America's Finest

Living in the Piedmont region of North Carolina, I fell for the lush, overgrown vegetation that provided rich soil for a multitude of different crops. In the heat I sunk my hands into the organic earth, tilled and perfected into rows by the same hands that would bring it's produce weekly to the Farmer's Market. Every day I shared a meal with the farmer's family- green, earthy asparagus, ripe sungold tomatoes, a wealth of produce at my gloved

fingertips. As a farmer, I took breaks when I needed them, stopped to talk with my co-workers, and returned home to a cushiony existence in a cool house with electric fans.

The land I visited while traveling out to various migrant camps during a "Witness for Justice" program with the Farmworker Unit of Legal Aid in Raleigh, NC, spoke of a different harvest. Human beings, like produce, marketed at the lowest cost to work on monocropped land of tobacco and cotton.

Barreling down dirt pathways, barely roads, that end in uniform bunk houses in varying states of disrepair, I am reminded of my visit to the US/Mexico border in Arizona. I was there over one year ago on a rescue trip, bringing food and water to people who risked dehydration in the desert. We walked around hot land, encountering the remains of lives of survival and struggle: small, cavernous dwellings, littered by food and spoiled clothing. I wondered then at who could possibly think any human being would choose to live this way.

(picture-cotton)

Now I have the same feeling as I walk into the dark exterior of the camp houses. I see a broken pipe hanging down. The humidity traps me as I try to make space between the bed and kitchen table. The set of houses where these tobacco farmers are living is isolated and small. I am reminded of summer camp dwellings where I have stayed to "rough it" out in the woods. But this is not summer camp, and these are hardworking families. The neat rows of well-tended tobacco sit juxtaposed next to disheveled homes.

Conversing with the farmers brings the setting to life. It is dinnertime and the moment is alive with young men chiding each other, women cooking and showing off children. The family extends through each unit as a community takes form. The vibrant sounds of Mexican Spanish: words of comradery and journey. Everyone is interested in hearing how they can keep safe, greeting Omar our guide, and learning of the NC Justice Center. And then, I am reminded of how young so many of these workers are when one of the guys asks me about my nose ring. What do young people do when they must wait sometimes weeks for work?

Farmwork is the hardest sort of work to do because it requires that the human form be strong and dependable. Yet, so often migrant farmworkers are treated with little respect. Their backs bear the weight of our daily sustenance while their hearts endure our discrimination, jokes, and lack of consideration. Migration is a reality for many people all over the United States. I have met a handful of New Yorkers in North Carolina, seeking a higher quality of life. I have ventured out of Maine to touch my spirit again and improve my own living. Families change, shift and grow out of cities and towns. We cross borders, travel through mountains, carving out new paths all the time. How are some travelers beyond compassion, some borders beyond crossing?


As I farm my way across the South in the heat I feel deeply connected to the human beings whose hands touched my food. I think about how their shoulders feel at the end of a day, how the summer sun sometimes makes you feel like you can never get comfortable, how their children may have breathed in chemicals out in the filde. And I ask myself, what is the true cost of my food?