Aozora Brockman

Real Joy

On Sunday morning, I could hardly lift my head off of my pillow after dancing for three hours to electro-jazz the night before. But I was meeting my good friend Val’s brother for lunch in Waikiki, so I forced my exhausted body out of bed and made sure to shower and write in my journal before rushing out to catch the bus. In a sleepy daze, I walked around, confused, before I found the bus stop and then did not have enough change to get on. But contrary to the bus drivers in Evanston, the older man in glasses driving the bus let me on with no trouble.

I was supposed to change buses, but I just decided to walk about an hour from the University of Hawaii campus, all the way down to the beaches of Waikiki. I put on my shades and walked purposefully and quickly, chin up, an independent woman. I had never been good with directions or following maps, but I was able to follow a path on my handy pull-out map of Honolulu to find my way there. On the way I saw a homeless black man laying outside a restaurant, a bakery with a huge line of tourists lined up outside of it, a Starbucks where I stopped to grab a bottle of water and a cute little clothing store that I wished to explore later. My iPod was not working for some odd reason, so instead of focusing on music, I took in the scenery and thought about dancing to live music the night before.

The steady beats of the electro-jazz music had pulled me out of my seat to dance alone in front of the band that night. The music was unlike anything I had heard ever before – there was an electronic house beat that the drummer we had interviewed some nights before was fiddling with while also playing percussion, a steady bass drum beat made by Makaya, my professor’s husband, a saxophone player, and a bongo drummer. It was a fusion of improvisational jazz, electronic music and African drumming, and when I danced I felt the earthy beats resonate within me. We had come to observe how the mixed-Black drummer performed, and also to see how the crowd responded. We were doing anthropological research on how locals and military or tourists engaged together, as well.

As I kept on walking toward Waikiki, I remembered how at first I had been self-conscious and stiff as I danced and felt the eyes of strangers peering at me as I tried to feel the beats. But by the time the third hour-long set had started, my body was completely loose and I was smiling, hitting the ground with my feet to the beat of the drums. Now others were dancing, as well, and I felt a happiness swell within me. I loved when the drumming quickened and my feet made swifter stomps, twirling and waving my hands, faster and faster. I could feel my heartbeat speed up with the drumming and I would close my eyes and smile, lost in my own world.

I could see the beach now as I neared the expensive shops, towering skyscrapers and palace-looking hotels. I had come to swim at the Waikiki beach some days before with Professor Sharma, Makaya and Maya. The sand was white and fine, the salty, Pacific water crystal clear and the waves strong, rushing against my body as I attempted to wade out. I watched as local – probably Samoan – children dived into the water from the cement block above the ocean, laughing and chattering. I wondered what it would be like to grow up so close to this paradise of water, these healing waves and sand that takes all worries away with the tide…

It was starting to sprinkle rain as I walked toward the Outrigger hotel, where perhaps the most famous restaurant in Honolulu, Duke’s, is located. Val’s younger brother, Tom, works as a waiter there, and had invited me to have lunch with him. I had fresh sashimi (raw fish) and a delicious smoothie, with Tom did not let me pay for. He is an incredibly nice 27 year old and we hiked up a gigantic crater called Diamond Head together. It was not the right time to do it, since the place was crowded with – mostly Japanese – tourists and the sun was high in the sky, but we well hydrated with water bottles, and the hike was not bad. The view at the very top of the high rises of Waikiki and the deep blue water of the Pacific Ocean were breathtaking. I learned from Tom that Diamond Head had been used as a military look out spot during World War II.

The sashimi Tom treated me to at Duke’s!

Waikiki from above – the view from the top of Diamond Head.

Back in Waikiki, I ate a little of Tom’s burger and fries after thanking him and saying goodbye. Then I explored the International Marketplace right across from the restaurant, a marketplace covered with tents selling souvenirs of every kind. I bought a dress, souvenirs, postcards and another smoothie, this time mango and banana. I was exhausted from all of the walking and dancing I had done in the past 24 hours, so I passed out on the beach for a little while before discovering a traditional hula show at sunset. The girls who danced to the live chanting and drumming looked young and I observed them in depth, awed by their graceful movements.

Lots of tourists milling about in the International Marketplace

Later I met up with Professor Sharma, her husband and brother and their friends at an expensive restaurant called Mai Tai, located in a gigantic, pink-colored, exquisite hotel called the Royal Hawaiian. There, we watched and conversed with a Black Hawaiian falsetto singer who was performing. We asked to see if he would be available for an interview. They had a professional, Japanese-looking hula dancer performing in front of the singers, as well, and I was so excited to learn hula that when they asked for volunteers to come up on stage and learn a dance, I got over my embarrassment of being the only non-toddler on the stage and learned to hula.

When we exited the restaurant, I noticed that the hotel helpers drove the car up for us. It blew my mind how expensive it would be to spend a night at this pink, palace of a hotel. I had noticed that Waikiki is full of Japanese tourists, mostly young couples and young families and realized that Hawai’i for them was a made up paradise quite like Disneyland. I wondered if working day in and day out at a stressful workplace in Japan to make enough money to stay at a place such as the Royal Hawaiian was worth it, and if they were really happy. The mixed black local drummer we had interviewed probably would never stay at such an expensive hotel and did not make as much money as these tourists, but when I watched him close his eyes and drum on stage, I felt this wave of joy. That was all he needed to laugh his gigantic laugh, to be utterly content. I realized that real paradise is finding joy in work, not escaping work for joy.

The Sound of Freedom

Looking up from my research on my laptop yesterday in a coffee shop down the valley in Manoa Marketplace, I thought I saw Mommy opening the door and walking in. I was confused but very happy for a second, thinking, how could this be? But then I realized that it was a woman that looked very similar to my mother. It has been strange – but very lovely – for me to get used to seeing so many Japanese people around in a setting that is obviously not Japan. At home, hearing strangers speaking Japanese is so rare that I get pretty excited when it happens, but here, I hear Japanese all the time, all over.

My days here so far have been filled with new experiences, eight hours or more of research work per day, and adventures afterwards. Every single second seemingly has been used, from the moment I wake up, to the moment I hit my pillow at night. I am late to bed and early to rise, and even in my half-jet lagged, still exhausted state, I love the business that is my life right now.

Taking a break from research work, the other day I walked down to the local, brand-new library down the valley. There, I discovered an exhibit on Japanese American internment in Hawai’i, which I had never heard about before. I learned that only one percent of the Japanese-descended population in Hawai’i were interned during the war, but that it had made a significant impact on the community because those who were targeted were leaders of the Japanese community. Thus, like on the mainland, Japanese-descended Americans felt ashamed of their heritage. They did not seek repercussions until even later than the Japanese Americans on the mainland, but the internment camp is well-preserved. I would like to visit it, if I have time, since it is on O’ahu.

After again getting a little lost on the way back from the coffee shop, but safely finding my way back yesterday afternoon, my professor’s family and I hung out on the lanai before my professor, her husband and I left for our first interview. We grabbed some dinner at a local restaurant where I ordered a furikake mahi wrap. Mahi is a kind of white fish, and furikake is a Japanese food that you shake on to white rice to add taste, and often includes dried seaweed and fish. The restaurant was in Ala Moana, so I remembered how the day before, I had visited the Ala Moana mall with Maya and her grandmother. The mall is gigantic and filled to the brim with tourists from all over the world. I ordered a fried banana, which was very sweet and delicious, and then went up to another bakery to get anpan, a Japanese desert bread filled with azuki bean paste. The guy at the counter apparently thought that it was strange that I was ordering anpan and said it was something you ate for breakfast, but I laughed and said it was fine. Anpan was something I rarely was able to have growing up, so I was very excited to eat it then, which he might have thought was weird…

Back at the restaurant, as we waited for our food, we saw a man who we assumed was Black, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, waiting in line. Professor Sharma and I got excited because our research is on Black Hawaiians, or Blacks in Hawai’i, and our research suggests that African Americans, Africans, or mixed race Blacks are rare on the islands. But we did not know how to approach him and ask where he was from and what he was doing in Hawai’i, and perhaps if I were doing an article, it would have been easy to do so, but going up to someone because he was black seemed strange and a bit like racial profiling, so it was very difficult to do. However, we noticed that he had an English accent, which was very interesting. Soon he was even standing right next to me, waiting for his food, as well, so I was in a conflicted state of wanting to start a conversation but feeling too awkward to do so in that bustling restaurant filled with Japanese tourists. Sadly, we left before any of us could get up the nerve to strike up a conversation, so we may never know what his story is…

Then we drove across Honolulu to a sort of shady part of town with strip clubs and not much lighting. We were in search of a tiny drumming studio, where we were meeting our interview subject, so we walked up a long ramp to the roof, where there was a parking lot. It was dark and rainy, and the deserted feeling of the place made me feel as if we were detectives on the chase. It would have been a perfect place to shoot a gun battle. My excitement rose as we crossed a metal, thin bridge over to a row of small, lit up studios which emitted drumming and piano melodies. The light from the studios reminded me of the little rooms on the bath house for spirits in the Japanese anime Spirited Away and it all seemed unreal – a dream.

We soon met the man we came to interview and he set up a makeshift table and shared our dinner with him. I went into a panic because my voice recorder ran out of battery during the interview, and though I brought extra batteries, just in case, by the end of the hour-and-a-half interview, all of my batteries had ceased to provide power. It was extremely unfortunate and I felt like I had failed my professor. When interviewing people for journalism, this had never happened before, so I had been confident that my recorder would work. Thus, it came as a great and awful shock that we had lost parts of his interview because of battery failure…

Since Professor Sharma’s husband, Makaya, is a professional drummer, after the conclusion of the interview, both men took hold of separate drum sets and began to improvise and jam out together. I sat on the ground and moved to the beat, tapping my hands on the ground and closing my eyes to drink in the sound of their music. Makaya had more of a set rhythm and pattern, but the other drummer was all over the place, watching Makaya intently in order to play in sync. They both were playing on drum sets that our interviewee had made himself. The beats were innovative and so full of life that I wished that the drumming could go on forever. I wished that I could get up and dance to it – it was the sound of freedom.

On the drive back to the house Professor Sharma and Makaya showed me Waikiki and Chinatown. I am learning so much about interviewing and how to do anthropological research, and Professor Sharma and Makaya seem to know every single restaurant and event places in Honolulu. I am very impressed and strive to learn even more.

Then we passed by the ocean – my first time seeing the Pacific in Hawai’i – and I stared out at the sliver of the moon reflected on the smooth ocean water – a beautiful, floating light – and I was so thankful for these adventures and learning trials.

Brewing Rain Clouds

Last night I listened to the rain come and go – sometimes short little showers, sometimes longer blasts of rainfall. I would lay there, half awake, and feel myself relax and think of home as the crescendo of the water on the roof gradually deepened, filling the house. What I love about Manoa Valley, where my professor’s family lives, and where I am staying these three weeks in Hawai’i, is that though there are so many neighbors and many houses close to us, at night everything is quiet. There are no city sounds of cars or people, and I fall asleep with a smile to the sound of the wind and rain and birds.

My relaxing slumber has seemingly wiped away the exhaustion that caused my eyes to redden and water last night after a delayed nine hour flight to Honolulu. I had so many piercing nerves on the journey here – mostly because the last time I rode an airplane was when I was coming home from Tokyo after experiencing the earthquake disaster, so long flights do not make me feel comfortable anymore. But it was also because I did not know what to expect, and did not trust myself to do well on this research trip.

After landing, we took a taxi through the island and Professor Sharma pointed out Waikiki, the downtown area, the Punahou School that President Obama attended, a Japanese school, and many more sights. The island is compact, but larger than I expected, and the black clouds that brewed at the mountaintops took my breath away. When we arrived at her mother’s beautiful home, I settled in and took a quick shower before heading out on my own to explore a bit before the sun set.

My body and mind not quite awake, I strolled along the road down to the local park, where I heard there was an Olympic-sized pool. On my way I passed bright purple, red, and yellow flowers and I passed by a mother-daughter pair speaking what I assumed to be Vietnamese. Later I passed by two women who were speaking Korean, and I could not wait to see how these mesh of cultures and people lived on this island. I looked up at the dark, edges orange-tinged, rapidly shifting clouds and at the little ducks in the stream close by to the park. I could not believe how similar these sights were to home. Yet it was so different, I realized, as I listened to the bird calls so eerie to me and peered up at a large coconut tree.

The street lights were turning on and the world was fading into darkness as I headed back and I soon found myself to be lost. Every house looked the same to me now, and every shrub and garbage bin looked as if I had passed them by on my way. I tried not to panic as I walked quickly up and down the long, hilly streets, but finally I took a deep breath and forced myself to think. This allowed me to realize that I had taken a right too soon, and after calling my professor to find out what number the house was, I realized I had passed by the house twice before realizing it was there all along.

When I entered the house, proud that I had ultimately found my way home (sort of) on my own, I realized that there was nothing to worry about – I was in a beautiful, very safe place with wonderful people, and I was excited to let the adventures begin.

Dear Asa

I wish you were here to see
Those beautiful, black, angry clouds that rolled in
Taking over the morning sky today in mere minutes and
The sight of Daddy, running to the big truck
Holding onto his white hat, yellow rain pants bright and
Blurring in the eerie, dark light.

I wish you could hear
The sound of crashing rain and clanging
Tomato buckets as Val and I piled them up
In the back of the big truck and sat there, in pitch black
Hoping tents would not fall on us as
Daddy drove back on the road.

I wish you could see
The rain through the hole in the truck floor as
It caught the light of the back lights and
Sparked, like firecrackers…

I wish you could look
Across the potato field, as I did, and see
Kazami wrap a potato in wet, black mud and
Toss it happily between his hands
A little boy, once again.

And as I caught wet watermelon from Daddy
Diving for some, squatting low for the heavy ones –
I remembered you protectively blocking my face as
Daddy’s quick tosses led to a terrifying showering of melons
Last Friday – your last harvest of the summer – and
I wished you were still here,
Smiling down at me from the bed of the truck,
Hands up, waiting for the throw.

Cackling Chickens

The wind was picking up for a second time on the farm Thursday, blowing cold against my skin and lighting the flame of hope inside of me. Matt called over the rippling sound of the air to let me know that rain was coming, and sure enough, when I looked up at the hazy, grey sky, I saw a line of pouring rain across the field barreling straight towards where we were picking bunches of chard.

I had forgotten my raincoat, so I shivered as the rain soaked me to the core, drenching my back in a matter of seconds. My knife slipped in my wet hands as I tried to cut the leafy green stalks of chard, but I was smiling in pure glee, the feeling of contentment growing inside of me. There was something completely freeing about getting drenched from head to toe in fresh, freezing rainwater on the farm.

Later, I asked Daddy as he made a sample of Hopi Red Amaranth for Kazami and I to pick, if he was happy with all of the rain showers that had happened this week. Daddy just shook his head in wonder and said, “I checked the rain gage and it said nine-tenths of an inch from just today’s rain. I just can’t believe it!”

When it had rained on Saturday afternoon, when he was coming home from the market, Daddy had said that we did not have to irrigate that night. But more rain came on Wednesday, and now, we would make it through a whole week without moving drip tape lines. We had been irrigating nonstop ever since I came home for the summer, so not having to worry about finding header lines or dragging out hoses seems strange.

Kazami had sustained the soaking from the storm, as well, but like me, had enjoyed it immensely. He was in such a good mood while bunching amaranth with me that he was singing to himself and giggling at his own puns. I could not help but think about how both of my sweet, handsome, dependable brothers were leaving the farm soon. Asa was going back to school for his final year of undergrad the following Monday, and Kazami was tagging along to visit the University of Alabama to see if he would like to attend that college. Days before I would leave on a flight to Hawai’i to work as a research assistant to one of my most favorite professors at Northwestern, Kazami would leave the house to go back to boarding school for his final year, as well. Summer on the farm was coming to a close too soon.

But Kazami’s laughter never fails to make me chuckle, as well, so I found myself in a fit of giggles while finishing out the last of the amaranth and all the way home to the shed. When I got out of the red truck, Asa told me, “Your laughter sounds like the cackle of a scared chicken.” Confused, I thought he had said that the sound of my laughter had scared the chickens, which was both upsetting and sort of amazing that it had been that loud. When I explained this to my brothers, they erupted into laughter. I did, too, and wondered if this time, the chickens had heard.

Everlasting

I slam the Prius’ black car door shut,
Fuming and furiously fighting back tears and as I
Stomp out my frustration across the field, I feel
Panic twist itself into my mind, bubbling and bursting,
Screaming that nothing seems to be working out –
Those I love are leaving, breaking away to fly,
To find a place in the world and
Time is slipping out of my grip, again, as I await
My own upcoming island adventure, while my stomach knots in worry,
As bags deepen in color under my exhausted eyes and I
Try in vain to hold on to tranquility.

But then I see it, in the melon patch –
That striped green ball of sugary goodness
Shooting from Daddy’s callused hands to Val’s, up to a smiling Kazami
In the red truck, and placed carefully into a wooden box –
So I take over for Val, catching Daddy’s tosses,
Even the silly ones – from underneath his legs, to the side,
Accidentally hard into my belly, sometimes
Too silly to catch, even though I lunge in every effort
To save those precious globes from a fatal smashing.

From time to time Daddy stops, slips out his knife and
Cuts open a melon to taste, and in between tosses
Kazami and I, too, gobble up pieces of yellow, red, swirly-orange
Watermelon, juice dripping off of our chins, spitting out
Black seeds in record time, so that we can
Ready ourselves in crouching melon catching position once more.

By the time the truck is filled to the brim with the sweet aroma
Of orange-fleshed muskmelon mixed with sugary watermelon and
Covered, too, with boxes and boxes of fragile fruit,
Soft purple streaks across the sky, over deep blue and
Kazami hums “Party Rock Anthem” as we move drip tape down
Corn, beans, and newly planted lettuce beds, and when
My reckless little brother whizzes by on the tractor at top speed,
Curly brown hair blowing off of his tan forehead, I shake my
Head in disbelief but smile, thinking of his joyful laugh.

When I turn on the road to pick him up with the car at the
Land Connection barn to go home, the radio is playing
“Party Rock Anthem”, so I turn it up loud so that
Kazami giggles, hearing it, and starts to shuffle playfully
Dancing cheerfully before getting in and then
I am laughing, all panic, frustration and sadness
Erased and replaced with the taste of watermelon and
This simple love that envelopes us –
Sweet, sticky, and everlasting.

Rain Dances for Rainbows

Adrenaline is rushing through my veins as
I lift and set the last bucket of blushing red hybrid tomatoes
into the bed of the truck, peering up at dark clouds,
feeling the rushing wind, moving faster and faster, on my skin
I turn – Val’s eyes and smile are wide – she felt a drop!
I dance as I make my way to the truck, whispering for more.

It comes, then, in waves of large drops –
from those smoldering black clouds, we cheer
as water splatters on the windshield, wipers fast to clear it away
and I open the window to let the rain hit my face
wanting to jump out right then to dance barefoot
in the rain, but knowing full well that these tomatoes need
to get to the safety of the shed, I squash that longing inside of me.

But once the tomatoes are safe, and Daddy lets us all go
The rain is still calling for me, pouring hard on the shed roof so
I run gleefully up to the house, take off my shoes and I’m
free – to do turns on the wet cement, lifting my face
to drink some drops, rain pouring into my eyes and I
let my hair down, shaking it as water drenches my curls and
I lay down to listen to the showering of drops as they
soak me through and through.

Later, Kazami, taking a larger-than-necessary tomato sandwich
in his hands to eat, shouts in wonder and points outside the window
and then I see it, too – a perfect, glorious rainbow behind the trees
a lighter rainbow right behind it, glowing brightly in the fading light as
the rain slows to a steady, lazy beat and I’m smiling to the sky –
my hair dripping with water and my heart dripping with gratitude.

DISCLAIMER FROM DADDY:

Though the rain was nice, it only amounted to about 15/100 of an inch, which is not enough to satisfy out thirsty field. So tonight, like many nights before in these dry, summer weeks, Kazami and I will be moving drip tapes in the dark, with our headlights lighting the way… Sigh…all we can do is hope for rain that will make a difference.

Hardships (and Joys) of Drought

“Is this the kind of wind that signals the coming of rain?” Asa asks Daddy in the cool dawn darkness of Thursday morning, ripping off old, shriveled leaves off of deep purple beets and sorting them into piles of different sizes for Daddy to make bunches out of. Sure enough, the air is moving in an eerie way, rippling through my hair as I handle the Golden beets in the same way across from Asa. Daddy, sitting between us, twirling beet bunches with flourish, answers curtly. “No, that’s the kind of wind that signals that the rainclouds are departing.”

Except for a few strange, sudden five minute showers that, as Daddy says, “mean nothing”, Henry’s Farm has not received a single drop of rain again this week. I had heard on the radio earlier in the week that Illinois is suffering from the worst drought since 1988 this year. Corn and soybean production is expected to be severely limited, so farmers have been petitioning for help from the government. Similarly, we have been suffering as well, and to be true, if we do not irrigate on a daily basis, our farm would be quite barren. Some crops, such as summer squash, cucumbers and tomatoes, are not doing so well even with irrigation. The summer squash plants are covered with squash beetle eggs, and most are already getting eaten alive by the stink bug look-a-likes. Grandpa informed us that this may be due to the fact that the bacteria that work to eat the squash beetle larvae die off in the intense heat, so more eggs survive. My heart also drops whenever we harvest tomatoes, since most have a mysterious “butt disease”, as I like to call it, which causes the tomato ends to rot. We hypothesize that this illness is due to a lack of calcium in the soil. I am hoping that the first fruits will be the only ones that have this odd rot, since the heirloom tomatoes we picked on Tuesday in the greenhouse did not have much butt disease, but hoping, I have come to conclude this year, does not change anything.

But I am glad that our farm has a great variety of vegetable kinds and varieties, since while summer crops seem to be less productive this year, other crops are doing better than last year. The carrots that Matt, Lucas and I are pulling from the ground and bunching, for example, are beautiful – the roots large and tops sturdy. When Daddy was showing us the bunch size, he commented that regular irrigation leads to gorgeous root vegetables. “In regular years, they either get too much rain or too little,” he explained. “I understand now why most of our vegetables are grown in the California and Arizona desert.”

“But they’re also draining the river there, right?” Matt had interjected then. How true, I think to myself as I remember this, burrowing my hands down into the damp, black, just-irrigated soil. The regular irrigation we have been doing all summer has been slowly draining our own supply of our reservoir of glacier water, a precious resource.

It is also very taxing to our physical and mental stamina, I think later, as we attempt to set up new lines on another section of the farm after making hundreds of onion bunches and digging potatoes. This time, we had enough lines to drag over from another section, which was great. However, now Sydney is spearheading an expedition to find another header line (the bigger hose that connects to the even larger, fire hose, in which all of the drip tape lines are to be connected) to stretch out until the end of the rows we want to water this time. Mass confusion ensues as Sydney wants to use a line that is now being used to irrigate another set of rows, and we are all yelling out different ideas as to what we should do. I set out to try and find another header line somewhere in this expansive field, as Sydney suggests. Finally, we just decide to snap off the section of the header line that is not being used, and we all line up – me in front, then Kazami, Janaki, Sydney and Lucas – lift it over our heads, and start the procession across the field. When we finally figure out how to connect the header line to the other one, and then cap the end so that the water does not flow out, Val and Matt are still attempting to figure out how to connect the red fire hoses. By the time we are in the truck, heading back to the wash area, we are all drained from running out the lines in the heat and from thinking about what goes where, and how to go about doing it.

There is something about this never-ending heat and dry spell that causes every Brockman family member to pass out almost instantly after coming home after eight hours of work in the field, after eating Mommy’s delicious homemade basil, tomato and mozzarella cheese pizza, and after taking a cool, refreshing shower. We sleep like the dead for hours, until Daddy has to wake up to wash all of the root vegetables, and I convince myself to lift my heavy body out of bed. As I head back to the house after putting the washed veggies in the cooler, I spot Koko in the shade underneath the Market truck, eyes closed, her legs splayed out in ultimate relaxation, breathing slowly, deep in slumber, and I bet she is dreaming of cooler days.

Dust Song

Dust is everywhere, hovering.

A menacing cloud behind the tractor
as Otousan plants the beds.
It billows up from under our feet
as we follow the seeder.

Dust in our hair, smudged on our faces,
stained on Otousan’s once-white shirt.
Kazami coughs, covers his nose and mouth.

I look up at the darkening sky,
my eyes pleading for drops of rain
to fall from above.

Rain, rain, rain, please, rain, rain.
I am chanting in my head as I switch the seed.
please give Otousan a break
from late night drip tape running,
please erase our collective, hopeless sigh
when Otousan announces it is time
to switch the water, again,
Rain, will you not come? Please, please, rain…

Val and Sydney yell across the field.
Pull on the other side.
I put it on the wrong row!

Asa wraps twine taut around tomato poles
in the greenhouse, securing the tall vines
as the sun begins to dive into the trees
setting the tips on fire,
the rest a silhouette
against orange-red sky.

It almost rained this morning.
Did you see those clouds?
Kazami pipes up beside me.
Otousan answers quietly as he flips through seed,
deciding what to plant next:
It almost rained…
But what can you do?
His voice drips hopelessness.

We finish our planting
when most sunlight has faded.
It is impossible now to read
the numbers on the seed plates.
The drip tape lines are set up,
beds upon beds planted,
tomatoes trellised, sun set.
The dust remains,
one drop of water
not yet fallen from the sky.

My chants continue as Otousan drives,
headlights bright against the dark, dry field of dust.
Rain, rain, rain, please, rain, rain…
Please.

Laughing at Lamb’s Quarters

The Lamb’s Quarters that were invading the green kale rows seemed to be laughing at me as I slashed at their tenacious roots on Independence Day. Even as I put every ounce of remaining energy into raising my scuffle hoe high in the air and coming down where root met ground with great force, the metal of my hoe just bounced back, not even making a dent in its thick roots. I heard it giggle through the unbearably humid air, making fun of me – I was too weak for it. Sweat dropped like beads from my forehead to the ground as I slashed and slashed. But with every clang of my hoe I felt my energy drain, my thirst for water increase, and hopelessness slowly take over my heart.

Finally, it looked like the root was cut enough that I could pull it out. Yet as I gathered the magnificent plant in my hands and started to tug, I could hear its laughter increase. Of course it would not budge, holding fast to the earth with determination. I clenched my teeth and pronounced war, trying in vain to yank it out of the ground. Just when it seemed as if it were going to give, the top part of the plant pulled off, leaving the rest of its multitude of roots still firmly in the ground.

I gave a shriek of anger and felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was too pathetic to even get a dreadful Lamb’s Quarters plant out of the field and too drained to move on hacking at the remaining forest of looming Lamb’s Quarters in front of me.

The exhaustion had originated from mulching the peppers, tomatillos, and some of the tomatoes all morning in 100 degree heat and heavy humidity. I had wrapped a handkerchief over my nose and mouth so that I would not breathe in the dust. Like the rest of the crew – Janaki in particular, since she had multiple handkerchiefs wrapped around her face – I looked like a bandit. Still, when mulching with a bale of moldy hay, I started to cough and everything began to taste like mulch. As I carried the hay bales down the long rows of peppers, I would count my steps in order to forget how my arm muscles ached, weighted down by the hefty bale. Then I would find my hand hoe, the metal part sizzling hot to the touch, and cut the string. Sitting down on my hands and knees, I would then distribute the mulch, making sure to push it forcefully against the pepper plants, leaving no room for weeds to grow. Mulching is my least favorite job on the farm since it takes so much energy to lug the bales and to distribute the hay while feeling as if you cannot breathe the whole time. But mulching in 100 degree, humid conditions was my worst nightmare, since the sun’s fiery rays stole away most of my energy.

Back in the jungle of Lamb’s Quarters, I was halfheartedly hitting the roots of another plant, which were refusing to budge. My head was starting to pound, a sure sign of dehydration, so I decided to trek across the field to the red truck and get a drink of water. I drank in desperate gulps and then fully refreshed, made my way back to the kale, eating a banana. I realized then that somewhere along my adventure of chopping evil Lamb’s Quarters, I had lost my hand hoe. My fatigued, emotional state combined with this insight made me want to weep once more. Thankfully, after searching frantically – the special hand hoes were shipped in from Japan and thus could not be lost – Janaki helped me locate my precious object underneath a heap of dreaded, murdered Lamb’s Quarters.

We had moved on to another bed, where the Lamb’s Quarters were still young and thus still slash-able. I felt my energy surge and when Val came over to tell us that Daddy said we could either take a break at noon, which was in fifteen minutes, or work until one, I was feeling so invigorated that I wished to stick it out one more hour. Val gave us clippers to cut out the Lamb’s Quarters, which was a much easier way to quickly get rid of the weeds. I felt gleeful as I snipped at the plants, watching them fall to the ground. I giggled – what weak weeds!

Fifteen minutes later, Kazami came over, his face red and eyes tired. “Daddy says we have to go home now,” he told me, so I replied that I was going to stay. He shook his head and told me it was Daddy’s order.

Later, as I waited for Matt to drive the red truck over to where Kazami and I were standing next to the road back to the house, I watched as Daddy bent over the weeds at the lettuce patch, cutting them out with swipes of his slicer hoe. I knew he, with his aching back and tired muscles, would work on for at least another hour in the hot, humid air.

I knew that the Lamb’s Quarters were wrong – I was not weak. I could work through anything if I had water and food. I knew that I was Daddy’s daughter and I was tough.