EP. 5, ‘REIMAGINING:’ A NEW LEGACY

Episodes

In this season finale of Inherited, Denali Nalamalapu talks with queer parents of color about their decision to raise children in intentional, chosen community. YR Media Newsroom staffer shaylyn martos speaks to fellow CHamoru language learners from Guam and the Micronesian diaspora on reviving their Indigenous tongue.

About the Storytellers: Denali Nalamalapu (she/they) is a queer, South Indian American writer, artist, and climate communicator. She currently lives in Washington, D.C. She is from Maine. Her family is from Andhra Pradesh, India. 

shaylyn martos (she/they) works to provide better representation of LGBTQ+ and Indigenous people in media. As an Associate Producer for YR Media’s newsroom, shaylyn manages and mentors interns ages 14-24 in news production and audio commentaries. They also produce projects with outlets like NPR’s All Things Considered and the Post Reports podcast. shaylyn was honored as the first Raul Ramirez Diversity in Journalism Fund intern to work with KQED’s The Bay podcast — working as a production assistant and reporting her own episode on Stockton’s Little Manila. They co-produce and co-host The Happy Hour Newscast and served as multimedia editor for SF State’s Golden Gate Xpress. In 2019, shaylyn was honored as an NPR Next Generation Radio Mentee. Off the clock, they can be found reading speculative fiction, cooking their favorite CHamoru foods or playing Dungeons and Dragons with their adventuring party.

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EPISODE TRANSCRIPT

JULES: Hey everyone, it’s Jules. You’re listening to Inherited, a podcast about young people and the climate crisis. 

[music creeps in]

We’ve never really talked about the name of our show, you know, Inherited, before, but its meaning feels especially fitting for the stories we’re sharing in this episode. Because today, we’re thinking about legacy. And I don’t mean legacy in the financial sense of the word, some sort of money you inherit from a dead relative or getting into the college your mom went to. 

The kind of legacy we’re talking about is the sort of world each generation passes on to the next. And maybe to complicate the term a little bit – how each generation learns and plays and communes and grows and tells stories with those generations that have come before and those who come next. 

[percussion plays]

Storyteller Denali Sai Nalamalapu gets at the heart of this question in today’s first story. Denali is a queer, South Indian American writer, artist, and communicator from Maine, currently living in Washington, D.C. Her family is from Andhra Pradesh, India. This is “Considering: New Life During Climate Catastrophe.”

THANU YAKUPITIYAGE: (recording) Can you say, this is climate change.

CHILD: (recording): This is climate change.

THANU: Is this the climate crisis? (laughter)

CHILD:: Climate crisis, climate crisis, climate crisis!

[theme music plays]

DENALI NALAMALAPU: (narration) I’m Denali. I’m 26. And I’m coming out… as a fan of children. 

Before this year, I felt intimidated by kids. They were often so loud, brutally honest, and unpredictable. I also felt weary of societal pressure on me to take care of kids just because I was born female. In the summertime, I resented how the boys played sports while me and the girls were expected to take care of children. 

But that’s changed over the past year. With the help of some great kids I’ve been around in my neighborhood, I’ve let go of my fear and pride and opened myself up to friendship with kids. And it’s been awesome. I’ve learned and grown so much from being friends with kids. I’ve learned to not take offense when a kid bluntly expresses their feelings and needs. I’ve delighted at the rampant hypocrisy and confusion of the adult world. I’ve enjoyed pecking around the yard looking for fun rocks and flowers. 

When I see the kids in my life interact with their moms, I feel a deep wish to have the same connection with my own little being. Sometimes I feel a vacant space in between my arms or on my hip where I imagine a child might be someday.

[slower, contemplative music] 

But here’s the catch: I’m a climate activist. I’m queer. I’m brown. I’m a second-generation immigrant. I have experienced how unjust the world is and how terrifying things are going to get if we don’t address climate change immediately. I’m terrified of bringing another life into this world. I’m also a very sensitive person. The idea that my child might be as sensitive as I am, might endure what I’ve endured mentally, emotionally, and physically by simply existing in this world, fills me with anxiety.

[hopeful music starts]

And then I interact with one of the kids and parents in my life and I think about how lucky society is to have such a curious, vivacious, kind, and loving being in it. Hopefully one that might decide to make some things better. I want to be part of that miracle so bad.

I know lots of people my age are facing the same dilemma and seeking answers from elders who have children at this moment in time. I reached out to an incredible pair of humans I knew would have some thoughts on the matter. I know them through my work in the climate movement, specifically because one of them was my boss turned friend.

Rafa Kidvai is the parent of two-and-a-half year-old Meka. 

MEKA: [clip] Climate crisis, climate crisis!

DENALI: They work in the reproductive rights movement. They were raised in Pakistan and currently live in Brooklyn, New York near their best friend and chosen sister, Thanu Yakupitiyage. The two have a podcast called Bad Brown Aunties where they uplift the worldly power of the auntie.

[brief clip of theme song from Bad Brown Aunties] 

Thanu is Meka’s godparent and a big part of Meka’s chosen family. She works in the climate justice and immigrant rights movement. She was raised in Sri Lanka and Thailand. I wanted to talk to them for this story because they have shown me what adulthood can look like when sisterhood, queerness, and community are centered – rather than the heteronormative, isolated, nuclear family future I fear.

Rafa and Thanu clicked immediately. Here they are remembering the first time they met.

RAFA KIDVAI: (field recording) Thanu and I met at Logan Airport our first day in the United States as we headed off to Hampshire College and we were both a little mousy, me less so (shockingly, because I am definitely the mouse now). And I asked Thanu to go get a bag of crisps with me. And it was quite lovely because as an international student it was really nice to say crisps as opposed to potato chips or whatever. 

THANU: And we got salt and vinegar crisps, which continues to be our favorite crisps to this day, even though now we call it chips. 

RAFA: And then, yeah, we took a bus together and we’re forever connected by our joint hatred of someone, which is like one of two ways in which you can build intimacy with someone you know. 

[light keys playing]

DENALI: (narration) The main reason I wanted to talk to Rafa and Thanu is that they are both fellow queer people who are raising a child in a chosen family. When I think about the future of this planet, one of my main sources of hope lies in communal living and queer spaces. I’ve noticed that many adults value their romantic relationships and family above all, leaving their relationships with their friends less tended to. As they age, friends come and go, so they can’t always count on them in times of serious need. I don’t think humanity has a chance at surviving this crisis, let alone coming out of it stronger, in the isolated models of heteronormative family we default to now. 

But in many queer spaces, community is sacred and people take care of one another. I want a future where what’s mine is ours. Where I live in a community that cares for collective needs rather than individuals desires. 

Growing up in Pakistan, Rafa experienced the joys of chosen family. 

RAFA: I grew up with so much chosen family that really, really cared for me, loved me. I was often closer to and really kind of wanted a child that had the same experience on the chosen family front in terms of having multiple adults that they can trust, that they can go to should they need things. And for me, like, I don’t think I fully understood the value of it till I was a little bit older maybe. I mean, I enjoyed it a lot as a child. My godfather was the joy of my life. He’s the reason I love a fried egg. There’s ways in which they shaped me. 

[clip]

MEKA: One for Meka, Mama, and one for Babu, one for Amma, and Meka!

THANU: Thank you so much for making sure we all get fireworks! Okay, here’s one for Babu… 

DENALI: (narration): Meka is very close with Thanu, as you hear in this clip. They store all their musical toys at Thanu’s house, what has become the music house. Thanu is a DJ.

THANU: When they come here, they’re always like sort of banging on the drums and stuff. And yeah, they, like, really want to learn how to DJ. So I gave them one lesson and that was super cute. Their DJ name is DJ Honey Biscuit.

RAFA: Also for the longest time they called Thanu D-Gay and not DJ because they just couldn’t pronounce it. And it was the funniest thing. Amma D-Gay and Meka D-Gay like they really wanted to be one. 

DENALI: (narration) Rafa and Thanu’s story of two international students coming to this country without family and building a family together makes me think of how weird I feel when people say it’s unethical to have a child during the climate crisis… mainly – white people.

[light keys playing]

DENALI: I get that odd feeling everytime a group of white people tells the rest of the world what they shouldn’t do… sounds like inherited trauma from colonialism, huh? Many white people have spoken out about not having kids because of climate change but I haven’t heard from many queer people and people of color. And I wonder, what are they thinking?

Working in reproductive justice and having a close friend in the climate movement, Rafa was surrounded by conversations about the ethics of bringing new life into the world before they were pregnant.

RAFA: I had to contend with the question of like, do I want to carry another life, you know, onto Earth, an Earth that’s sick and being mistreated, sort of, but it somehow never quite sat right with me, that argument, and so I still kind of made that decision. I get it, it’s not that I don’t understand the concern, I think it’s an important concern. I think the part that never sat right with me is that I struggle with prescriptive narratives around not having children, especially with communities of color, I think it’s a really dangerous sort of slope. And I also think that like, we need connection and relationships and love and there is something really beautiful about that and also it’s a source of solidarity and power and resistance. And so it can’t be the only answer to that new babies being born are somehow just a sort of burden on the planet. There has to be more than that.

THANU: A lot of this discourse around like, oh, you know, having a kid is irresponsible… Like it falls on like, communities of color. And it’s a really dangerous trope, right? Because a lot of the basis of particularly the U.S. environmental movement and climate movement is rooted in population control and that often is a restriction primarily on people of color and immigrants and black and brown folks and indigenous folks and their access to reproductive rights. It’s not having kids that the problem, it’s the fossil fuel industry. That’s the problem.   

DENALI: (narration) Growing up in Pakistan, Rafa saw the blatant hypocrisy of colonizing forces simultaneously extracting vital resources from the country and telling poor people in the Global South that they shouldn’t have kids because they can’t provide for them. Communities like Rafa’s in Pakistan, Thanu’s in Sri Lanka, and mine in India have experienced apocalyptic conditions due to colonization. They know how to survive. And surviving is what humanity will seek as the climate crisis gets worse.

When you look at history from that angle, to say it’s unethical to have children during a climate crisis point blank is just ignorant. There’s so much more nuance. And there’s so much to learn… Like how did these people survive and live on? Through community care and new generations.

RAFA: (field recording)  Building trust beyond blood is such an important lesson because what it teaches you is that what’s useful is connection and intimacy, and people show you with time, whether they’re trustworthy. 

This idea of Thanu being both a friend and family, like, Meka would share their last French fry with Thanu, right? And I think that there is something really special about teaching a child that really early. About who gets to share space with you and that and that just because someone has blood, for instance, doesn’t mean they’re safe. And just because someone is chosen family doesn’t mean they won’t resource your life. Like, I imagine that if something happened to me financially and I needed financial support, the reason I would float is that Thanu would make it happen.

THANU: Yeah, I’ve learned a lot about like kindness and boundaries from Meka, but like it actually makes me feel like it is possible to have a queer future that is kind, and kinder potentially than the world we live in now. 

[clip]

ADULT: Sixty degrees in February?

MEKA: Sixty degrees in February!

ADULT: Can you say stop fossil fuels?

MEKA: Stop fossil fuels!

ADULT: Oh my god, yes! Stop fossil fuels… 

[theme music]

DENALI: (narration) Talking to Rafa and Thanu has both made me want to have a kid more badly because Meka seems to bring them so much joy and it makes me feel less fussed about it because Meka isn’t Thanu’s biological kid but they have a beautiful, rich relationship. I love being part of other kids’ lives. You get to have all the fun times with them and deal with very few of the hard and exhausting times that are inevitable in child rearing. 

Also being pregnant, giving birth, the process of adopting a kid – all these things are no joke. It’s nice to just play. I love experiencing the intimacy of deep community. It feels rare these days, especially during a pandemic and as I live in a big city. I truly don’t know if I’ll have a kid one day, but I do know that I will foster a strong, queer community around me no matter where I end up.

[kids yell, music plays out]

JULES: You can follow Rafa on Twitter at @rkidvai and Thanu on Twitter and Instagram at @ty_ushka. They have a podcast called Bad Brown Aunties. You can listen to the first season at badbrownaunties.com. You can follow Denali on Twitter at @Denali_Sai and subscribe to their climate newsletter Entropy Inherited. 

[MIDROLL BREAK]

JULES: Like the repercussions of a changing climate, our language has the ability to transcend and permutate from generation to generation. 

The next and final storyteller explores this transformative power of language, and the way it is preserved, learned, forgotten, remembered, and inherited. 

shaylyn martos works to provide better representation of LGBTQ+ and Indigenous people in their current role at YR Media. A producer, editor, and host, they have also been honored as a NPR Next Generation Radio Mentee. Off the clock, shaylyn can be found reading speculative fiction, cooking their favorite CHamoru foods, or playing D+D. 

Now, I’ll pass it over to Shaylyn for the final story of the season. It’s called, “Our Language is Our Mothers’ Gift.” 

SHAYLYN MARTOS: Håfa Adai hamyo todus. Guahu si Shaylyn yan sumåsaga giya Oakland, California. I familia ku manginen i Guahan giya Islas Mariana. Taotao-ku i CHamoru. 

[bubbly music comes in] 

Hello all. My name is Shaylyn and I live in Oakland, California. My family is from Guam in the Mariana Islands. My people are CHamoru, the Indigenous people of Guam and the northern Mariana Islands. Our home is a Microniesian paradise. 

[island soundscape fades in] 

Imagine water so clear, warm and inviting that you cannot help but run in to feel the tåsi envelop you in love. Imagine jungles of the most verdant and fragrant tropical flora, of creatures both familiar and unfamiliar, carabao with long fur and horns, crows that caw with the knowledge of ancient tongues. Imagine the smell of fiesta food and the sulfur of fireworks in island celebrations. 

[crows caw, fireworks shoot off in distance, music fades] 

For over 3,500 years, CHamorus’ have sailed and stewarded the closest land to the deepest part of the ocean. We’ve maintained a sacred relationship with our land and sea, even through 600 years of Spanish colonization, Japanese occupation and American militarization.

Because the tenets of our culture of gratitude and reciprocity clash against the imperialist powers that hope to silence us, they desecrate the land, poison our water, shoot bullets through our forests. 

[synth noises]

Indigenous people across the Pacific Islands contribute the least to climate change but are forced to live with its disastrous effects including rising tides, coral bleaching, and straight nuclear testing.

[guitar strums come in] 

Most of my family left our home but the U.S. military is still there. We are spread across the states, often far from one another. And that’s what’s most important to Chamorus – family. We support and uplift our community because we know the pain of stolen lives, land and language.

So when I learned there was a professor from the University of Guam and the Guam Museum offering Chamoru classes online — and for free — I immediately signed up. Over a hundred others spend their Saturday mornings in Guam or the CNMI, or Friday afternoons stateside, learning and practicing Chamoru with our siñot, Dr. Michael Lujan Bevacqua. 

These classes give me much more than the basics of a language shamed and beaten from my people — they are a chance to share our stories, our culture, our wisdom. We’re building  community, healing from the devastation that has already happened, and building resilience for the difficult climate-charged years to come.

One of my classmates, Linda Calvo, reached out to me, eager to share her experience learning Chamoru later in life. She remembers wonderful things about growing up on Guahan in the 60’s, till her job as a flight attendant took her across the world.

[guitar fades out.]

LINDA CALVO: I grew up at a time when family was extremely important and we had community. We had a lot of community. We had a lot of family gatherings, fiestas, so much to do, so many things to see…

LINDA: [Singing in CHamoru] You know that song in America, they say, how are you. In the Philippines kumasta kayo. But when you are in Guam, you simply say håfa adai, håfa adai. You know that song. Have you heard it?

I had always wanted to learn our language, but as a young person, we weren’t allowed to speak our language. It was against the law. There were signs, “In English Only.” And I tried to speak CHamoru, but it was not allowed in school… And I did not speak it at home. My parents spoke to each other in CHamoru, but they spoke to us in English.

SHAYLYN: (narration) A large part of why Linda’s family did not speak the language was because her mother was a teacher, and her father was the mayor of the village Tamuning.

LINDA: In the late sixties we had the Vietnam war. So it was pretty, pretty bad. Always having the bombs going up the island, from Naval Air Station to the Anderson Air Force Base. I remember when we were drinking pure water and we were going to the fresh water pools and stuff like that. And now it’s so sad that everybody’s drinking, processed off filtered water and all that. And the toxicity on our water is very scary to me. In fact, I’m being treated for cancer right now. And my toxicity level was very high. And I say that that’s probably from growing up on the island with all the toxic stuff that was going on with the militar and all that. Probably from growing up and having the the the water were were being were being poisoned in a way.  

[dark synth noises]

Actually I do feel it in the class. I feel that there is a revival. I do have that feeling of people wanting to connect with each other, as you call it, inåfamaolek, to make things good, to make things right. And that is part of the old ways, you know. But I feel now that people have a lot of pride and are trying to learn about the culture. And as they’re learning about the culture, they’re feeling like they’re finding themselves. In fact, that was an issue I had, was not knowing really who I am inside. And I think I’m still in that process of discovering myself, as everybody else is. 

You know, so when we connect to our language and to our culture and to our island, we are connecting to our ancestors and our past. And we’re reaching back. Into the past and bringing it forward to the future… You see what I’m saying? The island itself cannot stand alone. We don’t have the numbers and we don’t have the land and we don’t have that. But we do have our culture and we have our people, just like the American Indians, the Indians in Alaska, and all the Native people all over the world. 

And we need to have the pride in our origins, no matter where we are in the world, we can carry a piece of our island with us…  when we connect to our language and to our culture and to our island, we are connecting to our ancestors.

[light music plays]

SHAYLYN: I walked away from my conversation with Ms. Linda feeling an odd sense of peace. The pressure of immediate danger to our land and our people is heavy, at the same time I’m grateful to have the chance to connect, share and laugh — especially with someone of her generation.

[new synths come in]

Signora Dorothy Castro Pocaigue grew up and raised her daughter on Guam. She’s a retired educator, who now spends her days caring for her 1-year-old grandson. We call elders in our community Auntie or Uncle, but in this case, she actually is my auntie, related through my grandmothers’ extended family.

SIGNORA DOROTHY CASTRO POCAIGUE: [Chamoru introduction] I na’ån hu si Dorothy Castro Pocaigue. Dededo, taotao Dededo, Guahan. And that’s the extent of my fluent CHamoru. Then I have to go [incoherent]. 

SIGNORA DOROTHY: My culture has always been very important to me. The lights, the rituals and the and, you know, the celebrations and all of that. The family, though those concepts are ingrained in me again, it’s just that I can’t express them in language. So I’m learning. The desire to speak Chamoru is very strong in me now, because I want to be able to pass it on to my grandson. 

For all intents and purposes, the Chamoru language should have died hundreds of years ago but why it’s lived is because of the Chamoru mothers. Probably unknowingly ,they kept the language alive because that was the language for their children. Because it was a matrilineal society the mothers were in charge, so they spoke what the mothers spoke. And it was through those years, through that lineage, that the language was able to persevere.  

Of course, the Japanese didn’t want them to say anything. And the Americans wanted to make sure that the CHamoru people were sufficiently oppressed, so that they can be able to control the resources, which is the land and the sea.

And now, look, you know, it’s going full circle. Even a lot of the CHamorus, Unfortunately, the CHamorus here in the states, they’re resisting. We don’t need CHamoru… 

It’s not a language of commerce. It’s not a language of the world, of business use or of world for world recognition. But it is a language that keeps the people of a group of people alive, and we’re proud of. 

[guitar music re-enters]

And I’m getting better. My fluency is getting better. As you can tell, I like to talk. I like to talk story. Yes, we are definitely storytellers. So este ki, adios. Say hi to your mother for me!

SHAYLYN: Auntie Dorothy touched on my favorite aspect of our history — matrilineal society. How Chamoru resistance to colonization, militarization and climate change flows through the mothers to their children, and their children’s children.

[darker synth music fades in, and out, new lo-fi music enters] 

Taryn Aguon grew up on Guam. She’s from the village of Chalan Pago and grew up surrounded by Chamoru speakers, even if she couldn’t always talk back. She left for college stateside, like many of our generation and younger, and started her family here — but she’s been feeling out of touch with her identity. 

TARYN AGUON: In my first stretch out here, coming out for college, I had major culture shock and one that I did not anticipate that I would experience. It was really big for me. Yeah. 

Actually, my wife is CHamoru, she’s from Guam too. And our fathers actually grew up on the same street. They grew up together. So she and I have known each other since we were younger. We played ball together, too, back on the island before we came out to go to college.

SHAYLYN: Taryn now lives with her wife and their daughter Talyn in Northern California. It’s an intergenerational home — before starting preschool, Talyn’s primary caregiver was her grandma.

TARYN: So as far as the language goes, my mother absolutely speaks CHamoru. She also speaks English. And it was one of those, it’s it’s a very common thing that you see in families done from, you know, with her generation and stuff where it’s she and her mother would talk CHamoru because my grandmother talked CHamoru and could like automatically turn it off when she’s talking to us…

In the beginning there was almost like a sense of embarrassment and shame and guilt about signing up for a class of a language that should have been so natural to me. And, and it was, in the beginning of my life, in the first half of my life, and then it wasn’t. And there were moments in my adult life living out here that it started to feel like I had lost a sense of identity. And for me, a strong part of it is language.

[dark synths]

And so in the most simplest of terms, I think my favorite phrase is just put fabot. It just means please and so like. So like, for example, where as a kid you hear, when we’re running around, we’re getting dirty and doing things and it’s time to eat. And like my mother would say, or my grandmother would say then, put fabot. There are relationships here. It’s about the relationship. 

[slow music enters]

Our culture stems like it’s rooted in, in generosity and giving and, and, and being there for others. And so in kind of like my quest for myself, like really finding my true authentic self as a, as a gay person and, you know, as, as a true moral person. I felt that this was the only way to really start my journey, was through language. And in the language, you know, it would do a lot. It would let me hear the stories of those before me. And it would allow me to pass on those stories in a way that they told it, not in the way that I interpreted their stories to be. 

And it continues, although I’m a million – not a million, but so far away, I feel that this is the one way to truly stay connected, because I’m not very certain when we’ll return home.

[darker, slower music]

And it’s the one part that I felt like I’ve had to, like, really work on in terms of our culture and my, and my identity. And so seven generations from now, right, speaking in those terms, I would love to ensure that my child knows where we’re from and who we are, and that we definitely have a place in this world as much as anybody else.  

[music fades out]

SHAYLYN: For thousands of years the cornerstones of our culture — community, gratitude, reciprocity, inafa’maolek — apply to the people, of course. But just as much for the hånom, tåno yan aire. Our island home is ours to protect, as it provides for us.

But the American military continues to bulldoze the ancient limestone forest of Litekyan to finish five air force firing ranges on our ancestral land, dangerously close to the primary water source on the island. Bullets fly across what was once the habitat of so many of our non-human neighbors, endemic to Guahan and the Marianas.

And it is hard for many of us to ask for help, because even in a culture based on reciprocity we have been conditioned to suffer in silence.

What Taryn said about language being the first step towards not just your people, but yourself? That hit hard. And it was a common theme with these three women from three different generations — who are we, if we are not here for each other.

So I’m doing my best to create space within my life for yes, the language, but also everything that comes with it. Like the smile on my mom’s face when I tell her “hu guaiya hao!” and she sings it back to me. Or the talks with my cousins about organizing efforts to protect Litekyan.

Introducing my chosen family to our food, ordering some to shred chicken for kelaguen while I make titiyas. I’m practicing for when I have my own family. And my children, and their children, however far away they may be — will know the words and legends of their people.

We are storytellers, after all.

Saina Ma’å’se for listening to our stories. Biba Guahan, CNMI, Islas Pasifika, yan fino’ Chamoru.

JULES: If you want to follow shaylyn and their work, their handle is @ shaylyn martos on all social platforms, and their website is shaylynmartos.com. 

Inherited is brought to you by YR Media, a national network of young journalists and artists creating content for this generation. We’re distributed by Critical Frequency, a women-run podcast network founded by journalists. 

“Considering: New Life During Climate Crisis,” was written and reported by Denali Sai Nalamalapu. and sound designed by Jules Bradley. Special thanks to Denali’s little friends, Juniper, Camille, Mona, and Monica, for giving them joy and play. And to Thanu and Rafa, for their time, candor, and vulnerability.  

“Our Language is Our Mothers’ Gift” was written, reported, and read by shaylyn martos and sound designed by Georgia Wright. Special thanks from Shaylyn, quote, “to my mother and the mothers before her, Prutehi Litekyan and Protect Guam Water, and to the people fighting for our ancestral land.”. 

Our co-creators and senior producers are Jules Bradley and Georgia Wright. Our Executive Producer is Amy Westervelt, and our sound engineer is James Riley. Our Director of Podcasting is Ray Archie, and our interns are Ichtaca Lira and Chaitanya Dendekar. Special thanks to Rebecca Martin and Kyra Kyles.

Original music for this episode created by these young musicians at YR: Christian Romo, Anders Knutstad, Noah Holt, Jacob Armenta, Chaz Whitley, Michael Diaz, Sean Luciano Galarza. Music direction by Oliver “Kuya” Rodriguez and Maya Drexler. 

Art for this episode created by YR’s Ariam Michael. Art direction by Brigido Bautista and Marjerrie Masicat. If you like our show, please throw us a rating or maybe even a review on the Apple Podcast app. It honestly helps us a LOT. You can also follow us on Instagram and Twitter @inheritedpod. 

That’s it for this season of Inherited. We are so grateful to each and every one of the Season 2 storytellers: Jasmine Butler, Jasmine Hardy, Maggie Wang, Mukta Dharmapurikar, Kenia Hale, Neil Luczai, Tife Sanusi, Denali Nalamalapu, and Shaylyn Martos. You have made this season more special than we could have ever imagined. 

If you want to learn more about this exemplary cohort of storytellers, head to our website at yr.media/inherited. 

And as always, special thanks to our cats, Dobby Bradley and Frodo Scully-Wright. 

See you next season!

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FURTHER READING/RESOURCES ABOUT GUAM, FROM SHAYLYN

Famalao’an Rights — an organization which fights for accessible reproductive healthcare and education on Guam, where women, trans folks and allies began fighting for basic rights in the 1980’s.

The Guam Bus — a Fino’ Chamoru organization that promotes, educates and publishes books in our language. The same Guam Bus that holds our weekly lessons.

Read our literature — like activist and human rights lawyer Julian Aguon, author of No Country for Eight-Spot Butterflies and poet Craig Santos Perez, writer of the From Unincorporated Territory chapbook series and co-editor of many Micronesian and Pasifika anthologies. 

Take a moment to follow and share the work of social media groups — Nihi Kids is a youth-focused video series on culture and history. 

Check out Chamoru news media —  journalists working for The Yappie, the Guam Daily Post, local Guam stations and even Vice. Expand your understanding of Pasifika climate activists and artists outside of the Marianas.