PERSPECTIVE

By Beth Tally

I have just finished reading The Tortilla Curtain, a most disturbing and haunting book by T.C. Boyle that deals with one of the most excruciating issues we face as a country – the never ending controversy over illegal immigration.  Not only did the story exhaust me, it played my emotions like a fine tuned piano, forcing me to vacillate from one side to the other. 

After sifting through my feelings for a couple of days, I have settled on an observation that in no way can be construed as a conclusion.  This book only asks questions or starts the discussion.  Bubbling up to the surface through the robust characters, their opposite circumstances, and the conundrum where they cohabitate, is the challenge to critically scrutinize different perspectives.

Perspective is a tricky thing.  We all have a big funnel through which we process our culture, experiences, beliefs, prejudices and perceptions.  When these personal components spill through the spout of the funnel, it’s like a prism that reflects our world and opinions.  It is our perspective. No matter how close our circumstances might be to that of others, every funnel is different - some vastly, some only by degrees – but, different.  The resulting prisms cause us to view any given subject with such diversity that it’s hard to believe we could be looking at the same picture, reading the same words, hearing the same song.

Years ago, my husband John served in the South Carolina state legislature.  He describes perspective this way.  A bill would come up for debate.  The advocates for its passage would take the podium and expound on the virtues, admonishing legislators to vote for it because failure to do so would create unimaginable consequences to the constituents they served.  By the time they finished, John would say to himself “I have to support this bill.  It’s like motherhood and apple pie.  Who can vote against it?”

Then the foes would arise, excoriating the precepts on which the legislation was founded, defining its weaknesses and shortcomings.  When they had their say, John would scratch his head.  “I can’t support this bill.  It would do away with motherhood and apple pie.  Who can vote for it?”

Now how can “motherhood” and “apple pie” be perceived as anything other than what they are?  It would be one of perspective’s slyest maneuvers - take something unarguable and confound the heck out of it.

The problems created by perspective are hugely compounded when crossing cultures.  Recently, I had a dramatic opportunitiy to experience such a dizzying dilemma.  What was the issue?  Simple – child labor.  Sounds like “motherhood” and “apple pie” to me. 

We were staying on Lake Atitlan in Guatemala with our good friends Tom and Susan Hayward.  Our hotel, the Casa del Mundo, was an absolutely fantastic place literally wedged into the rock cliffs overlooking the eastern side of the lake.  Technically, it’s located in a tiny community called Jaibolito, one of many such places dotted around Atitlan where the indigenous people work and make their homes.  The first afternoon we were there, we decided to take a walk along the shore from Casa del Mundo over to Jaibolito.  It wasn’t even a mile before we came to the “municipal” dock where ferries and other boats stopped routinely to pick up and drop off people or load and unload supplies.  As we approached the dock, there was a lot of activity, very organized resembling an anthill in its efficiency.  Upon closer observation, we discerned that the task at hand was carrying concrete blocks from the dock up the hill into Jaibolito to some destination we couldn’t see.  Everybody was involved – men, women and children.  In order to accomplish the task, each person had a long strap that they placed around the forehead and draped down their back.  They then leaned over at about a 45-degree angle and someone else loaded blocks onto the back, securing them with the strap.  They proceeded to walk hunched over at this angle with the full weight of the load pressing against their foreheads.  The men carried six blocks, the women five, the older children four, the younger boys (probably five and six years old)two, and little girls one.  Up the hill they’d go, like an assembly line, discard the blocks and make their way back down to the dock for another load.

As a witness to this procession, several things struck me.  It was all business.  No one wasted any time with small talk.  Nor was there any complaining, not even from the children who were amazing in their diligence.  It wasn’t resignation. There was a hushed dignity about it all.

But, as we mingled among them on their trek up the hill along the only trail into Jaibolito, the proximity to the children triggered a reaction on my part that could only be attributed to my perspective of the scene.  Here were these little people no more than kindergartners or first graders bearing

the brunt of the concrete blocks on their fragile foreheads and still-forming spines.  And, they were so passive about it.  How could it be right?  What was their mother thinking who was the very one that loaded the blocks onto them and was now stoically leading them up the hill?

           (pictures by Susan Hayward)

Walking along beside me, Susan reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out several pieces of hard candy which she quietly slipped into the hands of a couple of the small ones.  They discreetly mouthed a polite “Gracias” and, without so much as a break in stride, reached forward to give the candy to their mother. 

We spent no more than an hour in Jaibolito scouring around to see what was there and taking pictures.  Scattered throughout the huts and ramshackle buildings were other children not involved in the hauling of blocks.  To me, their activities seemed more appropriate – swinging from a tree limb, carefully balancing on a tiny bridge over a small creek, playing chase.

On the way back to Casa del Mundo, it became obvious through our discussion that all four of us had been affected by the block brigade and its seeming exploitation of children.  The impact lingered with us through the next day and surfaced during a conversation we had with Bill Fogarty, the owner of the hotel, about the construction of his facility.  Susan queried him specifically on what we had seen in Jaibolito.  He acknowledged his understanding of our concern, that seeing the children carrying the blocks up the hill could be construed as cruel.  But, he asked us to put the situation into context of the way things work in Guatemala and particularly in the structure of the Guatemalan family. 

Most likely, the father was hired to deliver the blocks to the construction site.  This job, like any other around the lake, was cherished for its source of income.  The most practical way for the father to maximize what he received from the work was to utilize his family for the labor rather than share wages with others.  Typically, the family responded by pitching in to complete the delivery.  The children considered it a rite of participation to help even if they could only carry one block at a time.  They probably would have been upset if not allowed to work.

It was one common event with two entirely different perspectives.  Looking at it initially, all we could see was the callousness of robbing those little ones of their childhood, making them work at tasks for which they were not physically ready.  But, examining more closely with some orientation to the culture, our condemnation softened with admiration for a family working together in harmony for its own benefit, especially those children. Perhaps it was the ultimate clash of perspectives, between those that have all of their needs met (as well as many wants) and those who need more than they’ll ever have. 

Yes, we all have our funnels and corresponding prisms of perspective.  But, sometimes we are forced to consider that others don’t even remotely see a situation the way we do.  It may not basically change the way we feel, but it might help us to understand how someone could come to another conclusion.