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Lessons from the 7-11

April 5, 2008

MarioIt has astounded me that no one wants to talk about poverty at Tahoe. I know the word poor and poverty can cause shame, but keeping the poor invisible doesn’t help their cause.

As a photojournalist, I am drawn to tell people’s stories. My aim is not to exploit but to really tell a story of the ups and downs of being poor in a place where the wealthy come to play and live. The perception is that Lake Tahoe, this jewel of the Sierra, is only for millionaires. Yet a whole other group of people live there too.

The economy depends on the working class. They are the cooks, the cleaners, and the laborers who keep the tourists and wealthy residents happy. What would a resort be without the kitchen staff? What would happen if they left?

Yet living in Tahoe is hard. Housing, food and gas are expensive. Many people are paying 50-60 percent of their monthly income in rent alone. Many have two or three jobs just to get by.

These are hard working people, who want more for their families. They hold the American dream in their hearts, yet many are stigmatized as immigrants, or God forbid, “illegals” who don’t contribute.

This week I met a man named Mario. He is one of many day laborers who hang out at the 7-11 in Kings Beach.

I have seen these men, both at the Lake and in Reno. I used to see them as sort of untouchable. They were different and hung out in big groups. They didn’t speak my language. How could I possibly relate to them, let alone speak to them? Yet they always intrigued me. I wanted to know why they would leave their families and come to a country that can be hostile to make an unsteady living doing odd jobs, with no stability or security.

This time as I drove by the groups of men hanging out along the road I decided to stop and ask. I understand a bit of Spanish, but don’t really speak it. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t pronounce words correctly and was afraid I would sound like an idiot. But I thought maybe that is exactly how they feel with English.

I called Teri Vance, another member of our graduate cohort who speaks Spanish, to help me write some questions. I’m a naturally shy person, especially when I don’t have a camera (security blanket) in hand. But I walked up and started talking, with notes in hand.

“No hablo Espanol bien, pero. . .” my spiel began. To my amazement I was well received. I asked a few questions (in broken Spanish) and then took a picture of each man I interviewed.

This is where Mario came in. He was one of the men who agreed to talk and have his photo taken. We were having a nice conversation, as I grasped phrases here and there, when I looked down to see my darn recorder wasn’t on.

“Oh no!” I said. And he said something in Spanish. To my amazement even though I didn’t understand him, I knew what he was saying. He wanted to know if it didn’t work, and I said we had to do it over again, uno mas, and we both laughed and I started again with my questions.

Now he could have said I was a stupid idiot, and indeed that is how I felt. But the magic that happened through the eyes and the hand gestures and the laughing makes me think, if you don’t know anything else about a person, if you can find a thing to laugh about and share a moment together, you don’t need to speak the same language to understand each other. It happens, and it is powerful.

Related posts: [ Don’t label me ] [ Community newspaper struggles to reach Hispanics ] [ Together in prayer, Junto en la oración ] [ Tahoe Latinos confront garbage problem ] [ Understanding diversity ] 

Written by Liz Margerum · Filed Under People 

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