Travel around the world and you may notice in many large cities, a demographic comprised of ex-farmers and the children of farmers. From Bucharest to Manila, Tokyo to Paris and from Managua to San Antonio, farmer's children are slinging Cappuccinos and attending classes. Many of their parents are swabbing floors. They might be locals or they might be immigrants.
If you speak to them, you will likely detect a lowering of their glance when they explain that they were "only farmers" before coming to the waiting arms of Babylon. They will brighten up and raise their gaze when they tell you of the big flat-screen TV in their apartment and the fact that they are now landlords themselves, having taken in boarders to help pay student loans and other bills.
Some of the old folks understand immediately, the folly of their transit. Especially those who were psychologically railroaded into relocating via disinformation. Many others are quite happy to sit around in tank-tops and rubber slippers playing cards while their children work three jobs. Their neighbours in the cities help to perpetuate their self-deprecation.
“You are OK now, but don't forget what you were before you got to the city,” is a constant mantra.
“You were only a farmer,” is the implication.
Some of these rural people have never attended recognized institutions of learning. They are clumsy with computers. They don't at first realize that a tall americano is a small, expensive cup of coffee.
I was having a taxi ride not long ago in Vancouver and my driver was such a person as I have just described above. He sold himself, his parents, his grandparents and his ancestors mighty short, in my estimation. I asked a few questions about their farmstead and what they had cultivated. The driver adopted a dismissive tone and told me what I wanted to know, as if apologizing for having been born in such unworthy surroundings and embarrassed that I had asked. When he finished I asked if he were interested in my view.
He answered in the affirmative and I told him,
“Farmers are representative of one type of civilization as are hunter/gatherers or nomadic herdsmen. Farmers, however, are crucial to modern urban civilization and actually make it possible. But things have worked around a widdershins circle and we now are witnessing a civilization which places farming into the hands of men who have never watered a houseplant. Farmers are an extremely endangered species and there are not many groups fighting on their behalf. Their foes are formidable, incredibly wealthy and have the rubber stamps of the world's politicians in their pockets."
“Taken as a whole, through all time and amalgamated into one man; a farmer is a veterinarian, a meteorologist, an astronomer, a hunter, a soil technician, a hydrologist, a butcher, a grocer, an economist, an accountant, a doctor, a psychologist both human and animal, a ham radio operator, a farrier, a blacksmith, a welder, a mechanic both light and heavy duty, a mill-wright, a carpenter, a roofer, a pipe-fitter, an electrician, a nurse, a cook, a stone-mason, a fireman, a policeman, a judge, a soldier, a teacher, a philosopher, a poet, an artist, an agronomist, a biologist, a fisherman, a chemist, an engineer, a vintner, a preacher, a surveyor, an ambassador, a plumber, a refrigeration mechanic, a cowboy, a herdsman, a gun smith, a forester, a painter a geologist, a conservationist, a musician, a geneticist, a marriage counsellor, a barber and a surgeon."
"A farmer's wife is as multifaceted as her husband. The jewel on top of their combined list of talents and knowledge is that they raise strong, healthy, confident children who are not afraid of work nor are they cowed by adversity. They have grown up eating their rewards and overcoming their obstacles.”
I paused to look out the taxi window as we approached a red light and I saw an arrogant looking individual in a silver luxury car next to us, fumbling on the floor-boards for his cellular phone while his vehicle swerved dangerously into the adjacent lane.
“I don't know exactly where you are from, driver, but I bet it's in Northern India somewhere. Now, imagine if that guy next to us had his radiator hose burst on your Grandpa's land and out of cellular range. I wonder if he could take care of himself?”
My driver regarded the businessman for a moment and a broad smile stretched across his face like a tiger waking from a nap. He sat two inches taller in his seat. He seemed to be deep in thought but his alert expression was like a man sitting under a cool waterfall in a hot jungle.
We continued when the light turned green and the driver slapped his dashboard, “Exzakally! Du are totalee bun hundred per tont correct. I see bat du meen. Dat man bud be like a baby bidoot uts Mum. Mya Garandafader bud pulla hus car bid oor coow. Mya Fader bud repaar hus motor und mya Moder bud feeda hum palak paneer and fresh mango bid coola glass miluk.”
The man in the silver car passed us on the boulevard and we caught up to him at the next light. He looked us over like a man who had accidentally encountered a spilled garbage can.
I began to giggle picturing him on a farm with no cell phone coverage and a car that wouldn't run. The taxi driver also began to laugh a deep, rich laugh. Soon we two were slapping our sides and howling with mirth.
The startled man fixed us with a withering gaze and his hot disdain condensed into tears of laughter on our cheeks when it hit the mountains of our truth. He squealed his tires when the light changed and left a nasty black streak on an unimpressed roadway.
“Mya friend, du you know, it bas a bettar life. On oor faarm.”
“Yeah?”
“To-ta-lee! Only bun ting bas rong.”
“What was that?”
“No bloodee On-Star!” he grinned.
fin
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