Dear Mr. and Mrs. Farmer

This morning you came to mind as I read Psalm 103.

I was reminded of our conversation several months back as we sat in your kitchen there in your home not far from the Raleigh/Durham area. You were willing to talk with me, a researcher from a small west Texas university about your struggles with the USDA.

I knew I was an unwelcome guest when one of your sons came in asking "who is the clown" who parked in the middle of the drive way. My car was not in the middle of the drive way, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, but that question served notice that there was an unwelcome guest in your home. That unwelcomed guest was me. I suspect he was trying to protect you from people who look like me. I am a white man, and I was a stranger to you and those who loved you.

I took no offense at the harshly tenored question. You were then elderly, and now even older, and an honorable son would not want his parents to be further wounded and disadvantaged by anyone. His tone and his words did put me on edge, and justifably so.

During those early moments of the interview, and even later toward the end of the interview, you commented Mr. Farmer, while Mrs. Farmer stood over against the refrigerator in the kitchen, that "He will take care of things. Pay day some day. God will take care of those who hurt people."

Then an older son came in. Mrs. Farmer, you had called him to notify him that the interviewer was there and wanted to talk to him as well. He challenged me left and right, didn't he? I personally had done no wrongs to you or to him, but "my people," those of us whose skin is white had harmed all of you. Those of us whose skin is white who live and work in positions of power and privilege had indeed harmed all of you.

You had lost your farm. You like other black farmers had been shoved to the back of the line in terms of programs and policies within the local county FSA office, a division of the USDA. Because your skin is darker than other folks, they saw you coming, ignored you, made you wait, altered your farm operation plans, and then gave you less than what you needed, and later than you could use. Then the unspeakable happened, a disaster year occurred, like it did to other farmers, yet they received disaster relief funds that saw them through, and you were not afforded the same opportunity.

There was a lot of hurt and anger, tears and sadness, and bitterness and rage that day. Some of your kin could have died. They have heart conditions. Yet they remain true to God.

They believe similar things as did the writer of Psalm 103.

I hope you all are right, that God will settle the score, that in the end things will work out right.

I only wish, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, that you owned your land, and that your sons worked the land you and they owned.

I still remember that day in your home, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer. That day is indelibly printed in my mind and in my heart.

I still remember.