White Men Can't Rake

“There is no doubt that Mexicans, filled with dignity, willingness and ability to work are doing jobs that not even blacks want to do there in the United States”
–Vicente Fox (former President of Mexico 2000-2006)

Perhaps by virtue of my zip code or the silver spoons lodged firmly in certain residents’ throats, the number of home owners observed in gardening attire, bent ass-backwards to prune overgrown shrubs, pull weeds, or simply maneuver lawnmowers and spreaders across postage stamp acreage is negligible. In other words, white people in my neighborhood don’t stand in their grass. Presumably, they spend weekends listening to atonal jazz, reading English-translations of foreign novels, or maniacally shuttling children from practice to practice in the hopes of padding the family ego through competitive sports. So when autumn leaves fall or spring growth blossoms, I assume my token position amongst the affable Mexican day laborers.

Strangely, it feels disrespectful to strap on the leaf blower, as if I’m blatantly thumbing the eyes of these industrious landscapers, selfishly impeding their revenue stream with my amateur arsenal of tools. Just as a serial masturbator would anger the bible thumping right-to-life crowd with his wasted discharge of potential children, so must my presence in work gloves annoy the illegal squadron of lawn doctors. Either that, or I’m simply confusing them; effecting bewildered glances not only due to my melanin-challenged skin tone, but because these amigos can reshape multiple yards and grill a burrito in the time it takes me to blow leaves out of a small pachysandra patch.

Last Saturday marked a seismic event on the block, as two (count ‘em two) white men armed with dueling leaf blowers eradicated the last of the autumn debris in preparation for a new season of greenery. Me, and the realtor next door. Yes, the realtor, assiduously toiling to improve the curb appeal of his listing, yet taken aback at the way nature had reclaimed the property. Two white men slogging in adjacent yards seemed apocalyptic, almost dangerous, like we’d passed into some kind of dream nexus or Bizarro World worm hole; an affair nearly as foreboding as the crossing of proton pack streams in ‘Ghostbusters.’ Thankfully, witnesses were few and panic was averted.

But white men can’t rake. Not well, at least (see “No Money, No Problems” from Jan 14). Try as we might, I’m probably more suited to analyze the complexities of jazz, or trash my last semblance of dignity by shuttling random kids to track meets in a mini van: the end of the line for all Caucasians. That said, if faced with the reality of modeling seersucker pants on an afternoon yachting trip with uptight, gin drinking Protestants, I’d much rather hang with the Mexicans. They seem like a fun bunch, and the prospect of copious tequila while whistling at passing butt cheeks is a lot more enticing than croquet swing dissection. In between nacho refills, I can educate my compadres in the realm of financial discipline, and they can regale me with swashbuckling tales of navigating the Rio Grande in bathtubs.

Of course, this all begs the question: what can white people do? For one thing, we can swindle your money, hawking a complex alphabet soup of financial products like ABS, CDO’s, and CDS; analyzed, ironically, by a bunch of industrious back room Indians and/or Asians who see not in color, but in mathematical formulae and greek letters. Beware of people who have difficulty matching their socks, yet express flippant ease at destroying the financial landscape with instruments of byzantine complexity. And white people can sell this stuff, quite well I might add, due to our conversational breeziness and ability to look important in suits. Not only do we take pride in our wardrobes, but we conveniently jam toxic assets down the mouths of other white people who lack investment acumen or pecuniary sophistication. Then we get greedy, fuck it all up, and wait for cunning, stodgy white men (and one youthful half-white man) in the upper flanks of government to whitewash the scandal (excuse the pun) and bail us all out.

Now if you could pass the rest of those cervezas, it’d be appreciated. Just get that rake out of my sight. It’s really breaking my stride.