My work as a teacher and a writer is a lot like the work of a farmer.
The hours I spend in front of my students and in front of my writing notebook is like the hours a farmer spends walking down newly plowed rows broadcasting seeds.
You teach and write and plant with great courage and deep hope.
You stand eye to eye with -
economic poverty
adverse childhood experiences
learning disabilities
self-doubt
a blank page
solitude
rewrites
weather
insects
blight
You live heart to heart with -
the ‘a-ha’ moment
kickball
trust
satisfaction
the finished story
the acceptance letter
acclamation
sunrise
sunset
harvest
I wrote the small story below.
Sometimes, I’m the farmer.
As I've already told you, my poppa is a farmer.
I"m looking out the window, the same window Momma and I looked out of to see the winter snow, and see him kneeling in our garden, planting the plants. His skin is the color of newly plowed rows. Sweat is dripping off of his forehead and mixing with the sun and soil, nourishing the seeds so they can grow. When he comes into the house, he'll smell of the humble smell of dirt.
His heart is faithful and soft. It's like a big, beautiful Better Boy tomato swaying quietly in the whispering winds of our southern, summer skies.
His soul is bright and gentle, like a yellow ear of sweet corn wrapping itself gently in tender husks, protecting itself from the searing sun, woolly worms, and harshness of life.
His mind is persistent and broad, like an engine running a plow, working through problems, fixing anything, accepting me, and allowing me to grow as the land accepts the seed and allows it to grow.
His strength is helping and enduring, like the Farmall tractor we borrow from a white neighbor, a tractor that keeps him from struggling behind a mule and a plow.
Yep, he's a farmer, a person of the land, and he's my favorite farmer.
- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2019
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