Weeding

I rest my bicycle against the water tank and gaze out over the meadow, where there were once watermelons and tomatoes. I suppose if you want to be a gardener you cannot leave the country for a whole month during the summer. After tilling with the tractor, I set to work digging a trench around a fifty by fifty foot section and hoeing up wads of grass. Using twine and sticks, I lay out a path down the middle and several raised beds. Karen gardeners walk by on their way to pick chilies and plant daikon radishes in the freshly tilled soil and offer puzzled looks at my tired face and sticks with string. It is already mid-September and soon it will be too late to put fall crops in the ground.

“Na ku ra. Na mah ga oh kee gha—You are very hardworking. You will have two wives!” a voice calls from down the path.

I look to see Naw Say back from fishing in the pond and gathering her things to return home for the evening.

“Mayahh? Naw oh ah geh soh, ya bah ma dee ee—Really? There is too much grass. I have to make a garden like this,” I reply.

I return to forming a second bed with a hoe and picking out clumps of Bermuda grass. With the daylight fading, I know that I will not be able to plant seeds yet tonight and resign myself to finishing the bed.

In the spring I spread seeds sporadically, too enchanted by the simple mystery that a little particle could later yield abundant food to plan out beds and such. This seemed to be the way Naw Say planted as well, without a plan, creating more of a food forest than a garden. This chaos yielded a bountiful harvest, but always in competition with encroaching grass, which eventually overtook many of the crops planted.

I cannot plant a fall garden in this same way. It seems that intentionality is a necessity for effective agriculture, from crop rotation to weed control. So I will start with setting aside an area to patrol for grass with designated beds, walking areas, and mulch. This will be my fortress from which I can wage war against Bermuda grass.

The word “apocalypse” pervades our pop-culture as though indicative of the ominous end times, providing the subject matter for countless Hollywood films and even the occasional less than historical special on the History channel. The original Greek word refers to an uncovering, or revelation of something hidden. The early Christian worldview revolved heavily around this mystery of apocalypse. Living with an apocalyptic worldview for the early church meant living in an uncovered reality, rejecting the asserted permanence of empire and the powers that be, and embracing this fragility as fertile soil for the coming Kingdom of God.

The Karen arriving in the United States do not know the experience of imperial security, only imperial persecution. Like the early church, many Karen Christians along the Thai-Burma border live in tumultuous times, the day and hour unknown when their village or camp might be massacred, or they might be taken by a third country. Such instability cultivates a radically different worldview than the average American, feeling secure with our well established, though certainly not always agreeable, government, economy, infrastructure, etc.

Karen refugee gardening is shaped by this experience. Decisions are made promptly and seeds are planted for quick yields to feed many. As Eh Kaw recently told a reporter from the Athens Banner-Herald, the Karen planted seeds along their path while fleeing through the jungle, hoping that others did the same before them. This is gardening for the end times, embracing the impermanence of the surrounding civilization. Intentionality here becomes not so much a means of establishing something permanent, but of preparing for an uncertain future.

Coming from the experience of a comfortable stability within the empire, I perceive this as chaos. In the summer I grew very frustrated with the many volunteer tomato and amaranth plants which Naw Say opposed pulling and yet were shading out the watermelons I planted. The idea of removing a food producing plant seemed unthinkable to her even if it would prevent other yields later in the season. Weeding is seldom practiced among the Karen, because they enjoy many of the wild plants in stir fry or soup almost as much as the planted vegetables. There is a strange sort of food security in this agricultural chaos that is difficult for the Western mind to comprehend. Dale, my herbalist friend, claims that wild plants actually offer us the most strength and “life force.” “Chickweed will grow up through pavement. You don’t see garden vegetables doing that.”

With the advent of Food Stamps, however, more and more processed foods are becoming a part of the daily Karen diet. As families become more established here, owning their own homes and speaking fluently the language of America, the Karen gradually transition from survival mode into a newfound stability. If they are like most other ethnic groups that have immigrated to the United States, much of their agricultural tradition will melt away after only a generation or two. The memory of fleeing through the jungle will fade. Wild plants will become weeds to be pulled from gardens and trampled on paths.

There is an incredible pride in the Karen nationality among newly arrived refugees here. The challenge before community leaders is to preserve this identity as a distinct voice within the cultural conversation of America. As our politicians speak we can recognize an empty pride devoid of values and meaning, too drunk on corporate sponsorship to stand for anything. Among the Karen, there is certainly a different kind of pride, but what is to keep the empire from crawling in like Bermuda grass and taking over the garden? Four generations into the experiment, I can say there are certainly some weeds to pull.

Athens Banner-Herald

http://onlineathens.com/features/2012-10-20/madison-county-burmese-refugees-build-new-home

http://onlineathens.com/features/2012-10-27/comer-refugees-apply-old-traditions

http://onlineathens.com/features/2012-11-03/faith-family-and-community-flourish-karen-refugees-madison-county

Motherland

“Rothenburg ob der Tauber 4 km,” a sign announces as the car drifts to as stop at a “T” in the road. Samuel puts the car into gear and I rouse myself from a nap as we lurch forward and turn left. I crank up the seat to an upright position to catch a glimpse of the rolling hills of corn and wheat.

One century ago, a great grandfather of mine emigrated from this town according to my cousin’s research. My late grandmother’s stories placed her father’s hometown as Nuremberg, which with the approximations of an elderly memory suggest the little town of Rothenburg, about 80 kilometers to the west, as a probable place. Both of her parents immigrated to the United States as adolescents together with their families, leaving the rolling hills of Bavaria far behind for a new life of economic opportunity in Baltimore.

As a child, I obsessed over this distant ethnic identity as a German. It was one of my fascinations I fell into with a deep, though ephemeral intensity. I acquired a German flag for my collection, a book that I never read on Adenauer, the German leader during the reconstruction after World War II, and a pocket-sized German dictionary, which fit conveniently into my pencil box so that I could look up important vocabulary like “geschlecht” during the school day. I repeated the few German phrases that my mother taught me like mantras passed down from her grandparents:

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“Ich spreche kein Deutsch.”

The town emerges from the farmland first as a gas station and set of shops, then in its medieval splendor, complete with town wall, moat, and watchtowers. We park on the side of the road and follow a path around to the main gate where a cobblestone street flows in lined with old Tudor houses with signs indicating restaurants and shops. We walk into a restaurant and order a pizza to go. We have 15 minutes to explore before the pizza is ready and then we must return to the road. Samuel amuses himself by playing the role of tour guide and pointing out various sights of supposed relevance to my family history. “…And this is your great grandfather’s house, here the well where he drew his water…”

Samuel tried to talk me out of our detour here while we were stuck in traffic several times on the autobahn around Stuttgart, but I tried to convey its importance to me, which he found a little funny, since I have no living relatives here. He graciously accommodated my desire however by making the one-hour detour on the way to his family reunion in the north.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber was founded in the 12^th century and prospered until the Thirty Years’ War when the Count of Tilly, commander of the Catholic League, decided to quarter his troops there. Rothenburg was a Lutheran city, but easily overcome by the troops who left it empty and impoverished after their several month stay. The Black Death arrived a few years later and virtually wiped out the remaining residents, leaving the town as a fossil not uncovered until the 19^th century by artists and tourists. The Nazis adopted Rothenburg as the archetypal German hometown and the state leisure organization arranged frequent day trips for the masses from all across the country.

We walk down the hill to the black stained stone of St. James Church before turning around to meet a hoard of Japanese tourists about to attack the gothic structure with their cameras. We sneak around them and climb back past the numerous gift shops, restaurants, bars, and inns inviting us in with multilingual chalk signs placed on the cobblestone street towards where our pizza waits for us. I snap a few photographs and we take our pizza outside of the city wall where we find a bench to sit and chow down. I gaze back at the city as we walk to the car and prepare for the long journey north to the Sauerland, where Samuel’s family still lives.

The next morning we arrive at the wooden gate of his uncle’s retreat. There are two fish ponds fully stocked with trout fed by the stream at the back of the property and a small lodge in between with its door open and several people loitering outside. Smoke issues from a charcoal grill and the scent of freshly grilled sausage wafts through the cool air. The people approach us with handshakes and hugs and I am introduced to a series of aunts, uncles, and cousins as a friend visiting from America. We set up our tent beside the stream and settle down to a meal. Samuel’s elderly grandfather is eager to try his broken English out on me by telling stories from his life, much to the amusement of the others. After eating and taking a rest, I decide to go for a run in the countryside.

At my grandfather’s funeral the priest called my cousins and I up to the altar for his homily. He explained the symbol of the candles on the altar representing Christ.

“Candles provide light just as Christ was the…?”

“Candle!” I blurted out.

“Not quite,” the priest said.

“Light of the world!” said my Catholic school educated cousin.

A dirt path adjacent to the stream eventually pours into a paved road. I follow the road as it meanders between sloping pastures without a car or person in sight. I breathe in the fresh air warmed by the afternoon sun and continue to a “T” in the road. A small white chapel sits in the grass across from the intersection. I enter through a gate and look through the open door of the chapel. There are two or three candles flickering before an image of Mary holding the infant Jesus. I lower myself onto the kneeler and fold my hands intending to pray, but no words come. I stare at the rather uninspired icon of the holy mother for a moment before standing up and turning to a bag of tea lights placed on a shelf on the right wall. I strike a match and place the candle on the altar, silently departing to continue on my way.

Jubilee Neighbors Summer Camp 2012

This summer the first ever Jubilee Neighbor’s summer camp, hosted 28 young campers from Comer and the surrounding area. Held at Comer United Methodist trough the great hospitality of the parish, the camp welcomed children ranging in age from 3-12, from diverse backgrounds, many being the children of refugee families from Burma.  The camp ‘theme’ was centered on gardening and God’s goodness as witnessed through nature. Activities also included a strong emphasis on language learning. Each day the campers sang songs and read scripture in three different languages: Karen, Spanish and English. Additionally campers took part in phonics based language classes in these three languages. Memorable activates of the week included playing cooperative games with a giant parachute, ‘field trips’ to Jubilee neighbor’s field to observe nature using the five senses and collecting trash and natural materials to creatively reuse. Campers used their artistic abilities to help construct a sign for the neighbor’s field and took part in the creation of a tradition Karen- style bamboo compost basket for the field.  Throughout the week campers learned the importance of caring for the land and one another through songs and scripture activates. As culmination, on the final day campers performed the songs they had learned, in Karen, Spanish and English, for an enthusiastic audience at the Comer Farmer’s Market.  Many thanks to the community of Comer United Methodist for making this wonderful week of fun, learning and friendship such a success!

Terese Gagnon, Camp Counselor

Value

“That will be five dollars,” I say, handing the woman a plastic shopping bag of straight-neck yellow summer squash.

She turns up her nose a little bit, hesitating before pulling a bill out of her wallet, and holding it out to me. These are the first fruits of the season, finally harvested after hoeing up the ground into mounds, pulling grass, planting seeds, watering, mulching with horse manure, and hours of squishing squash bugs and scraping clusters of eggs off of leaves. I look down at the waxy yellow squash in the bag fondly as though they are my children, finally mature and ready to send off into the world. I want to admonish this woman holding out Lincoln’s bony face to me: I hope you can cook. You better not leave these unattended on the stove. You better not cook them in the microwave. Deep fry them. Grill them. Bring out their best flavor. I sullenly hand over the bag and take the bill from her as though trading my livelihood for a piece of paper.

I initially intended to start selling produce from the Neighbor’s Field at Jubilee at the new monthly Clarkston Farmer’s Market on the last Sunday of every month, where many of the growers in the field already have friends and potential customers who would be a good market for some of the specialty crops they grow and could purchase them on EBT. However, as I talked to the growers about the possibility of selling at this new market, many were excited about the idea of selling their surplus produce, but adamant that they did not want to sell anything on a Sunday. One woman told me, “Sah Yay Shu ta eh bah—Jesus doesn’t like it.”

There is great wisdom in the practice of taking a day of rest or refraining from certain practices for a one day every week, but in the world I come from the idea of stores being closed or transactions ceasing on Sunday is an antiquated fantasy. It feels like a tragedy to turn away from such an opportunity as the market simply because of the day of the week. I want to tell my friends in the Neighbor’s Field that the world of no selling and buying on Sundays is dead and that they should assimilate to the modern world. However, If I recall all of my attempts to set aside a day of rest with any consistency, I run up against the reality that all have failed and I often rather fall into the tendency of many Americans to overwork myself and dismiss mindfulness and gratitude as unnecessary luxuries. I decided to start selling at the much smaller and low-traffic Comer Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings. Several growers contribute their produce to the market table but no one seems to quite share my excitement about the idea of selling their vegetables for supplemental income and perhaps eventually in lieu of the chicken plant.

After bringing in a meager sum at my first market, I return to Atlanta to spend the weekend with some of my closest gaw lah wah friends. Although all of us would claim to be critical of the consumerism in our society, but we spent much of our time together shopping: wandering around downtown Decatur, stocking up at the natural food store, REI, and wrapping it all up with a late night ice cream run. It is as though this demon is wired into our nature. It is the primary skill we possess and the practice that we fall back into unless we intentionally avoid it. We lost something of the intimacy of friendship and time spent together while filling our empty baskets.

Shopping as recreation is the most explicit manifestation of the disease of consumerism. As we give ourselves over to this disease, we surrender ourselves and all of creation at the feet of Babylon. Our economy is no longer based on the simple exchange of goods and the valuing of unique skill sets and resources, but on the lust of corporate empires. We must to find new creative ways to share our resources and abilities with each other in recognition of the relational value of these things, in recognition of the human dignity of the participants in the economy.

The garden welcomes me back at the beginning of the week with new Bermuda grass to pull from the mounds and many more ripe squash jutting out from under the leaves. I kneel in the unkempt dewy grass and pull weeds up by the root from the squash mounds. I pull out a kitchen knife and sever the ripe fruits from the plants, refilling the empty basket from the market with plump yellow squash, which might be fried, marinated, grilled, perhaps even pickled. This is a labor of love which never be compensated by the dollar, but only by the deep peace that comes from willing the land to spring forth with good food.

An old Karenni man meanders down the hill, his head wrapped in a stocking cap and a watering can swinging in his hand, as he does most every morning. I know he cannot speak a even a little bit of English, so I simply wave and smile as he enters the gate and he holds up his hand in return before loosening the spigot to fill his watering can. We come to this field with unspeakable wounds, but in working this soil, there is healing.