Sustainable Sunday : Something Wicked This Way Comes

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The Letter from The Kitchens Garden

It is the perfect morning to write because all the windows are curtained in mist. It is early. I usually start to write about 5 AM. And because I do not need curtains out here in the country the sun usually wakes me up. But with the mist so thick this morning it feels like we are in a suspended time. We are lost now. Impossible to find. Safe. Tucked away in a cloud. It is early. Or late. I see nothing but sticks that indicate the presence of trees holding still in the white air. I cannot see much else through the thick cloud, I may as well be in a plane. I wish I was in a plane. The light feels heavy. The earth is exhaling the scent of cloistered water. Everything is hushed outside except for twitterings of housewife sparrows complaining of missing sunrises and children birds lost to the cracks of time. The wedding veil of mist is dropped draped right to the floor of the farm. I can barely see the field. We are safe here for the moment. Safe enough to say what we truly think? Can that even happen in todays transparent world.

Here is what I think - I have to whisper - I am getting tired of living in a house where the only other occupant thinks Mr Trump is a genius.

This is what I think.

Choose your words - and leave room for the consequences because there will be consequences. Words are like dominoes. Thoughts hit each other. Shouts ignite other shouts. I can stand all my little wooden domino bricks up but I need to make damn sure that when they fall they deliver a pattern you and I can manage.

If someone is diligently tending to their metaphorical garden or carefully assembling their dream, a harsh wind or unkind words can shatter their aspirations, extinguishing the seed of possibility. Knock a journey off course. Seedlings are delicate, so too are thoughts, don’t trample about carelessly. Regardless of age, one can inflict harm, extinguishing dreams with a cruel word or a frown. So, for the fucks sake, let's be kind.

When we were little and arguing or being unkind, our Mum would punish us by making us sit in separate tires out on the back lawn. The lawn was round and bordered by trees and raised bed gardens on one side and a curved concrete path that led to the clothes line down the back on the other. The big truck tires were spaced on the beach thin grass so that we could not belt each other but close enough that we could talk. And after a while of sullen silence, sitting in the dappled sun from the great gum trees, the scent of the beach would waft past, we would hear the cry of a gull and we would begin to talk to each other, then begin to whine to Mum in unison. She would be keeping an eye on us from the kitchen window. We would finally forget our grievances and band back together. Twisting around and perching on our tires. Could we go to the beach now. We promise to be good. We won’t say mean things about people again. We always had to shake hands and apologize to each other - even when we were little - looking each other in the eye. Sight. Sound. Touch. Promise. Think first. Think of the damage our words do.

The misdemeanour would be brought up at the family council (I think I told you about the family council)? The family council had rules of engagement, and called to order at the kitchen table. On a Sunday afternoon - much like this one. By then tempers had settled down and we could (in theory) sensibly discuss solutions. And everything was carefully scribed into the council minutes.

How then is it ok for people to stand up in public and be so mean. Just making shit up. Ignoring common decency. Someone needs to sit under the gum tree for a few minutes and think about his behaviour.

I am an immigrant to the USA.

I would like to write about how to live as an immigrant living in a house divided by politics the radio ringing with the rhetoric of an immigrant hater. But I am not brave enough. I blithely moved into rural America. I had no idea of the politics here. I was living in London at the time. Married an American I had known for decades and arrived here to live on the family land.

I am a New Zealander - an immigrant to the USA who has a green card and works and pays taxes. We all do. Once we are released from the system and finally receive our green cards and we are ALLOWED to work - this takes years by the way, we all hurry to find a job and start paying taxes. Even the un-documented immigrants pay taxes. Some pay more taxes than the rich tax dodgers who haunt the hallowed halls of power. And we work and pay our taxes in a language nobody bloody knows apparently. Because my English is accented? It is hard to learn a new language.

Full disclosure; almost everyone in this area where I live, (rural Illinois) votes for Trump, hangs his flag next to the confederate one painted on a pallet at their door, next to the American flag they have on pikes attached to the beds of their huge trucks. These people live here in my house too, I am their caregivers and partners and friends because I have made a promise to myself to love all equally no matter their politics. But we never speak of it. It is the only way to get out of this unscathed. I must rely on democracy to make the right choice. Sometimes it is scary.

But for the moment I am safe here - in my studio as the mist starts to gently swirl past the windows. Yet, I feel a foreboding. Something wicked this way comes.

Below is a piece I wrote in 2016 when Trump started banning people from travelling to the USA. It was a frightening time for us. I did not go home to see my children until the ban was lifted - there was just no guarantee the rules would not change again while I was out of the country. And it is getting frightening again. I have added notes today in italics. So this is both 8 years old and current.

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Yes, I am an Immigrant.

 This was written in response to Trumps 2016/17 Travel Ban - do you remember that?

You can even call me an expat- which is just a nicer word for an immigrant who still retains the passport of her birth country. I remain a New Zealander.

‘An expatriate (often shortened to expat) is a person temporarily or permanently residing, as an immigrant, in a country other than that of their citizenship. The word comes from the Latin terms ex (“out of”) and patria (“country, fatherland”).’

The land of my mother and father. My country.

Where I was born. As hard as I try I still have a foot in each country.

There are times, living here in America with a green card, as an immigrant, that I don’t feel that I belong here. I just want to go home. Such a child-like response to a fright. The Trump Travel Ban.

Many immigrants feel this way. We all carry a sadness within us, almost a feeling of failure that we could not thrive in our own countries, we had to leave to grow.

We are in America trying to fit in, with our green cards clutched in our hot little hands and trying to keep our mouths shut. To look grateful and unthreatening.

To get a green card is a long, arduous and expensive process. It takes years, just the background checks, police checks, etc.,  took a solid eighteen months for me just to be cleared, then on to the next step. And I had a lawyer. I come from a country that is not at war so the records are easy to find and they are in English. And don’t forget that the person applying for the permanent residency pays good money every step of the way. This is not a poor mans lark.

I talked to a lady yesterday who was shocked that a green card was so hard to obtain. (And it is harder and more expensive now, eight years later) Oh, she said, I thought that when you married an American you were automatically an American citizen. She did not mean to be rude she was just interested in whether I was a citizen or not. But no. Not at all. Where on earth did you get that idea from? I asked. Who told you it was easy? You have to apply and beg to be admitted, there is a ton of paperwork and records collected and interviews in towns miles from here and fingerprinting and photographing in other towns miles from here and waiting patiently and every expensive step underscores that no-one wants you here at all!  

Ten years ago, (2006) I married John, an American citizen who I have known since I was seventeen, but marrying him did not guarantee residency, not at all, I was put through a series of harrowing interviews and a war of paper and applications and lawyers visits. And during all through those years I could not leave the country unless it was an emergency. The powers that be needed toknow where I was at all times. Over two years later I had my green card. (This year 2024 a marriage green card or spousal visa, for example, can take anywhere from 13.5–37 months).

But I still hold a New Zealand passport. I renewed my USA green card when the time came. ($540 with a repeat of all the biometrics)

It is the law that I must carry my green card on me at all times as proof that I am allowed to be out on the street in America.

Once approved, the green card  only lasts for ten years.

I think it was easier for me though. I am an English speaking woman from a peaceful country and I have a long accessible paper trail of education and work history and I am married to an American. And I had the money to pay to apply for permanent residency. I am not the daughter of an undocumented Mexican woman or a Syrian doctor or a small Muslim girl in school or a young Algerian man with nothing but dreams or an Argentinian rugby player. How much harder is life for these people. The good honest ones – not the ones with bad intent – the ordinary immigrants like me.

And there are thousands more like me, ordinary educated working people, than there are criminals and murderers and rapists. Though apparently criminals and rapists can run to be presidents here in the USA. (sorry about that; the devil made me write that).

So many people are being threatened with deportation now from the place they were born in though to undocumented immigrants (remember this was 2016 and still - now in 2024 - those children who are adults do not feel safe) or they came here for work and support their families. Or were simply running from extreme violence or terrible poverty. Or being forced to leave their farms because the farms have become deserts in the rising heat and food is hard to find. Yet I am only here by chance.  It seems all wrong to me. What is the word I am struggling for – guilt? I feel guilty. I feel guilty that I am a privileged immigrant. I am not in America by choice – it is just where my husband lives.  I don’t bring important scientific knowledge or skills to this country,  I seldom even leave the farm except to travel out of the country which I was too afraid to do in 2016. I feel terrible sadness for the uncertain futures of those people who are not as lucky as I. Yet I feel a tide turning. Bad things are coming. A wicked thing this way comes.

These last few days I am struggling with a feeling that I cannot quite put my finger on. I feel … see that? I pause again … if this were a real conversation and you were in the room with me, I have gone quiet and am looking out the window trying to form English words for how I feel. Groping for them. This text has taken almost two hours to write already. My coffee has gone quite cold. I must get back to the fencing but I am not sure how I feel. I need to find the words. Afraid? Sad?  I feel out of step, isolated, foreign. I don’t understand anymore. I am confused. I don’t belong.

Every time I go out  – EVERY TIME – someone will say “Oh, I love your accent. Where are you from?.”  Every time, it is kindly pointed out that I do not belong here – I come from elsewhere. From a tourist destination no less. My country is a postcard. Why are you here – is the next question. These are very personal questions yet not one person blushes as they ask them or says – do you mind my asking. I am a little pointy triangle sitting in a restaurant booth made for nice round Americans.

The moment I speak several heads swivel towards me to listen. A foreigner is in their midst. Where? There. Is she safe?  Where does she come from?  Why is she here? They tuck their purses closer to their bodies and lower their voices again. And I am blonde and blue eyed.

But now the questions go a step further. It just got worse for us. For the immigrants.

On Wednesday two people I know reasonably well, asked me if I had voted  – no, I cannot vote – I am not an American. “You’re not? Why not? You can’t vote? Aren’t you a citizen? Don’t you want to be an American citizen?”.  Looking closer. “Oh, so you have a green card? How long does that last? We are not going to have to send you home are we – ha ha ha. Just joking”

The same conversation – twice. They are all energised about hunting down the immigrants and sending them home. Go back to where you came from.

No-one has asked me if I was a citizen before. No-one has ever asked if I was documented.

I am sure they did not mean to be unkind but they have been told they have a duty now – to check, you see. Maybe make a citizens arrest or something.

In two years my green card is up for renewal. My next logical step is to apply for citizenship. (Which is not a rubber stamp, this costs even more money, and examinations and more checks, proof that I still live with John, that I am embedded, no threat, not out of the country too often, own a car, make enough money, etc). But America confuses me now, I am a little afraid.

I did not apply for citizenship.

The atmosphere is changing. Double, double toil and trouble: Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Becoming a citizen is not the right step for me.

But I have a farm and a husband and his family here in the midwest and the farm harbours a number of souls in my care. I have a home here too. But the land belongs to the family. I do not have massive amounts of money to start again elsewhere even if I wanted to.

You see? 

And all yesterday and all last night and all this morning I was thinking about this. Trying to think my way past these words into how I was feeling about them. And when I went to write this morning before sunrise like I usually do,  these words would not get out of my way.

So I waited a while and now I give them to you. (2016 - 8 years ago)

I originally published this here: I Am An Immigrant Pop over and read the comments there, the conversation there is awesome.

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The Recipe:

No recipe today. How about you tell me what you have been making in your kitchen!

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The most watched TKG Take Ten of the Week:

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The Most Read Blog Post of the Week:

The Highs and Lows - Because - wow - weren’t those massive shifts from hot to cold as I wrote in the blog that morning.

Today we will reach a record high of 70f (21C) at 3pm and within 12 hours the temperature will have dropped to 24f (-4.5C). The highs are not a surprise anymore – it has been an unseasonably warm February – it is these massive swift temperature swings that will cause damage.

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The Sustainable Sunday Opinion

The weather and the climate are changing. It is here. The change. We need to work as hard as we can to slow down the warming but we also need to work hard at living safely within this changing climate. You will hear this two fold approach often from me. For some this means picking up and moving. There is a ton we can do. Helping our fellow world citizens is one of those things.

And plant trees. More on that soon.

Here is what I am reading in association with my studies into the displacement of communities due to natural disasters. Documenting the movements of people due to natural disasters exacerbated by a changing climate. I found this. It is in good plain language. See below for an excerpt. Then add this site to your list for later reading. There are graphs - I love graphs.

Slow-onset processes such as droughts or sea level rise also increasingly affect people’s mobility worldwide. In this regard, the World Bank’s Groundswell report projects that climate change could lead  up to 216 million people across six world regions (Sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia, Latin America, East Asia and the Pacific, North Africa, Eastern Europe and Central Asia) to move within their countries by 2050 if no urgent action to reduce global greenhouse gas emissions is taken (Clement et al. 2021).

So, let’s not judge our immigrants too fast especially from Pakistan and India and other regions where the storms of the past are now massive floods. Though the majority of environmentally impacted people movements are internal, to decide to leave ones country completely is an incredibly hard decision and incredibly hard to execute. But many have made this decision. They are called immigrants.

And here is a great article that was even a little uplifting. An excerpt.

To tackle climate change, we have to accept two things: climate change is happening and human emissions of greenhouse gases are responsible. We simply don’t have time to argue about the existence of climate change. By “we”, I mean all of us, collectively. The time for debating is over. We need to move past it to the question of what we’re going to do about it.

And I would add: Have you got a plan for living in this warmer wetter future.

I am writing this as my dog farts quietly behind my chair. And they say cows are bad!!

The other really important thing you can do is Vote. Both locally and presidentially. Please vote for someone you know for sure will join the world wide initiative in fighting for a healthy planet. As I said. I can’t vote here in the USA. I am not a citizen. That part of our work is up to you. I will plant your trees though. Right out here on the plains. And The Tenners - those of you who have upgraded to a paid subscription are donating to the trees, helping me write about it and of course feeding rescue pigs. Thank you!

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Here is one of the pigs you are feeding. And your reward for getting this far in today’s newsletter. Tima was concerned that this cat food tin had not been cleaned and the label removed and the tin crushed and dropped into the re-cycling.

See you tomorrow. (You know where).

Celi

🦋 Letters to my Mother (Letters from The Kitchens Garden Farm) which hosts TKG Take Ten AND Sustainable Sunday is supported by readers like you!

Thank you!