Field Notes: September 2018

So today I’m planting native grass in one of these sabbath strips. These little clumps will grow roots that go more than 10x as deep as Kentucky bluegrass. They’ll host innumerable beneficial insects and soil-organisms. I might look a little crazy out here in the blazing heat, gently breaking clumps of what may seem like weeds and tenderly tucking them into the ground in neat rows. It’s certainly not normal. This grass won’t be eaten, won’t be grazed by the farm animals, and indeed doesn’t serve any sort of direct, ‘revenue-generating’ purpose.

But these warm-season grasses—Big bluestem! Indian grass! Switchgrass!–they belong here. Their genetics and morphology have prepared them to slip into this ecosystem like long-lost puzzle pieces. They thrive in the heat of summer, growing when other plants swoon and senesce. Once established they laugh at drought and even relish an occasional burn. As I heal them into the clay-loam, I decide that if I look crazy I might as well go all out— “Claim your inheritance! I’m sorry it’s taken this long… please don’t wither on us!” I say to the little green and tawny clumps.

It’s not normal to plant native grass in a garden plot. The normal is to plant European grass in lawns or pastures. Those European fescues, bluegrasses, ryegrasses… they are the species brought by my pioneering ancestors to aggressively claim the pastured portions of Ohio’s landscape. They quite literally colonized once forested or prairied land in much of our country. I don’t resent the plants themselves—they were used as a biological tool (or weapon) by people who operate under a colonial mindset. They are one of many living members of a foreign ecosystem that have been craftily—and in many ways violently, blindly and ubiquitously—applied in North America.

As I researched strategies for planting native warm-season grasses on farmland last year, I came across a particular USDA-published document on using prairie plants for grazing. In it was a grainy, black-and-white photo of American Bison behind a barbed wire fence. The caption reads “Even livestock as exotic as bison can be used to supply managed grazing treatments on plantings.” Hang on a second. That’s what was written in a federally published document: Even livestock as exotic as bison. The dictionary definition of ‘exotic’ is “of foreign origin or character; not native; introduced from abroad, but not fully naturalized or acclimatized.” Bison in North America are entirely, laughably, horrifyingly the exact opposite of this definition.

We have a very deep perception problem. In this perception, anything which is not germane to the norm becomes exotic—a dangerous trend which pushes all sorts of creatures, plants and people to the perilous margins. Bison were pushed from the Midwest long ago, and much of their prairie grasses replaced. In a culture of plant-blindness and eco-illiteracy, a lot that is actually endemic looks exotic, even weedy.

Planting grass in a farm field is a rather exotic notion in this rural region of Ohio. But today, with those mud-sweat-rivers serpentine on my arms and the earth receiving this sabbath of warm-season grass, I see it as an act of new-endemism and radical hospitality. Tucking in the little roots reminds me that I too am a transplant. We are sharing this common soil, me and the Big Bluestem, the Switchgrass, the Indian Grass. So I plant these perennial native plants as reparation, to give at least some of the land back over to the systems that created her. Systems that encourage deep roots and resilient, diverse eco-neighborhoods. This is such a small piece! This is such a small work! But it is oh so delightful. When I look up from the dirt to straighten and stretch my spine, motion of wings catches my eye. I see an older row of perennials and flowers six rows beyond this one swarming with life: monarch and black swallowtail butterflies glint. I think I see a couple of those enormous native digger wasps dipping into rose-mallow blossoms, and I can bet that at least a couple hummingbirds, snakes and toads have taken sustenance or shelter under the monkeyflowers and sedges today. If just 1/7th set aside invites in this many of my more-than-human kin, I have hope that this start-up farm and camp is a place where the ‘normal’ could begin to change.

Jessica Anne Miller