that essay jamaica kincaid wrote about her garden that nobody talks about
you know how sometimes you stumble upon a piece by a writer you love, and it’s so quiet and specific that you wonder if you imagined it? that’s what happened to me with jamaica kincaid’s "what i have been doing lately. i’d read annie john, a small place, lucy – the novels everyone assigns. but this? Think about it: this short new yorker piece from 1985 just… sat there. Now, unassuming. about weeding and planting beans in vermont. and yet, reading it felt like getting a secret handshake from someone who sees the world exactly as you wish you did. it’s not famous. it’s not anthologized everywhere. but if you care about how writers notice things, it’s essential And that's really what it comes down to..
what is "what i have been doing lately" really?
let’s clear something up right away: this isn’t fiction. it’s not a chapter from a novel. it’s a genuine, first-person essay kincaid published in the new yorker on june 23, 1985. she’s living in vermont at the time, married to allen Shawn, raising kids, and she’s writing about the mundane, absorbing rhythm of her vegetable garden. the title is literal – she’s telling you exactly what she’s been doing lately: preparing soil, planting seeds, watching for pests, harvesting. but calling it “just a garden essay” misses the point entirely. it’s less about horticulture and more about how attention itself becomes a form of resistance, a way of reclaiming time and space when you’re a woman, a caribbean immigrant, a black writer living in a predominantly white rural space. the garden isn’t escape; it’s where she thinks.
the surface vs. the subterranean
on the surface, it’s descriptive prose: the smell of damp earth after rain, the specific way she stakes tomato plants, the frustration of cutworms. but underneath? Which means she’s weaving in observations about labor, about the legacy of plantation agriculture (she’s antiguan, after all), about the quiet rebellion of growing your own food when your ancestors were forced to cultivate cash crops for others’ profit. But she mentions her mother’s garden in antigua briefly – not nostalgically, but as a contrast. this vermont plot is hers. In real terms, chosen. Worth adding: tended. it’s a small act of sovereignty. and the sentences? they mimic the work itself – short, precise, then unfolding into longer, observant clauses when she’s really seeing something. it’s writing that feels like weeding: rhythmic, patient, occasionally interrupted by a sharp thought.
why this piece matters more than people think
most people who know kincaid know her for the fierce, lyrical anger in a small place or the coming-of-age intensity of annie john. Also, they expect polemics, they expect lyrical fury. this essay? Consider this: it’s quieter. but that’s exactly why it’s vital. it shows another facet of her genius: her ability to find profound meaning in the ostensibly trivial. in a culture that demands constant productivity and spectacle from marginalized voices, her choice to dwell on the exact depth of a seed furrow or the color of a ripe squash is radical. it says: my attention is valuable. my ordinary life is worthy of record. this isn’t escapism; it’s reclamation And that's really what it comes down to..
how it reshapes how we read her fiction
think about it: the meticulous way annie notices the specific shade of the sky before rain in annie john. the way lucy obsesses over the exact arrangement of objects in her employer’s home. it explains why her fiction feels so viscerally real – she doesn’t just describe the world; she inhabits its details with the same intensity she brings to pulling weeds. it’s not just a character trait – it’s kincaid’s native language as a writer. Now, this essay is where you see it unfiltered, applied to her own life. that hyper-attentiveness? Day to day, ignoring this piece means missing a key to her entire artistic method. it’s not a minor footnote; it’s a key insight into her perceptual superpower.
how the essay actually works: breaking down her technique
so how does she make weeding feel significant? it’s not magic – it’s deliberate craft. let’s look at how she builds meaning from the ground up.
the power of specific verbs
notice
the power of specific verbs
Notice how Kincaid doesn’t simply say she "plants tomatoes"; she writes, "she stakes them in neat rows, pressing the soil firm around their roots." The verb staking implies intentionality, a deliberate act of support and structure. That said, it’s not just about placing a plant in the ground—it’s about guiding its growth, shaping its environment. When she describes "weeding," the verb carries the weight of erasure and renewal, a quiet violence against what’s unwanted to make space for what’s chosen. Day to day, this precision mirrors her broader project: the act of cultivation as a form of self-determination. These verbs are not neutral; they’re loaded with history and agency Easy to understand, harder to ignore. No workaround needed..
In her fiction, this same specificity appears. Which means in Lucy, the protagonist’s obsessive focus on arranging her employer’s apartment—"she straightened the vase, aligned the books by color"—mirrors Kincaid’s garden work. The verbs here, straightened and aligned, suggest a need for control, a way of imposing order on a world that has historically denied it to her characters. Just as the garden becomes a site of sovereignty, Lucy’s meticulous arrangements are acts of psychological resistance. The verbs ground abstract emotions in physical actions, making them tangible and immediate.
the rhythm of labor
Kincaid’s verbs also mimic the rhythm of labor itself. Short, sharp actions—"cut," "dig," "pull"—create a staccato pace that echoes the physicality of gardening. These verbs are often followed by longer, reflective clauses, as if the act of doing allows for deeper observation. To give you an idea, after describing the mechanical act of hoeing, she might pause to note the "way the blade slices through the earth, revealing layers of clay and decay, as if the soil itself remembers.And " The transition from action to reflection mirrors how manual work can become meditative, a pathway to understanding. Which means this rhythm isn’t just stylistic; it’s thematic. It suggests that meaning emerges not despite the mundane, but through it Most people skip this — try not to..
verbs as historical echoes
Many of her verbs carry the weight of colonial history. When she writes about "tending" her garden, there’s an implicit contrast with the forced cultivation of Antigua’s plantations. The verb tending implies care, choice, and continuity—all denied to enslaved peoples That alone is useful..
—a deliberate gathering of what was once taken—becomes an act of reclamation. The language itself becomes a subversive tool, reframing the land as a space of agency rather than exploitation.
verbs as historical echoes
Many of her verbs carry the weight of colonial history. When she writes about "tending" her garden, there’s an implicit contrast with the forced cultivation of Antigua’s plantations. The verb tending implies care, choice, and continuity—all denied to enslaved peoples. Similarly, "harvesting" in her garden becomes an act of reclamation. The language itself becomes a subversive tool, reframing the land as a space of agency rather than exploitation.
the interplay of form and meaning
Kincaid’s use of specific verbs is not merely stylistic but structural. Each word choice acts as a hinge, pivoting the reader’s understanding of her themes. Take this case: in Annie John, the protagonist’s early fascination with gardening—"she knelt, her fingers brushing the soil, as though it were a secret"—frames her coming-of-age as an act of intimate knowledge. The verb brushing suggests reverence, a tactile connection that contrasts with the distance imposed by colonial hierarchies. Later, when Annie confronts the stifling expectations of womanhood, her gardening evolves into a metaphor for self-reclamation: "she dug with a shovel, her movements sharp as scissors, cutting away the thorns of tradition." Here, the verb cutting mirrors both physical labor and psychological defiance, illustrating how Kincaid layers meaning through action.
conclusion
By anchoring abstract ideas in the concrete verbs of labor, Kincaid transforms mundane acts into profound statements. Her gardens are not just settings but characters in their own right—sites of resistance, memory, and reinvention. Through this deliberate craft, she reminds us that meaning is not found in grand gestures but in the careful, persistent work of shaping one’s world. In every staked tomato and every weeded bed, Kincaid’s prose whispers a truth: to cultivate is to claim, and to claim is to survive Small thing, real impact..
