Too Young to Be This Tired

When the glass door swung open, a gust of cold air swept in. Carissa adjusted her transparent-framed, thick-lensed glasses and sat down across from me. She spoke at a rapid-fire clip, delivering each thought with remarkable speed and precision. Perhaps it was a habit honed by her profession.

Carissa works as an alarm operator in Seattle, responding to emergencies and coordinating with police and fire departments. The job recognizes little distinction between day and night: calls can arrive at any hour, reporting car accidents, cardiac arrests, or violent crimes in progress. She must extract critical information within seconds and communicate it clearly. Sometimes the pressure follows her home, where she lies awake with the screams and sobs of callers still ringing in her ears. She remains because the job offers stability and wages far beyond what most of her peers in the Marshall Islands could earn—and because other people depend on that income.

Yet she laughs easily. Her laughter is bright and uninhibited, and after I laughed with her, the world around us felt momentarily lighter.

That day, she wore a plain yellow T-shirt with a black-and-white Marshallese skirt whose hem was patterned with pale green Beach Gardenia blossoms. The Beach Gardenia is the national flower of the Marshall Islands and grows across the archipelago’s coral atolls. The flower represents island vitality, while the black of the skirt evokes the deep ocean. The same pattern appears in jaki-ed mats, handicrafts, and atoll flags—including that of Ailinglaplap. Marshallese people also weave the flowers themselves into garlands worn during celebrations and ceremonies.¹

“I never thought it was anything special when I was in Majuro—it was everywhere, too much, like grass,” Carissa said.

What Carissa remembered most was the fragrance. In the evenings, the sea breeze carried it from the reefs toward the villages until the sweet scent seemed to fill the island. She had not smelled it in years. Beach Gardenias do not grow in Seattle, and airfare to Majuro is expensive. Much of what she saves from each paycheck goes home to help cover her mother’s medical expenses. Unable to pick the flowers, she wears them instead.

Twelve years earlier, Carissa had left Majuro for the United States. Since then, she had moved among cities and jobs, gradually constructing a life organized around work and obligations to relatives on both sides of the Pacific. At twenty-eight, she remained emphatically Marshallese, connected to a country shaped by the legacies of nuclear testing, outward migration, and environmental change.

In 2014, Carissa, sixteen and newly graduated from high school, boarded a flight from Majuro to the United States with her six-year-old cousin in her care. She was still a child herself, yet she was responsible for shepherding a younger child across nearly five thousand miles of ocean.

Her cousin came from Arno Atoll, where educational opportunities were limited. Carissa said the girl “never had a good education.” The central purpose of their journey was therefore to enroll her in an American school. With one suitcase, two tickets, and the visa-free entry permitted by the Compact of Free Association (COFA), the two girls crossed the Pacific.

Carissa explained that educational resources on the outer islands are extremely scarce. Many schools offer classes only through the fifth or eighth grade, requiring students to move to Majuro if they want to complete secondary school. The country has only two institutions of higher education—the College of the Marshall Islands and the University of the South Pacific’s Marshall Islands Campus—leaving students with a narrow range of programs and few alternatives if those programs do not meet their needs.²

This year, Carissa’s cousin will graduate from high school. A girl who left a small Pacific atoll at six has completed twelve years of American education and is preparing to enter adulthood. Carissa spoke of the accomplishment in a level voice, but quiet pride surfaced beneath it: the journey had fulfilled its original purpose, and the flight had not been in vain.

The cost was not borne by her cousin alone. Carissa began working at sixteen and has long hoped to complete college herself, but she repeatedly stalls at the threshold of enrollment.

“I’ve been meaning to. You know how there’s like five steps to get into college? I would do all the way up to like step four and then by the time I get to step five... But yes, in the future I hope to finish my college education.” She never said what happens at step five. Something always does — a bill, a shift, a crisis on the other side of the ocean — and the sentence trailed off where the applications do.

Carissa now lives in Seattle with her father and cousin. Her immediate family is relatively small by Marshallese standards, partly because of her mother’s poor health and her parents’ long separation. Other relatives—including her mother and her cousin’s mother—remain in the Marshall Islands. Three of Carissa’s grandparents have died. Her surviving grandmother was recently hospitalized. “She got admitted, I think about a couple of weeks ago. She’s very sick.” One family, cleaved in two by the Pacific — half in America working, studying, seeing doctors; half on the islands keeping the home and waiting for phone calls.

Then there is the other kind of family — the kind that moved together. Carissa’s friend Lesly, also twenty-eight, was born in Majuro but moved to the United States with her parents and grandparents when she was three. She has never returned. Since graduating from an American high school, she has neither worked nor settled on a career path. Her grandparents are retired, while her parents and younger brother work in hotels, restaurants, and warehouses. The larger household distributes expenses and responsibilities differently, leaving Lesly under less immediate pressure to support distant relatives.

Carissa’s twenty-eight looks nothing like it: distant elders falling ill, a cousin’s education to secure, her own education deferred, a workload heavier than most people her age carry—and a next campaign already underway. She plans to bring her mother to the United States.

“I’m really fighting for her to come here.”

She used the word fighting. Not considering, not hoping. Fighting.

“My [grandmother], my maternal [grandmother],” Carissa said, “she actually was from the island of Mejit, where it was around Bikini. She actually was suffering from thyroid.”

Mejit lies southeast of Bikini Atoll. Bikini—a name reduced in much of global popular culture to a swimsuit—occupies a different place in Marshallese memory: it was the site of the Castle Bravo thermonuclear test, whose fallout exposed neighboring atolls, caused acute radiation illness, and became associated in Marshallese testimony with cancer and reproductive harm.³

She said it in a steady voice, as a fact so ordinary it needs no explanation in a Marshallese household: the thyroid disease came from the tests. Thyroid conditions are among those most strongly linked to the radioactive iodine the detonations released, and thyroid and skin cancers are among the most prevalent malignancies across the country. Mejit, however, was not included among the four atolls—Bikini, Enewetak, Rongelap, and Utirik—formally designated under the Section 177 programs of the Compact of Free Association (COFA) and the Nuclear Claims Tribunal for specialized compensation and health services. Not until 2009 did the U.S. Congress extend radiation-disease screening and medical assistance to residents of Mejit and several other central atolls—and no compensation for lost land or homes came with it.⁴

Radiation was not the only health concern she identified. Carissa also described a diet increasingly built around imported and processed food: refined rice, sugary coconut desserts, instant ramen, and sweetened beverages. Foods high in sugar and salt have contributed to widespread diabetes, hypertension, and kidney disease in the Marshall Islands.⁵

“Sugary food is one of our main guilty pleasures... raw ramen, mix it with Kool-Aid, a lot of salt. So it’s just a bad habit that we have,” Carissa said.

The resulting illnesses overlap with cancers and other conditions associated in Marshallese memory with nuclear testing. “Our death rate is rising because a lot of us are still young, yet we pass away from diabetes, kidney problems, cancer,” Carissa said.

Carissa distinguished among generations when describing the nuclear legacy. In her understanding, her grandmother’s generation experienced the most direct exposure and the most immediate physical consequences. Her mother’s generation inherited chronic illness and the necessity of repeated medical care. Carissa believes these victims of nuclear tests carry not only physical wounds but psychological ones as well.

As for herself and the younger generation, they live with less certainty. Many young people do not yet believe the history affects them personally. “For younger kids...they don’t really feel it,” Carissa remarked. She attributed that distance partly to limited awareness of what earlier generations endured. Her own response was different: “I feel for that.” The phrase was quieter than a declaration of fear but more personal than a statement of historical sympathy. She had not been directly exposed to fallout, yet she had watched illness settle into her mother’s life. The fear felt “not mine yet never leaves me.”

“It’s not affecting us,” she initially said. Then she paused. “I’m not sure, I don’t really know.”

What she is sure of is the vigil. “I am actually like my mom. I am worried about her because she’s the next one in line from my grandma. So, I always tell her to go get checked.”

She said it twice in our conversation—go get checked—not because she forgot she had said it, but because it is lodged there. Her mother’s body is weakening on the far side of the Pacific, one expensive plane ticket away.

When I asked about the healthcare system in the Marshall Islands, Carissa shot back, “Hell no, it’s not good.”

Then she apologized. “Sorry, I don’t want to say that.” But she did not withdraw the judgment.

“It’s not good,” she repeated. “I feel like they will find any reason to cut open a wound any time they want. They’re like that to get money because you know how the second you cut open, you get money.”

Her suspicion expresses the distrust of a daughter who has watched her family navigate a strained medical system without receiving the sustained care necessary. Limited hospital infrastructure, shortages of specialists and equipment, and weak chronic-disease management leave many patients dependent on treatment abroad.⁶

Carissa’s grandmother cannot obtain all the care she needs in the Marshall Islands. She sometimes travels to Hawaii accompanied by relatives, but appointments can be delayed “because she needs money to go to Hawaii.” Airfare, lodging, and the cost of an accompanying family member make treatment dependent upon resources that sick patients may not have, ultimately becoming a vicious cycle of delay and deterioration.

Her mother continues to work in the Marshall Islands, although Carissa wants her to retire early and relocate to the United States. “She is almost reaching her retirement age. So, she wants to finish that off before she comes here. But I’m actually planning to bring her here because her health is deteriorating and it’s not good for her over there.”

Carissa described medical care and education as two forces pulling different generations toward the United States.

“That’s why a lot of older people come here to seek medical attention,” she explained. “And then the younger generation come here to seek education. So, you will see a lot of little kids coming here, migrating here for better education.” The old come for medicine, the young for school—and Carissa stands between them, using her wages and foothold in the United States to make both crossings possible.

Regarding American compensation for nuclear harm, Carissa’s judgment was restrained. She acknowledged the assistance the United States had provided.

“I think they do a fair job.”

Then she immediately qualified that answer.

“The people think no—that’s not enough. Because the cost of our families that have passed away will never ever compare to the amount of money anybody can give us.”

And what she asked for was neither reparations nor programs: “They should at least make sure that every Marshallese gets free medical treatment.”

Carissa calculated the economic differences between the United States and the Marshall Islands with practiced precision. The minimum wage in the Marshall Islands was “maybe $3 or $5 for one hour now,” she said, while the American “minimum wage here is above $15 or $20.”

Her figures were approximate; the official ones are close to them. According to the Marshall Islands Cabinet resolution of April 2, 2024, and the Minimum Wage (Amendment) Act 2024, the current minimum wage in the Marshall Islands is $4.50 per hour, set to rise to $5 per hour on October 1, 2026. However, due to enforcement issues, the de facto wage often remains at $3 per hour, whereas Seattle’s minimum wage, starting in 2026, is $21.30 per hour.⁷

Lower wages do not necessarily bring lower prices. Carissa offered gasoline as the clearest example. A gallon in the Marshall Islands could cost seven dollars—“So that’s $7, above the minimum wage.” In Seattle, a gallon runs four dollars against a $21 wage. The same gallon costs a Marshallese worker the better part of two hours and an American worker a few minutes. In the Marshall Islands, Carissa said, the radically high cost of living creates a “real struggle.”⁸

For young people, the problem is not simply unemployment but the narrow range of positions that offer reliable advancement. Carissa described government employment as one of the best job options back home, with some positions paying more than $30,000 a year. Scholarship programs can fund study at accredited universities in the United States or Taiwan in exchange for an equivalent period of government service after graduation. “So, let’s say you were gone for like five years, you have to work in government for five years,” she said.

This exchange-based talent program is the only stable upward path for young people from humble backgrounds. But social stratification exists. Marshallese society has clear class divisions. Status and clan titles determine one’s position; for those at the bottom, breaking through class barriers is extraordinarily difficult. Carissa admitted, “If you don’t have a title, it’s very hard for you to climb up the ladder. But once you have a title, it’ll be like you get favorites everywhere.” So, if you come from a family with nothing, she continued, then “you have to really work hard to get to those levels.” Opportunities exist, but “very little.”

Such programs provide one route upward, but gaining access to opportunity can also depend on family standing and traditional titles. Carissa described a society in which chiefly and clan status continue to shape whose ability is recognized. “If you don’t have a title, it’s very hard for you to climb up the ladder. But once you have a title, it’ll be like you get favorites everywhere.” Those without such advantages, she continued, “have to really work hard to get to those levels.” Opportunities exist, but they are “very little.” Migration therefore offers not only higher wages but the possibility of entering a larger labor market where family title may carry less immediate power.

The work available in the United States comes with its own costs. At her Seattle job, Carissa is repeatedly exposed to emergencies. “We deal with life and death. We deal with the police department; we deal with the fire department.” The stress is constant: “Yes, a lot of pressure. Sometimes it affects my mental health.” The job nevertheless provides stability and income unavailable to many high-school graduates in the Marshall Islands.

She still missed the pace of island life—laid-back, as she describes it. Some Marshallese migrants return because they cannot adjust to the expense and pressure of the United States. In the islands, Carissa explained, economic pressure can feel lighter “because they barely have any bills to pay.” Many households own their homes through family land arrangements. Electricity may be purchased through Cash Power, a prepaid meter system that cuts service when its credit runs out. Some outer islands have no electrical grid, leaving families dependent on generators, solar power, candles, or oil lamps.⁹

Carissa thus painted a picture of two entirely different modes of life: the Marshall Islands offered a slower life with fewer monthly bills but lower wages, restricted educational opportunities, and limited medical care. Seattle offered greater income and access to institutions, accompanied by rent, insurance, transportation costs, and psychological strain.

Carissa chose the second arrangement, but she did not describe it triumphantly. “Over here we have bills, endless bills.”

Marshallese tradition remained present in Carissa’s Seattle household. Her father was the “head of the household.” Elders were served first at gatherings, shoes were removed before entering the home, and formal clothing was expected in the presence of chiefs. Carissa recited these rules earnestly, as though taking inventory of practices that could disappear if no one continued them.

Some traditions also placed her in conflict with her parents. Her mother regularly asked when she would marry and have children. She recounted her mother struggling to understand her choice to remain unmarried and childless at twenty-eight: “When am I gonna get grandkids? All of my friends have grandkids, babies, and I still don’t have any grandbabies.”

Early marriage and childbearing remain common in many Marshallese communities; Carissa’s life in the United States had expanded the range of futures available to her, but it had not removed the expectations attached to being a Marshallese daughter.

But the deferral of marriage is a small change against the larger one. Carissa worried that customs, clothing, etiquette, and language were weakening.“Over the years, it keeps changing and changing.” She described cultural change primarily as a widening distance between generations. “The older people are very proud, wear on their heart that they’re Marshallese while the younger generation’s cultural identification is steadily eroding.”

Dress is where she sees the loosening most plainly. Carissa connected Marshallese dress practices to a history of changing outside influences. In her account, Japanese colonial authorities imposed severe rules and punishments: “They can behead us,” Carissa said. Later American influence introduced different garments and expectations. Older conventions of modesty gradually loosened. Girls once avoided clothing that ended above the knee, “but nowadays a lot” do not follow that rule.¹⁰

Traditional expectations remain strongest in churches, ceremonies, and meetings with chiefs, where women are generally expected to wear long skirts. “That’s so old lady, I’m not gonna wear those,” Carissa said. Some young women now reject such clothing; for instance, some wear trousers to church.

To Carissa, the rejection of the skirt represented something larger than a change in fashion. It suggested that some young people had begun treating Marshallese identity as ancestry without practice. “A lot of the younger generation, they care less about our traditions and our culture. They don’t care for it. They’re like, ‘oh, it’s just a race.’”

Language offered even clearer evidence of cultural disruption. Many Marshallese American teenagers have limited fluency in their parents’ language. Some schools allow students to earn four language credits by passing a Marshallese proficiency examination. “It’s so sad to see that a lot of Marshallese kids, they fail that test. Even though they’re Marshallese, they failed that test.”

Carissa wanted Marshallese to be taught in primary and secondary schools in the same sustained way that Spanish and other languages are taught. A single proficiency examination could measure what children already knew, but it could not replace years of instruction. For her, language education would give young Marshallese the vocabulary through which family histories and cultural knowledge could continue to circulate.

“I feel like we have lost a lot of our culture,” she said calmly, as if stating an irreversible fact.

Yet the skirt she wore complicated the finality of that statement. Its Beach Gardenia pattern had crossed the Pacific with her, entering an ordinary Seattle morning. Carissa did not follow every expectation her mother placed upon her, nor did she want younger Marshallese to abandon the culture entirely. Her life was not a choice between preserving tradition unchanged and relinquishing it. It was a continuing negotiation over which practices she would carry forward and what they could mean in a different country.

Carissa follows news of home the way one follows news of a sick relative. “I just always look at it because I’m concerned. Every time I hear the news about the Marshall Islands, I’m always so concerned.” Much of that concern centered on sea-level rise. Carissa had seen aerial images in which familiar shorelines appeared to contract. “What used to be land is now only a smaller remnant. A lot of the water is eating out our land.”

The Marshall Islands’ twenty-nine coral atolls rise, on average, only about two meters above sea level. As oceans warm and expand and land ice melts, rising water increases flooding, erosion, saltwater intrusion, and damage from storm surges. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change projects one to four feet of sea-level rise this century.¹¹

Carissa remembered encountering a prediction that the islands might become uninhabitable within her lifetime. “It is predicted that in, I think, 50 years from now, if I remember correctly, the island will sink completely underwater. So that’s why they’re slowly migrating here.” She understood migration as a response not to one crisis but to several converging pressures: limited education, inadequate medical care, low wages, family separation, and the possibility that the land itself might no longer sustain future generations.

When our conversation turned to American politics and the news, Carissa gave a shorter answer. “I don’t know, I’m tired.” Not despair—exhaustion, and a deliberate rationing: the stress can get “very serious,” so she “tends to stay away from the news.” Turning away was therefore less an expression of indifference than an act of self-protection. She spent her working hours responding to other people’s emergencies; she could not spend every remaining hour absorbing the emergencies of a country and family she loved.

“I don’t know” ran through our conversation like a refrain. Whether the radiation has reached her generation — I don’t know. Whether her mother will recover; how long the culture can hold; how long the islands have; whether there will be children of her own to tell any of it to. Her adult life is conducted inside that “uncertainty.” Even her own efforts to keep the culture, she said, are “not really working;” yet she keeps making them.

What she does not doubt is the pull. When news of home surfaces, she stops whatever she is doing. “Concerned” is her word for it—it described the attention she continued to give people and places she could not protect completely.

“Tired” named the cost of that attention. Carissa was twenty-eight, yet her life already stretched across her mother’s illness, her grandmother’s hospitalization, her cousin’s education, her unfinished degree, the emergencies of her job, the expense of American life, the possibility of radiation-related illness, and the weakening of language and culture. None of these burdens existed independently. Each placed another demand upon the same finite store of money, time, and emotional endurance.

Her exhaustion was not surrender.

“I hope it will not extinguish.”

Near the end of the interview, unprompted, she came back to the culture one more time. It was the second time she had used the word, as though saying it once had not been enough to hold the thing off.

On her skirt, the pale green gardenias went on blooming — the flower that grows nowhere in Seattle, the fragrance she has not smelled in twelve years, worn instead.