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Since moving to Seattle from Guadalajara, it has been difficult for me to find my niche. Having left everything behind to start over, I found myself desperate to fit in, desperate for a support group, desperate for friends. And, as the single, Gringo father with full custody of two, adolescent, Mexican girls, just how do we go about “fitting in?”

One of the more common ways people new to town can make friends is through the children’s school. Entire, new sub-societies are formed not only among the children and their classmates, but also among the parents of those children. However, I must admit that it has been pretty difficult for me to fit into the culture of my daughters’ school. The girls moved up to Seattle in the middle of the school, and I didn’t want to cause them any more anxiety than they were already feeling by separating them. I mean, they'd never formally studied English, and español was spoken in the house when they were growing up. One kid in 5th grade, the other in 7th—public schools were not an option. So, we opted for a Catholic school. However, the closest Catholic school with any availability for both my girls is made up of about 97% African Americans, 2% Asians, .05% Caucasians, and two Mexicans. That’s not to say that we haven't made any friends or do not appreciate any of the other families’ cultures, but add to that the fact that a surprising number of the children were adopted into same-sex households, well, the odds that I’m going to feel right at home with the majority of them or that I’m going to meet the girl of my dreams at one of their parties are pretty low.

Another place where one can make friends is at work, but when you work from home or from whichever coffee shop you feel like going to it’s pretty much an uphill battle, and child labor is illegal in this country.

Then, there’s the neighborhood. My daughters and I moved into my childhood home on Capitol Hill with my widowed father so that I would have some help with the girls and so that he wouldn't be alone. We felt totally out of place, with two little girls running-around with two little white dogs, yammering in Spanish (not to mention the "new guy" who seemed a little too comfortable in this neighborhood that had become a little exclusive over the years—there were only four houses left on the block whose owners dated back to my childhood.

The only other Latinos in the neighborhood were gardeners and house cleaners, and with the exception of three special, adopted children that met, the only other "ethnic" group in the neighborhood was a Greek family, and you would never notice, except for an overzealous passion for Greek food and hard-to-pronounce last name (it's all Greek to me). The only other people of color in the neighborhood are the ruddy-faced Irish, and a few that wear a spray-on-tan all year round. Although cordial, they really didn’t approach us, and we didn’t really approach them. We didn’t feel that we really had anything in common—my kids went to a different school, I wasn't a successful professional, we were *Mexicans…

* By default, anybody who lives more than a decade in Mexico and is the parent of a Mexican-born child has the right to declare him or herself a Mexican.

I felt like an outsider in my own neighborhood, in my own home. Things had changed so much from when I was growing up, but I hadn't really noticed because I was living two thousand miles away. Things were quieter, people kept to themselves more, there seemed to exist a sort of segregation. So, one hot summer day, I decided to mix things up a bit.

There were these kids who lived on the opposite end of the block—boys, about seven through ten years old—and as I rode past them on my motorcycle (yes, it is legally classified as a motorcycle!), I noticed that they were wielding some of those fancy, pump-action squirt guns. I slowed to a stop, and gave them the old "sup" nod. As I expected, the aimed their guns at me. "I dare you," I said. They did.

Five minutes later, I was marching down the street, soaking wet, with a bucket full of water balloons, my two daughters, embarrassed, pleading with me not to go. My ten-year-old did follow me, however, although she kept her distance. I am and always have been a terrible shot, and once again I was bested by four little kids who had me out-gunned, out-manned, and out-smarted. I retreated, but not in defeat. My ten-year-old, loyal as a hound-dog, took it upon herself to avenge me, and when the little Greek girls saw what was going on, they decided to help her. A four-day water battle of the sexes ensued that brought children together from all over the neighborhood.

And then, there was the phone call. One of the Greek girls, the same age as my youngest, played on a soccer team. Her mother reached out, and invited my daughter to join the team. I jumped at the opportunity.

Because I didn’t have a regular job, I had time to share carpool duty and take the girls to practice. Because I was able to take the girls to practice, I got to know the other girls’ mothers who did the same. Because I got to know the moms, I had more to talk about with them at the games than the dads. Because I didn’t have anything to talk with the dads about at the games, I found myself identifying more with the so-called "soccer moms."

When I came back from Mexico, I didn't even know what a "soccer mom" was (and I still don't know what a "play date" is!). All I knew was from the sound bytes and stereotypes, all of which I would love to dispel, but I cannot. Why? Because not only do I see these stereotypes in my new "girl-friends," I also see them in myself. I am on the mailing list; I'm expected to cut-up oranges and take them to a game; my opinion is respected regarding what kind of pizza to order; I helped come up with ideas for the coach’s end of the season gift. We talk about things like our daughters’ impending (or existing, in many cases) menstrual cycles, we arrange parties and sleepovers, and we share recipes. I am Soccer Mom; hear me roar.

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