Journal Entries: The Fields That Raised Us
December 14, 2024 — 12:11 AM
Today marks my first day back home for the holidays, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude to be back in sunny Southern California—it couldn’t be more different from New York City.
Now surrounded by endless rows of citrus fields, I find solace in the stillness and solitude, a recalibration that deepens my connection to the earth. The indigenous spirit of my ecological identity is woven into Mexican American culture and has instilled in me a deep honor for Mother Earth. She is not just soil and sky; she is alive and inextricably linked to us all.
Usually, the perfume of orange trees breathes life into me, as though Mother Earth herself is offering me a warm welcome home. But tonight the air carried a daunting chill. At first, I dismissed it, assuming it was just me—a residual effect of having spent so much time in New York. But when I looked into Mom’s eyes for the first time in six months, I saw the same unspoken concern.
“Breast cancer,” she said. She has breast cancer.
Initially I didn’t show any outward sign of being fazed—my instinct to mask my emotions. But honestly, it was one of the most sobering moments of my life. I couldn’t help but think, what the actual fuck? And selfishly, am I next?
This makes her the sixth of her nine siblings to be diagnosed with cancer—the fourth with breast cancer. I wish I could say I was surprised, but how could I be? I’ve spent more than half my life supporting my family through their struggles with cancer, absorbing their suffering as my own with every round of chemo. I thought I was numb to the sight of their bald heads and frail bodies but to see Mom like that? I don’t think anyone is prepared for that.
And yet, standing in the kitchen with her, I struggled to comprehend that the doctors confirmed this isn’t genetic. How could it not be genetic?
. . .
As I reflected on my new reality, I found myself revisiting memories of my childhood in my hometown—where the essence of home is rooted in the integrity of fieldwork. Like so many Mexican American families in rural parts of the U.S., my family and I have spent our lives working and living in the fields, breathing in carcinogenic pesticides.
If I looked outside my window right now, I’d see barrels of Roundup—their toxins lingering in the air, seeping into the soil, and contaminating the water, poisoning everything.
Before my college education, I didn’t have the knowledge or the vocabulary to name it—environmental racism. It had always been my normal, something I, and everyone around me, had lived our entire lives.
It’s why my community faces unregulated toxic exposure and why there’s so little research or awareness about these issues. And why me speaking out, especially as a Mexican American woman, will probably be met with dismissal. And for the families down my street who don’t speak fluent English or have citizenship, let alone health insurance, their experience is profoundly more difficult.
It’s revealing how the same system that relies on our mass field labor to feed the world can profit so much from the dangerous conditions it creates. It takes advantage of our poverty, neglecting protections for both the land that bears the fruit and the workers who cultivate it. I know Mom’s diagnosis, and my family’s diagnoses, are caused by pesticides used in agricultural communities, and I know there are countless unheard stories just like ours.
. . .
As I navigate my current feelings of anger, fear, and frustration, I breathe through the discomfort and remind myself that I am safe. What a lesson I’ve learned today: I am not entitled to anything in this world. It’s a scary and isolating feeling—to have to self-soothe through complex emotions—but another learning lesson: this too shall pass.
I think about Mom, and I see Mother Earth reflected in her, and I can’t help but feel that my life is meant for something more than my current circumstances.
Perhaps this is God’s mission for me—to transform my suffering into a lesson in compassion. To speak for those without a voice and to demand accountability so that future generations won’t be subjected to the same fate. To remind the world that if you bite the hand that feeds you, soon there will be nothing left to eat.
I know Mom will be okay because I draw my strength from her, just as I know I’ll do my best to become the change I want to see.
Even in the pain of this moment, I remind myself to be grateful. I am blessed, I am abundant, and I am loved. Thank you, God—whoever you are.
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Ecological identity- refers to all the different ways people construe themselves in relationship to the earth as manifested in personality, values, actions, and sense of self.
Environmental racism- a form of systemic racism that forces marginalized communities of color to live near toxic sites, exposing them to long-term health risks from polluted air, water, and land.
Photo credit- Vendedora de Flores, Flower Vendor (1942) by Diego Rivera
