I spent my early years in Puerto Rico; this tropical island holds my earliest memories. My family spoke Cantonese at home; this is the first language I learned. My father ran a Chinese restaurant, which was also our home. I learned some Spanish while chatting with family friends and patrons. However, I officially learned Spanish when I enrolled in Catholic school. All the other children learned the subjects taught in school; I had all those in addition to learning a foreign language.
Once they started teaching English as well, it proved to be too much for my brain; I failed that class. While I understood early on that my sisters and I were different from the remaining students, classmates didn’t really treat me any differently. I mean, we spoke Cantonese and were obviously different races, but it wasn’t a thing.
Upon the death of my dad, we readied to move to Florida. We had planned the move already, but his death accelerated the timetable. That move was more than a change of scenery; the trajectory of my life changed.
The change in venue and language
In Puerto Rico, I lived a sheltered life. My Catholic school was just a block away from our house. We bought comic books in Spanish from a store down the street. We occasionally stopped by the cafeteria in the corner, which made perfectly pressed Media Noche sandwiches. My parents ran the restaurant and rarely took a break. My sisters and I stayed within the block, as if the street was a magical, impenetrable barrier that we dared not cross.
My parents stipulated that we stay within the block, which we generally did. We mostly stayed at home, watched too much television on a tiny black and white set, and listened to the radio. Between lunch and dinner rushes, my dad closed the storefront for siesta. We’d occasionally drive out to the beach in San Juan, my face glued to the open window on the family Chevy Nova. My parents did a good job of sheltering us.
Florida represented an entirely different phase in my life. Fort Lauderdale wasn’t the idyllic destination from the ’60s beach movies. While Puerto Rico felt like a carefully controlled biodome, Fort Lauderdale felt like the Wild West. Life in Florida had teeth; it felt real. Our family also transitioned from two parents at home, typically within minutes from where we were, to just my mom, who needed to find work to keep us afloat.
In my new home, I struggled with yet another new culture and language. Cultures pulled me in three different directions; I navigated life with a compass that merely rotated randomly. My new life established new rules; I could not be loyal to my Chinese or Spanish heritage and still expect to be a good American. The bullies in school made this abundantly clear, and so did popular culture.
Returning to my roots
I won’t tell you that I hated or even disliked my early cultures; my attitude can be best described as apathy. As I endured high school, I saw little need to maintain these ties to the past. I adopted a child’s perspective of ‘when in Rome.’ Florida, or more accurately, the United States, was my new Rome. There were very few Asian people in my high school, and more (though still modest) native Spanish speakers.
Shortly after graduating from high school, I discovered an extended Chinese-American community with people my age. Meeting people like me was transformational. No longer was I the token Asian guy; I was like everyone else. I found my kin. All those years of estrangement from my Chinese roots dissipated with the help of those young people. Like me, they struggled with their identities and lacked definitive answers. However, we had each other and huddled together like emperor penguins.
As I started my college education at the University of Miami, I dove into the deep end of the Spanish-speaking pool. As a freshman, I lived in the dorms and rarely stepped off campus. As time went on, I spent more time in Miami with its heavy Cuban influence. I befriended Mexican, Panamanian, Cuban, and Colombian classmates. My command of Spanish returned from its years-long slumber. I started to listen to new music in my old tongue. I had forgotten how elegant and beautiful it is.
My Spanish heritage
On one particular afternoon, I listened to an episode of Brené Brown’s Unlocking Us podcast. In this particular episode, she spoke to Gabby Rivera. While I won’t go through the intricate details of that episode, it introduced me to a new expression in Spanish:
Donde cabe diez, cabe once
It literally translates to “where we can fit ten, we can fit eleven”. The sentiment is that we’ll always have room for you. If there’s enough room and food for ten of us, there’s room for one more. The very first time I heard those words in that sequence was on that day. However, the sentiment is old and familiar. It’s not even wisdom; it’s culture.
Furthermore, this all sounded strangely reminiscent of another story, though I struggled to place it. It eventually came to me. Simon Sinek has a great TED Talk on leadership, but it was the story of Bob Chapman (around the 8-minute mark), who chose to furlough everyone in the company with a four-week unpaid vacation instead of laying anyone off. His message was:
It is better that we should all suffer a little, than any of us should have to suffer a lot.
It all sounds extraordinary when framed this way, and it is extraordinary here in the States. Gabby Rivera’s words echoed in my head with the beating heart of the island of Puerto Rico, from where we both have ties. You see, it’s not extraordinary in Puerto Rico; it’s just a Tuesday.
Looking out for oneself
It all goes back to the time when we were cavemen (and women). We could not survive on our own; we eventually had to sleep. Someone protected you while you slept; otherwise, a wild animal might kill you. We gain safety and strength in numbers. The more people in the group, the more diverse your collective skills will be, and the better off you all are.
Today, we have phrases like America First, which stipulates that we should care for our citizens before others. First, allow me to give a little lesson in history; this slogan has been used by the KKK and Nazi sympathizers. Second, this line of thinking is profoundly short-sighted. You see our country as a pizza, and any slice that ‘they’ get, whomever ‘they’ may be, transitively becomes a slice that you do not get.
You look at immigrants and believe that they’re parasites that syphon your resources. What you fail to understand is that our country benefits from these immigrants (yes, even the undocumented ones):
- They pay taxes, about $100 billion a year. They put in far more than they take out.
- They get almost no benefits from the federal government. No health care. No social security. No SNAP benefits. The only exception to that rule is a Reagan-era policy that they should be treated at hospitals in life-threatening situations.
- They contribute to GDP, both as producers and consumers.
- They are far less likely to commit crimes than natively-born citizens.
The truth is that we would be better off giving undocumented immigrants mass amnesty and a simple path to citizenship instead of deportation. Or dare I say it? Donde cabe diez, cabe once.