Food connection

The food economy in America often employs distant people: Latin American migrants, a few small farmers hanging on, the forsaken and generally exploited — a stark contrast to the proud farmers and rural communities of yore, or of myth. In a utopian society, everyone shares in food production, a requirement for every citizen, a mitzvah that admonishes participation in the staff of life. By distancing from our agrarian roots, we lose part of our connection to culture, history, community and finally our cherished place at the Thanksgiving dinner table.

Closer to home, urban isolation poses an individual conflict, albeit one that persists under the surface but is felt viscerally and weighs on our conscience and upsets our sense of fairness. In the grocery store, look hard at the produce, imagine the presence of migrant farm workers, the people who harvest our food. Close your eyes and visualize their caramel-colored skin, simple clothing and wide-brimmed hats. Hum along with their singsong Spanish cadences, imagine the lingering smell of cumin, cilantro, garlic, oregano, peppers and corn tortillas. With a little effort, we could feel their presence in the grocery store; our senses are not so callous.

Anglo-American migration to urban life spans only two or three generations, a living memory for most, short enough to linger in the olfactory, visual and auditory memory. If we could bring back the past, the taste, look and sound would not only be familiar, it would evoke a sense of longing, of home, but that’s all rank sentimentality; we could never go home again.

Latin American migrants move with the angle of the sun. In early November, they head south to face President Donald Trump’s dragoons — meager earnings in their pocket or in the hands of family left behind. We should give thanks to them during the holidays; they always leave a little of their precious humanity at our tables. EMIL BRUCE LESTER JR.

Point Breeze