An honest measure of progress

Letter by Mary Camacho Torres

The new year is a time for hope. It’s also a time for honesty, with ourselves, those who lead us, and whether what we are being offered is enough.

In Washington, most of what we see comes to us filtered through press releases. Successes are announced and celebrated. Failures, missed opportunities, and quiet omissions disappear without a trace.

Over time, a familiar rhythm has set in. Each year, the National Defense Authorization Act, NDAA, includes hundreds of millions—sometimes billions—in military investments tied to Guam.

The numbers sound impressive, blown up in bold print, with no explanation of what was actually invested or how the so-called billion-dollar figure was calculated. A statement about the NDAA and Guam follows. We are told this is good news and encouraged to see it as a win.

But wins should do something. They should make life easier—put food on the table, lower costs, expand opportunity. Too often, they do not.

Take one touted amendment in the NDAA, often described as bringing a ship repair facility to Guam, which will grow business. When read closely, it doesn’t actually put shovels in the ground, create jobs, or commit a single dollar to work on Guam. It just expands a list— adding the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands to the authorized jurisdictions for the overhaul, repair, and maintenance of vessels.

Why does that matter? Major defense projects are not created the moment a bill passes. They are planned years in advance, studied, scoped, costed, and negotiated long before a single line of legislative language is drafted. By the time an authorization bill reaches the floor, much of the outcome is already locked in.

Claiming credit for expanding a list is like arriving at the table after never setting foot in the kitchen.

And yet, this pattern repeats because we have been taught to applaud the announcement instead of asking what comes next. To accept authorization as achievement. To treat access as an outcome.

But crumbs have a way of doing that. They quiet hunger. They convince you to stop asking what a real meal would look like.

So the question we should ask is not whether Guam appears in the bill. It is whether life on Guam is better because of it.

Is it cheaper to build a home?

Is affordable shipping adequately incentivized so grocery bills come down?

Have federal rules been modernized so airfare is more affordable?

Is health care more accessible because regulatory barriers were removed, specialists incentivized, or costs reduced?

Will our veterans receive better services?

If the answer to these questions is no—or “not really”—then we need to be honest about what we are celebrating.

Let me be clear: we should welcome any federal dollars coming to Guam and we should be proud of our role in national defense. But pride should never require silence. And distance should never excuse accepting every press release at face value—or mistaking large numbers for real progress in the lives of working families.

This isn’t about taking more than our share. Guam gives strategically through generations of service. We carry national priorities on a small island, at real cost to our people. And when that contribution, reflected in one of the only major legislative vehicles of the year, is met with symbolism instead of substance, we should not quiet our expectations.

Because to eat well, you have to be hungry. You have to recognize the difference between crumbs and a meal. You have to understand what you are missing when you accept too little and call it enough.

The people of Guam deserve more—not because we are entitled, but because we contribute. Not because we are ungrateful, but because we are honest about the realities we face.

And until federal action meaningfully improves daily life on this island, we should not be afraid to say: this is not enough.