You may have had the harrowing experience of accidentally pressing your car’s panic button, suddenly turning a quiet parking lot into an ear-piercing nightmare. When used intentionally, this tool is a crime deterrent, sending the bad guys running while you push through the loud sound to travel safely to your destination.
After a year of working with the Minneapolis Health Department calling people who tested positive for COVID-19, I don’t know how many calls I’ve made, but I keep chugging away at an ever-growing list. When I check one name off, another dozen are added.
In my own neighborhood I have seen environmentally racist strategies allow the slow execution of people of color. I have seen how undervaluing my community and the mistreatment of black and brown people is justified by the institutions responsible for decision making and resource distribution. I have seen how labeling people of color as careless and uninformed when it comes to environmental issues somehow equates to them as undeserving of access, opportunity, power, autonomy and happiness.
It’s just barely 10 in the morning, and already the hot sun is lifting the night’s dew from the prairie grass. The rustle of wind through tall green leaves makes a shhhh…shhhh…shhhh sound, almost loud enough to drown out the hum of a tiny (and very fuzzy) engine.
As I wound through my research plots of intermediate wheatgrass, the bustling sounds of four lanes of traffic drowned out the electronic sounds my Samsung Galaxy tablet made as I took notes. In stark contrast to those hectic 21st century sounds was the simple swoosh my long pants and sun shirt made as I passed by each plant. My big floppy hat kept the sun out of my eyes, and completed my ‘typical farmer’ appearance. But make it female, I told myself.
It was 2021, and this was what a plant breeder looked like.