There should be a less objectifying way of talking about ethnicity

Time to prune my oleanders. I hate this job. Oleanders grow like weeds. They are poisonous. It takes me the whole weekend. When I'm done, the trees look great, but my backyard is filled with mountains of huge branches and foliage.

So, I complain to a friend. I have no way of getting this debris to the dump. Last time I did this, I ended up paying $350 to rent one of those huge construction Dumpsters. Without missing a beat, my friend said, "You need to get you a Mexican."

Now, this is not the first time I've heard this rhetoric. But every time I hear it, it nails my feet to the floor. You need to get you a Mexican. Sorta like, "You need to get you a Cuisinart." As if Mexicans, in certain situations, were a thing you needed to acquire for a job well done.

Do coaches with undersized offensive linemen say, "I need to get me a Samoan"? Or, if you wanted to learn to brew beer at home, would you say, "I need to get me a German"? Or, perhaps you'd like to become a skillful pingpong player, so you'd say, "I need to get me a Chinaman." Where's a Sudanese when you need one! And, in what circumstances would you ever say, "We need to get us a white guy"?

Truth is, I have talked liked this before. Several years back, I was in a studio making music for our new CD. The song was called "Fail Forward," the one and only time I've ever written a reggae song. The band sat around listening and exchanging ideas for the background vocals. Suddenly it hit me: "We need black people!" The response from the band and the producer was unanimous enthusiasm. Not one person missed my point. And, sure enough, we found this black vocal trio at Luxor and paid them to come sing for us. They were magical and exactly what the song needed.

On the crass -- but very funny -- show "Family Guy," Peter spoofs exactly this point. He's having money troubles. The family budget is in shambles. So that night, before retiring to sleep, he stands at his bedroom window looking out at the stars and sings this cheesy song whose verses end in, "I think I need a Jewww … ." The next morning a Mr. Feldstein knocks on the door, asking to use the phone because his car has broken down. Peter looks to the heavens and reprises the song, "At last I've found a Jewww ... ."

The odd part is, you can "get you a Mexican." Every day at Lowe's, Home Depot and Star Nursery there gathers four to 20 Mexicans. (Don't hold me to this. Some of them might be Peruvians. Or Guatemalans.) They raise their hands as you drive in and out of the property, saying, I gather, "I'm available! Pick me!" Homeowners, business owners and contractors can and do pull over, negotiate a wage, and take the one or more Mexicans they just "got" to a work site.

Which brings me to the rub. I admire hard work and initiative. A lot. And if you should find yourself having sojourned from Mexico into the United States without polished English skills or a lot of education, I admire the initiative to try to turn a buck with honest work. Ad hoc work, for sure. But work, nonetheless. Let's say I admire it more than folks standing at a street corner with a cardboard sign saying, "Will work for food."

But, on the other hand ... "get a Mexican." The rhetoric sits uneasily in my heart. I'm stuck between admiring these laborers and wanting to wince and apologize. The truth is, at various places and times in various cultural settings, certain ethnic groups do tend to fill certain niches. Certain ethnic groups do become well-known, generally speaking, for certain skills and interests.

But there simply must be a less objectifying way of talking about them. Did you ever see "A Day Without A Mexican," directed by Sergio Arau, 2004? Simply brilliant satire.

I'm eating pizza and wings, watching football with my friend Pete. I begin to lick the hot sauce off my fingers. Pete rolls his eyes and hands me a napkin. Yikes. I've forgotten my manners. Bad form. The English would say I was "boorish," or "untoward." That's it! I need to get me an Englishman!

I've got one, actually. Pete's mother was born in England. Probably why he handed me the napkin.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.