Wanted: More Plots for Willing Gardeners

As I worked in my shared community garden plot this weekend—alongside a woman named Elisa who spoke with a Spanish accent and a man named Webb with white hair and glasses—I realized we were preparing the soil to grow more than just spring peas and summer tomatoes. After all the books and articles and blog posts I’ve read about the magic of community gardening, there’s nothing like actually experiencing it.

So different from the other ways I’ve grown food—on a larger, partly commercial scale at the Local Food Project at Airlie, and with a more individualistic approach in the backyard of our former rental house—vegetable gardening at a community plot emphasizes the fact that we all have the same basic needs. Whatever your background or situation, you have to eat, and many different kinds of people choose to meet that need by producing some of their own food on this shared land. Because there’s barely any boundary between plots, these diverse gardeners can’t help but rub elbows with one another. Conversations center around soil or plants or water or pests. Talk is simple, but rich. Chatter doesn’t last long because everyone wants to get back to work.

A lot of people want to get in on this experience, but can’t. Arlington has only eight community gardens and the demand for plots far exceeds availability. While Greg and I loosened soil and pulled out weeds at the plot we have no official claim to (remember I randomly made a new friend who wanted to share hers), a man wandered up who said he’d been on the waiting list for three years. Riding my bike along Four Mile Run this evening I caught a quick view of a carefully tended vegetable garden on the bank of the stream out of sight from the road. I pedaled away with mixed feelings—excited that someone had found land in an unlikely spot to grow their own food, sad that with the next big rainstorm all their hard work will be washed away, and frustrated that Arlington isn’t meeting the enthusiasm of citizens to get out and garden.

For my independent study this summer I’ll be looking at the relationship between urban agriculture and citizenship. I’m looking forward to reading, observing, and pondering, but my big scary, thrilling idea is to use what I learn at some point down the line to form a pitch to convince Arlington decision-makers why urban agriculture should be a priority for our area. We’ll see what happens!

Onions as Citizenship

Two of my onion tapestries are hanging in Arlington’s Central Library for the month of April as part of a group show called “The Art of Food.” Aside from being super excited to see my work displayed in public, I’ve decided to declare this an act of urban ecological citizenship. Reading Frances Moore Lappe’s Getting a Grip has gotten me thinking about creative ways to increase my participation in society and help transform our current system of what she calls “Thin Democracy” into a dynamic network of citizen-led decision making processes. (See this post for more.)


As I’ve come to discover in the last few months, urban ecological citizenship does not occur in a vacuum. Just as important as the individual behavior changes we can each choose to make are the actions we engage in collectively. I used to think that group action only meant dramatic events like staging a protest or organizing a boycott. Now my definition is much broader (and expanding every day!). Attending a committee meeting for my condo association is in there. So is becoming certified as a Master Naturalist and committing to related service projects. Even using the much-loved riverside dog park in my neighborhood feels like an act of community participation.

The path I’ve taken with my onions seems to symbolize the evolution of my thinking about citizenship. First, I got physically involved, planting thousands of tadpole-like onion starts, harvesting and storing and eating and dreaming about them. Then reflecting on my action and channeling it into art-making—a very internalized and independent process. And finally sharing the manifestation of my ecological relationship with not just family and friends, but strangers in my community through the art show. By hanging my onions in a public space, I’ve launched a kind of dialogue between me and the viewers, the other artists, the librarians who curated the show, maybe even the authors of the books on the shelves. My path to urban ecological citizenship spans this arc from the personal to the public and back again.