Kathleen Takes a Walk In the Park

The Eagles are a cross-cultural family. We've integrated our share of suburban neighborhoods, first after moving off the reservation in North Dakota, and now in Minnesota. I take an optimistic view of the American melting pot, and I write about cross-cultural relationships with a romatic flair. But if I had written the scene I observed during our Sunday visit to a nearby playgroud with our grandchildren, my editor would have said I had taken it too far. I swear, for an afternoon the United Nations occupied a tiny bit of territory in white bread SUBURBAN Minnesota. And it inspired me to ponder time and the river flowing, motherhood and apple pie.

A recent article in the Minneapolis paper touted our state as a refuge for interracial couples--one of the highest percentages in the country--and the city boasts lots of recent immigrants. But we live in suburbia, where the scene when took our 2- and 4-year-old granddaughters to a small playground on one of our many small lakes still seems unlikely to me. At one table a large Chinese family (I think Chinese--my ear for languages is limited) shared pizza from Papa John's boxes.

A family possibly from India tried out all the playground equipment with their little ones. The boy wore a knotted headcovering in the Sikh style. Dad's headcovering was visible beneath a basball cap, and Grandfather wore the traditional turban over his. I had to do some research to discover that the knotted covering is used to manage the hair, which is never to be cut. Mom wore Western clothing. They spoke a lanuage I didn't understand--I know India is a land of a thousand languages--very frustrating for a writer. We're eavesdroppers, you know.

Soon another Asian couple arrived with their little boy. Mom claimed a swing next to the one my 2-year-old occupied while Dad followed their toddler around. Mom was doing something in a notebook, but she exchanged a few comments with us. A white family entered the scene speaking what I believe to be Russian. Then came an American English-speaking couple--white mom, black dad, two little girls. A city cab dropped off two tall, willowy Aftrican girls wearing jeans, T-shirst, and flowy, waist-length hair coverings. It was windy, but those scarves were firmly attached, and they fascinated my granddaughters. We had just been playing dress-up using scarves as princess veils. The older girls communicated with our little ones in the way of children--gestures, laughter, and a shared desire to swing, twirl, climb and just play.

And all the while here's the granddaughter of a 19th century Swedish immigrant who wanted nothing more than for his children to blend--no language, customs or dress from the old country--sitting beside her American Indian mate of 35 years, whose 19th century grandfather had seen his customs and religion, not to mention his home, ripped away by immigrants. And here we are in this melting pot, sharing the playgound experience with people who look and talk differently. But we're all here for the same reason: right here, right now this is a safe place for the children to play. Across the globe people are fighting over the differences, and in too many neighborhoods bombs are falling on the playgrounds.

So I'm a writer of women's fiction, and I want my books to sell. I also want them to matter in some way. I know that entertainment matters, but my question is: Without going (shudder) totally "literary," is there room in what we're calling "women's fiction" for a blend of reality and happy or at least hopeful endings? Or do we simply need to get away from it all with a fun read?