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APA/API Month of
Celebrations - Sharing of Stories:
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May 11, 2003By Antonio Salas Readings: The Raising of Lazarus The Eucharist Growing up on an island AWAKENS in me a deeper awareness and gratitude of the intrinsic value of social relationships -- relationships that find meaningfulness and fullness in communities. I am a Pacific Islander, Chamoru - to be precise, born and raised in the little village of Yona on the island of Guam - in the catholicized archipelago of the Marianas in the Jesuit Pacific basin of Micronesia. Chamoru refers to the native people and language of the Marianas. CHAMORU-NESS is about relationships -- how we are related -- whether by blood or by affinity, AND the importance of sustaining these relationships in community. For instance, there was an elderly Chamoru who was informed by her granddaughter that a former Chamoru seminarian lived in the east bay. She wanted to speak with me and so -- I managed to reach her by phone. I greeted her in our native language and introduced myself and my familial kinship, Hafa adai. Si Antonion Salas yu. Familian Kan yan Fangu. Patgon Mitced
Roman giya Yona. She immediately responded by acknowledging our familial connection, Oh, huttunga si nana'mu. Primu'hu ginen I Castro. Si Tan Maria Akin yu
ginen Talofofo. I promptly responded to her - appropriately - as an elder and an aunt, Ay, dispensa yu. Ngora. She, in turn, extended a blessing, Dios te ayud, La -i-hu. She then asked, Ko pale hao o ko masagua hao I responded, She then said, Makat no lina-la pu-ma'le. Polu ya bai hu tayuyute hao an sa caso
un upe si Yu'os. After several minutes of sharing stories about the family -- and toward end of the conversation, -- Tan Maria asked that I stay in touch, - that I visit her sometime and that I extend her thoughts and prayers to my mom --"Memorias ginen as Tan Maria Akin." This CULTURAL AND LINGUISTIC EXCHANGE is wonderful because it points to our IN-BORN - HUMAN DESIRE TO CONNECT AND TO BELONG. It is an instance of how DEEPLY RELATIONAL we are - as persons to one another - and to something larger that we call COMMUNITY. It is WITHIN and THROUGH COMMUNITIES that --SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS ARE ESTABLISHED - NURTURED - and SUSTAINED - THROUGH CUSTOMS AND TRADITIONS. "Whether we experience this or not," Carter Heyward once said, " we are inherently relational. We are born in relation, we live in relation, we die in relation." I came from a large family of 13 children. As the eighth child from the eldest, fifth from the youngest, and minutes older than my twin sister, I was named after my paternal grandfather. My DINGA (twin sister) Jesusa was named after our maternal grandfather, Jesus. We lived in a five-bedroom house where siblings shared bedrooms. Fortunately we had two bathrooms -- imagine the wait during emergencies. Growing up, - SPACE AND TIME for us were NOT PERSONAL NOR INDIVIDUAL but SOCIAL AND COMMUNAL. We learned TO SHARE and TO APPRECIATE what we little we had. For meals, we had a large table that could sit about eight. The youngest kids ate first, the older kids ate second and my parents ate last. Preparing a meal for 15 people was not an seay task for my mother BUT EVERYONE helped out around mealtimes - and in the day-to-day chores around the house and at the "ranch." TODAY WE HONOR MOTHERS ON MOTHER'S DAY. And AS YOU CAN SEE FROM THIS STORY, MOTHERS play A VERY IMPORTANT ROLE in the CHAMORU CLAN. Maternal kinship and connection tended TO TRUMP MALE-DOMINANCE in the Marianas. I guess THIS KINSHIP looks like matriarchy but not necessarily. IT IS NOT ABOUT STATUS, POWER nor DOMINATION. -- IT IS ABOUT SUSTAINING COMMUNAL LIFE AND SHARING RESOURCES. -- I recall every able-person contributing in some way including our elders. In my maternal clan, everyone KNEW my mother. They RESPECTED HER and UNDERSTOOD HER IMPORTANT ROLE in the community. Throughout my childhood and teen years, we used to attend so many clan functions that were religious in nature. We attended countless baptism, confirmation and wedding parties, novenas, and funerals, death and wedding anniversaries. My mother kept up-to-date on all the latest happenings among our relatives. She knew everyone in the clan and was familiar with other clans throughout Guam and also in Saipan where she was originally from. She made every effort to attend different familial functions on behalf of the family, especially funerals and death anniversary novenas. When my mom couldn't be at several familial gatherings at once, she would send the kids two-by-two to attend different events in her stead. Usually, we would have a little envelope with money to give to the host family or we'd bring a huge platter of food, which my mom made as her contribution. Other times, we'd just show up to provide free labor where it's needed like picking up trash and putting away the chairs and tables after the event. In Chamoru, we call this COMMUNAL ACT, "CHEN-CHULE", akin to mutual reciprocity BUT NOT EXACTLY. CHEN-CHULE involves contributing to the whole, to wellness of the group. Often it takes the form of food, money, labor, moral support or prayers. THE WELLNESS OF COMMUNITY BEARS FRUIT IN THE WELLNESS OF ITS MEMBERS. It is always and everywhere important to help each other out as Chamoru. Once again, -- IT IS ABOUT SUSTAINING RELATIONSHIPS -- NOT IN MERE RECOGNITION and AFFIRMATION BUT LOVE IN ACTION. As Marguerite Young wrote in one of her novels: "Every heart is the other heart. Every soul is the other soul. Every face is the other face. The individual is the one Illusion" (Miss Macintosh, My Darling). You've heard a number of religious nuances in my story this morning because Roman Catholicism is an integral part of Chamoru life. It permeates all aspects of daily life for the Chamoru people. Like the Philippines and Mexico, we share a common religiosity with historical roots in Spanish colonization and Catholic-ization spanning three centuries. Often times, people would confuse me for Filipino or Mexican. Some 15 years ago, I pursued a religious vocation as a Capuchin Franciscan Friar, which brought me to Berkeley to study for the catholic priesthood in 1991. My first semester at the Graduate Theological Union or Holy Hill was somewhat scary for me. I've never lived away from home and from my culture. I knew no one in the immediate Bay Area, which was intriguing yet intimidating. The Bay Area was radically unfamiliar to my cultural experience and my first year would be a pivotal year for me AS A Chamoru and AS A Catholic. For it was in Berkeley that I had to come to terms with my queerness. "You can't go on being a good egg," CS Lewis once said, "you either hatch or go bad." When I first moved to the Bay Area, I often felt alone, trapped in a shell of isolation. Somehow, I knew that I was not only ethnically different BUT something deep inside didn't feel "normal". The socialized shell that hindered my life from living fully some 26 years BEGAN to crumble when I befriended a former friar, Kevin, who came out to me as a gay man. There was something peculiar yet deeply intimate about that moment when Kevin confided in me. It seemed sacred, a holy moment of deliverance. For I, too, came out to Kevin. For the first time in my life the simple yet profound words, I AM GAY, became words of hope and promise for me. It was then and there that I took courageous steps to reach out to those who also experienced oppression and isolation in hopes that they, too, may live life to the fullest. Though I never came out to my religious community in Berkeley, the subsequent two years of my religious formation were tumultuous years. My deep friendship with Kevin, coupled with my social justice stance, came at a price. Kevin used to live in the same house where I lived. During his religious formation, Kevin was known to be very outspoken, assertive and open about his sexuality. He subsequently left the community but continued his association with a couple of friars at the house. There were, however, other friars who felt that Kevin's presence and assertiveness tended to shake the foundations of the existing order. My close friendship with Kevin caused some concern among a couple of friars, the classical "guilt-by-association." My "superiors" began to have doubts about my religious calling - and I became the object of scrutiny. My fraternal hospitality and friendliness were considered suspect. In other words, I had ulterior motives. They were concerned of the influence that I would on the discernment of young men looking into the religious order and those already in formation. These turbulent times lead me to make hard choices and to take irreversible steps. I decide to leave religious life and the priesthood track. In the winter of 1995, I informed my superiors in Berkeley and in Guam that I was leaving. We worked out the details that morning and yet I still had one more important and critical step to take -- to call my mother. I made a long distance call home to Guam to break the sad news to my mother. Delivering the news was very devastating for me. I knew in my heart and soul that this was my religious calling and that it was impossible to actualize my vocation given the prevalent institutional resistance to change and because of the social sin of heterosexism, among other vices like sexism and cultural hegemony. My mother, who was recovering from the flu, answered the phone. In her gentle voice, she greeted me: HAFA ADAI, LAIHAU, KO TODU MAULEG (Greetings, my son. Is everything good with you?). When I heard my mother's voice, I couldn't hold back my emotions. Like a volcano about to erupt, I started to burst into tears. She somehow sensed that this time was coming for I had hinted to her over the summer that all was not well in this religious community in Berkeley. With a trembling voice, I told my mother in my native tongue that I was leaving religious life and the priesthood and that I had a secret - a secret that I was keeping from her. I told her that I was willing to bury my secret forever because I wanted to maintain the love she has for me. She said to me, "Ay, Lai hu, hu gaiya hao sa guahu fumangagu ha. Ginen I linalahu." I've always loved you, my son, because you came from my womb and I gave you life." She went on to say that that "whatever it is, I could never reject you. I want you to be happy and well and not get sick because of this secret." Assured of my mother's love I said those SIMPLE yet PROFOUND words. "Mom, I am gay." In her own way, she said again that she loved me and asked what could be done about this. I convinced her that I was born this way and that it can't be changed. She trusted my judgment and supported my decision. She made two requests though that I not leave the Catholic Church and that I don't become a Republican. I assured her once again that Catholicism was an integral part of my life and that I would never abandon my catholic values. As for politics, I also assured her that I would NEVER BECOME a Republican and that I was much FURTHER LEFT of the Democratic Party. What we heard earlier today, the Lazarus story, is a PROFOUND STORY. It is an analogy of the coming out process, a story ABOUT relationships. At first glance it is about Jesus' love for us as a community. But in the last instance it is about God's love always at work through us. Lazarus, who is the brother of Martha and Mary and a close friend of Jesus, DIED and was ENTOMBED for a several days. Jesus, having heard of his friend's death, went to Lazarus' community. Upon his arrival, Jesus was DEEPLY MOVED by the community's sense of loss that he too wept -- but he was also troubled -- TROUBLED by the community's shortsightedness of God's love and power. "Believe in the glory of God," Jesus said to the doubting community, "Where have you laid my beloved?" At Lazarus' tomb, Jesus offered a prayer to God, a prayer of thanksgiving or Eucharistia in Greek. After his prayer, Jesus turned to the community and commanded that they REMOVE the stone that entombed his BELOVED. At the entrance of the dark and cold tomb where Lazarus laid, Jesus commanded, "LAZARUS, COME OUT". And Lazarus rose and came out from the tomb. Upon seeing how Lazarus was bound up, Jesus once again commanded that the community, "UNBIND HIM AND SET HIM FREE." Today, Jesus challenges us to live the gospels at all times. Parents, clergy, politicians, employers, educators, co-workers, families and friends, are commanded to "REMOVE THE STONES" that shut queer people in. To every queer person, from this congregation and beyond, Jesus calls us by name and commands us to COME OUT, to COME ALIVE in our OWN ways, in our OWN time and on our OWN pace WITHIN a COMMUNITY that FOSTERS relationships, ENGENDERS life, EXUDES love and EMBRACES diversity. "Without community," Audre Lorde writes, "there is no liberation--but community must not mean a shedding of our differences, nor the pathetic pretense that these differences do not exist (Sister Outsider)." At first glance, the embodiment of Chamoru-ness, religiosity, and queerness, finds meaning and fullness in community. But, in the last instances, it about God -- God's relationship to the human community. Si Yu'os Unbinendise (God Bless). |
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