I wouldn’t describe myself as woke, but many conservative observers would. I assume Sierra Sevilla is from American Samoa from her accent and appearance. This is ironic, because I am offended by all white people being stereotyped as culturally-ignorant early in the piece. Thankfully, I realise this irony fairly quickly.

It could be argued that de-colonisation is a process that requires a change in the colonisers as well as the colonised. Even those of us who consider ourselves allies of decolonisation, Tāngata Tiriti in the context of Aotearoa, need our blind spots identified. A moment’s stereotyping pales into comparison to the centuries of lethal stereotyping our European ancestors have perpetuated. Whether or not this is the point of the white stereotyping, it is well-made. Aroha mai, ngā mihi Sierra.

Having deliberately not read the production notes, I was also surprised to discover we are on Guam, and therefore the colonisers are American. We are dealing with American spam, not English. A pākeha would not be much of an ally if they felt smug about this nuance. There is no significant difference between American-brand colonisation and English. The white stereotype holds. Although unlike most Pasifika peoples, Chamorro have no political representation at all, despite supposedly being US citizens.

This one-person performance tells us the story of Sevilla’s life. She uses spam as a potent symbol of the complexity of colonisation. What else can you eat when all the arable land on your tiny island is confiscated for the use of the American Military? You must eat what you are given. What else can you eat when there is no reliable power supply for days after a typhoon (despite your entire island being a major military base for the world’s richest nation) but preservative-saturated canned goods? The Chamorro name for their island is Guåhan, which means “we have (enough)”. Colonisation has made this a tragic parody, where self-sufficiency is an historic artifact.

Sevilla uses spoken word, pitch-perfect singing, and ‘sweet sweet’ dance moves to communicate her journey. The set is jarring, and Sevilla’s fluency with her material is evident by the simple fact she never trips over the risers arranged in a ridge extending fully across the Tapere Iti space, slightly upstage, over and upon which she leaps, dances – and, within the performance, simulates both parts of a sexual encounter.

This ridge across Erin Guan’s set does add to the sense of complexity and awkwardness. It physically demonstrates the mental gymnastics required by Sevilla, as she navigates the cultural labyrinths of being part of a colonised minority in your own nation. There is also a spotlit Christian cross made of tins of spam dominating stage left, making this complexity very apparent. Her rapid on-stage costume and character changes underline the process of navigating a hostile culture.

Within her own people, there is the internal conflict of being oppressed and having your entire livelihood reliant on your oppressor. Many of her friends and family work for the American military, and the whole economy is based on supporting the military base. When she moves to Boston as an eighteen year old student, eating the spam that symbolises this two-edged relationship with her oppressor isolates her from her ‘fellow Americans’ – identifying her culture as disgusting and ignorant, when if anything the reverse is true.

When she moves to London and marries, spam also highlights a difference between her and her husband. You don’t need to be a Monty Python fan to know that the English have a long history of eating tinned meat. However, it seems in contemporary England spam is also a symbol of deprivation and ignorance.

The narrative, while based in ongoing tragedy, is told with warmth and humour for forty five minutes. The warmth remains, but the humour cannot be maintained for the final quarter. During this time Sevilla prepares a (delicious) spam hash with chilli, lemon juice and onion for us to sample as we leave the theatre. However the narrative proceeds to beautifully and devastatingly drive home the deadly serious consequences of being America’s western-most territory, closer to China and North Korea than to the US mainland.

Sevilla is a masterful writer and performer. She is sharing, not sermonising. Unlike the treatment of her people by three sequential colonising powers, she is treating us like adults. Her manaakitanga and aroha is the earth from which this story and our understanding grows. Unlike the military-polluted soil and water of Guam, this soil nourishes tō tatou tīnana me tō tatou wairua, our shared body and spirit. It seeks equality and sovereignty through empathy as much as political discourse.

Kia Mau continues to land power punches like this production. The complimentary food and drink after each show (at least the ones I have attended) emphasise the manaakitanga on which the festival is founded. As festival Executive Director, Mīria George, says, this festival is cultural medicine. Unlike certain political parties, it furthers the discourse on biculturalism with beautiful art, open arms and open hearts.

For the Love of Spam, which continues at Te Auaha’s Tapere Iti until June 7th, is a truly unique, beautiful and humanising experience.

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