With my diminishing eyesight, I try to expand my vision. I have stopped looking for signs and started feeling for signs. The islands are moving, and we are being guided. (24)

ManCHamoru are the Indigenous peoples of Låguas yan Gåni, what is known more commonly today as the Mariana Islands that crescent in the Western Pacific Ocean. We have a rich culture that is centered in values of inafa'maolek (reciprocity), inaguaiya (love), mahmahlao (shame), and respetu (respect). In Guåhan, the southernmost island that has nourished me and my family for generations, these values take shape through an abundance of sensations: the smokey scent of burning charcoal from a barbecue grill at a village or family fiesta; the slick humidity on the skin in the afternoon finishing up yardwork for neighbors; the soft touch of our manåmko' (elders), hand in ours, when we fanginge' (a CHamoru practice of deference). The beauty of our CHamoru culture and island community lie within our relationships to one another, conjured by senses and moments like these that evoke memories in our mind, soul, and body.

Yet, plagues such as colonialism, imperialism, and militarism work to sever our sacred relationships to place and with one another. With the current state of local affairs—the U.S. military’s desecration of ancestral sites such as Litekyan and Sumay, the rapid decrease in fluent CHamoru language speakers in the past generation, Guåhan’s ongoing struggle to achieve internationally recognized political right to self-determination—some believe that such ills are complete and all that makes us CHamoru are either decimated or no longer significant. Yet, there are many ManCHamoru who resist any false notion that our culture, people, and islands are on the brink of death. In fact, one palao'an CHamoru (CHamoru woman) writer just released a book that loudly asserts that the essence of being CHamoru is something that always has and always will remain with us.

Sings of Being, authored by C.T. Perez, is a collection of sensuous, creative writing that invites us to explore and (re)imagine the mosaic of rich complexities that inform CHamoru histories, culture, language, relations, and contemporary experiences. Spread across five sections that illustrate different stages of self-actualization (Hinasso'–Reflection, Finakmåta–Awakening, I Fina'pos–Familiar Surroundings, Lala'chok–Taking Root, I Sinedda–Finding Voice) this text is a deeply personal yet collective expression of being CHamoru, specifically a palao'an CHamoru, in Guåhan.

In addressing cultural identity, love and loss, refusal, and other issues at the pulse of Indigenous struggles today, Perez centers embodied practices of remembering. That is, she is insistent that by returning to the knowledge that is stored within us and looking inward—toward self, community, and our archipelagoManCHamoru can navigate ourselves forward.

The excerpt from the book’s title piece “Signs of Being—A Chamoru Spiritual Journey” at the start of the page is a precise snapshot of this central theme of remembering. This essay details Perez’s journey to Luta, the lush island just north of Guåhan, and her emotional reunion with a large field of latte', the megalith, stone pillars that formed the base of ancestral CHamoru homes. Prior to her arrival, Perez notes, “We are here. We are now. But what is it that brought us, as a people, to this point? Despite years of governance by colonial powers, our language and our ways persevere.” She credits CHamoru continuity to “the silent teachings of our Saina” and how they teach us “to open ourselves to the collective memory of our People who came before us and help us to move ahead—i Taotaomo'na” (24). In our mother tongue, taotaomo'na translates to literally mean “the people who came before us and the people who will come after us.”

When she meets Luta, Perez writes, “I felt my first wave, felt my first star, and felt my first island here in recent memory” (24). The intention in utilizing “in recent memory” is a stunning recognition that although this is Perez’s first recognized voyage to Luta, these islands and storied places know us.

Because our first ancestors who voyaged here thousands of years ago. Because our ancestors erected these latte'.

Because of them and all those to come who will contribute to our shared, ancestral, and sacred memory.

“Signs of Being—A Chamoru Spiritual Journey,” along with many other pieces in the book, are a testament to the truth that we have and will always be in connection with our ancestors. We may have forgotten, but we are not lost.

By (re)creating memories that entwine her individual accounts with CHamoru motifs—like gualåffon (full moon), kåmyu (wooden stool attached to a coconut grater), fiesta—and stories such as the women who saved Guåhan from a monstrous fish, Perez links her experiences within a CHamoru worldview. She activates CHamoru ways of thinking and being in her writing, and it pools within the reader  difficult yet critical questions: How do we remember who we are? What memories do we uncover when we tune into our senses and feel? What stories will we pass on and leave behind? What memories can we return to in moving forward?

Though CHamoru-centered, Perez incorporates imagery, metaphor, and storytelling that is both refreshing and familiar to Låguas yan Gåni in particular and the Pacific more expansively. In this regard, Signs of Being is a text of resonance, connecting the ocean and its people through similar realities and struggles.

When I lift Perez’s words off the page and feel it as my own, I can hear a CHamoru saying:

Tåya pinekkat sin fegi. There are no footsteps without footprints.

Many take this phrase as a reminder of our inherent duty and responsibility to our community,that the actions we take today will leave behind tangible impacts for the future. Similarly, it reflects a CHamoru notion of cyclicality, which is most evident in our understanding of taotaomo'na.

Perez’s poem “Tutuho'” is one sample in Signs of Being that signifies cyclical time as it portrays a common CHamoru dynamic between mañaina (pl., ancestors or, in this case, grandparents or parents) and their descendants. She writes:

Nanå-hu

Tatå-hu,

centuries pass

and still

I remember

I feel

war stories you lived

too painful to tell. (69)

These few lines capture memories that resonate with so many ManCHamoru who inherited the guilt and pain of their mañaina during the atrocities of World War II in Guåhan, a defining moment of contemporary CHamoru history. Like me, most of the younger generation today never asked our nåna and tåta about the war, yet we felt the sadness and loss in the ways they moved through life.

In the last two stanzas, she continues in CHamoru (with the English translation):

Now

I will not leave you behind my respected elders

I will not forget your suffering

through the thick of the war…

and the time—

of all those years—

after.

I will make myself strong to withstand pain

I will stand strong in the humanity of our sovereign right

because my body/being

is your body/being (71)

Here, Perez clearly states that her “body/being” is inseparable from that of her mañaina and that she will continue to carry them and their stories to advocate for “the humanity of our sovereignt right,” or the reality of a truly free Guåhan. Through this poem, Perez conveys the heavy longing of ManCHamoru reaching for one another across generations and stages of life. It is through our dedication to remembering our mañaina that makes us who we are as a people.

Of all the things this text offers, it is Perez’s overflowing responsibility to taotaomo'na that is most striking. The taotaomo'na who came before us and will proceed after us; the taotaomo'na we all are in the making. She encourages us to undertake a journey of remembering the signs that our ancestors left for us to find so that we can strengthen our relationships from the past, in the present, and into the future.   

We do not need to look any further from our shores and hearts to find the footprints—the answers and guidance left for us to return to.