Landlocked

Never underestimate the flow of water. Sometimes the current is stronger than it appears. I was always taught that the ocean is a dangerous place, and it can be for those who don’t respect the ways of water, for those who don’t listen when the ocean speaks. I have always been told that I am a good listener. The ocean listens too. You can tell it your problems, your secrets, your desires, and your ambitions. While it may not give you all the answers, it is there to allow you to be at your most vulnerable. The ocean, as scary as it may be to most people, was my place of refuge.

Growing up in the little island of Saipan, in the Northern Mariana Islands, the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean appeared serene and tranquil. The waves roared from a distance where the deep blue met the turquoise—that’s how you could tell where the reef was. The farther you went, the deeper the waters and the rougher the current. My people always talked about how even our most talented fishermen who ventured beyond the reef would get lost at sea with the unpredictability of the water. The tides would rise and fall with the time of day, but things could change in an instant. For some reason, when I looked out at the horizon, I always thought that my people who left would be able to find their way home, wherever that may be.

For me, home is and will always be the Northern Mariana Islands. I was born and raised in the humble village of Tanapag. My beginnings were colorful and full of so many early lessons of tenacity and triumph. I experienced the rise and fall of life, just like the rise and fall of the ocean tides. My beginnings were full of tragedy, but that’s not what this piece is about. This piece is about how I ventured out beyond the reef and escaped island poverty in search of a life of opportunity. I ventured out and rode the currents, which swept me to Oregon, where I found a home away from home.

I stared at the computer as words of congratulations flashed across the screen. I smiled at my mentor, a beautiful Palauan woman with kind eyes, and let her know that I was thankful for her help with my college application. I was seventeen years old, and I was working at a five-star hotel to make ends meet and save up to travel to the mainland. I told the woman how proud I was to be earning $6.05 an hour. I wore my poverty like a medal. I asked her, “What’s Eastern Oregon like? What’s La Grande like?” I had never been to the mainland, so my mind was full of questions.

She paused for a moment, searching for words. “Well, there’s lots of nature and lots of snow in the winter,” she said. “We get all four seasons, and it’s one of the most affordable places to live. It’s not very big, and it’s a rural town. Not many Islanders, but it’s growing. There’s some! I promise you, once you graduate and if you choose Eastern Oregon University, I’ll pick you up from the airport and give you a tour myself.” 

She said the word I needed to hear: affordable. All the other details she mentioned were nice, but they didn’t sell me as hard as the affordability piece did. I was always fed the narrative that island kids like me, who came from households like mine, had terrible odds at making it out. That’s what a lot of my transplant teachers from the mainland had told me every time I said I wanted to go to the United States for college. They’d ask me, “If you’re too poor to make a good life here on the island, what makes you think you’d make it out there?” As a teenager, I never knew how to answer that question and always took it as rhetorical. I’d just smile and nod in silence, afraid to contradict them. Or I’d tell them that, like most things in life, I’d find a way and figure it out.

For me, it was a choice between staying home and continuing to struggle through life or leaving and giving myself a chance to turn it all around for the better, even if it meant that I had to do it all on my own. I had to choose, and so I made one of the biggest decisions of my life. I had a minimal support system and a minuscule budget but a whole lot of faith.

I looked at the woman with kind eyes and told her, “I guess I’ll see you at the airport then.” 

The two-and-a-half hour drive from Boise airport to La Grande was brutal. I’d never been in a car for that long. My mentor, true to her word, had picked me up from the airport, along with two other girls from my high school who chose Eastern Oregon University as well. They were to be my new roommates. We slept for the majority of the car ride, exhausted and still adjusting to the time difference. When I opened my eyes, I heard my mentor say, “We’re here! Welcome to La Grande.”

La Grande was nothing like what I expected. I had heard the term rural before, but I never imagined a place could look so vast and empty. The land seemed never-ending. I felt trapped, with no escape. That’s when I learned what it meant to be landlocked. Landlocked meaning no ocean within a 100 mile radius. Nowhere for me to seek refuge. Was it culture shock or just a rude awakening? A little bit of both perhaps.

I can hardly count how many experiences of culture shock I had in my four years living in La Grande. Transitioning from being a part of the majority to being a minority was immensely challenging. My worldview completely changed, and my eighteen-year-old mind struggled to understand that I could no longer live the way I always had. The weight of my problems enveloped me most days. I was dealing with homesickness, survivor’s guilt, post-traumatic stress, and racism, and I had no ocean to share my problems with.

Navigating the political climate in Eastern Oregon as a woman of color was one of the most complex challenges I’ve ever experienced. Living in a small rural town that was predominantly white and highly conservative, it was inevitable that I’d encounter some overt racism. I had thought that the world had progressed beyond hate and division. But it was hate I received, and it was all that I could think about.

People were ruthless and cruel toward me. I remember the times I was followed around in small stores—suspected of the worst before I’d even uttered a word. I saw how my mere presence threatened people, so I’d leave immediately, never returning to their place of business.

Even at larger stores, I experienced hate. I remember leaving Dollar Tree one day when I was stopped by an elderly white woman. “You’re not from here, are you?” she asked me. “No ma’am,” I said, “I’m not.”  She looked at me and told me, “Well then I guess you should go back to where you came from, you border hopper.”

My experiences in Eastern Oregon were not all negative, though. I met many people who have walked with me along this tumultuous journey. The Micronesian community in Eastern Oregon is vibrant and diverse, many different cultures coming together and sharing a common identity under the umbrella term Pacific Islander. Often, people assume that Pacific Islanders are a monolith, but even within the region of Oceania, there are so many rich differences among us all. I’ve made many friends from the Micronesian islands of Palau, Pohnpei, Yap, Chuuk, and the Marshall Islands. Although we may have different ways of life and mannerisms, our hearts share a longing for home and an understanding that we left it in search of opportunity and education. Homesickness was common for most of us. We felt disconnected being so far away from our communities of origin. But we also learned the power of connection.

When you live in a town as small as La Grande, all it takes for an Islander-to-Islander connection is a smile. After exchanging a few words, both of us would feel seen and heard, reassured that we are not alone on our paths here in the mainland. To all the Islander friends I made in La Grande, I am most grateful. They showed me that it’s possible to build a home away from home.

Living in Eastern Oregon taught me how to grow in a place of adversity and how to face conflict from a place of love and respect. I knew why I came to the United States. I held on to the reason—that it was for a chance for me to beat the odds and break out of my family’s generational cycle of poverty. Away from home, my safe place was in community with other Islanders, and just like the flow of water, the currents connecting us were stronger than they appeared.

It’s been almost four years since I graduated from Eastern Oregon University. I moved to Corvallis to pursue a Master’s degree at Oregon State University, and I recently completed that program. Life has moved so quickly—suddenly, I am coming up on seven years as a transplant living in Oregon. The transition from living in Eastern to Western Oregon was smooth. What excited me most about moving here was the idea of no longer being landlocked. Thankfully, Newport—and the ocean—isn’t too far away.

Newport is beautiful in its own way. Although the coast doesn’t have the turquoise blue water that I am used to, it’s still the same Pacific Ocean that I confided in from the other side of the world. The first time I stood on the shoreline with my feet in the sand, I  looked out at the horizon. I watched the waves rise and fall. The currents looked strong. I allowed myself to become vulnerable in that moment. As the waves roared in the distance, I told the ocean my trials and tribulations, past and current. But this time, I did something different. I was able to tell the ocean about my successes—and that I plan on having more.

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