Home at the Butcher Counter

Being Latine in Irvine, California

The following essay is part of our neighborhood dispatch series. Cassy was a student in the writing class I taught last fall about place-making where she wrote this vivid and touching essay about growing up Latine in Irvine, California. Cassy’s essay navigates themes of place by considering the idea of belonging (or lack-thereof), and how racial and ethnic identities shape how we experience place and each other. As always, it is an honor to share new, young voices with you in this space and your continued financial support allows us to continue to pay new contributors for their work. — Ali Rachel Pearl

In the city of Irvine, on the corner of Jeffrey Road and Walnut Avenue, sandwiched between a Tennis supply store and a dance academy, stands 99 Ranch Market: a Chinese market and local Mecca for East Asian groceries and cultural goods.  As you approach, the vibrant red and green signage beckons you inside. Stepping through the doors, you are greeted by a sensory feast. The air is alive with the sounds of chatter and rattling shopping carts. To your left, the produce section offers a kaleidoscope of vegetation, from familiar favorites like apples and carrots to more unfamiliar finds like dragon fruit and bitter melon. Venturing further into the market, you encounter the dry goods section, where shelves are lined with a dizzying array of noodles, rice, sauces, and spices. The tea aisle is a treasure trove, with rows of fragrant boxes in an assortment of flavors and varieties. The market is a tapestry of colors, with shelves stocked high with an array of products to choose from. 

During our weekly grocery trip, my mom and I make our way through the store, surrounded by hanging signage she cannot read. To be fair, I can’t read these signs either; neither of us speak Mandarin. We feel out of place. There aren’t really any stores for us here. We aren’t an especially niche demographic—Latine immigrants and their children—but we don’t constitute a large enough population for this city to cater to. There used to be a Mexican Bodega not even 10 minutes away from our house, but they unfortunately closed down. Not enough clientele. My mom insists we shop here because they supposedly have the best deals on fresh fruits and vegetables, but I know that’s not the real reason. The real reason lies at the back of the store, hidden behind a wall of sullen lobsters and various fish who I think realize their fate is to be eaten. There stands our safe haven: the butcher counter. Behind the stacks of freshly cut meats, me and my mom are greeted with warm smiles and familiar faces. Here, in this small corner of the market, we are not outsiders. Here, my mom can speak Spanish without the fear of being misunderstood. Here, there is an unspoken connection, a sense of mutual understanding and respect. Here, there are other Mexicans. For my family it is more than just a place to buy meat—behind the butcher counter, we find a sense of belonging that is hard to come by amidst a sea of suburbia.

 

According to the city’s demographics page on its website, “Irvine’s strength is its people. The City is the success it is today because of the more than 300,000 hard-working and community-minded citizens who have chosen Irvine as their home.” But I don’t really feel at home here. 

Our city tree is the camphor; our city flower is the lily of the nile; our city vegetable is asparagus; and our city insect is the western swallowtail butterfly. I feel no attachment to these symbols, though I suppose I should. I grew up here, I continue to live here, but I don’t see myself in this city. Please don’t be mistaken, Irvine undeniably has its charms. The weather is nice, the schools are great, and there's a certain uniformity to the architecture that's impressive and oddly comforting. But as the years go by, I just can't seem to shake the feeling that I’m not entirely welcomed. You see, long before Irvine became the land of Teslas and Pilates studios, it was a vast expanse of ranch land owned by a man named James Irvine. He probably never imagined that one day his ranch would be home to more boba shops than cattle. The city was founded in the 1960s by the Irvine Company, a real estate development firm with a vision of creating an suburban paradise. While the city has grown into said paradise for some, it has often overlooked the Latine community. The census says we make up about 10% of the population, but I’ve only ever known three other families like mine—one of which moved away. 

In 1954, a man by the name of Muzafer Sherif conducted a social psychology study now known as the Robbers Cave experiment. He and his colleagues aimed to investigate intergroup conflict and cooperation by observing the behavior of boys at a summer camp. The study took place at Robbers Cave State Park in Oklahoma, and involved 22 boys aged 11 to 12 years old. The boys were randomly assigned to two groups, the Rattlers and the Eagles, and were unaware of the existence of the other group at first. During the first phase of the study, the boys within each group bonded and developed a strong in-group identity through activities such as hiking, swimming, and team-building exercises. So, these groups are having a grand old time until someone decides to make it interesting by pitting them against each other in a series of competitions. The researchers then introduced the two groups to each other and observed the development of intergroup dynamics. Suddenly, it's not just about who can build the best campfire or catch the most fish; it's about proving that your group is the best, no matter what. As the boys became aware of the other group's existence, they began to exhibit hostility and competition towards the out-group. This led to conflicts over resources and activities, and the researchers observed derogatory stereotypes and name-calling between the groups. 

The results of the Robbers Cave experiment demonstrates something crucial: exclusion is not inherent, but orchestrated. It is built. It is manmade. It is the result of both systemic and systematic entities that we created in order to categorize and rank ourselves. We hate each other due to perceived differences. But these differences are only social constructs. Just as the scientists constructed different teams for the boys to categorize themselves into. The only difference between the groups were their names. 

Irvine is a city with a predominantly Asian population, but the dynamics of race and belonging are more complicated than they appear. While the city celebrates a multicultural identity, beneath this surface, racism and discrimination can still seep into interactions among communities of color. Diversity alone does not equate to inclusivity. Many residents who fall into the minority of minority groups, such as Latine families like mine, are left to navigate the complexities of feeling like permanent outsiders, grappling with the feeling that acceptance is an elusive goal. The assumption that shared minority status leads to solidarity doesn't always hold true.

When I was 17, I got my first job. I was a waitress at a small Vietnamese restaurant that sold pho and boba teas. My employment became a topic of great intrigue for customers. “If you don’t mind me asking,” they would pry, “how did you get this job?” To which I’d respond, “I applied.” Their questions, while I believe were most likely well-intentioned, often left me feeling alienated, as if my presence behind the counter was something to be observed and dissected, as if I required an explanation. To them, it was a passing curiosity, a topic of conversation over dinner. But to me, it was a constant reminder of my status in the out-group. When Covid-19 shut the world down I was the first to be let go, despite my seniority over other staff members. Actually, I wasn’t really let go, I was just kicked off our scheduling app and never contacted again. 

Once, my grandmother came to visit. It was the middle of summer and no less than 90 degrees outside. For one reason or another we weren’t home to let her in, so instead of broiling in the sun she opted to wait in her car beneath the shade of a tree down the block. My grandmother stands no taller than 5 feet, she needs a cane to walk, and her favorite color is purple. She is the epitome of “grandma” in every sense of the word. Even still, one of our neighbors felt that their safety was compromised and called the police. She tried to explain that she was there to visit family, that we were still out of the house but on our way home, but it was to no avail. She speaks little to no English, and the cop spoke no Spanish. By sheer luck, me and my family drove back into the neighborhood during the confrontation, only to be informed that she was being accused of solicitation. The officer said he couldn’t disclose who made the call, but we knew who it was. We saw her as she peered through her window at us; white hair, a furrowed brow, and a scowl that nearly turned us to stone. This was the woman who never bought Girl Scout cookies from me, who handed out raisins at Halloween, and who complained about impromptu lemonade stands.

The officer demanded to see my mom’s license to confirm her address, seemingly unsatisfied to discover that we did in fact live in the neighborhood. After all was said and done, the officer decided it was still necessary to follow us home, refusing to leave until we closed the garage door behind us. I had never felt particularly welcomed by my city, by my neighborhood or neighbors, but this was the first instance that really confirmed that my fears of being unliked weren’t entirely unwarranted. 

It is difficult to love a city that doesn’t love you back. Sometimes I feel a sense of resentment that all my formative memories and experiences happened in a place that holds so much animosity towards me and I feel so little connection to. At the same time, I am crushed by an overwhelming sense of guilt. I understand why my parents chose to live here; it’s safe, family-friendly, they wanted better for us then they had, et cetera, and I can’t believe how ungrateful I am. I don’t know what my future holds, but it’s hard to get excited about continuing to live somewhere where you are, and will continue to be, perpetually othered. I want community beyond the back of the grocery store. I want to see myself in my neighbors, or at least my broader community. I don’t enjoy the status of tokenism. Maybe one day my family won’t be part of the out-group, but for now we will continue to find solace behind the butcher counter. Here’s to hoping.