Blueberry as process—a story of dissonance

Kabisha Velauthapillai, 2T4 Fitz

Artist Statement

I wrote the prelude to this piece one morning, when I was sitting with my jar of oatmeal, thinking about slowing down and really giving thanks to all of the processes that brought this jar to me that morning.

Twitter: @Kabisha2

I paid attention to the sweetness of the blueberries, 

the beautiful purple colour that was mixed
with the white of the one tablespoon of yogurt. 

I was thinking about my relationships with food,
and more specifically, with the meal I was eating. 

I was thinking about the path of the blueberries:
their growth,
who picked them,

how they got to the grocery store,

how they came to be,

in my jar of oatmeal.

What are all the processes,

interlinked,

the people whom these blueberries

inadvertently brought together.

The growth of the blueberries, 

isn't it incredible?

From a bush-type plant,

they burgeon.

Layered leaf-like pieces,

out of which grows a flower,

out of which grows the blueberry.

From the rich soil beneath, 

microbes, insects, and molecules,

coming together.

Water seeping through,

the cracks and cackles of the 

browned soil.

Sun, in all its ember, 

basking the soil and plant in all its

glory.

The living and the non-living

coming together, 

giving the blueberry 

the power

to make heaps of glucose, 

which it keeps snug 

in its flesh and juice.

Stowed away for the lucky being

that consumes all of its delicacies.

What a journey that was, 

Blueberry.

And what here, 

what now?

Our blueberry friend is being picked.

I got my blueberry from a large-chain grocery.

Who picked this magnificent blueberry?

Likely, 

a farmworker, 

whose name and story I am far from.

A person

who is kept out of my understanding 

of the journey of this blueberry.

Farmworkers who are rendered

invisible.

Through the current workings 

of our food systems.

How did this person, 

who picked my blueberry,

become a farmworker?

And why?

What economic forces,

and what additional,

social, structural forces,

pushed them into this work?

Were they a migrant farmworker?

What are their working conditions like?

What about their labour rights? 

Are these rights even adequate?

What about their human rights?

Are these rights respected?

How about their health 

and overall well-being?

What are their exposures
to the various pesticides and herbicides,

to viral and bacterial beings
in their surroundings?

For how long

are they exposed 

to the overbearing sun?

And what about the people they love,

the people they call family?

Are they nearby? 

Do they get to see them,

frequently?

Why don't we think about this,

much more?

Because we are comfortable,

with our ignorance.

We are comfortable,

putting to the back 

of our minds

that the person who picked our 

rounded fruit.

was likely not paid adequately
for their time, for their labour.

Likely has working conditions

that put them in danger,

of ill health.

We think we are powerless 

to change the system.
And perhaps,

we have become comfortable,

in feeling powerless.

And next, in line,

in the journey of this plump fruit,

is the transport to the grocery.

as it bounces, 

left to right,

up and down,

in the truck bringing it from the States,

over the colonial border,

into “Canada.”

Along its journey, 

the blueberry is part 

of an emissions process,

that is slowly, 

but ever-so-quickly,

warming our earth,

harming our lungs.

Eventually making it even harder,

for Blueberry itself,

to grow.

Blueberry reaches the grocery.

and this is where I pick it up. 

At home, 

I go through the process 

of bringing the blueberries,

oatmeal, flax meal,

nutmeg, soy milk,

and yogurt,

together.

I put the work and time 

into bringing this mixture, 

together. 

It's a process.

And the next day,

when I sit down to eat,

I think about all the processes involved.

I think about all the dissonances.

The growth of the rich blueberry,

in contrast with 

the unjust labour practices

and the political economy

of blueberry production.

The harms to the environments

around us,

in contrast with,

the magic of the process

of bringing the different pieces

of my oatmeal together, 

and taking the time,

to sit down,

and appreciate 

the incredible combination

and all who, and all that

came together

to make this moment 

of appreciation

possible.

As I bite down on Blueberry,

feeling the burst

of sweet energy, 

imagining the community

of glucose

as it journeys into

my body, 

entering a universe

we have only scratched 

the surface of.

I think to myself,

something is not quite there.

something is missing.

And I pull from my memories,

the sight of my mother,

as she pulls together

different ingredients

in a dance so swift,

so seamless,

that only she could dance.

She adds a dash of love,

and a tablespoon of sizzle.

And I realize

that Blueberry would taste

ever-so-sweeter

if only from the hands of 

my mother.

Blueberry, 

would taste
ever-so-sweeter

if I saw their growth,

their harvest,

their transport,

in a world where

relationships were prioritized

were valued.

Where people

were valued.

Where our wider environments,

the more-than-human,

were valued

In the food-growing 

and food-making

processes.