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From prison to plate : how connections between men in federal custody and Indigenous families impacts… Timler, Kelsey 2017

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				FROM	PRISON	TO	PLATE:	HOW	CONNECTIONS	BETWEEN	MEN	IN	FEDERAL	CUSTODY	AND	INDIGENOUS	FAMILIES	IMPACTS	FOOD	SECURITY,	FOOD	SOVEREIGNTY	AND	WELLBEING			by		KELSEY	TIMLER	BA,	The	University	of	British	Columbia,	2013					A	THESIS	SUBMITTED	IN	PARTIAL	FULFILLMENT	OF	THE	REQUIREMENTS	FOR	THE	DEGREE	OF		MASTER	OF	SCIENCE			in		THE	FACULTY	OF	GRADUATE	AND	POSTDOCTORAL	STUDIES			(Population	and	Public	Health)					THE	UNIVERSITY	OF	BRITISH	COLUMBIA			(Vancouver)			April	2017									©	Kelsey	Timler,	2017	 	 	 	 	 	 		ii	Abstract		For	many	Aboriginal	communities	in	Canada,	the	legacies	of	historic	and	ongoing	colonialism	and	the	impacts	of	marginalization,	dispossession	and	racism	have	produced	barriers	to	meaningful	and	nutritious	foods	and	foodways.	This	has	resulted	in	high	rates	of	diet-related	diseases	among	Aboriginal	populations.	The	same	factors	that	impact	Aboriginal	food	security	also	create	barriers	to	employment	and	housing,	and	inequitable	treatment	within	the	criminal	justice	system.		Founded	in	2012,	a	prison	garden	based	at	a	minimum	security	correctional	institution	in	Mission,	British	Columbia	(BC),	attempts	to	address	these	correlates	of	crime	and	poor	health	by	engaging	men	in	federal	custody	in	meaningful	activity;	specifically,	the	growing	and	subsequent	donation	of	organic	produce.	The	fruits	and	vegetables	grown	in	the	garden	are	donated	to	a	variety	of	local	organizations	and	Aboriginal	communities,	including	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	of	central	interior	BC.	This	ethnographic	research,	founded	in	critical	social	justice	theories	and	the	principles	of	food	sovereignty,	set	out	to	understand	the	impacts	of	the	garden	on	both	the	participating	men	and	the	recipient	Tŝilhqot’in	communities.	Qualitative	interviews	were	conducted	with	10	participating	men	in	custody,	10	Tŝilhqot’in	recipients,	and	5	program	stakeholders.	Iterative	thematic	analysis	revealed	multi-layered	impacts	for	the	participating	men,	starting	with	access	to	food	and	increasing	over	time	to	include	gardening	as	a	means	to	figuratively	escape	the	correctional	environment,	to	work	productively,	to	give	back,	and	as	a	means	to	begin	imagining	meaningful	futures	outside	of	prison.	The	distribution	of	vegetables	within	the	Tŝilhqot’in	highlighted	a	passive	coalescence	with	histories	of	culinary	imperialism,	truncating	impacts	to	two	layers:	access	to	food	and	connections	with	the	men	in	prison.	Drawing	on	the	insights	of	both	the	men	and	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	and	the	theoretical	principles	of	food	sovereignty,	decolonizing	methodologies	and	food	as	social	justice,	potential	ways	to	acknowledge	the	legacies	of	colonialism,	increase	connection	between	the	prison	and	the	communities,	and	increase	impacts	are	discussed.								 	 	 	 	 	 		iii	Lay	Summary		The	legacy	of	Canadian	colonialism	has	resulted	in	barriers	to	nutritious	foods	for	many	Aboriginal	communities,	including	economic	vulnerability,	unstable	housing	and	racism,	as	well	disproportionate	rates	of	incarceration.	A	BC	prison	garden	program	attempts	to	address	these	unfair	processes	by	employing	men	in	prison	to	grow	organic	vegetables	that	are	later	donated	to	communities	and	organizations,	including	the	Tŝilhqot’in	First	Nation.	Using	semi-structured	interviewing	and	participant	observation	I	explored	the	impacts	of	the	garden	on	the	participating	men	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	who	receive	the	produce.	My	analysis,	based	in	the	principles	of	social	justice,	found	many	benefits	of	the	garden	on	the	men,	but	because	the	vegetable	distribution	process	does	not	encourage	connection	between	the	men	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	and	fails	to	address	ongoing	colonialism,	the	impacts	on	the	community	are	unable	to	reach	their	full	potential.	Possible	ways	to	strengthen	connections	and	increase	impacts	are	discussed.																 	 	 	 	 	 		iv	Preface		This	thesis	is	the	original	and	unpublished	work	by	the	author,	Kelsey	Timler.	The	fieldwork	reported	throughout	was	covered	by	UBC	Ethics	Certificate	#H16-00697.	Additionally,	the	Correctional	Service	of	Canada	Research	Branch	approved	all	fieldwork	occurring	within	Mission	Minimum	Institution,	and	all	research	activities	within	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	of	Tl’esqox	occurred	under	an	ongoing	Memorandum	of	Understanding	between	the	UBC	School	of	Nursing	and	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government,	as	well	as	formal	approval	from	Chief	&	Council	in	Tl’esqox.			This	work	was	conducted	independently	by	the	author,	however	was	deeply	informed	by	her	role	as	the	Research	Manager	on	the	Work	2	Give	research	team,	led	by	thesis	committee	member	Dr.	Helen	Brown	and	co-led	by	Dr.	Colleen	Varcoe.	This	wider	research,	which	is	defined	in	greater	detail	within	the	body	of	the	thesis,	often	overlapped	with	the	thematic	analysis	of	this	work.	The	insights	garnered	have	been	vital	to	this	intellectual	work.																		 	 	 	 	 	 		v	Table	of	Contents	Abstract	...............................................................................................................................................	ii	Lay	Summary	....................................................................................................................................	iii	Preface	................................................................................................................................................	iv	List	of	Figures	..................................................................................................................................	vii	List	of	Images	.................................................................................................................................	viii	Acknowledgments	..........................................................................................................................	ix	Dedication	...........................................................................................................................................	x	Chapter	1:	Introduction	..................................................................................................................	1	1.1:	Research	Questions	&	Objectives	..................................................................................................	3	1.2:	Notes	on	Language	.............................................................................................................................	5	1.3:	Situating	the	Author	..........................................................................................................................	6	Chapter	2:	Theoretical	Perspectives	..........................................................................................	8	Chapter	3:	Background	&	Literature	.......................................................................................	12	3.1:	Work	2	Give	&	the	Mission	Prison	Garden	..............................................................................	12	3.2:	Food,	Health	&	Indigeneity	...........................................................................................................	14	3.3:	Prison	Employment	Programs	....................................................................................................	17	3.4:	Gardening	&	Health	........................................................................................................................	19	3.5:	The	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	...................................................................................................................	23	3.6:	Summary	............................................................................................................................................	25	Chapter	4:	Methods	&	Analysis	.................................................................................................	26	4.1:	Qualitative	Settings	and	Participants	.......................................................................................	26	4.2:	Qualitative	Data	Collection	..........................................................................................................	27	4.3:	Qualitative	Data	Analysis	..............................................................................................................	29	4.4:	Community	cooking	workshops	.................................................................................................	31	4.5:	Ethics	...................................................................................................................................................	32	Chapter	5:	Results	..........................................................................................................................	33	5.1:	Impacts	on	Men	................................................................................................................................	33	5.1.1:	Access	to	Food	...............................................................................................................................................	35	5.1.2:	Working	to	Escape,	Working	to	Produce	...........................................................................................	38	5.1.3:	Giving	Back	.....................................................................................................................................................	45	5.1.4:	Imagining	a	Meaningful	Future	.............................................................................................................	52	5.1.5:	Challenges	&	Strengths	..............................................................................................................................	54	5.2:	Impacts	on	Tŝilhqot’in	Communities	........................................................................................	56	5.2.1:	Access	to	Food	...............................................................................................................................................	57	5.2.2:	Connections	With	Men	in	Prison	...........................................................................................................	59	5.2.3:	Community	Contexts	..................................................................................................................................	62	5.2.4:	Challenges	.......................................................................................................................................................	65		 	 	 	 	 	 		vi	5.2.5:	Opportunities:	Strengthening	Tenuous	Connections	...................................................................	66	5.2.6:	Limitations	&	Challenges	..........................................................................................................................	73	Chapter	6:	Discussion	...................................................................................................................	75	6.1:	From	Gratitude	to	Reciprocity	....................................................................................................	76	6.2:	From	Passive	Recipients	to	Partners	in	Growth	...................................................................	77	6.3:	From	Food	Security	to	Land	&	Sovereignty	............................................................................	78	Chapter	7:	Conclusion	..................................................................................................................	82	7.1:	Implications	for	Practice	..............................................................................................................	83	7.1.1:	In	Prison	...........................................................................................................................................................	83	7.1.2:	In	Indigenous	Communities	....................................................................................................................	87	7.2:	Implications	for	Research	............................................................................................................	88	7.3:	Final	Thoughts	..................................................................................................................................	90	Bibliography	....................................................................................................................................	92	Appendix	I:	Selected	Vegetable	Information	Sheets	.......................................................	104	Appendix	II:	Cooking	Workshop	Recipe	Handout	...........................................................	110																						 	 	 	 	 	 		vii		List	of	Figures		Figure	1:	Layered	impacts	of	the	prison	garden	on	participating	men	………………………….........…34	Figure	2:	Distribution	inadequately	confronts	colonial	context,	truncating	impacts	…….............	57	Figure	3:	The	potential	for	increased	benefit	through	strengthened	connections	and	recognized		 contexts	……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….…67																									 	 	 	 	 	 		viii		List	of	Images		Image	1:	The	garden	at	Mission	Minimum	Institution	……………………………………………………………13	Image	2:	Tl’esqox,	nestled	amongst	the	hills	…………………………………………………………………………	28		Image	3:	The	prison	garden	in	August	………………………………………………………………………………….	38	Image	4:	The	second	growth	surrounding	the	garden	…………………………………………………………...	39	Image	5:	One	of	the	men,	standing	proudly	beside	a	flowering	zinnias	plant	…………………………..40	Image	6:	Harvested	squash,	cleaned	and	ready	for	donation	………………………………………..………...43	Image	7:	Clearing	the	fields	at	the	season’s	end	…………………………………………………………………….	43	Image	8:	A	CSC	truck,	loaded	for	delivery	……………………………………………………………………………..	46	Image	9:	Vegetable	distribution	to	one	of	the	communities	…………………………………………………...	58	Image	10:	The	work	and	pride	involved	in	smoking	salmon	…………………………………………………..65	Image	11:	Cooking	workshop	participants	in	Tl’esqox	………………………………………………………….	71	Image	12:	Cooking	borscht	with	workshop	participants	in	Tl’esqox	……………………………………….72															 	 	 	 	 	 		ix	Acknowledgments		The	opportunity	of	graduate	school	is	clearly	a	privilege.	But	the	everyday	experiences	of	doing	this	work:	driving	home	from	the	prison	with	jeans	caked	in	mud	and	the	voices	of	thoughtful	and	welcoming	men	echoing	in	my	ears;	cleaning	and	preparing	fish	with	people	in	Tl’esqox,	the	smell	of	salmon	caked	under	my	fingernails;	cottonwood	smoke	and	warm	grass	lingering	as	I	sat	afterwards	and	wrote	in	my	journal,	and;	the	gifts	of	smoked	salmon	from	Tl’esqox	and	beautiful	tomatoes	from	the	prison	warming	my	kitchen	and	my	home;	it	has	all	been	a	complete	joy,	an	honour	that	I	will	always	treasure.	I	would	like	to	thank	every	person	I	spoke	with,	in	the	prisons	and	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in;	the	thoughtfulness,	kindness,	and	strength	of	these	people	was	and	will	continue	to	be	inspiring.	I	also	want	to	thank	the	stakeholders	that	took	time	from	their	busy	schedules	to	answer	my	many	questions	and	clarify	my	many	misunderstandings;	in	particular	the	farmer	at	Mission	Minimum,	who	was	a	gracious	host,	making	me	feel	at	ease	even	on	that	first	day	as	I	wondered	what	the	hell	I	was	doing,	always	sending	me	home	with	beautiful	vegetables	I	got	to	share,	cooking	at	home	while	thinking	of	all	things	the	men	were	teaching	me.	Thank	you	to	Craig	Kennedy	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	at	Old	School	who	provided	me	a	place	to	stay	and	helped	facilitate	the	ethics	process	and	crafting	of	first	relationships	within	the	community.		I	also	want	to	share	my	ongoing	thanks	and	appreciation	to	the	members	of	my	thesis	committee	for	their	ongoing	support	and	insight,	the	breadth	and	depth	of	their	expertise	and	wisdom	is	overwhelming,	but	always	in	a	good	way.	Thank	you	specifically	to	Helen,	who	always	made	time	to	sit,	if	even	for	five	minutes,	and	talk	me	through	the	many	questions,	uncertainties	and	musings	of	the	research	process;	our	many	cups	of	mint	tea	helped	cultivate	my	thinking	and	made	sure	each	step	of	this	process	honoured	the	people	who	agreed	to	participate.	Thank	you	to	my	parents	for	the	support	and	love	that’s	gotten	me	this	far,	for	all	the	homegrown	garlic	that	has	helped	ward	of	the	many	colds	of	graduate	school,	and	for	my	little	VW,	which	carried	me	safely	from	prison	to	Tl’esqox	and	home	again.	Finally,	thank	you	to	Jesse,	who	made	me	snacks	while	I	was	hunched	over	my	laptop,	listened	patiently	while	I	spoke	in	circles	to	figure	out	what	I	was	figuring	out,	and	made	me	laugh	when	the	stress	started	to	rise.									 	 	 	 	 	 		x	Dedication		This	thesis	is	dedicated	to	the	wonderful	people	with	whom	I	spoke,	moving	rocks	from	fields	with	men	in	prison	and	drinking	tea	with	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	who	welcomed	me	into	their	homes	and	lives.	And	to	my	parents,	who	lovingly	taught	me	to	adore	food.																													 	 	 	 	 	 		1	Chapter	1:	Introduction		For	many	Aboriginal	communities	in	Canada,	the	legacies	of	historic	and	ongoing	colonialism	and	the	impacts	of	marginalization,	dispossession	and	racism	have	produced	barriers	to	meaningful	foods1	through	land	dispossession,	the	heavy	restriction	and	regulation	of	subsistence	activities,	and	the	subsequent	forced	reliance	on	wage	labour	and	processed	foods	(Adelson,	1998;	Kirmayer,	Gone,	&	Moses,	2014).	These	historic	and	ongoing	policies	and	forms	of	violence	have	resulted	in	disproportionately	high	rates	of	food	insecurity	and	correlated	diet-related	diseases	among	Aboriginal	populations	(British	Columbia	Provincial	Health	Officer,	2009;	Downs	et	al.,	2009;	Government	of	Canada	&	Health	Canada,	2007).	Structural	violence	is	the	often	hidden	social	forces	that	create	harm	and	disadvantage	for	already	marginalized	members	and	groups	(Farmer,	1996).	These	structures	have	impacted	employment	opportunities	and	led	to	disproportionate	economic	vulnerabilities	within	many	Aboriginal	communities,	creating	additional	barriers	to	food	security.	To	be	food	secure	is	to	have	sustainable	physical,	social,	and	economic	access	to	the	quantity	and	quality	of	foods	that	individuals	and	families	need	to	meet	their	nutritional	needs	(Edelman,	2014;	Food	and	Agriculture	Organization	of	the	United	Nations,	2015).	Barriers	to	food	security	within	Aboriginal	communities	include	but	are	not	restricted	to	limited	access	to	the	appropriate	quantity	and	quality	of	store	bought	foods	(Willows,	Veugelers,	Raine,	&	Kuhle,	2009).	Yet,	despite	the	disproportionate	economic	vulnerability	experienced	by	many	Aboriginal	communities,	they	continue	to	have	rich	and	diverse	foodways	and	bio-cultural	heritages	embedded	in	complex	webs	of	relationships	that	connect	the	individual	to	family,	community,	history,	and	the	natural	world	(Adelson,	1998).			Food	security	and	nutrition	are	necessary	for	individual	health	and	wellbeing,	which	are	in	turn	difficult,	if	not	impossible,	to	achieve	without	connections	to	a	family,	broadly	defined,	and	a	community.	Within	many	Indigenous	contexts	this	intersecting	connectivity	expands	beyond	the	intrapersonal	to	encompass	cultural	knowledges	and	their	intergenerational	transmission;	culturally-mediated	foodways	and	the	family-centered	activities	that	surround	the	tending,	gathering,	hunting,	fishing,	preserving,	preparing,	and	sharing	of	food,	and;	being	on	the	land	as																																									 																					1	The	words	used	to	describe	the	foods	and	foodways	of	Aboriginal	peoples	are	often	political.	My	choice	of	language	will	be	dealt	with	below.			 	 	 	 	 	 		2	relational,	as	opposed	to	capitalistic	and	resource	extraction-based		(Adelson,	1998;	Morrison,	2011).	These	connections	encompass	Indigenous	communities’	bio-cultural	heritages,	resurgent	and	diverse	meanings,	customs	and	knowledges	surrounding	food	that	have	been	purposefully	disrupted	by	colonialism	and	state-sponsored	structures	of	violence,	social	marginalization,	dispossession,	and	discrimination	(Napolean,	2016).	This	has	resulted	in	not	only	increased	experiences	of	food	insecurity	but	disproportionate	rates	of	economic	vulnerability,	low	educational	attainment	and	high	unemployment	among	many	Aboriginal	communities.	These	are	factors	known	to	be	correlates	of	the	persistent	inequities	that	exist	within	the	criminal	justice,	such	as	incarceration,	among	both	Aboriginal	and	non-Aboriginal	peoples	in	Canada	(Perreault,	2009;	Sapers,	2014).		Incarceration	inherently	isolates	individuals,	disrupting	connections	with	family,	community	and	culture.	Yet	for	many	of	the	youth	and	adults	engaged	within	the	Canadian	criminal	justice	system,	these	health	and	wellbeing	sustaining	connections	were	disrupted	prior	to	admission	into	custody,	creating	isolation	outside	prison	walls	that	heightens	the	risk	of	criminal	activity	and	incarceration.	The	vast	majority	of	persons	in	custody	have	had	adverse	childhood	experiences	(Colantonio	et	al.,	2014;	Dowden	&	Blanchette,	1999;	Kouyoumdjian,	Schuler,	Matheson,	&	Hwang,	2016);	in	Canada	roughly	60%	of	Aboriginal	and	30%	of	non-Aboriginal	people	in	federal	custody	have	been	involved	in	the	child	welfare	system,	and	20%	of	Aboriginal	persons	have	survived	residential	schools	(Trevethan,	Auger,	Moore,	MacDonald,	&	Sinclair,	2001).		Individuals	in	custody	also	have	disproportionately	high	rates	of	homelessness	and	vulnerable	housing	(Bouchard,	2004;	The	John	Howard	Society,	2010),	unemployment	(Dowden	&	Blanchette,	1999),	and	high	school	non-completion	(McCreary	Centre	Society,	2014).	These	demographic	markers	are	similar	for	both	Aboriginal	and	non-Aboriginal	people	though	based	in	intertwined	yet	divergent	histories	of	colonial	power,	privilege	and	dispossession.	These	disruptions,	spanning	across	individual	childhoods	and	lifetimes,	create	and	sustain	disconnection	among	many	of	the	roughly	15,000	adults	in	federal	custody	in	2014/15	and	the	nearly	332,000	adults	admitted	to	federal	and	provincial/territorial	custody	in	2014/15.	In	that	year	twenty-two	percent	of	these	individuals	were	Aboriginal	(Reitano,	2016).	The	Canadian	criminal	justice	system	is	consequently	faced	with	creating	and	sustaining	rehabilitative	spaces,	experiences	and	processes	for	these	thousands	of	individuals,	people	often	disconnected	from	home,	family,	and	health	and	social	wellbeing.	The	Aboriginal	peoples	of	Canada	feel	the	correlates	of	colonialism,	such	as	patriarchy,	and	extraction-based	capitalism,	most	poignantly,		 	 	 	 	 	 		3	and	for	Aboriginal	people	in	custody	these	disconnections	span	back	to	colonial	contact.	Yet	for	all	people	in	custody	the	redressing	of	disruption,	be	it	historic	or	framed	within	a	few	generations,	is	a	necessary	step	towards	rehabilitation,	healing	and	health.	Focusing	on	foodways	and	food	meanings	may	offer	a	strengths-based	way	to	connect	individuals	to	their	families,	communities,	and	cultures	and	can	therefore	contribute	to	redressing	some	of	the	correlates	of	crime	situated	in	and	reproduced	by	historic	and	ongoing	colonialism.		This	research	has	emerged	from	my	interests	in	the	connections	among	food,	culture,	history	and	health	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation,	located	in	what	is	today	the	central	interior	of	British	Columbia	(BC),	where	families	experiencing	food	insecurity	receive	donated	produce	grown	in	a	prison	garden	by	men	in	federal	custody,	both	Aboriginal	and	non-Aboriginal.	This	garden,	part	of	a	larger	prison	work	program	called	Work	2	Give,	may	enable	these	connections	while	furthering	connectivity	between	food	insecure	families	and	the	men	working	in	the	garden,	both	of	whom	are	impacted	by	systemic	marginalization,	racism,	and	colonizing	policies.	Using	ethnographic	methods	I	explored	the	effects	of	the	Work	2	Give	garden	project	on	food	security	and	food	sovereignty	among	Tŝilhqot’in	communities,	the	experiences	of	meaningful	work	on	the	men	working	in	the	prison	garden,	and	the	connections	between	these	men,	the	food	they	grow,	and	the	families	who	receive	it.			1.1:	Research	Questions	&	Objectives		This	research	is	based	in	an	ongoing	interest	in	exploring	the	Indigenous	bio-cultural	heritage	and	foodways	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	and	how	colonialism,	global	capitalism,	and	structural	violence	have	impacted	Aboriginal	peoples’	self	determination	as	it	relates	to	food	and	health.	I	aimed	to	explore	how	these	histories	influence	the	lived	experiences	of	Tŝilhqot’in	families	and	men	in	federal	custody.	I	wanted	to	know	how	the	introduction	of	donated	produce	into	economically	vulnerable	homes	influences	a	family’s	ability	to	engage	in	meaningful	food-related	activities.	How	did	the	history	of	agriculture	in	Canada,	a	method	of	colonial	control	and	land	dispossession,	impact	the	ways	in	which	these	vegetables,	and	the	men	that	grow	them,	are	thought	about	around	Tŝilhqot’in	dinner	tables?	And	finally,	did	digging	in	the	land	with	soil	caked	under	their	fingernails	result	in	increased	connectivity	to	nature	and	to	community	for	the	men	growing	the	produce?	These	questions	are	significant	given	the	centrality	of	relationships	to	holistic	health	and	wellbeing	in	many	Aboriginal	communities	and	the	need	for	connection	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		4	relationship	in	correctional	rehabilitation.	These	relationships	position	food	as	more	than	a	mere	commodity,	as	medicine,	as	evidence	of	living	well	on	the	land,	as	a	powerful	site	of	knowledge,	story,	and	ceremony,	and	as	the	result	of	activities	and	times	that	bonds	communities	and	respects	Elders.	These	components	of	foods	and	foodways	become	increasingly	significant	against	the	historic	and	ongoing	backdrop	of	global	capitalism,	land	theft	and	dispossession,	the	forced	reliance	on	wage	labour,	and	the	increased	consumption	of	processed	foods	across	Aboriginal	communities	and	correctional	facilities.		Specifically,	I	aimed	to	discover	to	what	extent	and	in	what	ways	the	Work	2	Give	garden	project	effects:	(1)	the	food	security	and	sovereignty	of	economically	vulnerable	Tŝilhqot’in	families	who	receive	donated	produce;	(2)	the	experiences	of	meaningful	work	for	men	in	federal	custody,	and;	(3)	possible	meaningful	connections	between	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	and	the	men	who	grow	and	harvest	a	portion	of	their	food.			Under	the	umbrella	of	these	wider	questions	the	following	sub-questions	were	posed:		 1) How	does	the	produce	donated	through	Work	2	Give	impact	Tŝilhqot’in	individual		 and	family	health	and	wellbeing?		2) How	does	the	produce	donated	through	Work	2	Give	impact	Tŝilhqot’in	individual		 family	food	security?	3) How	is	the	produce	donated	through	Work	2	Give	integrated	by	Tŝilhqot’in		 individuals	and	families	into	their	foodways	and	food	meanings?	4) What	does	the	growing,	tending,	and	harvesting	of	vegetables	through	Work	2	Give		 mean	to	the	participating	men?	5) How	does	the	donation	of	produce	through	Work	2	Give	influence	connections		 between	the	participating	men	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities?		Exploring	these	questions	ethnographically	allowed	me	to	describe	the	effects	of	Work	2	Give	on	the	food	security	and	sovereignty	of	Tŝilhqot’in	communities,	as	well	as	the	impacts	of	working	in	the	garden	on	the	men	experiencing	incarceration.				 	 	 	 	 	 		5		1.2:	Notes	on	Language		Within	the	Canadian	context	the	Aboriginal	population	is	comprised	of	First	Nations,	Inuit,	and	Métis	peoples.	While	this	research	focuses	on	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation,	and	specifically	the	Tl’esqox	band,	it	is	important	to	note	that	the	Aboriginal	peoples	and	cultures	within	Canada	are	diverse	and	varied.	Aboriginal	individuals	have	defined	rights	under	the	Constitution	Act	of	1982.	The	term	Indigenous	will	also	be	used	throughout	this	proposal.	Indigeneity	refers	to	first	peoples	internationally,	and	is	used	by	the	United	Nations	and	other	international	organizations	to	describe	communities	with	ancestral	occupancy	and	use	of	traditional	lands.	Within	the	context	of	this	thesis	the	terms	Aboriginal	and	Indigenous	will	be	used	synonymously,	while	recognizing	these	differences.	When	appropriate	the	Indigenous	peoples	who	welcomed	me	into	their	community,	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	of	the	Tl’esqox	band,	will	be	referred	to	by	their	own	name,	Tŝilhqot’in,	the	People	of	the	River.	The	significance	of	that	name,	embedded	in	ancient	waters	rushing	south,	will	become	apparent	in	the	coming	pages.					The	language	and	concepts	used	in	these	pages	are	mired	in	history;	it	is	clear	that	“concepts	have	teeth,	[…]	teeth	that	bite	through	time”	(Simpson	2014,	100),	but	language	can	also	unsettle,	restore	and	decolonize.	The	terms	men	in	federal	custody	and	men	experiencing	incarceration,	and	simply,	the	men,	are	used	purposely	to	signal	that	a	criminal	history	does	not	define	a	person,	and	that	complex	intersections	of	socio-economic,	historical,	and	cultural	factors	coalesce	to	impact	the	risks,	needs,	and	realities	of	those	in	contact,	or	at-risk	of	being	in	contact,	with	the	criminal	justice	system.	These	terms	are	used	in	place	of	the	inherently	reductive	terms	offender,	inmate,	or	prisoner.		There	are	a	variety	of	words	used	to	describe	the	realities	that	many	Indigenous	communities	experience	in	the	constant	wake	of	ongoing	colonialism.	I	use	the	terms	economically	vulnerable	and	marginalized	to	describe	the	ways	in	which	many	Indigenous	communities	are	impacted	by	external	forces	of	dispossession,	appropriation,	and	discrimination.	I	acknowledge	that	Tuck	&	Ree	(2013)	write	that	“damage	narratives	are	the	only	stories	that	get	told	about	me,	unless	I’m	the	one	that’s	telling	them;	”	consequently	I	aim	to	write	stories	of	strength	(647).	While	many	communities	are	constrained	by	the	racist	and	very	intentional	actions	of	colonial	leaders,		 	 	 	 	 	 		6	vulnerability	and	marginalization	are	far	from	inherent	within	Aboriginal	homes	and	communities.			The	majority	of	literature	on	Aboriginal	food	security	focuses	on	traditional	or	cultural	foods.	I	choose	to	write	about	meaningful	foods,	meaningful	foodways	and	bio-cultural	heritages	to	acknowledge	the	dynamic	and	diverse	food	histories	and	foodways	of	Aboriginal	communities	in	general,	and	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	in	particular.	This	is	intended	to	avoid	a	prescriptive	understanding	of	what	is	and	is	not	‘traditional’	or	‘cultural’,	to	avoid	focusing	on	food	as	cultural	difference	instead	of	as	political	and	social,	based	in	the	context	of	the	Indigenous	“right	to	govern,	to	own,	to	labour,”	to	gather,	to	store,	to	share,	and	to	eat	(Simpson	2014,	102).	I	describe	food	as	a	meaningful	heritage	born	from	intersections	among	human	and	more-than-human	ecosystems;	this	is	done	to	provide	a	space	for	Tŝilhqot’in	participants	to	weave	their	own	histories,	ceremonies,	beliefs,	preferences,	cultures,	and	priorities	into	what	is	considered	meaningful	in	relation	to	food.			1.3:	Situating	the	Author		These	pages	grew	from,	first	and	foremost,	the	meaningful	foodways,	ancient	wisdoms,	and	generosity	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	of	Tl’esqox	and	the	humble	honesties,	hands	on	farming	lessons,	and	embodied	knowledge	of	the	men.	But	I	must	also	explain	my	own	histories	and	meanings	around	food	and	land.			I	am	a	settler	here,	born	in	Calgary,	Alberta.	I	have	always	loved	food,	playing	chef	with	my	brother	and	serving	our	parents	home	cooked	meals	plated	with	clumsy	aesthetic,	pre-chopping	ingredients	and	describing	my	favourite	recipes	to	imaginary	television	audiences.	It	was	no	surprise	to	anyone	when	I	began	working	in	professional	kitchens	in	Calgary,	then	Vancouver.	I	came	to	Vancouver	as	an	undergraduate	student,	interested	in	art,	cultures,	and	peoples,	and	completed	my	undergraduate	degree	in	Anthropology	while	continuing	to	cook.	I	remember	the	first	day	that	I	learned	about	residential	schools,	beginning	to	grasp	what	they	actually	meant.	I	came	to	understand	Indian	hospitals,	forced	relocations	and	the	many,	many	acts	of	cultural	genocide	and	violence	on	Aboriginal	peoples,	and	I	remember	going	to	work	on	those	evenings,	cooking	rich	buttery	sauces	to	glaze	sablefish.	My	relationship	to	food	became	tense,	my	scholastic	interests	began	focusing	on	structural	violence,	genocide	and	health,	and	hunger	was		 	 	 	 	 	 		7	always	yet	another	form	of	violence.	The	food	waste	of	fine	dining	became	too	much	and	I	eventually	left	professional	cooking,	finding	health	equity	and	wellness	research,	projects	where	advocates	and	allies	studied	inequities	and	worked	to	find	solutions.			As	so	easily	happens	with	our	media,	social	narratives,	and	stereotypes,	it	took	me	a	while	to	look	away	from	the	hardship	and	marginalization	impacting	Aboriginal	peoples	and	notice	the	strengths,	beauties,	and	resiliencies	that	families	and	communities	pass	down	gently	from	generation	to	generation.	It	was	in	Vancouver	that	I	learnt	that	my	home	is	on	the	unceded	territory	of	the	Musquem,	Squamish	and	Tsleil-Waututh	peoples.	It	was	in	Vancouver	that	I	learned	that	my	childhood	home	was	the	land	of	the	Blackfoot,	Tsuu	T’ina	and	Stoney	peoples;	Treaty	7	land,	something	I	had	never	been	told	and	had	never	thought	to	ask.	It	was	also	here	that	I	realized,	or	remembered,	that	food	can	be	more	than	something	decadent.	Food	is	health,	community,	memories;	food	is	learning	to	knead	dough	within	a	specific	culture	and	family,	woven	amongst	moments	with	grandmothers,	mothers	and	fathers.	Food	is	a	way	that	you	welcome	people	into	your	home,	a	way	to	support	friends	grieving	great	losses,	it	is	celebration,	it	is	quiet	moments	with	loved	ones.	Food	is	health,	and	therefore	food	is	justice.			My	passion	for	food	and	the	slow	realization	that	dinner	tables	were	battlegrounds	and	places	of	resistance	made	graduate	school	an	exciting	possibility.	I	began	this	degree	in	population	and	public	health	to	explore	the	power	of	foodways	and	meanings	in	contexts	very	different	than	my	own.	I	am	not	Aboriginal.	I	have	never	been	incarcerated.	But	I	have	cooked	with	joy,	with	sadness	and	with	guilt.	I	bring	to	this	project	my	inherent	bias	as	a	white	settler,	as	someone	whose	childhood,	educational	achievements	and	career	trajectory	are	propped	upon	foundational	privileges.	I	recognize	and	work	to	remember	daily	that	“injustice	is	generally	a	symptom	of	exercised	privilege,”	including	my	own	(Irlbacher-Fox,	2014,	p.	153).	I	am	not	objective	because	of	my	personal	passion	for	food,	a	belief	that	it	can	bring	people	together	and	overcome	differences.	I	write	this	as	someone	passionate	about	heirloom	flours	and	sustainable	fishing,	someone	working	to	‘unsettle’	myself,	work	past	my	guilt	when	it	grips	me,	and	someone	that	strives	to	be,	continually	become	and	act	as	an	ally	to	all	that	will	have	me	(Irlbacher-Fox,	2014).						 	 	 	 	 	 		8	Chapter	2:	Theoretical	Perspectives			This	research	is	based	in	a	critical	decolonizing	perspective	and	draws	on	the	theoretical	concept	of	food	sovereignty	and	the	principles	of	ethnography.	These	foundations	prioritize	relationships:	food	sovereignty	privileges	the	relationships	between	people,	land,	food,	history,	and	the	wider	global	market;	critical	decolonization	is	intended	to	decolonize	the	relationships	that	food	sovereignty	and	Indigenous	self-determination	require,	between	land,	nations,	governments,	peoples	and	economies,	and;	ethnography	privileges	relationships	between	the	researcher	and	the	people	participating	in	the	project.	To	found	research	in	critical	decolonization	is	to	pay	keen	attention	to	Indigenous	perspectives	and	ways	of	knowing,	and	to	maintain	awareness	of	the	ongoing	influences	of	colonialism	on	Indigenous	homes	and	communities	while	also	recognizing	the	ongoing	resistance	and	resurgence	that	has	and	continues	to	occur	among	Indigenous	peoples.	Research	findings	are	therefore	understood	within	this	context,	and	framed	within	an	appreciation	for	the	biases	inherent	in	research	done	with	Indigenous	peoples.	Within	the	concept	of	critical	decolonization,	the	additional	theoretical	perspectives	of	critical	social	justice	(Arrigo,	1999;	Linker,	2014),	postcolonial	theory	(Browne,	Smye,	&	Varcoe,	2005),	and	decolonized	antiracism	(Lawrence	&	Dua,	2005;	Varcoe,	2006),	as	well	as	the	principles	of	community-based	research	were	drawn	on	to	guide	this	work	(Salmon,	Browne,	&	Pederson,	2010;	S.	Wilson,	2008;	Yeager	&	Bauer-Wu,	2013).		Sovereignty	as	a	concept	grew	from	imperialism	and	its	relationship	to	rights	and	powers,	providing	a	tension	between	the	self-determining	aims	of	food	sovereignty	as	a	movement	and	its	imperial	roots.	Capitalist	expansionism	originated	to	exploit	global	resources	and	feed	imperial	populations	(Davis,	2002),	exploits	that	were	mirrored	by	colonial	ethnographers	intent	on	‘discovery’;	the	description	and	control	of	Indigenous	peoples	and	nations	(Smith,	1999).	For	some	Indigenous	scholars	the	concept	is	too	entrenched	in	this	history;	for	some	“sovereignty	carries	the	horrible	stench	of	colonialism”	(Barker,	2005,	p.	26),	master’s	tools	which	carry	deep	seated	repercussions	when	picked	up	and	used	(Alfred,	2009;	Morris,	2005).	For	others	sovereignty	offers	a	means	to	resist	ongoing	dispossession	through	language,	narrative	and	the	active	refusal	of	the	way	things	are	(Simpson,	2014);	it	is	a	term	that	can	be	given	new	meanings	and	embarked	upon	new	histories	through	ongoing	and	ancient	relationships	with	people,	community,	and	land	(Barker,	2005).				 	 	 	 	 	 		9	Within	these	new	meanings	the	fight	for	food	sovereignty	can	be	seen,	in	many	ways,	as	synonymous	with	Indigenous	self-determination	and	land	advocacy	and	with	the	potential	to	re-appropriate	concepts	of	power	and	control	to	oppose	the	ongoing	colonization	of	ancestral	lands	and	contemporary	Indigenous	communities	(Grey	&	Patel,	2014;	Massey,	1994).	Food	sovereignty	for	the	Aboriginal	peoples	of	Canada	is	about	inexorable	rights:	to	food,	land,	culture,	and	to	feeding	and	teaching	children	about	food	and	community	in	ways	rooted	in	bio-cultural	heritage,	memories,	and	wisdoms.	The	right	to	control	the	production,	consumption,	and	stewardship	of	Aboriginal	foods	and	foodways	in	Canada	has	been	fought	over	since	the	advent	of	colonialism:	in	ancestral	fields	of	indigenous	plant-foods	ploughed	for	colonial	potatoes;	in	emergency	rations	of	flour	and	sugar	handed	out	by	Indian	Agents	uncomfortable	with	giving	money	to	hungry	families;	in	the	dining	halls	of	residential	schools;	and	in	the	dams,	pipelines,	and	fracking	sites	where	Aboriginal	advocates	face	imprisonment	for	protesting	the	ongoing	pillaging	of	stolen	lands.	Food	sovereignty	is	the	right	of	individuals	to	nourishing,	nutritious,	and	meaningful	food,	the	right	to	produce	these	foods	in	environmentally	sustainable	and	culturally	sustaining	ways,	and	the	right	to	define	and	control	their	own	food	and	agriculture	systems	(Wittman	&	Desmarais,	2012).	Within	the	Canadian	context	Aboriginal	food	sovereignty	is	inextricably	linked	to	ancestral	lands	and	the	policies,	treaties,	and	regulations	that	have	eroded	Aboriginal	control	over	these	territories.	Food	sovereignty	is	“indistinguishable	from	the	right	to	be	Indigenous”(Grey	&	Patel,	2014;	Morrison,	2011);	the	right	to	food	and	land	goes	beyond	the	right	to	food	security,	it	is	a	relational,	compassionate	and	based	in	many	silent	moments	breathing	in	fresh	air,	appreciating	gifts	from	a	land	that	cares	for	you	and	your	ancestors;	“just	as	a	people	have	a	right	to	their	land,	the	land	has	a	right	to	her	people”	(Grey	&	Patel,	2014,	p.	436).	As	Potawatomi	botanist	and	writer	Robin	Wall	Kimmerer	(2013)	writes:		 In	the	old	times,	when	people’s	lives	were	so	directly	tied	to	the	land,	it	was	easy	to	know	the	world	as	gift.	When	fall	came,	the	skies	would	darken	with	flocks	of	geese,	honking	“Here	we	are,”	[…]	the	people	are	hungry,	winter	in	coming,	and	geese	fill	the	marshes	with	food.	It	is	a	gift	and	the	people	receive	it	with	thanksgiving,	love	and	respect		[…]	something	is	broken	when	the	food	comes	on	a	Styrofoam	tray	wrapped	in	slippery	plastic,	a	carcass	of	a	being	whose	only	chance	at	life	was	a	cramped	cage.	That	is	not	a	gift;	it	is	a	theft	(30-31).		In	this	context,	food	sovereignty	means	resisting	neoliberal	capitalism,	fighting	for	relationships	with	a	family	and	a	community	that	includes	animals,	plants	and	the	land;	it	means	“working	on		 	 	 	 	 	 		10	the	health	of	something	that	has	been	devastated	and	is	in	need	of	great	repair”(Desmarais	&	Wittman,	2014:1156).	Food	sovereignty	is	daily	resistance.			Within	this	same	vein	ethnographic	research	methodologies	based	in	critical	social	justice	(Arrigo,	1999;	Linker,	2014),	postcolonial	theory	(Browne	et	al.,	2005),	and	decolonized	antiracism	(Lawrence	&	Dua,	2005;	Varcoe,	2006)	purposely	create	respectful	and	culturally	safe	spaces	for	Aboriginal	individuals	and	communities	to	participate	in	meaningful	research,	distancing	ethnographic	discovery	from	its	own	imperial	past	(Salmon	et	al.,	2010;	Wilson,	2008;	Yeager	&	Bauer-Wu,	2013).	While	the	primary	concern	of	ethnography	is	to	describe	reality	(Marcus	&	Fischer,	1999),	Indigenous	methodologies	acknowledges	that	reality	cannot	be	contained	as	it	is	“a	process	of	relationships”	(Wilson,	2008,	p.	73).	Consequently	conducting	research	to	explore	the	realities	of	food	sovereignty	and	security	is	not	about	prescribing	methods	and	outcomes,	but	“a	ceremony	for	improving	your	relationship	with	an	idea,”	and	the	peoples,	places	and	landscapes	involved	in	idea	creation	(Wilson,	2008,	p.	110).	This	research	worked	to	decolonize	the	research	process	itself	and	the	relationships	it	depends	upon.	Coming	from	an	awareness	of	researcher	privilege,	positionality,	and	a	basis	in	cultural	humility	(Muhammad	et	al.,	2014;	Yeager	&	Bauer-Wu,	2013),	this	project	does	not	aim	to	find	statistically	significant	variables;	instead	I	did	and	continue	to	work	to	maintain	an	accountability	to	the	men	in	federal	custody,	their	histories	and	contexts,	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	and	their	relationships	with	food,	land,	colonialism,	manipulative	government	agencies	and	paternalistic	researchers.	This	accountability	aims	to	produce	meaningful	results	that	are	of	use	to	the	people	who	shared	their	time,	knowledge,	homes,	and	meals	with	me.	Decolonization	cannot	be	a	metaphor	(Tuck	&	Ree,	2013;	Tuck	&	Yang,	2012);	decolonizing	processes,	theories	and	methodologies	must	recognize	that	colonization	is	about	land	theft,	disconnection	and	dispossession;	and	only	the	opposite,	the	return	and	the	reconnection,	is	true	decolonization	(Wildcat,	McDonald,	Irlbacher-Fox,	&	Coulthard,	2014).			Theories	are	stories,	assumptions,	morals,	and	biases,	“woven	within	kinetics,	spiritual	presence	and	emotion,	[…]	contextual	and	relational	[…]	intimate	and	personal”	(Simpson	2014,	7).	This	means	that	the	theories	outlined	above	will	shift,	swell	and	erode	as	Tŝilhqot’in	stories	and	ways	of	knowing	are	braided	between	the	words	and	thoughts	of	Indigenous	scholars,	allied	researchers,	and	advocates.	This	research	and	I	stand	humble	amongst	systemic	structures	of		 	 	 	 	 	 		11	institutionalized	racism	and	disproportionate	experiences	of	poverty	and	incarceration,	asking	the	men	growing	the	food	and	the	families	receiving	it:	‘how	can	I	help?	What	do	I	need	to	know?’																	 	 	 	 	 	 		12	Chapter	3:	Background	&	Literature	3.1:	Work	2	Give	&	the	Mission	Prison	Garden		Initiated	in	2012	through	a	partnership	between	the	Correctional	Service	of	Canada	(CSC)	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government	(TNG),	Work	2	Give	is	a	prison	employment	program	intended	to	provide	meaningful	work	experiences	for	men	incarcerated	within	the	Pacific	Region	of	CSC,	and	to	meet	basic	needs	through	the	donation	of	created	items	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation.	Work	2	Give	originally	focused	on	making	beds	for	children,	providing	children	with	the	basic	needs	required	to	get	a	good	night’s	sleep	with	the	longer	term	goal	of	disrupting	the	school-prison	pipeline.	Additional	items	made	by	the	diverse	men	who	participate	in	the	project	include	but	are	not	limited	to:	furniture,	such	as	dressers,	kitchen	tables,	picnic	benches,	and	coat	racks;	cultural	items	such	as	drums	and	rattles;	winter	clothing	such	as	toques,	mittens	and	other	knitted	items	such	as	blankets,	and;	children’s	toys,	such	as	rocking	horses,	sock	monkeys	and	sandboxes.	The	specific	items	depend	on	the	specific	men,	as	the	project	is	largely	guided	by	the	creativity	of	the	men	at	each	prison,	and	the	tools	and	resources	made	available	to	them.	To	date	approximately	100	men	in	federal	custody	have	participated	in	Work	2	Give.	Items	are	made	in	prisons	then	distributed	throughout	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	by	Punky	Lake	Wilderness	Camp	Society,	a	non-profit	focused	on	restorative	justice	and	peace	services	for	at-risk	Aboriginal	youth	in	the	central	interior	of	British	Columbia,	and	contracted	by	CSC	for	distribution	services.		The	garden,	located	at	Mission	Minimum	institution	in	Mission,	BC,	precedes	the	Work	2	Give	initiative.	In	2004,	Brian	Lang,	the	now	retired	warden	who	would	later	initiate	Work	2	Give,	founded	the	labour-intensive	organic	garden	as	a	means	to	combat	the	endemic	boredom	of	incarcerated	life.	The	idea	for	the	garden	grew	from	Lang’s	conversations	with	a	friend,	an	elementary	school	principal	in	Prince	George,	BC,	who	shared	the	high	rates	of	behavioural	problems	and	drop-outs	among	his	predominantly	Aboriginal	students,	problems	later	discovered	to	be	largely	caused	by	widespread	hunger;	kids	were	simply	not	eating	breakfast.	By	donating	food,	as	opposed	to	using	the	produce	to	feed	the	men	themselves,	Lang	intended	to	not	only	increase	men’s	employable	skills	and	reduce	idleness,	but	to	provide	a	space	for	them	to	engage	in	meaningful	work,	feel	valued,	appreciated,	and	accountable.	The	men	who	work	in	the	garden	come	from	diverse	backgrounds,	and	the	garden	is	open	to	any	and	all	men	who	have	the	appropriate	security	clearance	to	handle	the	necessary	tools	and	at	times	work	without	supervision	in	an	area	largely	isolated	from	the	rest	of	the	institution.			 	 	 	 	 	 		13			Image	1:	The	garden	at	Mission	Minimum	Institution	The	garden	spans	7	½	acres	and	is	surrounded	by	old	growth	forest	behind	the	main	buildings	of	Mission	Minimum	Institution2.	During	the	2015-16	season	the	men	grew	and	harvested	154,026	lbs.	of	produce,	which	was	then	donated	to	a	variety	of	local	organizations,	including	food	banks,	soup	kitchens,	school	lunch	programs,	and	housing	initiatives	for	people	experiencing	mental	health	issues,	harmful	substance	use	and/or	homelessness.	Prior	to	the	2015-16	year	the	garden	was	largely	funded	by	CSC,	with	a	small	amount	of	support	provided	from	the	Salvation	Army.	In	2015,	CSC	sought	a	funding	partner	to	take	responsibility	for	the	majority	of	garden	costs,	given	fiscal	restraints	and	a	federal	mandate	that	excludes	any	upstream	crime	prevention	strategies.	Lookout	Society,	an	organization	focused	on	homelessness	and	harm	reduction	for	people	using	substances	signed	on	as	the	funding	partner,	receiving	48%	of	the	total	garden	yield	(66,215	lbs).	In	previous	years	vegetables	were	transported	by	T-Lane	Trucking,	a	for-profit	company	which	donates	trucking	services	between	the	Lower	Mainland	prisons	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	area.	The	vegetables	were	then	distributed	by	Punky	Lake	Wilderness	Camp	Society	along	with	other	Work	2	Give	items.	In	recent	years	CSC	has	distanced	the	garden	from	the	larger	Work	2	Give	initiative,	therefore	the	transportation	of	vegetables	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	(4,764	lbs	in	2015-16)	has	been	done	by	Brian	Lang	on	a	volunteer	basis,	using	his	personal	funds	and	truck;	assistance	in	distribution	have	been	still	provided	by	Punky	Lake	Wilderness	Camp	Society.																																										 																					2	The	garden,	in	size	and	scope	of	production,	is	in	reality	a	farm.	The	Harper	government	cut	funding	to	all	correctional	agricultural	programming,	at	which	time	the	tract	of	land	was	framed	as	a	garden	to	circumvent	forced	closure.	The	men	and	institutional	staff	refer	to	it	as	a	garden,	therefore	I	do	as	well.	The	implications	of	the	wider	political	climate	will	be	dealt	with	below.			 	 	 	 	 	 		14		The	garden	was	born	from	the	belief	that	meaningful,	as	opposed	to	menial,	work	in	prison	has	the	potential	to	improve	social	outcomes	for	Aboriginal	communities,	based	in	an	awareness	of	the	widespread	food	insecurity	impacting	both	Aboriginal	and	non-Aboriginal	Canadians,	and	the	vast	amount	of	arable	land	and	human	resources	available	within	correctional	facilities.			3.2:	Food,	Health	&	Indigeneity		Prior	to	the	colonization	of	British	Columbia	the	diverse	Indigenous	communities	subsisted	on	varied	diets,	including	various	fish	and	other	aquatic	life,	roots,	berries,	and	animals.	The	resulting	diets	were,	for	the	most	part,	rich	in	polyunsaturated	fats	and	high	in	protein	and	a	wide	array	of	necessary	vitamins	and	minerals	(Kelm,	1999;	Ministry	of	Health	and	Welfare,	1994).	Foodways	and	meanings	developed	alongside	knowledge	of	the	complex	ecosystems,	knowledge	that	was	transferred	across	generations	for	thousands	of	years	through	oral	tradition,	trade,	and	ceremony.	Settlers	failed	to	acknowledge	this	relationship	with	the	land,	and	while	the	introduction	of	new	food	items	(e.g.,	flour,	molasses)	was	pragmatically	adopted	into	Indigenous	diets,	colonial	land	theft	and	regulation	eroded	Indigenous	food	sovereignty.	European	settlers	saw	agriculture	as	a	better	use	of	the	land	and	many	indigenous	plant	foods	were	destroyed	by	imperial	ploughs	and	cattle	(Turner	&	Turner,	2008).	Industry,	pollution,	over-extraction,	and	invasive	plants	threatened	and	continue	to	threaten	the	survival	of	many	indigenous	foods.	Increasing	colonial	encroachment	on	Indigenous	lands	and	resources	meant	that	Indigenous	communities	were	confined	to	smaller	and	smaller	reserves,	cutting	off	physical	access	to	ancestral	hunting	and	fishing	grounds.	This	separation	from	the	land	was	also	enabled	by	a	widening	array	of	colonial	laws	and	regulations	surrounding	Indigenous	communities’	use	of	natural	resources.	With	declining	land	access	for	Indigenous	peoples	came	increased	reliance	on	wage	labour.	These	policies	and	processes	forcefully	ensured	that	Indigenous	people	were	increasing	dependent	on	government	food	rations,	the	caloric	value	of	which	was	largely	made	up	of	enriched	white	flour,	sugar,	lard,	rice,	molasses,	and	macaroni	noodles	(Kelm,	1999).	Gradually	at	first,	and	then	with	explicit	force	within	residential	schools,	this	“culinary	imperialism”	began	to	change	the	food	habits	and	preferences	of	many	Indigenous	peoples	(Kelm,	1999:37).				 	 	 	 	 	 		15	The	dietary	changes	forced	upon	Indigenous	children	within	residential	schools	sharpened	the	impacts	of	these	earlier	policies	and	processes	on	food	security	and	nutrition,	providing	poignant	examples	of	culinary	imperialism.	George	Manuel3,	a	survivor	of	the	residential	school	system,	vividly	remembered	how	“every	student	smelled	of	hunger”	(Manuel	&	Posluns,	1974);	chronic	and	avoidable	famine	and	malnourishment	were	systemic	(Milloy,	1999a).	Residential	schools	were	originally	funded	by	the	federal	Department	of	Indian	Affairs	(DIA),	however	funding	was	later	transferred	to	churches;	funding	allotment	to	the	church-run	schools	was	changed	to	a	per	capita	system	in	1907	(King,	Napier,	&	Kechego,	2004;	Milloy,	1999a),	after	which	reports	of	hunger	and	the	inadequate	feeding	of	children	became	increasingly	widespread.	Further	budget	cuts	resulted	in	meals	made	entirely,	in	some	schools,	of	broth,	dry	bread,	lard	and	tea	(Mosby,	2013);	often	“just	enough	to	blunt	the	sharp	edge	of	hunger”	(Johnson,	1990:141).	School	staff	members	often	found	it	easier	to	get	the	children	to	eat	cookies	and	breads,	failing	to	instill	nutritious	eating	habits	(Milloy,	1999b),	and	attempts	to	improve	dietary	nutrition	often	focused	on	increased	milk	intake,	despite	widespread	lactose	intolerance	among	Aboriginal	children	(Kelm,	1998;	Lee	&	Lichter,	1971).	Despite	the	persistent	protests	of	Aboriginal	parents	and	the	hungry	cries	of	their	children,	it	wasn’t	until	a	series	of	official	investigations	from	the	DIA	themselves	that	the	pervasive	nature	of	the	problem	was	acknowledged.	However,	despite	finding	woefully	inadequate	menu	plans	and	caloric	intakes	that	would	undeniably	result	in	starvation	for	all	but	the	youngest	of	children,	the	government	failed	to	increase	funding	and	regulation,	instead	funding	a	series	of	nutritional	experiments	conducted	on	the	malnourished	and	non-consenting	bodies	of	Aboriginal	children	(Mosby,	2013).	This	legacy	of	hunger	and	malnutrition,	forcefully	enculturated	into	the	bodies	of	these	children	and	their	communities	through	colonial	land	stealing	and	institutionalized	education	has	continued	in	many	communities.	Residential	schools	created	a	reality	whereby	Aboriginal	communities	were	forced	increasingly	further	away	from	ancestral	food	sovereignties,	a	distancing	started	earlier	through	land	theft,	dispossession,	and	government	relief	rations,	and	provided	the	ideal	framework	for	Aboriginal	peoples	to	become	entangled	in	what	one	Indigenous	youth	called	the	‘”five	white	sins:	flour,	salt,	sugar,	alcohol,	and	lard”	(Elliott,	Jayatilaka,	Brown,	Varley,	&	Corbett,	2012,	p.	5).	This	has	resulted	in	disproportionately	high	rates	of	food	insecurity	and	correlated	diet-related	diseases	among	Aboriginal	populations	(British	Columbia	Provincial	Health	Officer,	2009;	Downs	et	al.,	2009).																																										 																					3	Manuel	was	the	Chief	of	the	Assembly	First	Nations	and	a	survivor	of	both	the	Kamloops	Indian	Residential	School	and	a	tuberculosis-specific	Indian	hospital.		 	 	 	 	 	 		16		While	food	security	is	based	upon	the	meeting	of	nutritional	needs	(Edelman,	2014;	Food	and	Agriculture	Organization	of	the	United	Nations,	2015),	when	considering	the	impact	of	food	and	nutrition	on	the	health	and	wellbeing	of	Indigenous	peoples,	nutrition	is	only	one	of	many	culturally	and	historically	mediated	factors	that	impact	the	appropriateness	and	meaningfulness	of	food	(Elliott	et	al.,	2012).	These	intersections	of	land,	food,	people,	and	history	are	often	not	respected	within	the	food	security	literature,	which	often	views	food	and	land	as	commodities	that	can	be	manipulated	and	processed	(Desmarais	&	Wittman,	2014).	The	concept	of	food	sovereignty	comes	closer	to	this	holistic	understanding	of	food	and	land	as	sacred,	and	while	the	imperial	history	of	sovereignty	may	make	an	uncomfortable	bedfellow	with	Indigenous	self-determination,	the	focus	on	rights	and	powers	fits	perfectly	with	a	concept	that	insists	that	Indigenous	peoples,	in	Canada	and	globally,	have	an	inherent	right	to	their	land	and	the	meaningful	foods	that	spring	from	these	relationships.	Food	sovereignty,	as	outlined	in	the	theoretical	section	above,	focuses	on	relationships,	between	lands	that	are	offer	food,	shelter,	and	space	for	community,	and	peoples	with	respectful	and	sustainably	ways	of	living	on	the	land.	This	being	on	the	land,	the	gathering,	preparing	and	sharing	of	food	that	occurs	in	many	diverse	Indigenous	cultures	results	in	more	than	mere	survival.	It	is	a	means	of	intergenerational	knowledge	transmission,	a	relationship	with	the	land	and	all	the	life	it	supports,	and	a	foundation	to	many	ceremonies	and	celebrations	(Adelson,	1998;	Kelm,	1999).	True	and	sustainable	food	security	is	impossible	without	food	sovereignty,	and	food	sovereignty	is	not	possible	without	resolving	land	issues	and	treaty	rights;	“through	access	to	food,	the	‘land	question’	[remains]	reified	in	Aboriginal	bodies”	(Kelm,	1998,	p.	18).			Despite	these	barriers	to	meaningful	foods	that	ongoing	colonialism	and	structural	violence	have	produced	(Adelson,	1998;	Kirmayer	et	al.,	2014),	some	Indigenous	communities	continue	to	have	rich	and	diverse	food	cultures	embedded	in	complex	webs	of	relationships	that	connect	the	individual	to	family,	community,	history,	and	the	natural	world	(Adelson,	1998).	Other	communities	fight	to	reconnect	with	these	foods	and	relationships.	These	connections	are	embedded	in	bio-cultural	heritages	that	extend	back	thousands	of	years	and	exist	today	in	diverse	kitchens,	riverbanks,	smoke	houses,	and	stories.	The	specific	and	varied	ways	in	which	communities	access	food,	the	knowledge	about	where	that	food	comes	from,	and	the	shared	histories	of	the	land	where	food	is	grown,	gathered,	prepared,	and	made	meaningful	all	play		 	 	 	 	 	 		17	central	roles	in	how	healthy	foods	and	healthy	communities	are	understood,	in	both	Indigenous	and	non-Indigenous	communities.			3.3:	Prison	Employment	Programs		Under-	and	unemployment	are	common	risk	factors	among	both	Aboriginal	and	non-Aboriginal	individuals	involved	in	the	Canadian	criminal	justice	system	at	both	provincial	and	federal	levels	(Dowden	&	Blanchette,	1999;	Perreault,	2009;	Sapers,	2014),	as	well	as	being	common	risk	factors	of	recidivism	post-release	(Scott	&	Gillis,	2011).	Approximately	70%	of	individuals	entering	into	federal	institutions	in	Canada	have	an	unstable	work	history	at	the	time	of	their	admission,	over	60%	have	no	trade	skills	or	knowledge,	and	70%	have	not	completed	high	school	(Nolan,	2012;	Scott	&	Gillis,	2011).	Prison	employment	programs	are	consequently	widespread,	both	within	Canada	and	internationally,	in	an	attempt	to	increase	a	person’s	chance	of	employment	upon	release	and	to	subsequently	reduce	their	risk	of	recidivating.			Prison	employment	programs	are	intended	to	increase	institutional	safety	and	instill	positive	and	pro-social	attitudes	and	behaviours	among	the	prison	population,	while	also	reducing	recidivism	(Scott	&	Gillis,	2011).	While	program	evaluation	has	shown	employment	improves	the	behavior	of	individuals	during	their	incarceration	(Maguire,	1996;	Richmond,	2014),	the	evidence	of	employment	program	participation	reducing	recidivism	is	less	clear	(Bouffard,	Mackenzie,	&	Hickman,	2000;	Lipsey	&	Cullen,	2007;	Maguire,	Flanagan,	&	Thornberry,	1988;	Richmond,	2014;	Visher,	Coggeshall,	&	Winterfield,	2006;	Wheatley,	2016;	Wilson,	Gallanger,	&	MacKenzie,	2000);	the	majority	of	studies	rely	solely	on	quantitative	measures	that	fail	to	capture	the	diverse	experiences	of	program	participation	and	impacts	post	release	(Miller,	Tillyer,	&	Miller,	2012).	Despite	mixed	results	regarding	impacts	on	recidivism,	there	is	evidence	that	employment	programs	can	increase	institutional	safety	for	both	individuals	and	staff	and	positively	impact	the	attitudes	and	behaviours	of	people	in	custody	(Correctional	Service	of	Canada,	2008;	Latessa,	2012;	Maguire,	1996;	Power	&	Nolan,	2014).	Employment	within	prisons	is	seen	to	have	positive	impacts	on	a	person’s	sense	of	self	worth,	self	confidence,	self	reliance,	responsibility	and	individual	routines	(Latessa,	2012;	Laub	&	Sampson,	2003;	Sampson	&	Laub,	1997;	Uggen,	1999;	Uggen	&	Staff,	2001),	while	providing	spaces	for	individuals	in	custody	to	build	positive	relationships	with	each	other,	employers	and	other	authority	figures	(Laub	&	Sampson,	2003;	Richmond,	2014;	Sampson	&	Laub,	1995).	While	employable	skills	significantly		 	 	 	 	 	 		18	impact	outcomes	upon	release	into	community,	motivating	changes	in	attitudes	and	behaviours	and	providing	an	environment	for	the	development	of	positive	identities	and	constructive	social	learning	is	arguably	an	important	intermediate	step	to	ensure	successful	reintegration	into	the	community	(Bushway,	2003;	Latessa,	2012).			Over	half	of	federal	offenders	take	part	in	a	CORCAN	employment	program	at	some	point	during	their	incarceration	(Nolan,	2014).	CORCAN	is	contracted	by	CSC	and	provides	employment	and	employability	skills	to	people	experiencing	incarcerated	in	36	of	Canada’s	53	federal	institutions,	with	training	available	in	the	fields	of	manufacturing	(e.g.,	office	furniture	and	vehicle	repair),	textiles	(e.g.,	clothing	for	people	in	prison,	uniforms,	bedding),	construction	(e.g.,	framing,	plumbing,	drywall),	and	services	(e.g.,	industrial	laundry,	printing)	(Correctional	Service	of	Canada,	2013).	Research	conducted	by	CSC	has	highlighted	that	individuals	employed	within	CORCAN	while	incarcerated	have	lower	rates	of	segregation,	fewer	institutional	crimes,	higher	rates	of	day	parole,	and	slightly	higher	rates	of	employment	post-release	(Nolan,	2012).	In	one	small	sample	of	individuals	employed	in	the	community	after	release	from	a	federal	institution,	the	majority	of	whom	had	worked	in	CORCAN	while	incarcerated,	community	employment	was	found	to	positively	impact	their	sense	of	self	worth,	belonging	and	achievement;	individuals	in	this	sample	attributed	their	strong	work	ethic	and	a	positive	attitude	to	their	success	(Power	&	Nolan,	2014),	characteristics	not	explicitly	dealt	with	through	CORCAN	programming.	In	another	study,	Aboriginal	individuals	in	federal	custody	in	Canada	identified	colonialism	and	racism	as	having	negatively	impacted	previous,	often	disjointed	work	histories,	and	expressed	a	strong	desire	for	“greater	opportunities	for	meaningful	work”	that	incorporate	Aboriginal	learning	and	teaching	styles	and	knowledges	(Forrester,	Trainor,	&	Brazil,	2012).	In	a	sample	of	all	individuals	released	from	federal	custody	between	April	1st,	2010	and	March	31st,	2011	(n=798),	only	39%	of	released	individuals	found	employment	that	matched	their	CORCAN	experience	(Nolan,	2014),	and	employment	with	CORCAN	has	not	been	shown	to	impact	length	of	time	that	people	hold	down	their	first	job	post	release	(Nolan,	2012).	Employment	is	clearly	important,	“but	that	does	not	mean	that	employment	programs	will	lead	to	significant	reductions	in	recidivism[,]	unless	we	go	beyond	simply	getting	them	a	job”	(Latessa,	2012,	p.	89).		Earlier	models	of	incarceration,	based	on	Quaker	ideologies,	framed	labour	as	a	means	for	individuals	to	pay	their	debt	to	society	while	instilling	morals	through	hard	physical	work	(Dwyer	&	McNally,	1993;	Garvey,	1998).	Within	Canada	the	meaning	and	importance	of		 	 	 	 	 	 		19	correctional	employment	opportunities	has	declined	due	to	society’s	increased	reliance	on	automated	technology	that	have	not	been	paralleled	within	correctional	employment	opportunities.	This	has	resulted	in	an	increasing	mismatch	between	prison	employment	opportunities	and	current	community	labour	market	needs	(Correctional	Service	of	Canada,	2008,	2015;	Richmond,	2014).	Additionally,	correctional	programming	has	increasingly	focused	on	reducing	psycho-social,	as	opposed	to	socio-economic,	risk	factors	(Correctional	Service	of	Canada,	2015).	Research	conducted	with	individuals	in	custody	has	highlighted	the	importance	of	providing	professional	development	training	alongside	employment	programming	to	increase	employability	and	skill	relevance	post	release,	while	also	addressing	skills	needed	across	sectors,	such	as	resume	and	job	interview	training	and	job	search	assistance	(Nolan,	2012;	Richmond,	2014;	Uggen,	Wakefield,	&	Western,	2005),	and	working	to	increase	educational	achievements	as	a	means	to	offset	the	stigma	of	having	been	incarcerated	(Kim,	Clark,	Kim,	&	Clark,	2013;	Logan	et	al.,	2015;	Visher,	Winterfield,	&	Coggeshall,	2005).	Meaningful	employment	in	higher	wage	and	higher	quality	jobs	has	also	been	highlighted	as	more	likely	to	reduce	recividism	(Allan	&	Steffensmeier,	1989;	Harer,	1994;	Sampson	&	Laub,	1997;	Uggen,	1999),	as	“few	can	dispute	the	value	and	importance	of	meaningful	work”	(Latessa,	2012,	p.	87),	particularly	when	employment	in	the	community	results	in	feelings	of	self	worth	and	a	sense	of	belonging	(Visher	et	al.,	2005;	Wheatley,	2016).	Work	programs	in	correctional	institutions	that	provide	opportunities	for	social	learning,	positive	personal	growth,	constructive	new	experiences,	and	wherein	people	are	introduced	to	widening	circles	of	relationships	and	positive	influences	have	powerful	potential,	both	within	and	outside	of	prison	(Latessa,	2012).	Within	the	context	of	a	population	more	likely	to	have	adverse	childhood	experiences	and	several	barriers	to	education	and	employment,	such	opportunities	can	be	transformational	(Wheatley,	2016).			3.4:	Gardening	&	Health			Working	with	soil	and	seeds,	planting,	weeding,	tending	and	harvesting,	whether	in	a	community	garden	or	alone	in	your	backyard,	has	positive	mental	and	physical	health	benefits.	Gardening	can	influence	chronic	diseases	and	mental	health	through	the	intermediate	health	behaviours	of	diet	and	physical	activity	(Mitchell,	2013).	Mental	health	benefits	include	reductions	in	the	symptoms	of	depression	and	anxiety,	as	well	as	increases	in	attentional	capacity	and	self-esteem	(Gonzalez,	Hartig,	Patil,	Martinsen,	&	Kirkevold,	2009,	2010,	2011;	Kam	&	Siu,	2010;	Kuo	&	Taylor,	2004;	Rappe,	Koivunen,	&	Korpela,	2008;	Son,	Um,	Skim,	Song,	&	Kwack,	2004).	Research		 	 	 	 	 	 		20	done	on	cortisol	levels	found	that	participants	who	spent	a	half	hour	gardening	outdoors	had	salivary	cortisol	levels	50%	lower	than	those	of	people	who	had	spent	that	time	reading	indoors	(Van	Den	Berg	&	Custers,	2011).	Another	study	found	that	individuals	with	mental	health	issues	who	consistently	volunteered	at	a	plant	nursery	visited	psychiatric	hospitals	less,	had	reduced	self	harming	behaviour,	and	half	of	the	sample	reduced	or	removed	medications	from	their	mental	health	plan	(Calleau,	2005).		Gardening	is	a	relationship,	between	earth	and	sun,	water,	soil,	and	human	hands.	These	relational	webs	often	extend	into	and	across	communities,	and	the	benefits	of	gardening	alone	are	joined	by	positive	impacts	that	are	inherently	social	(Elings,	2006).	Participation	in	community	gardening	has	been	shown	to	increase	both	social	capital	and	a	community’s	capacity	for	social	learning	and	accessing	the	resources	necessary	for	community	health	and	wellbeing	(Agustina	&	Beilin,	2012;	Alaimo,	Reischl,	&	Allen,	2010;	Glover,	Parry,	&	Shinew,	2005;	Mitchell,	2013).	Increases	in	collective	efficacy	have	been	attributed	to	community	gardening	(Teig	et	al.,	2009),	and	as	collective	efficacy	grows	in	a	community	so	does	community	safety,	marked	by	reductions	in	the	rates	of	neighbourhood	crime	(Ahern	et	al.,	2013;	Gerell	&	Kronkvist,	2016;	Sampson,	Raudenbush,	&	Earls,	1997).	Qualitative	work	done	with	participants	of	a	community	garden	in	an	low-income	neighbourhood	of	Toronto	found	that	the	communal	space	broke	isolation	for	some	participants,	and	the	authors	argued	that	the	positive	impacts	of	community	gardens	may	be	increased	in	areas	where	isolation	and	marginalization	are	pervasive	(Wakefield,	Yeudall,	Taron,	Reynolds,	&	Skinner,	2007).	The	study	participants	had	access	to	nutritious	and	culturally	appropriate	foods	that	were	either	not	available	locally	or	inhibitively	expensive.	This	access	to	plant	foods	impacted	their	dietary	health	and	that	of	their	families,	while	also	engendering	a	sense	of	empowerment	among	economically	vulnerable	people.	The	people	who	participated	in	this	study	felt	proud	of	their	work,	of	their	ability	to	turn	a	seed	into	a	stew	over	the	course	of	many	months,	and	to	be	able	to	share	food	and	be	generous	with	friends,	family	members,	and	the	wider	community	(Hale	et	al.,	2011;	Wakefield	et	al.,	2007).		Horticultural	and	gardening	programs	in	detention	and	correctional	settings	have	been	found	to	decrease	the	effects	of	mental	illness	and	harmful	substance	use	(Cornille,	Rohrer,	Phillips,	&	Mosier,	1987;	Lindemuth,	2007;	Migura,	Whittlesey,	&	Zajicek,	1997;	Page,	2008;	Rice	&	Lremy,	1998;	Sandel,	2004),	as	well	as	engender	the	skills	necessary	for	successful	community	reintegration,	such	as	delayed	gratification,	and	improved	social	skills,	self	esteem,	problem		 	 	 	 	 	 		21	solving,	and	decision-making	(Feldbaum	et	al.,	2011;	Migura	et	al.,	1997;	Polomski,	Johnson,	&	Anderson,	1997;	Rice	&	Lremy,	1998;	Sandel,	2004).	The	aesthetic	value	of	green	spaces	within	prisons	alone	can	decrease	some	of	the	harms	of	imprisonment,	improve	coping	abilities	among	those	in	custody,	and	provide	a	cost	effective	means	to	reduce	stress	among	both	the	prison	population	and	institutional	staff	(Lindemuth,	2007;	Sandel,	2004).	Tending	plants	as	they	grow	requires	tenderness,	a	gentle	yet	firm	touch	and	a	willingness	to	spend	time	kneeling,	watching,	and	responding	to	the	tiny	sprouts,	curving	stems	and	delicate	blossoms.	This	gentle	relationship,	pulling	weeds	that	threaten	your	plant	friends	and	adding	water,	warmth	and	nutrition	when	needed,	has	been	found,	not	surprisingly,	to	engender	less	hostility	among	participants	in	correctional	settings	(Elings,	2006);	responsibility	for	small	budding	plants	can	grow	into	improved	social	bonding	and	accountability.			The	impacts	of	gardening	may	be	even	more	acute	when	contrasted	with	the	experience	of	incarceration.	A	1998	study	with	28	people	in	a	county	jail	in	the	US	found	that	correctional	horticultural	therapy	highlighted	in	the	media	provided	positive	images	of	rehabilitation	to	the	wider	public.	A	more	recent	study	conducted	in	2015	on	an	125	acre	farm	in	Florida,	found	that	participating	individuals	enjoyed	the	relative	autonomy	of	agricultural	work,	felt	positive	about	the	learning	environment	where	they	were	able	to	bring	prior	skills	to	the	table	and/or	develop	new	ones,	and	experienced	better	treatment	by	correctional	officers,	when	compared	with	other	correctional	contexts.	A	number	of	participants	described	the	experience	as	transformative	(Moore,	Freer,	&	Samuel,	2015).	The	Insight	Garden	Program,	based	out	of	the	Solano	and	San	Quentin	Prisons	in	California,	explicitly	recognizes	the	parallels	between	tending	plants	and	caring	for	one’s	own	wellbeing;	participants	engage	in	courses	on	both	the	Inner	and	Outer	gardener,	including	learning	about	the	concepts	and	theories	of	transformation,	meditation,	emotions,	eco-therapy,	ecological	systems	and	organic	gardening,	with	participants	reporting	greater	decreases	in	drug	use	compared	to	controls	three	months	post	release	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015).	Something	as	seemingly	simple	as	growing	plants	in	prison	has	also	been	shown	to	reduce	rates	of	recidivism	(Feldbaum	et	al.,	2011;	Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015;	Sandel,	2004).	An	evaluation	study	of	the	Insight	Garden	program	found	that,	in	a	sample	of	117	participants	paroled	between	2003-09,	less	than	10%	reentered	the	criminal	justice	system,	compared	with	64%	recidivism	rates	in	California	during	that	same	period	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015).	Similarly,	500	participants	in	the	Rikers	Island	GreenHouse	recidivated	at	a	rate	of	25%	after	three	years,	compared	with	47%	of	the	general	population	(Feldbaum	et	al.,	2011).	Roots	to	Reentry,	a	garden	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		22	landscaping	program	based	out	of	Philadelphia,	measures	success	through	job	placements,	finding	that	over	85%	of	graduates	have	found	successful	employment	since	2010	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015).		The	skills	acquired	in	prison-based	horticulture	activities	have	also	been	found	to	give	participants	a	sense	of	wellbeing	and	increase	employability	post-release	(O’Callaghan,	Robinson,	Reed,	&	Roof,	2010),	and	gardening	outside	of	the	prison	context	has	been	shown	to	have	vocational	benefits	ranging	from	learning	new	skills	to	changing	attitudes	towards	hard	work	and	increasing	personal	responsibility	(Kam	&	Siu,	2010).	Within	and	outside	of	prison	contexts	gardening	is	a	neutral,	de-stigmatizing	activity	that	is	not	explicitly	associated	with	correctional	rehabilitation,	mental	health	or	behavioural	treatments,	and	is	therefore	powerful	in	its	ability	to	break	down	walls	and	create	therapeutic	spaces	without	stigma	(Fieldhouse,	2003;	Sempik,	Aldridge,	&	Becker,	2005);	“something	essential	happens	in	a	vegetable	garden.	It’s	a	place	where	if	you	can’t	say	‘I	love	you’	out	loud,	you	can	say	it	in	seeds.	And	the	land	will	reciprocate,	in	beans”	(Kimmerer,	2013,	p.	127).				Other	studies	pointed	to	the	potential	of	gardens	to	be	therapeutic	in	and	of	themselves,	regardless	of	what	activities	a	person	does	in	them.	Attentional	restoration	theory	is	frequently	drawn	upon	in	the	gardening	and	health	literature,	and	posits	that	being	in	nature	improves	cognitive	function	by	allowing	restorative	thought	processes	(Kaplan,	1995).	Simply	being	outside	in	natural	environments	is	therapeutic,	an	association	so	strong	that	hospital	patients	in	rooms	with	a	view	of	nature	have	statistically	shorter	recovery	times	and	fewer	stress	incidents	(Maller,	Townsend,	Pryor,	Brown,	&	Leger,	2005).	With	activities	in	nature	generally,	and	gardening	specifically,	it’s	clear	that	the	process	is	just	as	important	as	the	outcome,	and	the	impacts	of	being	outside	may	be	even	more	significant	when	contrasted	with	the	architecture	and	experience	of	being	incarcerated.	As	Robin	Wall	Kimmerer,	a	Potawatomi	botanist,	a	mother	and	an	avid	gardener	describes:		 People	often	ask	me	what	one	thing	I	would	recommend	to	restore	relationships	between	land	and	people.	My	answer	is	almost	always,	'plant	a	garden.'	It's	good	for	the	health	of	the	earth	and	it's	good	for	the	health	of	people.	A	garden	is	a	nursery	for	nurturing	connection,	the	soil	for	cultivation	of	practical	reverence.	And	its	power	goes	far	beyond	the	garden	gate	-	once	you	develop	a	relationship	with	a	little	patch	of	earth,	it	becomes	a	seed	itself	(2013,	126-27).			 	 	 	 	 	 		23	Relationships	between	people,	places,	lands	and	landscapes	can	be	therapeutic	and	rehabilitative.	These	relationships	go	beyond	the	fences	of	the	prison	garden,	so	to	speak,	and	can	impact	outside	communities,	both	through	the	donation	of	food	and	the	reciprocity	that	can	be	cultivated	there.			3.5:	The	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation		The	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	is	a	grouping	of	six	bands,	Tl'etinqox,	?Esdilagh,	Yunesit'in,	Tŝi	Deldel,	Tl'esqox	and	Xeni	Gwet'in,	who	have	lived	in	the	Cariboo-Chilcotin	region	of	central	British	Columbia	for	thousands	of	years,	rooted	within	the	sage	brush,	tall	grasses	and	giant	skies,	and	nestled	amongst	the	Chilcotin,	Chilco	and	Fraser	rivers.	Historically	semi-nomadic,	communities	would	move	over	large	tracts	of	land	throughout	the	seasons,	making	use	of	a	diverse	range	of	natural	resources	as	well	as	trading	with	neighbouring	nations,	and	in	the	early	1800s,	with	fur	traders.	These	communities	were	classless,	and	due	to	their	semi-nomadism	had	little	use	for	status	goods,	characteristics	that	made	trading	with	or	working	for	settler	colonialists	unattractive,	and	made	the	Tŝilhqot’in	increasingly	“difficult”	to	deal	with	for	colonial	agents	(Lutz,	2008).		The	great	pains	that	Tŝilhqot’in	peoples	took	to	keep	their	lands	as	their	own	resulted	in	relative	isolation	from	the	Department	of	Indian	Affairs	and	the	church,	and	allowed	for	an	overall	continued	reliance	on	hunting,	fishing	and	gathering,	a	subsistence	economy	that	continues	to	exist	despite	increasing	regulations	and	bans.	Beginning	in	1908,	with	the	appointment	of	the	Provincial	Game	Commissioner,	these	restrictions	on	hunting,	trapping	and	fishing	became	increasingly	constricting.	Ultimately	government	policies	made	it	progressively	more	difficult	for	Tŝilhqot’in	people	to	live	off	the	land,	disrupting	important	cultural	cycles	and	worsening	the	health	and	wellbeing	of	communities.	A	1969	study	of	80	families	in	Tl'etinqox	found	that,	while	nearly	half	of	all	caloric	intake	came	from	game	and	fish,	the	remaining	half	came	from	processed	foods,	namely	breads,	cookies,	cereal,	soft	drinks,	sugar,	and	flour	(Lee,	Reyburn,	&	Carrow,	1971),	clear	markers	of	culinary	imperialism	that	resulted	in	disproportionately	high	rates	of	iron	deficiency	anaemia,	low	levels	of	vitamins	C	and	E,	and	elevated	cholesterol	levels	(Desai	&	Lee,	1971).	The	importance	of	access	to	land	and	resources	cannot	be	underestimated	in	terms	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	specifically,	and	the	health	of	Aboriginal	peoples	more	generally,	and	formed	the	basis	of	a	legal	battle	that	would	span	three	decades	and	bring	Aboriginal	title	rights	into	courtrooms	across	the	country.			 	 	 	 	 	 		24	In	1990,	Xeni	Gwet’in	Chief	Roger	William	brought	a	case	in	front	of	the	Supreme	Court	of	British	Columbia,	declaring	Tŝilhqot’in	title	over	438,000	hectares	of	land	in	the	Cariboo-Chilcotin	region.	This	resulted	in	a	2007	ruling	that,	despite	acknowledging	that	Tŝilhqot’in	rights	existed,	and	that	British	Columbia	had	infringed	upon	their	Aboriginal	rights	and	title,	stopped	short	of	granting	title;	the	judge	cited	a	technicality.	Williams	and	the	provincial	and	federal	governments	appealed	this	ruling,	resulting	in	the	BC	Court	of	Appeal	upholding	the	2007	judgment	in	2012,	and	pushing	Chief	William	to	bring	his	case	before	the	Supreme	Court	of	Canada	(Friends	of	Nemaiah	Valley,	2015).	Finally,	in	June	2014,	the	Supreme	Court	of	Canada	ruled	in	favour	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	of	Xeni	Gwet’in,	granting	title	to	175,000	hectares	of	land,	and	acknowledging	that,	unlike	previous	‘postage	stamp’	rulings,	“Aboriginal	title	is	not	confined	to	specific	sites	of	settlement	but	extends	to	tracts	of	land	[…]	over	which	the	group	exercised	effective	control	at	the	time	of	assertion	of	European	sovereignty”	(Supreme	Court	of	Canada,	2014).		This	ruling	and	recognition	of	the	ancestral	land	rights	of	the	Tŝilhqot’on	people	provided	a	crescendo	in	the	ongoing	fight	for	self-determination	and	the	right	to	live	on	their	own	lands,	a	fight	that	had	begun	over	150	years	earlier	with	the	resistance	and	subversion	to	colonial	land	grabbing	that	led	up	to	the	Chilcotin	War	of	1864.	This	war	saw	Tŝilhqot’in	Chiefs	fight	to	drive	Europeans	from	their	land.	These	community	leaders	were	no	longer	willing	to	accept	the	encroachment	of	colonial	settlers	and	infectious	disease;	in	the	face	of	threats	by	European	settlers	to	reintroduce	smallpox	into	their	homes	and	communities	they	fought	to	protect	their	people,	a	fight	that	resulted	in	their	subsequent	capture4	and	execution.	These	men	were	named	Lhatŝ’aŝ?in,	Tajed,	Biyil,	Chayses,	Talaghed	and	Kwutan	(Alphonse	et	al.,	2012;	Lutz,	2008).	The	dishonesty	and	violence	of	these	murders,	deemed	legal	under	the	pretence	that	the	colony	of	British	Columbia	had	judicial	jurisdiction	over	Tŝilhqot’in	people,	were	finally	recognized	by	the	provincial	government	in	1993,	with	memorial	plaques	mounted	in	Quesnel	and	New	Westminister,	where	the	executions	had	occurred	(Alphonse	et	al.,	2012).		The	ancestral	and	ongoing	resistance	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	provides	a	rich	and	diverse	backdrop	to	the	Work	2	Give	project,	and	offers	important	insight	into	the	battles,	both	physical	and	legal,	that	Tŝilhqot’in	leaders	and	communities	have	fought	to	ensure	their	people	were	and																																									 																					4	The	Tŝilhqot’in	men	were	tricked	into	meeting	a	colonial	official	for	a	peace	talk,	and	were	arrested	instead.	This	is	an	important	distinction	however	outside	the	scope	of	this	thesis	(Lutz,	2008).			 	 	 	 	 	 		25	are	able	to	subsist	from	the	land	and	enjoy	the	meaningful	foods	and	ceremonies	so	engrained	in	the	acts	of	fishing,	hunting,	and	gathering.				3.6:	Summary		The	garden	at	Mission	Minimum	sits	on	unceded	lands,	and	interwoven	histories	of	resistance	and	oppression	stretch	across	that	garden	and	the	surrounding	communities	of	British	Columbia.	The	impacts	of	colonialism	are	felt	daily	in	the	bodies	of	incarcerated	Aboriginal	peoples,	and	in	the	disconnection	from	land	felt	by	all	Canadians,	Indigenous	or	non.	The	culinary	imperialism	that	stretches	from	first	contact,	through	the	halls	of	residential	schools	and	into	the	mines	and	lumber	yards	of	the	20th	century	can	be	tasted	in	the	remote	kitchens	of	reserve	communities	across	the	country	and	the	pre-packaged	foods	served	to	those	in	custody.	Yet	just	as	the	destructiveness	of	colonialism	crashes	through	time	and	space,	the	gentle	swelling	of	resurgence	and	resistance	continues.	Aboriginal	communities	continue	to	create	and	sustain	connections;	working	to	reclaim	lands,	reinvigorate	relationships	within	and	across	communities	of	people	and	more-than-human	beings,	and	revision	pre-colonial	conceptualizations	of	justice	and	punishment.	Woven	within	these	long	histories	are	small	gardens,	planted	by	some	to	resist	colonial	hunger	and	by	others	to	civilize	the	‘savage’.	Gardening	positively	impacts	physical,	social	and	mental	health.	Incarceration	impacts	those	same	outcomes,	often	in	negative	ways.	The	potential	for	incarceration	to	hurt	and	for	gardening	to	heal	must	be	understood	within	these	wider	contexts,	ancient	ways	of	being	on	the	land	and	criminal	justice	norms	rooted	in	colonial	racism.	Yet	if	we	do	pay	attention	to	these	contexts	and	frame	experiences	in	histories,	gardening	within	prison	can	be	seen	as	an	avenue	to	heal	relationships	with	oneself,	the	land,	and	the	wider	community.						 	 	 	 	 	 		26	Chapter	4:	Methods	&	Analysis	4.1:	Qualitative	Settings	and	Participants		This	research	is	ethnographic	in	nature	and	used	qualitative	methods	to	explore	the	questions	outlined	above.	Qualitative	data	collection	involved	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	in	Tl’esqox	who	received	produce	through	Work	2	Give,	and	the	men	who	are	incarcerated	and	working	in	the	garden.	Semi-structured	qualitative	interviews	were	conducted	with	10	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members,	10	men	working	in	the	prison	garden	and	5	stakeholders,	representing	both	Tŝilhqot’in	leaders	and	staff	and	stakeholders	from	within	the	Correctional	Service	of	Canada	(CSC).	Purposive	sampling	was	used	within	each	of	the	participant	communities	as	a	means	to	deepen	and	expand	my	understanding	of	the	experiences	of	gardening	while	incarcerated	as	well	as	receiving	donated	vegetables	within	one	Tŝilhqot’in	community.	Each	participant	had	personal	experience	and	understanding	of	some	component	of	the	garden	program,	and	the	differences	and	similarities	between	these	participants	helped	uncover	themes	and	core	meanings.	This	process	was	iterative	as	each	return	to	the	prison	and	each	day	in	Tl’esqox	resulted	in	rich	conversations	that	highlighted	new	potential	participants	who	could	expand,	challenge,	complicate	and	clarify	themes	and	findings	emerging	from	ongoing	data	collection.	Any	Tŝilhqot’in	individual	that	has	received	donated	produce,	are	able	to	speak	and	understand	English,	and	consents	to	participate	was	eligible	to	take	part	in	this	study.	All	men	working	in	the	garden	were	invited	to	participate,	providing	that	they	were	able	to	speak	and	understand	English	and	provide	consent.	Although	not	a	predetermined	inclusion	criteria,	only	men	with	low	risk	profiles	had	access	to	the	garden	program	at	the	minimum-security	institution	and	were	therefore	available	to	participate.	Stakeholders	were	eligible	given	their	knowledge	regarding	some	portion	of	the	garden	project	and	their	ability	to	speak	and	understand	English.	The	goal	of	these	in-depth,	open-ended	interviews	was	to	gain	a	broad	understanding	of	the	relevant	topics	and	allow	participants	to	guide	the	conversation	and	bring	what	they	deemed	important	to	the	forefront.	While	the	interviews	allowed	participants	to	share	rich	information,	it	was	in	the	sharing	of	meals	and	the	harvesting	of	plants,	the	passing	of	time	together	through	participant	observation	conducted	within	both	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	and	the	prison	garden,	that	allowed	for	the	relationship	building,	researcher	accountability	and	human	connection	that	truly	deepened	and	expanded	my	understanding	of	the	prison	garden’s	impacts,	contexts,	challenges	and	opportunities.				 	 	 	 	 	 		27	4.2:	Qualitative	Data	Collection		From	August	to	late	October	2016	I	spent	ten	full	days	which	culminated	in	approximately	80	hours	of	fieldwork	with	the	men	in	the	prison	garden.	Early	in	the	morning	I	would	arrive	at	Mission	Minimum	Institution,	in	Mission	BC,	pick	up	my	gate	pass,	and	walk	through	the	prison,	through	a	second	growth	forest,	into	the	garden.	I	would	help	out	with	the	harvesting	of	vegetables,	the	clearing	of	tarps	and	rocks	to	make	way	for	end	of	season	rototilling	and	spring	fertilization,	the	sourcing	and	gathering	of	goat	manure	and	its	subsequent	spreading	across	wide	tracts	of	soil,	the	pulling	up	of	tomato	plants	and	berry	bushes,	and	the	careful	cleaning	of	carrots	and	other	root	vegetables	so	families	received	un-soiled	produce.	I	was	also	able	to	join	the	men	and	the	farmer	as	they	delivered	food	to	local	food	banks	and	soup	kitchens,	unloading	boxes	of	acorn	squash	for	soup	and	pumpkins	ready	for	Halloween.	It	is	against	Correctional	Service	of	Canada	protocols	to	give	honoraria	or	gifts	to	incarcerated	individuals	participating	in	research;	in	lieu	of	these	items	I	brought	in	a	thank	you	lunch	(KFC,	as	requested	by	the	men)	on	the	last	day	of	the	garden’s	2016	season.			Throughout	August	and	September	of	2016	I	spent	three	full	weeks	living	in	Tl’esqox,	one	of	the	bands	within	the	wider	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation.	Tl’esqox	is	roughly	50	km	west	of	Williams	Lake,	situated	in	a	valley	and	surrounded	by	hills	that	eventually	give	way	to	sage	encrusted	cliffs	and	the	crashing	Chilcotin	River.	Today	the	registered	Tŝilhqot’in	population	is	roughly	3,500	members	(Alphonse	et	al.,	2012);	approximately	300	people	are	registered	with	the	Tl’esqox	band,	roughly	half	of	whom	live	there.	While	there,	I	stayed	in	Old	School,	an	old	school	building	given	by	the	Department	of	Education	to	the	band	after	it’s	closure	many	years	prior	and	currently	used	to	house	Elders,	individuals	completing	various	training	programs	hosted	on	the	premise,	such	as	firefighting	and	heavy	duty	mechanics,	and	youth	completing	court-mandated	community	service	hours.	I	had	a	small	apartment	with	a	kitchen,	and	five	nights	a	week	a	Tŝilhqot’in	man,	the	local	community	alcohol	and	drug	counselor,	stayed	next	door,	acting	as	community	host,	tour	guide,	and	answerer	of	my	many	questions.		My	time	was	unstructured	yet	full,	spent	gardening	and	weeding	with	women	in	the	community	garden	at	the	Old	School,	hiking	and	berry	picking	with	community	members,	watching	families	dip	netting	in	the	Chilcotin	and	Fraser	rivers,	learning	to	clean,	prepare	and	smoke	fish,	sharing	meals,	and	learning	recipes	passed	down	by	many	grandmothers.	All	community	members	who	took	part	in	a	semi-structured	interview	received	an	honorarium	as	a	token	of	my	appreciation	and	a	means		 	 	 	 	 	 		28	of	valuing	their	time	and	expertise,	and	any	and	all	community	members	who	took	part	in	interviews,	welcomed	me	into	their	homes,	gave	me	directions	or	supported	my	stay	in	their	community	in	any	way	were	given	food-based	gifts	as	a	thank	you.				Image	2:	Tl'esqox,	nestled	amongst	the	hills	Interviews	ranged	from	thirty	minutes	to	two	hours	in	length.	The	men	I	spoke	with	in	the	prisons	were	asked	about	their	history	of	incarceration	and	participation	in	correctional	programming	other	than	the	garden;	this	was	done	to	provide	a	foundation	upon	which	their	experiences	of	the	garden	could	be	understood.	I	did	not	ask	the	men	what	crime	they	had	been	convicted	of,	this	was	purposefully	done	to	create	a	humanizing	space	in	which	the	men	could	craft	their	own	narratives	and	share	their	histories	and	identities	with	me	in	the	ways	they	wanted;	some	of	the	men	chose	to	tell	me	how	they	had	come	to	prison,	others	did	not.		Questions	for	the	men	focused	on	how	they	felt	and	what	they	thought	about	while	gardening	and	whether	or	not	where	the	vegetables	went	mattered	to	them.	Within	Tl’esqox	interviews	focused	on	how	people	experienced	the	donation	of	vegetables,	what	impact	the	vegetables	might	have	had	on	diet	and	health,	whether	or	not	it	mattered	that	the	food	was	grown	in	prison,	and	the	factors	impacting	food	security	and	sovereignty	for	them	and	their	communities.			Interviews	were	semi-structured,	allowing	participants	to	craft	their	narrative	and	explore	tangents	in	ways	that	felt	natural	to	them.	Within	these	conversations	I	sat	and	listened,	asking	for	clarification	and	gently	pushing	people	to	explore	their	connections	to	food,	health	and	wellbeing.			 	 	 	 	 	 		29	Additionally,	I	conducted	5	interviews	with	program	stakeholders;	specially	I	spoke	with	the	retired	warden	who	founded	the	garden,	the	farmer	contracted	by	CSC,	the	warden	and	assistant	warden	of	programming	at	the	institution,	and	the	executive	director	of	the	distribution	partner.			4.3:	Qualitative	Data	Analysis		A	thematic	analytic	approach	was	used	to	highlight	patterns	and	develop	descriptive	themes.	This	approach	was	used	based	on	my	“belief	in	multiple	realities	[and]	a	commitment	to	participants’	viewpoints”	(Vaismoradi,	Turunen,	&	Bondas,	2013,	p.	398).	All	but	one	interview	was	recorded,	transcribed	verbatim,	anonymized	and	subsequently	coded	using	NVivo	software;	one	interview	with	a	Tŝilhqot’in	woman	was	not	recorded	as	per	her	request,	and	her	insights	were	subsequently	treated	as	field	notes.	Pseudonyms	were	provided	for	each	participant	as	a	means	to	respect	their	confidentiality	and	have	been	used	throughout	this	document.	Extensive	field	notes	were	written	in	a	research	journal;	these	were	used	to	capture	my	initial	thoughts	and	insights	that	may	have	not	been	captured	in	the	audio	recordings	alone.	Writing	daily	in	my	journal,	which	started	during	the	ethics	process	and	has	continued	through	the	writing	of	this	thesis,	allowed	me	to	develop	new	questions	and	explore	and	work	through	theoretical	insights.	This	“narrative	of	events,	behaviors,	conversations,	activities,	interpretations,	and	explanations	[…]	help[ed]	to	create	a	portrayal	of	the	soul	and	heart”	(LeCompte	&	Schensul,	1999,	p.	17)	of	the	garden	and	its	impacts.	The	reading,	re-reading	and	ongoing	writing	in	the	margins	of	these	journal	entries	worked	to	refine	my	thinking;	this	immersion	provided	a	space	within	which	I	began	to	notice	and	subsequently	systematically	clump	and	categorize	themes	and	core	ideas.		The	analysis	was	iterative	and	was	conducted	concurrent	with	data	collection.	The	interview	transcripts	were	read	and	re-read	multiple	times.	These	hard	copy	stacks	of	paper	became	cluttered	with	fluorescent	highlighting,	margin	notes	and	rough	diagrams	of	relationships.	Through	the	close	and	attentive	reading	of	these	narratives	I	was	able	to	explore	patterns,	expand	themes	and	find	commonalities	and	differences	between	and	within	each	person’s	story.	Mind	mapping	further	discovered	and	connected	themes,	hectic	hand	drawn	diagrams	attempting	to	find	ways	to	respectfully	and	honestly	illustrate	the	relationships	and	connections	that	people	expressed	within	their	narratives;	drafting	connections	among	people’s	stories,	organizing	words	much	“messier	and	thicker	than	numbers”	(Miles	&	Huberman,	1984).	These	maps	were	then	organized	into	parent-child	coding	schematics,	using	NVivo	Software.	Codes		 	 	 	 	 	 		30	were	created	to	categorize	topics	within	the	narrative	data;	shared	and	divergent	participant	experiences	were	classified	according	to	key	words	through	the	coding	process,	crafting	central	themes	from	across	all	transcripts.	All	transcripts	were	then	coded	within	NVivo.	At	the	beginning	of	the	analysis	process	the	discovering	and	development	of	themes	and	codes	through	close	reading,	mind	mapping	and	the	creation	and	subsequent	use	of	coding	schematics	was	done	within	each	group	of	transcripts,	resulting	in	one	coding	structure	and	thematic	analysis	for	the	men,	one	for	the	Tl’esqox	community	members,	and	a	third	for	stakeholders.	As	the	analysis	progressed	the	themes	that	existed	across	the	narratives	within	each	category	were	compared	and	contrasted	and	subsequent	mind	mapping,	reading	of	coding	reports	and	re-visiting	entries	from	my	field	diary	allowed	for	a	weaving	of	themes	between	these	groups,	providing	a	more	holistic	understanding	of	the	connections,	disruptions	and	potential	reciprocities	existing	across	the	many	kilometers	that	separate	the	prison	and	the	wide	open	spaces	of	Tl’esqox.	This	constant	comparison	allowed	for	the	similarities	and	differences	between	each	narrative	and	each	group	to	emerge	(Glaser	&	Strauss,	1965).	All	coding	schematics	were	shared	with	my	thesis	advisory	committee;	questions	posed	by	my	committee	members	were	discussed	and	considered	as	a	group	then	later	reflected	on	and	integrated	into	the	analysis.	The	coded	stakeholder	transcripts	were	read	and	re-read,	and	the	information	gleaned	from	their	pages	was	used	to	provide	the	underlying	context	and	background	for	my	thematic	exploration	and	close	comparison	of	the	men’s	and	communities’	transcripts.	The	insight	and	wisdom	of	these	individuals	helped	to	shade	in	the	contours	of	the	impacts	and	relationships	between	and	among	the	men	in	the	prison	and	the	people	of	Tl’esqox;	this	information	was	foundational	to	my	understanding	of	the	garden,	yet	these	interviews	are	not	unpacked	in	the	same	way	as	the	narratives	of	the	men	and	the	people	of	Tl’esqox,	as	the	stakeholders	provide	a	rich	backdrop	upon	which	the	strengths	and	experiences	of	the	men	and	community	members	and	the	connections	between	these	groups	can	be	explored	and	cherished.			Throughout	the	data	collection	and	analysis	period	ongoing	conversations	with	thesis	committee	members,	specifically	Dr.	Helen	Brown	who	leads	the	wider	Work	2	Give	research	study,	helped	to	refine	my	thinking	and	ensure	the	meaningfulness	and	reliability	of	this	analysis.	During	my	time	in	Tl’esqox	and	in	the	prison	garden,	key	findings	and	themes	were	shared	with	participants	to	ensure	findings	remained	meaningful	and	culturally	appropriate.	This	sharing	of	themes,	such	as	the	influences	of	resource	extraction	and	climate	change	on	food	security,	and	widespread	connections	with	people	who	were	or	had	been	in	prison,	was	done	informally;	shared	with		 	 	 	 	 	 		31	women	while	gardening	and	picking	berries,	men	while	driving	to	fishing	spots:	‘what	do	you	think?’	‘Does	that	sound	about	right?’	These	participants	helped	to	refine	my	thinking,	for	instance	highlighting	the	tensions	between	rejecting	rivers	polluted	by	tailing	ponds	and	the	refusal	to	let	your	family	go	hungry.	Near	the	end	of	this	journey	I	sat	down	to	write	a	detailed	thesis	outline	that	delineated	each	section	of	this	manuscript	and	clearly	articulated	my	analytic	structure	and	the	findings	that	grew	from	the	ongoing	engagement	with	the	men	and	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members,	first	in	person,	and	then	through	the	repeated	reading	of	their	words.	This	thesis	outline	was	shared	with	the	women	in	my	thesis	advisory	and	all	feedback	was	discussed	and	integrated.			4.4:	Community	cooking	workshops		The	creation	of	meaning	is	relational,	therefore	the	research	methods	I	drew	on	for	this	project	did	not	come	fully	into	focus	until	I	began	to	spend	time	with	the	men	in	the	garden,	and	with	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	on	their	ancestral	lands.	Once	in	Tl’esqox	it	became	clear	that	the	Work	2	Give	vegetables	were	brought	into	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	without	attendance	to	community	preference,	food	histories	and	foodways.	Vegetables	such	as	kale,	bok	choy	and	diverse	varietals	of	squash	were	distributed	without	recipes	or	information,	and	communities	of	people	who	often	describes	themselves	to	me	as	“meat	and	potato,	fish	and	rice”	people	were	often	left	unsure	of	what	these	vegetables	were,	and	how	to	store	and	prepare	them.	In	talking	with	community	members	and	staff	at	the	Tl’esqox	Health	Centre	&	Band	Office	I	learned	that	many	Elders	and	community	members	were	interested	in	learning	more	about	these	new	vegetables.	I	was	put	in	touch	with	the	dietician	and	nutritionist	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government,	Megan	Dark,	and	together	we	collaboratively	planned	and	hosted	one	cooking	workshop	in	Tl’esqox,	in	which	I	personally	picked	up	and	drove	vegetables	from	the	prison	to	the	community.	We	separately	hosted	two	other	workshops	in	other	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	(Yunesit’in	and	Tl’etinqox),	to	coincide	with	the	delivery	of	vegetables	from	the	prison	garden.	In	preparation	for	these	workshops	we	developed	vegetable	information	sheets,	based	on	feedback	received	from	community	members,	that	included	nutritional	information,	storage	information	and	a	selection	of	accessible	recipes	(see	Appendix	I).	Vegetable	names	were	translated	into	Tŝilhqot’in	and	funding	is	being	sought	to	sustain	the	community	cooking	workshops	and	support	the	full	translation	of	vegetable	information	sheets	and	a	recipe	book.	I	conducted	three	qualitative	interviews	with	Tl’esqox	community	members	after	the	cooking	workshop	and	included		 	 	 	 	 	 		32	questions	about	people’s	experiences	in	the	workshops	and	ways	to	improve	workshops	in	the	future.			4.5:	Ethics		The	ethical	considerations	for	this	project	are	based	upon	a	theoretical	and	moral	foundation	of	decolonizing	and	ethical	research	that	aims	to	be	meaningful	to	the	participating	individuals	and	communities.	This	study	was	conducted	within	the	context	of	the	broader	Work	2	Give	Research	program.	A	Memorandum	Of	Understanding	(MOU)	currently	exists	between	the	UBC	School	of	Nursing,	the	Work	2	Give	Research	team	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government	(TNG).	Negotiation	and	approval	for	this	project	occurred	under	the	supervision	of	the	Work	2	Give	Research	project’s	Principal	Investigator,	Dr.	Helen	Brown,	and	was	supported	by	her	and	the	other	members	of	my	thesis	supervisory	committee.	The	framework	for	the	broader	Work	2	Give	Research	project,	which	reflects	the	MOU	with	the	TNG,	is	based	upon	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	Research	Protocol.	Research	approval	was	received	both	formally	and	informally	from	community	leaders	within	Tl’esqox.	Ethical	approval	was	also	obtained	through	the	Correctional	Service	of	Canada’s	Research	Branch,	as	an	amendment	to	the	pre-existing	Work	2	Give	Research	ethics	approval,	and	through	the	University	of	British	Columbia	Research	Ethics	Board.											 	 	 	 	 	 		33	Chapter	5:	Results		I	conducted	10	semi-structured	interviews	with	men	who	were	currently	or	had	in	the	past	worked	in	the	Mission	garden.	Of	these	men,	30%	were	Aboriginal.	The	average	age	was	52,	with	a	range	from	33	to	77	years.	Fifty	percent	of	the	men	had	completed	high	school	or	received	a	GED,	40%	had	not	completed	high	school,	and	one	man	had	taken	some	university	courses.	The	men	identified	their	home	communities	as	being	from	across	Canada,	with	the	majority	being	from	BC	(40%)	or	Ontario	(40%).	The	average	time	the	men	had	been	incarcerated	in	a	federal	institution,	at	the	time	of	the	interviews,	was	17.9	years	(range:	3	months	to	39	years).	A	number	of	the	men	had	done	time	in	provincial	institutions,	however	these	dates	were	not	captured.			Participating	in	the	garden	at	Mission	Minimum,	called	from	here	on	in	simply	‘the	garden’,	has	diverse	and	layered	impacts	on	both	the	participating	men	and	the	recipient	communities,	communities	that	include	local	organizations	in	the	Lower	Mainland	as	well	as	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation.	For	the	participating	men	the	garden	is	meaningful	within	the	context	of	being	incarcerated,	and	the	various	ways	that	the	experience	of	incarceration	impacts	their	lives:	from	diet,	to	the	ability	to	spend	time	in	nature,	to	more	intrinsic	benefits	such	as	pride	and	responsibility.	For	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	of	Tl’esqox	the	impacts	are	overshadowed	by	a	wider	history	and	context	of	food	(in)security,	land	rights	and	Indigenous	sovereignty	and	self-determination;	this	history	creates	food	insecurities	and	not-quite-sovereignties	that	are	complex	and	complicated,	and	difficult	to	address	through	the	donation	of	relatively	small	amounts	of	produce	a	handful	of	times	throughout	the	year.			5.1:	Impacts	on	Men		The	impacts	on	the	participating	men	are	layered;	layers	that	deepened	and	widened	over	time	and	through	increased	engagement	and	ownership	by	each	individual	man,	as	highlighted	in	Figure	1.	The	first	layer	is	access	to	food,	and	is	the	most	accessible	in	terms	of	impact;	even	the	men	who	had	just	started	and	were	not	particularly	interested	in	where	the	food	is	going	were	able	to	take	fresh	organic	produce	back	into	their	homes	to	integrate	into	the	meals	that	they	cooked	themselves.	As	time	went	on	the	men	become	more	committed	to	the	work	and	the	tranquility	of	the	garden,	the	work	became	a	means	to	find	peace	and	escape	within	the	institution.	With	more	time,	more	seeds	and	more	sprouts	their	pride	in	the	growing	and	tending		 	 	 	 	 	 		34	of	plants	furrows	upwards;	the	sheer	quantity	of	vegetables	becomes	a	responsibility.	As	the	destination	of	these	beautiful	plant	foods	clarifies,	the	act	of	giving	creates	additional	meaning	for	the	men.	Finally,	as	their	work	in	the	garden	continues	through	the	seasons	the	men	are	able	to	imagine	meaningful	futures,	envisioning	their	time	in	the	garden	as	not	only	growing	and	giving,	but	as	planting	and	tending	roots	for	a	future	outside	of	prison,	one	where	nature,	giving,	responsibility	and	self-worth	may	take	on	new	and	impactful	meanings.	For	the	core	men	in	the	garden,	who	had	worked	over	several	seasons	and	provided	mentorship	to	incoming	recruits,	the	impacts	were	the	most	meaningful.				Figure	1:	Layered	impacts	of	the	prison	garden	on	participating	men		The	specific	impact	on	each	man	is	influenced	by	three	external	forces	and	contexts:	(a)	time,	including	each	man’s	length	of	incarceration;	the	passing	of	seasons,	and;	the	number	of	weeks,	months	and	seasons	spent	in	the	garden;	(b)	visibility,	including	men	watching	the	plants	grow;	seeing,	meeting	and	interacting	with	the	diverse	individuals	who	receive	the	donated	food,	and;	the	reciprocity	of	recipient	community	members	watching	the	men	give,	creating	visible	and	alternate	social	narratives	around	what	type	of	people	end	up	in	prison,	and	what	potential	they	may	or	may	not	have;	and	finally;	(c)	personal	contexts,	including	men’s	ethnic	and/or	Aboriginal	identities;	histories	of	work	and	education;	childhood	memories,	and;	their	institutional	history	and	context,	which	institutions	they	had	been	in,	and	whether	or	not	they	identified	as	a	‘lifer’	or	were	new	to	the	criminal	justice	or	federal	system.	These	impacts	and	influences	are	then	intersected	by	the	concepts	of	freedom	and	autonomy,	driving	forces	that	impact	the	men	against		 	 	 	 	 	 		35	the	wider	context	of	incarceration,	providing	meaning	in	gardening	that	is	explicitly	based	within	the	experience	of	being	in	prison	and	of	having	limited	freedom	of	choice	and	of	movement.			5.1.1:	Access	to	Food	The	first,	most	easily	accessible	layer	of	impact	was	access	to	food.	The	institution	has	a	minimum	security	classification	and	the	men	do	not	sleep	in	cells	as	they	might	at	higher	security	levels;	instead	they	share	houses	with	four	to	seven	other	men.	Minimum	security	is	the	last	institutional	stop	as	men	cascade	down	from	higher	security	levels	before	release	back	into	the	community;	men	are	consequently	expected	to	buy	their	own	groceries	through	a	central	ordering	system	and	prepare	their	own	meals.	These	activities	are	intended	to	provide	meal	planning	and	budgeting	experience	to	individuals	experiencing	incarceration,	increasing	their	chances	of	successfully	reintegrating	back	into	the	community.	For	the	men	at	Mission	Minimum	staple	groceries,	such	as	flour,	basic	fruits,	vegetables	and	meats	are	ordered	through	the	central	ordering	system;	men	have	to	provide	their	grocery	lists	to	the	food	service	department	weekly,	each	receiving	a	per	diem	that	works	out	to	$32.51/week.	Additional	novelty	items,	such	as	pre-made	chicken	wings,	snacks,	or	sodas	can	be	purchased	at	the	commissary,	although	items	are	often	prohibitively	expensive.	While	fresh	fruits	and	vegetables	are	available	to	the	men	through	the	food	ordering	system,	the	quality	of	the	produce	is	variable.	Being	able	to	take	home	fresh,	organic	produce	from	the	garden	after	work	provides	an	opportunity	for	the	men	to	integrate	high	quality	produce	into	their	diets	while	also	saving	on	their	monthly	food	budget.	For	many	of	the	men,	the	great	variety	of	vegetables	available	in	the	garden	allows	them	to	try	new	things,	integrating	new	vegetables	and	recipes	into	their	diets.	As	one	man	notes:		 “I	ate	a	lot	of	stuff	out	there	I	never	even	tried	before,	like	eggplant,	never	tried	it	before,	and	I	cooked	it	myself	in	there,	and	never	stopped	eating	it	then.	Your	diet	changes	quite	a	lot	if	you’re	out	there,	I	hardly	eat	meat	at	all	during	the	summers.”		The	high	quality	of	the	vegetables	was	also	appreciated	in	contrast	to	what	is	available	in	supermarkets	in	the	community.	One	man	who	had	been	released	in	summer	of	2014	and	who	I	interviewed	in	the	community	explained	that	while	he	now	has	access	to	more	variety	than	he	did	through	the	food	ordering	program	at	Mission	Minimum,	“a	lot	of	the	stuff	in	them	stores	is	just	horrible.”	For	the	majority	of	the	men	with	whom	I	spoke,	the	dietary	changes	that	resulted	from	their	time	in	the	garden	were	something	they	intended	to	continue	with	post	release,	with		 	 	 	 	 	 		36	many	of	them	hoping	to	have	access	to	community	or	personal	gardens	where	they	could	grow	their	own	food.	Even	for	the	men	with	previous	gardening	experience	the	variety	of	things	grown	in	the	garden	was	novel.	This	variety	was	facilitated	by	a	supervising	farmer	who	travels	extensively	and	enjoys	experimenting	with	new	vegetables	and	varietals	brought	home	from	faraway	places;	this	impacted	the	men’s	ability	to	diversify	their	diet	and	learn	about	new	plants,	such	as	lemongrass	and	daikon.		For	some	men	the	shifts	in	their	diets	were	understood	within	the	context	of	their	own	childhood	hunger;	men	spoke	of	daily	hunger,	across	classrooms,	family	living	spaces	and	bedrooms,	and	connected	these	experiences	to	the	trajectory	that	resulted	in	their	incarceration.	Their	awareness	of	the	downstream	impacts	of	hunger	shaped	their	appreciation	for	the	fresh	vegetables	they	were	able	to	cook	for	themselves.	For	other	men	the	growing,	harvesting	and	eating	of	their	own	vegetables	reconnected	them	with	the	foods,	foodways	and	experiences	of	their	childhoods,	linking	them	to	memories	of	family	farms	and	backyard	gardens.			The	majority	of	the	men	had	been	incarcerated	for	long	periods	of	time,	with	70%	having	spent	ten	or	more	years	in	federal	custody,	and	many	had	taken	culinary	skills	programming	offered	through	institutions	across	the	country.	These	skills,	combined	with	access	to	fresh	vegetables,	allowed	them	to	create	appealing	and	nutritious	meals	for	themselves	and	their	housemates.		I	found	the	level	of	culinary	skill	and	attention	to	nutrition	and	flavor	surprising	at	first,	because	I	assumed	that	most	men	would	subsist	on	the	stereotypical	pastas	and	burgers	of	bachelorhood.	One	man	with	whom	I	spoke	lived	with	someone	who	enjoyed	baking;	he	would	provide	fresh	squash	in	return	for	a	piece	of	the	pie	or	cheesecake.	All	the	men	I	spoke	with	were	happy	to	share	cooking	advice,	sending	me	home	with	vegetables	and	their	favourite	recipes:	butternut	squash	soup	with	coconut	milk,	ratatouille,	and	coleslaw	with	fresh	garlic	scapes.	In	the	past	some	of	the	previously	participating	men	had	traded	vegetables	for	cigarettes	and	other	contraband	items;	however	this	was	frowned	upon	as	the	vegetables	were	meant	for	personal	consumption,	within	reason,	and	for	donation	to	people	deemed	deserving	of	donated	food.	One	man,	Caleb5,	described	how	he	rarely	took	home	vegetables	because	he	“didn’t	like	getting	yelled	at	by	[the	farmer	contracted	by	CSC	to	run	the	garden]”.	The	farmer	would	often	shout,	in	a	firm	and	sarcastic	yet	friendly	manner	to	men	who	left	with	multiple	bags	of	vegetables.	Caleb,	who																																									 																					5	All	names	used	throughout	this	document	are	pseudonyms.			 	 	 	 	 	 		37	had	only	been	incarcerated	for	three	weeks	at	the	time	of	our	interview,	and	who	was	spending	his	first	day	in	the	garden	after	transfer	from	the	federal	Regional	Reception	and	Assessment	Centre	(RRAC)	during	my	fieldwork	period,	was	not	aware	of	the	vegetables’	destination	and	had	assumed	they	were	sold	for	profit;	upon	learning	where	the	vegetables	went	he	reframed	his	understanding	of	the	farmer,	shifting	from	a	general	apprehension	towards	respect:	“[he]	doesn’t	mind	if	you	bring	vegetables	home	for	your	house,	but	if	your	bag’s	overflowing	he	doesn’t	like	that.	Well,	now	I	know	why,	because	they’re	for	people	that	are	hungry.”	The	ability	not	only	to	grow,	but	then	to	cook	their	own	food	starkly	contrasted	against	the	set	meal	times	and	pre-made	processed	foods	available	at	medium	and	maximum	security	institutions.			The	dietary	impact	of	taking	home	vegetables	and	integrating	them	into	home	cooked	meals	intersects	with	the	themes	of	autonomy	and	freedom.	One	man	described	the	meals	available	in	higher	security	institutions	as	“not	even	for	humans.	It’s	not	food.	But	they	feed	you	it,	it’s	a	filling,	right?	And	they	feed	you	a	lot	of	it.	It’s	not	real	eggs,	it’s	not	real	anything.”	For	the	men,	many	of	whom	had	taken	culinary	programs	in	the	past,	and	others	who	simply	used	their	extended	period	of	incarceration	to	teach	themselves	to	cook,	using	books	from	the	prison	library,	the	ability	to	create	and	play	with	new	vegetables	and	flavours	allowed	for	creative	and	autonomous	experiences,	providing	them	a	space	to	exercise	their	freedom	of	choice,	selecting	what	they	did	and	did	not	want	to	eat.	When	asked	if	his	time	working	in	the	garden	had	impacted	his	diet,	Dennis	explained:		 “Oh	yeah,	oh	yeah.	Way	different	than	before.	I	don’t	want	to	eat,	touch	a	potato,	or	anything	involving	a	potato	for	a	long	time.	There’s	so	much	of	it,	and	bread,	up	behind	when	you	do	medium	time	and	max	time.	It’s	a	way	different	ballgame	in	there	[…]	it’s	a	privilege	to	be	in	a	mininum	security	institution.”		Across	the	layers	of	impact	the	garden	was	seen	as	a	privilege.	For	men	who	had	done	time	in	higher	security	prisons	this	privilege	was	nested	within	the	larger	privilege	of	a	minimum	security	institution,	where	freedoms	such	as	meal	choice	and	preparation	provided	spaces	to	practice	their	autonomy.	In	the	context	of	diet	and	nutrition	the	ability	to	access	a	wide	variety	of	fresh,	organic	produce,	and	to	integrate	those	vegetables	into	any	meal	they	wanted	was	seen	as	meaningful,	supporting	of	their	autonomy	and	freedom	within	the	confines	of	institutional	histories	where	meals	seldom	included	fresh	vegetables	and	choice	was	not	an	option.				 	 	 	 	 	 		38	5.1.2:	Working	to	Escape,	Working	to	Produce	The	men’s	ability	to	work	to	both	produce	and	to	metaphorically	escape	offered	a	layer	of	impact	above	and	beyond	access	to	vegetables.	As	one	man,	who	is	still	in	federal	custody	but	can	no	longer	work	in	the	garden	due	to	health	problems	explained,	“I	used	to	like	going	out	there	because	of	the	sun	more	than	the	veg.”			Image	3:	The	prison	garden	in	August	Working	to	Escape		It’s	nearly	impossible	to	not	feel	the	substantial	difference	between	the	open	natural	space	of	the	garden	and	the	institution.	The	first	time	I	visited	the	garden,	after	signing	in	at	the	front	duty	desk,	I	was	led	through	the	paved	roads	of	the	prison,	weaving	between	the	houses,	CORCAN	buildings,	staff	offices	and	programming	areas.	The	institution,	compared	with	higher	security	areas,	is	relatively	open	and	green;	a	large	pond	filled	with	ducks	and	geese	sits	behind	the	houses	and	small	gardens	dot	the	lawns	between	the	men’s	homes.	Yet	even	given	the	relative	openness	of	the	institutional	spaces,	the	contrast	between	there,	with	the	crackling	intercom	interjecting	into	all	thoughts	and	conversations,	and	the	garden	is	hard	to	describe.	From	the	garden	you	cannot	hear	the	intercom,	you	cannot	see	the	paved	roads.	You	walk	through	the	gate	at	the	back	of	the	institution	and	through	old	growth	forest;	blackberry	bushes,	walnut	trees,	douglas	fir	and	vine	maples	caked	with	thick	mosses	frame	the	now	gravel	road.	Each	time	I	walked	or	was	driven	down	that	road,	the	trees	and	their	ecosystem	friends	made	me	feel	that	I	was	on	my	way	to	a	weekend	camping	trip,	not	a	prison	work	program.	As	the	road	curves	you	see	the	garden	lay	out	ahead	of	you,	nestled	amongst	rolling	hills	and	towering	trees;	perfect	rows	of	broccoli	and	eggplant	contrast	with	the	brambles	and	blackberry	bushes	slowly	creeping		 	 	 	 	 	 		39	out,	back	into	the	open	sunshine.	The	men	feel	the	dissimilarity	between	the	garden	and	the	wider	institution	acutely:		 “When	you’re	here,	I	mean	even	though	you	work	with	people,	you’re	not	hearing	machines	and	that	kind	of	stuff,	right?	You’re	hearing	birds,	you’re	listening	to	the	wind	through	the	trees,	you’ll	see	the	odd	wildlife.	In	CORCAN	industries	you’re	in	a	building,	there’s	bright	lights,	and	it’s	noise.”			“Working	out	here	has	just	been	so	nice.	It	doesn’t	seem	like	you’re	in	prison,	you	know?	You	get	a	lot	more	freedom	here.”				Image	4:	The	second	growth	surrounding	the	garden		Even	while	incarcerated	the	feeling	of	sun	and	wind	on	your	face	creates	a	sense	of	freedom,	an	escape.	These	impacts	become	even	more	meaningful	for	men	who	have	cascaded	down	from	higher	security	institutions,	where	not	only	the	contrast	between	the	garden	and	the	wider	Mission	institution,	but	also	between	minimum	and	higher	security	levels	creates	a	sense	of	freedom	and	privilege.	As	one	man	explains:			 “This	isn’t	jail,	right?	You	know	what	I	mean?	It	doesn’t	feel	like	a	jail.	Like	when	I	got	here	I	came	in	a	van	with	no	handcuffs,	and	guys	walking	around	in	their	clothes	by	the	road,	I’m	like	‘holy	crap	what’s	going	on	here,’	right?	This	isn’t	jail,	there’s	no	gate.	So	it’s	kind	of	a	privilege	to	be	here	too,	and	then	it’s	a	privilege	to	come	out	here	and	actually	do	this.	Because	in	no	other	place	will	you	get	to	go	gardening,	and	get	the	vegetables	off	the	garden.”			 	 	 	 	 	 		40	The	garden	was	described	as	therapeutic	and	calming.	One	man,	Jordan,	who	had	only	been	working	in	the	garden	for	a	month	when	I	spoke	to	him,	described	how	the	other	men	seemed	impacted	by	their	time	there:			 “[The	farmer’s]	got	flowers,	rows	and	rows	of	flowers.	And	you	talk	to	some	of	these	guys,	and	they’re	out	there	picking	the	flowers	and	‘it’s	very	therapeutic,’	I’m	like,	‘what?’	And	they	say	‘yeah,	just	standing	out	in	the	flower	patch	and	pick	flowers,’	it	takes	their	mind	off	stuff.	It	does	take	your	mind	off	a	lot	of	stuff,	gardening,	it’s	a	good	thing.”					Image	5:	One	of	the	men,	standing	proudly	beside	a	flowering	zinnias	plant		The	impact	of	being	in	the	garden	is	not	only	tied	to	the	physical	experience	of	working	outside	in	a	serene	natural	setting,	but	the	way	the	men	felt	treated	by	the	farmer.	The	farmer	is	far	more	relaxed	with	the	men	than	other	CSC	staff,	allowing	the	men	to	bend	and	break	certain	institutional	rules,	for	instance	letting	the	men	work	without	shirts	in	the	hot	summer	sun,	allowing	them	to	escape,	if	only	for	a	while,	institutional	dress	codes.		The	experience	of	working	with	each	other	is	also	different	in	the	garden,	as	is	the	way	prison	politics	play	out	during	garden	shifts.		Two	men	told	me	that	these	politics	didn’t	continue	into	the	garden,	that	everyone	left	that	behind	and	came	to	work	to	focus	on	the	growing	and	donating	of	food.	However	the		 	 	 	 	 	 		41	majority	of	the	men	talked	about	how	prison	politics	continued	to	exist	within	the	garden,	particularly	among	the	younger	part-time	guys,	but	that	it	was	easier	to	escape	those	politics,	to	work	alone	planting	seeds,	weeding,	and	trimming	fruit	trees.	For	some	of	the	men	who	had	longer	federal	sentences	the	garden	provided	enough	space	to	work	alone,	allowing	them	the	peace	they	needed	to	pass	their	time	easily	and	quietly.	One	man,	Stan,	had	been	incarcerated	for	39	years,	first	in	Ontario	and	then	in	BC,	experienced	the	garden	as	a	place	of	peace	and	quiet,	somewhere	to	avoid	the	unwanted	shifts	in	prison	culture,	where	people	no	longer	mind	their	own	business;	where	there	is	“just	no	respect	anymore	[…]	They	come	right	from	RRAC	to	here	and	never	have	to	do	a	day’s	hard	time,	they	don’t	learn	nothing.”	All	of	the	lifers	with	whom	I	spoke	viewed	the	influx	of	younger	men,	particularly	those	who	went	straight	into	minimum	security	without	doing	‘hard	time’,	as	eroding	the	longstanding	con	code,	an	informal	set	of	values	that	shape	the	way	people	live	their	lives	while	incarcerated.	Young	men,	particularly	those	involved	in	gang	activity,	were	seen	as	wanting	to	make	a	name	for	themselves,	which	conflicted	with	the	lifers’	desire	to	be	simply	left	alone.	For	Stan,	the	garden	offered	an	escape	from	the	institution,	and	as	he	gained	seniority	he	was	able	to	work	alone	in	the	way	he	wanted,	peacefully	keeping	his	head	down	and	waiting	for	release:		 “I	come	out	here	because…	the	first	time	I	come	out	here	with	[the	farmer],	I	worked	out	in	the	field	and	that.	And	you	had	to	work	with	everybody.	And	they	fucking	whine	and	cry,	you	know	‘blah,	blah,	blah,’	and	you	just	don’t	have	time	for	that,	because	it	makes	a	long	day	when	you	have	to	listen	to	that	[…]	So	I	worked	that	and	then	I	came	out	here	and	I	work	by	myself.	I	do	the	tomatoes	and	the	peppers.	[…]	I	would	say	I	don’t	have	to	really	listen	to	the	others,	no,	because	I	work	by	myself,	right?	The	days	just	blow	by,	yeah	the	days	just	blow	by.”		For	other	men	the	ability	to	escape	prison	politics	not	only	is	a	means	to	pass	the	time	well,	but	a	way	to	protect	themselves	from	potential	conflicts	within	the	institution.	For	the	majority	of	lifers	working	in	the	garden,	the	ability	to	escape	and	avoid	prison	politics	was	seen	as	protective,	ensuring	that	they	are	left	alone	and	allowed	to	finish	their	remaining	time	without	incident;	as	one	man	explained,	“all	it	takes	is	for	somebody	to	just	say	the	wrong	thing	about	you,	make	up	some	story	or	whatever,	and	as	a	lifer	you	know	if	you	get	shipped	out	of	here	it’s	gonna	cost	you	five	years.”	For	other	men	the	garden	provided	a	space	for	them	to	avoid	conflicts	that	they	feared	they	themselves	would	start,	conflicts	based	on	deeply	held	values	and	morals	of	the	‘good’	and	‘bad’	men	in	the	institution:				 	 	 	 	 	 		42	“The	only	thing	I	have	in	common	with	these	guys	is	we’re	locked	up	in	the	same	place.	And	that’s	the	way	I	want	to	keep	it.	It’s	really,	it’s	hard	for	me	to	be	in	a	place	like	this,	and	other	places	like	this,	and	I’ll	be	sitting	there	with	5	or	6	other	guys	and	I’m	the	only	one	in	the	room	who’s	never	raised	my	hand	to	hurt	a	woman	or	child	in	my	life	[…]	Being	[in	the	garden]	keeps	me	away	from	places	like	that.	And	I	don’t	have	to	listen	to	guys	bitching	and	complaining.	If	I	sit	and	listen	to	guys	and	their	problems	and	their	opinions	about	stuff	they	know	nothing	about,	I’ll	start	telling	them	what’s	wrong	with	what	they’re	saying,	and	they’ll	end	up	in	the	hospital	and	I’ll	end	up	next	door	[at	the	medium	security	institution].	Like	I	say,	I’m	trying	to	get	out	of	prison,	I	don’t	wanna	stay	here	for	the	rest	of	my	life	because	of	someone’s	else’s	problems.”		The	con	code,	though	shifting,	includes	not	only	the	value	of	minding	your	own	business	and	keeping	your	head	down,	but	a	hierarchy	within	institutions,	with	people	who	commit	violent	offences	at	the	top	and	those	who	commit	sexual	offences,	particularly	those	who	victimize	children,	at	the	bottom.	These	tensions	surrounding	who	committed	which	crime	did	seep	into	the	garden.	I	never	asked	any	of	the	men	what	crime	they	had	been	convicted	of,	only	how	long	they	had	been	incarcerated;	however,	over	the	course	of	my	time	in	the	garden	some	of	the	men	would	tell	me	what	others	had	allegedly	done,	creating	boundaries	around	the	‘good’	and	‘bad’	men	in	the	garden.	It	is	clear	that	the	way	that	the	garden	continues	to	operate	within	this	shifting	prison	culture	and	across	the	tensions	between	different	crimes	and	differing	moral	codes	impacts	the	everyday	and	ongoing	operations	of	the	garden.			Working	to	Produce		Being	in	the	garden	as	a	means	to	escape	the	concrete	and	political	spaces	of	the	wider	institution	creates	meaning	and	benefit	for	the	men.	Yet	they	are	not	simply	spending	their	time	in	the	green	space	of	the	garden,	but	working	to	grow	labour-intensive	organic	produce.	It	is	through	these	efforts,	often	in	the	pouring	rain	or	sweltering	sun,	that	the	men	are	able	to	feel	proud	of	not	only	their	hard	work,	but	the	visible	and	bountiful	benefits	of	that	work;	“it’s	awesome.	It’s	rewarding.	To	see	the	fruits	of	your	labour.”	As	another	man	described:			 “It’s	peaceful,	it’s	tranquil.	Basically	just	watching	everything	grow.	I	mean	you	have	to	kinda	picture	it.	When	we	first	started	we	had	to	cover	all	those	greenhouses	[…]	Then	we	had	to	clean	the	beds,	and	then	everything	you	see	out	there,	every	single	black	tarp	we	put	out	there.	And	then	we	planted.	You	know	the	potato	field,	that	was	one	of		 	 	 	 	 	 		43	the	first	things	that	we	planted;	so	you	have	to	fertilize	it,	and	then	it’s	gotta	be	tilled,	and	then	we	have	to	dig	a	hole,	put	fertilizer,	put	a	potato,	and	cover.	So	basically	you’re	watching	everything	grow.	And	not	only	grow,	but	then	you’re	harvesting	in	three	or	four	months,	it’s	holy	smokes.	And	then	seeing	the	hundreds-	actually	thousands	of	pounds	that	you’re	producing.	It’s	so	awesome.”		The	visibility	of	their	work	has	a	huge	impact	on	the	men;	the	pride	they	felt	was	palpable	as	they	showed	me	around	the	garden,	pointing	out	particularly	large	cabbages,	perfectly	red	tomatoes	and	weed-less	rows	of	romaine.	As	Stan	told	me:	“I	take	pride,	when	I	put	the	tomatoes	in	the	ground,	or	the	peppers,	I	want	them	standing	up	straight.”				Image	6:	Harvested	squash,	cleaned	and	ready	for	donation			Image	7:	Clearing	the	fields	at	the	season's	end		The	garden	also	allows	for	a	kind	of	structure	that	many	of	the	men	found	appealing.	The	ongoing	responsibility,	set	tasks,	and	largely	predictable	needs	of	the	plants	and	the	equipment	and	tools	needed	to	run	a	farm	provided	a	sense	of	order	and	control	that	was	comforting,		 	 	 	 	 	 		44	particularly	when	compared	to	the	shifting	prison	culture	back	in	the	institution	and	chaotic	and	negative	previous	life	experiences.	As	one	man,	Jackson,	explained	when	describing	his	skill	and	ability	at	fixing	tools	and	machines	in	the	garden:		 “It’s	kinda	weird,	but	I’ve	been	doing	that	my	whole	life.	I	can	look	at	something	that’s	broken	and	instantly	know	how	to	fix	it,	except	for	my	life,	that’s	different.	It’s	pretty	fucked	up.	I	can	fix	everything	but	me.”		While	this	structure	was	important,	it	was	never	monotonous,	providing	the	men	with	something	not	only	productive	but	interesting	to	do	during	the	many	days	of	their	incarceration.	As	one	man	explained,	“you	can	do	one	thing	one	day	and	another	thing	another	day,	and	it’s	always	different;	you’re	always	enjoying	yourself	out	there.”	The	men	who	were	fully	committed	to	the	garden	also	understood	the	importance	of	maintaining	this	culture	of	order,	stability	and	autonomy;	they	recognized	the	impacts	of	turnover,	something	that	is	particularly	high	in	a	minimum	institution	where	a	great	number	of	the	men	are	working	towards	upcoming	parole	dates.	The	men	appreciated	that	new	recruits	willing	to	work	hard	and	“do	things	right”	were	important	for	the	sustainability	of	the	project;	the	men	felt	pride	not	only	watching	the	vegetables	grow	but	helping	newcomers	to	integrate	and	buy-in	to	the	“whole	garden	thing.”	As	these	two	men	explain:				 “You	can	see	it.	The	guys	have	no	idea	what	they’re	doing	at	the	beginning	of	the	year,	right,	and	that	stuff	comes	up,	those	plants,	and	you	can	see	it,	when	they	actually	get	it.	That’s	good	stuff.	You	can	go	out	and	take	that	on	the	street,	get	your	own	garden,	because	now	you	know	what	it	takes.”		“So	it’s	teamwork,	working	with	people,	being	able	to	take	my	experiences	and	my	skills	and	that	and	help	other	people	and	show	them,	you	know,	here’s	an	easier	way,	or	here’s	how	I’d	do	it.	So	they	can	benefit	from	what	I’ve	learnt	over	the	years.	Especially	for	the	younger	kids	and	that,	who	know	it	all	[laughing].	And	it	makes	it	so	much	easier	when	you’re	doing	something	like	that	and	helping	somebody	else.”		The	men	I	spoke	with	believed	that	having	new	men	able	and	willing	to	work	the	whole	yearly	cycle,	from	empty	and	wet	soil	to	full	bloom,	is	one	way	to	increase	recruitment	and	investment	in	the	garden.	Instilling	these	values	in	the	new	recruits	was	important	not	only	for	a	stable	and	enjoyable	work	environment	over	time,	but	to	ensure	that	productivity	remains	high.			 	 	 	 	 	 		45		 “We’ve	got	Hubbard	squash	over	there,	and	we’ve	got	half	a	bed	over	there,	but	some	of	the	guys	are	lazy,	they	go	‘whatever,’	and	they	go	and	plant	‘em.	They	don’t	care	[…]	If	this	was	all	one	squash,	and	we	picked	all	the	spaghetti	marrow,	then	that	bed’s	ready	to	be	cleaned	up	for	winter.	Rather	than	come	October,	when	the	big	rush	-	the	big	push	is	on,	to	get	that	done.	The	best	way	to	get	that	done	is	step	by	step.	But	when	you	got	guys	that	don’t	really	care,	and	they	only	show	up	when	they	want	to	show	up,	it	makes	it	difficult,	it’s	hard	sometimes.	Because	then	all	of	a	sudden	you	go	from	eight	guys	down	to	five	guys,	last	year	there	was	four	of	us	out	here.	And	we	all	knew	what	we	had	to	do,	and	we	all	pitched	in	and	worked	together,	because	we’d	all	worked	together	for	a	year,	year	and	a	half,	and	we	got	it	done.	But	sometimes	still	we	go	[sigh],	‘I	wish	we	coulda	got	that	done,	just	that	little	extra.’”		In	the	garden	the	men	work	to	help	themselves	and	the	other	men	in	the	institution;	creating	and	sustaining	a	space	where	men	can	develop	a	sense	of	responsibility	over	living	things,	perhaps	for	the	first	time,	caring	for	rows	of	seeds	and	tiny	plants;	where	men	can	learn	to	work	both	alone	and	together,	can	pass	time	quickly	and	peacefully,	and	can	mentor	each	other	to	sustain	a	garden	culture	that	provides	escape	and	protection	from	the	wider	institution.		5.1.3:	Giving	Back	For	the	men	working	in	the	garden,	the	impacts	of	watching	tiny	seeds	and	sproutlings	turn	into	tens	of	thousands	of	pounds	of	food	is	meaningful	because	of	the	pride	they	feel	watching	the	literal	fruits	and	vegetables	of	their	labour.	Additional	meaning	is	derived	from	the	men’s	understanding	that	the	produce	is	destined	for	donation	to	economically	vulnerable	and	marginalized	communities	within	the	Lower	Mainland	and	the	central	interior	of	BC.	It	is	this	giving	back	that	makes	the	men	so	passionate	about	high	production,	so	involved	in	the	small	tasks	necessary	to	ensure	large,	nutritious	crops:			 “Helping	these	kids	out	and	families	out,	who	can’t	afford	the	necessities	of	good	food	[…]	It	makes	you	feel	good,	that	accomplishment,	when	you	come	out	here	and	see	all	these	black	tarps	in	the	fall,	and	then	in	the	spring	you	start	peeling	them	back	and	piling	the	ground	up,	and	planting	the	various	crops.	And	for	a	long	time	it	doesn’t	look	like	it’s	growing	very	much,	and	then	all	of	a	sudden	you	come	out	here	after	a	weekend,	a	long	weekend	and	it’s	like	‘wow,	look	at	that	stuff!	It’s	way	up.’	It’s	jumped	so	high.	So	you	have	that	sense	of	fulfilment.”			 	 	 	 	 	 		46		“It’s	some	of	the	best	food	around,	because	there’s	no	pesticides	on	them.	But	it’s	all	those	little	things	that	come	together,	you	know?	One	of	the	big	things	is,	I’ll	go	around	to	garden	weeds	out,	and	I’ll	throw	them	out-	don’t	throw	them	in	the	compost	pile-	throw	them	in	the	bush	[…]	it	helps	the	soil	out,	and	you	get	a	better	crop	with	everything	you’re	putting	into	it.”					Image	8:	A	CSC	truck,	loaded	for	delivery	The	men	frequently	brought	up	that	they	were	growing	organic	vegetables,	a	distinction	important	in	and	of	itself	as	well	as	in	relation	to	where	the	vegetables	were	going;	while	the	increased	work	required	to	grow	organic	produce	could	have	been	a	point	of	contention,	the	end	destination	of	the	vegetables	created	increased	meaning.	Knowing	where	the	vegetables	were	going	also	meant	that	increasing	production	through	expansion	was	important	to	the	men:			 “Because	it’s	my,	my	joy,	you	know?	I	mean,	a	lot	of	people	say	‘well	it’s	a	lot	of	work,	isn’t	it?’	No,	it’s	not.	It’s	something	I	thoroughly	enjoy,	I	get	a	lot	of	benefits	out	of	it,	and	the	pleasure	of	being	able	to	go	somewhere	and	take	a	load	of	veg	and	see	the	reaction	on	people’s	face.	And	even	out	here	and	you’re	wandering	around,	you	go	‘geez,	I	could	plant	that,	I	could	open	up	that,	expand	this	area.’	This	area	here,	a	year	or	two	ago	was	bush	and	rock.”		While	the	work	of	planting,	tending	and	harvesting	food	for	economically	vulnerable	children	and	families	is	inherently	meaningful	to	the	men	who	have	worked	in	the	garden	long	enough	to	fully	appreciate	where	their	produce	is	going,	additional	meaning	is	derived	by	the	contrast	to	other	institutional	work	that	the	men	have	done.	Men	shared	experiences	of	working	in		 	 	 	 	 	 		47	lumberyards,	in	electrical	and	textiles	training	and	work	programs	through	CORCAN,	and	a	variety	of	other	jobs.	By	and	large	work	that	allowed	the	men	access	to	the	outdoors,	such	as	grounds	keeping,	were	considered	better	than	working	indoors.	The	monotony	of	many	available	jobs,	such	as	sewing	identical	clothing	items	over	and	over	again,	was	contrasted	with	the	diverse	tasks	available	in	the	garden,	and	the	ability	to	give	back	to	communities	was	seen	as	novel	when	contrasted	with	other	CSC	employment	opportunities:			 “I’m	not	running	around	cleaning	an	area	and	just	wasting	my	time	doing	nothing.	I’m	out	here	actually	doing	something	that	actually	helps	people,	so	that’s	the	only	thing	that	actually	makes	it	worthwhile.”			While	some	of	the	men	happily	share	vegetables	they	bring	home	from	the	garden	with	their	housemates	and	other	men	in	the	institution,	others	refuse	to;	“I’d	rather	feed	the	homeless	than	these	guys,	right?”	For	some	of	the	men	there	is	a	hierarchy	of	the	types	of	people	that	are	deserving	of	the	donated	food.			“Well	you	never	know	where	the	food’s	going	until	you	see	it,	I	mean	you	think	that	it’s	a	bunch	of	crack	heads	who	just	spend	all	their	money	on	dope.	But	you	envision	that	in	your	head,	and	then	you	go	out	there	and	see,	like	I	said,	one	woman	she	had	a	different	kid	every	year,	so	that	was	neat.	And	the	same	old	people	that	come	out	and	ask	‘what’s	that,	how	do	you	do,	what	do	you	do	with	that?	Is	it	tasty?	Can	you	cook	it?’	So	yeah,	that	makes	a	big	difference.”			This	idea	of	who	and	who	is	not	deserving	of	food	donations	was	echoed	by	a	few	of	men	in	their	understanding	of	which	men	in	the	garden	were	deserving	of	redemption	and	restoration	through	the	act	of	giving.	As	one	man,	Jackson	explained,	when	asked	whether	or	not	his	understanding	of	a	moral	hierarchy	in	prison	impacted	the	way	he	viewed	other	men’s	participation	in	the	garden:	“there’s	nothing	you	can	do	that’s	gonna	make	up	for	[sexual	assault].	That	happened	to	me	when	I	was	a	kid,	believe	me	there’s	nothing	you	can	do	that’s	gonna	make	up	for	that.”		The	meaning	of	working	in	the	garden	and	the	relationships	men	had	with	each	other	was	grounded	in	their	own	personal	context	and	histories.	Similarly,	the	meaning	of	providing	food	to	hungry	people	was	understood	by	each	man	within	the	context	of	their	own	childhoods	and	relationships	to	food	and	hunger.	Many	of	the	men	with	whom	I	spoke	grew	up	in	economically		 	 	 	 	 	 		48	vulnerable	households	where	they	had	experienced	hunger	and	food	insecurity.	This	understanding	of	the	impact	of	food	for	a	young	family	provided	an	opportunity	for	men	to	not	only	develop	a	sense	of	self	worth	and	accomplishment,	but	also	to	reflect	on	their	own	experiences	and	some	of	the	forces	that	impacted	their	life:			 “Everyone’s	worried	about	the	money	and	the	cost	[of	running	charitable	programs	like	the	garden].	Well,	what’s	it	cost	to	have	the	people	out	on	the	street,	that	need	food,	that	can’t	afford	to	feed	their	kids?	Down	the	road	it’s	gonna	be	hard	for	those	kids.	I	grew	up	without	food;	so	it	keeps	going,	keeps	going.	Unless	you	do	something	to	help	the	people	that	need	help	today,	it’s	just	going	to	be	an	endless	game	of	trying	to	make	things	better.	You’ve	gotta	give	people	hope	and	something	to	work	with.”		The	impacts	of	giving	back	went	far	beyond	simply	feeding	hungry	people.	The	educational,	mental	and	physical	health	and	crime	prevention	potential	of	providing	children	with	food	to	help	them	pay	attention	at	school	is	well	established	in	the	literature	(Cook	&	Jeng,	2015),	and	something	of	which	the	men	had	very	poignant	understandings	and	experiences.	For	some	of	the	men	the	connections	they	drew	between	their	food	insecure	childhoods,	their	crimes	and	their	incarcerations	provided	a	space	for	not	only	reflection,	but	the	ability	to	develop	responsibility	and	feel	hopeful	that	they	could	not	only	change	their	futures	but	perhaps	impact	the	chances	of	children	growing	up	in	similar	circumstances.	That	being	said,	the	impact	of	growing	vegetables	for	donation,	including	increases	in	self-esteem,	ideas	of	self	worth	and	positive	identities	were	not	restricted	to	the	men	who	could	personally	relate	to	the	experience	of	economic	vulnerability,	food	insecurity,	and	hunger.	For	a	couple	of	the	men	the	idea	that	children	went	hungry	in	Canada	was	appalling,	something	they	felt	accountable	for,	based	on	what	they	considered	privileged	childhoods.	For	all	the	men,	regardless	of	personal	context,	the	impact	of	their	giving	was	enhanced	by	their	ability	to	deliver	vegetables	to	local	organizations.	These	food	deliveries	were	pioneered	by	the	farmer,	who	took	the	men	on	a	rotating	basis	on	Escorted	Temporary	Absences	(ETAs)	to	donate	vegetables	to	food	banks	and	soup	kitchens	within	a	short	drive	of	the	institution.	Allowing	the	men	to	see	where	their	hard	work	ends	up,	meet	some	of	the	people	who	receive	the	produce,	and	create	and	maintain	connections	with	community	organizations	and	community	members	on	the	outside	is	one	of	the	prevalent	strengths	of	the	garden.	For	the	minority	of	men	who	had	no	personal	experience	of	food	insecurity	and	hunger,	being	able	to	go	into	food	banks	and	see	the	type	and	quality	of	food	available	to	community	members	instilled	further	responsibility	to	provide	fresh	and	nutritious	vegetables:			 	 	 	 	 	 		49		 “It’s	the	satisfaction	of	being	able	to	help	others,	and	know	that	they’re	eating	a	lot	better,	rather	than	the	Cheerio	box	and	stale	crackers,	or	food	that’s	old	and	should	have	been	composted.	I	go	to	some	of	these	food	banks	and	I	see	what	they	got	when	I	go	into	the	coolers	to	put	stuff	in,	or	a	lot	of	the	times	I’ll	put	stuff	out	front,	and	I’ll	see	what	other	outfits	have	dropped	there.	And	it’s	like,	man…	dump	that	crap	in	the	garbage.	They	had	zucchinis,	and	beans,	boxes	of	beans,	and	they	were	full	of	mold.	Because	companies,	they	get	a	tax	deduction	for	donating	food,	and	they	save	themselves	the	disposal	fees,	so	the	food	bank	is	ending	up	having	to	pay	for	that	cost.	If	they	were	to	take	that	money	and	buy	fresher	stuff,	it	would	be	a	lot	better.	That’s	one	of	the	things,	that’s	one	of	my	real	pet	peeves	about	those	stores	that	donate	stuff,	you	take	a	look	at	those	wholesalers	and	stuff	like	that,	it’s	stuff	that	should	have	gone	in	the	garbage.”			The	men	make	a	point	to	wash	root	vegetables	such	as	carrots	and	beets,	to	ensure	that	each	delivery	is	clean,	aesthetically	pleasing	and	something	they	can	feel	proud	of	providing	to	the	surrounding	communities.			For	many	of	the	men	there	is	a	general	distrust	towards	the	prison	administration,	so	the	ability	to	physically	walk	into	a	soup	kitchen	and	deliver	vegetables	provides	reassurance	that	the	vegetables	are	actually	being	donated,	that	they	are	not	being	tricked	into	working	under	the	guise	of	charitable	giving.	The	garden	also	produces	a	range	of	vegetables	that	are	not	necessarily	well	known	to	food	banks	recipients,	and	even	some	of	the	staff	and	volunteers.	Having	the	men	who	have	planted	the	seeds,	tended	the	seedlings	and	harvested	the	vegetables	deliver	the	produce	gives	them	the	opportunity	to	share	information	on	how	to	prepare	and	store	different	vegetables:		 “We’d	take	them	in	there	and	they’d	say	‘how	do	we	cook	this?	What	do	we	do	with	this?’	And	so	I’d	tell	them,	and	most	people	would	be	‘oh,	okay,’	and	they’d	realize,	‘yeah,	I	love	squash.’	We’d	usually	get	a	chance	to	discuss	what	we	do	with	each	vegetable	down	there	when	we’re	moving	boxes	back	and	forth,	so	yeah,	we’d	go	to	3	or	4	different	food	banks.	It	made	for	a	good	outing	when	you	see,	when	see	them	taking	the	vegetables-	most	people	don’t	get	to	see	that	in	prison,	most	people	don’t	get	to	see	the	end	of	their	labour,	so	that’s	nice.”		The	men’s	experiences	of	ETAs	cemented	the	importance	of	the	work	they	did	in	the	garden,	fostering	connections	with	community	members	and	creating	a	space	to	share	not	only		 	 	 	 	 	 		50	vegetables	but	knowledge.	During	my	field	work	I	went	on	a	number	of	deliveries	to	the	food	banks,	and	on	each	run	at	least	one	community	member	asked	for	more	information	about	one	of	the	vegetables:	what	is	this?	How	do	I	cook	it?	How	do	I	store	it?	Can	I	prepare	this	variety	like	I	do	others?	Without	the	men	there	to	share	recipes	and	storage	information	the	impact	of	the	vegetables	would	have	been	substantially	lessened.	Vegetables	can	and	should	be	more	than	mere	food,	they	are	connections	between	lands,	people	and	places,	they	are	vehicles	for	recipes	passed	down	through	families,	carried	across	continents	by	immigrants	and	refugees,	shared	amongst	friends	and	strangers.	The	men’s	ability	to	meet	some	of	the	recipients	created	a	space	for	the	vegetables	to	fulfill	their	potential,	to	be	more	than	carriers	of	vitamins,	but	mediums	for	human	connection,	for	the	recognizing	of	sameness	across	palates,	cultures,	and	prison	walls.			The	Tŝilhqot’in	connection		Given	the	distance	from	the	prison	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	(500	km),	the	community	connection	that	the	men	enjoy	with	local	organizations	in	the	Lower	Mainland	is	more	fragile	when	stretched	north	to	the	interior.	The	men	recognize	that	they	cannot	deliver	the	food	themselves,	the	distance	is	too	far	and	the	logistics	of	having	overnight	ETAs	too	complicated;	consequently	the	men	miss	out	on	that	connection,	in	terms	of	both	meeting	the	people	who	receive	a	portion	of	the	food	they	grow,	and	in	their	ability	to	share	information	about	less	familiar	vegetables	to	recipients	interested	but	perhaps	apprehensive	about	strange	new	plants.	Yet,	despite	the	general	disconnect	from	the	Tŝilhqot’in,	the	majority	of	the	men	had	an	awareness	of	the	barriers	that	many	Aboriginal	communities	face	across	Canada,	either	based	in	their	own	Aboriginal	identity	and	context	or	through	friendships	and	understandings	made	during	childhood	or	while	incarcerated	(particularly	in	the	Prairie	region	of	Canada,	where	prison	populations	are	predominantly	Aboriginal).	As	one	Aboriginal	man,	Patrick,	describes:			 “I	would	imagine	it’s	like	that	in	most	Aboriginal	communities.	It’s	more	fast	food	and	potato	chips	than	fruit	and	veggies.	It’s	introduced.	And	I	guess	it’s	dopamine	[…]	I	mean,	sugar,	right?	It	tastes	good.	But	I	mean	even	farming,	right?	I’m	sure	back	in	the	day	that’s	what	we	used	to	have.	I’m	not	talking	way	back,	I’m	talking	when	colonization	more	or	less	got	introduced	to	us,	with	chickens,	pigs,	cows,	stuff	like	that.	But	most	people	would	rather	go	to	the	super	market,	instead	of	harvesting.	I	believe	that	our	Elders,	when	they	share	stories	with	you,	of	how	they	grew	up,	they	had	to	go,	they	didn’t	have	a	choice	but	to	go	pick	berries	and	various	plants,	you		 	 	 	 	 	 		51	know,	medicines	and	all	that	kinda	stuff.	Now	they	basically	have	a	choice,	right?	I	believe	that	we	used	to…	you	knew	right	from	wrong,	right?	And	then	residential	school	and	all	that	kinda	stuff,	that	had	a	huge	impact,	huge	impact	on	Aboriginal	communities.	And	it’s	gonna	take	generations	for	that	to	go	away,	right?	But	the	way	I	look	at	life	now,	you	know	from	my	youth,	I	can	make	the	change.	I	can	be	the	change,	instead	of	trying	to	change	others,	or	whatever,	I	just	need	to	change	my	behaviour	and	my	way	of	thinking.”			Patrick	describes	not	only	his	connection	to	an	Aboriginal	community	he	has	never	visited	through	shared	experiences	and	histories	tied	into	the	ongoing	legacies	of	colonialism,	but	also	addresses	how	his	connection	to	that	past	drives	his	participation	in	the	garden,	as	well	as	other	Aboriginal	programs	available	at	the	prison.	When	asked	if	there	was	a	way	for	the	garden	to	strengthen	impacts	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in,	he	went	on	to	say:				 “I	would	think	it	would	be	hands	on,	right?	That’s	the	way	you’re	gonna	learn.	I	mean	you	can	read	books	and	stuff	like	that,	but	when	it’s	hands	on,	that	knowing.	Being	there	and	showing	them,	and	helping	them.	But	letting	them	get	their	hands	dirty	as	well,	right?	Working	alongside	with	you.”		The	men	all	recognized	that	the	freedom	and	autonomy	that	they	experience	while	gardening	in	prison	is	also	available,	although	slightly	differently,	to	Tŝilhqot’in	reserve	communities.	Every	man	I	talked	to,	whether	within	the	context	of	a	recorded	interview	or	chatting	while	harvesting	cabbages,	felt	that	the	only	way	for	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	to	benefit	fully	from	the	project	was	for	them	to	grow	their	own	food.	The	men	knew	500	km	was	too	far	for	them	to	deliver	vegetables	and	share	recipes	with	community	members.	They	also	had	an	awareness	of	the	geographic	isolation	of	central	interior	BC	and	the	barriers	to	fresh	food	and	vegetables	that	exist	in	rural	and	remote	communities,	particularly	those	without	active	farms	and	gardens.	Above	and	beyond	the	impacts	on	food	security,	the	empowerment	that	can	come	from	growing	your	own	food,	particularly	for	people	who	face	numerous	barriers	to	healthy	eating,	was	something	the	men	wanted	to	share	with	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation.	For	Aboriginal	men	the	impacts	of	growing	your	own	food	pushed	back	against	colonial	forces,	and	their	desire	to	share	the	benefits	of	gardening	connected	them	to	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	through	shared	resistance	against	the	correlates	of	colonialism,	be	it	hunger,	incarceration,	or	unemployment.	For	non-Aboriginal	men	their	experience	of	learning	alongside	the	farmer,	working	together	and	feeling	part	of	a	larger	team	was	simply,	yet	powerfully,	something	they	hoped	that	others	could	experience.				 	 	 	 	 	 		52	“I	think	if	someone	was	to	go	that	little	extra	mile	and	say,	‘hey,	we’ll	set	something	up,	do	some	gardening.’	Help	these	people	and	show	them	how	to	raise	veggies	themselves.	How	to	garden,	how	to	work	the	land,	and	then	take	that	knowledge	of	it	and	probably	help	another	group.	It’s	a	big	ripple.	How	many	can	benefit	from	this	down	the	road?”		There	is	inherent	value	in	helping	others,	in	terms	of	both	person	growth	and	widening	senses	of	self	worth	and	value,	and	the	tending	of	relationships	and	ongoing	harvests	of	human	connection	and	reciprocities.	One	man,	who	had	been	incarcerated	for	36	years,	said	he	would	gladly	go	up	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	after	his	release,	slated	for	early	2017;	he	told	me	“I	would	dive	in	there	in	a	heartbeat.”	This	interweaving	of	experiences	in	the	garden	and	future	possibilities	and	plans	was	a	common	theme.		5.1.4:	Imagining	a	Meaningful	Future	The	garden	enabled	the	men	to	imagine	alternate	identities	above	and	beyond	that	of	‘criminal’	or	‘inmate’,	and	to	plan	for	life	in	the	community	upon	release.	For	some	of	the	men	this	future	outside	of	prison	was	shaped	by	the	work	ethic	they	had	gained	working	in	the	garden.			 “I	don’t	mind	a	little	hard	work,	there	was	one	time	that	I	didn’t	really	care	for	stuff	like	that,	but	I	don’t	mind	being	in	a	minimum	institution	and	trying	to	get	used	to	working	and	stuff	like	that	upon	release,	‘cuz	they	expect	you	to	do	quite	a	bit	right	away,	so	it’s	good	to	get	that	routine.”		The	development	of	a	work	routine	was	something	new	and	significant	for	some	of	the	men.	While	the	core	workforce	tended	to	have	histories	of	consistent	employment	prior	to	their	incarceration,	men	without	experience	waking	up	for	work	five	days	a	week	found	the	routine	and	responsibility	helpful	for	building	the	intermediate	skills	required	for	work,	such	as	punctuality	and	respect	for	authority.	One	man,	Jeffrey,	who	had	a	consistent	work	history	prior	to	incarceration,	understood	recidivism	as	linked	to	people’s	ability	to	work,	not	the	correctional	programming	that	he	felt	was	forced	onto	men	regardless	of	their	needs:			 “If	you	actually	have	the	choice	of	actually	doing	something,	like	working	on	cars	or	working	here	or	anything,	you	might	be	able	to	get	a	job	on	the	street,	and	you	might	not	come	back	[…]	Sure,	they	can	sit	there	all	they	want	and	listen	to	someone	talk,	but	it’s	not	gonna	teach		 	 	 	 	 	 		53	them	to	work,	so	you’re	gonna	send	out	a	bunch	of	guys	who	don’t	know	how	to	work	and	they’re	gonna	be	right	back.”		Many	of	the	men	brought	with	them	negative	experiences	with	authority	figures,	often	accentuated	within	the	power	structures	and	hierarchies	between	prison	staff	and	people	in	custody.	The	farmer,	an	outsider	not	seen	as	part	of	CSC,	provided	leadership	and	authority	while	also	being	accessible	and	“just	one	of	the	guys.”	As	one	man	explained:			 “Yeah,	he’s	a	really	good	teacher.	And	I	mean	I’ve	seen	him	give	more	people	a	work	ethic	than	I	thought	it	possible	to	do.	He’s	a	really	good	teacher,	if	you	listen	to	him,	you	learn	a	lot,	right,	and	I	like	to	think	I	did,	I	learned	a	lot.	He’s	really	good	to	have	out	there,	I	don’t	think	I’d	be	going	back	there	if	it	weren’t	for	him,	if	it	was	someone	else	out	there	I	wouldn’t	go	back	there,	no.	He’s	quite	a	character.”		The	ETAs	also	provided	another	useful	skill	for	the	men;	the	opportunity	to	engage	with	people	in	the	community	and	develop	self-confidence	in	a	non-institutional	environment.	Some	of	the	men	who	had	been	incarcerated	for	long	periods	of	time	struggled	with	apprehension	and	fear	surrounding	life	on	the	outside,	as	two	of	the	man	explained:			 “I	know	guys	who	purposefully	get	close	to	the	gate	and	sabotage	it,	because	they	don’t	want	to	get	out,	it’s	that	fear	factor.	They’re	comfortable	here,	they’ve	got	everything	here.	It	depends	on	what	you	want	out	of	life	and	where	you	want	to	go	and	what	you	want	to	do.	What	I	want	to	do	is	get	out	of	there	and	expand	what	I’ve	learned	in	here,	the	way	of	gardening	and	helping	people,	volunteering.	I’m	really	looking	forward	to	it.”		“I’ve	gone	into	so	many	places	now,	the	food	banks,	and	they’re	all	happy	to	see	me,	sit	and	chit	chat,	and	it’s	like	‘hey,	when	you	get	out	are	we	still	going	to	see	you?’	All	the	food	banks	that	we	go	to	here	have	all	said	‘if	you	ever	want	a	job,’	or	if	I	want	to	volunteer.	And	that’s	what	you	need,	to	go	out	and	meet	people,	to	control	that	fear.”			The	garden	provides	a	means	for	men	to	build	confidence	by	simply	being	in	the	community	and	talking	with	people	at	food	banks	and	soup	kitchens.	This	confidence	is	increased	further	by	the	impacts	that	growing	food	to	give	back	to	communities	has	on	the	men’s	self	esteem	and	ideas	of	self-worth	and	identity.	For	the	core	men	who	really	bought	into	the	garden	idea	the	experience	was	often	transformation.	Many	of	the	men	wanted	to	continue	to	give	back,	take	what	they’ve		 	 	 	 	 	 		54	learned	and	spread	that	knowledge	and	spirit	of	giving	in	the	community,	as	one	man,	Stan,	told	me:	“when	I	get	out	this	time,	to	the	street,	I	wouldn’t	be	afraid	to	volunteer.”				Changing	Social	Perceptions		The	fear	that	many	lifers	feel	about	reintegrating	into	society	is	echoed	by	social	apprehension	and	fear	around	previously	convicted	and	incarcerated	individuals	re-entering	communities.	As	the	men	grow	and	donate	vegetables,	physically	enter	organizations,	unload	boxes	and	share	favourite	recipes,	perceptions	of	both	life	in	the	community	and	people	in	prison	are	renegotiated,	broken	down	and	built	up	again.	As	the	farmer	describes:		 “A	few	years	back	they	offered	us	to	stay	for	lunch	with	the	volunteers	[…]	I	remember	a	few	years	ago,	one	inmate-	you	know	we’d	done	it	for	several	weeks.	And	then	one	day	this	lady,	she	says	to	one	inmate	‘well	how	long	have	you	been	in	for?’	And	he	goes	‘18	years.’	Then	the	next	week	none	of	them	sat	with	us.	But	now	that	particular	inmate	still	goes	with	me,	and	if	he’s	not	along	they’ll	ask	‘where’s	that	other	guy?’”		The	men’s	ability	to	connect	with	some	of	the	recipient	communities	and	be	visible	in	their	giving	has	slowly	worked	to	change	the	way	that	some	community	members	think	about	people	who	are	or	have	been	in	prison.	This	is	important	because	for	men	to	continue	to	give	back,	or	even	simply	to	work	on	the	outside,	the	community	needs	to	give	them	an	opportunity	to	belong	and	be	welcomed.		5.1.5:	Challenges	&	Strengths	There	are	a	number	of	challenges	facing	the	garden,	including	issues	surrounding	the	workforce,	the	seasonal	nature	of	the	work,	shifting	political	climates	and	funding,	and	transportation	to	the	Tsilhqot’in,	as	well	as	a	number	of	strengths.	The	visibility	and	time	required	for	new	men	recruited	into	the	garden	to	‘get	it’	is	often	at	odds	with	the	majority	of	the	prison	population;	where	histories	of	under-	and	un-employment	are	widespread	and	“easier”	jobs	are	often	sought	after;	as	one	man	explained:	“other	people	that	don’t	work	here,	when	I	first	got	here	they	were	like	‘don’t	go	work	in	the	garden,	get	this	other	job	that’s	easier.’	They	don’t	want	to	come	to	jail	to	work.”	Other	prison	programs,	deemed	“easier,”	often	not	only	provide	a	higher	weekly	wage,	such	as	work	in	textiles,	but	also	provide	year-round	employment	to	the	men.	The	garden	largely		 	 	 	 	 	 		55	shuts	down	from	November	through	March	annually.	The	farmer	has	created	work	in	the	greenhouse	throughout	the	winter,	allowing	him	to	keep	a	few	men,	generally	four	or	five,	on	while	the	garden	is	closed.	This	allows	them	job	stability,	as	otherwise	they	would	have	to	either	find	another	job	within	the	institution	to	occupy	their	time,	or	sit	idle	until	the	spring.	This	impacts	the	sustainability	of	the	garden	and	the	natural	cycles	of	gardening	work,	as	one	man	who	stays	on	through	the	winter	explains:		 “So	we	stay	in	the	green	house,	just	cleaning	and	building,	keeping	busy.	And	then	we	start	planting	stuff	in	February	to	get	things	going,	but	that	could	turn,	they	could	say	‘oh	no	we’re	not	gonna	go	ahead	with	it,’	and	that	would	all	get	dumped,	and	that	would	be	the	end	of	the	projects.	So	it’s	one	of	the	uncertainties.	If	they	could	say	it’s	a	go	all	the	time,	let	us	run	this	project,	expand	it,	and	get	more	people.”		This	seasonal	nature	of	the	work,	paired	with	historically	unstable	funding	means	that	the	farmer	has	difficulties	having	enough	men	working	with	him	throughout	the	year.	Some	years	he	has	twenty	men	throughout	the	summer,	however	in	the	2016-17	season	there	were	only	six	core	workers,	supplemented	with	a	revolving	door	of	men	who	showed	up	infrequently	and	often	left	early.	There	is	more	land	to	clear,	always	more	to	be	done,	but	their	ability	to	expand	and	increase	production	is	restrained	by	what	is	now	a	small	workforce	and	a	shoestring	budget.	One	of	the	core	men	was	released	just	prior	to	the	seasonal	closure	of	the	farm,	another	was	transferred	to	another	institution	and	another	two	are	slated	for	parole	in	the	coming	months;	it	is	unclear	who	will	provide	the	core	workforce	required	to	run	the	garden	next	year.	It	is	not	only	the	visibility	and	pride	of	watching	plants	grow	that	impacts	the	men,	but	the	pride	they	see	in	the	other	men;	one	man	described	how	when	he	was	transferred	to	Mission	Minimum	he	was	initially	uninterested	in	taking	part	in	the	garden:		 “When	I	first	went	there	and	I	didn’t	even	want	to	go	there	because	at	the	time	I	had	a	sore	back	and	I	thought	‘I	can’t	be	fooling	around	up	there,’	but	they	said	‘well	there’s	some	little	stuff	up	there	that	you	could	work	on,	try	and	get	‘em	fixed,	but	there’s	not	too	many	tools.’	And	so	I	went	up	and	started	to	feel	better,	and	then	I	seen	how	hard	those	guys	were	working,	especially	[the	farmer],	he	worked	like	a	dog,	eh?	And	it	was	so	-	they	had	all	kinds	of	junk	there,	it	was	a	terrible	place	to	work,	and	not	enough	guys	helping,	so	I	says	‘you	gotta	give	me	something	to	do,	I	can	pull	weeds,	whatever,’	and	he	says	‘well	you	can	get	this	potato	patch	so	we	can	dig	it,’	so	that	started	it	off.	And	a	lot	of	it	was	him,	hey,	it	was	just	after	a	week	or	two	of	watching	I	said	this	guy’s	pretty		 	 	 	 	 	 		56	extraordinary,	he	works	hard	and	he	knows	how	to	make	stuff	grow.”		Many	of	the	men	talked	about	the	farmer	as	a	particular	inspiration;	for	those	that	had	steady	employment	histories	prior	to	their	incarceration	they	appreciated	his	hard	work	ethic.	For	those	who	had	historically	troubled	interactions	with	authority	figures,	often	made	worse	through	the	prison	staff/inmate	relationships	that	existed	across	the	incarceration	experience,	he	provided	a	positive	role	model	and	an	authority	figure	with	whom	they	could	begin	to	develop	positive	relationships	and	self	confidence.	The	wider	political	climate	also	impacted	the	sustainability	of	the	garden.	In	2009,	all	prison	farms	were	closed	by	the	then	Conservative	government,	consequently	the	funding	and	operations	of	the	prison’s	secret	‘garden’	have	remained	tenuous	and	the	government’s	general	Deficit	Reduction	Action	Plan	has	also	resulted	in	severe	budget	cuts.	In	summer	2016	the	newly	appointed	Liberal	federal	government	announced	they	were	considering	re-opening	the	closed	farms,	which	included	cows	and	dairy,	chickens	and	vegetables,	and	the	men	remain	hopeful	that	visibility	of	the	garden	will	increase,	subsequently	ensuring	sustainability.			5.2:	Impacts	on	Tŝilhqot’in	Communities		In	Tl’esqox	I	interviewed	10	Tŝilhqot’in	people,	3	men	and	7	women.	The	average	age	of	the	people	I	interviewed	was	55,	ranging	from	29	to	79	years	old.	The	layered	impacts	on	the	men	are	echoed	in	the	communities,	though	the	echo	is	truncated	over	the	500	km	separating	the	prison	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	territories;	while	the	gardens	impacts	the	men	in	ways	rooted	within	their	personal	contexts,	the	impacts	on	communities,	though	formed	within	the	historic	and	colonial	contexts	that	continues	to	shape	food	(in)securities	for	Indigenous	peoples,	fails	to	address	this	context	and	consequently	impedes	the	program’s	ability	to	reach	it’s	full	potential.		As	highlighted	in	Figure	2,	by	passively	aligning	with	historic	and	ongoing	contexts	that	impede	food	sovereignty,	the	possible	impacts	on	community	members	in	Tl’esqox	are	curtailed	to	only	two	layers:	access	to	food	and	connection	with	the	men	in	prison.	Yet	despite	the	need	for	active	opposition	to	culinary	imperialism	in	the	distribution	of	the	prison	vegetables,	the	Tŝilhqot’in	values	of	teaching,	learning	and	freedom	intersect	with	the	garden	impacts	and	create	ample	opportunity	for	increased	benefit	based	in	community	strengths.				 	 	 	 	 	 		57		Figure	2:	Distribution	inadequately	confronts	colonial	context,	truncating	impacts		5.2.1:	Access	to	Food	The	first	layer	of	impact	for	the	Tŝilhqot’in	individuals	who	received	the	produce	was	a	slight	increase	in	access	to	fresh	vegetables.	Produce	was	delivered	six	times	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	throughout	the	summer	and	fall	of	2016;	Brian	Lang,	the	now	retired	warden	who	started	the	garden,	filled	his	own	truck	with	vegetables	and	delivered	them	to	Williams	Lake	for	distribution	by	Punky	Lake	Wilderness	Camp	Society	throughout	the	communities.	One	load	of	vegetables	tended	to	be	delivered	to	one	community,	with	some	of	the	more	remote	communities	receiving	nothing	due	to	the	increased	distance.	Other	communities	only	received	one	or	two	deliveries	throughout	the	season;	Tl’esqox,	the	community	in	which	I	focused	my	time	in,	received	one	delivery	in	early	June	2016.	While	the	vegetables	were	appreciated	by	the	individuals	who	received	them,	distribution	was	not	systematic;	often	vegetables	were	dropped	off	in	the	band	office	parking	lot	and	people	who	happened	to	be	there	that	day	were	able	to	take	some	home.	Of	the	community	members	with	whom	I	spoke,	two	noted	that	without	the	vegetables	they	received	from	the	garden	they	would	not	have	had	any	fresh	produce	that	week,	if	not	month.	Tl’esqox	is	roughly	an	hour	drive	from	Williams	Lake,	where	the	nearest	grocery	store	is,	and	that	distance,	the	price	of	gas	and	the	rising	cost	of	groceries	made	fresh	vegetables	increasingly	less	accessible	to	many	community	members.	One	woman	explained	that	due	to	rising	grocery	costs	“we	can’t	even	buy	lettuce	anymore.”	For	other	community	members	vegetables	were	still	affordable,	but	the	distance	to	town	makes	not	only	the	buying	but	storing	of	fresh	produce	difficult:		 	 	 	 	 	 		58		 “Yeah,	I	wouldn’t	have	had	any	vegetables	[without	the	prison	vegetable	delivery],	just	mostly	carrots.	So	we	live	out	of	town,	so…	I	want	to	buy	cucumber	but	they	go	soft	really	fast	[…]	Because	it	goes	fast,	you	know	some	of	those	vegetables,	they	can’t	go	for	months	at	a	time,	hey?”				Image	9:	Vegetable	distribution	to	one	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities		I	was	asked	on	numerous	occasions	how	to	store	some	of	the	prison	vegetables,	for	while	receiving	a	large	bag	of	fresh	produce	was	appreciated,	without	accompanying	storage	information	vegetables	may	wilt	or	discolour	prior	to	use;	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	to	saw	the	prison	vegetables	as	an	opportunity	to	learn,	to	integrate	new	plants	and	new	information	regarding	the	cooking	and	eating	of	vegetables	into	their	diets.	For	the	majority	of	community	members	I	spoke	with	the	small	once	a	year	influx	of	vegetables	from	the	prison	simply	saved	them	a	trip	into	town.	A	few	community	members	noted	that	they	went	into	town	anyways,	and	continued	to	access	farmer’s	markets	in	town	despite	receiving	donated	produce;	this	highlights	a	lack	of	targeted	distribution,	with	food	secure	individuals	receiving	the	same	produce	that	other	families	may	need	more.	During	the	distribution	of	vegetables	that	I	took	part	in	community	members	were	unsure	where	the	produce	came	from,	and	were	often	uncertain	who	the	vegetables	were	intended	for;	boxes	of	vegetables	left	largely	unattended	in	hot	parking	lots	were	approached	tentatively	by	families	who	would	politely	ask	if	they	could	take	some,	or	if	they	should	wait	to	be	handed	their	share.				 	 	 	 	 	 		59	5.2.2:	Connections	With	Men	in	Prison		The	majority	of	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	with,	both	within	Tl’esqox	and	in	other	communities	I	visited	during	my	time	in	the	territory,	were	unaware	of	where	the	vegetables	came	from.	In	Tl’esqox	there	are	other	food	security	initiatives,	such	as	the	Good	Food	Boxes,	wherein	the	Band	purchases	bulk	fruits	and	vegetables	that	are	then	distributed	to	families	with	young	children	and	people	living	with	diabetes;	the	lack	of	distinction	between	these	programs	results	in	a	general	awareness	of	“veggie	programs”	without	clear	understanding	of		which	programs	specific	vegetables	are	from.	Other	community	members	associated	the	vegetables	with	Punky	Lake	Wilderness	Camp	Society,	the	distribution	partner	who	did	not	make	the	connection	with	the	incarcerated	men	explicit	during	vegetable	distribution,	and	consequently	may	have	lessened	the	impact	of	human	connection	between	those	in	federal	custody	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people.	The	importance	of	knowing	who	grew	the	food	is	highlighted	in	the	ways	that	people	who	did	know	about	the	men	and	prison	garden	spoke	of	them;	often	responding	that	“it	doesn’t	matter”	when	asked	whether	the	source	of	the	produce	added	meaning:		 “It	don’t	matter.	We’re	all	people.	We	all	grow	what	we	want,	and	they’re	doing	the	same	thing.	They’re	in	prison	doing	that,	it	doesn’t	bother	me.	As	long	as	it	comes	out	of	the	ground	it’s	good	for	me.	It’s	healthy.”			Within	the	responses	of	“it	doesn’t	matter,”	or	“it	doesn’t	bother	me,”	is	a	wider	understanding	of	the	forces	and	structures	that	can	result	in	incarceration.	Community	members	did	not	say	“it	doesn’t	matter”	because	they	did	not	care,	but	because	they	assumed	that	I	was	expecting	a	negative	response.	All	but	one	Tŝilhqot’in	community	member	knew	at	least	one	person	who	either	was	or	had	experienced	incarceration,	and	two	of	the	community	members	I	spoke	with	had	been	incarcerated	at	some	point	in	their	past.	For	many	Tŝilhqot’in	people	learning	that	gardening	was	available	in	prison	was	important,	as	they	knew	people	experiencing	incarceration	and	felt	hopeful	that	similar	positive	programs	were	available	for	their	friends	and	family	behind	bars.	As	one	man	explained:		 “They’re	doing	the	work	and	they’re	donating	to	people	that	probably	need	it.	I	know	inmates,	and	they’re	pretty	good	people	when	you	talk	to	them.	They	just	need	someone	to	talk	to	them,	I	guess.	I	don’t	know	if	they	have	people	to	care	for	them,	out	there	in	the	real	world.	They’re	just	humans	themselves,	anyways.	And	people	when	they	go	to	jail,	I	guess	they	go	to	jail	for	a	reason.	And	when	they	get	there	they	probably	don’t	feel	right,	but	after	awhile	they	get	into	programs	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		60	stuff	like	that,	gardening	or	whatever,	they’re	there	to	learn	too,	hey.	Just	like	everybody	else.”		Historical	and	ongoing	colonialism	and	the	structural	violence	intertwined	with	economic	vulnerability,	barriers	to	education,	and	disproportionate	incarceration	were	profoundly	understood,	felt,	and	lived	by	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	had	the	opportunity	to	speak	with.	For	them,	incarceration	was	one	possible	outcome	amongst	an	array	of	others,	all	moderated	by	forces	that	worked	to	continually	dispossess,	marginalize	and	disenfranchise	Tŝilhqot’in	communities;	community	members	embodied	their	own	humanity	and	strength,	and	therefore	it	was	not	difficult	for	them	to	understand	the	humanity,	strength,	and	potential	of	these	men,	strangers	experiencing	incarceration.	Throughout	my	time	in	Tl’esqox	the	themes	of	learning	and	teaching	intersected	across	conversations;	there	is	always	something	you	can	teach	and	share,	and	there	is	always	something	you	can	learn,	from	different	and	diverse	people,	from	small	plants,	from	majestic	animals.	This	valuing	of	learning	and	teaching	resonated	in	the	ways	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	with	understood	the	men	in	prison;	the	act	of	growing	food	in	prison	was	not	one	of	charity,	but	an	opportunity	to	learn,	to	heal,	to	grow	not	only	green	things	but	generosity	and	gentleness.		 “It’s	good	too	that	they	are	in	prison	and	into	learning,	and	making	themselves	better,	and	their	health	and	their	health	situation.	Living,	and	learning	on	top	of	that.”			“Well	I	thank	them	for	their	kindness,	for	doing	all	that	work.	I	know	it’s	not	an	easy	work,	especially	if	you	have	arthritis	or	whatever	ailments	they	have,	or	whatever	they	have	emotionally,	missing	their	family.	I	know	it’s	hard	on	a	person.	So	you	can	thank	them	for	me	when	you	go	there.	Say	that	[Tl’esqox]	Elders	really	appreciate	it,	well	I’m	one	of	them,	I	appreciate	the	veggies	that	they	gave	to	us.	You	know,	it	comes	from,	probably,	in	a	good	place,	and	we	appreciate	all	that.”		 “They	say	[gardening	is]	a	real	healing	thing.	I	mean	anybody	that’s	doing	anything,	whether	it’s	gardening	or	anything,	working	or	fishing,	it	takes	the	mind	of	you.	You’re	doing	something,	and	it	makes	you	feel	good	inside,	I	would	believe.	I	think	it’s	probably	helping	them	heal	in	the	prison,	so	I’m	glad	that	they’re	doing	it.”		The	impacts	on	the	men	were	layered	and	often	transformational,	for	the	communities	the	impacts	were	more	limited	as	the	donation	of	vegetables	passively	coalesced,	as	opposed	to	actively	challenging	historical	and	colonial	contexts	and	recognizing	community	strengths.		 	 	 	 	 	 		61	Community	members	who	knew	where	the	vegetables	were	coming	from	saw	the	acceptance	of	vegetables	not	as	a	charitable	gift;	rather,	they	saw	their	acceptance	as	actively	taking	part	in	men’s	healing	and	learning.		Unfortunately	these	impacts	were	limited	due	to	a	lack	of	information	regarding	the	garden	and	the	men	working	there.	This	investment	in	the	men,	acceptance	of	a	person’s	past	and	support	of	an	alternate	future	is	echoed	in	the	way	one	man,	Jonas,	described	his	own	relationships	within	his	community:		 “They	respect	people	for	how	they	live.	Yeah,	myself	I	kinda	lived	a	hard	life	when	I	was	young.	Grew	up	in	alcohol	and	stuff	like	that.	You	go	through	a	lot	of	pain	after	you	get	out	of	residential	school.	You	kinda	work	on	yourself	after	awhile,	and	after	you’re	finished	drinking	and	stuff.	You	go	through	your	healing,	your	problems,	and	you	try	to	do	good	for	yourself	and	for	other	people.	And	you	kinda	learn	on	your	own	and	work	on	yourself.	And	people	realize	that	after	awhile,	they	see	you	going	through	stuff	like	this.”		The	community	members	I	spoke	with	all	understood	the	impact	of	gardening	on	the	men	through	their	own	understanding	of	and	respect	for	healing,	a	journey	towards	holistic	wellbeing	that	was	often	understood	as	coming	from	being	on	the	land.	Based	in	thousands	of	years	of	ancestral	relationships	with	their	territory,	Tŝilhqot’in	people	understood	the	freedom	and	autonomy	that	the	men	experienced	in	the	garden	as	freedom	to	work	with	the	land,	to	be	outside,	and	to	feel	productive	and	responsible	alongside	the	land.			 “They’re	doing	a	good	job.	And	they’re	probably…	living	in	the	prison,	it’s	not	like	living	out	in	the	country	or	anything.	You	have	to	obey	by	their	rules,	and	you	can’t	go	out	too	much,	and	you’re	always	inside,	it’s	rough	like	that.”			 “Once	you’re	connected	to	your	land	and	your	territory,	you	kinda	feel	better	about	your	lives	and	how	you	lived.	Because	your	ancestors	lived	on	this	land	before,	hey,	so	that	tells	a	lot	of	the	history	about	our	land,	how	we	live	off	our	land,	and	are	connected	to	our	land.	The	land	is	really	valuable	to	different	people,	it’s	been	in	their	heart,	I	guess	that’s	where	it	is.”		“Yeah,	I	don’t	think	I’ll	move	away	from	here.	It’s	my	home.	Just	go	out	and	you’re	surviving	yourself,	go	out	and	do	what	you	have	to	do,	what	you	need.	There’s	lots	of	things	to	do	out	here,	if	you	put	your	mind	to	it,	you’re	never	short	of	stuff	to	do.	Our	ancestors	used	to	roam,	roam	all	around	this	country.	They	never	used	to	drive	cars	or	ride	horses,	a	lot	of	walking,	eh?	And	making	tools	and	all	that	kinda	stuff,	make	their	own	tools	so	they	can	go	hunting	and	hunt	for	meat		 	 	 	 	 	 		62	or	whatever.	And,	I	think	our	Nation	is	kinda,	really	trying	to	move	forward,	and	learn	from	our	ancestors,	and	our	grandparents.”		The	vegetables	from	the	garden	provide	another	story	in	a	long	narrative	of	people	getting	what	they	need	from	the	land:	food,	human	connection,	healing.	The	men	growing	the	few	vegetables	community	members	took	home	with	them	provided	another	example	of	the	hope	that	can	be	found	digging	in	soil,	and	for	some	community	members	provided	inspiration,	combined	with	memories	of	grandmothers’	tomato	plants	and	stories	of	ancestral	gardens,	planted	to	offset	the	impacts	of	reserve	settlements	and	fishing	and	game	regulations.		 “I	thought	‘wow,	these	guys	are	in	jail,	and	they’re	gardening.’	And	then	there’s	me,	I’m	just	learning	this	this	year,	and	next	year	I’m	gonna	garden	at	home,	but	then	there’s	these	guys,	who	are	already,	like	look	at	all	the	stuff	they	grew!	And	I’m	like	‘what	is	this?’	I	don’t	even	know,	I’m	still	learning.”			The	community	members	based	their	understanding	of	gardening	in	thousands	of	years	of	ancestral	relationships	with	a	nurturing	land	and	the	lessons	learnt	from	plants	and	Elders,	passed	down	across	generations;	the	prison	garden	provides	an	opportunity	that	the	people	of	Tl’esqox	easily	recognized,	to	continue	learning	from	the	land	and	each	other,	this	time	passing	lessons	across	prison	walls.	The	vegetables	represented	a	connection	to	the	men	in	prison,	a	connection	based	in	an	understanding	of	the	importance	of	the	land	and	the	freedom	to	move	within	and	across	it;	freedoms	constrained	by	colonialism,	imagined	borders,	and	prison	walls.			5.2.3:	Community	Contexts	Tŝilhqot’in	contemporary	foodways	are	inherently	relational,	as	“food	arises	from	partnership”	(Kimmerer,	2013,	p.	126).	As	one	Tŝilhqot’in	man,	Phil,	explained	to	me,	hunting	wild	game	is	about	a	relationship,	animals	“give	themselves	up	to	you;”	this	creates	a	relationship	based	in	reciprocity	that	goes	beyond	simply	giving	and	taking	to	include	responsibility.	The	bio-cultural	heritages	of	Indigenous	peoples	includes	concepts	of	“honourable	harvest”	to	only	take	what	you	need,	to	never	take	too	much;	beyond	mere	sustainability,	beyond	simply	taking	in	a	way	that	ensures	more	taking	(Kimmerer,	2013).	Indigenous	foodways	and	food	meanings	include	taking	from	the	land	in	ways	that	benefit	the	land;	be	that	the	harvest	of	sweatgrass	in	such	a	way	that	“pickers	open	some	space,	let	the	light	come	in,	and	with	a	gentle	tug	bestir	the	dormant	buds	that	make	new	grass”	(Kimmerer,	2013,	p.	165),	or	an	active	engagement,	an	explicit	“yes,	thank		 	 	 	 	 	 		63	you,”	to	the	salmon	upon	which	your	ancient	ties	to	the	land	are	based.	Cliff,	a	Tŝilhqot’in	man,	describes	the	relationship	his	people	have	with	the	fish	in	their	territories,	and	the	tension	between	respecting	that	relationship	through	honourable	harvesting	and	the	regulations	and	closures	imposed	by	the	Department	of	Fisheries	and	Oceans:			 “That’s	our	traditional	rights,	and	I	would	have	never	gave	that	up.	So,	we	still	exercise	that	right.	And	that’s	one	of	the	rights	that	I’m	probably	going	to	exercise	over	the	weekend,	just	go	down	there,	and	just	let	them	know	we’re	still	around.	Because	every	time	there’s	lots	of	fish	in	there,	they’ll	always	say	there’s	not	enough,	and	then	after	it’s	gone	they’ll	say	‘oh,	maybe	we	should	have	left	more.’	But	if	you	don’t	take	fish	from	the	river	and	use	it,	it’s	like	saying	‘no’	to	the	fish.	And	they	-if	you	keep	saying	‘no,’	all	of	our	people,	well	they’re	going	to	start	saying	‘well	why	aren’t	you	using	us?	How	come	you’re	not	there	anymore?’	Animals,	plants,	everything	has	a	spirit	in	it.	Same	as	people.”		This	respecting	of	non-human	spirits	is	linked	to	long-standing	meaningful	relationships	with	the	land,	relationships	strained	by	the	weight	of	colonialism,	in	need	of	healing	but	not	fractured	beyond	repair.	As	a	Tŝilhqot’in	Chief	explained	to	me,	“if	the	Tsilhqot’in	own	it	and	have	full	jurisdiction	over	our	lives,	and	full	control	back	of	all	our	territory	and	all	of	our	land,	I	think	[…]	then	we	will	get	a	lot	stronger,	people,	families.”	Freedom	is	inherent	in	true	sovereignty,	freedom	to	govern,	to	fish,	to	hunt,	and	to	live	on	the	land	in	the	ways	you	want	and	need,	without	being	impacted	by	the	jarring	impacts	of	drilling	and	the	empty	wastelands	of	mines.	For	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	with	whom	I	spoke	being	on	the	land	was	a	right,	a	responsibility,	and	a	means	to	continue	to	learn	and	engage	with	each	other;	all	aspects	that	they	connected,	at	least	when	speaking	with	me,	the	“gardening	lady,”	to	the	act	of	growing	your	own	food:		 “But	when	you	feel	connected	you	kinda	know	the	place,	eh?	And	you	know	where	to	grow	a	garden,	where	the	best	spots	are	[…]	When	you’re	in	residential	school	you	don’t	learn	to	much.	Cuz’	you’re	always	weary,	why	you’re	there.	And	you	don’t	really	learn	nothing	besides	just	going	to	school.	You	didn’t	know	what	gardening	was	all	about,	or	anything	like	that	[…]	And	food	just	comes	to	your	table	and	you	gotta	eat	it,	and	if	you	don’t	eat	it	you’ll	starve	I	guess.”		Food	without	the	freedom	of	choice,	without	the	relationship	inherent	in	learning,	from	other	people	and	from	the	plants	themselves,	is	violence.	Within	the	historic	kitchens	of	residential	schools	and	Indian	hospitals	and	the	carbohydrate-heavy	rations	of	the	Department	of	Indian		 	 	 	 	 	 		64	Affairs	the	relationship	between	Tŝilhqot’in	people	and	Tŝilhqot’in	food	has	been	wounded.	Even	as	communities	work	to	restore	these	splintered	relationships	with	animals,	plants	and	fish,	contemporary	forces	and	structures	threaten	the	very	sustainability	of	these	plant	foods	and	animals;	the	regulation	of	Indigenous	bodies	fishing	indigenous	waters,	the	disenfranchisement	of	moose	and	deer,	and	the	violent	extracting	of	resources	from	ancestral	lands:		 “We	have	family	down	south	there,	and	they’re	catching	fish	that	are	deformed	and	everything.	So	it’s	just,	you	start	thinking	do	I	even	want	to	keep	doing	this?	What’s	in	the	fish?	What’s	gonna	happen	if	we	eat	it?	And	you	know,	I	was	telling	my	daughter	‘I	hope	by	the	time	you	get	to	my	age	that	you	can	still	do	the	things	I	do,’	like	she	watches	me	clean	and	cut	[salmon],	and	she	wants	to	but	she’s	only	seven,	and	I’m	kinda	leery	to	give	her	a	knife.	But	I’m	hoping	that	by	the	time	she’s	my	age	that	she’ll	still	be	able	to	do	the	traditions	that	we	have,	like	the	drying	and	the	smoking.”				The	people	of	Tl’esqox	and	the	wider	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	are	actively	working	to	continue	their	foodways	and	pass	food	meanings	down	across	generations:	parents	are	teaching	children;	the	leader	of	the	Aboriginal	Head	Start	program	in	Tl’esqox	integrates	fish	canning,	gardening,	and	meat	preservation	into	activities	with	children	of	all	ages,	and;	Nation’s	gatherings	held	throughout	the	territories	in	the	summer	on	the	banks	of	rivers	center	on	the	sharing	of	fish	and	game	meat,	elders	tending	smokehouse	fires	and	young	people	gathered	around	helping	prepare	rice	and	bannock.	Yet	these	immense	community	strengths	must	stand	up	against	the	mounting	impacts	of	extraction-based	capitalism	and	climate	change.	Even	when	imagining	a	future	where	Tŝilhqot’in	people	create	their	own	economy	of	gentle	harvesting,	the	tailing	ponds,	oil	leaks	and	dammed	rivers	would	still	surround	them,	as	Matthew	explained:	“[tailing	ponds]	are	in	everybody’s	minds	I	guess,	but	if	you	[don’t	eat	fish]	you’d	starve.	I	don’t	know	the	long-term	effects	of	it,	it’s	pretty	much	in	all	the	food	chain	now.	You	get	diseases	from	everything.”	It	is	within	this	wider	context	that	the	donated	prison	vegetables	attempt	to	impact	food	security.	The	donated	vegetables,	although	beautifully	grown,	nutritious	and	organic,	attempt	to	address	a	Euro-centrically	defined	notion	of	food	security;	if	these	people	are	hungry	we	will	send	them	food.	But	it	is	indicative	that	when	talking	about	food	with	Tŝilhqot’in	people,	resource	extraction,	land	rights	and	title	always	came	up.	Tŝilhqot’in	sovereignty	over	land,	and	thus	foodways	and	meanings	are	larger	issues	that	cannot	be	addressed	by	any	amount	of	kale	and	cauliflower.	As	one	Tŝilhqot’in	chief	explained	to	me:				 	 	 	 	 	 		65	“I	think	food’s	a	big	issue	for	our	people	in	a	lot	of	ways,	you	know	whether	it’s	just	the	price	going	up	on	a	lot	of	food,	you	can	see	that	in	stores	now,	and	it	makes	it	that	much	more	important	to	grow	a	lot	ourselves.	I	think	a	long	time	ago	just	about	everybody	had	a	garden,	you	know,	because	back	then	if	you	didn’t	you’d	probably	starve	in	a	lot	of	ways,	you	know	there’s	probably	game	and	so	forth,	but	that’s	kinda	getting	harder	to	find,	especially	the	moose.	But	again	I	think	it’s	important	to	know	all	them,	the	four	leggeds,	the	salmon,	the	trout,	the	finned	ones,	I	think	it’s	important	for	our	youth	or	just	people	that	don’t	know.	Because	some	of	them,	maybe	they’ve	been	in	the	city	then	when	they	come	home,	some	of	them	are	in	the	foster	system	and	when	they	turn	a	certain	age	then	they	come	back	into	our	Nation;	so	a	lot	of	them	they	have	to	learn	how	to	be	Tŝilhqot’in,	how	to	live	that	life.	Food’s	a	big	of	part	of	that.	You	know	it	don’t	matter	where	you	live,	but	I	think	that’s	always	been	there	for	our	people;	especially	the	salmon,	that’s	why	our	people	fight	so	hard	to	keep	the	river	the	way	it	is”	(emphasis	added).				Image	10:	The	work	and	pride	involved	in	smoking	salmon	5.2.4:	Challenges		Within	these	wider	contexts	and	histories	the	donation	of	prison	vegetables	is	faced	with	a	number	of	challenges,	largely	caused	by	the	distance	between	the	prison	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in.	The	vegetables	that	were	brought	to	Tl’esqox	to	be	distributed	were	transported	in	the	open	back	of	a	truck,	resulting	in	heavy	wilting	and	wind	damage	to	the	more	fragile	vegetables	like	romaine	lettuce	and	bok	choy.	In	the	context	of	Tl’esqox,	vegetables	were	unloaded	in	front	of	the	band	office	on	a	hot	day	in	June,	and	people	who	happened	to	come	by	were	able	to	take	some	home.	Across	the	vegetable	distribution	process	there	were	numerous	communication	barriers;	the	community	members	I	spoke	with	were	excited	to	learn	more	about	new	vegetables,	ways	to	store	and	cook	them.	And	while	numerous	community	members	had	taken	it	upon	themselves	to	teach	and	learn	about	the	vegetables,	mental	health	counselors	doing	workshops	on	cooking	with	kale	and	community	youth	Googling	recipes	to	share	with	the	band	office,	no	individuals		 	 	 	 	 	 		66	involved	in	the	distribution	process	integrated	any	knowledge	sharing	into	the	process;	within	days	of	arriving	in	Tl’esqox	I	was	asked	how	to	store,	clean	and	cook	vegetables	and	I	can	only	assume	these	questions	preceded	me.	Finally,	there	was	no	feedback	loop	integrated	into	the	distribution	process;	since	2012	vegetables	have	been	donated	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation;	vegetables	were	dropped	off	in	parking	lots,	and	any	questions	or	feedback	the	community	might	have	had	were	never	actively	sought.	These	communication	barriers	impeded	community	interests	in	teaching	and	learning,	increasing	disconnection	with	the	donated	vegetables	and	the	men	in	prison	growing	and	harvesting	those	plants.		5.2.5:	Opportunities:	Strengthening	Tenuous	Connections		The	geographic	isolation	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	from	the	prison	interrupts	the	relationship	building	and	sustaining	that	creates	such	meaningful	human	connection	between	the	men	and	the	local	food	banks	and	soup	kitchen	staff	and	recipients.	The	approximately	500	km	between	the	garden	and	Tl’esqox	results	in	suboptimal	produce	quality,	and	the	delivery	of	unknown	vegetables	without	the	additional	sharing	of	knowledge	results	in	a	missed	opportunity	to	teach	and	learn	from	one	another.		Despite	the	long	distance	and	the	impacts	of	transportation	and	imperfect	communication	on	vegetable	quality	and	uptake	the	community	saw	many	ways	for	the	prison	garden	connection	to	be	improved.	Not	surprisingly,	these	suggestions	took	into	account	the	wider	community	and	colonial	context	and	focused	on	community	strengths	in	ways	neglected	by	the	prison	garden	distribution	model.	As	one	Tŝilhqot’in	woman	explained	to	me,	“we	didn’t	even	know,	like	with	squash	and	stuff,	we’re	still	in	the	learning	stage;”	this	comment	is	grounded	in	a	community	that	values	learning,	and	is	open	to	increasing	their	relationship	with	the	men,	both	parties	acting	as	both	teacher	and	student.	Within	this	idea	of	teaching	and	learning	lies	the	foundational	Tŝilhqot’in	value	of	reciprocity;	by	increasing	the	connection	and	thus	the	responsibility	felt	between	the	men	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	the	relationship,	and	consequently	the	impacts,	could	be	strengthened,	as	highlighted	in	Figure	3.	Grounding	the	distribution	of	vegetables	to	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	within	an	explicit	awareness	and	understanding	of	community	contexts	and	colonial	impacts	on	food	(in)securities		and	self-determination	would	allow	for	a	wider	recognition	of	community	strengths;	strengths	such	as	the	rich	capacity	for	forgiveness	of	past	crimes,	the	easy	recognition	of	humanity	in	prisons	often	framed	as	overflowing	with	depravity,	and	the	diverse	and	creative	means	that	the	people	I	spoke	with	imagined	ways	to	increase	connection,	reciprocity,	and	relationship.	Connecting	the	autonomy	experienced	by	the	men		 	 	 	 	 	 		67	against	the	backdrop	of	their	histories	and	contexts	to	the	autonomy	of	Indigenous	communities	fighting	back	against	ongoing	dispossession	and	marginalization	could	center	community	strengths	within	the	prison-community	relationship,	drawing	on	integral	values	of	teaching	and	learning	to	support	increased	food	security	and	food	sovereignty.				Figure	3:	The	potential	for	increased	benefit	through	strengthened	connections	and	recognized	contexts		The	community	members	and	leaders	with	whom	I	spoke	consistently	resisted	the	label	of	passive	recipient,	instead	offering	suggestions	on	how	to	increase	the	active	Tŝilhqot’in	role	and	community	ownership	of	the	project.	After	hearing	about	the	challenge	of	transportation	from	Mission	into	the	territory	one	Tŝilhqot’in	Chief	explained	the	possibilities	that	exist	for	increased	community	involvement	and	a	widening	recognition	of	Tŝilhqot’in	autonomy,	based	in	community	context	and	his	people’s	ongoing	resistance	against	colonial	governments:			 “I	mean	we	have	drivers,	we	have	whatever,	the	fuel-	we	have	gas	stations.	I	think	anything’s	possible	for	something	else	to	keep	going,	I’m	pretty	sure	we	can	make	something	happen.	Once	the	word	gets	out.	Right	now	we’re	doing	negotiating	with	the,	starting	the	negotiations	with	the	federal	government,	so	put	your	list	down	[laughing].”		The	wider	context	of	growing	food	unfurls	from	a	history	of	agriculture	practice	first	forced	by	colonial	agents	as	a	means	to	control	nomadic	peoples,	peoples	seen	as	hard	to	proselytize	and	even	harder	to	convert.	Later	these	practices	were	pragmatically	adopted	by	hungry	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		68	dispossessed	Indigenous	communities,	and	agriculture	was	seen	by	the	people	with	whom	I	spoke	as	a	practical	means	to	engage	with	another	source	of	food.	Garden	grown	vegetables	offer	relief	from	the	rising	cost	of	the	groceries	and	the	need	of	a	vehicle	and	fuel	to	drive	into	town.	Yet	the	impacts	of	colonialism	carved	into	the	land	that	make	the	need	for	alternate	food	sources	so	acute,	such	as	reducing	salmon	runs	and	disappearing	moose,	are	also	the	forces	that	make	gardening	less	than	a	sure	thing;	as	climate	change	increases	it’s	clutches	summers	begin	later	and	frost	comes	early.	The	time	I	spent	in	Tl’esqox	last	summer	was	one	of	strange	weather;	community	members	often	shaking	their	heads,	sharing	their	concerns	over	weather	patterns	that	they	used	to	know	so	well,	patterns	slowly	dissolving:			“Difficult,	yeah	[…]	you	can	lose	half	your	crop	mid-summer	too,	so	that	ain’t	good	neither.	Yeah,	[gardening	is]	getting	harder	and	harder	to	do	I	guess,	unless	you	understand	the	climate	change	and	everything	to,	eh?	So	indoor	would	probably	be	better.”		Everyone	I	talked	to	knew	someone	who	used	to	garden,	and	community	gardens	were	beginning	to	pop	up	across	the	six	communities;	significantly	shorter	growing	seasons	compared	with	the	southern	parts	of	the	province	meant	that	climate	change	was	felt	intensely.	A	number	of	people	I	spoke	with	believed	that	green	houses	and	other	indoor	growing	environments	would	provide	more	stable	and	sustainable	food	sources,	however	according	to	the	people	I	spoke	with	that	knowledge	was	not	strongly	held	within	the	community:			 “This	year	was	our	first	year	for	the	garden,	so	we’re	trial	and	error,	for	this	and	the	greenhouse.	So	next	year	we	know.	Or	even	if	the	guys	in	jails	could	even	do	a	list	of	tips	of	gardening,	like	their	tips	and	stuff,	to	help	other	people	do	their	own	gardens.	That	would	be	cool	too,	learning	from	their	experience,	they	could	just	tell	people	about	how	they	did	theirs.”		The	men’s	expertise	in	growing	vegetables	provides	an	opportunity	that	the	community	members	recognized;	while	donating	vegetables	provides	small	inputs	of	nutritious	food	into	the	community,	sharing	knowledge	and	experience	could	create	a	sustainable	supply	of	fresh	produce.	Another	man,	when	asked	how	the	impact	of	the	prison	garden	could	be	strengthened,	suggested	that	communities	learn	from	the	men	and	begin	widespread	gardening:			 “Yeah,	to	take	it	up	and	start	growing	themselves.	And	I	see	that	happening	at	the	school,	so	it’s	nice	to	see	that.	And	other	people		 	 	 	 	 	 		69	learning	to,	to	learn	themselves	and	to	grow	[…]	I	think	[the	men	in	prison]	gives	them	a	little	incentive	to	think	‘we	could	be	doing	this	ourselves’.”		Other	community	members	and	leaders	saw	the	men’s	incarceration	and	experience	in	the	garden	as	more	meaningful	than	the	vegetables	themselves.	The	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	with	understood	the	more	holistic	benefits	of	gardening,	ranging	from	productive	use	of	time	spent	in	the	sunshine	to	an	accountability	to	fragile	plants,	and	saw	a	potential	to	harness	those	benefits	for	their	own	communities.				 “Try	and	show	the	young	guys,	with	their	experience	from	the	guys	that	are	doing	more	time	than	what	they’re	doing.	And	they’re	already	in	trouble,	so	how	to	step	away	from	that	kinda	lifestyle	[…]	I	think	for	them,	like	you	know	how	they’re	doing	their	community	hours.	So	they’re	just	breaking	into	a	different	cycle,	and	we’re	trying	to	stop	it.	Maybe	if	we	had	the	guys	from	the	jails	do	a	little	video	on	‘hey,’	you	know,	‘I	hear	you’re	doing	this	and	that,	and	this	is	where	I	am,	and	this	is	where	I	started.’	Just	something	like	that.”		The	Old	School	in	Tl’esqox	offers	a	Farm	Project	where	community	members,	staff,	and	youth	serving	court	mandated	community	service	hours	work	together	on	economic	development	projects,	which	thus	far	includes	a	community-owned	and	operated	sawmill,	the	building	of	fishing	sheds	and	chicken	coops,	an	organic	community	garden	and	greenhouse	(in	its	first	year),	and	ongoing	plans	for	a	horse	riding	arena.	The	theme	of	teaching	and	learning	transcends	the	growing	of	vegetables	and	creates	a	space	for	community	members	to	envision	mentorship	and	connection	that	draws	on	the	men’s	personal	contexts	and	experiences.	The	community	members	I	spoke	with	effortlessly	recognized	the	shared	histories	and	interlinking	contexts	between	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	and	men	in	federal	custody,	whether	Indigenous	or	not;	people	understood	that	incarceration	is	a	symptom	of	larger	structures	and	violence,	that	crime	comes	from	somewhere,	and	that	culpability	often	stretches	across	time	and	intersects	local	communities,	government	agencies,	and	colonial	traditions.		The	community	saw	their	role	as	active	helpers	and	healers,	not	recipients.	The	Tŝilhqot’in	people	value	second	chances	and	forgiveness,	and	see	opportunities	to	teach	and	learn	where	others	may	see	none:		 “I	guess	in	some	ways	I	guess	people	are	just	scared	to	give	people	a	chance,	being	criminals	or	whatever,	or	just	in	trouble.	I	mean	it’s	just	the	wrong	choices	that	they	make.	I	mean	it	happens,	right?”			 	 	 	 	 	 		70	“Trying	to	get	something,	some	kinda	connection	with	them	and	the	younger	people	that’s	around	this	way	here,	I	think	within	the	community	[…]	I	mean,	anything	you	can	pass	on	and	share	is	always	a	good	thing.	If	they’re	willing	to	come	and	learn	that’s	fine.	To	teach	on	and	pass	on,	whatever,	and	to	be	around	people	that	are	willing	to	help	them.”		When	asked	how	to	strengthen	and	sustain	the	prison	garden	project,	in	the	face	of	federal	budget	cuts	and	transportation	barriers,	community	members	always	focused	on	the	strengthening	of	relationships	and	the	reciprocities	of	learning	and	teaching.	One	man	explained	how	he	wished	“they	had	a	different	kind	of	relationship	with	[the	men],	to	be	able	to	[…]	give	something,	to	[help	them]	be	proud	of	what	they’re	doing.”	Community	members	talked	about	wanting	to	send	smoked	fish	and	dried	moose	meat	as	gifts	of	appreciation	and	a	token	of	their	ongoing	relationship,	increasing	the	accountability	between	the	two	groups	and	providing	concrete	ways	to	engender	humanizing	respect	and	healing.		Cooking	Workshops	&	Lessons	Learned		The	cooking	workshop	I	conducted	in	partnership	with	Megan	Dark,	the	nutritionist	and	dietician	from	the	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government	(TNG)	was	an	attempt	to	provide	some	of	the	knowledge	that	could	deepen	the	significance	and	meaning	of	the	annual	donation	of	one	or	two	truck	bed’s	worth	of	vegetables.			Image	11:	Cooking	workshop	participants	in	Tl'esqox			 	 	 	 	 	 		71	The	cooking	workshop	began	with	a	roundtable	discussion,	where	different	vegetables	were	passed	around	and	community	members	were	given	a	chance	to	share	their	knowledge	about	specific	plants,	their	uses,	how	to	grow,	harvest,	clean,	store	and	prepare	them,	and	their	nutritional	value.	Some	vegetables,	such	as	varietals	of	squash,	were	cut	or	peeled	open	so	participants	could	see	the	inside,	peeling	apart	papery	garlic	as	we	discussed	how	one	clove	can	grow	a	whole	head	and	scooping	squash	seeds	from	stringy	flesh	to	roast	and	eat	as	a	pre-lunch	snack.	Vegetable	information	sheets	were	provided	to	participants	(see:	Appendix	I),	and	have	been	handed	out	along	with	subsequent	vegetable	deliveries	to	the	other	reserve	communities.	Recipe	booklets	of	the	dishes	made	with	the	group	were	also	available	for	all	participants	to	take	home	with	them	(see:	Appendix	II).	Using	the	conference	room	and	band	office	kitchen	participants	divided	into	groups,	while	Megan,	a	mental	health	counselor,	Ellen,	and	myself	provided	guidance	and	support.	Information	regarding	the	washing,	storing,	cutting	and	cooking	of	vegetables	was	shared,	along	with	nutritional	information	and	ways	that	particular	vegetables	could	be	cooked	or	prepared	to	increase	nutritional	value	and	bioavailability,	for	instance	the	non-water	soluability	of	vitamin	K	in	squash	and	other	orange	vegetables	and	the	importance	of	cooking	or	marinating	kale	to	increase	nutritional	quality.	Together	we	prepared	a	vegetarian	meal,	focused	on	the	beets,	squash,	kale	and	other	vegetables	I	had	brought	up	from	the	prison.	We	made	spaghetti	squash	‘pasta’	with	homemade	marinara	sauce,	bok	choy	and	apple	coleslaw,	red	beet	borscht,	baked	oat	bannock	and	a	Three	Sister’s	stew	highlighting	the	reciprocal	growth	and	flavour	of	squash,	beans	and	corn.				Image	12:	Cooking	borscht	with	workshop	participants	in	Tl’esqox			 	 	 	 	 	 		72	In	conversations	held	over	plates	of	steaming	food	and	in	subsequent	semi-structured	interviews	I	found	that	the	participating	women	(only	women	showed	up	for	the	workshop,	though	it	was	open	to	everybody),	enjoyed	making	the	meals	and	were	interested	in	learning	more	about	the	vegetables.	Borscht	in	its	deep	pinkness	raised	some	eyebrows,	and	baked	squash	seeds	as	a	snack	were	a	polarizing	treat,	but	by	and	large	the	dishes	were	a	success,	and	the	women	were	excited	for	the	next	shipment	of	vegetables	so	they	could	share	these	new	dishes	with	their	families.	Everyone	was	sent	home	with	leftover	vegetables,	prepared	dishes	and	a	single	garlic	clove,	ready	to	be	planted	in	the	fall.	We	talked	about	gardening,	about	our	favourite	dishes	and	our	heritages;	my	grandmother’s	polish	borscht	recipe	went	home	with	everyone	and	Elders	asked	that	I	pass	on	their	kind	words	to	her.	The	possibility	of	planting	a	community	garden,	using	seeds	from	the	prison	and	planning	cooking	workshops	along	the	arc	of	a	growing	season	was	discussed	as	women	marveled	at	the	pasta-like	texture	of	spaghetti	squash	and	the	magic	that	corn,	beans	and	squash	can	create	when	tended	from	garden	to	soup	pot.			In	conducting	qualitative	interviews	and	participant	observation	in	the	community	in	the	weeks	following	the	cooking	workshop	several	lessons	were	learned.	Community	politics	between	specific	families,	mainly	those	employed	at	the	band	office	and	those	not,	may	have	impacted	attendance,	and	using	a	more	neutral	space	could	increase	turnout	in	the	future.	Many	of	the	programs	offered	by	the	band	office	are	attended	by	employees	of	the	band	office	and	their	family	members,	therefore	finding	a	space	where	the	entire	community	feels	welcome	may	make	the	workshops	more	accessible	and	acceptable	to	the	wider	section	of	the	community.	A	few	of	the	band	office	employees	recommended	integrating	crafts	into	the	workshop,	providing	people	with	something	tangible	above	and	beyond	a	meal	that	they	could	take	home	or	gift	to	friends	and	family.	Many	of	the	women	lamented	the	meat	and	potatoes	inclinations	of	their	husbands,	and	a	two	men	who	worked	at	the	band	office	drew	gales	of	laughter	after	peeking	into	the	kitchen	to	see	what	was	cooking	and	leaving	in	mock	horror:	“are	you	trying	to	kill	me	with	all	this	healthy	cooking?!”	Consequently	ways	to	engage	men	in	future	workshops	should	be	explored.		The	women	who	participated	in	the	workshop	were	eager	to	ask	when	subsequent	cooking	workshops	would	be	held,	and	Megan,	who	lives	in	the	area,	went	on	to	provide	workshops	aligned	with	subsequent	vegetable	deliveries	in	surrounding	areas.	Transportation	continues	to	be	an	issue	as	there	is	no	set	delivery	schedule,	consequently	subsequent	workshops	have	often		 	 	 	 	 	 		73	been	planned	with	limited	notice.	In	ongoing	conversation	we	found	that	co-leading	the	workshop	allows	for	more	active	engagement	from	participants,	and	that	our	nutritional	and	culinary	knowledge	complimented	each	other	nicely.	At	the	time	of	writing	a	Vancouver	Foundation	grant	has	been	submitted	to	fund	future	workshops	and	support	ongoing	community-driven	food	security	and	food	sovereignty	initiatives	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in.		5.2.6:	Limitations	&	Challenges	Before	delving	into	a	discussion	of	these	results	it	is	important	to	highlight	key	limitations	to	this	work.	First,	given	the	focus	on	the	community	of	Tl’esqox,	one	of	the	six	Tŝilhqot’in	communities,	the	highly	contextual	nature	of	the	garden	program	and	my	thematic	analytic	approach	there	may	be	impacts	on	the	transferability	of	the	findings	to	the	wider	Tŝilhqot’in	Nation	and	other	Aboriginal	communities	across	Canada.	However,	while	experiences	of	colonialism	are	diverse	and	varied	across	Canada	and	between	Aboriginal	communities	these	experiences	are	grounded	in	shared	histories	of	dispossession,	marginalization	and	racialization.	While	Tl’esqox	is	unique,	it	is	also	a	community	that	defines	itself	as	explicitly	Tŝilhqot’in,	and	therefore	the	findings	based	in	Tl’esqox	provide	a	foundation	upon	which	future	work	can	explore	the	specific	contexts	of	other	Tŝilhqot’in	communities.	The	environments	in	which	research	was	conducted:	a	male	correctional	institution,	where	my	female-ness	may	have	impacted	the	interview	and	participant	observation	processes,	and	an	Indigenous	reserve	community	well	aware	of	the	manipulative	history	of	research	in	Indigenous	contexts	have	impacted	the	study	in	ways	I	cannot	know.	This	history	of	exploitative	research	implicitly	impacted	my	time	in	Tl’esqox;	decades	of	well-founded	cynicism	towards	outsiders	made	the	development	of	trust	and	the	process	of	building	researcher	accountability	a	delicate	process;	ideally	I	would	have	loved	to	spend	a	whole	summer,	a	whole	year.	This	particular	limitation	is	inherent	within	all	qualitative	research;	more	time	could	always	be	spent	in	communities.	That	being	said,	the	time	I	spent	was	used	well,	I	tried	my	best	to	be	present,	respectful,	and	humble	in	each	moment.	Additionally,	the	impacts	of	time	on	research	credibility	are	being	addressed	through	ongoing	communication	with	community	members	and	the	planning	of	subsequent	cooking	workshops.	These	workshops	will	provide	an	opportunity	to	not	only	engage	community	members	in	the	growing	and	making	of	nutritious	food,	but	to	install	an	ongoing	feedback	loop	between	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities,	the	men	in	custody,	and	the	relevant	stakeholders.	These	workshops	will	aim	to	create	and	sustain	formalized	reciprocal	loops	to	allow	for	a	deepening	relationship	between	myself	and	the	communities,	which	may	result	in	relationships	wherein	community	needs	and	perspectives	can		 	 	 	 	 	 		74	be	communicated	to	myself,	the	prison	garden,	and	relevant	stakeholders	from	a	place	of	trust.	Workshops	will	also	work	to	widen	the	limited	scope	of	this	research,	as	the	Vancouver	Foundation	grant	is	aimed	at	conducting	ongoing	workshops	in	Tl’etinqox,	one	of	the	other	communities.	Within	the	Tŝilhqot’in	all	interviews	and	participant	observation-based	conversations	were	conducted	in	English.	I	was	unfortunately	unable	to	engage	with	community	Elders	who	only	speak	Tŝilhqot’in,	and	subsequent	research	that	provides	translation	services	would	help	to	ensure	that	all	interested	community	members	are	given	the	opportunity	to	share	the	full	spectrum	of	their	knowledge.	While	offering	translation	services	during	qualitative	interviews	was	a	missed	opportunity	constrained	by	my	graduate	student	budget,	ongoing	planning	for	community	cooking	workshops	is	intended	to	ensure	that,	while	workshops	will	continue	to	be	offered	in	English,	all	recipe	books	and	resulting	materials	will	be	translated	into	Tŝilhqot’in.	These	efforts	will	fail	to	engage	with	Tŝilhqot’in	speakers	who	cannot	read	their	language,	however	will	provide	a	first	step	to	bridge	the	gap	between	languages;	books	on	tapes	may	be	explored	to	address	this	gap	in	knowledge	translation.	Finally,	my	identity	as	a	white	settler	has	invariably	impacted	my	understanding	of	the	garden	and	it’s	impacts;	while	impossible	to	escape,	reflexivity	and	an	ongoing	engagement	with	Indigenous	scholars’	decolonizing	work	has	helped	to	tether	my	privilege	and	ensure	that	my	thoughts	and	ideas	support,	as	opposed	to	detract	from,	the	community	strengths	and	resurgences	embodied	within	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	and	the	wider	Indigenous	peoples	of	Canada,	and	the	passion	and	strength	of	the	men	in	custody.									 	 	 	 	 	 		75	Chapter	6:	Discussion		This	research	explored	the	layered	impacts	of	a	prison	garden	on	the	experiences	of	meaningful	work	for	men	in	federal	custody,	truncated	impacts	of	that	same	garden	on	the	food	security	and	sovereignty	of	the	Tŝilhqotin	community	that	receives	a	portion	of	the	donated	produce,	and	the	existing	and	potential	connections	between	these	two	groups.	I	found	that	the	impacts	of	the	garden	are	layered	for	the	men,	beginning	with	the	simple	integration	of	fresh	vegetables	into	diets	often	long	impacted	by	incarceration.	These	benefits	grow	over	time	as	men	experience	the	garden	as	first	a	place	to	escape	the	wider	institution	and	feel	productive	within	that	confining	context,	then	later	as	a	place	to	give	back,	to	tend	human	connection,	self	worth	and	compassion.	Eventually	the	garden	provides	a	space	within	which	the	men	can	imagine	meaningful	futures	outside	the	prison	walls.	The	benefits	for	the	men	are	grounded	in	their	personal	contexts	and	histories,	which	in	turn	are	understood	against	a	backdrop	of	structural	violence,	colonialism,	and	marginalization.	For	the	Tŝilhqotin	community	members	who	receive	donated	produce	the	impact	is	dampened	by	a	misalignment	between	CSC’s	intended	benefits	and	community	and	historical	contexts.	Community	members	are	provided	with	fresh	vegetables	only	once	or	twice	a	year,	and	are	often	unsure	of	where	those	vegetables	are	coming	from;	those	that	do	learn	of	the	prison	garden	are	able	to	envision	connections	with	the	men,	providing	a	means	for	community	members	to	help	the	men	heal	while	actively	avoiding	the	prescriptive	label	of	impoverished	recipient.			These	findings	highlight	both	the	significant	positive	impacts	experienced	by	the	men	through	their	ownership	of	and	pride	in	the	garden,	and	the	potential	for	deepening	the	benefits	for	Tŝilhqotin	communities	through	increasing	their	engagement	with	the	garden,	sustaining	the	recognition	of	community	strengths	and	imagining	the	diverse	ways	their	role	could	increase	within	the	garden	project.	Recognition	of	community	strengths	would,	I	believe,	inherently	highlight	the	importance	of	land	and	community	to	Tŝilhqotin	health	and	wellbeing,	and	provide	a	lens	through	which	the	garden	can	work	towards	not	only	mere	food	security,	but	the	underlying	concept	of	food	sovereignty.					 	 	 	 	 	 		76	6.1:	From	Gratitude	to	Reciprocity		Drawing	from	gift	theory’s	concept	of	negative	reciprocity,	wherein	the	obligation	to	reciprocate	gifts	no	longer	exists,	the	distribution	of	vegetables	without	recognition	of	wider	contexts	and	relationships	obliges	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	to	become	actively	complicit	in	maintaining	social	inequities,	a	symbolic	form	of	domination	that	erases	wider	socio-economic	and	political	histories	while	ever	so	subtlety	affirming	socio-economic	hierarchies	(Bourdieu,	1977;	Korf,	2007).	While	the	current	distribution	structure	provides	humanizing	experiences	for	the	men,	the	same	opportunity	for	agentive	determination	and	autonomy	is	restricted	for	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members;	this	framework	of	donating	and	receiving	echoes	problematic	aspects	of	foreign	aid	and	development,	wherein	“some	lives	are	for	saving	while	others	are	for	being	saviours”	(Mostafanezhad,	2013,	p.	489),	and	there	are	“those	who	give	assistance	and	those	who	must	be	grateful	for	it”	(Kothari,	2007,	p.	37).	Gratitude	exists	widely	within	Tŝilhqot’in	communities,	within	the	honourable	harvesting	of	plant	medicines	and	the	gentle	hunting	and	preparing	of	game	animals,	yet	in	the	passive	accepting	of	donated	vegetables	gratitude	provides	only	a	few	strands	in	the	longstanding	relationships	that	many	Indigenous	peoples	and	communities	have	to	plants,	animals,	and	people	involved	in	the	webs	of	accountability	and	relationships	that	demarcate	foodways,	meanings,	and	sources.		The	men’s	ownership	of	and	pride	in	the	garden	and	its	harvests	creates	meaningful	and	positive	impacts	for	the	men	experiencing	incarceration.	This	pride	in	the	land	and	the	physical,	nutritional,	emotional,	spiritual,	and	cultural	nourishment	that	it	provides	is	shared	by	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	in	their	connection	to	the	fields,	lakes,	and	rivers	of	their	territory.	The	current	distribution	of	vegetables	ignores	the	strengths	and	benefits	inherent	in	connecting	beings	in	real	and	meaningful	ways	to	their	food	sources,	be	they	salmon	swimming	north	to	spawn	or	men	in	federal	custody	tending	plants	and	relationships.	Simply	giving	vegetables	is	not	enough.	Feeling	part	of	and	experiencing	the	connections	inherent	in	a	wider	relationship	to	land,	food	and	foodways	is	an	essential	part	of	the	benefit	of	the	prison	garden	for	the	men,	and	something	that	can	be	strengthened	for	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities.	In	discussing	the	responsibilities	to	nature	and	ecosystems	currently	missing	from	our	capitalistic	and	often	cruel	engagement	with	the	earth,	Robin	Wall	Kimmerer	(2013)	draws	on	Indigenous	ways	of	knowing	and	ancient	relationships	to	discuss	Indigenous	cultures	of	gratitude,	wherein	relationships	with	plants,	animals	and	seemingly	inanimate	objects	deserve	thanks	for	the	gifts	they	share	with	us;		 	 	 	 	 	 		77	she	moves	past	this	concept	of	gratitude	to	urge	a	return	to	cultures	of	reciprocity,	where	accountability	shapes	relationships	and	we	move	from	simply	taking	from	the	land	to	finding	ways	to	not	only	appreciate,	but	to	give	back.	In	the	context	of	hunting,	fishing	and	gathering	plant	foods	“reciprocity	resolves	the	moral	tension	of	taking	a	life	by	giving	in	return	something	of	value	that	sustains	the	ones	who	sustain	us”	(Kimmerer,	2013,	p.	190).	Learning	from	the	reciprocity	of	Indigenous	peoples	and	the	plants	and	animals	that	sustained	communities	for	thousands	of	years,	the	moral	tensions	inherent	in	the	donation	of	prison	vegetables,	grounded	in	histories	of	colonial	aid	and	prescriptive	labels	of	passivity	(Kelm,	1999),	can	be	resolved	by	doing	something	far	easier	than	creating	reciprocity:	simply	providing	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	the	opportunity	to	engage	in	reciprocities	that	they	are	already	imagining,	envisioning	and	enacting.	The	people	I	spoke	with	in	Tl’esqox	proposed	multiple	ways	to	increase	community	ownership,	autonomy	and	relational	accountability	between	themselves	and	the	men.	They	did	not	see	themselves	recipients	but	partners	in	a	reciprocal	healing	process	born	from	generations	of	colonial	trauma	and	disenfranchisement	at	the	hands	of	neoliberal	capitalism,	healing	that	can	and	has	transcended	hundreds	of	kilometers,	ethnic	identifications	and	institutional	experiences.			6.2:	From	Passive	Recipients	to	Partners	in	Growth		The	impacts	on	the	men	are	strengthened	through	ongoing	interactions	with	local	food	banks	and	soup	kitchens,	and	the	lived	experience	of	planting	seeds	and	pulling	carrots	from	dark	soil.	In	contrast,	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	are	framed	as	passive	recipients	within	a	project	that	assumes	that	any	vegetables	will	impact	health	and	a	distribution	process	that	assumes	helplessness	and	fails	to	acknowledge	community	strengths.	The	distribution	of	vegetables	works	to	disconnect	the	communities	from	the	men	in	custody,	and	the	lack	of	associated	information	about	specific	vegetables	and	their	proper	storage	and	use	moderates	community	impacts.	These	challenges	are	based	in	a	foundational	assumption	that	simply	donating	vegetables	will	impact	food	security,	and	that	food	security,	measured	quantitatively	and	without	mindfulness	towards	relationships	and	reciprocities,	is	in	and	of	itself	is	sufficient	for	Tŝilhqot’in	nutrition,	health	and	wellbeing.	True	food	security	requires	true	food	sovereignty,	based	in	land	rights	and	title	(Edelman,	2014).	Food	sovereignty	theories	and	discourses	at	their	very	foundation	aim	to	strengthen	Indigenous	communities	through	a	range	of	strategies,	including	“respect	for	place	and	diversity,	acceptance	of	difference,	understanding	the	role	of	nature	in	production,	human	agency,	equitable	distribution	of	resources,	dismantling	asymmetrical	power		 	 	 	 	 	 		78	relations	and	building	participatory	democratic	institutions	(Desmarais	&	Wittman,	2014,	p.	1155).	Despite	the	constraints	of	incarceration	on	freedoms	and	autonomy,	the	participating	men	are	provided	with	a	space	within	which	they	can	work	on	these	strategies	outlined	by	Desmararais	&	Wittman	(2014);	wherein	they	develop	respect,	for	the	land,	for	themselves,	and	for	each	other	and	the	wider	community;	where	they	can	cultivate	agency;	work	to	increase	equitable	access	to	fresh	produce,	and	take	part	in	the	ongoing	negotiations	of	individuality,	difference,	and	team	accountability	that	shape	large	scale	democracies	and	the	daily	running	of	community	gardens	alike.	How	can	these	same	opportunities	be	provided	for	the	Tŝilhqot’in	peoples	whose	engagement	in	the	garden	provides	additional	meaning	for	the	men?	How	can	the	history	of	culinary	imperialism	be	uprooted	to	give	more	space	for	the	growth	of	healthy	and	self-determining	communities?		6.3:	From	Food	Security	to	Land	&	Sovereignty		Rates	of	food	insecurity	for	Aboriginal	peoples	living	off	reserve	are	at	33%,	three	times	higher	than	the	national	average,	and	percentages	rise	to	75%	in	rural,	remote,	and	northern	communities	(Fieldhouse	&	Thompson,	2012;	Reading	&	Wien,	2009;	Thompson	et	al.,	2011;	Van	Den	Berg	&	Custers,	2011);	estimates	place	rates	of	food	insecurity	in	reserve	communities	at	41%	(Chan	et	al.,	2011).	However,	these	measures	focus	on	Euro-centric	definitions	of	food	security	and	wellbeing,	and	fail	to	integrate	foodways	and	meanings	based	in	Aboriginal	contexts.	Both	the	measurement	of	hunger	and	its	solutions	must	stem	from	understandings	of	land	and	history,	and	(re)connection	to	land	and	engagement	with	community	strengths,	respectively.	Indigenous	food	sovereignty	embodies	a	struggle	for	self	determination	where	food	is	necessary	yet	not	sufficient,	where	land	rights	have	been	recognized	by	Canadian	courts	while	tailing	ponds	still	poison	rivers.	For	Indigenous	peoples,	in	Canada	and	internationally,	“the	dining	room	table	[is]	every	bit	as	much	a	site	of	cultural	struggle	as	the	classroom	desk”	(Milloy,	1999a,	p.	275).	Land	is	the	basis	for	all	food,	and	the	distancing	of	super	markets	from	forest	floors	and	ocean	banks	negatively	impacts	foodways,	food	meanings	and	community	health	and	wellbeing.	Indigenous	communities,	when	consulted,	continue	to	highlight	the	importance	of	indigenous	foods,	foodways	and	food	meanings	for	not	only	community	health	and	nutrition,	but	for	cultural	wellbeing	(Elliott	et	al.,	2012;	Morrison,	2011;	Mundel	&	Chapman,	2010).	While	it’s	improbable	that	a	prison	garden	project	will	focus	on,	or	be	successful	in	upending	the	colonization,	dispossession,	and	disenfranchisement	that	effects	Aboriginal	food	security	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		79	food	sovereignty,	it	is	possible	for	this	project	to	re-frame	itself	as	not	only	donating	vegetables,	but	connecting	men	in	prison	to	community	members	eager	to	integrate	new	foodways	and	(re)engage	with	land,	plants,	and	people	caught	up	in	the	criminal	justice	system	in	new	and	novel	ways.	This	can	be	achieved	through	the	growing	and	preserving	of	food,	the	building	of	relationships,	and	the	sharing	of	knowledge.	Sovereignty	for	Indigenous	peoples	is	“inherent	and	collective”	(Barker,	2005,	p.	20)	and	“infused	with	interconnected	autonomy	nurtured	through	relationship	with	land,”	non-human	beings,	and	community	members	(Adelson,	2000;	Kamal,	Linklater,	Thompson,	Dipple,	&	Ithinto	Mechisowin	Committee,	2015;	Simpson,	2004).	To	fully	realize	its	potential	the	garden	program	must	integrate	the	men	and	their	vegetables	into	a	wider	community	of	beings,	interconnected	across	land	and	bonded	by	responsibility	and	relationship.			Despite	the	meaningfulness	of	the	garden	for	the	men	and	the	potential	to	deepen	impacts	for	the	communities,	growing	food,	while	promising	in	the	face	of	rising	food	costs	and	the	impacts	of	resource	extraction	on	the	health	and	viability	of	indigenous	plants	and	animals	as	food	sources,	is	not	without	its	own	burdened	history.	Farming	has	a	tenuous	history	within	many	Aboriginal	communities	in	Canada,	where	“colonial	patriarchy	found	its	first	foothold	in	the	fields	and	gardens	of	Indigenous	peoples”	(Carter,	1990;	Grey	&	Patel,	2014;	Holly,	1990).	The	Department	of	Indian	Affairs	forced	farming	as	a	means	to	disrupt	the	seasonal	movements	of	Indigenous	communities	and	to	tether	Indigenous	peoples	close	to	churches	and	missionaries	(Grey	&	Patel,	2014;	Turner	&	Turner,	2008),	disrupting	Indigenous	foodways	and	meanings	and	working	to	erase	the	ancient	and	embodied	gendered	knowledge	of	Indigenous	women,	ethnobotanical	experts	engaged	in	reciprocity	and	responsible	harvest	on	their	homelands	(Anderson,	2005;	Turner,	2003).	Transformational	hard	labour	in	correctional	settings	echoes	these	colonial	ideas	of	farming	as	civilizing	the	savage,	and	whether	being	forced	to	relocate	to	smaller	and	smaller	reserves	or	in	federal	custody,	the	experience	of	farming	has	and	continues	to	exist	upon	a	foundation	of	restricted	freedoms	of	choice	and	movement.	Prison-based	agriculture	programs	in	the	US	exist	against	an	uneasy	and	violent	history	that	placed	black	bodies	in	plantation	fields,	a	history	that	has	resulted	in	the	ongoing	over-incarceration	of	African	American	people,	particularly	men	(Browne,	2007;	Tuck	&	Yang,	2012).	The	seemingly	simple	act	of	growing	food	is	inextricably	linked	to	power,	hierarchies	and	social	norms	that	implicitly	dictate	who	grows,	who	eats,	and	who	gets	a	choice.	Growing	food	in	prison	provides	healing,	calm	and	productive	growth	for	some,	yet	others	may	experience	those	same	farms	and	gardens	as	grounded	in	long	histories	of	marginalized	bodies	forced	to	tend	fields;	as	always,	context	matters.		 	 	 	 	 	 		80		Just	as	the	physical,	emotional,	and	structural	violence	of	education	are	being	healed	in	land-based	education	programs	for	Indigenous	youth	and	adults	(Radu,	House,	&	Pashagumskum,	2014;	Wildcat	et	al.,	2014),	and	Nations	such	as	the	Tŝilhqot’in	continually	work	towards	self	determining	and	autonomous	education	for	their	children	and	youth,	gardening	provides	tools	and	frameworks,	mired	in	colonial	violence	yet	ripe	with	possibility.	Pragmatic	Indigenous	communities	such	as	Tl’esqox	see	agriculture	as	a	means	to	increase	self-determination	in	the	face	of	the	ongoing	and	increasing	deterioration	of	indigenous	food	sources.	Gardens	and	farms	provide	a	means	for	communities	to:	(re)connect	with	their	land;	(re)engage	with	ancestral	gardens	planted	to	stave	off	hunger	as	colonialism’s	teeth	sunk	ever	deeper,	and;	(re)create	and	sustain	plant	foods	and	medicines,	all	on	their	own	terms.	These	networks	are	particularly	important	given	the	increasingly	devastating	impacts	of	climate	change	and	resource	extraction	on	salmon	runs,	moose,	deer	and	berry	yields,	and	the	rising	cost	of	store	bought	foods,	healthy	and	otherwise.	Indigenous	communities	have	and	continue	to	subsist	off	diverse	food	sources,	“they	are	hunters,	gatherers,	and	fishers;	they	comb	the	beach,	reap	the	hive,	shepherd	the	flock,	harvest	on	and	in	the	water,	and	tend	the	forest	as	well	as	the	field”	(Grey	&	Patel,	2014,	p.	439).	The	biocultural	heritages	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	provide	impacts	far	greater	than	mere	access	to	food,	and	connection	to	the	men	in	prison	offers	a	promise	of	relationships	and	reciprocities	so	foundational	to	Indigenous	health	and	wellbeing.		Imagine	if	the	garden	shifted	focus	from	providing	food	to	increase	food	security	to	supporting	Indigenous	food	sovereignty	through	resurgence.	Instead	of	focusing	on	dispossession	and	food	insecurity	the	garden	could	focus	on	community	strengths,	engaging	and	reinforcing	Tŝilhqot’in	“land-centered	literacies”	across	communities	and	generations	(Goodyear-Ka’opua,	2013).	This	re-envisioning	of	relationships	could	center	the	distribution	of	vegetables	and	the	reciprocity	of	learning	and	teaching	as	“transformative	alternatives	to	this	[colonial]	present”	(Snelgrove,	Dhamoon,	&	Corntassel,	2014,	p.	2).		Activities	that	connect	Indigenous	communities	with	and	on	the	land	and	provide	a	space	for	Elders	and	youth	to	engage	is	an	act	of	decolonization;	strengthening	communities	in	the	face	of	systems	and	policies	designed	to	destroy	them	(Alfred	&	Corntassel,	2005;	Simpson,	2004).	Food,	in	all	its	relationships	and	intricacies,	provides	a	framework	for	social	learning	(Morrison,	2011).	Lessons	learned	from	other	Indigenous	food	and	nutrition	programs	highlight	the	great	potential	that	exists	within	the	garden	and	the	communities	it	connects.	Community	gardens	within	the	Inga	communities	of	Colombia	grow		 	 	 	 	 	 		81	meaningful	indigenous	plant	foods	and	medicines	based	in	ancient	knowledge	and	biocultural	heritages,	and	the	resulting	plants	and	seeds	are	shared	and	celebrated	in	community	festivals	and	used	in	schools	to	provide	culturally	appropriate	and	meaningful	lunches	for	Inga	children	(Chaparro,	2013;	Kuhnlein,	2014).	In	the	Canadian	context,	the	Nuxalk	Food	and	Nutrition	program	in	northern	coastal	British	Columbia	includes	Elders	(re)introducing	Indigenous	foods	and	foodways	to	community	members,	classes	on	budget-friendly	grocery	shopping	and	nutrition,	recipe	booklets	that	integrate	market	foods	with	those	harvested	from	the	Nuxalk	territory,	and	ongoing	advocating	for	more	nutritious	food	to	be	available	at	local	grocery	stores	(Kuhnlein,	Fediuk,	Nelson,	Howard,	&	Johnson,	2013;	Kuhnlein,	Moody,	Kluckner,	&	Nakai,	1989).		Within	prison	environments	and	Aboriginal	communities	across	Canada	the	foundational	human	right	to	move	freely	is	restricted;	while	Tŝilhqot’in	people	push	back	against	the	confines	of	colonial	reserve	boundaries	through	sustained	legal	action,	and	the	men	experiencing	incarceration	continue	to	work	towards	their	own	personal	freedom,	often	year	after	year,	the	garden	provides	an	opportunity	for	men	to	move	freely	in	the	sun	and	for	communities	to	reach	out	and	engage	in	dynamic	relationships	with	new	allies.												 	 	 	 	 	 		82	Chapter	7:	Conclusion		The	prison	garden	has	layered	and	beneficial	impacts	on	the	participating	men’s	mental	health	and	wellbeing,	beginning	with	access	to	food	and	deepening	across	time	and	personal	engagement	to	include	transformational	experiences	and	a	means	to	imagine	a	meaningful	future.	The	impact	of	the	donated	vegetables	on	communities	is	often	simply	saving	community	members	a	trip	into	town	for	fresh	produce.	While	knowledge	of	where	the	vegetables	came	from	was	not	widespread	among	the	people	I	spoke	with,	both	in	the	specific	community	of	Tl’esqox	and	the	other	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	I	visited,	learning	that	men	in	prison	grew	those	vegetables	increased	impact	and	provided	an	opportunity	to	envision	ways	to	create	reciprocal	connections	that	go	beyond	the	simple	donation	of	vegetables.	Barriers,	mainly	a	lack	of	a	formal	transportation	and	distribution	mechanisms	and	the	correlated	absence	of	feedback	loops	to	ensure	that	gifted	vegetables	met	community	needs,	originally	resulted	in	some	of	the	produce	being	discarded.	Community	members	were	unsure	of	what	certain	vegetables	were	and	how	to	properly	store,	prepare,	and	preserve	them.	The	introduction	of	cooking	workshops	provided	a	means	to	bring	the	community	together	to	prepare	and	share	food,	introduce	people	to	new	nutritious	vegetables	that	can	be	integrated	into	their	existing	diets,	and	create	sustained	links	between	the	men	in	prison	and	the	community	of	Tl’esqox.	While	only	a	small	step,	these	workshops	highlight	the	foundational	interest	in	teaching	and	learning	that	exists	within	the	Tŝilhqot’in,	and	the	significance	of	creating	spaces,	whether	real	or	imagined,	where	community	members	can	come	together,	build	relationships,	and	share	their	knowledge	and	experience	of	foodways	and	meanings.	Relationships	built	on	the	premise	of	balanced	reciprocity	are	the	foundation	of	food	sovereignty,	giving	and	taking,	learning	and	teaching.	Such	relationships	highlight	the	vast	potential	of	using	the	prison	garden	as	a	place	of	teaching	and	mentorship.	While	the	location	of	the	garden	within	a	correctional	institution	creates	physical,	bureaucratic,	and	political	barriers	to	connecting	people	around	the	growing	and	harvesting	of	food,	the	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	I	spoke	with	had	several	ideas	of	how	to	increase	reciprocity	across	the	prison	walls.	Community	members	suggested	that	the	men	in	custody	send	gardening	tips	and	seedlings	grown	in	the	prison	greenhouses.	They	imagined	relationships	where	men	in	prison	interacted,	through	letters,	videos,	and	perhaps	in	person	with	Tŝilhqot’in	youth	beginning	to	engage	in	criminal	activity,	sharing	their	histories	and	experiences	of	incarceration.	Research	has	highlighted	that		 	 	 	 	 	 		83	Scared	Straight	programs,	where	youth	deemed	‘at-risk’	are	brought	into	correctional	institutions	to	meet	individuals	in	custudy,	are	at	best	ineffective,	and	at	worst	may	aggravate	criminal	behavior	in	participating	youth	(Hunter,	Logan,	Barton,	&	Goulet,	2004;	Lilienfeld,	2005;	Petrosino,	Turpin-Petrosino,	&	Buehler,	2002;	Wheatley,	2016).	Is	it	not	possible	that	fear	is	a	poor	motivator,	and	that	the	building	of	trust	and	nurturing	of	relationships	offers	a	way	for	youth	to	find	alternate	trajectories	and	positive	role	models?	Can	the	growing	of	plants	and	gentle	tending	of	human	connection	across	time	provide	meaning	in	ways	that	the	clanging	of	prison	gates	cannot?	Stakeholders	noted	numerous	barriers	to	supporting	mentorship	within	the	garden	context;	the	distance	to	the	Tŝilhqot’in	is	too	far	for	ETAs,	as	the	men	would	have	to	spend	the	night	and	there	is	no	provincial	jail	in	Williams	Lake	to	house	them,	and	the	cost	of	paying	correctional	officers	overtime	for	such	a	trip	is	prohibitive.	That	being	said,	stakeholders	also	provided	alternate	suggestions	for	facilitating	reciprocity.	Community	Visitation	Days,	a	program	that	no	longer	runs	in	CSC’s	Pacific	Region,	previously	allowed	community	members	to	enter	federal	institutions	and	engage	with	the	people	living	there.	This	program	supported	the	developing	of	relationships	to	assist	those	experiencing	incarceration	post-release,	while	also	de-stigmatizing	the	incarceration	experience	within	the	wider	community.	Whether	through	this	program	or	through	other	initiatives,	findings	ways	to	transmit	knowledge	across	culture,	distance,	background,	and	context	is	key	to	not	only	the	sustainability	of	the	prison	garden-Tŝilhqot’in	community	connection,	but	will	also	ensure	that	donated	vegetables	play	a	role	in	a	decolonizing	and	strengths-based	process	that	acknowledges	the	impacts	of	land	theft	and	dispossession	on	both	food	sovereignty	and	food	security.			7.1:	Implications	for	Practice		7.1.1:	In	Prison		Agricultural	programs	in	prison	are	becoming	increasingly	widespread,	particularly	in	the	US	where,	according	to	the	US	Department	of	Justice,	roughly	one	third	of	American	prisons	already	have	green	education	and	training	programs,	which	include	gardening,	farming,	and	other	initiatives	intended	to	create	self	sustaining	and	sustainable	institutions;	another	third	are	in	the	process	of	developing	programs	and	strategies	to	facilitate	integration	of	sustainable	and	land-based	programs	into	their	institutions	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015).	While	many	of	the	existing	programs	sell	the	resulting	produce	grown	in	correctional	horticultural	settings	or	use	it	to	offset		 	 	 	 	 	 		84	the	food	costs	of	the	wider	institution,	it	is	clear	from	my	time	spent	in	the	garden	that	connecting	the	participating	men	to	communities	through	the	donation	of	produce	works	to	deepen	and	expand	meaning	and	impact.	While	correctional	programming	is	inherently	downstream,	addressing	the	problems	of	crime	and	criminality	after	the	fact,	the	donation	of	vegetables	provides	an	opportunity	for	people	in	prison	to	engage	in	meaningful	work	while	addressing	an	upstream	determinant	of	health	and	wellbeing.	Given	the	negative	physical	and	mental	health	correlates	of	food	insecurity	and	malnutrition,	particularly	for	children	(British	Columbia	Provincial	Health	Officer,	2009;	Downs	et	al.,	2009;	Government	of	Canada	&	Health	Canada,	2007),	allowing	people	experiencing	incarceration	to	grow	food,	using	their	ample	amounts	of	free	time	and	the	large	expanses	of	land	upon	which	federal	institutions	sit,	aligns	with	the	principles	of	social	justice	and	equity;	harnessing	underutilized	resources,	both	human	and	economic,	to	work	towards	a	Canada	where	no	parent	skips	meals	and	no	child	is	hungry.	Unfortunately	governments	rarely	fund	projects	based	on	the	principles	of	social	justice,	yet	even	ignoring	the	moral	and	human	rights	arguments	of	providing	food	for	Aboriginal	communities,	doing	so	will	provide	cost	savings	to	our	health	and	social	services	further	down	the	road	(Public	Health	Agency	of	Canada,	2010).		Above	and	beyond	the	social	and	economic	impacts	of	addressing	food	security	as	an	upstream	social	determinant	of	health	and	wellbeing,	increasing	connection	between	the	participating	men	and	the	recipient	communities	has	the	potential	to	deepen	impacts	for	both	parties.	The	experience	of	not	only	growing	vegetables	but	meeting	the	children,	single	mothers,	and	elderly	people	who	receive	that	food	had	substantial	impacts	on	the	men.	For	the	communities,	providing	a	space	for	autonomy	and	active	engagement	with	the	program	may	provide	increased	opportunities	for	relationship	building;	creating	opportunities	for	engagement	and	agentive	determination	for	the	oft-marginalized	peoples	who	receive	donated	food,	and	providing	increased	opportunities	for	empathy	and	relationships	with	the	men.	Although	outside	the	scope	of	this	project,	active	engagement	may	provide	similar	benefits	to	individuals	receiving	donated	vegetables	through	food	banks,	soup	kitchens,	and	other	organizations	within	the	Lower	Mainland.	In	the	context	of	Indigenous	communities,	supporting	active	community	engagement	works	to	decolonize	relationships	and	facilitate	increased	self-determination	and	sovereignty	(Alfred	&	Corntassel,	2005;	Million,	2014;	Simpson,	2014).	Within	the	daily	functioning	of	the	garden	it	was	clear	that	the	unconventional	supervisor,	seen	as	outside	of	the	institutional	environment	and	as	“not	CSC”	by	the	men,	provided	additional	benefit.	The	farmer,	a	man	contracted	by	CSC	to	operate	the	farm,	has	a	history	in	logging	and	creates	a	light-hearted	space	where	the	men	can	swear,	feel	comfortable,	and	develop	a	positive		 	 	 	 	 	 		85	relationship	with	an	authority	figure,	perhaps	for	the	first	time.	Research	conducted	within	correctional	institutions	in	the	UK	has	highlighted	that	staff	with	unconventional	backgrounds,	such	as	bartending,	bring	skillsets	useful	for	dealing	with	the	stress	and	intrapersonal	conflicts	that	arise	in	correctional	institutions	(Wheatley,	2016).	My	time	in	the	garden	supports	this;	the	men	spoke	highly	of	the	farmer,	and	in	some	instances	stated	that	they	would	not	continue	to	work	there	if	another	person	were	to	replace	him.	This	has	implications	for	the	sustainability	of	the	project,	as	the	farmer	is	over	the	age	of	60	and	will	one	day	retire.	One	project	stakeholder	told	me	that	prior	to	hiring	the	farmer	they	had	tried	contracting	individuals	from	UBC	with	training	in	agricultural	science,	these	individuals	did	not	“mesh”	well	with	the	men;	whether	or	not	the	strengths	inherent	in	his	outsider	status	are	recognized	by	the	wider	correctional	institution	are	unclear	and	will	surely	impact	the	garden	in	the	coming	years.		The	men	who	are	successful	in	the	garden	tend	to	self	select;	those	who	buy-in	and	work	hard	tend	to	have	worked	consistently	on	the	outside,	were	used	to	getting	up	and	going	to	work	in	the	morning,	and	saw	value	in	spending	their	time	productively.	Finding	ways	to	attract	men	to	the	project	initially	will	increase	the	sustainability	of	the	garden	and	ensure	a	large	enough	work	force	to	continue	to	harvest	high	yields	and	work	towards	expanding	the	project.	The	ability	to	take	vegetables	home	is	one	pull,	but	the	men	can	also	order	vegetables	with	their	larger	grocery	order;	they	are	less	fresh	and	grown	with	pesticides	but	require	minimal	work	prior	to	preparation	and	cooking.			There	is	an	ongoing	need	to	ensure	that	the	men	have	activities	to	keep	them	busy	throughout	the	winter,	as	the	impacts	of	productive	work	in	the	sun	may	be	weakened	by	months	spent	idle	throughout	the	winter.	Although	some	men	are	kept	on	in	the	greenhouse	over	the	winter	there	are	ongoing	conflicts	regarding	supervision,	as	the	farmer	tends	to	travel	internationally	during	that	time	and	is	not	available	to	oversee	them.	Additional	funding	could	support	winter	activities	that	engage	more	men	in	the	down	season.	GreenHouse,	at	Rikers	Island	in	New	York,	provides	an	example	of	a	successful	correctional	garden	that	provides	year-round	activities	for	participating	men	and	women.	Founded	in	1997	by	the	Horticulture	Society	of	New	York,	the	garden	teaches	around	ninety	students	annually,	and	includes	butterfly,	bird,	medieval	herb,	and	vegetable	gardens	in	a	landscaped	acre	of	land.	In	the	winter	students	engage	in	horticulture	classes	and	the	greenhouse	is	converted	to	a	woodshop	where	items	are	made	and	later	donated	to	local	schools	and	parks	(Lindemuth,	2007).	GreenHouse	graduates	are	able	to	participate	in	GreenTeam	upon	release,	a	community-based	program	that	supports	job	searching	and		 	 	 	 	 	 		86	placement	for	participants,	addressing	barriers	to	employment	and	housing	that	individuals	with	criminal	records	often	face	upon	release	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015).		The	sustainability	of	the	garden	is	also	impacted	by	a	shifting	prison	culture.	Community	gardens	outside	of	prison	contexts	have	been	shown	to	provide	increased	social	capital,	communal	learning	and	collective	efficacy	(Agustina	&	Beilin,	2012;	Alaimo	et	al.,	2010;	Glover	et	al.,	2005;	Mitchell,	2013).	In	contrast,	the	garden’s	positioning	within	a	wider	correctional	context	limits	social	bonding	as	men’s	identities	and	positions	within	the	hierarchy	of	the	con	code	restrict	community	building;	men	within	the	garden,	while	learning	to	work	in	teams	and	proud	of	the	products	of	that	team	labour,	were	by	and	large	focused	on	“keeping	their	head	down”	and	“laying	low”	until	release.	While	community	gardens	in	marginalized	neighbourhoods	can	work	to	reduce	isolation	(Wakefield	et	al.,	2007),	the	men	I	spoke	with	saw	the	garden	as	an	expanse	of	land	within	which	they	could	be	peacefully	alone.	Some	of	the	men	talked	about	previous	years	when	a	community	was	created	among	the	core	group,	men	would	get	together	after	work,	sharing	food	and	socializing.	As	the	prison	culture	has	shifted	that	garden	community	has	eroded.	It	is	possible	that	a	correctional	garden	in	a	higher	security	institution,	where	there	is	less	diversity	between	lifers	and	young	men	newly	incarcerated,	would	provide	a	space	for	more	community	development.	While	the	experience	of	working	in	the	garden	did	not	create	the	social	bonds	and	sense	of	belonging	that	has	been	reported	in	non-prison	contexts,	the	meaning	and	impact	of	the	garden	is	still	substantial.	Today	the	men	may	not	be	building	and	experiencing	community,	but	finding	solitude	in	open	air,	flowering	bushes,	and	thick	rows	of	corn	is	preferable	than	isolation	within	the	florescent-lit	rooms	of	the	wider	institution.		The	effect	of	the	air,	sun,	and	rain	of	the	garden	is	highly	therapeutic	in	and	of	itself	(Berger	&	McLeod,	2006;	Kaplan	&	Kaplan,	1989;	Maller	et	al.,	2005).	While	the	growing	and	giving	of	food	provides	increased	benefits,	the	men	were	positively	impacted	by	simply	being	outside.	For	those	men	that	had	been	incarcerated	for	many	years	the	experience	of	being	in	natural	green	spaces	was	even	more	impactful.	The	garden	is	not	a	high	cost	endeavor,	the	farmer	has	an	annual	budget	of	roughly	$25,000,	and	the	only	cost	above	and	beyond	that	is	his	salary,	yet	the	integration	of	green	spaces	into	correctional	institutions	is	an	even	more	economical	initiative.	Institutions	within	Canada	tend	to	sit	on	large	tracts	of	land,	thus	providing	people	experiencing	incarceration	with	low	barrier	opportunities	to	improve	their	mental,	physical	and	spiritual	health	and	wellbeing,	opportunities	often	impeded	by	fences	and	gates.		 	 	 	 	 	 		87	7.1.2:	In	Indigenous	Communities	The	garden	project	provides	key	insights	to	working	with	and	for	Indigenous	communities.	The	donation	of	produce	from	the	garden	exists	within	a	wider	framework	wherein	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	have	several	ongoing	programs	aimed	at	addressing	both	food	security	and	sovereignty.	Many	of	these	programs	are	specifically	aimed	at	children,	Elders	and	people	living	with	diabetes,	including	monthly	distribution	of	fruits	and	vegetables	and	collective	food	sharing	where	select	individuals	will	fish,	hunt,	and	gather	plant	foods	and	medicines	that	are	then	distributed	to	those	in	need.	The	prison	vegetables	were	not	distinct	from	these	other	programs	for	the	vast	majority	of	people	I	spoke	with,	both	within	Tl’esqox	and	across	the	wider	Tŝilhqot’in.	Throughout	my	time	in	the	Tŝilhqot’in	I	explained	the	prison	garden	project	and	shared	the	origins	of	the	donated	vegetables	with	many	people,	and	of	those	the	vast	majority	responded	with	a	caring	and	kindness	towards	the	men.	People	spoke	of	family	and	friends	who	were	in	custody,	shared	their	own	experiences	of	incarceration,	and	envisioned	ways	that	the	program	could	draw	on	the	men’s	knowledge	and	experience,	about	both	plants	and	prisons,	to	increase	reciprocity	and	build	relationships	for	mutual	benefit.	Distributing	not	only	vegetables	but	sharing	their	origin	would	deepen	these	impacts.	The	donated	vegetables	were	insufficient	in	quantity,	and	too	misaligned	with	the	historical	context	and	community	needs	to	address	food	security	and	the	larger	goal	of	food	sovereignty,	yet	these	vegetables	do	provide	an	opportunity	for	Tŝilhqot’in	community	members	to	experience	new	foods	and	experiment	with	new	recipes.	Increasing	the	connection	between	the	men	and	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	to	include	not	only	the	sharing	of	vegetables	but	of	foodways,	meanings,	and	recipes	could	deepen	this	impact	and	work	to	increase	capacity	and	confidence	around	new	unknown	produce	within	the	communities.	Cooking	workshops	work	to	align	the	donated	vegetables	with	community	tastes,	trends,	and	preferences	and	provide	opportunities	for	social	bonding	around	food.	Aligning	the	prison-Tŝilhqot’in	garden	project	with	Tŝilhqot’in	preferences	is	a	necessary	step	to	ensure	full	benefit	for	the	participating	community	members	and	to	avoid	programs	disconnected	from	community	strengths	and	preferences	that	often	hinder,	rather	than	help,	community	health	and	wellbeing	(Easterly,	2007).	For	many	of	the	men	it	takes	times	to	fully	engage	with	the	layered	benefits,	time	for	the	visible	fruits	of	their	labour	to	deepen	the	meaningfulness	of	their	time	in	the	garden.	For	community	members	interested	in	learning	more	about	new	vegetables	and	integrating	the	growing,	storing,	and	preparing	of	those	foods	into	their	diets,	the	visible	impact	of	digging	in	the	soil	and	seeing	seeds	sprout	into	food	may	similarly	expand	positive	impacts.	Finding	innovative	ways,	based	in	the		 	 	 	 	 	 		88	strengths	and	creativity	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	communities	and	the	men,	to	come	together,	learn	about	the	garden’s	benefits,	and	share	the	visual	impacts	of	the	project	offers	the	potential	increase	impact	on	both	sides.		Tŝilhqot’in	foodways,	meanings	and	bio-cultural	heritages	are	dynamic,	evolving	over	the	seasons,	the	trials	and	tribulations	of	colonialism,	resource	extraction,	and	climate	change.	Gardening	may	present	a	pragmatic	means	to	increase	self-determination	and	food	sovereignty,	providing	a	space	for	community	members	to	(re)connect	with	their	land,	and	earlier	gardening	traditions	that	grew	in	the	shadows	of	colonial	land	theft.	That	being	said,	community	politics,	economic	strain	and	the	ongoing	influences	of	colonialism	make	community	gardens	at	times	difficult	to	introduce	and	maintain.	Many	of	the	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	with	described	themselves	as	a	‘shy’	culture,	suggesting	that	individual	gardens	may	provide	an	easier	gateway	into	growing	good.	A	community	garden	started	at	Old	School	in	Tl’esqox	was	intended	to	provide	gardening	training	for	each	of	the	six	communities,	although	the	organizer	could	only	find	one	woman	from	Tl’esqox	to	participate.	Champions	within	the	communities	able	to	cut	through	community	politics	and	engage	diverse	members	are	an	important	aspect	of	successful	and	sustainable	community	gardens	that	last	beyond	the	short-term	interest	of	one	or	two	passionate	leaders.	Engaging	with	other	Indigenous	communities	across	Canada	and	internationally	may	provide	opportunities	for	inspiration	and	to	learn	from	gardening	opportunities	and	facilitators	based	within	shared	understandings	of	land,	community,	and	wellbeing.			7.2:	Implications	for	Research			There	are	several	implications	for	research	within	correctional	garden	environments	specifically,	and	correctional	work	programs	more	generally.	The	ongoing	impacts	of	shifting	prison	cultures	on	the	communal	nature	of	gardening	deserves	further	study.	Further,	research	into	means	to	increase	social	bonding	and	collective	efficacy	in	correctional	environments	generally,	and	correctional	gardens	specifically,	against	a	backdrop	of	isolationism,	could	produce	increasingly	positive	impacts	for	the	participating	men.	There	is	evidence	that	employment	programs	are	experienced	differently	by	men	and	women	in	custody,	as	women	are	thought	to	be	more	interested	in	passing	their	time	well	as	opposed	to	procuring	employment	post	release,	and	a	large	percentage	of	women	in	custody	have	children	in	the	communities	which	impacts	their		 	 	 	 	 	 		89	post-release	goals	(Bloom	&	Covington,	1998;	Richmond,	2014).	Research	into	gendered	impacts	of	correctional	gardens	is	needed.	While	some	programs,	such	as	GreenHouse	at	Rikers	Island	in	New	York	include	both	men	and	women,	with	daily	shifts	ensuring	the	two	populations	engage	with	the	garden	at	different	times	(Khatib	&	Krasny,	2015;	Lindemuth,	2007),	to	my	knowledge	there	has	been	no	research	conducted	on	gendered	differences.	While	the	men	I	spoke	with	considered	the	garden	a	way	to	pass	time	well,	it	is	unclear	if	that	would	be	experienced	in	the	same	way	by	women,	and	the	impacts	of	men	imagining	meaningful	futures,	based	in	the	growing	and	giving	of	produce	may	be	moderated	by	women’s	possible	relationships	with	and	housing	needs	for	their	children	upon	release.	Additional	differences	based	on	demographic	variables	also	warrant	further	inquiry.	These	findings	are	focused	on	men	over	the	age	of	18	experiencing	incarceration.	There	is	evidence	that	employment	decreases	criminal	behavior	in	adults	more	so	than	youth	and	young	adults	(Sampson	&	Laub,	1997).	Community	gardens	aimed	at	engaging	youth	have	been	shown	to	provide	benefits,	including	academic	improvement	and	cultural	benefits	(Sandler,	1995),	and	horticultural	programs	for	juveniles	engaged	in	the	criminal	justice	system	have	been	shown	to	provide	increased	self	efficacy,	social	bonding,	reduced	recidivism,	and	improved	goal	orientation	and	motivation	(Finch,	1995;	McGuinn,	1999).	While	additional	research	into	the	benefits	of	gardening	for	youth	in	custody	is	needed,	particularly	within	the	Indigenous	and	Canadian	prison	contexts,	research	into	youth	gardening	initiatives	that	connect	youth	in	detention	to	youth	in	community	could	provide	insight	into	the	probable	benefits	of	reciprocity	and	relationship	between	diverse	youth	communities.	Additionally,	the	impacts	of	different	security	levels	warrant	attention,	as	evidenced	by	the	deepened	meaning	and	benefit	of	the	garden	for	men	with	experiences	in	higher	security	institutions;	providing	gardening	tools	and	the	freedom	and	autonomy	necessary	to	garden	successfully	in	medium	and	maximum	security	institutions	is	possible.	For	instance,	Garden	Time	is	a	successful	therapeutic	gardening	program	for	men	in	a	maximum	security	institution	in	Rhode	Island;	compared	with	the	garden	at	Mission	Minimum,	men	who	regardless	of	years	served	have	cascaded	down	to	a	minimum	security	institution,	and	many	of	whom	are	months	or	years	from	release,	the	men	gardening	in	Rhode	Island	are	serving	life	sentences	in	a	high	security	institution.	The	garden	provides	a	space	to	pass	their	time	well,	knowing	that	many	of	them	may	never	be	released	back	into	the	community	(Espinoza,	2015).	While	the	benefits	of	the	prison	garden	fit	nicely	into	the	emotive	potential	of	qualitative	methods,	standardized	measurement	of	impacts	as	a	means	to	leverage	additional	funding	and	policy	attention	may	support	the	sustainability	and	scalability	of	the	garden.	This	is	particularly	notable	given	the	Harper	government’s	funding	cuts	to	correctional		 	 	 	 	 	 		90	agriculture	initiatives,	and	ongoing	discussions	with	the	current	Liberal	government	regarding	re-initiating	such	programs.	Finally,	following	participants	after	release	would	provide	longitudinal	data	that	may	support	future	funding	and	sustainability,	as	well	as	provide	evidence	of	impact	as	CSC	public	consultations	and	feasibility	studies	explore	the	possibility	of	reinstating	prison	farming	programs	(Correctional	Service	Canada,	2016;	Mehta,	2016).		Research	on	foodways	and	meanings	in	Indigenous	communities	necessitates	an	understanding	of	and	accounting	for	history	and	context.	Historic	and	ongoing	colonialism	and	structural	violence	influence	the	causes,	correlates	and	impacts	of	food	(in)security.	Land	rights	and	relationships	are	foundational	to	all	health	and	wellbeing,	and	foodways	offer	a	window	into	community	identities,	strengths,	and	dynamic	traditions.	The	Tŝilhqot’in	people	I	spoke	with	told	me	that	being	Tŝilhqot’in	was	inextricably	linked	to	the	ways	they	catch,	preserve,	share	and	eat	salmon,	moose,	deer,	and	plant	foods	and	medicines,	and	the	knowledge,	history,	legend,	and	values	tied	up	in	the	transfer	of	food-based	knowledge,	foodways,	and	meanings.	Interventions	focused	on	food	security	for	Indigenous	communities,	both	within	Canada	and	internationally,	that	ignore	these	wider	contexts	are	doomed	to	fail.	The	health	impacts	of	food	insecurity	have	resulted	in	a	great	deal	of	public	health	and	health	promotion	research	focused	on	exploring	the	state	of	food	insecurity	and	possible	nutrition-focused	interventions	among	various	Indigenous	communities	(Downs	et	al.	2009;	Fieldhouse	&	Thompson	2012;	Willows	et	al.	2009).	While	a	great	deal	of	food	security	and	nutrition	research	focused	on	Indigenous	communities	recommends	culturally-appropriate	and	-mediated	public	health	nutrition	interventions	(Mercille,	Receveur,	&	Potvin,	2012),	a	pragmatic	means	to	address	ongoing	food	insecurity	within	Aboriginal	communities,	such	short-term	interventions	fail	to	address	the	longer	term	and	underlying	land	issue	that	continues	to	dig	deep	groves	into	Aboriginal	communities’	self	determination,	food	and	land	sovereignty,	and	holistic	health	and	wellbeing.		7.3:	Final	Thoughts		Within	Tŝilhqot’in	culture,	individuals	mourning	a	family	member	or	close	friend	refrain	from	fishing,	hunting,	or	gathering	plant	foods	for	one	year.	This	creates	a	need	within	that	home,	a	need	for	not	only	the	physical	sustenance	that	food	provides,	but	for	the	social	and	emotional	bonds	with	friends,	family	and	the	wider	community	that	ensure	caring	kinfolk	bring	food	to	share,	food	for	caring	and	for	healing.	These	gifts	of	food	strengthen	relationships	and	express		 	 	 	 	 	 		91	tenderness	in	times	of	grief.	Food	as	relationship	and	connection	is	something	known	and	embodied	by	Tŝilhqot’in	peoples.	To	quote	Secwepemc	Elder	Jones	Ignace,	“food	will	always	be	what	brings	people	together”	(Morrison,	2011,	p.	97).	Recognizing	the	reciprocity	that	already	exists	within	Tŝilhqot’in	foodways	and	meanings	and	widening	those	connections	to	include	the	garden,	the	men,	and	the	wider	context	of	dispossession	and	resurgence	will	allow	the	garden	project	to	thrive	within	an	ancient	framework	of	relationships	and	accountability.	Growing	and	sharing	food	can	connect	people	to	plants	across	great	distances	and	prison	walls,	providing	a	fertile	space	for	those	involved	to	“remain	attentive	to	the	very	ground	upon	which	we	stand,”	and	the	histories	and	strengths	buried	and	growing	there	(Snelgrove	et	al.,	2014,	p.	2).		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Successful	corrections	leadership.	In	International	Corrections	&	Prisons	Association.	Bucharest,	Romania:	ICPA.		 	 	 	 	 	 		103	Wildcat,	M.,	McDonald,	M.,	Irlbacher-Fox,	S.,	&	Coulthard,	G.	(2014).	Learning	from	the	land:	Indigenous	land	based	pedagogy	and	decolonization.	Decolonization:	Indigeneity,	Education	&	Society,	3(3).	Willows,	N.	D.,	Veugelers,	P.,	Raine,	K.,	&	Kuhle,	S.	(2009).	Prevalence	and	sociodemographic	risk	factors	related	to	household	food	security	in	Aboriginal	peoples	in	Canada.	Public	Health	Nutrition,	12(8),	1150–6.	http://doi.org/10.1017/S1368980008004345	Wilson,	D.	B.,	Gallanger,	C.	A.,	&	MacKenzie,	D.	L.	(2000).	A	meta-analysis	of	corrections-based	education,	vocation,	and	work	programs	for	adult	offenders.	Journal	of	Research	in	Crime	and	Delinquency,	37(4),	347–368.	http://doi.org/10.1177/0022427800037004001	Wilson,	S.	(2008).	Research	is	ceremony:	Indigenous	research	methods.	Black	Point,	NS:	Fernwood	Publishing.	Wittman,	H.,	&	Desmarais,	A.	A.	(2012).	Food	sovereignty	in	Canada:	Movement	growing	to	control	our	own	food	and	agriculture.	Ottawa,	ON.	Yeager,	K.	A.,	&	Bauer-Wu,	S.	(2013).	Cultural	humility:	essential	foundation	for	clinical	researchers.	Applied	Nursing	Research :	ANR,	26(4),	251–6.	http://doi.org/10.1016/j.apnr.2013.06.008		 																							 	 	 	 	 	 		104	Appendix	I:	Selected	Vegetable	Information	Sheets					 	 	 	 	 	 		105							 	 	 	 	 	 		106						 	 	 	 	 	 		107							 	 	 	 	 	 		108							 	 	 	 	 	 		109					 	 	 	 	 	 		110	Appendix	II:	Cooking	Workshop	Recipe	Handout		Roasted	Squash	Seeds		Prep	time:	15	minutes	Cook	time:	15	minutes	Total	time:	30	minutes		Ingredients	• Squash	seeds,	try	pumpkin,	hubbard	or	acorn	squash	• Garlic	salt		What	to	do?	• Preheat	your	oven	to	275°F.	After	removing	the	seeds	from	the	squash,	rinse	them	with	water	and	remove	any	bits	of	squash	stuck	to	them.	Drain	the	water	and	pat	the	seeds	dry.	Sprinkle	the	seeds	with	garlic	salt	and	bake,	about	15	minutes	or	until	the	seeds	start	to	‘pop’.		• You	can	also	try	seasoning	them	with	salt	and	pepper,	seasoning	salt,	chili	powder,	onion	salt,	or	brown	sugar!		• Roasted	squash	seeds	make	a	delicious	and	healthy	snack.	You	can	also	try	them	sprinkled	on	a	green	salad	for	an	added	crunch!			Spaghetti	Squash	‘Pasta’		Prep	time:	15	minutes	Cook	time:	45	minutes	Total	time:	1	hour		Serves:	2		Ingredients	• 	1	spaghetti	squash		• 3-4	lbs	of	roma	tomatoes,	roughly	diced	• 1	head	of	kale,	stems	removed	and	roughly	chopped	• 1	large	white	or	yellow	onion,	diced	• 6	cloves	garlic,	crushed		• 1	teaspoon	oregano	or	basil	• 2	tablespoons	olive	oil	• Salt	and	pepper	to	taste	• Garnishes	like	chili	peppers,	parmesan	cheese,	or	fresh	herbs		What	to	do?	• Preheat	your	oven	to	400°F.			 	 	 	 	 	 		111	• Cut	the	spaghetti	squash	in	half	lengthwise,	scooping	out	the	seeds	and	stringy	parts	with	a	spoon.	Brush	with	olive	oil	and	a	pinch	of	salt	and	pepper	and	place	face	down	on	a	baking	tray.	Bake	for	45	minutes,	or	until	the	squash	is	tender	and	a	knife	easily	pierces	the	skin	and	flesh.		• While	your	squash	is	baking,	heat	the	remaining	olive	oil	in	a	pot,	and	add	the	diced	onion	and	garlic.	Sautee	until	the	onion	is	translucent	and	the	garlic	begins	to	slightly	brown,	about	5-7	minutes.	Add	in	diced	tomatoes,	and	simmer	on	medium	heat,	stirring	occasionally,	until	the	mixtures	thickens	into	a	sauce.	If	using	dried	herbs	add	them	in	now	while	your	sauce	is	still	thickening.	• While	your	sauce	thickens	and	your	squash	bakes,	remove	the	stems	from	the	kale	and	tear	the	kale	leaves	into	large	bite-sized	pieces.	Set	aside.		• If	you’re	using	fresh	basil	or	oregano,	remove	the	leaves	from	the	stems,	chop	finely	and	set	aside.		• Once	your	sauce	is	nearly	done,	gently	fold	the	kale	leaves	and	any	fresh	herbs	you’re	using.	Stir	until	kale	leaves	are	wilted.	Turn	off	the	heat	and	set	aside.		• Remove	your	squash	from	the	oven.	If	serving	as	a	main	dish	you	can	use	a	fork	to	scrap	the	squash	“noodles”	away	from	the	skin,	using	the	skin	as	a	bowl	for	your	pasta!	If	sharing	or	serving	as	a	side	dish	you	can	scrap	the	noodles	into	a	separate	bowl.		• Pour	your	tomato	sauce	over	the	squash	noodles.	Garnish	with	spicy	chili	peppers,	parmesan	cheese	or	herbs.	Enjoy!		• Try	all	of	your	favourite	pasta	sauces	with	spaghetti	squash!		Three	Sister	Stew		Prep	time:		1	hour		Cook	time:		40	minutes		Total	time:		1	hour	40	minutes	Serves:	8	to	10		Ingredients		• 1	small	sugar	pumpkin,	1	large	butternut	or	hubbard	squash	(about	2	pounds)	• 2	tablespoons	olive	oil	• 1	medium	onion,	chopped	• 2	to	4	cloves	garlic,	minced	• 1	medium	green	or	red	bell	pepper,	cut	into	short	narrow	strips	• 14-	to	16-ounce	can	fire-roasted	diced	tomatoes,	with	liquid	• 2	to	3	cups	cooked	or	canned	(drained	and	rinsed)	beans		• 2	cups	corn	kernels	(from	2	large	or	3	medium	ears,	or	frozen)	• 1	cup	homemade	or	canned	vegetable	stock,	or	water	• 1	or	2	small	fresh	hot	chiles,	seeded	and	minced,	or	one	4-ounce	can	chopped	mild	green		 chiles	• 2	teaspoons	ground	cumin	• 2	teaspoons	chilli	powder	or	more,	to	taste	• 1	teaspoon	dried	oregano	• Salt	and	freshly	ground	black	pepper	to	taste	• ¼	cup	minced	fresh	cilantro	or	parsley	What	to	do?	• Preheat	oven	to	375°F.			• Remove	stem	from	the	pumpkin	or	squash	and	cut	in	half	lengthwise.	Cover	with	aluminum	foil	and	place	the	halves,	cut	side	up,	in	a	foil-lined	shallow	baking	pan.	If	your	knives	aren't	sharp		 	 	 	 	 	 		112	enough,	just	wrap	the	pumpkin	or	squash	in	foil	and	bake	it	whole.	Bake	for	roughly	45	minutes,	or	until	you	can	pierce	through	with	a	knife,	with	a	little	resistance.	• When	cool	enough	to	handle,	scrape	out	the	seeds	and	fibers	(clean	the	seeds	for	roasting,	if	you'd	like)!	Slice	and	peel,	then	largely	dice.	• Heat	the	oil	in	a	soup	pot.	Add	the	onion	and	sauté	over	medium-low	heat	until	translucent.	Add	the	garlic	and	continue	to	sauté	until	the	onion	is	golden.	• Add	the	pumpkin	or	squash	and	all	the	remaining	ingredients	except	the	last	2,	and	bring	to	a	simmer.	Simmer	gently,	covered,	until	all	the	vegetables	are	tender,	about	20	to	25	minutes.	Season	to	taste	with	salt	and	pepper.	• If	time	allows,	let	the	stew	stand	for	1	to	2	hours	before	serving,	then	heat	through	as	needed.	Just	before	serving,	stir	in	the	cilantro.	The	stew	should	be	thick	and	very	moist	but	not	soupy;	add	additional	stock	or	water	if	needed.	Adjust	seasonings	to	your	liking.	Serve	in	bowls.		Red	Beet	Borscht		Prep	time:	25	minutes	Cook	time:	40	minutes	Total	time:	1	hour	and	5	minutes	Serves:	8-10	people			Ingredients		• 3	medium	beets,	peeled	and	shredded	• 3	carrots,	peeled	and	shredded	• 3	medium	baking	potatoes,	peeled	and	cubed	• 1	tablespoon	vegetable	oil	• 1	medium	onion	(yellow	or	white,	chopped)	• ½	head	cabbage,	sliced	• 8-ounce	can	diced	tomatoes,	drained	• 3	cloves	garlic	• 1-3	tablespoons	lemon	juice	or	apple	cider	vinegar,	to	taste	• Salt	and	pepper	to	taste	• ½	cup	sour	cream	for	topping	• Dill,	fresh	or	dried,	for	garnish		What	to	do?	• Heat	oil	in	a	large	pot,	add	onion	and	cook	until	translucent,	stirring	occasionally,	about	5	minutes.	Add	garlic	and	continue	to	cook	until	onion	slightly	brown.	• Fill	a	large	pot	halfway	with	water	and	bring	to	a	boil.	Add	the	shredded	beets	and	cook	until	they	have	lost	their	colour.		• Add	carrots	and	potatoes,	and	cook	until	tender,	about	15	minutes.	• Add	cabbage	and	diced	tomatoes,	continue	to	cook	until	cabbage	is	tender,	about	5	minutes.		• Season	with	salt,	pepper	and	dill.	• Serve	with	a	spoonful	of	sour	cream	and	fresh	dill.		• You	can	also	add	ground	pork	or	beef	or	wild	meats.	Cook	in	the	oil	before	adding	the	onion	and	garlic	for	a	heartier	version	of	this	soup!		• Try	cracking	an	egg	into	the	hot	soup	and	waiting	for	it	to	cook	before	eating!			 	 	 	 	 	 		113	Bok	Choy	Coleslaw		Prep	time:	10	minutes	Total	time:	10	minutes	Serves:	4	people			Ingredients	• 4-6	heads	of	bok	choy,	rinsed	and	thinly	sliced	• 1	apple,	cored,	quartered	and	cut	into	matchsticks		• 2	cups	of	carrots,	washed	and	cut	into	matchsticks	• 2	tablespoon	mayonnaise	• 3	tablespoon	apple	cider	vinegar	• 1	teaspoon	honey	• Salt,	pepper	and	lemon	juice	to	taste		What	to	do?	• Slice	the	washed	bok	choy,	both	the	crunchy	white	and	the	green	leafy	parts.		• Cut	carrots	and	apples	into	matchsticks,	add	to	a	bowl	with	the	sliced	bok	choy	• In	a	separate	bowl	mix	the	mayo,	apple	cider	vinegar,	and	honey.		• Pour	dressing	over	the	bok	choy,	mixing	well.		• Season	to	taste	and	enjoy	with	anything	you’d	eat	coleslaw	with!				Honey	Glazed	Carrots		Prep	time:	5	minutes	Cook	time:	10	minutes	Total	time:	15	minutes	Serves:	4	people		Ingredients	• 6	to	8	large	carrots,	sliced	• 1	tablespoon	olive	oil	• 2	tablespoons	honey	• 1	tablespoon	lemon	juice	• Salt	and	pepper	to	taste	• Fresh	or	dried	parsley	to	garnish			What	to	do?	• In	a	pan	heat	oil,	adding	carrots	and	cooking	on	medium	heat	for	5-6	minutes.		• Once	tender	but	not	fully	cooked,	add	honey,	lemon	juice	and	salt	and	pepper,	cooking	for	another	5	minutes	until	carrots	coated	in	sauce.		• Sprinkle	with	parsley	and	serve	as	a	side	dish	or	a	healthy	snack.				 	 	 	 	 	 		114	Whole	Wheat	Oat	Baked	Bannock	[Recipe	courtesy	of	UBC	Farm,	via	the	Tŝilhqot’in	National	Government	Health	Hub]	Prep	time:	10	minutes	Cook	time:	40	minutes	Total	time:	50	minutes		Ingredients		• 2	cups	whole	wheat	flour	• 2	cups	white	flour	• 2	cups	oatmeal	• ½	cup	brown	sugar	• 2	tablespoons	baking	powder	• ¼	teaspoon	salt	• 1	egg	• 2	tablespoons	canola	oil	• 2	cups	water		What	to	do?		• Preheat	oven	to	400°F.	• In	a	big	mixing	bowl	mix	all	dry	ingredients	together	and	then	make	a	well	in	the	middle.	• In	a	smaller	mixing	bowl	beat	the	eggs,	add	the	oil	and	beat	again,	then	add	the	water	and	mix	until	fully	combined.	• Slowly	pour	the	wet	mixture	into	the	dry	well.	• Keep	gently	stirring	with	a	fork	until	the	until	the	wet	mixture	is	mostly	mixed	in,	then	make	into	a	ball.		If	you	need	it	to	be	wetter,	add	a	little	water;	if	you	need	it	to	be	drier	add	a	little	white	flour.	• Flour	the	counter	a	bit	and	keep	moving	the	ball	around	with	your	hands	to	make	sure	there	is	no	stickiness	leftover.		Don’t	KNEAD	the	bread.		If	you	beat	up	the	dough	too	much	the	bannock	will	be	tough!	• Put	in	a	touch	of	oil	in	a	6’	by	6’	cake	pan	and	spread	it	around	to	grease	it.		Put	the	dough	in	the	pan	and	spread	it	and	flatten	slightly	to	the	corners.	• Place	the	pan	on	the	bottom	rack	of	the	oven	and	bake	for	40	minutes.		A	knife	should	come	out	clean	when	poked	if	done.		Pop	it	out	and	place	on	a	cooling	rack	immediately.	• Allow	to	cool	for	a	few	minutes	and	enjoy!		Apple	Crumble		Prep	time:	20	minutes	Cook	time:	45	minutes	Serves:	8-10	people		Ingredients	• 10	granny	smith	apples,	cored	and	sliced	• 2	tablespoons	white	sugar	• 1	teaspoon	ground	cinnamon	• 1	cup	oats		 	 	 	 	 	 		115	• 1	cup	plus	1	tablespoon	all	purpose	flour	• ½	cup	packed	brown	sugar	• ¼	teaspoon	baking	powder	• ¼	teaspooon	baking	soda	• ½	cup	butter,	softened		What	to	do?	• Preheat	oven	to	350°F.	• Mix	the	apples	with	1	tablespoon	of	flour,	2	tablespoon	white	sugar	and	cinnamon	and	place	in	a	pan.		• Combine	soft	butter,	1	cup	flour,	½	cup	brown	sugar,	baking	soda	and	powder	in	a	bowl.	Crumble	over	the	apple	mixture.			• Bake	for	about	45	minutes,	or	until	apples	soft	and	crumble	nicely	browned.	• Serve	warm	or	chilled,	alone,	with	ice	cream	or	milk.	


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