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"All the Grass Is Brown"

15 August, 2002

Life is full of unwritten and often unspoken rules--customs, manners, expectations of decorum. We absorb them over the course of our lives, usually completely unaware of their complexity and subtlety.

A simple example is the definitition of personal space. When engaged in a conversation with a good friend, we usually stand slightly closer than we would to a casual acquaintance. If someone backs away from us while we are talking, we usually assume we've offended them in some way. But the definition of that comfortable distance is different in every culture and subculture.

Two people raised in the same country, even the same state, may have been taught very different subconscious habits about that distance. When the two have conversations, one perceives the other as being agressive and "in my face all the time." While the other thinks the first is aloof, unfriendly, and "stand-offish."

I was raised in a subculture where one is expected to smile and say hello to every person you meet--no matter whether you know them or not, or where you are. So, yes, I used to walk down the sidewalk smiling, nodding, and saying "Howdy!" or "Good morning!" to everyone I saw. When we moved to western Washington state, I couldn't figure out why people seemed shocked and even perturbed by that behavior.

Among white folks in western Washington, the expectation is that if by some chance you happen to make eye contact with a stranger while you are each going about your business in a public space, you are allowed a smile or nod or even a very brief, "hi." If you know each other, a slightly more enthusiastic, "How are ya?" is okay, so long as it's understood that the other person may not stop and answer that question.

I first became aware of some of these kinds of differences in custom at an early age, because my parents came from different subcultures. No, they weren't from different ethnic backgrounds, nor were they members of different churches.

My dad's family were solid, "middle-class" folks. Some of them were farmers. Some of them were somewhat well-to-do. Most of my mom's family, on the other hand, "came from the wrong side of the tracks." Most of them hard working, yes (though some might dispute that characterization when it came to my great-grandfather the moonshiner, but that's another story for another day), but not usually the sorts of people who owned the houses they lived in, unless those homes had wheels.

Those two sub-cultures had very different expectations about how one kept one's yard, for example. For the folks in Dad's family, it was a given that your lawn would be mowed frequently, weeded frequently, and watered on a regular schedule, sometimes coordinated with your neighbors. The front lawn was a lush, smooth, green swath carefully bordered by flowers in neat beds. Letting weeds pop up in your yard, or worse, letting them go to seed, wasn't just being sloppy and unneighborly, it was considered an intentional act of disdain for one's neighbors.

Violating the code led to open animosity, arguments, and sometimes vandalism. It was widely accepted as clear evidence that one's morals, character, and work ethic were all well below acceptable standards.

Folks over on Mom's side were more casual. So long as you mowed the weeds down before they got to be ankle high, you were okay. If you wanted to be posh you might edge the lawn every other year. But as long as there was more green than brown, and it'd didn't look like an overgrown abandoned lot, you were being a good neighbor.

As I said, these expectations are very fluid. Michael's family has more in common with my Mom's than my Dad's. Yet, his recollection as a child is that the expecations for being a good neighbor, lawn-wise, are more in keeping with my Dad's family. I don't know if the difference in our recollection is due to the decade of difference in our ages or something else.

That childhood programming is hard to shake. There are some yards on our block where the dandelions regularly grow knee high and are allowed to go to seed without any interference from the homeowner. When I see those yards, my first thought is what a lazy, shiftless, inconsiderate person the owner must be.

Yet my lawn would hardly win any points with those arbiters of neighborliness back home. We've had a few droughts in Seattle. We've got endangered salmon runs in streams that run through the city. It's become acceptable, even fashionable, to allow one's lawn to go brown in the height of summer. You water your flower beds and shrubs and such, but letting the grass go dormant shows that you're a responsible citizen, considerate of the environment.

I should weed more often than I do, but I take a bit of pride in the fact that we have far less than a tenth the weeds in our lawn as the neighbors on either side.

Does it really matter? In a hundred years will anyone care? Probably not.

We judge people on the basis of all sorts of things that don't really matter. I know nothing about the lives of the owners of that yard full of dandelions. They could very well have serious family or health problems that are occupying their time and sapping their energy. Or they may understand that those lush green patches of lawn are highly artificial and not terribly healthy for the environment, and are exercising a deeply-held conviction about environmental responsibility.

It's important to stop and question our assumptions every now and then. If I understand another person better, behavior that I think is irresponsible, thoughtless, or selfish may prove to be the opposite.