They Didn’t Know They Could Grow Food

During a short teaching assignment in an agriculture class at Cross Creek, I had a moment that’s stayed with me.

The students—bright, curious, fully capable—had no idea they could grow their own food.

Not how to grow food.

Not where to grow food.

But that it was even an option.

These were students enrolled in an agriculture class, and for many of them, the idea that food could come from their own hands—outside of a store, outside of a job, outside of a price tag—had simply never been introduced. That wasn’t a failure of curiosity. It was a failure of exposure.

And it made me ask a bigger question:

Why aren’t we teaching this everywhere?

We teach kids how to balance equations they may never use. We teach them how to diagram sentences, memorize dates, and prepare for standardized tests. We teach career readiness, financial literacy (sometimes), and digital skills.

But the most basic life skills—how food works, where it comes from, and how to produce even a small portion of it ourselves—are treated as optional, niche, or extracurricular.

That gap matters.

Knowing how to grow food isn’t about turning every student into a farmer. It’s about agency. It’s about understanding systems. It’s about realizing that nourishment and self-reliance aren’t abstract concepts reserved for adulthood or emergencies.

That’s why we launched AgLab during this assignment—a hands-on project designed to make food systems real. Through AgLab, students hatched chickens in the classroom and worked through a short, standards-aligned lesson plan that connected animal stewardship, food access, and agribusiness basics. For many, it was the first time they had seen food production up close—not as an idea, but as a process they could participate in.

The same was true when we talked about backyard chickens. Many students were surprised to learn that chickens are not livestock in the way people often assume. In many cities, small backyard flocks are permitted—though zoning rules do vary, and it’s important to check local ordinances. Even that nuance became part of the lesson. Students began to see how policy, place, and daily life intersect.

When students learned that food could come from raised beds, containers, edible landscaping, or even a small flock producing eggs in a backyard, the shift was immediate. Food became tangible. Possible. Local. Personal.

And for some, empowering.

This is especially critical in communities that are routinely labeled “food deserts,” as if the absence of grocery stores automatically implies an absence of capability. That narrative does real harm. It suggests dependency instead of potential, consumption instead of contribution.

Let me be clear: growing food—or keeping chickens—should never be an obligation, nor a substitute for fair wages, public benefits, or emergency food access. This is not an either–or argument.

It’s a yes—and one.

Yes, we must address immediate hunger.

And yes, we should equip young people with the knowledge that they can participate in their own food system—at whatever scale fits their lives.

Imagine if food literacy were woven through every grade level.

Imagine if students graduated knowing not just what they wanted to be, but how to feed themselves.

Imagine if agency were treated as essential, not optional.

We don’t need more students who think food only comes from somewhere else. We need young people who understand that systems are built—and that they can help shape them.

That lesson doesn’t start in adulthood.

It starts in the classroom.

And the fact that so many students are still surprised by it tells us exactly how much work we have left to do.