The Farmer's Daughter

It's probably five in the morning, I'm not certain.      

My alarm hasn't rung, and in the depths of my subconscious, a loud, almost angry voice rings. It’s powerful enough to snap me out of my dream—one that I would have preferred not to wake up from. My eyes, heavy with sleep and laden with exhaustion, pop open in the direction of my room door. Not a moment to enjoy the muted rays of sunlight streaming in through the single window in my bedroom. 

That early morning rousing comes from the 4'8" woman outside my door, six and a half decades on this earth, rigid when things don't go her way or when her methods and actions are questioned, and a pleasure to be around when her biggest concern is threading her needle so she can continue her quilt-making.      

That's my mother.     

And on a lovely Saturday, at this hour, there is only one thing she could possibly be doing: She's waking every living soul in the neighborhood, intending only to wake the ones in our home, of course. She demands to know who's going up to the farm. Her query often goes something like this:

Heavy pounding on the door, acute knocks that rattle across the house, sending vibrations through every glass imitation of porcelain.

“Mucha, Yosy, LEvántenSE!” (Guys, Joyce, WAke UP!)

“¿Quién va a ir al rancho?” (Who’s going to the farm?)

“Ya es trade, hombre; ya estuviéramos en camino.” (It’s already late, man; we’d be well on our way.)

"Van a ir O NO?” (Are you going, OR NOT?)

“Si No van a IR, Me hubieran dicho y NO PIERDO MI TIEMPO esperando.” (Should have told me you were NOT GOING so I don’t WASTE MY time.)

After this monologue, everyone begins to wake from their slumber. I, having made up my mind, mostly reacting out of anger and frustration at being awakened, yell back, No voy a ir, hombre, Dejame dormir! (I’m not going, man, let me sleep!). There is both power and dejection in those words. Visceral, they echo in my mind but never really make it to those ears.

How great it would be if that could solve the torturous predicament. But her hammering voice continues until everyone gives in. Jumping off the ledge, five feet down, I land. It would have been easier to go down the step ladder of my bed and try to walk off the numbness of my legs, but it seems more effective to shock my body out of sleep by jumping off. I have to admit it isn’t my brightest idea once the sharp tendrils of electricity begin firing away in the soles of my feet.

While stories about the burden of the farmer selling his produce and the difficulty of having a successful harvest are disproportionately reported by the respective agencies, no one really addresses the burden of the farmer’s family and the sacrifices that must be made to procure a harvest.

Take, for instance, this excerpt from the Amandala newspaper, focusing on the producer and consumer relationship when dealing with below-standard market produce.

SAN CARLOS VILLAGE, Orange Walk District, Wed. Oct. 27, 2021 – Last week, it was reported that there was a scarcity of carrots at local markets and that the carrots that were being sold were of very low quality (small and soggy, according to some buyers) and overpriced. Some have even described the local carrots on market shelves as unusable, and market vendors have been pointing to recent moves by the Agriculture Ministry to block importation of vegetables from Mexico and promote sales of local vegetables as the cause. While the purpose of the policy was to ensure that national demand for produce such as carrots is satisfied by our local farmers, those local farmers have been bearing the brunt of the blame for the plunge in quality and the surge in prices of the vegetables being sold.

Indeed, the farmer does bear the brunt of the work and almost always suffers financial losses, but there’s much more at stake than produce going bad or not being sold. It’s a person’s sanity because sometimes, all I really want to do is sleep in on a Saturday, not because I’m tired; rather, to relish the comfort and luxury of being able to do so.      

Nevertheless, there is no time to wait for the shock to subside as I scramble toward my closet. Pulling drawers open, disregarding the neatly stacked rows of color-coded clothes, I pull out some sports and farm wear. Short pants comfortable enough to allow my skin to breathe, and a long one for when we're up in the mountains. At this time of year, when the rain clouds come suddenly, heavy with their burden to renew life in the hills, there is always an outburst of gnats. They swarm by the hundreds, hovering over their victim, ready to suck out the delicate drops of blood from under the skin. Most of the time, I don't feel their bites. I only see the pregnant evidence on the swollen skin surrounding one single drop of scarlet blood at the center. But even then, I'm unbothered, at least until the itch settles in. My shirt, or one that I absolutely loved, was permanently soiled with the stains of the sap leaching from the banana and eddoes plants. Or was the stain from the warm blood guzzling out of a barely alive pig? Or the copper-colored dirt I walked on. Out of all my options, I chose a gray shirt, extra-large like most of my wardrobe, pattered with brown stains that resemble dried blood, riddled with holes near the neckline where mice had nibbled on the scrumptious salt-drenched patches.

Tugging on my tennis shoes, applying a bit of “rain storm” deodorant, and brushing the stubborn curls out of my face, I called out to mom, letting her know I was ready. Ironically, no one else was. Like chickens out of a coop running in all directions, my sister was still prepping her daughter, while my brother-in-law checked the car's engine and radiator, just enough to make sure it had water and wouldn't overheat, just enough to know that the engine was still drenched in oil to keep the belts spinning, just enough to know that it could make the journey up and return to town loaded with precious cargo, or so my mom thought. For us, it was just work: the veggies, the firewood, the extra hour of having to unload and reload.

I couldn't help but think how unfortunate I was to not even manage the five hours of sleep regime I had set for myself. Contrary to recommended advice, I would take three melatonin pills instead of one when darkness descended. Soaking them in a bit of rum, I hoped to make them more effective whilst praying that sleep would come fast and dreams would tarry. Unfortunately, that never happened, and the melatonin seemed to have lost its ability to affect my subconscious. So, I lay awake, staring at the two spiders that had been residing in my ceiling, thinking to myself how burdensome it was to have so many responsibilities.

Why wake at five am when I could have very well slept in? I had no clue, except for this: I am a farmer's daughter. I may work an eight-to-five shift every business day of the week; I may have schoolwork and chores at home. I may spend hours cleaning our home and the rest of the night trying to catch up with readings for class. And I still wouldn't cease to be “the farmer's daughter.” So, every Saturday and Sunday follows the same routine. I’m not quite sure things would have been different had I been born the farmer’s son, but I do wonder whether I’d feel the same, or whether I would feel less burdened by the responsibility because it is presumed a man’s natural role is to be the provider.

So, like clockwork every Saturday and Sunday, I must abandon all responsibilities to myself and prioritize those of the farmer's daughter. 

But I find that when my day is almost at an end and everyone hustles to pack up and head back to town, the satisfaction that emanates from the recesses of my mind envelopes me in a blanket hug. The setting sun casts an orange haze over everything it touches, and the winds whistle in the canopies, singing of the night soon to fall, and the warmth I feel keeps the chill at bay. On most days, I forget the gnats, and my mind bustles with renewed energy that can only come from the satisfaction I feel when looking at my day’s achievements.

Maybe I cleared only two hectares of land for the day and I barely managed to de-weed the pineapple field and rake the front of the house. And hardly, hardly do I see the harvest that my kin will one day reap. But I get a glimpse of it. And I’m contented. 

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get some extra hours of sleep.

_________________________

Jocelyne Lemus is an English major at the University of Belize. She lives in Benque Viejo Town and enjoys traveling and doing arts and crafts.