Reflections on Integration, Community and Gardening

Emily Moores is a White mom in Cincinnati, OH with two children at a global majority school. Emily is a visual artist. Her work consists of hand-cut and ornately layered materials, which create both wall works and large scale installations.

“If winter is dreaming and spring is hope, summer is work. Winter is nouns, like rose and lily. Spring is adverbs: possibly, eventually. Summer is the season of the verb: hoe, fertilize, mulch, tie, pinch, prune.

For those who see meditation as holding still – for those who believe the soul is higher than the body – summer is the garden’s least spiritual time. It is a time of action, not contemplation. Yet summer is a magical season to those who recognize that meditation is a dance of consciousness through flesh, that prayer is grace in movement, that soul and body are one.”

From Magical Gardens: Cultivating Soul and Spirit by Patricia Monaghan (p.35) 

I am not a gardener. Yet, every spring, I look at my yard dreaming of the possibilities. I see beautiful flowers and plump vegetables. I see a swept patio, not a mosquito in sight. In my mind, I beam at the circle of friends and family enjoying a cool summer dusk in my verdant little haven.

In the 10 years in our home, my garden dreams have come true exactly zero times. I count every day my yard is not a mud pit as a smashing success. Once, my sister gifted me a bush she no longer wanted. My plan was to spruce up the front of my house, but I forgot about it. Instead, the bush moldered on the side of my house, roots exposed. By the time I finally planted it (out of guilt), it was already dead. I literally planted a dead bush in my yard. I left it for several weeks hoping some miracle would bring it back to life. That never happened.

I was in a used bookstore when I found the book, Magical Gardens: Cultivating Soul and Spirit by Patricia Monaghan. If there is one thing that can save the mud pit commonly called my backyard, it is magic.

I bought the book without any expectations (aside from maybe keeping my plants alive). Monaghan’s emphasis on one’s relationship to the soil and the plants, rather than specific growing techniques, instantly captivated me. She describes the seasons as a sort of ongoing relationship between ourselves and the earth. She offers a prayer for working with kitchen compost in the backyard, giving thanks for our food and acknowledging our role in nourishing the environment. Though she never specifically uses the word, Monaghan reimagines our relationship to the soil we live on.

Gardening is a prayer offered to the earth. It is a wordless prayer, prayer of action… Gardening works on our spirits slowly. Each time we enter the silent garden, we find our minds filled with the roar of worries and plans, but slowly the inner voice quiets as the mind focuses on the tasks at hand. (p.57)

Seeking perfection poisons our relationships with our environment and our communities. It blinds us to who we are and what we should/can be. It prevents our understanding of what must be given and what must be received.

I say this because, as a White mom to white kids at a majority Black elementary school, I spent a lot of time reading about racism. I attended lectures, workshops and book clubs. Still, I feel a real disconnect between racial awareness education and the lived experience of integration. I live in the most progressive neighborhood in my city. Even with ample racial education, I often feel the racially aware white community chases an image of perfection. An image that, in many ways, blinds us to the beauty outside our White bubbles.

Progressive, White conversations around race often exist in a different reality. I find that they are often outside my lived experience of transforming both myself and my connection to my community. These privileged conversations exist in realms where perfection is attainable. Where factors beyond our direct control magically change: the government passes only just laws and apathetic White people suddenly see the light. Racial awareness trainings often emphasize the “hard work.” I see a White fantasy of perfection, a checklist that, once all boxes are ticked, guarantees peace and harmony.

In my experience racial awareness trainings pursue blind perfection. They focus on the individual. We work in isolation. We learn how to have the correct conversations with the unenlightened and ill-experienced. All while ignoring the struggles of the less-privileged White community. Not all White people read at a 10th grade level. Many lack the financial security or emotional strength to dive into our difficult history. Some white families are struggling with housing, drug addiction or food insecurity. It feels like the door to racial awareness is only open to those of us who are both White and privileged.

The writer and social activist, bell hooks said the one thing white supremacy cannot control is imagination. My imagination connects Patricia Monaghan’s transformative relationship with her garden to the transformation we (White parents) need in discussions around racism. Learning about racism is a crucial first step, but emphasizing the “work” can leave us feeling stuck. How can we move forward without joy?

Donning gardening gloves fills our minds with plans and worries. It’s similar to the running lists of rules and dreaded microaggressions when we leave our White bubbles. Whether working in the garden or attending a school event, simply being present can quiet those worries and help us better become part of our community. 

In summer, the garden wakes from our dream into its own reality. In winter and spring, we live in our dream garden: lush, perfect, ever-blooming, without a weed or pest insight. Deer never eat the lettuce there, nor squirrels the juicy strawberries. Neither grass nor gardens ever get crabby. There is always sun, always plenty of rain, in the garden of our dreams. 

Then summer comes. (p.35)

Monaghan describes the beauty of summer and its failures. Vegetables will wilt. Birds will peck at our berries. Failures that we must overcome, even when we feel like crying and giving up. I advocate for racial awareness training so long as we acknowledge failure. We cannot assume “hard work” alone will bring justice into our communities. Often these conversations leave out the joy and friendship that comes with integration.They often omit the real growth that comes in the wake of mistakes or failures.

My daughter was recently invited to her friend’s birthday party. It wasn’t until the day of the party I made a realization, resulting in a last-minute phone call to the mother that went something like this:

Me: So… I have to ask a white person question? Sorry to spring that on you.

Mother: Yeah, you did.

Me: So, uh,  sometimes I hear Black people talk about “CP time?” What time should I actually show up to the party? Is CP time like 10 minutes? Or an hour?

Mother: I cannot believe that you asked me that question so seriously. I’m going to have to tell everyone this!

I was introduced at the party as the “White lady who asked about CP time.” Would it have been nice to not ask a stupid question? Of course. But had I not asked a stupid question, I would have shown up to the park at 1 p.m. sharp, wandering the 10 other birthday parties asking “Is this the party my daughter was invited to?”

Meaningful relationships are never built on perfection. Meaningful relationships are built on presence. We must see people for who they are and accept the reality of who we are. We are not perfect. Being racially aware means making mistakes. Accidentally tapping into 400 years of oppression is an awful feeling. School choice for White parents often feels like chasing the perfect: perfect organic food, perfect teacher, perfect school atmosphere. In reality, though, our children are better served by choosing magic and imagination over perfection.

As much as I hate to say: the things I dislike about myself have allowed me to leave my White bubble behind. I have always been socially awkward. I end many conversations with my foot firmly in my mouth. And popularity? Please. It was not a foreign feeling to realize sending my children to a White preferred school would mean less play dates and birthday parties. But sometimes, it is through our difficult traits that we gain the strength to be who our families and communities need.

The real magic is facing another White parent who feels like they are failing and say: “I’ve felt exactly how you are feeling, and we are in this together.” Magic is sharing our mistakes and regrets so the White families following can avoid our missteps. Magic is when a parent of color shares their feelings or thoughts because we chose to stay. Reflecting over the past few years, I know, in some cases, I earned trust through my mistakes. Reading about microaggressions is an important first step. But a journey is much more than its first step. We are not perfect. Our mistakes are inevitable. It is through overcoming our stumbles our journey becomes joyful.

In trying to improve my little garden, I learned about being a part of my wonderful community. So, with apologies to Patricia Monaghan:

For those who see meditation as holding still – for those who believe the soul is higher than the body – public school integration is the least spiritual time. It is a time of action, not contemplation. Yet integration is a magical season to those who recognize that meditation is a dance of consciousness through flesh, that prayer is grace in movement, that soul and body are one.

If racial awareness book clubs are dreaming, if microaggression trainings are hope, then actual lifestyle transformation is work. This “hard work” is the magical season that produces the fall harvest. Seeing racial justice as “hard work” should not be a permanent fixture. This magic wakes us from our dreams of perfection. Public school integration will never live up to the White fantasies of perfection, but through presence, integration is a kind of magic that will turn isolated families into a greater community.