Loam Loves: June
Mina Flores-Cantrell on Land Recognition & Reconfiguring Home
PHOTO COURTESY OF MINA FLORES-CANTRELL
Loam Love is a series within our Substack. Each month, we share a curated missive from one of our contributors on some of the perspectives and projects that are shaping their current praxis.
In celebration of June, community organizer, climate activist, and founder of Numa’lo Refillery Jasmine (Mina) Flores-Cantrell shares songs and stories to spark collective care.
WHAT I’M READING
Having recently left my home island of Guåhan for Turtle Island, I find myself seeking the stories of the people native to this land. Although Guåhan is a beautiful, sacred gem, it is one of the most military-industrialized and tourist-riddled places in the world. For all the visitors I saw come and go, few were curious to learn more from those of us that were Indigenous to the land. Military personnel entered our jungles loud and obscene, unaware they were walking on the sacred grounds where we believe our ancestors dwell. Tourists sunbathed on the beaches on Tomhom, the village that was cleared of Chamoru burial sites and ancestral artifacts to transform into a popular travel destination. My mind stayed in this place of knowing and heartbreak as I flew across the sky to re-settle onto Turtle Island. I knew I was soon to call this land on the continent my home, and because of this, I wanted to listen to the stories of those who knew this land deeper, to learn how to be a guest in another’s homeland, in the way that I wished others had done in mine.
When I landed in Osoge territory, where my husband grew up (what is known to some as Hot Springs, Arkansas), I turned to the pages of Braiding Sweetgrass by Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer for guidance. I listened to her narrate the audiobook in the mornings while I enjoyed my coffee on walks through the forest. In one story, she shares the memory of her family camping in the Adirondacks. Every morning, her father would make a big pot of coffee and pour some out onto the ground saying, “Here’s to the gods of Tahawus.” Tahawus is the name Potawatomi peoples use to reference Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondacks. Each chapter of this book reminds me of a similar story that my elders back home share, but this one in particular reminds me of the importance of ceremony and land recognition. I also now offer a taste of coffee to the land before taking a sip of my own, in thanksgiving for having me and remembrance of those who know its stories.
WHAT I’M LISTENING TO
“Protector’s Anthem” is a newly released song and music video by Micronesian artists Microchild and Jonah Hånom, produced by Nihi Indigenous Music. Not only are all these folks fierce, badass activists of Indigenous sovereignty, but their collective artistic magic is— in my perspective—unmatched! The lyrics are a vibrant call to fanohge (to stand up, to rise) to our ancestral responsibility to protect the sacred, i tåno’ yan i tåsi (the land and water). The visuals feature historical footage of both Micronesian resistance and celebration, from women weaving traditional coconut leaf baskets to the legendary Angel Santos jumping military fences in protest of land back. I’m not joking when I say that I watched this video more than five times in one sitting, sobbing like a newborn as I watched this art share the story of my people in such a powerfully irresistible way. Although this song is now a piece of pure Micronesian pride, the deeper message is starkly translated: An ancestrally-guided vision of our islands is a Micronesia that is decolonized and liberated of foreign and military rule.
WHAT I’M STILL PROCESSING
If I had one wish in the world, it would be for all peoples and lands to be free of colonial rule. Erasure of Indigenous Peoples occurs through murderous and violent means; we have seen this in the soul-shattering Israeli genocide of Palestinians.
Colonization can also lurk in other ways. My home of Guåhan is an uncharted territory “owned” and controlled by the United States. We have no federal representation nor vote, yet we are subject to all federal laws and policy. This is a strategic ploy because of our geographical proximity to China and Korea. We are a colonized pawn in the political game of international warfare that is, and was never, our battle to fight. Even with ongoing military land grabs and a firing range complex being constructed over our sole aquifer, I believed that a native who loves her land would rather die than leave it. But as much as I told myself this story, colonization also has its own agenda.
In Guåhan, my power, utilities, and grocery bills were all at least three times more expensive than what I paid when previously living in California. The housing market is slim due to landlords’ prioritizing military personnel, healthcare is poorly invested in, poverty is normalized, and my family carries generations of trauma that stunts them from having healthy and functional lives. The stress and mental health crisis I faced during my years at home resulted in burnout, deep depression, and two miscarriages. Leaving Guåhan was a heart wrenching decision.
Indigenous people should never have to choose between staying physically close to our land base, relatives, our culture and having a safe, healthy life. Processing for me has been a reckoning of duality: Loving my culture and people, and choosing to live away from it.
WHAT I’M TENDING
As I navigate my new home, I am choosing to invest in rest and deep self-care. Audre Lorde said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” While I strongly believe in the strength and impact of community organizing, I hold that tending to ourselves is just, if not more, powerful. Self-care has been co-opted as a consumer-driven, one-time fix such as a facial product, yoga class, or green smoothie. Sure, those things can temporarily relieve ourselves from the fatigue of navigating the systemic failures we grapple with, like racism, sexism, and capitalism. But we all know that real wellness looks at the root of the problem and does more than resolve the symptoms. Self-care is not a thing to do, but a way to be. For me, self-care always starts in the home. Understanding the sacredness in our behavioral patterns and routines can make all the difference in leading a lifestyle that is sustainable and nourishes us to keep doing the hard work. What is often considered mundane is usually what calls our gaze. Creating rituals, cooking a meal filled with love, connecting with community, and infusing our lives with gratitude are simple acts of self-care that can help us show up in ways where strong, effective community work can occur.
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