The following essay won second prize in the Northern Marianas Humanities Council’s 2024 My Marianas Writing Contest.
“HERE you can try it on, just this once.” Mom smiles; carefully she places the tedious necklace around my neck, across my shoulders. I feel the warm beads pressing against my skin. Their vibrancy seemed to cast a spell, darkening the tone of my surroundings, as if it was the brightest thing in the room. The knotted string, resembling a fishing line, scratches lightly against the nape of my neck. Despite their delicate design, they’re quite strong, yet I can’t shake the feeling that the slightest misstep could release the beads from their border. “This is a lighatúttúr.” She shared “It’s a Refaluwasch necklace.” I was maybe ten when I tried it on for the first time, I had seen it before but never got the answer to what it was. “I wish I had one.” I thought.
Everyone in the Refaluwasch (Carolinian) community has a lighatúttúr, or at least they should. It’s a cascade of beads, strung together to form a tapestry of pride and love. This necklace is delicately placed around your neck, draping its intricate vibrant trinkets along the
shoulders and across your chest. They’re worn at important events in your or someone else’s life, like a birthday, a graduation, a wedding, and other memorable moments. It’s not typically something you buy for yourself; it’s something you give or you’re given. To grant it to a Refaluwasch is to show love or respect, to grant it to a non-Carolinian represents acceptance into our community. Even still as a teenager, I have never received one, or at least never remember receiving one. I was raised and born in the United States; there I found myself surrounded by faraway glimpses of my culture. Despite my closeness to the lighatúttúr, they remained distant, a tradition just out of reach, teasing me with their beauty and dignity. Regardless, seeing family and friends be granted with this necklace, is something that stayed with me my entire life.
Aunty Ann, Mom’s youngest sister, had a lighatúttúr when she was getting married. I was so excited to see her and her soon-to-be husband; it had been maybe three years since we’ve seen clashing of laughter and music. The white of the building and the bouquets were almost blinding, but not as much as the bride’s radiant smile. I was nine; at the time, I was old enough to remember things but still young enough to experience something new. While they said their “I do’s,” there it was — the necklace draped along her and her now husband’s chest, linking their hearts together. That was the first time I remember seeing one.
Ernesta, my sister, is the first to ever be given one out of my siblings and I. I still can recall when my aunty called me asking for my sister’s graduation colors. “Red, teal and white” I told her. Then the day before Ernesta’s graduation, there was Aunty Nei, pulling out a sparkling lighatúttúr, folded in a Ziploc baggie, from her clearly overstuffed luggage. Its intense redness looks ablaze; I’m almost convinced that touching it would leave burns on my fingertips, yet the additional white beads among the fiery tone tames the overpowering hue. And then there are the tiny teal beads, resembling a turquoise stone, adding a touch of elegance to the artifact. I was so jealous that day that she had gotten one before me. The next day, I watched my sister get her high school diploma in that same necklace. I was so impressed with Aunty Nei’s skill, I begged her to let me learn too.
Aunty Nei is the one who makes almost all the lighatúttúr for our family, it’s basically her job. “When making these, you have to have a certain setup.” she stated, “it’s seen as bad luck if it’s not like this.” Placed on the table was a thin scarf with a hibiscus pattern and tassels on each opposing side. I let out a chuckle at the pugua stain on the upper right side corner of the smooth fabric. “There’s always a stain” I thought. On top of it was the needle, beads and string organized according to the steps of making a lighatúttúr. It’s important to learn how to make one so you’re prepared to make more for the next generation. That’s how the tradition is passed on. “Who are taking her eyes away from the beads in her callused hands. Seeing it done had evoked a question. Had I gotten one from my baptism?
“Of course you had one at your baptism. What kind of question is that?” Mom rolled her eyes, not giving it a second thought, “it’s in the hope chest; go check.” I hurried down the creaking stairs as my feet smacked against the wooden boards. The hope chest was beneath the stairs, begging me to rummage through it. I kneeled down and placed my hand on the chipped sides. I struggled to lift the massive lid; the scent of aged wood smelled ancient as if I had opened an old book that had gone untouched for years. Stuffed within were newspapers, old concert tickets and dozens of the lighatúttúr, each carefully enclosed in its own Ziploc bag. My fingers brushed against the smooth surface of one of the plastic bags tucked away in the corner. I pulled it out and examined its contents; there laid a lighatúttúr. My lighatúttúr. The Ziploc bag bore the name “Bella” written in bold, permanent marker, and with the necklace were photos of the baptism. I reflected on photos I found of me in the church as I griped onto my lighatúttúr. Looking into my life as it just began. Reflecting on what, as a child, could my heart and mind process.
Being cradled in the gentle embrace of water, feeling a sense of belonging wash over my infant body. The lights blinding my eyes, while an elderly man does the sign of the cross. A cool liquid trickled through my hair, running down my neck, sending an instant shiver down my spine. Above me, a warm glow of candles dancing, casting flickering shadows that somehow whisper praise and devotion. Amidst the soft murmur of prayers and songs, an unfamiliar sensation grazes against the nape of my neck and is heavy on my chest. A Refaluwasch beaded necklace — a lighatúttúr. This was the first time I had ever received one. The first milestone as a Refaluwasch.
