From Picky Eater to Community Feeder: How a Southern Creole Girl Became an Urban Farmer and Food Justice Advocate

I used to be a picky eater—not just with food, but with life. I consistently chose comfort over challenge, convenience over curiosity, and city streets over soil. But God, as they say, had other plans. He took this Southern Creole girl, raised on flavor and faith, and planted her as a community feeder in the heart of Chicago.

I was a sixteen-year-old homeschooled teen just looking for a summer job. I wanted nothing to do with retail or fast food, but I felt hopeless about finding anything different. I didn't like bugs, and I hated getting dirty. Growing up in Louisiana, I preferred staying inside, safe from the smothering heat. Farming was the last thing I ever expected to do.

The only person I ever saw tending plants was my grandpa. He had a small garden and a mandarin tree that I insisted on calling an orange tree. We’d go back and forth about it and laugh every time. I loved that tree, but I never saw myself as the type to grow anything—except my natural hair. At the time, I was deeply immersed in the natural haircare and skincare movement, learning how to use plants and oils to nourish the body. That’s why, when a homeschool parent told my mom about a Black-owned urban farm in Chicago called Eden Place Nature Center, I was instantly intrigued.

I thought it might just be a nice local place to source ingredients for the skincare company my parents and I had started when I was fourteen. We had previously partnered with a small Black-owned family who ran a honey apiary and supplied us with beeswax. But a Black-owned nature center and farm felt uniquely different. I never imagined finding something like that in the "hood" in Chicago.

Eden Place was built on what was once an illegal dumpsite—three acres of debris, waste, and neglect in an extremely disinvested neighborhood. When I saw pictures of what it used to be, my heart broke. How could a community suffer that kind of neglect when other neighborhoods—including my own—had grocery stores, small businesses, and basic resources?

Then I stood on that same ground. Now there were hoop houses and raised beds overflowing with collard greens, tomatoes, and corn. Monarch butterflies danced over the rows, and goats and chickens wandered freely. It was unbelievable—and beautiful—to see so much life thriving in a place that had once been abandoned.

This place wasn’t just growing food. It was growing restoration.

I quickly signed up for their Farm Apprenticeship Leadership Program with other local teens. I learned how to plant seeds, water consistently, and sell produce at the farmers market. And for the first time, I felt like I belonged. I felt seen, connected, and part of something bigger than myself.

The weeds, dirt, bugs, and heat didn’t bother me anymore. I marveled at the way worms softened the ground for roots to grow, and how weeds had to be pulled for anything fruitful to thrive. I began to see the soil as a mirror of my own heart. God was using the farm to show me that everything is connected and intentionally designed.

And so is food apartheid.

I grew up believing struggle was just part of being Black in America—that fast food chains, liquor stores on every corner, and limited resources were normal. But the farm gave a name to what I had seen all my life but never understood: redlining, systemic oppression, and environmental racism.

That summer, I also began watching documentaries—Food, Inc., What the Health, Cowspiracy—and it was like my eyes opened wider. I saw how climate change, greed, and broken systems affected our plates. The farm had taught me how to grow food; those films taught me why it mattered. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Feeding my community became my mission—my way of reclaiming what has been marginalized from us.

So, in the words of Ron Finley, the guerrilla gardener from South Central LA, who always says, “Go plant some shit.” Let it be the act of rebellion, resistance, and restoration all at once.