RESISTENCE IS FERTILE

Hey! They can’t do that. That’s my food–my life–they’re messing with. They have gone too far now; somebody has got to stop these guys! These were my angry reactions when I heard that US biotech corporations were bent on introducing their freak creations—GMOs–into the food supply. They will do this as a service to mankind? Please!

We are what we eat. Not wanting to be GM’ed myself, nor to have GM sons or daughters, I felt the cold, clammy reality of being personally under attack. I knew that I had to protect my family from this mad experiment. Could a society, as advanced as we say we are, turn us into guinea pigs in a lab that is the whole outdoors? Where, oh where, are the controls?

I grew up during the cold war era when people were preoccupied with the fear of nuclear holocaust. At least then that danger was obvious to ordinary people, as no one wanted to be consumed by a radiated fireball.

Now, who wouldn’t want to consume a hearty bowl of steaming rice, a golden ear of corn, a red, ripe tomato? That’s why GMOs are so SINISTER; they speak to our hunger. And they also appeal to our wallets. That combination makes for a lethal one-two knock-out punch. Would resistance be futile?

Railing was never going to put that evil, corrupting genie back into the bottle. And, I was being cornered because I had no other convenient (read: cheap) way of getting genuine food anymore. Even though for many years I had been gardening (I had even killed my lawn and gotten into edible flowers), I hardly relied on these plantings for our “daily bread.”

My harvests were always small–like getting a bonus at times, not like having a regular salary. Really, I had only been fiddling around in the garden. My family was tied, as we always had been, to the supermarket, dependent on another to deliver our nourishment to us. Like the mother-and-child relationship, this way was safe and warm.

So there it was. Mama — the food market. Me — attached by the traditionally secure and comfortable “umbilical cord” that the city dweller could not cut. Or so I thought, until I took this path.

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