Mananaf
Written by Samantha Marley Barnett | July 2019
Pulan ham asaina hami ni mangaige gi tano | photo by pacificwitch
Pulan : Mananaf - to crawl
Sumay
I
A scar is a footprint of a wound, walking across the stomach of
my great-grandma from Sumay, the village that died.
II
At night when I’m sitting at the red light at the intersection, my eyes catch at the naval base entrance, at
the line of cars stopping with windows rolled down, hands outstretched with IDs.
Inside is a long stretch of road and brown uniform buildings and ocean
(blue and then bluer)
III
Now, when we visit on Back to Sumay Day, it is only to see the graves.
IV
But, there are jobs
And bowling alleys and Christmas presents and groceries that are cheaper on base
Pools with chlorine instead of salt water, closely cut cut grass instead of tangantangan
And a way to get off this rock.
V
They pulled salt from the caves, spread salt over the rocks by the reef, in the holy water for the baptism
In the waves rocking the blue and the edge of the womb
(that’s why they wanted you, Sumay the village at the tip of the spear, curve of earth and wave where the
fisherman waited)
VI
Fu’una, now your body is America’s unsinkable aircraft carrier
Fortress Pacific.
VII
They pulled salt from the part in her hair
She pressed salt into the lines of her palm, to dry the blood of the wound
Salt of sweat and ocean and birth, salt from the tide, salt running down the baby’s stillborn cheeks
VIII
The summer that I turn 19, I go back.
on the anniversary of liberation day, to bring Juan Guzman, a war survivor
home to Sumay.
IX
We get through the gate easily when the man who escorts us shows his ID.
X
The cemetery is small and embraced in a white cement fence and the grass grows gently over the graves
of the people that died. Juan Guzman looks at his village and at me and his voice is steady, his eyes are
brown ringed with grey, like the sky during a typhoon that floods the houses,
like the salt in the ocean.
XI
He tells me about his home and his family and his father’s ranch, about walking to school and clear
mornings and bombs shattering the farms and scattering roots from dirt, children from grandparents,
families from villages, feet from legs
XII
Afterwards, we linger in the cemetery for a few minutes and we don’t talk. We start up the stairs to get to
the car and out of nowhere Juan Guzman turns to me and smiles, sleepy with story and memory, and says
“Do you know where our people come from?
From Puntan yan Fu’una.
From clay.”
XIII
I don’t know how to take this, why he is thinking of it now, why he is telling me.
We get into the car and I feel the air conditioning hit the sweat on the back of my neck and I fasten my
seatbelt and hear my dad’s voice on the radio and it’s over but later it comes again out of nowhere and I
think clay, clay, clay.
and salt.
Pickled Papaya
Green papaya
Salt
Donne’ (hot pepper)
Vinegar (rice, coconut or white)
Peel the papaya and slice into thin, bite sized pieces. Spread the pieces evenly in a shallow dish or pan and sprinkle with salt. Give time for the salt to bring out the liquid in the papaya and then add vinegar and the crushed hot pepper. Cover, chill and allow to pickle overnight before transferring to a jar or sealable container.