The man at the credit card swipe laughs when he sees me back. “Already?” he says.
“Another forty.” I sheepishly hand him my card.
It’s the third Farmer’s Market of the season, and I’m hungry for the rows of white tents, the bags of baby kale, the sweet boys with the new hummus stand. “I always thought I hated shopping,” I tell the man. “Turns out what I hated was malls.”
The machine hums, spits out paper. “You want a receipt?” he asks, tearing off the end.
“No,” I said, “no record of this, please.” We grin at one another as he hands me $40 in Market Bucks.
“Don’t spend it all in one place, now.” I heft my heavy bag onto my shoulder and head back into the crowd.
If I were spending this money anywhere else, I might feel sick. Buying a full tank of gas gives me palpitations. I’ve put off replacing gear until it’s a detriment to my health. But cheap as I can be, I’ve learned that handing over bills can be a pure sort of joy when it directly nourishes my community.
In a capitalist society, money is power. I don’t love this, but I recognize its relevance. The money we spend as individuals creates markets. Markets facilitate the allocation of resources. To me this means: Where will our water go? What options for work will our neighbors have? How will we use our land? What industries will governments support as essential? “Allocation of resources,” despite sounding vague and sterile, means everything.
I am not a person who makes much money, but I am very aware of the small power it holds. I know that if I buy a cheap plastic product from Target, I am ensuring that certain vile environmental and labor practices continue. With my dollar, I’m voting for globalization. I’m throwing my weight behind large tracts of agricultural and wild land turning into parking lots. And, by default, I am not voting for certain things: Artisans. Local commerce. The creativity of my own community.
It’s a sunny day at the Farmer’s Market, and everyone is beginning to shrug off their fleeces. I walk the long rows of booths pricing spinach, coveting the local wine, trying bits of gluten-free brownie on toothpicks. I find myself buying from as many different booths as possible; feeling like an ally to all these farmers and artisans, I have trouble choosing one over the others.
When I hand over my Market Bucks at last, I always vote for something specific. This booth, it’s Farmer John’s pleased, humble face as I buy another bag of his locally-grown, self-ground flour. I know I am helping him live a life he has built. I am supporting open space: this Niwot farm, at least, won’t sell out to a subdivision. I am purchasing flour that required almost no gas to get to its end location. And most importantly, when I buy his flour, it makes it more likely that local flour will continue to be an option for everyone—even those who don’t yet know that local flour exists.
It’s impossible to bring up local, organic, and fair trade products without someone mentioning price. And price is, indeed, the point. It would be easy to walk around the Farmer’s Market and sneer, “Eight bucks for a glass jar of tomatoes? That’s ridiculous!” And of course, if you’re used to standing in the aisles of King Soopers digging up seventy-cent cans, it would seem so. To me, what’s relevant is how few costs are externalized. In other words, most (if not all) costs of that Farmer’s Market jar of tomatoes are paid for up front. There’s no river that needs to be rehabilitated because of pesticide runoff. There are no poorly-paid workers on Medicaid or utilizing the local soup kitchen. The tomatoes—by requiring less gas for cultivation and transportation—do not fuel international, oil-based conflicts. There’s no energy spent to recycle an aluminum can—the glass jar just gets washed out and used again. Industrial tomatoes are not actually cheaper; we just pay the costs in a different way.
It’s time to be more creative in how we think about price. As a society, we currently spend a smaller percentage of our income on food than any past culture. To some, this looks like freedom. To me, it feels like chains. In search of a cheap “price” up front, we’re leaving wreckage on all sides—costs we do have to pay sooner or later.
The idea is relevant to more than food: clothes, furniture, cleaning products. Here in Boulder, it’s easy. I buy my candles from the hands that make them. Boulder is a place where these markets are strong because there are lots of us willing to use our dollars in exactly the way I describe. But even in communities less robust than Boulder, there are ways to use a dollar to create the world you want to see.
For starters, choose used over new, local over industrial. This simple move minimizes the resources necessary to create and transport the product. Next, ask for organic and Fair Trade if your local vendors don’t carry them yet. You could be the one who creates the market your neighbors will support. Last, buy from locally-owned businesses. Attend art fairs. Your neighbors—no doubt following their own dreams at financial risk—will appreciate it. And if you really can’t afford to buy everything organic or local, do what you can. A vote for ethical industries with some of your dollars is certainly better than none.
When I leave the last booth, saddlebags sagging with groceries, a vendor calls out behind me, “Thanks for being such a supporter!” I have to smile. Maybe I’m a little over-excited when it comes to the Farmer’s Market, but I also can’t think of a better way to use my own limited, precious resources.
Curious how externalized costs work? Check out this easy-to-grasp video through the Story of Stuff Project. It’s not food-specific, but it’s a great introduction to thinking about the often-unseen costs of modern life.
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