The first time I wondered if I knew America was when I moved to Iowa from Connecticut for college. I couldn’t remember the first time I saw the ocean, but looking out over the endless fields of corn and soybeans for the first time seemed as close of a comparison as I could imagine. In Iowa, billboards advertised tater-tot stuffed cheeseburgers and the only vegetables I could discern in my veggie omelet were canned mushrooms. I was half terrified, and half intrigued. Yet, I soon learned to love Iowa for all of its quirks. I also learned that I could never generalize the people in a single state to fit a certain stereotype, like the one evoked by those fast food billboards. There will always be different people with different needs and wants, some trying to introduce change, and some trying to stick to the status quo, but together existing within the same space.
As I drove from my parents’ northern suburb of Chicago to Oregon to begin this journey, I was constantly hit by the same feeling I had noticed upon moving to Iowa. I thought, maybe I don’t know this country I call home. Or, maybe I only known a small piece of it. My mom offered to meet me in Minnesota to drive out to Oregon with me, as I had stopped to visit friends in Wisconsin and Minneapolis after leaving Chicago. She would take a plane back to Chicago once we arrived in Portland, and I was grateful to have her beside me to share the miles. Together, we watched America transform around us to the sounds of the British accent narrating The Woman in Cabin 10, our murder mystery audiobook, strangely, both eerie and peaceful.
At my uncle’s house in Northfield, MN, we talked about the acres of nearby land farmed by Somali immigrants, and the local co-op where these crops take forms tolerable to the resident yogis and worldly college professors. In Minneapolis, I ordered vegetarian enchiladas at a Mexican restaurant in an international market, and wondered if the chef even considered those spinach and cheese filled corn rolls to resemble enchiladas. In the fields between Fargo and Bismark, drip irrigation systems circled the parched land. When my mom asked me what crops they were watering, all I could think to respond was, “definitely not corn.” In Miles City, we counted more Motorcycles than cars, and window shopped at rodeo outfitters and antique stores. In Bozeman, we went on a steep morning hike, looking out over farm and forest land that seemed to blend together seamlessly. In Missoula, the Catalyst Cafe served eggs from vegetarian-fed, free-range, hormone, antibiotic, stimulant, and steroid-free Rhode Island hens, and I think my mom might have been the only one without a facial piercing at brunch. From Spokane to Portland, forest turned to wheat fields, turned to shrubbery and cliffs, turned to forest again.
Pictures from: Minneapolis, MN…Fargo, ND…Miles City, MT…Bozeman, MT…Missoula, MT…Spokane, WA…and in between
You sure learn a lot from driving halfway across the country. Or, maybe you don’t learn anything and you just wonder a lot. Or maybe you ask yourself why you don’t quit your job and all your responsibilities and nomad around the country working on farms for a while. Then you remember that, oh yeah, you’re doing just that.
I really don’t know much about America, and I would argue that a lot of Americans don’t. Sometimes I hate America, and then wonder if it’s alright to hate America when I really don’t know it all that well. One thing I do know is that you can’t define America with one word or even one sentence, as there are so many dissimilar experiences that make up America. I also know that agriculture is an inherent part of every definition you could possibly draw for America. It’s how we fuel, how we survive, our agriculture system powers our capitalism, it stratifies our communities, it isolates us, it hurts our environment, and it harms our health, but sometimes it works with our environment, sometimes it nourishes us, and sometimes it unifies us too.
Agriculture itself contains so many different definitions, and each farmer brings their own background, values, and strengths. This year, I want to learn about those differences and how they drive America. I want to learn specifically about female farmers’ experiences and the values and practices that they’ve brought from other countries, and how all of this disparity adds to the definition of America. After studying the dissimilar backgrounds and experiences of these farmers, there will probably still be a lot I don’t know about America. But, maybe I will hate America a little less and understand it a little more. I think we could all afford to hate a little less and understand a little more.
