Of course we all know that stereotyping is wrong, hurtful, and horribly inaccurate. All it does is isolate us from each other, foment tension and distrust, and prevent people from reaching their potential.
That's why I would never, EVER, use broad strokes to describe a "type" of person. There are no types. Just people. That's what I always say.
But geographical locations are different. Places don't have feelings, hopes, dreams, aspirations. They're just bits of dirt, rock, and architecture. They're fair game.
With that in mind, I have prepared a description of the different types of playgrounds we have within a 3-mile radius of our house. These are the facilities that my kids and I visit almost daily, so I feel that I'm eminently qualified as a critic of these public spaces.
|Some kid on a slide|
The snarky synopsis above encapsulates the official story as it appears in the annals of my wife's family history. We met in college, and I was the friend who sometimes fixed her car. I started a little construction business while she applied to medical school, and continued to drive nails while she worked toward her degree. Years later, after she had graduated from medical school, I approached her parents in the usual manner--you know, came to their door with my parents and six close male friends bearing gifts including a roast pig, betel nut, wine, and fruit--and then negotiated with the family elders for permission to begin our courtship. After permission was granted, my betrothed and I moved to California where she did her residency. We lived in separate houses *coughcough* while I did construction work and went through adult catechism so that our eventual marriage would be recognized by the One True Church.
Of course, the extended version of the story is much more complicated. I would love to tell it to you one day over some beers, well out of earshot of my in-laws.