and Words
Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I′ll be watching you
Every single day
And every word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay
I’ll be watching you
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
As I grew up in the 1980s, I discovered music through the radio and MTV. Most music overlapped between radio and video, like a large common area on a Venn diagram. The Police’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ got significant radio play, but it was endlessly played on MTV. The video was definitely released in the 80s, since it was shot at a 4:3 aspect ratio. In fact, they had two subtly different versions of that video. They filmed the video in black and white but released versions with subtle green and blue tints. They called them the “blue version” and “green version”.
A few years ago, this song came over the speakers. I remember the discussion around the song distinctly. It occurred among teammates with music playing in the open, so I speculate it transpired during a morale event. I spent way too much of my time in my teens listening to music and can recognize most songs within seconds. Keep in mind, this song was exceptionally popular in the 1980s, and many recognized it immediately.
One person referred to the song as one about stalking. One of our other peeps turned their head with a perplexed expression and responded with, “What do you mean?” The response was, “Have you listened to the lyrics?” In that moment, their eyes widened, and that ended the discussion. Mind you, that none of this discussion was confrontational; it was all in good humor. Nonetheless, it was undeniable.
I grew up along the Southeast Coast of Florida. My childhood home sat mere blocks from State Road 7 (also known as 441), and it was also relatively close to the Atlantic Ocean. We routinely traveled up and down the coast, mostly through Interstate 95, which I’ll occasionally refer to as my sentimental street. Over three million people live along the Gold Coast. In that sense, it felt big, like any other large city.
However, this physical expanse generally felt like a large city but occasionally felt uncharacteristically cramped. Along with the collection of millions of people who spanned the coast along the warm Atlantic Ocean, another tight-knit community subtly coexisted. My modest Cantonese community splashed our own culture over that same area.
We didn’t have a centralized location. There was no Chinatown like there are in San Francisco and New York. We lacked an International District as we have in Seattle. We were the ones that others rarely noticed (or perhaps feared); no one locked their car door as I walked near. My community hid in plain sight. You may notice an occasional restaurant or some other business in a plaza. If you remember those anatomical diagrams with transparencies sandwiched between the pages of biology books, my community is the one that everyone always forgot, like the endocrine system.
You might even believe that we didn’t know about each other, but we did. For a while, my family traveled an hour to attend a Chinese Baptist Church in South Miami. We weren’t really Baptist; if anything, I attended a Catholic school in Puerto Rico. Though I didn’t understand it at the time, it had little to do with faith and everything to do with community and culture.
Between the ages of 12 and 23, I worked in food service. That shouldn’t be a surprise; my dad owned a restaurant in Puerto Rico in the 1970s before he died. However, over the course of those years, I worked on no fewer than eleven different restaurants. All of them were Chinese. They weren’t businesses; they were extended family.
These people, with whom we shared no blood but instead a deep culture, protected us. A single mom and three teenagers landed in Florida, unable to speak English. This community taught my mom to drive and helped her get her license. They found her work despite not having a high school education. Different people took turns to ‘divide and conquer’. Though our lives were far from extravagant or even comfortable, it would’ve been far worse without our community.
Though my mom learned enough English to pass the naturalization exam, she never really learned the language. To me, the sniff test was, upon getting lost, could she ask for (and understand) directions? She could not. The Chinese community supported her such that she didn’t need to integrate English completely into her life. She picked up Chinese newspapers from shops and restaurants. We drove to friends’ homes to borrow boxes of VHS tapes for Chinese soaps. While I’m convinced that she could have learned to speak English, she didn’t need to.
As I grew older, I occasionally got subtle nudges from our community. The words mostly came through my mom, though I understood it was really an extension of the community. It felt like a faceless directive we dared not challenge, like a religion. If I merely questioned one of these rules, it’d raise eyebrows. Not that they necessarily cared about that (or any) particular rule; they didn’t take well to being challenged.
They helped my mother, and thus she was inextricably part of the community. Transitively, they owned me as well. It felt like I joined a gang. They protected me in their way, but also stipulated their own rules. It exhausted me.
During an otherwise ordinary dinner shift, I waited on tables. A patron ordered a dish but wanted a minor modification. We still used paper tickets at the time; I jotted down the note on the ticket. Like I do with all other orders, I peel off the top sheet of that ticket and hand it to the kitchen so that they can start my order. The key to waiting on tables well is to maintain impeccable timing; when I turned in my ticket mattered.
I returned to the kitchen when I expected the dishes to be ready. They were all done, minus the minor modification I noted. This mistake will throw off my timing. I politely asked the chef in the kitchen to make that dish precisely how I ordered it. We went back and forth for a bit; meanwhile, he refused to do it or maintained that it was my mistake.
Finally, I pulled the carbon copy of the ticket from the pocket of my apron. Next, I raised it and showed him my notes, and asserted, “Look, this is your mistake. You fucking fix it. I’ll be back in a few minutes!” I might have said it a little too loudly. That chef stopped talking, astonished by my response. Abruptly, the remainder of the kitchen went eerily quiet, though I didn’t notice at the time. When I returned, that dish was ready precisely how I ordered it. That was the end of it, or so I thought.
About a week later, I came home for the weekend. My mom pulls me aside; she has a bit of a grin on her face. Next, she asks me point-blank, “Did you raise your voice to a chef at work?” I had almost forgotten about it. My mom didn’t know this chef; in fact, she didn’t know anyone from work. This wasn’t a reprimand. It was a stark warning. We know who you are and have ways to tighten the screws. One way or another, we will have our pound of flesh.
I took a Chinese language class at the University of Miami. This isn’t as strange as it sounds; I do not speak Mandarin, nor do I know how to write Chinese script. However, that class contained a disproportionately high number of Chinese students. One such classmate was a young woman by the name of Celia, and we hung out many times after class. If you’re wondering, I did find her very attractive, but I navigated another complex romance.
On one particular afternoon, the two of us drove to Dadeland Mall, a few short miles away. During that outing, she shopped for a little black dress for a party or to go clubbing. Though I found her attractive already, she looked even better in a short, form-fitting dress. She got the dress. We continued to chat and even flirt a little, but eventually we returned to campus. Again, we were the only ones on this short trip, and we didn’t run into anyone we knew.
About two weeks later, I showered after a weekend shift waiting on tables. I get ready to go to a Chinese party where many friends meet. I arrive and head to the dance floor; the dance music and disco ball guide my feet as I take my familiar place on the dance floor. I greet Sue, my years-long friend (I worked at her family’s restaurant). She smiles a little more broadly than usual and leans in to ask me a question over the loud music, “So are you and Celia going out?”
I’m too stunned to respond. Alarm bells go off in my head. How does Sue even know who Celia is?! Better yet, where did she hear anything about what transpired between Celia and me?! In retrospect, her question was intended to celebrate with me. Sue had witnessed years of my not dating anyone in particular. Reflecting on it, I sensed nothing but happiness for me. However, on that day and in that particular moment, it felt quite intrusive.
In the end, this community, which helped me grow into the person I am, had its own darkness. At times, this collection of Chinese people followed my every move in ways that I didn’t anticipate. Collectively, they became my stalker. In their own way, they would tug me into obedience like one might do with a dog and a choke collar. This community clung to us like a cellophane wrapper on your fingers.
In 1991, I graduated from the University of Miami and landed a job at Microsoft in Washington state. In many ways, it shattered my heart to move away from my family and everything I had known. Both my family and my community had sheltered me. Just as I embarked on the ‘rest of my life’ phase, I’d be doing it alone. It terrified me.
On the flip side, it felt as if I had finally achieved escape velocity and eluded the Earth’s gravity. I could put down that weight I had carried my entire life, and I was finally free. My future is now a blank canvas filled with endless possibilities, unencumbered by the restrictions of that community. It inspired me.
I honestly can’t tell you how much this factored into my decision. At 22, I don’t believe I had the wherewithal to understand it all. If you’re looking for an answer, I wish I could give you one. The decision to leave your community is very nuanced and deeply personal. My only hope is that whatever you choose, you come to peace with it.