There is a song that I was introduced to by my cousin a number of years ago called “Boll Weevil,” which is a remix by Greg Hale Jones of an early 20th Century recording of a song about an invasion of boll weevils in a farmer’s field. The song is sung not by the farmer, but by the farmer’s farm hand, who is reporting the infestation to the farmer, who, by the way, paternalistically refers to the farm hand as “my child.” It is a moving and haunting song that I have listened to hundreds of times at this point, and which is quietly playing in a loop the background as I type this.
One of the central lines of the song is a question, posed to the boll weevil by the farmhand, “Where is your native home?” I have often thought about this question, both in relation to myself in terms of being at home in myself and in relation to the farm — to the pigs, to the farm’s form and function. As it turns out, it is a tremendously heady and loaded question.
For example, to ask the question of oneself, “where is my native home,” is to ask, where, in myself, was I born, or, more pressingly and substantially, where, in myself, did I come into being? It is, essentially, to ask a fundamental question about oneself, “who [where] am I, at my roots?” Where, when all of the fluff is blown and brushed away, did I come into being? Is my native home my childhood? Is it the moment of my birth? Is it the moment of my first words, or my first obviously intentional act? Is it the first moment that I consciously reflect on myself and feel at home in myself? Can I have native home”s”? That is, can I come into being, fundamentally, multiple times, in multiple homes, and feel and be native to each?
I would argue, somewhat shallowly, that the answer is different for everyone. Some people do find their native home in their childhood. Some people do find their native home in their birth (people of fundamentalist christian faith, for example). In my own experience, I have been a person of multiple native homes, feeling as if I have come into being, in fundamentally new and different ways, over and over again, and while I might feel settled and quite native in my current home, I am not fool enough to believe I will not come into being in some new native home sometime in the future, perhaps even tomorrow. But for the time being, I find myself here, completely at home in the nativity of myself as a farmer.
My native home is a certain type of labor, it is a certain type of relationship to my body and the uses and functions of my mind, it is a certain type of relationship to my environment, especially the land and space around me and in which I move and work, it is a certain type of relationship to time and the coming and going of the seasons, it is a certain type of relationship to the weather, it is a certain type of relationship to technology and machinery, it is a certain type of relationship to ecological and political questions and problems, it is a certain type of relationship to the product, the produce, of my labor — the pigs — and it is, perhaps most importantly, a certain type of relationship to their deaths. My native home is a home of ebbs and flows, of hardship and triumph, of ease and adversity, and of life and death.
The farm, in both its concrete and abstract forms, is my native home. It is a place, firm and solid, composed of fields and woods, and filled with pigs and the infrastructure to support them, but it is also an idea, composed of cultural, intellectual, and psychological trappings that give it a shape and trajectory; it is an idealistic vehicle in which I travel, experiencing — living — my life as I go. When I wake up and go out each morning to do chores, I encounter the pigs in their real, concrete manifestations, but also in their idealized forms, as bits and pieces, reflections of myself. The choices I make about and for the pigs are choices I make about and for myself. When I take good care of the pigs, I take good care of myself. When I take poor care of the pigs, I take poor care of myself. I find myself in an intricate web of relationships that give shape and form to my native home, to myself.
Never before have I found myself in such a place. There is something about it that, in nearly a decade, I have not been able to quite place my finger on. It is not that it is special, or that I am at home in something praiseworthy, but, rather, something inscrutable about it makes it a home that is radically and fundamentally different than any other home in which I have found myself residing.
I toil, and I oversee the lives and deaths of vivacious, gregarious, highly sentient beings. That I find myself at home in such a place is something of a wonder.