In which we explore the dress code of lawn care.

What's a story, anyway? In the summer, when I walk home from school or work, I often pass a middle-aged hispanic gentleman as he mows his lawn. He's a nice guy, I think a second-generation American, and speaks absolutely no Spanish. Lives about a block from me. He has a tiny front lawn populated by attractive but modest adornments-the standard shrubs and flowers. This man would be utterly forgettable were it not that he chooses to cut his grass in pressed khaki slacks, loafers, and a collared shirt. He even keeps his designer watch on.

Being me, I spend the last steps towards my house mulling over possible motives for this aberrant behavior. It could be that no one ever taught him that the proper attire for such a task is cut-offs, sneakers, and t-shirts emblazoned with the names of bands your are now embarrassed to have seen live. It could be that grass-stained dockers are coming into style. Or it could be that he's keenly aware of the prevailing stereotypes assigned to hispanics here in the States, and he wants to make it clear that he is not mowing his lawn in a professional capacity. Honestly, how many hopelessly ignorant white people do you know who assume that all Spanish speakers are Mexican and that they all cut grass? (It's okay for me to say that, I'm white) 

This is, of course, speculative. It could be that he likes to dress well, that his desire for a kept and immaculate public appearance has nothing to do with the politics and demographics of Provo, Utah, and stems from childhood humiliation at the hands of a fashion faux-pas. It could be that my insecurities, contemplation of of how I'm perceived and subsequent over-compensations have led me to stated conclusion. It could be the product my own awareness of stereotypes and the mental gymnastics I perform to acknowledge, avoid, and overcome them in my thinking (this concept, I believe, deserves its own 'ism'). 

Anyway, the point is that everyone is a person, and a person is a character, and a character is a story. A man mowing his front lawn in dress clothes is quirky and odd, but not a story. The reason for a man mowing his lawn in dress clothes, that's a story. It can be a story about a man's fight to control the way he is perceived, it can be the story of how he believes others perceive him, or the story of an ignorant kid walking by and projecting his own ideas onto an innocent lawn-care buff. It can be the story of the latin diaspora or, unfolding from that one split second of observation, it can grow into the history of a struggle between peoples, of wars fought, prejudices nursed.

It can be the story of America, that turbulent and earthy melting pot and the tale of irreconcilable cultures combining, fighting for both identity and integration, to form a wholly new beast, a confusing, hearty, overpowering dish that repels, delights, and defies explanation.

It is the story of colonialism, of invasion, of conquest and violence and the ominous rattle of the conquistador's armor.

It could be the post-modern epiphanal story of a man realizing, as he beats back the grass that he pays to cultivate, water, and maintain, the cyclical futility of it all. The man may sell his home, quit his job, and become a park ranger to be at harmony with nature. He may leave his wife and kids in hopes of escaping cotidian monotony only to realize that what he has lost is irreplaceable. Or he may not miss them at all. Depends on who's writing it.

It could be the story of a heart attack. Paternal devotion. Unrequited love. Masculine duty. Fashion statements. Noble defiance. Tragic dignity. Lawn care.

I just have to care about why that man tends to his lawn in clothes that cost more than his mower. I don't want to KNOW why. I want to make it up. And that, I think, is the bare essence of a story- the why. Grass will grow and men will mow. Why do they do it? Now that's a story.