Gut Punch: Too Many Deaths

This morning I had one of those gut-punch moments. It was a serious punch to my heart and soul. My grief is intense, and maybe it will remit as the day goes on. I hope so. Actually, I hope it doesn't. It is too deep. 

Several of us have been working with various congressional leaders and Secretary Tom Vilsack's office on behalf of Black farmers and their severe mistreatment at the hands of the USDA. Those people have been Senators Warren, Sanders, and Booker. We engaged with President Biden's policy team before the election. We have made calls, written letters, and helped write legislation. 

Socially Disadvantaged Farmers are on the precipice of a dream come true. Indebtedness that has been a function of discriminatory actions for years, as interest piled up upon interest, now has an opportunity to be erased. The term is "debt relief," which carries with it some technicalities. 

Several years ago, I interviewed a couple of Black farmers who had had their land and equipment taken from them via a contrived arrangement of the FSA office, a local bank, and the implement dealership. Those folks knew that foreclosure was coming before it landed in the laps of the farmers. 

One farmer died not long after I interviewed him. It was a short interview as he was in his hospital bed in his living room as his care taker hovered nearby. I made it brief. I had moved into his space and he was suffering. He was soon in the presence of his ancestors. 

This morning, I decided to call the other farmer. I was thinking that perhaps provisions for debt relief under the American Rescue Plan Act of 2021, with its sections 1005 and 1006, might be useful for him and his wife. I knew that they were indebted to the USDA, but how much I don't recall. 

Then, upon doing a google search, I received the sucker punch. This farmer had died earlier this year. Yes, he also had passed on to his ancestors, just like his partner had several years ago. I watched the video of him and his family there on the web page, and I wept. 

Those tears are for him and his wife and family. Those tears are for numerous other Black farmers who did not live to see justice. From Texas to North Carolina to Georgia to Kansas and to points betwixt and between, they are dead. Yes, they have died, and in many instances, the stress of farming while Black in  America took them to early graves. I see their names, I hear their voices, their documents are in my filing cabinet, their interviews are in my voice files and transcribed in most places. 

They passed to glory without seeing justice, without seeing their debts forgiven. 

I left a message on their home phone. I hope his wife will call. If she doesn't, I still was able to leave a word of condolence. 

Yes, the Black Farmer Movement is real and the farmers are worthy of justice for their pain and suffering. Yes, their families deserve debt relief that they never received. 

That is my commitment, to work on their behalf, before any more Black farmers die. 

Too many have died. 

Therein lies my grief. 

The Strange Life of Grief

Grief is what we feel when we read the newspaper or watch our preferred news channel only to learn that 17 lives have been destroyed in Florida.

Grief wearies the body

It troubles the soul

It can be about life or death

Or about dreams untold.

It may speak of unspoken hopes

It can be about ideas or places

When it has us against the ropes

It keeps us longing for those other spaces.

It takes hold, sneaks up from behind.

Its clutches are strong and forceful,

It has many things to remind

And no one is respected, no one.

It comes from wherever it comes,

And it goes wherever it goes.

Grief strangles with its hands,

Squeezes the neck of joy.

Wherever it may land

While it removes the colors from the rainbow.

It makes the tastiest of

Morsels taste bland.

Grief asks a lot of questions

It gives but few answers.

It tells us not where we are destined

It forces us into chasms of hang on and let go.

Its forces are vast

And uncontrollable.

It thrives on the past

Its thirst is like the desert or a rainstorm that appears from nowhere.

Its hunger is like an

Animal that is

Lurking about looking for prey.

Grief is like the grave with

No body found down deep inside it.

Grief dulls the senses, robs one of

Words, and

Makes itself the focus as people stare.

Grief keeps us up all night

Filling us with fright.

Grief keeps us occupied all day

Creating things to hold at bay.

Grief reminds us of things we wished

Telling us that all is still amiss.

Grief beats us at every turn

Reminding us that we’ll never learn.

Grief tells us of those who are gone

Reminding us that we’re not really strong.

Grief may let us know who is here

Whispering to our  souls not to hold too near.

Grief is a circle goes round and round

Driving us all right into the ground.

Grief has no beginning or end

When it will leave can only depend.

So, I’ll continue to give voice

To the grief in my soul.

Until that day I’ll rejoice

With all its stories finally told.

Grief. A strange thing.

Grief. A very strange thing.

Grief. It gives us hope.