An Idyllic Outing Shows Isolation of Subcultures

Several Sundays ago, we had a California spring day. The sky was flecked with clouds, the sun was warm, a soft breeze played in the trees. So we decided impulsively to have a picnic--something we talk about often but rarely do.

We knew the beaches would be crowded, so we looked inland. My wife packed some food and drink, and we rounded up my stepson and a fifth-grade friend of his--both considerably dubious about the whole idea--and headed for Irvine Park. It had been years since my wife or I had been there. We remembered it as slightly arid but grassy, spacious and generally inviting.

It turned out to be almost as crowded as the beach, but the crowds were absorbed in its expanse of sycamore and oak groves, visible--along with a tiny lake--off the network of roads that wandered through the park. We found a grassy hillside with space below to throw and hit a softball and staked our claim.

While the kids rode bicycles, my wife and I set up chairs to read and soak in the day. And slowly, we began to take in our surroundings, almost--at first--by osmosis.

Two families had set up shop on either side of us. Both were large, and both were Latino. There were many children and much food and animated conversation in Spanish. We were beginning to look beyond our immediate neighborhood when the boys came back and we cracked out our baseball gear.

Our neighbors watched us curiously, periodically hauling back small children who wandered into the line of fire. When we quit playing and turned to eating, the field was taken over instantly by a group of young men with a soccer ball.

We asked the boys if they had seen a restroom on their bike ride, and they said, “Yes, it’s just on the other side of those Mexicans across the road.”

That comment turned into our mealtime conversation. It’s difficult for middle-class liberals to hear their progeny toss off so casually what in effect is a racist remark--even though, to the kids, it was a simple statement of fact, offered without animus. As a result, much talk followed about how we are all people, and easy categorizing of people--by whatever yardstick--takes away their individual humanity and how would you like other people doing the same thing to you?

They listened stoically and remounted their bikes as soon as they decently could. Then my wife and I wandered through the park. Almost every family we saw was Latino. The men were mostly doing the cooking, grilling beef and tortillas over open coals. The women were setting sumptuous tables, the small children were playing around the tables, and the teen-agers were into soccer or volleyball.

There was also a lot of music. Almost every family had at least one musical instrument, and at one large party, we ran into a group of strolling musicians, playing lively music mostly on guitars. The importance and strength of family were implicit everywhere.

We returned to our plot to wait for the boys in silence. When we spoke, we had been thinking the same thing: how totally we isolate ourselves within our own subcultures. The barriers of money, education, ethnic background and station in life virtually dictate how and where we live and play. I remembered thinking, when my own children were growing up some years ago in Corona del Mar, what a narrow view they must have of the society in which they lived. And how good it would be for them--for all of us--to live for a while in different surroundings, where we could experience the mix of cultures that have always made up this country.

We never did anything about it, of course. This is the kind of fantasy that liberals fall into so easily--and act on with great difficulty.

But for one recent afternoon, we experienced a microcosm of that mix, and it warmed us. It also made me realize that Orange County is blessed with an especially rich mix of cultures, and that middle- and upper middle-class Orange Countians tend to push that mix out of sight--or at least to the limit of our vision--whenever and however possible.

When the boys got back from their ride and we were packing up to leave, the strolling musicians appeared suddenly at our section of the park and prepared to play. It seemed a fitting way to end the day. But we’ll be back.