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I first saw him mowing my lawn on a hot muggy afternoon in September as I pulled
into my driveway after a grueling day at work. He looked like an ordinary
sixteen-year old, with short blonde hair and a broad face, sporting a white
grubby T-shirt and loose khaki shorts. Amazingly, (since this had never
happened when I used to mow the lawn), he had a full audience - my little
boy of two, and my two big dogs. They all had their noses plastered to
the window, intently watching the maestro perform.
I raised my hand in acknowledgement. "How's it going," I said. He seemed
a little surprised by my sudden appearance, but he managed to muster a
perfunctory nod before embarking on his work again. I didn't give it much
thought at the time, but I did notice the flag that was displayed loudly
on the back of his truck.
If you live in the South, the confederate flag conjures up all kinds of
emotions. No one really wants to talk about the flag, and if they do,
there is usually a harangue, for or against the flag, with passions
flying high on both sides. I hold the dubious distinction of being a
foreigner from a strange exotic place called India - an outsider not
only to the South but also to the country - so my opinion shouldn't
really count. Nevertheless, I do have feelings, and despite my
deliberate restraint, they do come into play occasionally.
When I moved from India, I had no idea that divisions pertaining to
race existed in this great nation. I had always thought that America
was this giant melting pot of cultures and ideas. The South had
seemed like the perfect place to settle down - especially for someone
like me who was from a tropical part of India. I knew that the South
was warm all year round, the lifestyle was fairly laid back, and in
my naivete, I assumed that there were no racial issues. I was happy
with my newly adopted home and although there were signs everywhere,
I chose to ignore them as aberrations in order to perpetuate my false
sense of bliss.
Finally, when I did acknowledge the divisions, I went all out to be accepted.
I got my citizenship, married a white southern girl, bought a house in the
suburbs, even gave my son an American first name--I did what I could to be
perceived as an American. For years and years, I endeavored to integrate
myself into the fabric of life here. In my zeal to better understand the
southern psyche, I began to delve into its past. I read voraciously about
the history of the South - from the Civil War era to the Civil Rights period
and beyond to the issues of the present. But the more I read, the more I
was concerned. I started identifying everything around me in the light
of discrimination and race relations. Everything was one big mess in my
mind: slavery, civil rights, the Klan, and the confederate flag. They all
seemed inseparable from one another.
So, as you would expect, I was naturally alarmed when I saw the confederate
flag on the back of the kid's truck. I stood in the driveway, debating.
Should I tell my wife, Natalie or keep it to myself? I decided to refrain.
The kid seemed nice enough, and although he had refused to talk to me, I
wasn't going to hold that against him. Maybe he didn't like to talk. Maybe
he thought that I couldn't converse in English and didn't want to embarrass
me. Or maybe he was appalled at the sight of a colored man pulling into
the driveway of the white lady that had hired him. I had no idea. I took
a deep breath and entered the house appearing cheerful and relaxed. "Daddy
is home. Where's everyone?" However, try as I might, I couldn't get the
flag and the kid out of my head.
Soon, the "lawnmower guy," as my two-year old son Dave had christened him,
became the household hit. He would show up with his truck and his lawnmower
every other week, and for the next half-hour our house would be a blaze
of activity. Dave and the dogs would go crazy, fighting with each to watch
the proceedings from the best seat. He would use the lawnmower, the blower,
and the weed-eater in rapid succession, deploying them with the dexterity
of a master, and while Dave chose to watch in awe-struck silence, the dogs
vocalized their appreciation, indulging in volleys of protracted barking.
But no matter how much I tried, the kid simply refused to talk to me. Despite
the repeated rebuffs though, I was unwavering in my quest to strike up a
conversation with the "lawnmower guy."
When I brought up the issue with Natalie she dismissed it with a perfunctory
wave of her hand. "Well, some people just don't like to talk, honey. He
seems like a nice enough kid though. He does a very good job."
"Tell me this - does he ever talk to you?" I asked.
Natalie knew that there was something more to the question. "So, what's
going on, Daddy. Is something bothering you?" She looked at me with those
cajoling eyes that I knew only too well. "Tell me. What is it? I thought
you hated to indulge in idle talk yourself."
"Well, that's right... I guess," I replied awkwardly, "but there's something
about this kid. Does he ever talk to you?" I repeated my earlier question.
"Yes, but not much. It is usually a couple of words, here or there. What's
the matter, honey? If you don't like the guy, I'll find someone else."
"Are you crazy? No. Please, no!" Being so passionate about equity and
fair play, the very thought of reverse discrimination distressed me.
"There's really nothing to it. I was just curious, that's all."
The flag was now constantly on my mind, so, I decided to conduct my own
research on the matter. I decided to talk to people at the workplace, at
the gym, and other acquaintances that I felt comfortable with. But after
only a month I realized that the issue was more about political affiliation
than anything else. All I had to do was ask if an individual was a "liberal"
or a "conservative," and I would get my answer. The conservatives were
for keeping the flag, while the liberals were dead set against it. The
conservatives cited "keeping their heritage" as their main reason, while
the liberals stated that it was "racial and offensive." The whole thing
was crazy!
Surprisingly, despite my skin color, everyone was eager to talk to me about
the issue. I guess that they perceived me as a timid foreigner craving
assimilation, devoid of political savvy, bereft of cultural background,
and above all, someone who was more brown than black - so, why not pontificate?
Everyone loves an audience. Nonetheless, at the end of my research I was
more disturbed by the whole thing than when I had started.
It was hard to believe that it was just May. We were having a record heat
wave in Louisiana. As I was driving back from work that afternoon, I
remembered Natalie mentioning last night that she was planning to get the
"lawnmower guy" to cut our grass. I looked up at the scorching sun and
couldn't help but feel bad for the guy. "I hope Natalie gave the kid
a good tip," I said to myself, as I pulled into our driveway.
But as I walked towards the front door I noticed that the back window
on Natalie's minivan was broken. Most of the glass was gone, strewn
all over the driveway. The rest was hanging precariously, clinging to
the door - jagged shards that could fall off any minute. My first
thought was "Oh my God! Dave and Natalie--I hope they're safe."
I ran inside the house, shouting, "Natalie, Dave, are you all right?"
My heart was pounding and my eyes straining, craving to see them in one piece.
Natalie shouted from the kitchen, "We're in here, Daddy."
I rushed to the kitchen. Natalie was cooking, while Dave was blissfully
playing with water in the sink. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.
"What's wrong, honey?" She said, seeing my ashen face.
"The van--what happened? I thought that you guys got hurt or something."
"Thank God, no," she said. "It was an accident--the 'lawnmower guy.'"
Surprisingly, she didn't appear agitated.
"What happened?" I asked testily, angry with the guy and his insidious flag.
"It must have been the weed-eater. It sent a rock crashing into the minivan.
It wasn't really the kid's fault though." Her explanation calmed me down.
She was right. There was nothing the kid could have done about it.
"So who's going to pay for it?" Despite my decade and a half in this
country, I was still unsure of the legal and financial liabilities in
scenarios like these.
"I don't know. It'll probably cost close to a thousand dollars.
I'll ask our insurance to see if they'll cover it."
"And what if they don't?"
Natalie looked at me wearily. "Well, in that case, we'll have to
figure out something."
I was scratching my head, trying to come up with why this had happened.
I have always believed that there is a reason for everything that
happens in life. Maybe this incident would have a bearing on ours.
"Did he apologize?" I asked Natalie.
"Oh, yeah. He was extremely apologetic. He said that 'it should have
never happened.' He must have said 'sorry' at least a dozen times.
In the end, he said that if he had to, he would pay for the whole
thing out of his own pocket - in monthly installments or something."
"I'm sure the poor kid doesn't have that kind of money. Heck, even
we don't. Well, at least he was nice about the whole thing."
I was having mixed feelings towards the flag-toting kid. While a
part of me wanted to penalize him for flying the subversive, racial
flag, the other wanted to let him off the hook because of his sincerity
and honesty. The forgiving part seemed on course to win. Maybe he
was just an introvert as my wife had said and wasn't comfortable
talking to people he didn't know too well. Maybe the confederate
flag on his truck was not his idea. However, what ultimately clinched
the issue was my long-standing hope in the incredible power of love.
I was willing to give it a shot once again.
Natalie called our insurance company the next day. They told her that
they would cover the charges as long as we paid out the two-hundred-dollar
deductible. We paid the deductible and got the van fixed.
"So, have you thought about what we are going to do with the 'lawnmower
guy' and the deductible?" Natalie asked me over dinner.
I was trying to coax little Dave, (with little success so far) to eat
the potatoes on his plate. "What do you think we should do?" I valued
her opinion.
"I think we should make him pay half the deductible," she said.
When I asked her why, her reply was, "It's not that we're rolling in
money ourselves. But, mostly, if we let him off this time, he'll
never learn."
She was absolutely right. The more I thought about it, the more it made
sense. A few weeks later, we ran into the "lawnmower guy," during one of
our walks in the neighborhood.
"Ma'am, did you ever get your van fixed?" he inquired politely.
Natalie was ready for business. "Yes we did. In fact, I was going to
call you about it, but we got real busy, and I forgot. Our insurance
covered most of it - except the deductible."
"How much was the deductible, Ma'am? Let me know, and I'll pay for
it." He seemed eager to make amends.
"Two hundred dollars. But since it was an accident, we'll ask you
to pay just half."
I will never forget the kid's reaction on learning that he was off
the hook. He just stood there staring at Natalie and then me - in
utter disbelief.
"Yes, don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault. It could have
happened to anyone," I said, returning his questioning stare with the
corroboration of pardon.
I could see the gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you so much, sir.
I really appreciate it. I'll get you your check for a hundred dollars
tomorrow." At last the kid had uttered more than a monosyllable.
"And if you don't have the money, you can mow our lawn three times for
free and we'll call it even. How about that?" I knew that I was
transgressing my wife's game plan, but I was sure Natalie would understand.
He seemed taken aback by my offer. I could see him thinking - "Okay, what
kind of people are these? Not only are they paying for the broken minivan
window themselves, but they also want me to continue mowing their lawn.
Unbelievable!" There was an extra bounce in his gait as he left, as
though a huge load had just been lifted off his shoulders.
Natalie and I stood there holding hands, glad that we had made the right
decision. We talked about how it felt so good to help and how we wished
that more people would make that extra effort to enrich their own lives.
We hoped that by our gesture of kindness we had had an impact on the kid's
life and, when the time came, he would be more forgiving of others.
The following month, my fortune changed for the better. I was offered a
promotion to move to Houston. We would have to leave in a couple of months.
The last time that I saw him was the day we were moving to Houston. The
movers were in the house and I was on my way to the store for a breather when
I caught a glimpse of him mowing the lawn at a house on the next block. He was
wearing the same soiled T-shirt and oversize khaki shorts I had always seen
him in. He waved as he saw me and I waved back, realizing that it was probably
the last time that I would ever see him. I almost stopped, wanting to tell him
that we were leaving and that he would be finally free from bondage (for he
still owed us one mowing), but at the last minute I decided against it. I was
sure that Natalie must have told him about the move already, and besides, why
should he care? As I drove slowly past the house, I noticed his truck parked
in the driveway. The flag was gone! It had disappeared!
A few weeks later, on a quiet weekend morning, I brought up the topic of
the "lawnmower guy" with my wife over a cup of coffee.
"Honey, did you ever notice the confederate flag that he had on his truck?"
I asked nonchalantly.
"Oh yes, I sure did," she replied, giving me a sly smile.
"So why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, I know you - I didn't want you to get all concerned."
"Did you notice how he removed the flag after the incident?"
"Yes, I did. The first time he came back after we granted him amnesty."
"That's unbelievable. Do you think we actually managed to change his heart?"
Natalie was smiling. "I sure hope so. Didn't you always talk about the
'incredible power of love.'"
"Yes," I answered sheepishly, "Although up until now I've never really
believed in it."
Copyright © 2003 Shishir Mohan
All rights reserved
About the Author
Shishir Mohan resides in Houston, Texas. When he is not working on his
full-time job as an engineer, he writes short stories and essays about
cultural and social issues facing humanity. His essays, "Genocide and the
New Millennium," "The Cloning Quandary," and "Curbing Violence in our
Schools," were published in A Writer's Choice Literary Journal. His short
story, "How Smart is My Dog," was published in The New Works Review. He is
currently working on a collection of short stories and an anthology of
memoirs about the "immigrant experience."
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