On Sundays I lie in the dirt, underneath a tree, and absorb tree and bird sounds. This tree exists along the periphery of the cornfield, amongst a thick biodiverse forest where deer, birds, raccoon, turkeys, and coyotes live and come out of to feed on the corn when we’re not around.
I am over half way through the harvest season, by late November I’ll have money in my pocket and no where to be. Where will I go when it’s cold and dark ? When my back can’t bend no more, and I look and act like a total kook because the monotony of picking has made me mad. Absolutely bat shit. Worse than long distance hiking has made me. And not mad in a good way, picking has made me neurotic and emotional; it’s monotonous and very physically demanding, for $10 an hour.
How can the average American live off that? I can because I live out of a backpack, and only have to care for myself. But I can’t imagine someone with a car, house and kids working for that wage! Don’t sell people “The American Dream,” and then blame them for wanting it when they can’t have it because (insert something about racism, money, consumerism, and cannibalism here).
In my room I have pinned up postcards of faraway desert landscapes, Apache warriors, and saguaros from Arizona and New Mexico; little reminders to get back there someday, for a hike, for a place to call home.