The Blood, Dirt, Seeds, and Racism in my Garden

I stand at the kitchen window watching the sunlight gleaming through the white linens on the neighbour's clothesline. I am filling pastry shells with cinnamon-spiced apples, and I am thinking of my grandparents. My grandma had a long clothesline that stretched out past her rose garden. I wasn't permitted to fuss with it, but she let me run through the rest of the property without supervision. I preferred the company of the fruit trees in the small orchard, but sometimes I'd sit beneath the huge willow that guarded the tool shed (unless it was windy - that's when the caterpillars started dropping on you).

I didn't care much for her roses (I would mourn the loss of them later, though). I preferred the things growing in the vegetable garden. Grandma taught me about weeding and spacing and I taught myself which plants seemed to enjoy each other's company more, and how much sun they preferred, and what time of day they liked to be watered. I think she might have been pleased with my growing efforts this year. There is some wildness tumbling out of my beds, because I like the way plants will crawl over any barrier and I hate to prune them into submission. But the gardens look healthy, and I've already been stuffing myself with three varieties of lettuces and two kinds of peas, plus herbs and berries, for a few weeks now.

My grandfather was racist. I loved him more than I could ever say, and I never heard him speak a bad word about anyone. He helped his neighbours, volunteered, loved his family, and sang to the 'old folks' at the local retirement homes long into his 90's. But once I was old enough to start dating, my father warned me not to mention a beau to my grandfather if the boy was anything other than white. I was shocked. The family never talked about it.

Not talking about racism is how people end up being complicit in a system that oppresses Black, Brown, and Indigenous peoples. Like so many others, I've spent the last weeks in deep conversation with myself, my friends, parents, and nieces. I want to understand where I am causing harm, and how I have participated in societal 'norms' that kept People of Colour from being treated as equals in our communities, societies, the world. I am listening, reading, donating, making lists of Black-owned companies to give my business to, and these will never be finished tasks checked off a list. This work doesn't end. More importantly, it will never be enough. But I hope in the years I have left, to leave a much better trail behind me than those who came before me.

I am passionate about being able to feed and care for those I love, and my greater community, by growing food and medicine. This adoration for earth and seeds and green life was a direct result of growing up in close relationship with my grandparents. I've been privileged to have access to places to garden. I've had multiple beds on a good stretch of land to play with, but I've also managed to grow an impressive amount of food out of a dozen or so pots on a small patio outside a rental unit. I believe we can grow food almost anywhere.

Black gardeners and farmers have long been at a disadvantage. They were, and are, priced out of land ownership and refused for mortgages that white people of the same means were approved for. They are routinely forgotten or passed over when it comes to subsidies, operating farm loans, and benefits. It is long past time that gardeners, herbalists, and farmers of Colour are given the tools and means to feed and care for their families and communities, and make a sustainable living on their land. 

If you would like to support BIPOC gardeners and farmers, here are some places that are making a difference:

Soul Fire Farm

SAAFON

National Black Farmers Association

Sylvanaqua Farms

Mudbone Grown

Smarter By Nature

Philly Urban Creators

Metro Atlanta Urban Farm

I cannot erase my grandfather's racism. But I can take the best of him and walk forward with the dirt under my nails, my choices, and my income, and do the work to support a better future than he could have imagined.

Death Rites and Remembrances: My Grandfather's Music

The delightful Magaly Guerrero hosts a blog party each October under the "Witches in Fiction" banner. Each year she chooses a new haunting theme, and this year the idea surrounds celebrating or marking the memory of loved ones that no longer walk with us in the flesh.

I have a small story to share, if you want to pull up a chair and sit a while. It won't take long, but there is a campfire here, and I'll pass you a cup of hot chocolate if it pleases you. The neighbour brought fresh apples from his trees this week, and I made tarts. Help yourself.

My grandfather (top right) stands with his siblings and parents outside the castle that his father built for his mother upon coming to Canada. The "castle" was a grand house sporting a roof with faux turrets. More impressive than the house, were the grounds my great-grandmother kept. Secret garden rooms and hidden sculptures were found all over her yard, and I spent long days getting lost out there among the plants and wildlife, and protesting every call from my mother to return inside.

My grandfather played the spoons. He played the piano too, and when his fingers could no longer stretch out and press down on the keys, he took up the guitar because he was able to hold the rudimentary tool he created to strum the strings.  He played the harmonica at times. Not well, but no seemed to mind.

He loved to sing. He was part of a gentleman's choir for years, and when he was 90 he began performing solo in retirement and nursing homes to entertain "the old folks." His eyes and memory started to fade a bit (but only slightly) and so I spent some time tracking down a list of old songs he gave me, and I created a large-print song book for him to carry around so he might have a bit of backup if his mind lost a word or two of a favourite tune.

Few of his children inherited the musical gene, and even fewer still of his grandchildren. Many of us have wished that we carried even a small portion of his talent in us.

I don't know that I have a memory of my grandfather that doesn't include hearing him sing, or recite a funny poem or lyrics, or seeing him take up any item within his reach and try to make music appear from it.

I saw my grandfather, my father's father, the day before he died. He was 99, and only a few short months away from his 100th birthday. We had planned a big bash for him, as well as a family reunion, and he was very excited. But his body was failing. He was tired. My cousin and I sat with him that day, and he told us stories and sang for us, and I knew by his breath and manner that he was moving away from us. I called the family that night, aunts and cousins, and told them to come.

I didn't return the next day. I had my quiet moment with him, and told him the things I wanted to say, and thanked him, and kissed him, and knew we wouldn't meet again while I was in this body. I can't remember what I did the next day, but I received messages from family telling me how glad they were to have rushed to his side. He was delighted that day - his tiny apartment was brimming with people who had come to sit by his side and tell him stories and sing with him. My cousin told me that he kept asking "is everyone here for me?"

The man that wandered through his life with music on his lips and in his hands, sang to his family on the day he died. As people went home he grew quiet, and at last, with my aunt by his side, he drifted on the music he had given us, into the next world.

When it comes to making music, there is almost no talent in me. I tried out choir and band in high school, but my voice isn't much, and I grew frustrated with reading sheet music. The few instruments I tried I gave up on because my short fingers wouldn't cooperate with stretching out to hit a chord or a key. My hands are better suited as spades for the earth, than for traveling nimbly down a piano. Recently though, I picked up a pair of spoons. I was putting away the dishes, and I found myself wedging them between my fingers and trying to rattle them the way my grandfather did. It turns out that my chubby fingers are good for something - they held those spoons perfectly.

Perhaps there is a bit of his music in me after all.

Tis the Season to be Having Uncomfortable Family Gatherings and Awkward Conversation

The holidays can be a strange time.  Families who may not see each other much throughout the year often come together en masse, and that can be joyful and heartwarming, or terrifyingly uncomfortable. And that's even before the conversations and questions begin. The movies would have us believe that all the discomfort is temporary - just long enough to have some good laughs at the Griswolds, or those nutty folks who left their kid home alone - but holiday reality sometimes feels more like "The Shining."

For those whose homes are not turning into a holiday encampment for familial guests, fortunately "family" is an inclusive term.  We may have our own family unit - a partner, children - or we've developed a network of friends that are like family that we can celebrate with.  Should you find yourself completely alone during the holidays for some reason, and not wanting to remain so, many cities host dinner events or even full travel packages for people who have no other holiday plans.  And if you are wanting to lend a hand, of course there will be many places that would appreciate a volunteer at this time of year.

For the rest of us, who bite their tongue while pouring the wine, and who take the jabs while wearing the paper crown from the Christmas cracker, and who try to find a polite way to answer all the well-meaning-but-inappropriate questions, I want to share my little list of things I do to ensure I survive the holidays.

Holiday Helpers To Prevent You From Cowering in a Closet With a Bottle of Bailey's During Christmas Dinner or Drunkenly Serenading Yourself in a Bathtub (Alone) Like Bridget Jones.
(Working Title)

1.  Have a backup plan.  Always.  Find a friend who knows your situation and let them know that if they see you with your nose pressed up against their window like an old-timey English street urchin, they are to let you in and pass the turkey, and act like nothing happened.

1a. If you don't have friends or alternate family in the area, make like that millionaire show and have a phone-a-friend on standby.  Someone who will talk you down from taking a piece of your aunt's hair and creating a poppet with it and some turkey bones, and then burning it in the bathtub.

2.  Don't be too proud (or ashamed) to let someone in on your holiday concerns.  Tell a good friend (see #1) or a good therapist.  If you have a family member you trust, share with them.  You may end up with an ally across the dinner table.

3.  Do something nice for yourself immediately before and after the holidays.  This is a crucial step - and I recommend booking your appointment now, because I can guarantee that plenty of folks are doing this.  Get yourself a massage, take yourself out to a fancy dinner, buy yourself the holiday gift you want and are sure no one will buy you (with gift receipt, just in case) or whatever else will make you feel really special.  The "before" present is to remind you that you deserve to be treated well, and to give you a bit of holiday hope, and the "after" treat is the reward for not stabbing anyone with a candy cane.  Yay!

4.  Consider donating your time and/or money anyway.  Even if you aren't alone for the holidays and looking for some meaning, find a cause you can contribute to.  It is important all year long to be aware of who needs help in your community, but this time of year can be especially hard on folks who cannot afford to feed, house, or give gifts to their children, let alone provide them with any kind of holiday cheer.  Local food banks accept donations, food, and manual help.  Our little credit union has a "pajama tree" up, where you take one of the ornament cards with a child's gender and age listed on it, and return the card with a pair of appropriate pj's.  There are so many places that are accepting help - finding somewhere to volunteer this time of year shouldn't be a problem at all.

5.  Try to find something to laugh about - or some kind of wonder or joy.  Make a snow angel.  Watch the sky for Santa.  Invent a new drink called "The Steaming Hot Mistletoe Kiss." You can think of something.

We're in for a wild month.  Hang in there. I know you can do it.

*picture via wiki commons