My Victory Garden
A vintage victory garden WWII poster, from the US Gov archives and the National WWII Museum.
By Ashley Warren
My life has been shaped by a time that I did not live through. When I was a child, I was enraptured with stories about World War II. I devoured stories about girls who lived through this time of peril, read private diaries, and fictionalized accounts with fervor. It's hard to be a girl of both Italian and Jewish ancestry and not feel some link with that time in history, however distant. Beyond the cultural link I found myself drawn especially to the women who survived and even thrived during WWII. I admired their grit and resilience, and became obsessed with women who became spies and snipers and mathematicians and farmers and radio operators and clandestine newspaper journalists. There was no role too small, no way to help that didn’t make some sort of difference. These stories inspired and motivated me. All I've ever wanted to be is an intelligent, compassionate, and resourceful woman. This is the time in my life that will determine if that is who I am. Who did I become during this war?
Early in the pandemic, I saw posts on social media comparing the pandemic to a war, and it seemed frivolous. A viral social media post read: "Your grandparents were called to war. You're being called to sit on the couch." Months later, when staying at home seems a monumental ask for some, I wonder if that sort of sentiment helped in those early days, when, for such a brief time, our communities worked together to get through those haunting first weeks. It's both true and not true that a pandemic is a war. In this war of invisible pathogens, and the bigger war of a world unable to band together in solidarity, those who maintain our society with health care and access to goods are the frontline soldiers.
I am no such person — I’m just a writer. What purpose is an artist in wartime? This has been a defining question in my life. Perhaps I am a survivor in the way we all are right now. I've often questioned my career, knowing I should have been a physician or a farmer or done something useful. Writing, depending on the writer, is either an act of revolution or the ultimate privilege. But to undermine the work of writers during a war undermines the sacrifices journalists have made traveling to warzones, the brave souls who passed secret messages in code, the voices who relayed news on the radio waves.
In truth, I’ve had a hard time writing these past few months. Instead I put my energy toward supporting my friends who are writers, alleviating burdens where I can so they can put words on the page. They say the same things back to me: “I feel useless.” We find ways to contribute to our communities, for it’s not just a pandemic that overshadows us now, but ever-present veils of violence and injustice. Alone together we find our purposes during wartime. Mine has become gardening.
Photos/Ashley Warren.
There is never a crisis that can’t be helped by sowing seeds in soil. When the lockdown first began, I packed up seeds and pots and delivered a care package to a friend with a small child. I started seedlings inside, tomatoes and peppers and radishes and cucumbers, and awoke early each morning to carefully tend to each one. Now, months later, these seedlings are hardy, verdant plants laden with produce that I will share with my neighbors. My garden thrives while I struggle every day with the bleakness of the future. My garden continues to flourish. I spend my free time with my hands in the soil, grounding myself. In my kitchen I make pickles and bread, the traditions of my ancestors, to prevent unnecessary trips to the store. I think about the many sourdough starters bubbling away in my neighbor’s kitchens. In a way, our goals have become simple; a day’s success is measured by our basic needs being met.
I take comfort in nourishing my body and mind and loved ones through my garden, reminded that victory gardens were, in fact, the American woman’s legacy during WWII. Perhaps it is not grit that carries us through war, but compassion for our neighbors and the hope to continue growing and building toward an unknowable future. My garden is the result of my love and care and attention for each seedling, energy that I must reinvest into my community. To love means to help and to believe in the future. A new future grows, but only by us. Sometimes a weapon is a tool – a shovel to clear the debris and make way for something to blossom. With this weapon, I will cultivate my garden.
Ashley Warren is an award-winning storyteller, educator, and content strategist. She is best known for her narrative design work for Dungeons & Dragons and her online learning program, the RPG Writer Workshop. Ashley is a graduate of University of Nevada-Reno’s English Literature and Literacy Studies programs.
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