The Jamaican Backyard Was Doing More Than We Realized

When I think about the Jamaican backyards I grew up around, I realize we had an incredible amount of food and plant knowledge hiding in plain sight.

A mango tree wasn't remarkable.

Neither was aloe by the fence.

There might be fever grass somewhere in the yard, mint spreading wherever it pleased, scallion growing near the kitchen, and a fruit tree that produced far more than one family could eat.

Nobody called it a “wellness garden.”

Thank goodness.

It was just the yard.

But looking back, those yards were doing far more than we realized.

One space. Many jobs.

The modern backyard is often designed primarily for recreation.

The Jamaican backyard I remember was productive.

Something could season Sunday's dinner.

Something else could become tea.

Fruit could be picked and eaten immediately.

Aloe might be growing somewhere nearby.

And depending on the household, there were plants that somebody knew as “bush.”

The line between food, spice and traditional remedy wasn't always as rigid as it is today.

Ginger can be food.

Ginger can be tea.

Fever grass can flavor a drink.

It can also be the cup of tea someone reaches for because that's what their family has always done.

The plant doesn't change.

The context does.

 A Jamaican backyard could provide food, seasoning, tea and plants used in household traditions- all within a few steps of the kitchen.

But the plants were only half of the system.

This is the part I find more interesting.

Having plants nearby isn't particularly useful if nobody knows what they are.

The real resource was knowledge.

Someone knew which mango was sweetest.

Someone knew when the breadfruit was ready.

Someone knew the difference between two similar-looking bushes.

Someone knew which leaves went into a particular tea.

Someone knew what shouldn't be touched.

And children learned by being sent outside.

“Go pick two leaves.”

“Bring some fever grass.”

“Get a piece of aloe.”

You learned because eventually you had to know which plant they were talking about.

No course required.

Plant knowledge was often taught casually- through chores, cooking, observation and repetition.

We've gained convenience. We've lost some recognition.

Today, I can order herbs from halfway around the world without leaving my house.

That's incredible.

But convenience creates an interesting tradeoff.

We can consume plants we couldn't identify.

Buy herbs we've never seen growing.

Take extracts without knowing which part of the plant they came from.

Our grandparents often had the opposite problem.

They had fewer choices.

But they frequently knew their immediate environment extremely well.

I don't think the answer is to romanticize one generation and criticize another.

I think the interesting question is:

What knowledge is worth carrying forward?

Knowing how to identify a few plants seems like a good place to start.

A backyard could also be a form of resilience.

There is another part of this story that deserves more attention.

Growing food and useful plants at home wasn't always an aesthetic choice.

For many families, it was practical.

A productive yard meant something was available without buying it.

Fruit could be shared.

Herbs could be picked.

A cutting could become another plant.

Extra produce could travel next door.

That creates a kind of household resilience that feels surprisingly modern now that people are talking again about kitchen gardens, food security and self-sufficiency.

Jamaican families were doing versions of it long before it had a hashtag.

Maybe the old backyard has something to teach us.

I'm not suggesting everyone needs to turn their property into a medicinal garden.

Start smaller.

Learn one plant.

Grow fever grass.

Plant mint.

Learn what aloe actually looks like before it's processed into a bottle.

Ask someone older than you what grew behind their childhood home.

Because once you start asking those questions, the backyard stops looking like empty space.

It becomes a record of how people lived.

And sometimes, how they took care of one another.

Continue Reading

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