Badge of honor
When my husband was a kid, he loved visiting farms. Growing up in a villa, complete with a swimming pool, he vividly remembers each visit to these different worlds—the smells, the dirt, the atmosphere, the attitude, the farmers, and the animals. He even made a pact with his uncle Gisle, promising each other that one day, they’d buy a farm and run it together.
Uncle Gisle was on to something: not only did he see my husband for the gnome he truly is, but he also approached the conversation with curiosity, not judgment. Unfortunately, Uncle Gisle passed away before they could fulfill their dream, and with him, a piece of wonder died too.
Growing up in Norway in the 90s and early 2000s, being a farmer was often seen as something "too simple"—like something you ended up doing for some unfathomable reason, not something you chose. Farming seemed an odd choice when oil money was pouring in and consumer culture was loudly banging at the door. In addition to being perceived as poor (read: not having a lot of money in the bank), there was a widespread belief that farmers lacked a proper education, reinforcing the stereotype that farming was a low-status occupation. This belief was rooted in the idea that professional status is directly linked to years of formal education. In many professions, I would agree—a street-savvy lawyer without formal education or respect for the law is not advisable. However, a farmer has attended a completely different kind of school, one that aspiring lawyers might never pass.
"Farmer" was a common insult, not just in the cities, but even in the small town where my husband grew up. Popular culture often portrayed farmers as dimwits, political imbeciles, or even serial killers. People noticed how farmers' sons dressed, what they were interested in, and how they highlighted those interests. Some of my husband’s classmates drove to school on tractors, seeing the tractor as a symbol of status and belonging. My husband cringed.
Like most teenagers, my husband slowly but surely adapted his mindset to align with consumer culture and the unspoken yet blunt social hierarchy we construct to place ourselves above others. Ambitious parents with judgmental tongues speculated over dinner: Is he forced to take over, to inherit? Is it what’s affordable? Maybe he’s not bright enough to get a proper education. Popular culture often portrayed farmers as dimwits, political imbeciles, or even serial killers. These parents, who were exposed to the same cultural canons, were ambitious on behalf of their children: they directly or indirectly conveyed that being a farmer was simply not good enough. It was worse than standing still, it was seen as moving backwards —unable to lead to economic growth, happiness, or prosperity.
Distinguishing people by their occupations, where they live, or how they present themselves is a devious shortcut to falsely constructed confidence. Deciding what you don’t like or agree with—or rather, adopting those views and values from family or friends (however well meaning) —is not a healthy process of self evolvement. It is however formative, driven by insicurity and fear. Being judgmental does not spark awareness, reflection, and wonder. It beats it down to protect a sense of safety in belonging.
Luckily, the perception of farming is slowly changing. For some, it’s evolving into a more romanticized picture, finally recognized as a piece of the environmental puzzle, sneaking its way back into mainstream politics. The idea of status being linked to either money or education, rather than what one attains through experience and hard work, might also slowly be changing. Perhaps that’s why my husband and I ended up buying our own farm: partly driven by the genuine, partly driven by status, waiting for the timing to be right.
As an adult, my husband has come to know many farmers personally. While he doesn’t consider himself a proper farmer—we are consumers, mostly buying the produce of others—he’s certainly surrounded by working farms and farmlands. My husband often says that if he ever found himself in a difficult situation, he’d want a farmer watching his back. He admires how most people are good at one or two things, like their PhDs and skiing. Farmers, on the other hand, possess an incredible range of skills—from handling electricity, woodwork, and plumbing to taking care of animals and running a business. In addition, farmers are creators of life; they turn seeds into grain and two cows into twenty. They are one of the gears in the machinery of the land, responsible for generating life and sustenance.
Norway has a great welfare system, with predictable rules, regulations, and professional bureaucrats. You can leave most of your problems or worries about the future with the doctor or the government. Farmers, on the other hand, run a business depending on the unpredictability of nature. Not even the best bureaucrat can beat nature.
The best once are connected to nature through real understaning, like my friend Kari who used to run a cow-farm on a small island in the North. Her family gave up. She now works in the municipality, helping farmers with their applications. She is rational, honest, to the point - treating all the same - yet, the work is with and from her heart.
The worst once probably don’t see the difference between an oat, barly or wheat field. They don’t truly understand the concept of wood, how it grows and when its planted.
The rawness of self-reliance, alters the very concept of time. It opens up and demands a long-term perspective on life and creation, fostering sustainability. When a farmer plants trees, they aren’t thinking about next year’s profit—they’re thinking about what their grandchildren will harvest decades from now.
“Being a farmer is a badge of honor,” my husband proclaims. I agree, and this is me trying to hand it out.
I often wonder what would have become of my husband if he had bought that farm with Uncle Gisle. We wouldn’t have met. We wouldn’t have been a match. We had to get of the high horse together.
One thing’s for sure: we would have been one perspective poorer. We would have been ignorant to all the hard work and pride that goes into the work of a farmer.
Photo credit: Lena Johanssen
