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