Flowers are so present in our lives that we almost do not see them: sheathed in paper in every market, plunked in a vase on a table in any cafe. But while they are quotidian, they are also monumental; in many cultures, they memorialize the most important days of our lives, from graduations and promotions to weddings and funerals. They are vital to Catholic rituals, Hindu festivals, Buddhist temple offerings and Mexico’s Day of the Dead—and also, via chrysanthemums, to the quasi-religion of U.S. college football homecoming games. (Mums are funeral flowers in parts of Europe and Asia, which might be a comfort to the losing team.) We invest them with so much meaning that we demand they always be perfect—although like any crop, they are fungible and fragile, subject to weather, diseases and decay.
And like any product, they are subject to the lure of cheaper production offshore. The movement of American manufacturing to countries with fewer regulations over land and labor is an old story, reenacted in products from furniture to cars to food. But the relocation of flower growing was not an accident of global economics. It was deliberately fostered by the U.S. government, part of the 20th-century war on drugs. {read}