Elena Smith

May 14, 2085

The Agricultural Act was passed today. Starting in the next few years, every student in the GTA will learn how to grow their own food, from kindergarten through university. Professor Grant called it “the most important piece of legislation in a century.” He’s always saying that food isn’t just about sustenance; it’s about control.

I’ve been turning his words over in my head all day. He’s right, of course. Food is control. Costco has proved that. Grocery stores are a cruel joke now—rows of overpriced, shrink-wrapped everything, and no way to escape their grip. If you can’t afford their bulk packages, you go without. I can’t even look at their ads anymore without feeling sick. Nonna used to tell me about a time when she could walk into any store and buy just one apple if she wanted. “A single apple, Elena,” she’d say, laughing like it was some wild indulgence. Back then, a few dollars could buy a full bag of groceries. Now, a single tomato costs nearly as much.

Nonna’s stories always felt distant, almost like fairy tales. She talked about Sunday markets where people browsed leisurely and came home with bags full of fresh produce. But when she told me about how the inflation crept in, her voice always grew heavy. It started slow, she said. People ignored the rising prices, thinking it was temporary, blaming bad weather or supply chains. They trusted politicians and corporations to fix it. No one realized it wasn’t going to stop until it was too late. By the time I was born, buying food had become a luxury most people couldn’t afford. That’s why farming is everything now.

Now, here we are. My generation doesn’t have the luxury of convenience; we've had to learn how to grow, and preserve every scrap we can. Farming is no longer a hobby or a niche skill; it’s a necessity. It feels strange to think of it that way. I used to hate the gardening chores Nonna gave me when I was younger—pulling weeds, planting seeds, watering. I never thought it would become the backbone of my education, let alone my survival.

At university, farming isn’t just something we learn about—it’s something we do. The rooftop farm on campus feeds more than just the students; it’s a lifeline for the neighborhood. Last week, I brought home a bag of greens from class, and my mom nearly cried. “We grew these,” I told her, and I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time: pride.

I want to believe the Agricultural Act is a step forward, but part of me can’t shake the bitterness. Why did it take a crisis for us to act? Why didn’t Nonna’s generation—or even my parents’ generation—fight harder to stop this? They trusted corporations to fix problems they had no interest in solving. And now we’re here, turning school fields and balconies into gardens because there’s no other choice.

Still, I can’t deny the sense of empowerment I feel when I plant something and watch it grow. There’s something almost rebellious about it, like Professor Grant said today: “Every green sprout is an act of resistance against greed.” He’s right. Farming isn’t just survival; it’s defiance. I wonder if Nonna would see it that way. She loved her little garden, but I think for her, it was about joy and tradition. For us, it’s survival.

I’m not sure what I want to do with my future. Agronomy feels important, but so does everything else. My friend Mara is studying economics, digging into how monopolies like Costco took control. Andre, who’s in environmental science, spends his afternoons researching drought-resistant crops. Even those in business and engineering seem to end up talking about food systems and sustainability. It’s impossible to escape the reality we’re living in. University life hasn’t changed as much as you’d think, but there’s an urgency now that didn’t exist before. We still join clubs, and go to our classes, but conversations feel heavier. Everyone’s trying to figure out how they fit into the bigger picture—how to make things better, or at least keep them from getting worse.

I don’t know if historians will look back on this moment and call it a turning point. I hope they do. I hope they’ll study the Agricultural Act and call it the start of something better. I also hope they understand how hard it’s been. How much we’ve lost. How angry and scared we are.

For now, I’ll keep planting. One tomato at a time. Maybe that’s all I can do.