Photo by Diana Ewell Engel
Dear Seized Readers,
My thoughts are turning from my personal writing sanctuary to the refuge migrants and immigrants find here in the states—a place to escape poverty and often terror in their home countries.
At a recent meeting of a peace and social concerns committee, one member said, “fruits and vegetables are rotting on the vines” as she voiced the frustrating situation playing out on California farms and elsewhere. Migrant workers are staying home, understandably, out of fear that they will be seized by ICE and deported to other countries, perhaps not even back to their countries of origin.
Our nation is in a state of upheaval. Constitutional rights are being stripped. These upsetting circumstances send me into my writing room where I sit before a blank Word document. I want to craft something meaningful, a poem that embraces our migrant laborers.
Photo by Jhon David on Unsplash
How do I begin?
I start with the image of rotting fruit provided by my committee friend. This leads me to the keyhole garden my husband creates and tends every spring and summer. Our tomato harvest is center stage. I salivate for the ruby globes and eagerly slice them into bruschetta or simple slivers adorned with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper. I think about how I cut the tomato, discarding the stem and short inner core. This seems metaphorical to how many migrants may feel at present, as if their hard work and talents are unvalued, being thrown away as they are deported.
My connection to migrant workers is clearly through the foods my family enjoys.
Photo by Calum Lewis on Unsplash
How do you begin with your idea to craft a creative work—a painting, a dress, a song, a story or poem?
I know that I can, as accomplished poet and teacher Ellen Bass suggests, make a slit in my poem and go deeper or connect to a memory. I remember a fond summer trip to Greece with my daughter, a journey that included the Magna Garcia olive farm on Olympia’s west coast. This experience links to the smoky, purple Kalamata olives we enjoy here in the states.
My beginning strategy becomes clear: I will start with my personal experience and a bit of history which highlights the international origins of summer foods, origins we may take for granted. I know that a poem takes on a life of its own, and often leads me into meaningful meanderings. So, my ideas & lines are subject to sudden change ;).
Here is “Fruits of Labor” in its early revision stage.
Photo by Tom Mossholder on Unsplash
Fruits of Labor Eerie silence hangs over Central Coast farm fields in wake of ICE raids -Melissa Gomez, et al., Los Angeles Times, 6/12/25 issue. My sharp knife disposes/ of the stem and tough core. I add the inky balsamic,/ remembering that it originated/ in ancient Modena/ and is now in my kitchen,/ whisked happily around tomato slivers and floating chiffonade-cut basil—/ that traveled to Europe and the U.S./ long ago—/ waltzing today with Black Sea garlic. Had it not been for the Spanish explorers/ delivering these Jitomates / centuries past to Europe/ from where they traveled/ on to America, I would miss this juicy-sweet harbinger/ of mid summer—/ the same season we spent in Greece,/ while on Olympia’s west coast,/ the Karabelas farm—/ set off by a 350-year-old olive tree/ dividing sunset and dusk,/ tomato and olive bruschetta/ delighting our tongues. We carried home/ cold-pressed oil for Grandma/ and Kalamata jewels for Dad.
Photo by Kevin Martin Jose on Unsplash
Stateside,/ a fiesta blooms/ in yards and fields/ harvested by men and women/ who arrive with their children,/ dreams, stories,/ celebrate Carnival, Cinco de Mayo,/ Dia de los Muertos,/ and a multitude of rituals/ that build us brighter. They are our community,/ and we are theirs. In downpours and swelter,/ they work unwanted jobs. Fearful of our officials,/ they labor to feed their families. - Diana Ewell Engel
Photo by Chad Stembridge on Unsplash
Share your thoughts about “Fruits of Labor.”
What’s on your summer reading list? Share what you’re creating.
Always love your writing. Your perspective is a blessing to me
As I look out on my few tomato plants (we call my gardening “artisenal” because I’ll spend time and money and get very little return), I will think of those who labor, and those too afraid to go out into the fields. Thank you! Miss you!