A friend of mine who lives in one of the most coveted beach communities in Orange County recently told me a story that really stuck with me. He’s a lifelong California surf bum who dreamed of raising his family close to the life he loves. He got in early enough to make that dream a reality. But now, his once-affordable town is overrun by money.
The scene at his local playground says it all. Picture a bunch of tech bros, but make them dads. While their kids are playing nearby, it’s one big Neanderthal testosterone fest of one-upmanship. I have Tesla. I have Rolex. I have six-car garage. I laughed, but only because I can see the same thing happening here in Park City.
And yet every day in City Park a different scene plays out as I take my dog on his afternoon constitutional. Amidst the blonde picklers, teenage skateboarders and screaming kids, groups of Hispanic workmen sit under the shade trees, taking a break.
Some are young. Some are old. They chat in Spanish, playing cards and laughing as they eat their lunch. My dog strains on the leash toward the men, hoping for a chip drop or a quick pat on the head. I want to say something as I pass by, but all I can ever come up with is an awkward, “Hey, sorry about my dog,” as they smile and give him a pat on the head.
I want to ask them if they’re OK, like I asked my house cleaner Maribel in the spring: “Are you OK? I mean, with everything going on.” I didn’t need to specify what I meant.
She replied, matter of factly, “Yes. We are fine. We are legal.”
But I wonder if she still feels that way today, in the aftermath of travesties like Albrego Garcia; the videos of masked ICE agents attacking innocent, legal U.S. citizens; parents being violently arrested right in front of their kids; the reportedly inhumane treatment of prisoners of Alligator Alcatraz.
So this is what I think whenever I pass by these groups of workmen. I want to ask if they’re OK. I want them to know that I see them. That I’m grateful for them. Because legal or not, there’s no way this town runs without the invisible network of immigrants holding us up.
There’s the guy in the dusty fluorescent vest weed-whacking on the Rail Trail while the rest of us whizz by on our e-bikes, hardly giving him a second glance.
There are the two young woman working the front desk at the gym, where I notice a sign that says Please don’t be rude … kindness matters and I wince at the fact that people of such privilege need to be reminded of something so elemental.
There’s the dishwasher I catch a glimpse of through a doorway near the restroom at one of my favorite Main Street restaurants.
And the DoorDash driver who pulls up in a beat-up Elantra just as I’m walking out of my building. “Are you the pizza?” I ask, instantly regretting the words as they spill out of my mouth. Not Are you the delivery guy? or even Hey, is this my pizza? Too late to take the words back, but not too late to tip like a guilty idiot.
Back at the park. On one side: luxury strollers, Lululemon skorts, RadPower bikes and real estate stats. On the other: dusty work boots, a shared patch of grass, laughing conversations in Spanish. Living in a town of just 8,000 full-time residents, I wonder—how can we be so divided?
I’m not here like some fragile snowflake to preach or rescue. I may not be inside their world, but I do live right next to it. I may not know their stories, but I see them — and I can’t unsee that DoorDash delivery driver. And maybe that’s exactly where it starts.
I saw a reel on Instagram the other day — a news interview with Harlem youth baseball coach Youman Wilder. He told the story of ICE agents approaching his kids during practice, asking, What’s your name, where are your parents, where are you from? “And I was like, whoa. This is really inappropriate,” he said. Every one of his players is legal.
Coach Wilder kept calm and directed the boys toward the back of the batting cage, where they’d be safe. “There’s only one way in and one way out,” he told them as he physically blocked the way in. He told the kids to go to the back of the cage. “And I said to myself, I may die here, but they will not take one of these kids.”
If this is really where we are right now — I hope to God this is who we are. As Coach Wilder said, there’s only one way in and one way out.