Alone But Becoming: A Sacramento Story from the 80s

Sometimes I wonder why I keep revisiting the ’80s in my mind. Maybe it’s just Gen X nostalgia, or maybe it goes deeper than that. For me, those years weren’t just about cassette tapes, latchkey routines, and after-school TV—they were the years I started becoming who I am.

In February 1982, my parents decided to move the family back to Guam. The bakery needed them. I was 15, and I asked to stay behind.

And they let me.

21 and full of it. American River College cafeteria, mid-80s. I didn’t have a plan, but I had attitude—and apparently, no idea how to smile for a camera.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. My dad once told me he regretted letting me stay, and maybe he did. Maybe he worried it was a mistake. I grew up with strict parents, but something shifted once they left. My aunt lived next door, but still—I was alone. Fifteen years old in a big two-story California house, 5,000 miles from family, with wind echoing through the halls.

It was your typical ’80s suburban home—four bedrooms, two and a half baths, fireplace, garage, TV in the family room. That family room became my world. I slept on the couch, only going upstairs to shower and change. School, home, that couch, cereal or a frozen burrito—who am I kidding, I’m Asian—SPAM and corned beef too. That was the rhythm for a while.

I finished my sophomore year at Christian Brothers High School, which was still an all-boys school back then. I went to class mostly out of habit and because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t have a license yet, but that summer I got the green slip. Remember when driver’s ed was still part of school?

In my junior year, I could finally drive and park on campus. It felt like freedom. On weekends, I worked at our family’s bakery in the nearby shopping center. I don’t remember getting paid, but I remember the fun. The video store next door, the fried chicken place around the corner, and sometimes Pizza Hut. That Pizza Hut might still be there.

That was also the year I signed up for the Marine Corps through the Delayed Entry Program. I didn’t fully understand what I was committing to, but I wanted direction. Maybe all that early freedom made me crave a clearer path.

By fall, I was finally settling in. I started going to football games. We didn’t win that year, but in our senior year, we did. I wasn’t on the team; I was just a loyal fan. Falcons Football—woohoo.

I had a tight-knit circle—Jerry Tuma, Rick Campbell, and a few others. We weren’t wild, just close. When your parents are halfway around the world, your friends fill in the gaps. And they did. Some laughs, some music, a slice of pizza—and that was enough.

We cruised, flirted with girls from St. Francis, went to parties, and stayed out too late. We weren’t angels, but we weren’t reckless. We were teenagers trying to hang on to something before the world got serious.

Academically, math was my hurdle. Geometry in sophomore year went okay, but Algebra 2 with Mr. Costello was a challenge. That was the real test. Back in 8th grade at St. Anthony’s, I had Sister David—stern but patient. But freshman year back in Guam? I bombed. Failed religion and geography, too. Yeah, religion. Still cracks me up.

Senior year was lighter. The heavy lifting was behind me. I took Life Experiences, where we learned about taxes, home buying, budgeting—real-world stuff. I did Recordkeeping, joined the ROP program, and worked at a local radio station in the afternoons. The rest of my classes were electives—Audio Visual Aid, Library Aid, and Office Aid. Hall passes and easy days. I’d earned that breather.

Looking back, Sacramento wasn’t just where I grew up—it was where I started becoming and quietly surviving. Learning who I was without pressure, without anyone hovering over me telling me who to be. That kind of freedom leaves a mark.

We cleaned up alright. Me, Henri, Bob, Jerry… all part of the orbit back then. Scott’s wedding gave us a reason to dress up and play grown-up for a day. The rest of the time, we were still figuring it out.

Sometimes, you don’t realize you’re becoming yourself until you look back and see—you already were.