Who Picked These Strawberries I eat?
I wonder
Whose hands, quick and gentle,
Picked these ripe and luscious organic strawberries?
And are they safe right now?
Was it an immigrant (almost certainly)?
A refugee awaiting asylum (quite possibly)?
The strawberries don’t care or judge.
I want to care, to know, to thank them.
So I imagine…
I psychometrize my strawberries
nestled in off-white cream
Like a psychic holding a ring
to do a reading of mysteries.
Whose hands?
Young, old?
Big, small?
Rough and used to labor
Or delicate and new to this work?
Hands of all sizes and shapes
float before my eyes—
Many shades of skin, all stained red by juice.
Man, woman, trans, non-binary?
Was it hot under blazing climate-changed sun?
Or foggy under a California coastal marine layer
that offers a pleasant chill?
These strawberries are from Watsonville, California. I’ve been there, at healing retreats— peaceful Mount Madonna rising from among the fields. I’m in Canada this summer seeking respite from heat and madness. My Canadian friends assiduously read labels hoping to avoid US products. I buy these anyway. My excuse to myself is not putting organic farmers out of business, or putting workers (paid fairly, I hope!) out of a job. But I look at these crimson jewels and I see layers of hands. Smooth brown hands of youngsters (hopefully not children) Women’s hands worn by work and elements, strong and careful. Men’s hands of many ages— Some Elders with wrinkled skin and many harvests behind them. What are their names? Where were they born? Far away or just down the road? Aptos, Santa Cruz, Gilroy? Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Venezuela, Southeast Asia? Do they have the magic “papers” That make them magically “legal” Within imaginary borders of twice-stolen land? They pay taxes, really they do. Look it up. “Do your own research,” as you are always telling others. They pay taxes Even if they don’t have documents. Even if they will never claim social security or Medicare. They touch our food, tenderly, deftly, quickly. That’s why it’s so perfect. Have you ever picked strawberries? Felt them come away from the mother plant, held them carefully in their perfection of myriad fractal shapes? No one is “illegal” on the Mother Earth we share. What strange fictions frightened humans conjure. So, remember With each bite, as the sweetness explodes on your taste buds, Remember someone picked them and maybe they were chased through the fields today By “La Migra.” And wonder, too, what kind of people join that? What kind of people have no empathy? Ice should be cooling on a hot global-warmed fiery day Not the ice that must run through the veins and arteries of those who do not question but darkly follow and obey. Those who fear differences. Those who perhaps never learned how to think. You who picked my strawberries, I wish I could catch a glimpse of your face. I wish I could see your eyes and smile into them, And thank you, in whichever language You prefer. Through these strawberries I send you gratitude and blessings. I thank you. I welcome you. Read a story here about a bunch of white middle class people, unaccustomed to working in the fields, picking strawberries for one day and learning what hard work, dedication, and literal sweat goes into our food supply.
And here’s a story on how mass deportation is threatening the US food supply and the livelihoods of farmers and their workers.
We need to create a system where workers are paid fairly and are free from exploitation, are respected for their hard work, and appreciated as valuable members of society. It is imperative that migrant workers be given a path to documentation and eventual citizenship.
Debra Denker is the author of Weather Menders, a cli-fi time travel novel for the hopeful.
Weather Menders 
Like the crew that removed and replaced my main roof and two porch roofs, men speaking many languages, brought the children who were out of school but had tasks around the worksite, and a wife or two with lunches and water and watched the children. I provided seating in the shade under my trees and enjoyed the music. They finished in a day, working together, just before a storm, that I no longer had to worry about because the holes in my roof were gone.
Just working in my own garden tells me how hard farm work is, and I have a few friends who grew up on farms, one still lives there, dairy and a truck farm, constant work, no choice. I thank them all.
So true. When I say a grace before a meal I remember to thank those who grew the food, those who picked it, those who packed it, those who transported it, sold it, prepared it, and will eat it.