The Gardeners' Story

Abstract

Perhaps it is ironic that two gardeners revealed so much about teaching and cross-cultural communication while trimming trees. But in many ways, as Mr. Valadez demonstrates, the short interaction between these two men illustrates what great things can occur when people are open to each other's perspectives. IT IS OFTEN the case that life's better lessons come through observing something that seems insignificant. The moment I wish to relate here happened one spring morning in 1999 in Blacksburg, Virginia. I was standing in the kitchen when I caught sight of two men working in the small patch of lawn beyond the terrace of my apartment. The men were busy sawing overgrown limbs off trees. Dressed in denim overalls and tan work boots, they would trim off the branches and then clean up after themselves. They had to dump the sawed-off limbs and other debris into a large trailer attached to a Chevy truck parked in the center of the lawn. It was back-breaking work. I watched them labor for some time and puzzled about the two participants. I noticed how completely different the two men were in appearance and even in language. One was definitely an Appalachian man. His English was spiced with the accent typical of people who live in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. I have heard this accent often since my move to Virginia. Because I am from Southern California, a land of bland and flavorless American English, this man's unmistakable accent held a certain charm for me. I just like the sound of it. The other man was Mexican. I knew this by the color of his skin, as dark as my own, and by the fact that he spoke only Spanish. Judging from his accent, I thought that he might be from northern Mexico, the region where my mother's people live. Listening to him, I was brought back to Monterrey, when, as a child of 6, I joined my family on a vacation to visit my mother's father, Philipe Manuel Samuido. My grandfather's accent was identical to the one I was listening to on that Virginia morning; I felt myself growing sentimental. Meanwhile, the two men outside my apartment worked together, getting the work done in spite of a vast linguistic and cultural divide. The Appalachian man would saw off a branch. It would tumble to the ground. Help me get that thang into the truck, he would say to his Mexican helper. The Mexican would stand still for a moment before saying, [inverted question mark]Rama? (Branch?) There would be a silence. The mountain man would put down his saw before approaching the fallen branch. The Mexican man would then say, [inverted question mark]Quieres que te ayude? (Do you want me to help?) The mountain man would stare back at him. Every time the Mexican spoke, the Appalachian man would look directly into his eyes. The mountain man listened intently in spite of the fact that he clearly didn't understand a word of Spanish. Then the mountain man would motion with both his hands, indicating that they were both to lift the branch. So the Mexican would shake his head in the affirmative. Then they would hunch over, lifting the heavy branch in one swift motion. It was understood where the limb was to be taken. Slowly, the two men would carry the branch over to the trailer that grew fuller with the passing of time. The trees were, of course, silent. I noticed that, when they finished loading a branch, the two men would stand still to catch their breath. Smiling, the Mexican would look at the mound of wood in the trailer. The mountain man would watch the Mexican, as if trying to grasp some kind of mystery. The dark-skinned man seemed to fascinate him. When the job was finished, the two gardeners drank sodas and laughed beneath one of the trees. In the shade of the tree they had some time to reflect and take it easy. In their quiet moment, the gardeners shared something beyond language - the glad recognition of a job completed. THIS LITTLE exchange struck me as a positive thing. …