Fighting for the Future, page 16
It would be easier to make a list of what they have left because that's literally one table, which looks like it may break again at any moment, and some underdone compost.
"Don't worry about that, sweetheart." Auntie Linda grabs her hand in a gesture of reassurance
"The folks from the Bollate Jail allotment and from Parco Lambro have said they'll provide us with seeds and seedlings, and we can get some leftover tools from the Giza Eco-building Coop. They're builder’s tools, but we can make do, can't we?" Angelo proposes.
Viola hesitates for a moment, then nods. They can make it work, if they insist, and she's contracted to help them.
Might as well, she thinks as she sits down and looks at the documents with the volunteers. It's no skin off my nose if they want to keep this on life support until the bitter end, she tells herself sipping coffee and nibbling at a croissant as she redraws the planting scheme of the allotment to suit the new and improved vision
Mobiles buzz to rival the bees emerging after the rainstorm, looking for flowers that don't exist anymore.
People negotiate waste coffee grounds and chaff from local bars and roasteries in exchange for shopfront gardening, while cargo bikes and electric vans are borrowed across family and acquaintance networks, and other community allotments across the city promise support and material help.
The bees buzz disconsolately. A few fuzzy bumblebees droop slightly already, cheated off their breakfast, while the humans at least still get theirs.
"Can we ask if anyone has some flowering plants they can give us? It's kind of urgent," Viola finds herself saying.
"It's on the list," Angelo confirms, flipping his notebook closed. "Now, let's get a move on. We have a lot to do."
The rest of the day is a blur. The neighbors drag Viola around on a budget gardening grand tour of the city, from Bollate Jail, to the Niguarda allotments, and back down to the faculty of Agrarian Sciences in the University Quarter, and then to the Parco Agricolo Sud.
The back of the battered electric van fills up with gear: plants in newspaper pots, bags of seeds, buckets of compost, a literal can of worms for the compost.
People hop on and off, staying behind to repay their benefactors with help in kind or on their way to their workplaces.
The volunteers unload Viola and their botanical cargo back at the Cascina and zoom out again, then in troop the aunties, laden with food for a quick midday meal, then a group of students from the climate justice group of the nearby high school, ready to pitch in to restore the allotment.
Someone from the biology faculty even bikes all the way from Città Studi with two bucketlike feeders full of sugar syrup to tide the local bees over until the plants have re-established themselves.
La Presidenta appears in the relative coolness of the late afternoon, claiming a seat on one of the battered armchairs that the carpenters have managed to liberate out of a dumpster.
The assembly drags deep into the night in the glow of a few battery-powered floodlights and numerous mosquito-repelling candles.
People flood in with ideas, projects, and plans. Tomorrow, a group of students will start rewilding a chunk of the park in Piazza Martini. Some neighbors are planning to start a container allotment in the middle of Piazzale Libia, while a young man proposes to build and disseminate open-source hydroponics made of recycled materials so that people can grow their own herbs and leaf veg on their balconies or in their kitchens.
"If you can find help for your project, and you take the responsibility of leading it, go for it," La Presidenta responds to each.
In spite of the poor lighting, Viola can see the spark in their eyes turn into sacred fire.
"We'll be everywhere. This way they can't try to chase us away ever again," someone says.
It is spite, yes, but also enthusiasm and determination, everything that was missing from the project before.
Viola leaves the circle of lights and goes to sit alone on the far side of the Cascina, gut roiling with a mixture of anger and sadness.
"I know what you're asking yourself: why couldn't they care about this before? Why didn't they?"
Stabby has appeared suddenly at her side, a wide smile stretched on their painted lips and their eyes glittering faintly in the reddish glow of the city lights.
Viola yelps and startles away, falling in a graceless heap, heart thundering in her chest.
"Jesus Chris, Stabby! They should really put a bell on you!" she hisses, trying to recover some kind of composure.
Stabby smiles again and holds out a hand, hauling her back to a sitting position, then sits next to her in a single, unhurried motion.
"Since you know so much, do you also have an answer?" Viola asks after the silence has stretched empty for an uncomfortable length of time.
Stabby shrugs. "I know it sounds like a cliché, but sometimes people don't realise how much they care, until they stand to lose the thing they care for.”
"So things always have to get worse before they get better?" Viola retorts, unconvinced.
Stabby shrugs again and takes a drink out of a metal flask.
"I don't know about always. Do you know the willow?"
It's very Stabby to go straight for the non-sequitur.
"The willow?" Viola repeats.
Stabby nods and passes her the flask. It smells like coffee and alcohol.
Viola doesn't even try to take a sip before she hands it back. She knows what kind of stuff they like to drink, and she doesn't feel like smelling colors and hearing textures tonight.
"That's what strength looks like, if you think about it," they say.
Viola frowns waiting for a further explanation, but Stabby only gives her a silent smile before they stand and pad away silently into the night.
"Do you know the willow?"
The question echoes in Viola's mind over and over, in the weeks that follow.
Somehow, through hard work and with the help of other communities like theirs, she and the volunteers manage to restore the allotment and have a harvest of late summer crops.
The grow boxes of Piazzale Libia get trashed in the first week, but the neighbors plant them again and hold picnics and street parties around them, night after night, until the space is a permanent fixture as much as the play area for dogs.
Piazza Martini has its own flowering meadow buzzing with bees—and it's only after a month or more of mowing it down every week that the borough finally agrees to let it be. Now, it's so nice that the neighbors have decided to grow one in the other park two roads down.
Viola thinks she knows what Stabby meant now.
Strength is not just standing tall in the storm and never breaking.
Strength can also be toppling over, breaking down to pieces, and then finding a way to regrow from there, or being cut to the ground and growing all the way back, bigger, stronger, out of spite and sheer will to live, if only to give the storm and the axe a big middle finger.
When Loopy comes to her asking for ideas for the giant painting he's planning to make out of a slab of discarded construction wood, Viola knows immediately what she wants him to paint.
A crack willow, on its side on the riverbank, lush, strong branches growing straight up from the mossy trunk, with birds singing in its new, lopsided crown.
Solarpunks
J.D. Harlock
Under the sapphire skies, Sami and her two friends, Ros and Amara lounged on the emerald hills of Solana, basking in the warm glow of the golden sun—wondering why it all had to be so perfect. The sole wind turbine that powered their village was right above them, and Sami couldn’t help but feel like it turned slower with every rotation. Having grown up going on school trips to turbine fields as far as the eye could see, it wasn’t much of a sight, but neither was anything else in Solana, so this would have to do for the day—as it had every day since they first moved here. The sound of merriment far off in the village square did little to change that, unable to live up to the hustle and bustle of their respective native cities elsewhere in the world. As children born before the Revolution, Sami, Ros, and Amara had been told that Solana was, if not a utopia, an optopia that would provide them with the life humanity had fought long and hard to secure. But, in spite of their efforts to fit in, all they felt was the crushing boredom brought on by the monotony of living a life without problems.
If only there were a way we could rebel against the system, Sami thought, not for the first time.
How they might do that continued to elude her.
“I’m bored,” Sami felt the need to say.
“You mean you haven’t found something to do since you last told us you were bored a minute ago?” Ros replied with an air of polite condescension.
“Maybe talking to someone will give you something to do, Sami?” Amara suggested, using the tone of voice she always assumed when she was trying to be helpful. “Someone that’s not us?”
Sami, unsatisfied, didn’t respond, and a moment passed by in silence.
Then, Sami’s eyes went wide.
“I’ve got it,” she said excitedly.
“About time.” Ros got up. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“I just hope it doesn’t involve streaking again.” Amara sighed.
“How about we steal something?” snickered Sami, giddy at the mere thought.
“Yeah!” Ros punched the air, psyched.
“Riveting!” Amara clasped her hands with obvious pleasure.
Neither said anything else, only stared at Sami.
Then Amara’s eyes narrowed.
“What are we stealing exactly, Sami?”
“Come again?”
Ros sighed.
“You don’t know?!”
“Uh….”
The polite smile on Amara's face now seemed painful to Sami.
“Perhaps, we can steal something of sentimental value to someone?” Her eyes bulged.
“Woah!” Sami held up her palms. “We’re rebels, not monsters. To get back at Solana, we have to steal from Solana, not each other.”
“You mean stealing public property?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Is that it?!” Ros flailed her arms. “That’s all you had in mind?”
“How about you develop this plan further,” Amara suggested, trying to be helpful. “Alone.”
“What?!” Sami asked, taken aback. “What’s wrong with stealing?!”
“Well, for starters, no one cares,” Amara pointed out as she often found herself doing,
“And?”
“And?” Ros groaned. “You need more? There’s no money anymore, Sami, or even scarcity. They’ll just replace whatever we take, and what can we even take that’ll piss them off?! I’m sure if we asked for most of it, they’ll just hand it to us! Now, do you still need more?”
For once in her life Sami had nothing to say. Ros groaned even louder, then cupped her ear and leaned in.
“Come again?”
“…”
“I can’t hear you.”
“…”
“Yes?”
“Oh…” was all Sami could say.
“I thought so.” Ros nodded and fell back to the ground, crossing her arms. “I thought so…”
“Yeah…” Amara replied slowly. “So…uh, what was all that about?”
“I’m bored!” Sami said. Again…
Another moment passed until, of course, Sami’s eyes went wide. Again.
“Okay, I got it,” she said excitedly.
“About time.” Ros got up. “Let’s hear it then.”
“I just hope it doesn’t involve streaking again.” Amara sighed.
That night, three hoodlums in conspicuous organic-cotton hoodies met under a lunar lamp on a safe, well-lit street, carrying eco-friendly duffle bags that clinked and clanked all the way there. Without saying a word, the leader leaned in and stretched out her arms, and the brains and the brawns of the operation promptly joined in the huddle.
“This is it, girls,” their leader announced with utmost seriousness. “This is the big one. Our names will go down in Solana history for this.”
“Yeah…” The muscle smacked her lips. “You sure about that, Sami?”
“…”
The leader glared at her subordinate.
“I mean: ‘You sure about that, dear leader’?” The muscle smacked her lips again and sighed.
The leader’s eyes bulged and her nostrils flared. She let out a loud huff. The brains and the brawn shifted uncomfortably.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“My back hurts,” the brains chimed in.
“Mine too,” the muscle added.
“Fine.” The leader rolled her eyes, “You know what to do.”
“Right…” the other two muttered.
“I said,” the leader stressed every syllable, “you know what to do.”
With clenched teeth, the muscle glanced over at the brain, who shook her head furtively.
“I said—”
“—right!” the other two exclaimed, nodding with over-enthusiastic emphasis.
The muscle then opened the eco-friendly duffle bag, and the brains passed around the non-toxic spray paint she thought would be least appropriate for the hoodlum in question. All three then turned around and raised their spray paint cans toward the pristine white wall before them.
The leader spritzed the walls, making the most of what little paint she had by spreading it as far as she could. The muscle showered the walls, letting out frustration in furious red swipes that brought pathos to the stale environment. The brains sprinkled the walls with a carefully calculated chaos that she had spent the day meticulously sketching.
Had they been working alone, their vandalism would’ve been unremarkable, but by doing it together, they created a beautiful display of disruption that left them wonderstruck and homesick.
And so, once their work here was done, the trio stood there with pride, taking in the erratic scribbles that would put off even the most experimental of abstract art critiques.
“Someone’s going to get in trouble.” The leader smiled.
“They’re going to hate it,” the muscle laughed.
“I love it!” the brains exclaimed.
All three then proudly signed their names on the wall before running off with glee into the well-lit night.
One fine morning, Sami, Ros, and Amara were lined up across that very wall—now curtained-off—as a crowd of their friends, families, and peers anxiously awaited an announcement they’d gathered to hear. Considering the circumstances, the Solana Community Organizer herself had taken time out of her busy schedule to personally attend to the matter. A podium was even set up before the wall specifically for the occasion. She would show the world what the trio had done, and they—with nervous smiles and bated breath—braced themselves for the worst.
“We’ve gathered here today,” the Community Organizer announced, “because a trio of young women came together on their own initiative to bless our sublime community.”
Then, with a wave of a sun-furled bioluminescent cane and a touch of theatricality, the Community Organizer gestured to her co-workers to tug a rope dangling beside the curtains concealing the wall. The sweeping fabric parted, unveiling the graffiti stains the trio had sprayed over that pristine white.
“Our resident community artists have nothing but praise for the fine work Samiya Cadieux, Rosa Tanaka, and Amara Stoica put into this unprecedented artistic achievement.” The Community Organizer turned to the work of art, clapping enthusiastically and proclaiming, “Never before have we seen a work of abstract art with such craft, care, and finesse! Their names will, no doubt, go down in Solana history for this.”
And the crowd cheered.
Seeing her friends, families, and peers enthusiastically cheer on her ultimate act of defiance, Sami suddenly felt sicker than she’d ever been before. Not alleviating her glurgy was Monsieur Osseiran, one of her fathers, who seemed to be keen on chanting Sami’s name—even after it became clear that no one would join him in that chant.
“How about one of you come on up here and say something? We’d love to hear from you!” The Community Organizer turned to the crowd. “Right, folks?”
The crowd went wild.
As the camera crew redirected their attention to capture this magical moment, Monsieur Osseiran propped up the (hand-crafted hemp-cardboard) sign with Sami’s face lovingly stitched onto it just high enough to broadcast it to the entire world.
Suffocating, Sami turned to Ros and Amara, who promptly shook their heads before she had the chance to wave them over. Now visibly panicking and in no way trying to hide it, she flailed her arms around as if she was about to drown in Solana’s glurge, but Amara just nudged Ros figuring there was no way anyone could talk Sami into this and not end up with a headache. Having come to the same realization, Ros walked up to Sami and gently shoved her towards the podium, doing her best to make it seem as if she were patting her dear friend in a grand and rather aggressive display of camaraderie. Sami tried and failed to stand firm, going so far as to lean back into Ros as if she were fainting, hoping her weight could prevent the push from moving her feet, but Ros just shoved her ever harder, and Sami tumbled face-first into the mic.
“Fuck.”
The mic picked up the cursing, amplifying it for all to hear.
The crowd went silent. Sami fidgeted with the mic trying to make sure that she hadn’t broken anything she would have to repay in community service.
Was this it?
Was it that easy?
After everything Sami, Ros, and Amara had tried to do, and failed to do, to show their discontent with the status quo, was that one short—but rather vulgar and descriptive—phrase enough to count as rebellion?
Sami couldn’t tell.
So, she quietly stared at the audience, and they quietly stared back—until Monsieur Osseiran leaned in and whispered loudly to the crowd around him:
“All great graffiti artists have a temper.” He leaned away, then leaned back in. “I should know. I’m a certified Organic Butter Sculptor.” He leaned away a second time, leaned back in a second time, and added, “Grass-fed unsalted organic butter only.”
