Somewhere between Ireland and France

I find myself sitting on the same bench at the playground. When you enter Mariano's World, you can either turn to the left and sit at small, crafted picnic tables in front of the sand box or veer to the right and claim space on one of four benches that face the large play area. I seem to park myself at the end of the second bench, somewhere between Ireland and France.

What I mean to say is that the group of moms who consistently hover around Bench One are all from Ireland--authentic brogues and all. I see the same five regularly and, while I know many of the children's names and have even shared our goldfish snacks with several, the women have never said hello to me or introduced themselves. They speak loudly and with great animation. If I listen for too long, I start to THINK with an Irish accent. They have fair skin, dress their girls in matching outfits and their boys in soccer duds that sport Irish flags on the chest or sleeve. One mom has older girls and they join up after school while still in their St. Brigid's uniforms before heading off to Irish dance lessons.

On Bench Three, three French mothers gather religiously. I have a harder time with them since they speak exclusively in French and I opted for three years of Spanish in high school. Their children are more reserved or suspicious--I'm not sure which it is--but one day the older Irish girls ventured into the continent to pursue a game that would require more people. Despite pleading and cajoling from the moms, France wouldn't budge and Ireland retreated to the brood. It was probably just as well since the Irish moms always come with enough fruits, crackers, and juice boxes to make it through another famine.

At the far end, Bench Four serves as home to the Russian grandmothers. I'm not sure how they all got suckered into raising another generation for their kids, but I think I've only seen one Russian mom in the weeks we've been there. Interestingly, I was truly surprised at the large Russian population we've encountered here in the Sunset. Our building has 12 apartments and I think 10 of them are Russian homes. I know that the renter before us, Irena Svetlenskya, paid no attention to telling the post office that she was moving and we still get her mail.

Should we wander towards the sand box, Mariano and I represent the lone American coalition as all of the Chinese grandparents congregate there. They are stern, unflinching, and have no qualms about correcting the behavior of strangers--both adult and child versions. I have been yelled at twice now (in Cantonese, I believe) for letting Mariano go down the slide before the child at the bottom was completely out of the way. The Asian delegation talk to each other exclusively and occasionally stand up to do some Tai Chi movements.

In this miniature U.N. we call home, I have learned that, more than anything, when you stick together, there is security and safety. This became so much more clear one day when Mariano was playing with another 4-year-old. His grandmother did not speak any English, and she had exchanged cursory smiles or nods with Massimo. Suddenly, the boy was crying and Mariano had a gentle arm around the boy's shoulder. Massimo approached to find out what had happened and the boy tearfully lamented that his grandmother had left him. Massimo looked for her again and tried to the soothe the young boy. About 20 minutes later, she reappeared, coming back from across the street where she had been to the Asian market. She felt confident enough in the other grandmas there to fill in for her. She had surrogates and they implicitly understood how to fill in for her. When you share a past, a culture, and a language, some things just don't need to be said.

And while we close up the doors on one Melting Pot, I have learned that somewhere between Ireland and France, in the midst of Russia and China, I have found a real melting pot, alive in my neighborhood playground. Except nobody is really melting together there.