Tomato Witchcraft and the Compost Gospel-A Prison Story
There was a corner of the prison that didn’t quite feel like prison. Not really. It was a building that housed the Building Trades program and the automotive shop, tucked far enough from the main compound that, if you squinted and ignored the razor wire and the matching uniforms, you could almost pretend you were somewhere else. Almost.
Inside, there was one officer posted up in a little office, but for the most part, it felt like our space. We learned how to build simple projects, the basics of NCCER (National Center for Construction Education and Research), and the gospel according to OSHA. But beyond that, we were responsible for the building and the yard. We even had a small patch of ground to care for. It wasn’t much, but it mattered.
Now let me be clear: I am not a gardener. I have no use for flowers—other than that they’re pretty and I totally gush when boys give them to me. But when our instructor didn’t object to us planting vegetables, my ears perked up. Tomatoes? Real tomatoes? The only tomatoes I’d seen in prison came in a plastic bag, two sad soggy slices meant to dress up a sandwich. I was grateful for them, don’t get me wrong—but they weren’t real tomatoes.
Then came the lifer. A woman who had been down longer than I’d been legally allowed to vote. She was a tutor in Building Trades and had somehow—don’t ask me how—come across a handful of cherry tomato seeds. I didn’t ask questions. I just found a spot near the flower beds and planted those seeds like they held the secret to parole.
I hovered. I prayed. I watered. I picked up worms and relocated them to the garden bed like a dedicated, trembling, gagging worm chauffeur. (For the record, I loathe worms. I made actual guttural sounds handling them.)
Then came sprouts. Tiny green promises poking through the dirt. I was ecstatic. I dragged the lifer tutor out to admire my work. She gave the garden a once-over and promptly informed me that all but two of the plants were weeds. I’d been mothering weeds. Hovering, praying, weeping over weeds. It was the thrill of victory, immediately followed by the face-plant of defeat (see what I did there).
Only two tomato plants survived. But I kept showing up, whispering to those plants like a delusional tomato witch. I even got on the ground and pressed my nose to the leaves. And they smelled like tomatoes. Earthy. Honest. Hopeful.
And then I “graduated out.” Finished my coursework. Booted from the program. No warning. No final harvest. No tomato.
But here's the twist.
Just around the corner from Building Trades was the Horticulture Department. They grew real vegetables. Lots of them. Over 15,000 pounds, according to the latest brag sheet. And we all shared the same compost pile.
One day, my friend and I were hauling yard waste out there, and we spotted a vine. It had tomatoes on it—technically rotting—but tomatoes nonetheless. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation. We looked at each other, nodded like bandits, and grabbed the ripest ones we could find. They were dusty, borderline sour, kissed by decay—and hands down the best tomatoes I’ve ever eaten in my entire life.
Prison changes you. It lowers your standards and raises your gratitude. You learn to savor the little things—a sunbeam on concrete, a smuggled book, a tomato still warm from the sun.
I never got to eat the tomatoes I grew. But I devoured the ones I found. There’s a lesson in that, I think.
Sometimes the fruit doesn’t come from the plant you nurtured.
Sometimes the best things come a little late and slightly off.
Sometimes you just eat the damn tomato.
Thank you for reading
