said that Micronesians are “all doing the Western ways.” He gave me some pamphlets for programs the Society has been trying to implement: women’s weaving techniques and traditional canoe building. He said that the elders want to and are trying to pass down their knowledge, but there is rarely anyone to receive it and so it might die. He discussed the sacred knowledge of navigation, and how it used to be that you could blindfold a man and leave him in a boat in the middle of the Pacific and by the waves, the fish, and the stars he could find his way home. Now the Micronesians rely on compasses, schedules, and handwritten maps to get them from place to place. He said there is not much effort to teach young Micronesians these things in schools, and that Westerners contribute to this lack of knowledge. And of course this leads to a general apathy and lack of interest from those who should be learning. He said there are a few textbooks and some other literature written on Micronesian history, but Western texts are favored. I mentioned to him that the history books I used made no mention of Micronesia anywhere, except for a brief “extra reading” excerpt on “unusual” kinds of money in which Yapese stone money was mentioned. I found the apathy he alluded to in a lot of Xavier students. At times, they displayed immense cultural pride and loved to brag about their cultural achievements and nuances, but at the same time they lacked very basic historical knowledge. I remember once asking the sophomore class to write about any Micronesian legend they knew about from any district. Only about 2 of them were able to come up with one. The majority of papers I received talked about Adam and Eve, or another Biblical myth. The priorities of most schools, at least on Weno, are really no longer cultural.
Right before I left Xavier, however, Daisy (a Micronesian staff member) told us a bunch of really interesting traditional legends and stories. It was the first time I had heard most of them, and it’s a great memory of a few of us sitting around the table on the porch listening to some cultural tales. One that I remember was about the forging of two tunnels through a rock mountain on one of the Chuukese islands. The story was that people would try to pass through the mountain to bring food to their chief, but a monster would eat them before they could reach the other side. The people commissioned the help of two turtles who dug two twin holes through the side of the mountain so the people could pass through without being eaten. The uneven, patchwork rock ceiling of the tunnels is evidently a relic of the turtles’ shells scraping along the walls as they dug. Daisy said now she and most Micronesians know that water caused the formations, but she still wanted to see it. I would have liked to see it too. There are so many more stories and legends I heard or read about this year and I don’t remember most of them. I wish I had spent more time talking to students about their backgrounds, even though I’m still not sure how many of them would be able to offer any deep cultural insight.
Before I left I also discovered the underworld of hitchhiking. I did this pretty frequently second semester (though never alone) since Xavier was never very helpful with rides. My last hitchhiked ride was with a man and a woman who took me literally from one end of the island to the other. I forget the man’s name, but he claimed to own a taxi “business” on Weno. He was originally from Guam and unlike most of the Micronesian inhabitants on Chuuk had no nearby family connections. I asked him why he left Guam in the first place since many Chuukese people strive to make enough money to move to and live in Guam. He launched into a strange story about how as an 11 year old he and some friends got into trouble at a restaurant in Guam and he ended up stabbing one of the workers in the side with a kitchen knife. He was bailed out of prison, but 10 years later was extradited to Chuuk where he has to wait for another 10 years before going home again. You can never really be sure how much of these stories to believe, but it IS an unfortunate fact that many convicts in Guam are sent to Chuuk… it’s hard to tell if it’s some kind of punishment or just an effort to take them off their hands but either way it’s ineffective since Chuuk has next to no penal system and the crime and violence rate is skyrocketing. This man seemed nice enough and it was hard envisioning him plunging a knife into someone, but a strange brand of violence has somehow become part of Chuukese culture. And I don’t really believe the theory that such violence is a relic of tribal warfare and aggression because it doesn’t appear on any of the other states, and even on many of the islands of Chuuk itself. The inability or unwillingness to rehabilitate criminals, or to outwardly deal with the social pressures and anxieties faced by Chuukese people I think is a much stronger contributor.
One of my final activities before departing was to visit the Japanese dock for the last time – one of the few safe (as in hygienic) swimming spots. Located in Sapuk not far from Xavier, the dock has a lot of very personal significance to me for many reasons. It’s one of the points of initiation into Xavier, and had been a spot for many a meaningful discussion. During my final visit, about 7 or 8 little naked Sapukian boys were jumping off the dock and swimming around. They were so cute, and acted ashamed when they saw me, but seemed to enjoy the fact that they could potentially make me uncomfortable. I eventually went swimming as well, and as I would make my way around the dock, the boys would often completely stop moving and just bob in the water watching me intently. This was my last notable experience with the “foreigner gaze.” Whites are generally chalked up to celebrity status, and that’s often how you feel in both a positive and negative way. Because you are white, you are scrutinized and criticized, sometimes more viciously and insidiously than you would expect. Your behaviors and actions are examined and analyzed, and judged, and privacy is a laughable concept. Sometimes you are admired, sometimes pitied, and sometimes disparaged. Of course, you are faced with the difficult, almost impossible challenge of striking a harmonious balance between your culture and theirs. At first, I would never go to town without a long skirt. But as the year progressed, I began to sense a difference between cultural sensitivity and my own principles. I started wearing athletic shorts downtown, and it caused a lot of stares. But wearing shorts isn’t culturally inappropriate as long as they cover down to your knees; it’s simply unconventional for women. I’m not a fan of convention, just as I’m not a fan of any form of censorship, but you do have to draw the line somewhere. So while I would never wear a mini skirt in downtown Weno, I began to feel less apologetic about my desire to wear pants. And I saw more and more younger Chuukese women wearing them as well. People, including myself, often have a difficult time with cultural relativity no matter how open minded we perceive ourselves to be. So while I believe the necessity of women to always cover themselves is inherently patriarchal, there has to be a medium in which my principles don’t have to outweigh cultural convention. Of course, in the meantime keeping in mind that these particular conventions are a relic of Christian occupation and questioning how “cultural” they actually are. It’s hard to strive for equality and empowerment while trying not to devalue or judge the systems of other cultures. It’s something I need to work on and would probably never fully grasp. One thing I did learn is that I would be hard pressed to ever only be a silent observer.
My last night at Xavier was also the birthday celebration of our principal. They wrote my name on the cake as well which was a nice touch for me. There was a lot of delicious local food, including an unending amount of coconuts, so it was a perfect note to end on. At night I watched the stars from the Xavier roof for the last time. I focused on the southern cross because it signified for me the next leg of my Pacific adventures in Australia. The clear, expansive sky and thousands of stars reminded me of the dense myriad of experiences I had in Chuuk. The year seems to not have happened – I feel now like it was some strange and blurred dream. I had a weird experience on Guam when I turned on my Verizon cell phone from home and looked at the last few text messages I received. They were from my mother back in August after I had said goodbye to her at the gate in Newark and was waiting, terrified, to enter this new life. Journal entries I had written expressed such fear and uncertainty, but also such confidence that if I could do this, I could do anything. And now I feel like I can. Airports no longer seem like intimidating, industrial jungles unable to be navigated, and actual jungles seem more peaceful and natural than unfamiliar. I lived comfortable in uncomfortable conditions and as the time progressed, they seemed no different than the environment back home. The only shock I feel is the reintroduction to what feels like overwhelming technology, but soon I know I will readapt to that as well.
I’m currently at Narita airport in Japan sitting in a small café dreading the daunting 12 hour flight stretched out before me. I think that the best feeling in the world will be getting on the plane in Dallas knowing it will be the last part of this long trip back to the Atlantic.
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