Gahden Update

There was a gahden incident that I wanted to write about earlier, but I was having trouble making it humorous. Truth be told, time has not remedied the lack of humor, but it’s still bugging me, so guess what? You all get to be my therapy.

I have become the kind of gardener who plots out their garden in January, sketching out a hand-drawn map in pencil, carefully writing where the pots will be placed and what plants go in them and in the raised bed. It’s taken me several years to build up the confidence and time to manage the available space — two borders of the yard. Now I enjoy the larger space to try new things and move them around.

So I was annoyed when I learned the new neighbor in the building was also interested in gardening. Annoyed, but it’s a common space, so I put my big girl pants on, reviewed the map, and settled on giving him half the space that did not include my raised bed and two trellises.

Then spring got really crazy as I got an unexpected job opportunity and had also planned a trip to Holland to visit my cousin. In the span of 2 weeks, I left one job, went to Holland, returned and started a new job. In May. At the height of gardening preparation season.

I had managed to start my seeds indoors earlier, although those little stinkers had other plans. Alas, the outdoor pots were another story. They had last year’s spent soil and weeds growing in them. Several years ago I discovered the joys of amending soil — cheaper than buying new potting soil and oh, so much more satisfying. Dumping the used soil in a bucket, adding compost, fertilizer, and other elements in, and mixing it all together with my hands. Heaven. I usually get it done over several nice days in April and early May so that the pots are all ready to go when the unpredictable New England weather says, GO! But because of the spring whirlwind, I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of amending.

While I was in Holland another neighbor texted that she told the new neighbor to talk to me first about gardening. I told her I would contact him when I got back. When I did, I had 3 days before starting my new job, and I didn’t have a moment to deal with much of anything. I resolved to amend and put in the garden during Memorial Day weekend. Then I would talk to the neighbor. Not quite the calming, meditative process I had come to love and wish for, but I was excited about the possibilities of a fresh, new gardening season. I also understand plants that are ready to be transplanted don’t really care about my schedule or frame of mind.

And apparently neither did my neighbor. I dragged the bags of compost and fertilizer in place, and brought down my plants. As I surveyed my pots and raised bed to see where to start, I noticed the “weeds” in 5 of them looked a little too orderly. As did the 9 plants carefully spaced out in the raised bed. They were all tomato and pepper plants.

I was the exact opposite of calm and meditative. I wanted to rip the little things out and then shout obscenities at the neighbor. For better or worse, I’m not that kind of person. Also, I hate confrontation, and there was a complicating factor. He and his family are refugees from Afghanistan. And although his landlady and my other neighbors swore up and down that he speaks English, I have my doubts. He was told to talk to me first and he didn’t. Misunderstanding? Clueless? Asshole? Too many variables for me to determine motive. I was still pissed as hell, but parenting has taught me how to not lose my shit in a moment when I really, really, really want to lose my shit.

So I moved the 5 pots to “his” side of the garden, bad soil and all. Then I “donated” 9 of my pots to replant the tomatoes and peppers in my raised bed. I also amended the soil in those. Partly because it wasn’t the plants’ fault, and I didn’t want to be the asshole. He appeared half-way through the process, and I explained why I was moving the plants and what was his side and my side. He responded, “Is OK, is OK,” which I think is the universal language for “I don’t understand, but will agree as if I do.” Hell, I’ve said it myself when I haven’t quite caught something someone has said and don’t want to admit my hearing is going. At one point he asked if he could help, and while I recognized it as an olive branch, the only thing worse for me than having to do all this extra work was having to do it with him. I politely declined, and said I prefer to garden alone.

So the soil amending this year was a frenzied, rushed activity to help exorcise my anger and annoyance and make up time since I still had to get my plants in that weekend. It took me all afternoon to fix his side, and the next day I had to buy 9 new pots and some more potting soil for my plants. I didn’t want to be the asshole because I still don’t know if there was a language barrier, and I still had to deal with with him and his family as neighbors, and now fellow gardeners. Yeah, I’m a regular Mother Theresa over here.

I was pissed off for weeks, but maybe more at myself for letting it continue to bother me. He surely wasn’t losing sleep over the whole thing. Those plants in the unamended soil have not gotten more than 2 feet high, and he will literally reap what he sowed. Serves him right for not asking me, right? For weeks, though, every time I looked at them, I felt guilty. Can you imagine? It was like this incident took all my lifelong baggage — Catholic guilt, low self-esteem, lack of boundaries, and excessive people pleasing — baggage I have spent years sorting through and stowing neatly in the overhead compartment, and simply dumped it all out on the tarmac. Now that pisses me off.

In the grand scheme of things, is he as bad as the neighbor I used to have whose son was a drug addict, and the cops came knocking on my door looking for him? Nope. Is he as bad as the neighbor who owed more than 6 months of condo fees, refused to work out a payment plan, and got angry when we threatened legal action? Not so much.

He disrupted my little garden oasis of human-free peace and quiet. Whether it was a misunderstanding, cluelessness, or an asshole move, it’s on me to let it go. If he had been white, I may have handled the whole thing differently, but being a Brown person and refugee turned it all upside down and poked at my white privilege and desire to be a “good” white American who doesn’t get angry at gardening slights and who wants to be neighborly and share. Well, I do get angry, and no, I don’t want to share my pots, soil, and time.

I’m still working on letting go and admitting I don’t have all my shit together. In the meantime I water, tend, and say hi to his nosy kids who always ask what I am doing. And I allow myself a small bit of pleasure when I look at those 2-foot-high plants. Ya shoulda asked first, dude.