Lumamlam

Written by Clarissa Mendiola | October 2019

Brunch Picnic | photo by Clarissa

Pulan : Lumamlam - season of lightning

As a CHamoru woman born and raised off island in occupied Ohlone territory, writing from memory is a necessary practice. I sit down to write this today, thinking back on my third gathering with the Pulan Collective, using source material to recreate the sensation of being together: our group photo, pictures of the food we shared, a video of Lehua and I reading poems. 

Writing from memory is a method of survival. I connect to our shared heritage through objects and memories and stories told over and over again. A faded photo of my mom foraging for pugua in the jungle reminds me that we lived on Guahan together for a stretch in the early 80s. Notes written by a 15 year old me tell the story of giving my grandmother’s eulogy at San Vicente Church, sweating in a borrowed dress. A small satchel filled with puka shells whispers of daily walks down Tomhom beach with my parents when I was pregnant with my first child. 

It was from memory that I wrote the poem Gualåfon, a meditation on motherhood and the possibility of inheriting ancestral joy. To write the poem, I brought to mind a family trip to Guåhan, arriving late at night, my parents and brother and our partners received by my prima and her husband. Then in what felt like a necessary ritual, heading straight into the ocean for a swim. I was in the early weeks of my second pregnancy, having just miscarried my first a few months before. I had morning (aka all-day) sickness throughout the entire trip, but what I remember most is seeing parts of the island we had never seen together—Litekyan, Pagat, the Faha Massacre site in Malesso. I remember walking around my Auntie Rosie’s land in Chalan Pago a lush patch of jungle and the sound of their pigs snorting in the background; eating kaddon mannok with pumpkin tips on a rainy day at my Auntie Marylou’s house in Talofofo, and gathering for an amazing feast at my cousin’s place in Barrigada when her husband shared his fresh dive-catch of palakse’ and horseshoe lobsters. I remember treading water in a narrow swimming hole at Priest’s Pools the day after a big rain, getting lost trying to find Sigua Falls, watching manåmko cha cha at Chamorro Village. I remember sunsets that could knock the wind out of you with their beauty. I wondered if the child I was growing would know these moments too. Would he inherit this joy?

So often when we do the work of decolonizing our experience as Pacific people, we are working through generational traumas. Every act of reindigenization—learning our language, reconnecting to the ocean and the land, engaging in cultural practices, reviving ancestral foodways—is an intentional processing of generational pain … and I hope, joy. This is the work of the Pulan Collective. It is simple. It is hard. It heals, it hurts, it inspires, it is everything. 

So, it seemed fitting to share Gualåfon with the collective when we gathered at Precita Park here in San Francisco, thousands of miles away from our home island. A group of famalo’an creating an intentional community as an act of decolonization. We sat together in the sun and shared a meal: Aunti Mart’s lechen biringhenas cool and tart and creamy, sweet figs from Lehua’s garden, warm flour titiyas. I offered the poem as a wish for the collective—and for all of our CHamoru relatives—to carry flashes of joy seen through our ancestor’s eyes, a moon, a gossamer compass visible even in daylight.

Brunch Menu

• chard, zucchini, leek, ginger, turmeric, egg frittata

• sweet potato in coconut milk

• radicchio, fennel, pomegranate salad with persimmon vinaigrette 

• lechen biringhenas

• pimiento cheese stuffed chocolate peppers 

• fresh titiyas with butter and fig jam 

• mango coconut muffins

• fresh figs 

• coffee, rosé, white wine, pineapple sage shrub