The small city of Duarte, tucked in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, has long been a slice of suburban bliss for many different kinds of people.
The great American playwright Sam Shepard grew up there in the 1950s and once described it as "a weird accumulation of things, a strange kind of melting pot -- Spanish, Okie, black, Midwestern elements all mixed together."
Shepard's 1976 play "Curse of the Starving Class" is set in a San Gabriel Valley community like Duarte. Coyotes howl, the scent of avocado blossoms fills the air and a freeway roars in the distance. It's not a rich place, but the people stay put, even when things go bad.
"This is where I settled down!" the father screams in the play's final act. "I migrated to this spot! I got nowhere to go! This is it!"
Duarte is still filled with stubborn and proud people who won't pack up and leave when the going gets tough. I met some on Saturday. They're fighting to keep their community united, despite several crimes that have shattered the peace of its tree-lined streets and threatened to pit ethnic groups against each other.
"Diversity was always the thing in Duarte -- that's why I moved here," said Lois Gaston, a native of Arkansas who bought a home there in 1969 after being turned down elsewhere because she was black. "But there's always been some folks who don't get it."
In May, a black family was forced out of an otherwise pleasant neighborhood by suspected Latino gang members who broke into their home and covered the walls with racial slurs.
This, I learned from the locals, was the climax of a series of killings in Duarte, Monrovia and neighboring communities born of conflict between black and Latino youths.
On Saturday, blacks, whites, Latinos and other residents joined in a "Peace and Unity Concert." John Fasana, the mayor of Duarte, invited me and asked that I say a few words. He had read two of my recent columns on black history and the Latino community.
I arrived early, which gave me a chance to mingle. What I learned is there is much grief in these places now -- and it's shared by people of all colors. I met women wearing images of their departed children on buttons and T-shirts, and heard stories of courage in the face of intolerance.
And I learned that when you want to heal a community, one of the best things you can do is simply tap into its tranquil, un-violent rhythms and let neighbors enjoy the beauty of a summer evening together under a mountain range where there's still an avocado grove or two scenting the air.
