Things I Never Told You About Being a Latino Gardener
“Yeah, you gotta keep using those gas-powered tools to pay off your big Toyota truck and launder your drug money…”
A passing cyclist yells at me as I’m unloading my Dad’s truck in Berkeley at a client’s house a while back. It took me a second to register that he was actually talking to me, and make out what he was saying.
He rode off, apparently uninterested in having a conversation or engaging in any way. Being gardeners, it’s pretty normal to have people harass us to stop using our leaf blowers. However, this last bit about laundering drug money was new — me being latino obviously had something to do with it.
Fortunately, I haven’t experienced much overt racism in my life — and even this was relatively harmless compared to what other people go through. Still, it’s inspired me to share thoughts that I’d been withholding for a long time — regarding my profession, how it’s racialized, and our family’s socioeconomic position. I might add that I don’t mean to cover any new ground or accomplish anything with this post — I only want the thrill of revealing myself.
Also, that might not be true at all ;)
First of all — when I tell people what I do for work, I’m unsure how many of them know that the stereotype of latinos doing manual labor is very much alive today.
This puts me in a strange position of wanting people to understand my inner world, and see the lens I’m looking through — without putting myself into a box that they already have in their minds. I’d like my differences to be acknowledged, but not objectified. I don’t want people to assume I’m a Gardener just because I’m latino, but it’s confusing sometimes to explain what I do.
Like… should I say I do “landscaping”, “gardening”, or something else?
I’m pretty sure we all know that when I say I’m a Gardener, we picture a coupl’a these hot boys:
This is correct. But no one wants to think that. When I say I’m a “Gardener”, people start talking to me like I’m growing carrots and flowers and stuff (which I don’t know anything about).
However, a lot of the time when I say I do “Landscaping”, I get funny questions like:
“Oh, so you do Landscape Design, or Landscape Architecture?”
Y’know — something people go to school and get a degree for. What I tell myself is that people are assuming I’m a sensible person who is educated, and doing something related to their field of study.
I am not.
So I feel slightly embarrassed having to explain that I just do regular ol’ yard work: I just mow lawns, rake leaves, pull weeds, scoop up dog shit, etc.. Sometimes I think we’re beating around the bush, ignoring the fact that I’m working one of the most stereotypical jobs I could be doing. So we go through some long drawn out process of explaining, when I’d rather cut the conversation short to say…
Don’t pretend you don’t see us out here.
But I get it. We have to be overly-cautious when we talk about these things. Maybe it’s on me to explain, which is the point of me writing this.
Besides all that, why does it matter if I’m fitting the stereotype? Who cares if all we wanna do is drive our Toyotas and whack us some weeds?
The way I’ve seen it, there’s only one cultural narrative America likes for immigrants: One generation works hard to put the next generation through school…
So that we can become Doctors, Lawyers, Accountants, etc. — or any other secure White Collar job so our people can finally stand shoulder-to-shoulder with White folks.
You tell us to be grateful for the opportunity to manicure your lawns, then get ourselves in student debt. Then you call us lazy criminals the minute we step out of line and stop following The Program.
I see how it is.
If only you could see us, too.
Sorry about the noise.
As appreciative as our clients are about the work my Dad does, they’ll never see how poetically brilliant he can be at times. And they’ll never know that his home in El Salvador was raped and butchered by the Reagan Administration.
All they get to see is that “Good Work Ethic” America loves so much — They only get to see The Brute, The Slave in Golden Handcuffs.
What I’ve loved so much about my Dad is how he never gives into feeling less of himself for the work he does. Our clientele consists of wealthy families in the hills of Berkeley and Oakland —prestigious jobs, large houses, luxury cars — the whole kit n’ caboodle.
But he never bought into the idea that he was any less for being uneducated. He didn’t go to school past age 10, and won’t have the literacy to read this. Even when he’s on his knees, in the dirt beneath their feet — his mind won’t submit. His dark sense of humor makes light of the pain in everything he’s been through, laughing as he says:
“!Limpiando mierda, de eso comemos!”
“Cleaning up [dog] shit — that’s how we eat!”
At times I wish I could be more like him, especially when I’m oblivious to my own gifts. He’s an inspiration to those who know him, and make no mistake — we’re well-off because of the work he’s done.
But it hasn’t always been “all good” between him and I.
“!Eres demasiado delicado! ?No sabes eso?”
“You’re way too delicate — don’t you realize that?!”
Our lawn mower bumped into my shin as we carried it down a flight of stairs. I gave him a dirty look as I pushed it towards the grass. Sometimes I do overreact — in ways I think no one else will ever see. The worst part is knowing I inflicted that anger upon myself…
Because the last thing that I’d like to tell you about being a Latino Gardener, is that I’m not a real Gardener at all. That’s a title for the tenacious survivors with more hustle, hunger and determination than I could hope to muster.
For years I’ve been holding onto the same old scripts in my head that tell me I don’t deserve a better life than my parents had — Because I didn’t endure the same pain they went through.
I’ve had too little faith in my own expressive, artistic abilities to even give them a fair shot. Instead, I listened to the voices that tell me…
“I’m not worth the calluses and scar tissue on my Dad’s hands, that left his fingers padded thick.
I’m not worth the cartilage worn out of his knees that he’ll never get back.
I’m not worth the stroke my uncle suffered in the heat of August.
This is just what we have, this is our lot in this life.
I still live under his roof, I’m just a fucking loser. Should’a jumped in the BART tracks by n-”
And on and on… Listening to these self-imposed limitations, I subjected myself to the same physical abuse of manual labor — attempting to pay off a debt I’ll never be able to.
Knowing full-well that I wasn’t cut out for this work. Because my Dad’s right about me — I am too delicate. But I’m strong enough to choose a life that’s right for me.
No matter how many of his workers leave him for being a hard ass, or how much it hurts to see him lift that mower by himself — I need to become what I’m meant to be.
I’m letting go of this old identity, and authoring my own story instead of trying to re-live his. I can’t keep going through the same old triggers, with new faces.
Something different is emerging within me, and it’s time to give it attention. It’s the chance to experience a life that’s not inherently better, but new.
I’m not exactly sure what this is, but if I could still dare to say it — bear with me ;).
With all that off my chest, I don’t know what else to offer besides love for whatever version of this you’re going through.
May we acknowledge the consequences of the decisions made long before any of us arrived here.
And cultivate the love and courage to do better. Thank you for reading.
Inlakesh (“I am another you”),
Rolando
Notes*:
- Nah just kiddin’, that photo was taken by photographer Nathan Solis, found on Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo’s blog at: https://gendersociety.wordpress.com/2014/08/18/from-pink-and-blue-to-brown-gendering-the-garden/
