Seven Things (Plus some extra fun things at the end)

I’ve been tagged for a meme. I don’t typically do memes and i know this makes me a terrible meme not doer, but I swear my reasons aren’t bitchy, just awkward.

For example, this current meme requires that I list seven random things about myself. Dear god, the pressure! On the one hand, I do an awful lot of writing that is connected to personal experience, yet there is something about the invitation to, “Write seven random things about yourself” that seems impossible and draws a big blank. I’m growing tense just sitting here writing the prelude to the writing of the seven things I am yet to decide on.

Since I’ve been tagged for this particular meme twice, I’m stepping up to the plate and doing it. Alexa of Invisible Bees has more guts than me and did the meme as intended but with a gardening spin. Genevieve of North Coast Gardening altered the meme and wrote hers as a list of seven articles she has enjoyed in the last year.

Apparently, the seven things can be any seven things, but in keeping with this site I’ve decided to make it seven plants I love. This is of course a difficult topic because it is almost impossible to pick favourites in the garden world and my tastes and interests change constantly. So I’ve decided to try and just keep it with where I am right now. Today. This minute. And I’ve cut food plants out as a possibility to force me to talk about some favourite plants that often go without much fan fair.

Here we go. [Which as of today was started over a week ago. So clearly I have a huge block around memes and picking favourites. For real this time! Doing it...]

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved

Agave outside Big Red Sun in Austin, Texas.

  1. AGAVE

    Agaves are a long term favourite. Ours is a love that could never die. Thinking back, the interest really took off on our second trip to Oaxaca, Mexico in the spring of 2000. We had been to the coast of Oaxaca the previous year where there were many majestic agaves, but NOTHING like what I saw in the interior. It is there that I learned of the importance of agave to the Mexican people and its many ethnobotanic uses. I eventually wrote an article about this, and while I never did write the part 2, my fascination with them has not disappeared.

    As a gardener and a writer, I have focused more and more on food over the years, but when I think about it I can see that this interest stems from the fact that I am actually more generally interested in ethnobotany as a whole. Food and eating is only one large (and very integral) part of the overall connection between human history and the ways we use plants for survival.

    Despite my love for agaves, I was only able to see them in bloom (up close) for the first time two years ago on our first trip to Cuba.

    My new friend Barry is an agave collector. Meeting him and his collection has rekindled my interest in the plants specifically, beyond their socio/cultural usage. I’ve acquired two new plants this summer, Barry just gave me a third, and I have my eye on a forth spineless type. There are so many incredible agaves out there, one could devote themselves entirely to this genus without getting bored. Unfortunately, this type of devotion requires more space than I can provide as they grow awfully big and the spines are horrible when they stick you.

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
Drosera spathulata

  1. SUNDEW

    Now here’s a plant whose size I can accommodate in the tiniest sliver of space. They may be small, but sundews (drosera) are infinitely fascinating plants that are both cute and slightly evil at once. I currently have three living in a small aquarium alongside several other equally fascinating (well, nearly) carnivorous plants.

    See more: Drosera adelae, Drosera spathulata, another sundew, cape sundew

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
Oxalis ‘Burgundy Bliss’

  1. OXALIS

    This is a new interest that had its start in the spring of 2008 when I found myself digging up clovers to put in little containers. Hmmm… or perhaps it has its start in childhood when I went through a brief but rabid four-leaf clover phase, spending hours at recesses and after school searching the lawns for four leaf clovers that I would then laminate between pieces of scotch tape.

    This past spring I bought two oxalis plants and one clover at the annual Parkdale Horticultural Society Plant Sale, making my new plant love official. And then I bought another, very vibrant burgundy one over the summer. To be clear, oxalis and clovers (Trifolium) are not the same thing; they do however look similar, hence the connection. Most oxalis plants are not hardy to the cold in my part of the world, while many clovers, being in the pea family, are. So far I am focused on oxalis with small leaves that look more like vibrantly coloured clovers and am not very interested in the larger-leaved plants. We’ll see where this goes. Hopefully not too far since I am already burdened with three plants to overwinter indoors.

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
Epiphytic cactus growing down a tree trunk in Guama, Cuba

  1. EPIPHYTIC CACTUS

    Here’s another big category that I am fascinated by. In truth, this interest extends to all epiphytic (air) plants, but I find the idea of cactus that grow in trees particularly strange. What a marvel! I currently have three plants in my home but long for the space to house a really huge pencil cactus. Someday.

    I was very fortunate to finally see one growing on a tree this past year on our last trip to Cuba. We took a horseback trip (also a first which I will NEVER do again) into the mountains to visit a waterfall. The waterfall was nice enough, but it was the plant life that inspired me. I saw many average house plants growing in the wild, up along rock walls and creating thick brush along the edge of the forest. In that environment they seemed anything but average. Tillandsia (another epiphytic plant) filled a tree, but I’ve actually seen so many of those now in the wild that it is starting to become more common place (although never losing its appeal. I still cry like a baby when I see them). The real highlight was a tiny ephiphytic cactus snaking up the trunk of a tree. I’m sure my fellow horseback riding comrades were perplexed by what I was looking at so intently on that tree trunk, but I know y’all will understand [See photo above].

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
‘Yvonne Decelles’

  1. AFRICAN VIOLETS

    Here’s one you didn’t see coming. It still surprises me some days. I got into them in my first year of university and I know I had had some of them at least a year by that point (that made me 18 years old at the time. Take that “The kids don’t garden naysayers!!”) but I don’t recall actually buying them. Back then I worked at a dollar store in a mall and I often passed through a Woolworth on my way to my job. The Woolworth had an every-changing display of houseplants along that path, which inevitably lead me to take several home to my new apartment. I am fairly certain that the African violets were among the plants purchased there. I also got a few plants from my grade 13 biology teacher, so that’s another possibility.

    Needless to say, true love came to blossom (literally and figuratively) during the year I spent living in a very sunny and warm dorm room. My room was up on the 14th floor and a corner room that was literally wall-to-wall window. The environment was perfect for my African violets and they flourished there. Naturally, success with a plant was a big ego boost that fueled my desire to grow more. I’ve acquired several plants over the years and am most fond of the most ostentatious and outrageous varieties with ruffled leaves, double, ruffled flowers, and crazy variegation. All of my favourites were acquired as leaf cuttings bought from the Toronto Gesneriad Society booth at the CNE that I rooted and propagated myself. I should just break down and join the club, shouldn’t I?

    I also have a special fondness for dwarf varieties that are tiny enough to sit in the palm of your hand. I bought two on a recent trip to Montreal and they were only 2 bucks each! That’s the other stellar thing about African violets: they’re CHEAP.

    To date, my current count is 8. I’d have more but missed the Gesneriad Society table at this year’s CNE. Yes, I actively sought it out and was disappointed to have missed it. And I’m just going to put this out there, but it’s also a personal dream to enter a contest. I know my plants would never win because I’m not cut out for that kind of anal retentive devotion to form (my plants are a rag-tag mess by their standards), but it would be a great excuse to wear a giant soap opera style hat!

    See More: Growing African Violets from Leaves, ‘Yvonne Decelles’

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
Geranium phaeum ‘Samobor’

  1. GERANIUMS

    Here’s another that took me by surprise. I grew up with your typical red flower geranium. They were everywhere in my neighbourhood where there were gardens, probably because they practically grow themselves, are super cheap, and the kids often sold them as fund-raising items for softball teams and the like. As a result, I grew up with an extreme distaste for geraniums, believing in my mind that they represented the entire scope of the geranium world. That sad thing with a big red pom pom flower on top was a geranium. The end.

    Then, in 1997 I went to San Francisco for the first time and was BLOWN AWAY. That same red flower geranium grew into a wild, tentacled monster in a temperate climate. Not so bad after all.

    Eventually, I came to know that there were lots of other geraniums out there that are true geraniums and not tender pelargoniums like the red-leaved kind I knew. Some are dainty, yet hardy little things, and some grow wild and gnarled if you let them and produce the most amazing pine smell when you brush against their foliage.

    Then later, I got over my bias in a new way and came to appreciate scented pelargoniums aka scented geraniums, the nicer smelling siblings of that original red flower type. I’ve come to grow many over the years and am currently in love with a curly-leaved, variegated variety called ‘Prince Rupert’ that I picked up at a nursery sale for $1.99! It smells like lemons. We’re going to be good friends, I think.

Photo by Gayla Trail  All Rights Reserved
Begonia sutherlandii

  1. BEGONIAS

    This began as a plants I like list and has evolved into a plants even I am surprised are on my list, list. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again, I didn’t like begonias. In fact, I had some pretty mean things to say about them that should only be reserved for cacti with straw flowers glued onto them. And even that isn’t the plants’ fault but simple human crassness.

    Somewhere along the way, in what is a running theme, I checked my biases, humbly admitted that I didn’t know jack, was making some cocky, pompous assumptions without a proper education, and changed my mind.

    And now look at me: I’m growing begonias! And I’m really excited about trying to grow my own from bulbils harvested from the orange Begonia Sutherlandii plant above. There are still a lot of begonias that give me the dry heaves, but of those I do like, Wow.

PARTICIPATION

Look at you, making it all the way down here to the end. I feel like I lived an entire lifetime while writing this so I can only imagine what it felt like to read it.

Now comes the second part of the meme, wherein I am asked to share seven blogs I like. I equally hate doing this sort of thing because seven is a very finite number that inevitably leads to leaving someone out. Or worse still, I tag seven people who do not want to be tagged. So now I’ve tagged people who don’t want it, and not tagged those who do. Memes are supposed to be about spreading the love, but participating in them often feels like stepping onto a giant landmine of potential social failure.

So for that reason I’ve decided to open this up to everyone. Go over to your internet website and do the seven questions thing, if you feel so inclined. Come back here and link to it in the comments. If you don’t have a website, just write your seven things in the comments.

In two weeks (I’m giving you time because I know how hard these memes can be) I’ll randomly pick one from the list and send that person a copy of my first book and some buttons and magnets. Hooray!

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In Search of My Grandmother’s Garden

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I am doing something big this winter, something I have wanted to do for a very long time. It has sat inside me for years and years as a wish that I never quite believed would happen. Even now, with some of the plane tickets booked, I can barely believe I am really doing this thing.

I am going to spend a month in the West Indies and visit the islands my maternal family is from.

I have never been before. I keep referring to it as my Roots Experience. And yes, I know that name is awful and I am a wee bit embarrassed to write it here for so many people to read; however, I’m yet to come up with a better name. Still, on so many levels that is exactly what it is because this trip is all about getting to the root of my roots. Getting clarity. I hope to track my lineage in public records while there and get to understand half of my genetic/cultural heritage on another level by immersing myself in it.

And yes, this does have a gardening side to it for a few reasons:

1. Over the past few years I’ve been slowly building on a labour of love (yes, another one). It is a gardener portrait project called The Green Minds Project. The goal of this project is to create a series of portraits (photographs and text) that depicts the wide diaspora that is people who grow plants. As a result I have been invited into strangers’ private oases and come to know a little about them through their gardens. What a privilege!

2. The second reason is even more personal to me. I want to see how people garden and grow food in these places as a way to get a clearer picture of where my grandmother may have been coming from in relation to gardening. Now, I’m not naive. I don’t expect that anyone is going to be like my grandmother or represent her state of mind in any way. Yet I know on some level that this experience will help me and create a sense of resolve and deeper understanding of my grandmother and our shared (yet confused) relationship with growing plants.

And so, while in the West Indies, I would very much like to continue The Green Minds Project and photograph a few gardeners in their gardens. As I have said before, I am not specifically looking for grand gardens here. I am looking for all sorts of gardens and all sorts of gardeners from ALL walks of life. What matters most is the passion of the gardener, not the size or scale of the garden.

If you know anyone who lives and gardens on the following islands who would be comfortable inviting me into their home to photograph them and talk about their garden, please get in touch: Barbados, Dominica, Martinique, Guadalupe, St. Lucia.

Thank you!

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Gardening Lessons My Grandmother Taught Me (Unintentionally)

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I wrote this piece back in February for The Guardian UK, and am now posting it here in its entirety as promised. You can read my preface to it here.

——————

My gardener’s story is atypical. There were no childhood summers frolicking in the garden of a rosy-cheeked matriarch eager to pass on a passion for growing things; however, there was, in fact, a grandmother — a woman who for better or worse certainly left an impression. A woman who taught me about gardening without meaning to, possibly even in spite of herself.

I had a precarious relationship with my maternal grandmother, Scylla Trail. There were some small moments of affection but for the most part I would describe our relationship as confusing. There are complicated issues here, problems too intricate to properly address in a short gardening article. It would take a dissertation to unravel the complex recipe of class, race, sociopolitical, and personal psychology that forged the logic of our relationship. I bring it up only as a way to make it clear that while my grandmother was a gardener of sorts and helped shape who I am as a gardener today, what existed between us was not an intentional passing of the gardening torch from one generation to the next.

And yet, while the lessons Scylla taught me may have been articulated in a passive way, they are still meaningful.

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This is the only photo I have of my grandmother and I together. I don’t know where it was taken or why there is a black nanny doll in the background. Ugh. I think I am somewhere between 3 and 4 years old here. That would make Scylla approximately 65.

I don’t know what growing plants meant to my grandmother — she never spoke of it. I was born around the time Scylla moved to Canada, riding the wave of newly changed immigration laws that supported an influx of black West Indians intended to work as laborers and domestic servants. The woman I knew lived alone in a single occupant apartment in a senior’s hi-rise. Scylla frequently babysat my brother and I while we were growing up and we clocked a lot of overnighters there.

Her small apartment was well appointed for an elderly woman with an aggressive sense of religion, but not exactly hospitable to kids. There were religious plaques and photos of a white Jesus on every wall, a coffee table piled with houseplants, a compact stereo system that housed an assortment of religious albums, and piles of pamphlets illustrated with the toothy grins of popular televangelists (tucked underneath the couch cushions). There were no toys or games and we were only allowed to watch back-to-back broadcasts of The 700 Club, although we did find ways to turn the rocking chairs into racehorses and the small balcony served as a good place to launch bits and bobs from. I got some of my start as a gardener by turning my attentions to her houseplants in an effort to break up the boredom between hours of religious programming, bible reading, and praying for sinners (us). I killed time pruning back dead leaves and plucking them from pots, dusting foliage, and watering. One of my favorite memories of Scylla’s apartment was the way she liked to arrange her houseplants into an Xmas tree shape during the Holidays — a pyramid of assorted houseplants that were decorated in lieu of an actual tree. As a kid I thought it was completely mad (it was) but as an adult I can appreciate Scylla’s ingenuity, brilliance, and utter disregard for Canadian social norms.

The first thing my grandmother taught me (unintentionally) about gardening was how to make something out of nothing.

One day, while playing on the small balcony, I noticed a plant with tiny blue flowers growing in a recycled, econo-sized laundry soap bucket. When I went in to ask my grandmother what it was, she answered (like it was the most mundane thing in the world) that she was growing potatoes. The idea that someone could grow their own potatoes, let alone in a bucket on the concrete balcony of a senior’s apartment building, completely blew my mind! I was already a gardener when the memory of Scylla’s potatoes came back to me, yet I am sure that they subconsciously served as the example I needed as an urban apartment dweller with the desire to make a garden and nowhere to grow.

The second thing my grandmother taught me (unintentionally) about gardening is that a garden can happen anywhere.

In the West Indies, my grandmother grew food and raised chickens and goats. I know this for certain, having gleaned little pieces of family history from anecdotes overheard while growing up, although I do not know the details. What did she grow? I know there was fruit, but I do not know who grew or cared for the trees. Perhaps no one did. I recall stories that mentioned paw paws (papaya), sour sop, and mangoes in the yard. Eggs were collected, the goat was milked, and the chickens lost their heads from time to time.

Despite these bits and pieces, I can’t really guess at Scylla’s relationship to gardening and it seems unfair to try to speculate or put words in her mouth. She’s long dead now. She can’t tell me herself and there is no one left to ask. Did she grow plants for pleasure, for purpose (food), or simply because it was second nature? After all, my grandmother came from a place where growing food (especially among poor people like herself) is just what people did. There was no fuss. It wasn’t a big deal or a greatly considered act, you just did it as a way to make use of what you had available and improve your quality of life.

The third thing my grandmother taught me (unintentionally) about gardening is that gardening is for all of us.

Here in the first world we think too much about whether or not we can or should garden. We mull and fret over what we don’t have, always certain that there is never enough space, knowledge, or gear. We talk ourselves out of gardening and wonder endlessly whether we have what it takes to be a gardener, even after we’ve started one.

Everyone can garden. You don’t even have to call yourself a gardener. You can grow a potato in a bucket on a concrete balcony. You can raise chickens in your backyard, grow and harvest your own fruit, and fashion your houseplants into a Holiday tree. You might never speak a word about gardening or being a gardener to anyone, and still be one anyway.

At least that’s what Scylla accidentally taught me.

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Untitled (A Darker Side to Gardening)

Over the weekend, I decided to read Jamaica Kincaid’s “The Autobiography of My Mother” for the second time. Opening the first page, I notice a note scrawled into the top right hand corner in my own handwriting, “pg 143.”

Turning to page 143 I find the following passage underlined:

He had an obsessive interest in rearranging the landscape: not gardening in the way of necessity, the growing of food, but gardening in the way of luxury, the growing of flowering plants for no reason than the pleasure of it and making these plants do exactly what he wanted them to do; and it made great sense that he would be drawn to this activity, for it is an act of conquest, benign though it may be.

I’ve noticed this thread in a few of her books: gardening as conquest and a subtle form of colonization, and the way that colonization has affected gardening around the world. Jamaica Kincaid is a passionate gardener who understands the pleasures and joys we gardeners experience in the act of tending plants. But I really appreciate that she is also able to see beyond that and is willing to go into territory many of us would prefer not to talk about.

Another book by Jamaica Kincaid, “My Garden (Book):” was the first book of hers that I bought, although it was not the first that I read, and sat on a shelf for years. I know I skimmed it when I first brought it home; I found a bookmark tucked partway in when I finally picked it up again. It’s just that I have absolutely no recollection of what I read nor how I felt about it at the time. For as long as I can remember I have always been a voracious reader. But I can’t be forced to read a book before I am ready for it. Whenever I try to read a book that I can’t get into I find myself repeating the same lines over and over again, never getting past the third page. This doesn’t say anything about the book itself since I’ve gone back to, and devoured many books that seemed impossible to get through the first time. I must not have been ready for this book back then. But when I did pick it up again within the last year, having become a fan of her writing in the years in between, WOW. What a book! Ms. Kincaid approaches the topic of gardening, and more specifically her own garden with passion, sharp humour, playfulness, love, and biting, difficult observations. Many of you will see yourself (as I saw myself) in the 8th essay, “An Order to a Fruit Nursery Through the Mail.”

But the essay I was reminded of when I found the passage I had long ago underlined in “The Autobiography of My Mother” is the one I want to mention today. It’s called “To Name Is to Possess” and is all about the dynamic between the conquered and the conqueror and the effect it has had on gardening throughout history leading to, and still in effect to varying degrees today. She describes the way that the names of plants have been changed over the years, most especially from the names given to them by the original inhabitants of those lands, and how they have been transcribed to our current botanical naming system (the one we see with authority). She goes on to explain that she does not know the names of plants that are native to her birthplace (Antigua) and explains why.

The ignorance of the botany of the place I am from (and am of) really only reflects the fact that when I lived there, I was of the conquered class and living in a conquered place; a principle of the condition is that nothing about you is of any interest unless the conqueror deems it so.

She goes on to describe a local botanical garden that did not include any plants that were native to Antigua but instead filled with plants from various parts of the British Empire including a tree from Malaysia. At the end of the paragraph she concludes:

The botanical garden reinforced for me how powerful were the people who had conquered me; they could bring to me the botany of the world they owned. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that in Malaysia (or somewhere) was a botanical garden with no plants native to that place.

These passages make me wonder about a lot of things. They make me think about how deeply rooted in the past gardening continues to be even today. About how much we continue to value gardening as luxury above gardening as necessity, although that is changing, at least for the time being as we sink into an economic downturn. Will we turn back to placing a higher value on luxury if and when the economy changes? They make me think about my own prejudices and perspectives when it comes to how I see gardens and individual plants; how much those perspectives are still entrenched in a past before I was born, and how much of that I have had to purposefully and consciously push aside in order to not only have my own perspectives but value and validate them for myself.

About a week ago I tried to articulate over dinner that slowly over the years, in the back of my mind I have been working through thoughts about gardening as a culture that exists within a much larger and complicated social world and how I am trying to figure out how to talk about my personal experiences of that culture in relation to class and race (and of course where I lie within that spectrum with my own complicated background as a person of mixed ethnicity who was raised within a particular class and who has had my own unique set of experiences just as everyone else has had theirs). These topics are risky and I find myself afraid to even begin to put the words together let alone say them out loud. Although I am trying. However jumbled and obtuse they might seem.

I wish I had more to say or some kind of conclusion to make but really I am just thinking out loud. Near the end of the essay Ms. Kincaid goes on to say that when she looks out at her own garden she can see that she has joined the conquering class, and that her feet are in two worlds. I’ve yet to come to a conclusion about all of this except to say that on a personal level throughout my life my feet have always been in many different places (more than two at all times), and it feels like it might take me a lifetime (I hope not) to finally figure out how to articulate my exact position/location/direction within that.

And that seems to hold especially true when it comes to my perspectives on gardening and my place within that world.

What about you?

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It is Finished

On Saturday afternoon Mary and Joan (and Davin, of course) came by and helped us clean up hundreds of cigarette butts, several broken bottles, the bamboo fence we built two seasons ago that had been literally and purposefully kicked in inch-by-inch along its entire length, a bag full of miscellaneous garbage, concrete dust left by City workers and three big bags of garden waste.

By Sunday morning the garden had acquired some new garbage and a broken bottle. By Sunday night there was a large, dead, potted palm, 6-8 cigarette butts from the neighbors, and the garbage bag full of waste that we had picked up only the day before had been dumped back onto the garden. Whomever did it took the garbage bag with them.

I’m enraged. I’m heartbroken. Actually, neither of those words are accurate. I’m beyond both. The last few years trying to tend the garden amidst what is happening in this neighborhood has been like fighting a war. I can’t fight this war anymore. It is too painful. And I know now that I can never win.

When Joan and Mary showed up to help yesterday carrying with them their enthusiasm, good cheer, and two delicious salads made by Mary, it was very heartening. A neighbor named Barry also stopped by and gifted me a bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) from his garden. I love bloodroot. It all felt good. It felt like both myself and the garden were cared for by a community. If they had not been there to share in the labor, I would have picked up all of that garbage along with another helping of bitterness and resentment.

The other day, while laying on the proverbial couch bemoaning more troubles with the garden my therapist (who is also a gardener) said, “A garden can feel like your own body. When someone attacks it, it feels like they are throwing up on you.”

It does.

Perhaps that will read as dramatic to many people but it is the truth of my experiences as a gardener. I put myself into it. I’ve tried not to. I’ve tried to detach. It doesn’t work. And even if I could somehow manage to remain emotionless about the act, the fact is that I don’t want to experience gardening in a detached way. I’d call that landscaping.

From the moment I put my shovel into the ground so many years ago, I became responsible for that space. I care about that little patch of land and what happens to it. I don’t think that was ever my original intention, but it is what happened. For me, gardening is an emotional experience and a complicated exchange. When I work in the garden I nurture, I care, I feel, and in return I am nurtured, I nurture myself and I work through my troubles; a relationship develops. I unintentionally set down roots.

Unfortunately, in a neighborhood like mine, this has come with a price. Depending on what is done to the garden it can feel like the perpetrators are literally puking up their utter disregard and trash on me. At other times it feels like they are throwing all of their own self hatred, guilt, shame, and inner turmoil at me. Two summers ago, when someone very purposefully flattened a patch of plants with their feet, I could feel the rage that went into that act. I could feel the anger and pain and hurt. When passersby throw trash and allow their dog to poop without picking it up they are saying, “I don’t care about anything, myself included.” When the people who live directly over top of the garden continue to throw their cigarette butts into the garden, especially after it was so obviously cleaned up by their own neighbor, it is like they are whispering in my ear, “We are so invested in our self-loathing, we can’t see what is in front of our eyes.

When people dump their diseased and used potting soil onto the garden, it feels like they are assuaging their guilt. When they deposit dead, potted plants into or at the edge of the garden I imagine their confession, “I feel badly that I killed this plant but I can’t accept responsibility for it. I need to pretend it is still alive and that you can save it. Here, you be responsible.

I can’t be responsible anymore. And that was partly why I asked for help. Cleaning up the garden as a group, as a caring community, lifted some of the burden of what lay at the heart of the acts that went into destroying it from off of my shoulders and heart.

Experiencing these assaults on the garden over and over again makes me angry and filled with rage. But knowing what lies beneath the assaults makes me sad. It hurts. I am not impervious to pain. And I don’t think I can continue to set myself up for it anymore.

Before I go on, I need to be clear that what’s happening with the garden isn’t normal. I’ve been gardening that little patch of land for 10 years, and while there has been garbage thrown, some things destroyed, lots of thieving, and a bit of weirdness, what happened then could never touch what has been going on over the last 2-3 years. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for 14 years, and I have watched it change. At first I could attribute an acceleration in violence being perpetrated against the garden as the result of the turmoil being experienced in the neighborhood at large as the effects of increasing and accelerating gentrification took hold. But then the bars went in. This part of the neighborhood is turning into the new club district and the people coming in experience the neighborhood as their personal playground rather than a place where people live. They just don’t give a shit. And many of the street people and disenfranchised who live here are being displaced. And they are angry. Rightfully so.

I think there is a lot that can be said about the fact that when I moved into this neighborhood it was considered dangerous and bad. The “bad part of town.” The other side of the tracks, literally. And now that it is cool and hip and “good” it has become a terrible place to live. That “bad” neighborhood had its problems, but it also had a sense of community and caring that thrived underneath the so-called bad.

Unfortunately, the garden has become a target, something to vent on. Gardens can mean a lot of things depending on where you are coming from and how you look at it. Or don’t. Because unfortunately, many people are so screwed up that anything beautiful can feel like an affront or have so little disregard that they are simply blind to it. As I said before, I can’t disconnect myself emotionally from what I put into the garden. And as a consequence I feel it all. Continuing to try and garden through this feels like I am playing a hand in my own abuse. It’s like I am standing on the street and waiting to be spit on.

Yesterday was the first day of the garden’s year. Hardly 12 hours had passed before new damage was done. Not 24 before a total assault.

After 10 years digging the garden, building the soil, putting in plants, taking out plants when the City decided they wanted to put in a garden, putting plants back in when the City decided they didn’t want to put in a garden, replacing destroyed plants, replacing broken fences, spending my own hard-earned money, wasting hundreds of hours of my own time, picking up shit, filth, garbage, etc.; I am done.

I tried my best. I don’t own this space and always knew that I would have to make my exit eventually. It hurts to walk away from it in this way, having been defeated and feeling like I’ve failed on multiple levels.

Walking outside to that scene tonight was the breaking point. It is finished.

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