Authority: What was Dad Thinking?

My father, an authority on most things, got the education thing wrong when we moved to Guam. After speaking to other authorities on the subject, he decided the Catholic school curriculum was more advanced, therefore better than the public schools. He enrolled my older sister and me in Catholic school. We failed miserably. My science teacher, a nun from Korea, talked so fast that spit ejected from her mouth, and her scribbles on the board were confusing and useless to me.  

It wasn’t only our grades that suffered, our behavior took a bad spin too. Seemed everywhere we turned we were breaking some rule or another, skirt lengths, bubble gum, make-up, the wrong kind of scarf or headband, and once my sister had a note sent home; holding hands with her boyfriend in the hallways. I saw a lot worse things going on in the hallways, but I think those nuns had it in for us, the Jewish sisters.

Jewish girls in a Catholic school. What was Dad thinking?

With each infraction of the code there was a fine, a dollar for chewing gum, or for skirts rolled up. The note home for the boyfriend was probably the last straw. After a few short months my Dad had had enough. Between the lousy grades and the fines he yanked us out of there and plopped us in public school where we behaved like angels or no one seemed to notice us.  

Public school had a few challenges of its own. We picked up the nasty habit of cigarette smoking so we could fit in, but we steered clear of anything dangerous like getting involved in the fights between rival gangs of Guamanians and Filipinos. Once, when a girl in the bathroom demanded a cigarette and I didn’t have one she threatened to beat me up. Luckily the bell rang. I always carried extra cigarettes after that.

With improved grades and no fines, Dad was happy and could go back to being the authority figure I loved and respected.  

(This post is a sample of a book project, stories and poems, about growing up in Guam.)

photo by stjohnschool
 

A Party in Agat



Our Guam bunker still stands after
weathering many typhoons.

1976

Supertyphoon Pamela

tequilla shots and San Miguel Beer

 

Our beachside home

is common

concrete

bunker-like

built to withstand storms

 

I am not

 

We slug drinks

in shuttered rooms

gawk through

our unguarded door

gray with a mad wind

 

Pamela is merciless

the ocean is coming for us

rain pummeling

 

I am afraid

reduced to a mop

wringing my hands

 

The bathroom toilet

a whirlpool

flushing itself

 

Pamela groans

electricity pops

gathering round the radio

rallies us in the dark

 

Oh lovely tropic ranch

mango papaya banana

plumeria and bougainvillea

my typhoon paradise

 

This is no party

Guam is a mess

 

This poem is a sample from a new chapbook project in the works.