Pasefika Presence

Initially, this column was just supposed to be a way for me to express myself — a way for me to coherently organize my thoughts about Pasefika and my experiences as a Pasefika student at Harvard, an elite, predominantly white institution. And in a way, it’s been very therapeutic, empowering even, to use this platform as a space not only to exist but also to actively assert my presence as a Pasefika student. But, at the same time, writing this column over the past school year has been a mentally, emotionally, and physically draining experience for me because of the pressures of representation.

The burdening pressures of representation have haunted me since my very first week at Harvard. Coming in as a first-year, I was well-aware that I was going to be one of only a few Pacific Islander students on campus — in fact, the only undergraduate student straight out of American Samoa. So, I knew that the pressure to represent my home and my community was inescapable.

At first, the pressure was so subtle that it was almost unnoticeable. It manifested itself in silly questions from my peers such as whether American Samoa was located in the Pacific or the Caribbean or if English was spoken there. It reared its head in strange looks I got as I walked around in my lavalava and absurd comments about how it looked like a “cute, colorful towel”.

Graduation is something close to sacred for many Pacific Islander communities.

Whether it’s a middle school, high school, or college graduation, you will be sure to see cars packed with cousins, aunties, uncles, parents, and grandparents rolling into the parking lot. Their arms will be full of candy and flower leis as they walk to where the ceremony is being held, struggling to find free hands to carry the money-plastered, cardboard headpieces shaped like a tuiga. Underneath the graduation robes, Pasefika graduates proudly show off their traditional dress ranging from the Samoan puletasi to the Tongan ta’ovala. But the actual graduation ceremony is just the beginning, as families load back into their cars afterwards with their graduates to continue the celebration either at home, a local restaurant, or anywhere big enough to host the entire family and the festivities to ensue.

As we are approaching the end of the school year, I can’t help but think about all of my Pasefika graduates who are struggling to finish school while quarantined at home, or the Pasefika graduates who aren’t even able to get home because of travel restrictions. I can’t help but think of all of the aunties, uncles, parents, and grandparents who have sacrificed everything to put their children through school, only to be stripped of the opportunity to finally see their beautiful Pasefika children walk across the stage after their names are probably mispronounced by the announcer. And I can’t help but think of my own little brother, a current senior in high school, who I won’t be able to ambush with the candy leis that my mom and I would have probably spent all night making.

To distract myself from the unprecedented fear, anxiety, and uncertainty that have been brought on by the global COVID-19 pandemic, I finally caved and downloaded TikTok.

Yes, I know. There are so many other things that I could be doing with my time like reading a book, learning to cook, or even journaling again. But all of those require me to actually put in the effort to think, concentrate, and engage — something I barely have any motivation for. So, I’ve taken to mindlessly scrolling through TikTok videos, memorizing TikTok dances after watching fifty #SavageChallenge videos, and laughing uncontrollably at other relatable comedic content.

I am far from alone. In fact, social media consumption has spiked since the mandating of self-quarantine and closing of bars, restaurants, and other public venues, especially Instagram and TikTok. Just in the past couple of weeks, more than two thousand TikTok influencers saw engagement with their content increase by 27 percent, and certain Instagram pages have seen a 76 percent increase in daily accumulated likes on their posts.

Two weeks ago, my biggest worries concerned managing my classes, having three dance practices a week, organizing events for the Harvard College Women’s Center, and writing this column. But two weeks ago, I didn’t know that I would be packing up my things and leaving Harvard for the rest of the semester. I didn’t know that I would be getting stuck in Hawaii for a week with my older brother, scrambling to move my cousin out of her apartment with the threat of her being out of a job soon and unable to cover rent. And I didn’t know that all three of us would be flying to American Samoa together with the fear that we could be carrying a deadly virus back home, threatening the lives of, not only our families, but our entire community. To say that the things I was worried about two weeks ago now seem small and insignificant is quite the understatement.

In fact, as I sit quarantined in an apartment building, separated from my little brother, parents, grandparents, uncles, aunties, and cousins, I can barely summon enough concentration to carry on with classes over Zoom or even write clear sentences for this piece.

All I can think about every day is whether or not I might be carrying the virus. What if I’ve somehow already transmitted it to my family? When my little brother pulls up a plastic chair to sit outside and talk to me and my older brother through the glass window every day, all I can do is count down the days until I can give him a big hug. But when will I be able to guarantee that that is even a safe thing for me to do? Without the ability to test for COVID-19 in American Samoa, there’s no way for anyone here to know whether they might be carrying the virus — making social distancing all the more imperative.

Last month, as I sat in my common room surrounded by pizza boxes and blockmates impatiently waiting to watch Shakira and Jennifer Lopez perform at the Super Bowl LIV halftime show, I could not help but think of home.

As the teams ran onto the field, I was taken back to high school where my Samoan brothers would assemble to perform the haka before games, trying to intimidate the other team. With every touchdown, all I could hear were the raucous drums and the deafening “Cheeeehoo!” that would erupt from high school students that used to, and still continue to, pack Veterans Memorial Stadium every weekend. And with every big tackle I watched these professional players make on my TV screen, I could feel my Samoan brothers bodies taking impact after impact, protected only by old, used helmets and shoulder pads.

Football is the biggest sport in American Samoa. According to the Wall Street Journal, “no other segment of US society produces as many [professional] football players per capita.” With American Samoa located nearly 6,000 miles away from the United States mainland with a population under 60,000 people, it’s insane that Samoans make up about 3% of the NFL — about 50 players, nearly 40 times Samoans’ proportional share of the U.S. population. In fact, big-time American sports agent Leigh Steinberg estimated that, “A Samoan male is 56 more times likely to play in the NFL than an American non-Samoan”. And even outside of the NFL, there are around 300 Samoans playing in Division I collegiate leagues throughout the U.S.

To my Pasefika Sisters,

I know Valentine's Day has already passed, but now is as good as any time to write a love letter to you. Heaven knows it’s been long overdue.

There are so many things I want to say, but let me start with telling you how beautiful you are — and I mean each and every single one of you. You clearly are not told this enough. You’re never plastered all over Vogue. You’ve never been one of the select Cover Girls. In fact, one of the only times that your beauty is ever appreciated is when it comes in the form of an oversexualized, thinner, and lighter-skinned sister, whose culture has been taken out of context and used to “exotify” and misrepresent her — and therefore the rest of us. Speaking as one of these sisters, I’ve seen the ways I’m privileged by my lighter skin, the ways my body has been oversexualized, the ways my Samoan sei has been used to make me an “exotic island girl”, and the ways I’ve been used as a tool to misrepresent the diverse beauty of my community. Yet, you still continue to embrace me.

I come from a lineage of geniuses.

My Samoan ancestors were so intelligent that they figured out how to sail across the Pacific using only the stars as their guide. Can you imagine that? People nowadays can barely get from point A to point B without Google Maps dictating each and every step that they’re supposed to take.

The genius of my Samoan ancestors is still evident in the elders and the youth of my Samoan community. My cousins and I sit on the floor of the faleo’o and absorb the wisdom passed onto us by our grandfather, as he practices the sacred tradition of oral history and storytelling — tracing our family tree generations back and recounting memories that are not even his own. When it comes time to practice and perform the traditional dances of the siva, sasa, and fa’ataupati, the village youth perfect each careful movement with ease, naturally remaining in sync with each other to every beat of the pate.

Back home, family is everything.

The value of family is evident in every aspect of life in American Samoa, as well as in many other Pacific islands and cultures. It is evident in the way that our people are able to trace our histories through family lineages. It is evident in the way that the concept of orphanages and retirement homes seem incredulous to so many back home, because of the idea that every child and elder must have a family and a home. And it is evident in our dedication to serving and supporting our families, when we gather together at family functions.

But not only is family everything — it is everywhere. For me, having grown up surrounded by aunties, uncles, grandparents, and tons of cousins, family was at every turn. But family is not only restricted to your bloodline. In fact, most of my aunties, uncles, and cousins are not even directly related to me. “Aunty” and “uncle” are your parents’ friends or really any other adult that you interact with at the store, at church, etc. “Brother,” “sister,” or “cousin” are your peers, classmates, and friends that you’ve learned and grown with.

Love, respect, and discipline. Those three values have been instilled in me from a very young age. Growing up in American Samoa, I was taught that love should color every aspect of life as I was constantly surrounded by the laughter and joy of my siblings, parents, grandparents, aunties, uncles, and cousins. I was taught to carry respect everywhere I went, whether it was for my family and peers or for the earth I walked on or the ocean I swam in. And I was taught to have discipline through the ways my cousins and I were to obediently serve our elders and our families at every toana’i, fa’alavelave, and other family functions.

Since being at Harvard, there have been many times where I’ve felt inadequate and have had to draw on these values for strength and perseverance. Love has helped me to remain patient with myself and my mistakes. Respect has helped me to maintain confidence in my ability to achieve. But discipline — that is the value that has often fallen short of helping me. In fact, the value of discipline, as I had learned it back home, has often pushed me towards silence.

In American Samoa, as well as other Pacific cultures, one of the first things every child must learn is discipline. We learn discipline at home, as we are given responsibilities around the house and over our younger siblings from an early age. We learn discipline at school, as we are not to question what we are taught. And we learn discipline in our villages, as we are taught to serve our communities in any capacity that we can. Having been raised in this way, I’ve gained many valuable qualities, such as self-accountability and reliability, as well as how to be a good listener. I’ve been able to employ these qualities in my academic, extracurricular, and social life here on campus.

Growing up in American Samoa, I was constantly surrounded by the United States military. They were at family gatherings, with many family members reminiscing about their times at boot camp or out in the field. The military was at school, with recruiters sizing students up, assessing our Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery test scores, and bombarding us with all of the “opportunities” the military has to offer. And the military was just five minutes away from my house, with their base being located at the heart of our island — surrounded by our only airport, our only stadium, and our largest high school.

It’s hard not to feel obligated to join the military — hard not to feel like it’s your “duty” to serve. When it is constantly presented to you as your best option, or rather your only option, what other choice do you have? The simple answer is that you don’t — or at least it feels like we aren’t given any other alternative.

This pervasion of the military into almost every aspect of life in American Samoa dates back to even before its cession to the U.S. In fact, the primary reason why the U.S. even wanted to cede the eastern half of the Samoan Archipelago in 1900 was because of the unique shape of Pago Pago harbor and its potential military advantages. But even before this, in 1899, the U.S. had already built the United States Naval Station Tutuila in Pago Pago harbor, physically establishing their military presence on the islands. And after the cession, the United States Navy literally assumed rule over American Samoa from 1900 to 1951, with the commandant of the naval station also serving as the American Samoan governor. During World War II, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. even built several canon-like guns in the beautiful mountains surrounding the harbor in the name of safety and military strategy. So with a government historically established by the U.S. military with a purely militaristic agenda, is it really such a wonder why this pervasion exists?

Halloween is just around the corner, and you know what that means!

It’s time for you to bust out your best costume. And no, I don’t mean the basic sexy nurse or the overused frat boy costume. I want you to get creative this year and to think outside of the box.

But, wait! Before you get too crazy, there’s one thing I’d like for you to keep in mind this Halloween when you’re out shopping for your costume.

Land. To many people, this word is equivalent to the word “property.” It is something to be owned, something to be conquered. Land is something that we must extract from and make use of. It is something from which we must take, but never something that we must give back to.

But for the indigenous peoples of the Pacific, there exists a much deeper connection to our land and our oceans. Our land and oceans are so much more than just property. They represent our collective histories, our heritages, and our legacies. Our relationship to our lands and oceans are reciprocal, for we are raised to love, to care for, and to respect them — not only to continually take from them.

Our deep connection to our lands and waters goes back generations. Through the masterful Pasefika tradition of oral history, our origin stories and our histories have been passed down — from creation stories like those told through the Hawaiian Kumulipo chant to stories of our Pasefika ancestors skillfully navigating the Pacific Ocean to travel from island to island. Our lands hold the histories and legacies of our families. For example, in the Samoan culture, many elders and matai’s (or chiefs) are able to recall specific family histories and lineages based on the names of certain villages. And from a young age, we are taught to have a deep respect and love for our lands and oceans, which is evident through the way we respectfully enter the oceans when we are swimming and fishing to the way we carefully treat the lands we take our taro and pick our mangoes from.

“Wait, you’re from American Samoa? Like as in the island in the Pacific? Wow, that’s really exotic, but guess it makes sense… you look like an exotic island girl.”

It was during my first year here at Harvard that I first heard someone use the word “exotic” to describe me. Now, I’ll be honest. The first time one of my classmates said this to me, I was extremely flattered. In fact, I was more than flattered. As a lost, struggling freshman thousands of miles away from home, I clung to the thought of someone thinking that I was beautiful, unique, and intriguing — because initially this was what I equated the word “exotic” with. I would come to realize, however, that the word “exotic” meant something quite different.

Being “exotic” can mean a lot more than just being “stunning” or “beautiful.” In fact, the word is used to signify that you are, not just different, but deviant. The more and more I heard people at Harvard use it to refer to me, I realized that the reason they called me exotic was not so much because they thought I was beautiful. It was because I did not quite fit the white standard of beauty. My hair was a feisty, brown frizz-fest that ran down to my waist — not a silky straight blond strand in sight. As I stood nearly six feet tall with size eleven feet, I was constantly reminded that I was too tall or that I had outrageously large feet for a woman. And as my curves bulged out from under my tight clothes (since a lot of clothes are not really made for women like me), I knew that I was called “exotic” because my body was being oversexualized due to its divergence from the standard white petite feminine body.

I love going back home. In fact, it’s really the only thing that gets me through Harvard’s rough semesters and Boston’s brutally cold weather. Thoughts of returning home to the beautiful beaches and the shimmering Pacific ocean that surrounds my beautiful American Samoa. Memories of riding in the back of the truck with all my cousins as we pass by lush, green mountains. And daydreams about the fresh catch that Uncle brought to be cooked and wholeheartedly devoured at the family function.

But soon, that’s all I’ll have of home — thoughts, dreams, and memories. With the course that climate change is taking, the South Pacific islands are going to be the first to go.

According to the World Wildlife Fund, the South Pacific islands are among the most vulnerable to the negative effects of climate change. In particular, low-lying South Pacific islands and atolls, such as Kiribati and the Marshall Islands, are already experiencing high sea levels that are destroying their homes and threatening to overtake their islands. In fact, the Marshall Islands are expected to be completely submerged by 2030, and their people are being forced to either elevate or relocate, removing their 55,000 citizens from their homes and making them climate refugees.