Finding poetry in the simple radish

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 30/12/2024 (295 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Every day, the New York Times sends its subscribers an email with a menu of they items they should read, and also that they might want to read. (We do the same thing, sending out The Wrap, a newsletter you can subscribe to featuring links to Free Press stories.)

It’s a way to offer readers and potential readers to stories they might find interesting, another way to introduce readers to our work.

On Christmas morning, the Times sent out its usual leaven of “latest news” heartbreak; the mechanics of mass deportations from the U.S., the possibly dangerous role of Iran during the upcoming Trump administration, the shooting-down of a passenger airliner in Kazakhstan, 21 deaths during political unrest following a disputed election in Mozambique, an armed attack at the reopening of Haiti’s largest hospital, and the list went on.

And a link to a story and photo feature about an annual competition in Oaxaca, Mexico.

The Night of the Radishes — Noche de Rabanos — has taken place for 120 years, with over 100 teams, mostly individual families, competing this year.

The story isn’t without subtle touches of darkness — the radishes can’t be eaten, because they are grown with contaminated water and industrial insecticides — but overall, it’s story about wonder and celebration and happiness. And radishes. Thousands upon thousands of radishes. Twelve tons of radishes this year alone.

“It’s part of our idiosyncrasy and our economic reality,” Francisco Martínez Neri, Oaxaca’s mayor, told the Times. “People make art or songs or poetry from whatever they have.”

And radish art was made: village scenes, Day-of-the-Dead tableaus, Nativity scenes. Some years, the scenes include displays that celebrate particular events, like entries in 1969 celebrating mankind landing on the moon for the first time.

In 2022, 10,000 people came to see the creations, which have to be carved and assembled in only four days, because the radishes start to dry, wrinkle and rot as soon as they come out of the ground, something that happens even faster as they are carved.

This year, some waited in lines for as long as three hours to see the creations.

It was a small wonder of a piece, well worth reading in a year that has had so much hostility and, dare we say, what looks like a new nearness to war and other disasters.

A small pleasant spark of seeing people finding joy in something as small as a radish. (Oh, and not all of those Oaxaca are small. One of the two varieties used in the competition can weigh in at 3.2 kilograms.)

But to get back to the point. This is not to suggest that we can ignore the world by simply focusing on the best or lightest of things — no, far from it.

The world intrudes on us as it must, because it affects us, our children, our grandchildren, our friends.

It affects strangers and neighbours alike — and we should care about that.

In fact, if we don’t care, if we choose to keep our heads completely buried in the sand about the trials of others, we can’t rightly consider ourselves part of that large and important thing known as humanity.

Tomorrow marks New Year’s Eve, a time when people resolve to be better than they were during the year that just passed and the years before that.

Resolve to make some time for a radish or two. Maybe follow Francisco Martínez Neri’s advice and make art or songs or poetry from whatever you have.

And in the process, perhaps find a way to create for yourself, and those around you, a happier, more fulfilling New Year.