"With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things."
-Rudyard Kipling, The Gods of the Copybook
I believe the invisible hand of the free market has landed on my house. Well, not my house but the house directly behind my parents home here in Central Florida. I can hear the whispers of the 'F' word throughout the neighborhood. Foreclosure. Money lost with little understanding of where exactly it went. The market is mysterious like that. They tell us there are ups and downs.
Thoughts of the market are a luxury.
Until a few days ago I was living in a Trailer lacking reliable electricity and water, not to mention lacking a working refrigerator.
The market is a poison.
Beside my trailer lived 4 Mexican men lucky to have work. We spoke rarely because of the language barrier. We didn't have to say much. The market lived in their minds too. On the first day I arrived, the first question they asked me in broken english was: how long are you going to be here? Sizing up the competition.
The poison colors my world.
I spent about 4 days on a farm in Southern California working for a manager with no management skills. I spent 4 days on this farm and saw more of our broken system than ever before. At least two of those young men living next to me ran the border to live with their father here. In a meager trailer no more than 25 feet long and 7 feet wide I at my last meal on the farm and learned about courageous men who knew the hand of the Market better than me.
Later that day I was sizing up my trailer. Marking the smells of mouse piss in the shower and along the kitchen drawers. As thrilled as I was to be working on an organic farm, I knew Pigs couldn't fly. I knew my phone wasn't working and my boss was using me. It was only the first day so I had not started wondering what the Mexican guys were thinking. My mind was racing thinking of the work to be done.
I woke up early the next day hoping to get some early morning work done. I stood before the strawberry patch planning my point of attack. Looking for some tools to use I searched the barn, the road, and the field and found two buckets. I felt a little sick. My eyes began to burn. This might have been the first time I doubted my decision to uproot my life and commit myself to working this Southern California farm. The burning stretched from my eyes to my throat.
After close to half an hour I had a few trays full of strawberry runners ready to be propogated. I set up in the shade to start transplanting the delicate greens. There was no work station so I sat cross-legged and mixed the loose dirt I dug a dozen feet away with some manure and transplanted. I was working like this for about an hour or two before my boss walks out of his living quarters. I ask about my work but he seems uninterested. Pointing out loose potting soil on the ground a few feet from me he picks up a handful and tosses it at my feet. My future lays with the dirt at my feet. I didn't bend down to collect it. My throat tightens.
I see the farm for what it is: a disaster. I cannot work under these conditions and achieve anything besides burying a dead venture. I am not spending my time digging anymore of this man's dirt. The burning has reached a fevered pitch. I feel doubt: a new doubt I had never felt before. Like some meaningless product used and forgotten, I never again want to feel so cheap.
The burning resurges to my face and I begin to cry. My tears remind me of my dignity. I know then that I can stay no longer. I search out the owners and tell them I intend to leave as soon as possible. I have a hard time listening to either of them express their regrets. Even retired hippies can be utterly out of touch.
I leave early the next morning, thanks to my parents.
I arrive home Wednesday afternoon feeling mixed up. My chest no longer hurts but my mind rages with paranoia of failure and guilt. I do not know what I will do next. Farm? Not on any farm like the last one. I distrust anyone wearing overalls. Luckily my parents greet me with nothing but support. I knew I could count on them.
After a shower and a shave I feel a little bit more like myself. I intend to go to sleep early but stay up late talking with my brother of the world as we know it and the poisonous market. I dreamed of revival and relief. My parent's spare room does not smell like mouse piss.
I wake up Thursday morning and spend most of the day tying up my parents tomato plants and weeding in the back yard. I peek my head over the backyard wall a few times to look at the foreclosed property. My mom plans on buying it and turning the extra space into a garden area for me. With the Florida housing market being what it is, the house could go for as little as $100,000 dollars. Quite a deal. I could have my very own urban farm in the heart of Orlando. The market returns to its anointed position as the liberator it is.
Quite a deal.
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