“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you,
and that you will work with these stories…
water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom,
till you yourself burst into bloom.”
– Clarissa Pinkola Estes
The petite office of Dr. Phil Simon is tucked in the back of the UW Madison Carrot lab. It is filled with shelves and filing cabinets attesting to a lifetime of plant breeding. Surrounded and cocooned in history, Dr. Simon shares a primer on carrots and their history. His deep respect for carrots is as palpable as the books surrounding him. An eager Anthropology graduate student, I find myself in the office, pursuing my interest in plant breeding culture, seed histories, and carrots. Dr. Simon has generously agreed to allow me to apply a cultural lens to the Carrot Improvement for Organic Agriculture project.
Smiling, he shares stories of communities who have shared their cultural heritage and memories with him. Over his career, Dr. Simon has donated over 1,344 plant varieties to the National Plant Germplasm System (NPGS). One story in particular stuck with me. Decades earlier, Dr. Simon explored a small town in the former USSR, searching for carrot seeds. There, he was directed to a local elder, who graciously gifted her familial carrot seeds. Sitting and listening to Dr. Simon, my mind swirls with questions.
What are the ethical implications of global plant collection? How do the complexity and history of the United States foreign policy and NPGS impact how we view the plant breeding field? Without placing a judgment, I take a step back and am struck by the generosity of the Elder and the sweet nostalgia of Dr. Simon’s story. I consider the seed and wonder how many stories it has been a part of and what tables it has graced. I realize there is no black and white; only shades exist. There are a myriad of questions, worldviews, and cultures to consider. While mulling this over, I am transported back to memories of abundant fields and teeming greenhouses, glass jars in the dark recesses of NPGS, packing seeds away to be stored for ex-situ preservation, and sharing a warm meal with my farm crew. I feel the power of storytelling and the awe-inducing impact of nostalgia and memory.
We make meaning of our world through storytelling. Setting, theme, plot, archetypes, conflict, and symbolism build the world as we see it or dive deep into alternative possibilities. We hear and share our cultural narratives so often that they become deeply personal and sacred. The act of sharing and being seen satiates our deepest desires to be seen and to see another. Uncovering, lying bare, or rediscovering untold stories, we witness and expand our cultural and personal narrative and expression.
Stories show a path, shine a light on our way, teach us how
to see, and remind us of the greatest of human possibilities.
-Christina Feldman and Jack Kornfield
Kevser Özel, a Ph.D. candidate from the University of Wisconsin, laughs when I ask her how she became interested in carrots. Conspiratorially, she confides that she hadn’t profoundly thought of carrots before starting this graduate program. Kevser has become an expert on carrots. Kevser is from Turkey, where wild carrots were first cultivated. Kevser teaches me about Turkey’s history with carrots, its significant role as a global producer, and her connection to them. Through her academic experience, Kevser revisits recent and distant memories of agriculture, foodways, and her own cultural legacy.
Months later, Kevser introduced me to the deliciously briney Turkish carrot and turnip drink Şalgam. At the Organic Seed Alliance research farm in Washington, we take a break from carrot evaluations and giggle over champagne glasses. Kevser has sent bottles of Şalgam to the farm, sharing some of her culture with us. The intimacy of this gift is overwhelming; it is an honor to partake in another’s nostalgia and memory. While physically distant, I feel a kinship with Kevser, separated from my homeland and people. I, too, explore culture and seek comfort through sensorial experiences and commensality. While we may have a family or community heirloom seed story that locates us beyond the grasp of neoliberalism and capitalism, often, our seed stories have been shaped by agribusiness. For many of us, the food memories that feel homegrown are rooted in modern plant breeding. The New Mexico No.6, while developed in the 1950s, feels like home for my family. My familial connection to a modern variety doesn’t delegitimize my nostalgia, memory, and embodied experiences.
It doesn’t take much for the seeds of storytelling planted in childhood to resurface in my memory. An odor, a texture, an image can conjure the voices of the elder neighbors and loved ones whose healing tales blessed my youth. Today, I planted a row of sweet peas. I poked finger holes into the moist earth, dropped one seed in each hole, and patted the dirt solidly over each. Bees droned in the apple blossoms overhead. Memories swarmed like dreams. The soothing voices of those tellers washed over me, drawing me back to the sources of this passion I bear for stories.
-Erin Helm Meade
Dr. Jaspreet Sidhu, a vegetable crop advisor recalls a childhood filled with syrupy, sweet Gajar ka Halwa. Gajar ka halwa, a carrot pudding, consists of grated carrots, milk, sugar, cardamom, and roasted nuts. Reminiscing about the past, Dr. Sidhu transports us back to the sensorial memories of her childhood. It is these sweet and loving memories that motivate and inspire Dr. Sidhu. Dr. Sidhu hopes to give her children the taste, texture, scent, and color of childhood. We discuss the importance of sharing our foodways with the next generation. We explore youth garden, culinary, and plant breeding education; at a fundamental level, we discuss the development of food and seed stories, memory, and nostalgia. We sit in a moment of silence, and I realize that we are making meaning of our work through nostalgia and passion.
Stories are to society what dreams are to individuals. Without them, we go mad.
-Isabel Allende
The story of seeds and seed stewards is one of complexity. Each seed story comprises embodied memories, sensorial knowledge, and commensal experiences. Through this experience, I was allowed to come along as Dr. Simon reflected on moments that profoundly shaped him. Kevser welcomed me heartily as she shared tastes of her childhood, homeland, and its history with carrots. Dr. Sidhu allowed me to witness and partake in her nostalgia, hope, and dreams of the future. Each individual’s unique story and passion have become a part of my nostalgic memories and seed story.
The seeds themselves contain multitudes of experiences. If we were to take the time to explore, ask, and listen, we would be encircled by a limitless number of narratives, each narrative teaching us about ourselves and one another. Through a compassionate gaze, I see the individuals who make up the seed system. I consider the viewpoint of those who experience the anguish of biopiracy, the taking of ancestors, the loss of technical ecological knowledge, and ecological memory. I acknowledge the suffocation we feel as we navigate impossible situations with imperfect knowledge.
Commodification has wreaked havoc on our connection to ourselves, plants, and the earth. Collectively we grieve the loss of biodiversity and potential futures. We ache to come to terms with our role as co conspirators in it all. We strive to survive, bring about positive change against immense odds, and thrive. It is through sharing and witnessing one another, seeds and seeds’ stories, and shadows that we move beyond shame into loving acceptance, accountability, and collective liberation. Like our more-than-human kin, we change, adapt, and grow in community.
What seeds and seed stories have influenced you?
Images by Susana Cabrera-Mariz
