O.C. Writers

By Lorraine Gow // 

Orange groves, the Pacific Ocean, white horse-fences high on a hill, and a huge rotating metal globe that graced the entrance to a senior housing community: the elements of a Sunday outing. It was spring, the sky blue, the breeze mild, and a carload of immigrants on the move through Orange County.

Abuelita (grandmother) was turning 70, and she, two aunts and my mother wore cotton dresses with garden themes or bright flowers for the occasion. I wore something appropriate for a disgruntled teenager – jeans and a Madras plaid shirt. We were on our way to Tijuana – or as Uncle Al called it –TJ.  Our minds were wrapped around the smells and flavors of back home: tamales, tortillas, chicharrones, and poverty. And the sounds of women with their children hawking chewing gum, not to make ends meet but just to eat. Collectively we were a bit tense, shaky and blessing ourselves with each memory of our own tribulations. We were going to cross the border with our heads up. We’d packed our green cards and practiced a TV- inspired Southern twang just in case the border patrol officers pulled us over. “Yup partner, we is ready.”

According to Uncle Al, the border guys wouldn’t stop a carload of black folks. However, he advised only English be spoken that day; Honduras was still in the car’s rearview mirror. Uncle Al also said that we had to clear Orange County before nightfall. The people in that part of California had a bad case of Dark Skin Phobia.

My sunlit morning dreams of having my own bedroom ended when good ol’ Uncle Al explained the place with the rotating globe only wanted aged people of means to cloister in its Orange County enclave. I wanted Abuelita to have her own place, with people her own age, and then I would have a room to myself. My dream withered as I learned Leisure World, as people called it, was a microcosm of the entire Orange County. And I was just a high school freshman living on the cusp of South Central Los Angeles in a duplex my aunts purchased from a Jewish family who were Culver City bound. Orange County was a bastion of conservative old farts and my family was too dark and too poor to afford living in the county of oranges.

Needless to say, we celebrated Abuelita’s special day with true grace and hoopla: tacos, pan dulces, refried beans, and orange aqua frescas. Yes, we ate these foods weekly, but we were on a holiday of sorts, enjoying the vibes and emotions of being back home. In my family, reconnection took place with foods and prayers for a better tomorrow. We did pass through the O.C. border before nightfall and without the help of a coyote.

 My selfish dreams for a room of my own did not come true until college. By then I had forgiven my selfish desire. Eventually, Abuelita moved into a senior residence near Crenshaw Boulevard, was very happy, and lived to be 89 years old.

Orange County and its red lining of sorts discouraged dark skin people until L.A. burst beyond its borders. The demographics of the county evolved, thanks in part to that drawing beacon from Lady Liberty, the push from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Saigon survivors, Caesar Chavez marchers, and immigrants–legal or otherwise.

I purchased for my mother a Laguna Woods (Leisure World) co-op where she lived until she was 92 years old, just several blocks from the house I now call home in the O.C.

LORRAINE GOW is an O.C. writer from La Ceiba, Honduras. She’s a graduate of UC San Diego and CSU Dominguez Hills and a finalist in Winning Writers 2022 for her short stories collection, Black Women with Tamales. Lorraine also published a children’s book, Tula. Her stories and poetry have appeared in various anthologies. When not writing, Lorraine collects cookbooks and enjoys life in the O.C. with her husband and their dog, Dylan.