Agric Hum Values (2008) 25:297–300 DOI 10.1007/s10460-008-9142-0
From the Editor Harvey S. James Jr.
Published online: 22 April 2008 Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2008
Dr. Laura DeLind, the previous editor-in-chief of Agriculture and Human Values, sent me an essay one of her students wrote as part of a class assignment. Dr. DeLind believed the essay was so compelling that she asked if I would be willing to publish it in this editorial column. I read the essay and was easily persuaded. Below is a short introduction by Dr. DeLind, followed by the essay written by her student, Ginny Borchardt. My summary of the contents of this issue of Agriculture and Human Values concludes this column.
On the language and value of self-reflection Over the years, Agriculture and Human Values (like its parent organization) has become a forum for scholarship that investigates, critiques, and advocates for models and mindsets that often stand in supreme contrast to those of the industrial agrifood system. Topics such as food security, food sovereignty, cultural and agroecodiversity, social justice, and civic engagement tumble from its pages provoking discussion, research, applied programs, education, and further scholarship. As a journal, AHV has deliberately and quite successfully opened up spaces for inquiry, reflection, and writing around agriculture and the food system—spaces unnamed and unimagined a generation ago. With this as our heritage and our commitment, it seems only right that we continue to push our cultural boundaries. Yet, despite a focus on paradigmatic change, most of our H. S. James Jr. (&) Department of Agricultural Economics, University of Missouri, 146 Mumford Hall, Columbia, MO 65211, USA e-mail:
[email protected]
scholarly and public work to date has been structural and/or functional in nature. With few exceptions, our science tends to be fairly traditional, its theories, evidence, and arguments presented in ways that keep the writer and the reader at arms length—distanced from experience and each other by disciplinary conventions and heavy duty abstractions (e.g., neoliberalism, trade policy, commodity chains, civic agriculture, embedded relationships, CSA). While this is the language and culture of the academy, it is not necessarily the most honest or the most expressive of languages. If we are committed to exploring and ultimately realizing more holistic, place-based, organic ways of knowing and being—challenging the dominant paradigm—then we should continue to move beyond what is now familiar and safe. We need to continue to give ourselves and others the spaces—the vocabularies and the venues—within which to speak self-reflexively, sensually, and truthfully. We also need to give ourselves permission to do so. This is not a call to drop the rigor, experimentation, and rationality of science, but rather a call to make visible how we come to know what we know in felt, embodied ways. We, after all, are not objective beings; we are not (thank goodness) without values. Similarly, we are not abstractions nor are we writing for abstractions (at least most of us aren’t). Neither are we eating with, learning from, or teaching to abstractions. There are real bodies and minds (our own included) struggling in the spaces we have created and continue to create. It is our responsibility, periodically at least, to give voice to how it feels and what it means to work and dwell within them. It is important to see and share the messy, disagreeable, passionate, and mostly non-heroic stuff of life, which certainly includes the foods we eat and the earth work that we do. This, after all, is what we want to
123
298
understand, less partially, more completely, and where we want ‘‘justice to roll down like thunder.’’ Again, this is not a call for romanticism or particularism. Rather it is a call for more courage, more trust, and more metaphor—all useful tools for putting more of ourselves into our work, our science, and our journal. I was reminded of how deeply instructive (and constructive) such writing can be after listening to and then reading an essay written as a class assignment by a student of mine. The class was an introduction to the food system, half of which was traditionally academic, the other half deliberately experiential in nature. It had, among other things, an ‘‘edible final’’—a shared and storied meal—that students had to create and serve themselves, explaining and defending the social values (e.g., relationships and food attributes) as well as the personal memories embedded within it. For her dish, Ginny Borchardt, a junior in the Residential College in the Arts and Humanities at Michigan State University, offered us an empty plate and a powerful story. She used the class; she used the meal, and she used the spaces that we as critical food system analysts, academics, practitioners, and activists have created to struggle with her emotions, her body, her lived experiences, and her voice. What she found and offered back to us was a soulfully honest story of social and emotional growth catalyzed by her relationships to food and the food system. We all have such stories, which if carefully and creatively told can add dimension to our work as well as insight into its lived consequences. To tell these stories will require that we risk a little of ourselves, that we deliberately move beyond our comfort zones and locate ourselves sensually as well as intellectually within our own expanded paradigms. Ginny’s essay—its language as well as its content—can guide us in this endeavor, enriching our lives and pushing the boundaries of our scholarship. Here is yet another space we may want to call our own. Laura B. DeLind Former Editor-in-Chief
Ginny’s reflection Of all the classes I’ve taken in my college experience thus far, none have changed my life as dramatically as this class has. With its hands-on experiences, connections to people and places, discussions, questioning of concepts never before pondered, and the relationships it has created for me in and outside of the university, it has changed my perception of something that I have never felt connected to before in my life: food. In class, when it was decided to have individual presentations for this shared meal regarding our family’s unique recipes or traditions surrounding food, I felt tears
123
H. S. James
well in my eyes, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from showing my obvious distress at this idea. My family had no unique recipes or traditions for food. I dug deep into my memory that day in class, searching and groping for something to share, some happy holiday, or tradition that spoke of what my family was all about. But my family wasn’t about food at all, and I searched in vain for something positive to share with everyone. Food had always been an obstacle for my family, in a couple of different ways that I will share with you today. And this is represented by the empty plate before you. In the narrative that follows, I will focus on the two households of my childhood, my father’s house and my mother’s house, where the foundations of my relationship to food were shaped. In his house, food was a financial burden. He struggled to make ends meet as it was, and with his young daughter tagging along at his side…food wasn’t an option, it was a necessity. He loved to cook for her though, especially all the things she would eventually omit from her diet as she grew older, like red meat and candy bars. He loved to spoil her with treats and sweets whenever he got the chance, as he loved them just as much as she did. They walked everywhere together around town on their errands, as he didn’t own a car and couldn’t afford one. His daughter loved to walk though, even with her short little legs she kept up with his 60 400 frame. She would hold on to his large pointer finger with her small hand when they made their weekly excursion to the food pantry across town. They would arrive there, every week, and the nuns would fill the paper bags with colorful boxes of cereal, instant mashed potatoes, and cans of soggy vegetables that she didn’t like very much. His daughter never questioned this ritual, as it was as normal as going to the grocery store would have been for other families. She loved to watch the nuns fill the bags with the goodies, especially the tasty high sugar cereals with fun cartoon characters on them she wished she could meet and play with someday. They would then walk back to their apartment together, with daddy carrying the groceries, so he could make them a meal with what kindness had provided them that week. As she grew older, she began to realize what the trips to the food pantry had meant and her awareness of their socioeconomic status became even more apparent when she entered school. Kids can be cruel to those different from them and she often felt too ashamed to have anyone over for dinner. More years passed, she entered high school, and eventually her father got ill with cancer. The transformation of the contents of his kitchen embodied his deteriorating health better than words could describe. Instead of the candy bar drawer filled with its usual stock of sweets, it was now empty expect for a lone pack of gum. The shelves of the fridge, once stocked with leftover instant mashed potatoes and canned vegetables, were now replaced with
From the Editor
the bags of liquid nutrition he used to feed himself through his stomach tube. His daughter would come over for dinner during his sickness and while he made her the usual hearty meal of a meat, instant mashed potatoes, and green beans, he would have to patiently wait for her to leave so he could feed himself. His daughter eventually began to despise the meals with her father; they were too hard to experience. Food, which was once a way for them to share a table and light conversation, now became a battleground for her denial of his sickness and his inability to eat the foods he had once loved. Things were different but equally difficult in her mother’s house. In her house food was the enemy. She was a single mother, working long hours to support her household and her daughter. She didn’t have time to cook, in fact, she despised it. She had grown up with four brothers and had cooked for all of them during her youth; she felt burnt out from preparing food for others. She also had a deep disconnect from what food is, as many people in our culture do. She saw it as calories, not as nourishment for her body…and calories were something to count out and to cut back on. She ate mostly salads, with some sort of protein piled on top, to conquer this invisible enemy. Though she always made sure her daughter was well fed and healthy, there still wasn’t one memory that the daughter could think of where they ate together as a family. By the end of the day, her mother was so tired from a long day of work that she didn’t have the energy to socialize, to sit down and chat as many families do over dinner. As a social worker and an introvert, she dealt with people all day and by the end, needed some time alone. So she would make her salad, retreat back into her room, shut the door, and enjoy her much needed space. Eventually, the daughter started to display the same habits and became increasingly uncomfortable and anxious when eating in front of other people; after all, food was the enemy. For example, in college, one of the first times she was invited to a friend’s for a big family dinner of people she had never met, she was absolutely terrified. She didn’t even know where to begin with conversation, and eating etiquette. How much was too much food to take? She should initiate conversation? Many people and food together in one room was a foreign concept to her. She didn’t understand the connection between food and people, as food had acquired a negative meaning to her thus far in her life. However, this was all about to change drastically as she began an engagement class in her new program, the RCAH, her junior year of college. With this class, I (no longer ‘‘she’’) began my transformation with regard to my relationship with food and what it means to me. On our second excursion together, we visited the student organic farm, and I immediately fell in love with it. I saw the process, what it actually took to grow
299
a tomato. I observed the love and understanding necessary for the successful cultivation of a plant that I had before so nonchalantly picked off the grocery shelf. I had never even begun to think or realize what it really takes to get the food we eat from the farm to our plates. I found joy in volunteering out at the farm, spending hours in the sun transplanting, picking, harvesting, and munching on the precious things that came from the ground. I also met people whose energy was invested in that place on a day to day basis—their deep love for the farm and their hard work to sustain its philosophies. There was no immediate gratification when it came to volunteering out there. I would have to hop on my bike and ride the 45 min on highway roads to spend time with the soil, the people, and the plants that I had grown to love so much. As I worked the soil with my hands, my heart worked towards a deeper understanding of the importance of food for all living things, large and small. I acquired a deep respect for all things growing and marveled at the process—the lengthy process it takes to create sustenance for our bodies. Through this class I learned of the farmer’s market in the Eastside Neighborhood in Lansing. I then began biking out there every Wednesday to buy items from the local farmers. It was such an experience, to have to work hard for something I wanted to eat. The inconvenience that came along with the hard bike ride and sometimes inclement weather was worth the lessons of gratitude that I was being taught about the value of food. Also, enjoying the conversations I had at the market, the people I met, the variation of produce as the seasons began to change, and also the connection to the Lansing area were all amazing outcomes I had never expected from simply buying food. Oh, okay, I think I’m starting to get it. Food connects people. I cannot express in words adequately my joy and light hearted spirit those sunny afternoons that I biked home from the farmer’s market and was extra careful to ease over bumps and cracks so as not to break the precious eggs nestled in between the broccoli, green peppers, and onions I had so intently picked out. Something was changing; something inside of me was evolving. Food was no longer the enemy; it was becoming something that brought me joy. My friends and roommates found my excitement about the foods I brought home from the market and the farm a little strange and even annoying at times. I realize now, looking back, that they didn’t realize that I was, for the first time in my life, discovering that food was a positive thing. That being the case, it wasn’t surprising that I would act a little crazy and fanatical about something as simple as a hearty slice of bread from a local miller. Through the other places we visited, I learned many other lessons I won’t elaborate on now but that have contributed significantly to my growth as a human being. And
123
300
these things that I have learned haven’t ended with me. They have trickled down, and I brought these concepts, experiences, and even class readings to my mother to share with her the joy of what I was learning. While in East Lansing, she visited the farm with me. While in her new home in Kalamazoo, we ‘‘food hunted’’ together for local foods in her community. We ate heartily together, had invigorating conversations about the people I had met, and the things I had learned through this class. We began to connect over something we had never connected over before: food. I feel she learned just as much from this class as I have and as a result, our relationship has changed forever. This Thanksgiving was the first Thanksgiving I have spent with my mom since I was 4 years old. In previous years, the Thanksgiving experience had been given to me by other families. This year, however, my mother and I sat there, together, at one table, as one family and enjoyed the pumpkin soup I had made from a pumpkin I bought at the farmer’s market the last day it had been open for the year. Munching on the seeds from the pumpkin as an appetizer, we laughed, joked, teased, and sighed with happiness. Food was no longer an enemy that created distance between us as it had in the past; it was now something that brought us together. So for my part of this shared meal I could’ve presented you with a soggy can of green beans to represent the food pantry I visited with my father or a salad to represent the painful war between food and image and time and patience that my mother had to struggle with and that I eventually inherited and which we both conquered…but I figured with the wonderful plethora of food before us tonight, one course being absent to represent my story wouldn’t be too big of a deal. I also thought about creating a meal entirely from local foods to represent my amazing transformation and the people I have met through my interactions with the local farming community. However, our shared dish already represents that and in a way, I am personally considering it as part of my individual contribution. Our
123
H. S. James
shared dish embodies my new relationship to food; food which now has a role in my life as a connector to the community, to people, to my mother, to my body, and to the earth that makes up East Lansing. This issue of Agriculture and Human Values contains nine research articles, one in-the-field report and six book reviews. DeLind and Howard critique policies promulgated in the U.S. following the outbreak of E. coli bacteria linked to bagged spinach in 2006. Pothukuchi, Mohamed and Gebben examine how store location, gender of inspectors and other factors affect the likelihood that food stores will be found in compliance with food safety regulations. Berry and McMullen study the relationship between nutritional content and visual marketing of ready-to-eat breakfast cereals. Dawson and her colleagues present the results of interviews with consumers of fish caught from the Great Lakes of North America to determine how they assess and manage the risks associated with eating potentially contaminated fish. Wangui examines how developmental and land policies affect gender roles in a pastoralist society in Kenya. Block and his co-authors study cases of academic and non-academic partnerships within the food system to identify how value is created for participating partners. Adjei-Nsiah and his colleagues identify problems arising from institutional efforts to improve soil fertility management. Ingram presents a typology of how knowledge is exchanged among experts and end-users to reveal how information on farm best management practices can be effectively transmitted to farmers. Ortiz and his colleagues describe a case in which participatory research impacts the learning environment of collaborative organizations. Finally, in their In-the-Field report, Kiros-Meles and Abang examine how an understanding of the differences between farmers and researchers in their knowledge of crop diseases can improve the ability of extension agents in communicating with farmers.
