Demonstration at the White House, March 1, 2023: My Personal Reflections

The event had been scheduled for quite some time. It was designed to serve as the anniversary of the Fairness Hearing before Judge Friedman on March 2, 1999. We believed then as we strongly believe now that the Pigford v. Glickman Consent Decree was a gross miscarriage of justice. White America thinks Black farmers made off like bandits in Pigford I and Pigford II, but those walking closely with Black farmers know the truth, and that brutal truth is that most Black farmers are worse off now than they were before Pigford I. 

So, my wife, Charla, and I organized our schedules, worked on our flights, and made our way to Washington, DC. Flying into Reagan International was stirring as we flew over and saw the most prominent of the buildings of the US government, knowing that we were there to protest in front of the White House. 

Charla oftentimes attends these sorts of things with me. Not only is she my Beloved, she is our partner in fighting for justice. We live in a red state and go to a red church, and she has red friends, so she knows well these complicated matters. 

We gathered with old friends and new friends in the lobby of the Cambria Hotel Riverfront DC. It was a sight to behold, folks we had not seen since 2005 or 2008 or 2019. It was an inspired and inspiring gathering. 

Some 75 or so of us gathered for dinner later that night. We heard from key leaders, Lawrence Lucas, Tracy Lloyd McCurty, and Lloyd Wright, members of The Justice for Black Farmers Group. We got our marching orders. We heard a short speech from Danny Davis, D(VA), a man who knows well the plight of the Black farmer. 

For those who follow this blog, I have mentioned before these three soldiers in the war against discrimination: Lawrence Lucas, Representative, Justice for Black Farmers Group, and President Emeritus, USDA Coalition of Minority Employees; Tracy LLoyd McCurty, J.D., Director of the Black Belt Justice Center; and Lloyd Wright, Black farmer and former Director, Office of Civil Rights, USDA. 

We knew that Wednesday would be a long, tiring day, so we dispersed after dinner. 

We met up early the next morning over breakfast and then shortly thereafter to get our assigned protest signs. Again, it was an energetic crowd as we moved about, chatted with folks, and talked about the day. 

We arrived in front of the White House at about 11:30 and assembled on the sidewalk with our banner and our signs and the Demonstration was underway. "We Gave You the White House. You Gave Us Tom Vilsack," "No Check No Vote," "USDA The Last Plantation," and others. We chanted as we moved behind the large banner. We had only one-half hour to create a ruckus, and that we did. Many passers by stopped and watched and some even asked questions. 

We could not stop. We were not to use megaphones, which we did, which was against policies. At one point an angry female police officer got in my face saying, "Sir, if you don't keep moving, we may arrest you." I simply stepped down onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and then the woman demanded documents from Tracy and thankfully Lloyd had brought copies. That was an intense moment. Senior citizens had to stop and rest, and they did so with their signs next to the fence with the White House in the background. We observed what must have been Secret Service Agents on the roof top, dressed in black with guns and cameras. We wondered if they could hear us. They could certainly see us. That's what we wanted, for the White House and the US Department of Agriculture to know that we were there. We had caught wind that the USDA told two HBCUs not to attend the demonstration. 

Then at noon, we stepped off the side walks and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, with documents in hand from the US Park Service, and began our public relations event. We encircled the speakers, the microphone, and the amplifier. We listened as speakers stayed on task, "Tom Vilsack must go!" For over an hour, farmers and advocates spoke both to and in front of the White House. Some of us referenced the USDA, its malfeasance, and the White House, and President Biden's blindness to what Secretary Vilsack was doing. Secret Service folks circled around us. One employee of the USDA stood over and watched us from the vantage point of the trees of Lafayette Park. We were adjacent to the church where former President Trump stood, surrounded by staffers and police, holding the Bible upside down. 

Our mantra was clear: "Vilsack must go!" "No check, no vote!" Black farmers, families, and advocates are tired of being sick and tired and waiting for the USDA and the White House to do right, to rectify decades of gross and calculated discrimination. 

At one point, as a group of kids high fived the Secret Service agent, I stepped to him and quipped, "I guess it's ok to talk to you," and he laughed and we chatted for a good five minutes about who we were, where we were from, and why we were there. His face and voice softened and he listened respectfully, and at that moment one of his co-workers, a young, Black woman walked up to us. I shook both of their hands and walked back to the group. 

Shortly thereafter, Lawrence Lucas, the gentleman in charge of keeping things going, motioned from beneath his mask with his right index finger. That signal was for me to get prepared to speak. I was not on the speaker list. I suspected that he might ask me to speak up, and so I did. I spoke a few words of appreciation about being with them. I spoke about Gary Grant, BFAA President, and I spoke about the occupant of the White House, and how White America does not know about Black farmers and their struggles, and I voiced my commitment to telling white people every chance I could get about stories of Black farmers. The applause and shouts said that they got it. Charla actually recorded it for me to hear later. I'm thankful that I didn't come off like some misguided, ineloquent fool. 

At about 1:15, we divided into two buses, those going back to the hotel, and those delegates who were going to the Hart Senate Building to meet with the senators. As we drove there, it was inspiring to visit with Earl Ijames, curator for the North Carolina History Museum, and his efforts to keep stories alive, working his farm with plants and crops that had actually originated in Africa and brought here by the enslaved. 

We arrived at the Hart Senate Building, made it through check in procedures which were much like the airports, and moved up to the fifth floor to meet in the conference room with staffers and eventually Senators Warren and Booker. I was pleased to finally be able to meet Senator Booker's staffer, Adam Zipkin, a gentleman who had worked for him for 25 years, way back when he was mayor of Newark. We embraced and shared words of mutual encouragement. We had met up many times via Zoom meetings, but face to face was inspirational. 

I moved to the back of the conference room and stood along the wall. Seating for us was at a premium. We had planned for 18, but some 35 showed up, and we were not going to tell the farmers that they could not come. 

Dr. Dwayne Goldmon, equity advisor for Secretary Vilsack, had somehow gotten invited to the meeting. We were mad. As we began our meeting, he attempted to take center stage and would have said and done more if our leaders had not challenged him to cease and desist, my words not theirs. It got hot in the room. Tension was at a feverish pitch and rightfully so. An interloper had arrived whom we had not invited. 

Then at about 4:00 pm, Senator Warren came in. She brought with her a spirit of calm, one of gracious respect and concern, and for about 30 minutes she listened intently to our concerns. We felt her compassion. We thanked her for her work in developing her policy about Black farmers. At one point, I commented something like:  "Senator Warren, thank you for allowing us the privilege of working with your policy team on your policy for Black farmers (She commented, "They are here."). It is obvious that you are meeting today with the survivors. We have many who are not here who died prematurely in the fight for justice. While it is important to talk about these matters, it is also important to know that decades of relentless discrimination wears people out, and they die prematurely." It felt to me like she was listening as I spoke that which was both on my heart and in my head, so to speak. 

After she left the USDA Equity Advisor took center stage again. Again, he was challenged. 

Around 4:45ish, Senator Booker came in, a big, imposing, kind, and generous spirited man. He spoke a few words, listened to things, and then assigned his staffer, Adam, to secure information from USDA that they were stone-walling us from receiving, payments by race, and not by state that had been released earlier and published by NPR. 

After he departed to go vote, we continued for a bit, the shouting match continued and then Lloyd Wright pulled the meeting to a close when he, as I recall, pulled down his mask and said, "And I have a few things I want to say in closing." He went on and called for Vilsack's resignation. He had worked for Vilsack and knows that he will say one thing and do another. 

From there we departed, said a few goodbyes, and went to hail our taxi back to the hotel. I shared a ride with Lawrence. We talked about the meeting and how Goldmon got it. A curious point was that Lawrence recognized that our taxi driver was from Ethiopia, a country he had lived in for five years decades ago. They talked in the language of Ethiopia. I was clueless as to what they were saying, but I enjoyed the generosity of spirit between my friend and the taxi driver. 

I was just a little disappointed that Charla had not been able to attend the meeting in the Senator's office. 

We chatted in the hotel lobby, disbanded for the evening, and then shortly thereafter I met in the restaurant with Charla and our good friends, Robbie and Heather, who wanted to know about how things went. With Charla and Robbie (before Heather arrived), I shared "content and process," family systems language they understood. We both laughed and groaned. 

Shortly thereafter, Alfred Gross sat the table with us, and we wrapped up the day by swapping stories of hunting, field dressing deer, family shennanagins, skunks, and other uproariously funny stories. 

The following morning, we met for breakfast and conversation and then headed out to the Museum of African American History and Culture. We had a limited amount of time and wound up  on the top floor enjoying the history of Black singers and performers. 

Then, as we left the hotel, Rod Bradshaw, farmer from Kansas, rode with us to Reagan, talking serious matters along the way, including his conversation with Goldmon both the previous day and on this particular day about the heinous practice of the federal government doing "administrative offsets," or taking percentages of Black farmers' income from them monthly. We understood that Goldmon said that this practice is illegal. We shall see. 

From there, Charla and I arrived at Reagan, settled in to wait for our flight and for the hours that would pass before we could arrive home. We did arrive despite 80 mile per hour winds, overturned tractor trailer rigs, and a delayed landing because of the bad weather. 

We knew that we had much to ponder and much to discuss. 

Here are some photos from the day. 

Charla Hinson, advocate for Black farmers, wore what I think is the most provocative sign, "WE GAVE YOU THE WHITE HOUSE. YOU GAVE US TOM VILSACK."

We marched up and down the side walk for 1/2 hour, chanting as we went. 

Farmers and advocates "wearing" the signs with our distinct messages.

Senator Elizabeth Warren listens to the farmers and advocates.

Senator Booker speaks to the group of Black farmers and advocates. 

Lloyd Wright, former Director, Office of Civil Rights, offers his parting shots while Eddie Slaughter waves his hand, and Edith Gross, Michael Stovall, Tracy Lloyd McCurty, and others look on. 

Below, a Black farmer voices his opinion by the sign he wears.

Lawrence Lucas, Michael Stovall, and Waymon Hinson at the hotel. 

Weary feet and bodies, but the signs speak the truth. 

Who is in Charge of This Place?

Dear Lord:

What will this day bring

What lies ahead

What secrets lie beneath the sky 

Is today the day that more people die

Is today the day that we all dread

The day that the Man comes

And takes their land away

And there sounds the beating of the drums

There are 17,000

Or so I am told

The story grows unabated

Does the truth not make you cold

The Book says you are sovereign

And over all you do reign

And if that's true

Why do people live in so much pain

People come and people go

Reaping that which they did not sow

While others work and strive

Trying to make their living from the soil

Yet those in power

With titles and pen

Ignore insult shame change

Documents again and again

With such power

There comes much dread

And some I knew

Are now entombed buried dead

They died too soon

Is my own frail thought

They labored and labored

Only justice they sought

Now we're hearing their stories

All of which are true

Tears in their eyes grief in their souls

They always looked to you

Payday some day

Said one on a warm July day

Now he's gone to the ancestors

And with You is what I pray

Yes we say that you are sovereign

And that you control it all 

But what about their justice

Why do you forestall

Maybe we have it all wrong

Our understanding so meager

But for justice we yearn

And them still so beleaguered

Someday we'll get it right

Righteousness will be in sight

And those who did the wrong

Will wind up as lyrics of a song

I'll keep on asking questions

And answers will surely come

It won't be for lacking of trying

While we toil till the setting of the sun

Prayers and Anxieties: Who Answers

Prayers and Anxieties: Who Answers
Waymon Hinson
May 12, 2020

When do I pray

I hear you say

Have I given my cares to God today

Upon His shoulders will they weigh.

We make it simple when we say

“Give it up to God”

Until our times have ended

When we lay beneath the sod.

Some of us pray

At all manner of times throughout the day

As we pray without ceasing along the way

We supposedly pray we say.

“Cast” you tell me in a word

And I would if I knew how

They keep flying back like a bird

Not really sure if I could that thing vow.

She the farmer’s wife stood in the door

Stepping into Auntie’s house

A woman and her spouse both with unchecked stress

And he who limps across the floor.

Did they not pray

And look for a brighter day

And long into the night she stood

Waiting for cops to come in all likelihood.

Maybe my whole load of fears

Are lumped into those prayers

By the sweet, sweet Spirit

When I cannot find the words to speak my cares.

But, don’t patronize me with words

And thus deny my humanity

And I’ll walk beside you if you’ll listen

And we’ll build a faith though at times with profanity.

I don’t do well with platitudes

Things easy to say and do

They challenge my internal attitudes

Though they may just work for you.

I’ll lean for sure into some of that

My worries may just form my prayers

I won’t always have the words

When God and I stop and chat.

Stories to be Told

We have traveled a long way

We have come real far

Don't how we did it

We came by buggy and car.

Those ideas did not leave

You and I both know

They have been planted

Other seeds we had to sow.

Now is the time

I know quite well

To drink from those stories

Thirst quenched from the well.

Which will be first

What theme to be told

Health and well being

Or theology of old.

In their bodies they bore

The wounds from the fight

So how to protest

To fight for what is right.

Or maybe we will linger

Over stories we cannot resist

Narratives of hope

With a theology of persist.

Religiosity of coping

Is read from the books

I think I'll land on persistence

And linger down by the brooks.

The rivers they run deep

The waters run cold

Stories are calling

It is time they are told.

Dear Lord, Please Quiet My Troubled Soul

Dear Lord, please quiet my troubled soul

And may I ever be so bold

As to make a plea

Worded only to thee

To give my weary soul

A dose of heavenly bold

To say what must and should be said

About the living and the dead

And from this morose and sadness rise

And lift my eyes up toward the skies

And though I know not where you really abide

Allow me to stand by your riven side

For whose burdens do now I feel

And from whose stories must I steal

To tell the truth to those who hear

And bring repentance to every ear

Not my story for it is surely their own

I listen and listen until I moan

For their bodies and souls to be set free

Anointed and graced my humble plea

Broken bodies healed

Spirits once crushed by your love is sealed

Injustices noted and sins against revealed

White peoples’ crimes no longer yield

Oppression now gone

Let freedom ring

They own the land

All voices with passion now sing.

Amen

Words Matter, Words Remembered

The words in italics below are lifted directly out of interviews with African American farmers. They still ring in my head. I hope they will do the same for you. 

 Words matter.

“We are going to sell you out.”

Words matter.

“Too big for their britches.”

Words matter.

 “Smart ass niggers.”

Words matter.

“Well, we’ve been flying these flags all these many years and we’re not taking them down.”

Words matter.

“I can’t let you have no more money and I’m gonna sell you out.”

Words matter.

“You know I was called to come by here and get this tractor.”

Words matter.

“You may as well go home. I’m not going to lend you any money.”

Words matter.

“Yes, there’s moneys in here, but there’s none in here for you all.”

Words matter.

“Go out to MJ’s house and look at the tractors that he got sittin’ in his yard because we’re gonna sell him out and you can get either one of them.”

Words matter.

“Either you participate with what I’m telling you that I’m gonna do or either I’m gonna put you outta bidness.”

Words matter.

“I’m gonna put your money in my pocket and I’m gonna put you outta bidness.”

Words matter.

“What you gonna do with that kind of money? You don’t need that kinda money. What you gonna do with it?”

Words matter.

“They kept talkin’ about they gonna sell me out, sell me out…..wanted to sell me out.”

Words matter.

“We can’t finance you anymore.”

Words matter.

“It’s instilled in my children right now. It’s in my children. It’s got my children. Yeah, I’m about to go into tears cause this is a sad situation. It’s got my children so that they don’t want to go into a business of their own because they seen the suffering that I have endured to provide for my family. See? They don’t have to go through that, see?”

Willie's Story

Willie still farms on a place his grandfather purchased years ago. His modest single-wide sits beneath a beautiful oak tree whose limb stretches across the sandy loam road named for his deceased wife. His candor and gift of hospitality caught me off guard, as did his stories of how he almost lost his land.

It was a "ball and chain," he said, the practicalities and the humiliation of working under a supervised account, something that the white farmers did not have to do. He could not buy used equipment that would serve him well. He had to buy what the supervisor told him to buy. He got poor advice from an agent he trusted and lost money on his corn crop and pig farm operation.

While other farmers were getting their farm loan operating money in December, he would get his in April or May. That was too late to lease the good land, purchase the best seeds, get fertilizer into the soil. While his crops were just beginning to break through the dirt, his neighbors' crops were maturing. "My darkest days were when I would get a letter in the mail saying they were going to foreclose on me."

To supplement the family income, he had to drive hours away from the farm. His children grew up without him. His wife had health problems. She was diagnosed with asthma. She died from congestive heart failure. All, Willie says because he could not afford good medical care.

He came very close to losing his land, the land his family owned for generations. He prevailed under Pigford I. He barely kept his land.

His story is deep with themes of struggle and resilience. The stories left me stunned.

"My name is written in the land," he said. His story is written on my heart. I am committed to telling his story and stories of other farmers in places and spaces where they cannot go.

The stories must be told.

Reprinted from http://letjusticeroll.blogspot.com/2015/02/black-land-loss-summit-howard.html

Memory and Memories of a Marginalized People

Memory

I wonder how you work

Memory

Do you just smirk

At people like me

Who find you most interesting can we agree

How much of you

Is mine to own

Or what

Is about seeds they’ve sown

To what degree

Am I free

To say that you

Are bigger than me

In the faceless crowd

I see each week

Do I remember

That which I seek

Or is it simply remembering to remember

Those voices

That I hear inside

Do they come from me

Or on the winds do ride

I hear them say

Again this day

What I think I heard

Or have I been stirred

And my mind blurred

And still I am

Shaped by those voices

And those spoken words

“My blood is on this land

Farming is in my DNA

When will this all be over

The law may be color blind

But people aren’t

On three separate occasions

Finagled their way out

There’s money in here

But there’s none in here

For you all”

Yes

Those voices

That I hear inside

Do they come from me

Or on the winds do ride

I think you know

Home for Dorothy and Eddie

This morning I am prompted to ponder home and a homeland. What is home but that place and space where you put your feet and your lay your head and you find your stuff that you find meaningful and you can breathe.  What is a homeland but a larger space and place where the ebb and flow and the people and the symbols and the language and its history connect with you in a deep sense and you say something or say maybe nothing at all that this is my homeland and these are my people and what I value most is found here.

Forever and a day I have had these yearnings for a home and a homeland. Even when we were away from our homeland, I found myself feeling most secure and at peace when we owned the brick and the mortar and the grass and the trees and found a place to come home to at the end of a long sojourn elsewhere.  Home necessarily included the people inside the house which was a home which was grounded in space and time.  Familiarity and predictability of the coming and the going and who was there and when they were not there things were all out of sync and had no rhythm or rhyme.

I think that is why amongst other things the story of Eddie and Dorothy Wise moves me so.  They met on the campus of Howard. Their connection was almost immediate. He yearned for home with chickens and dogs and pigs, lots of pigs. His home became her home and his homeland became their homeland.

Their story of struggle is well chronicled in a large document over in my filing cabinet. Edward and I wrote about them in 2008, and now here in 2017, we are hearing about them again and again because their story is so compelling that we cannot ignore it. It is told in all of its brutality on national radio. The interviewer with his penetrating questions, Eddie with his strong voice, and eventually Eddie with his gentle voice in the nursing home where Dorothy with her weak voice accepts the cookie and drink that Eddie has brought for his “Brown Sugar.”

You can listen to it here.

You can learn more about their circumstances here. 

Not their home. In a place of not their home. She died in a place not their home.

Their home had been taken away by the misdeeds of people with agendas that were clear to them and clear to Eddie and Dorothy. Eddie and Dorothy did not have the power or the place to change the course of those events. Those people who made those decisions had the power and the pen and the position and the system to make things work for those folks but not for those folks.

And then their home was no more. They were driven from it by a large group of uniformed and armed men. Uniformed and armed men who have no claim to the land and home driving people from the land and their home who have a legitimate claim to the land and the home.

Yes. Today I am pondering home and its meanings and why it is so important to me. I am also pondering such for people who have to fight and scratch and claw to hold on to their home and homeland.

I do not know of such deeper things.  Such matters are beyond my experience.  They are not beyond my ability to imagine and to empathize.  And when I do move into that space, my blood runs cold, my heart is ripped out, and my beliefs in justice and its righteous causes confirmed, and my conviction that there are people in power who have darkness in their hearts and they play the cold cruel songs of systemic racism.

And people are driven from their homes.

And then it was taken away.  The big boys with big guns and big pieces of paper came and drove them away.  They asserted themselves into a home that was not their own but they had the power of the paper and the writing on the paper to usher the folks who were at home out of their home and into a cheap motel, one which they could afford. Four walls, close quarters, concrete parking lot. A place to stay but not a home. A place to lay the head for some indeterminable length of time until things changed. Not their home but a place they stayed until they stayed there no more.

Then Dorothy died.

What does Eddie call home now? 

Grief, Loss, and the Land

Over the last few days I have been working on a grant for a photojournalism project. In re-reading the narratives of African American farmers and family who lost their land, livelihood, and health, it occurred to me that grief was a meaningful way to capture their struggles in part, insofar as I could understand it.  These things are still happening in America.  Yes, even here in America.  Grief is a common human experience whether people, relationships, property, or whatever we hold dear.

So, here are the words I wrote this morning about their stories of grief and loss. With apologies for presuming to speak for someone else.

Grief, Loss, Land, and Livelihood

MY VOICE:

 

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.

FARMER'S VOICE:

 

I once owned that land

As far as you could see
Grew those crops to feed
All these folks and me.

I owned those tractors

That were stored in that barn
Worked daylight to dark
Didn’t mean nobody no harm.

The feds they came

With some papers and those guns
Run us all off
Toward the setting of the sun.

My grandpa he owned this land

Bought by clearin’ out those trees
Used those long saws
Till he wore out his back and knees.

Now they’re takin’ it away

And it don’t seem fair
I paid all my taxes
Just to get us somewhere.

Those white folks sure know

How keep a black man down
If they don’t like the color of your skin
They call it a sun down town.

Yes, I’m filled with grief

Buried deep in my soul
I’ve worked this land
And the stories that can be told.

MY VOICE:

 

Yes that old man grief

It takes hold, sneaks up from behind.
Its clutches are strong and forceful,
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.

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 forces us into chasms of empty space
And then lets go.

Its forces are vast

And uncontrollable.

Its thirst is like the desert
In a driving 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 shadows to keep us 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.

FARMER'S VOICE:

 

Grief weighs me down

Down deep in my soul.
I may be black but
Feelings I don’t lack.

That old friend of mine

Living beneath that old oak tree.
They tried to take his land
But finally he is free.

He lost his family

He lost his wife.
The price he paid
Just to have a life.

MY VOICE:

 

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.

VOICE OF US ALL:

Grief. A strange thing.

Grief. A very strange thing.