NOTE: This review will not contain spoilers.

Besties, I’m sobbing in the theatre.

All the way from Guam comes Sierra Sevilla with her one-woman show, For the Love of Spam. What initially starts as a love letter to her home quickly morphs into a haunting look at how colonial forces have affected the far flung territories in which they do not belong. And it absolutely devastated me.

For Sevilla, Spam has an almost religious connotation. The stage is decorated with a crucifix made of empty Spam which is joined by a liturgy candle soon after the show starts. On the floor, there is a green carpet in the shape of Guam. There is no shame in Sierra’s identity here. There is pride in her country on full display, and the audience is deeply invested from a cultural level from the outset.

Then Sierra shows up.

Throughout the first part of the show, there is a playful silliness to her performance. She draws upon her experiences as a Chamorro, a native Guamanian, and as a descendant of multiple heritages. There’s a lot. She doesn’t take herself too seriously, and it’s a pleasure to see her wax poetic about her life both in and out of Guam.

The most joyous moments come from Sierra just singing songs in Chamorro. She taps deep into her ancestry and brings the audience along for the ride through sheer bubbliness. There is a genuine celebration of her culture, and everything that entails, especially the canned meat that’s so important to her. This is represented in subtle moments too; when Sierra talks about Guam, she plants herself firmly on the carpet Guam. When she’s talking about her adventures in the Western world, she takes the tiny stage. A tiny bit of elevation that acts as a fake pedestal upon which we put countries like America and England. Hearing her struggles with being far from home, and having the one thing that reminds her of it be considered repulsive by her peers is heartbreaking. Her attempts to find a place to belong are constantly thwarted by the reminders that there’s no place like home.

This is where the heart of the play starts to reveal itself.

Throughout her playful moments, Sierra sprinkles in dashes of political commentary. Snide remarks at the colonisers’ expense. A cheeky nod at the white people who must find her so interesting and exotic. At first, I’m suspicious. These little jokes are rooted in deeply true compromises that have been forced upon smaller countries by imperialistic powers. The jokes are funny, but the truth can’t simply be brushed off with a laugh.

Sierra, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

As Sierra delves deeper into the true purpose of the US’s military occupation of Guam, she exposes the Spam for what it is. A meat substitute given to the people of Guam as compensation for taking away their ability to sustain themselves. These powerful, awful people take over and empty the island’s tanks, only to refill them with cheap, token gifts of Americana that don’t make up for a lifetime of destruction. And not only that, the mere presence of the US military means the tiny island is constantly threatened. They are a sacrificial line in brewing tensions between nations far larger than they could ever be.

All of this culminates in a finale that had me shedding tears the whole way through it. It’s one of the most powerful pieces of theatre I’ve ever seen and it’s so… quiet. It’s a gut-punch that’s so grounded and so harrowing that I left the theatre sad, angry, and sobbing. Sierra offered to share a local Spam dish, but I had to get out of there. I couldn’t stomach it. I couldn’t swallow the hard truth of what the Spam represented. It’s a shame, because it smelled delicious.

For the Love of Spam is an authentic, beautiful story of finding where you belong, even if it’s somewhere that won’t last forever. It’s a show that doesn’t try to change the world or spur any action from its audience. Its purpose is to remind us that imperialism is still an ongoing beast and if society’s obsession with growth doesn’t stop, it will consume us all. It’s horrifying to think that Guam can’t be freed. How can something that’s been liberated break free? With global tensions still bubbling up to a peak, it’s scary to think what could happen within 14 minutes, 14 hours, or 14 months. But we have to think about it, and art like this forces us to reckon with the fact that the world is being put through a grinder and sealed up in metal containers.

And for what?

Disclosure: As a somewhat active member of the Wellington performing arts community, I may be quite familiar with a number of the performers in this show. Having said that, I am not a liar, and there is zero bias in my reviews, shut up.

Also, tickets were provided to me for free by the production. Literally changes nothing, though.