by Xochilt Avila
My father grew up on a tiny farm in Mexico.
Distant as that reality is from my own, it’s also the truth. A truth that I mulled over this past weekend as I shifted earth in the planters on my back deck, alongside my husband, Harbor. We’re reusing some of the dirt from last year, topping it off with plant food and garden soil that smells like the air of high school mornings in Central California. My family didn’t garden back then, but we did live down the road from a sea of corn and dairy cows.
Up until a few years ago, I’ve always only lived in proximity to agriculture. Which, I suppose, is true for most of the people in this country. It seems quite normal that so few Americans know the origins of the foods that they eat; it’s a cultural phenomenon exacerbated by capitalism, and then capitalized on even further by right-wing trad wives who beckon women to homesteads and wheat fields like sirens on sea cliffs.
It’s a complex topic to contemplate while I’m planting tomatoes. It’s a lot to consider while I garden atop my measly deck in the Baltimore suburbs. But, thankfully, putting roots in soil is far less complicated than my relationship with the act itself.
To my surprise, I have quite a lot of thoughts on the act of gardening in modern America, especially as a second-generation immigrant.
As you’ve probably surmised, I did not grow up on a tiny farm in Mexico. My parents raised me largely in the outskirts of Los Angeles, where skyscrapers twinkled and gleaned on the skyline. A few of my teen years were spent in Merced, and then we came back down to the Inland Empire (which is far less regal than it sounds).
Throughout this yo-yoing across the golden state, we must have lived in at least a dozen homes, earlier ones being apartments or condos. With little to no yard space, it was hardly a surprise that my parents didn’t do much in the way of gardening. That changed when I reached middle school, when my father’s hard work paid off in his very first home ownership. Landscaping became a passion of his, and while he didn’t grow food, our lawn became his masterpiece. There was a single apple tree planted, young and thin and hopeless to ever grow fruit in the SoCal climate. We named it Eric from That 70’s Show.
I didn’t help plant Eric, just as I rarely assisted my father in yard work (unless he asked). Younger me found the chore tedious and unrewarding. And what did it matter if I knew how to plant a tree or rake a yard? My eyes were turned to the mountains that now blocked my view of the city of Angels. When I grew up, I was going to live in a city. Probably Los Angeles, or maybe New York. But somewhere bustling, busy and relevant to my fresh, young mind.
It’s laughable now, but it mattered so much back then; a dream that I honked about like a furious goose whenever someone discouraged me. And I don’t disparage younger me for their dream. Younger me was lonely, a closeted, budding queer who’d only heard of fellow queers thriving in big, urban metropolises. My brain couldn’t fathom when or where I’d benefit from learning how to garden, how to tend to outdoor spaces, or how to grow my own food.
Inevitably, my dream changed. It was reshaped and recolored by the steady march of time. Two years adjacent to New York City was more than enough “city life” for me. Like hands planting seeds, I grew loving relationships and a small queer family that I cherish. I found the love of my life, whose steady growth as a gardener has inspired my own. And now, simply put, my dream is to create. As a writer, this usually means making art, but since moving to my own first home I’ve wanted it to mean something else too.
I want to grow things.
Like my father, and those whose lives garland his family tree, I want to foster a connection with my own nourishment. Or at least with just the little bit that I can. Because it’s hopeless to believe that I can grow all of my own food. Only a select few in our industrialized society, privileged with land and time and resources, can truly achieve that.
But to me, the act of gardening isn’t about doing it all, or even doing it perfectly. It’s an attempt to connect to cultural practices and respect for the land that sustains me, from my ancestors to the father who made due with slivers or yards and terracotta pots, who peppered my childhood with homegrown chilis and fresh limes. Of course, I can call my dad on the phone and chat any time, but there’s something about the act of following in footsteps.
Tending to soil beds and seedlings is a ritual of love and a trial of endless error. But I’ve learned valuable lessons. I’ve learned them, alongside Harbor, as we’ve created our own yearly rituals. Tomatoes and peppers grow competitively when placed together, increasing your odds of bountiful fruit. There’s specific types of tomatoes, such as the patio variety, that are perfect for small spaces. Chilies packed too close together will affect each other’s heat due to cross-pollination. Basil wilts in the heat like toilet paper taking a bullet, whereas rosemary and oregano could very well survive the apocalypse.
There’s other things I’ve learned, a banquet of knowledge that won’t be passed along to my children. Because I will not have children, neither on a tiny farm in Mexico or a little condo in outskirts of Baltimore. So instead I pass this along to you, dear reader. Get your hands in some dirt, even if you only have just a little of it, and see what you can make come out of it.
Xochilt Avila is a speculative fiction author based in Maryland, USA. Their work has been featured by Ghoulish Tales, Cursed Morsels,Tenebrous Press, and elsewhere. When not writing they can be found coddling their cats, gardening on their deck, and looking out for their next meal. They are active on BluSky @xavilawrites.bsky.social.
photo credit: Tom Jur, Unsplash