See those scars

I've been thinking about scars the last few days. "Odd thing to be thinking about," you might be saying to yourself. Yes, but then again we all have them in some form or fashion. I have some on my right ankle from a lost battle with a dog who was personally offended which as a ten year old I rode my bike past his house. Those are physical wounds that healed.

Our preacher called attention last Sunday to Paul's scars, "...for I bear in my body the marks of Jesus" (Gal. 6:17). His devotion to his Risen Lord led to those scars.

All of those ninth graders in Ms. Gruwell's class in the movie "Freedom Writers Diary" bore "scars" of friends and family dying, domestic violence, poverty, racism, and gang violence. Those are scars and wounds that do not so easily heal.

Then there are farmers' scars. And, scars of family members. They are many and they are severe: strokes, renal failure, lost eyesight, and hypertension; depression, anxiety, and insomnia; and, divorce, death, and despair. Some healing can occur, has occurred, and will occur. There are some wounds from which there is no healing.

A resilient people? Absolutely! Faithful people? Absolutely! Love their country? Yes! Love their neighbors? Yes! Love the land? Without a doubt!

They bear in their bodies the marks of discrimination of various institutions and people, and health care for their bodies, their minds, and their relationships are limited. Will the 2007 Farm Bill address these scars? Will re-opening the Pigford Case ease the suffering? What is the face of justice?

When will it come?

Prayer for justice

Father God:

We acknowledge that you have been concerned about the oppressed before us and you will be after us.
We acknowledge that you have desired justice before us and you will desire it after us.
We ask for your guidance and help as we seek to bring justice to the oppressed.
We request that your Spirit be a guide throughout this entire process.
We ask that you will be found in our research, our writing and our presentations.
We hope that through these efforts this world may become a better place and resemble more of your kingdom and who Christ is.

We are grateful for these opportunities.

Amen

written by Rebecca

He got it right

John Ficara, internationally known photographer, got it right. His work was four years in the making, start to finish. He talked with farmers; he spent days, nights, and early mornings with them; and he photographed them at work. He photographed them in those agonizing hours when the local FSA officials would put them off. He photographed them in the early morning hours at the cooperatives where they sold their produce. He photographed them in heat of the southern sun. He tells their stories of injustice from the promise of "40 acres and a mule" to the current days of encountering bureaucratic injustices and struggles to hold on to the land. "Distant Echoes" is a haunting title for his narration and photographs.

He knows their stories better than most. Perhaps only the farmers know their stories better. His camera allows him to tell their stories in places and in ways beyond the scope of the farmers' abilities to do so.

Their stories deserve to be told.

Some day I'd like to meet John Ficara and learn of his personal story of capturing their stories on film. More than that, I hope the world gets to see Ficara's work.

Check out these web sites. Buy his book from a place where the proceeds help farmers survive.

South Georgia Farmer

It's almost as if it were just yesterday. We sat across the table from each other in a community center in a small south Georgia town. The looks on the faces of those who walked past us showed more than just a little curiosity as the four of us, the Black couple, their friend, and the White man sat, talking and drinking cold, bottled water, in the middle of the afternoon. Both men had been farmers, and she was the wife of one of the farmers. He was the smaller, thinner, leaner, and more fatigued looking of the two men. He spoke softly and quietly. She echoed his words or explained things that he put in few words.

He had just come from his final chemotherapy treatment. It was amazing that he was there. That more than explained his demeanor. We discussed farming, difficulties with the USDA, complications in getting fair treatment with the local FSA office, faith, family, and health. When the conversation shifted to his health, in hushed tones and gravity of speech and voice, he talked about his bout with cancer, his hope for survival, and the reasons he believed he had cancer. Two things, he said explained his cancer, chemicals and worry. Chemicals made sense. Worry made sense. Breathing in what God didn't intend for us to breathe, and constantly thinking, worrying, fretting, struggling with survival on the land against insurmountable odds. I'll never forget that conversation and how he coined for me a new word that spoke to the depths of his being. He didn't use the word "worry," but instead he invented his own word that spoke volumes, the word "worashun." I don't know how to spell it. I can still hear him say it. It stirred me then, and it stirs me now.

Why tell his story, and his invented word that describes the depths of his agony? Simply put, it's because his story, and their story as a couple and family, put faces, words, speech, and emotion into what we suspect, that things changed profoundly in the 20th century for all farmers, and for Black farmers in particular. Those changes? Mechanization, chemicals (herbicides and pesticides), government policy, and the court system.

This gentleman from south Georgia breathed chemicals that were not meant to go into his lungs. He had to work harder with few if any advantages in terms of equipment. He had to face difficult odds in getting operating loans and equipment loans in ways that white farmers didn't have to. He spent a lot of time ruminating and worry and thinking about how to survive against insurmountable odds. The Pigford Class Action Suit did not find justice for him. He was denied.

Seems like only yesterday. It was actually in the fall, 2005. I pray to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and to the Father of you and me, that he is doing well

Curious and dangerous times

Our African American farmers are living in perilous times, and they have been for a long time. When their African ancestors arrived on the shores of America in the early 17th century, subject to degradations beyond our abilities to comprehend, they came, “physically and materially naked, but bearing rich cultural baggage,” says Hinson and Robinson in a to be published document. That heritage included a love for the land and a connection with God and nature. In the years that followed came enslavement on plantations to the enslavement of the peonage system, and then for some, land ownership. At the turn of the century, there were approximately 218,000 Black-owned farms with almost 16,000,000 acres. By 1997, the total number of farmers dropped by 67%, but Black farmers dropped by 98% while White farmers dropped by 63% (USDA, 2002). Blacks were losing their land at a rate 2 ½ times that of the White farmer (US Commission on Civil Rights, 1982). In 1997, Whites owned 98% of the acreage and 97% of the value of private agricultural land (USDA, 1999). It is estimated that Black farmers are losing 1,000 acres per day.

So, despite the enormous odds posed by Jim Crow, African Americans came to be landowners. Now, facing enormous odds, they are losing their lands at enormously high rates. Workers on the land owned by someone else......Working the land they owned......Losing the land they once owned......

Why?

Callings and farmers

Isaiah is clear on when and where his calling came. He makes it perfectly clear and he does so with passion. People often ask me, “So, why, Waymon, do you do this work with farmers? You’re not a farmer, so what’s up with this?” Questions are often agendized, or so it seems to me, but if they are legitimate points of curiosity, then answers are not a problem.

The “calling” came on a Friday afternoon, spring, 1994, when the phone rang. After some time of discussing matters with the attorney on the other end of the line, he said something to the effect of “I think I have failed to communicate to you, Dr. Hinson, the severity of our concerns.” My reply was something to the effect, “So, help me get it.” He did. I did. From there, the “calling” led to farmers and families, stories of blatant and egregious acts of discrimination, land lost, livelihood lost, self lost, and health lost. It led to amazing stories of resilience and courage, faithfulness to the land and to the yearning to farm, and devotion to this righteous cause. Eventually it led to DC, to a mediation hearing, and then to Pigford, and now to these times.

During the fall, 2005, the “calling” led to hours of conversations with farmers and families in North Carolina, Georgia, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, as story was told upon story in the rural areas of our land. At the end of each of those interviews, my commitment to the farmers and families was “to be a faithful teller of your stories.” That is the purpose of this blog.

So, on the pages of this blog you will read some things that are of an academic nature, and other things related to farmers and farming, public policy, community of faith, advocacy efforts, and darker stories of our human natures that are revealed in the plight of the Black farmer. You will read some personal stories. These are their stories, and our stories are co-mingled with theirs in the quest for justice.