Woe Unto Us: A Lament

Children magical and joyful

Reflections of their parents’ deepest desires

Their own little images reflecting

The glory of the maker of heaven and earth.

Across the globe, children created in the images of their parents

And the Lord of heaven and earth

Objects of war and victims of greed and

Broken humanity and its terror toward one another.

Magic in the garden one day and

Images of gasps for breath the next.

Whose children are they and to whom do they belong

If not to their parents and their country and the world

Then to whom?

In this world you’ll have trouble but

Be encouraged for I have overcome the world

Are the words of the risen Lord.

The world is troubled and we are troubled

And our troubles boil over and trouble others who are troubled.

So we drop another bomb on the ones responsible

But they knew it was coming.

The world is all inflamed even more so than before.

Who is to blame and who is to be the defender of the

Fatherless and the children and the widows.

Children. Dead children. Pictures horrify and offend.

Casualties of war. Leaders poisoning their own.

Children left on the shores of our country unable

To cross over into peace and opportunity.

Who cares for those kids and who will care for the deceased and who

Will care for their parents.

And when will wars end and who will end them

And how many soldiers will have to die and how

Many families will suffer losses unspeakable.

When will bombs create peace.

When will explosions bring about harmony.

When will war stop war.

When will death stop death.

The irony is unspeakable.

The contradictions have no words.

The joys for those parents and grandparents,

And the unspeakable grief for those.

Where is the justice and righteousness its kin?

Where is anguish of those children and our own?

Those children matter so let’s start a war.

These children matter, and who will fight for them?

I am a father. I am a grandfather.

I have a family. My sons have families.

Someday my sons’ children will have families.

What of them. Do their lives matter.

Whose lives matter and whose lives don’t.

Who gets to decide.

Who will send the next bomb?

Who will unleash the next gas bomb.

Whose children and grandchildren will suffocate.

Whose children and grandchildren will thrive.

Who gets to decide?

Woe unto us who care not for the children.

Reflections Near the Beginning: Black Farmers versus the USDA

The documentary has been a dream for Shoun Hill and me for a long time. A near miss on a grant opportunity followed by another application that was not awarded to us was then led by a completely “out of the blue,” shot in the dark application that was accepted. We are now on our way.

You are on your way to what, you might ask.  We are on our way to the telling via audio, video, text, and other means the untold stories of the “Davids” of the black farmer movement versus the “Goliaths” of the black farmer movement. We understand David versus Goliath, small, seemingly weak and under prepared and limited in resources against Goliath, strong, fierce, undefeated, prideful, and limitless resources and power.

Several black farmer cases were filed against the USDA in the 1990s and alleged unbelievable yet believable and egregious acts of benign and willful discrimination based simply upon the color of their skin. This does not happen in America, many have said to me, family and friends. Yes, it does happen in America. It did and it still does.

Someone had to catch the vision of litigating these cases. That attorney was found in Texas and one by one a large number of farmers found their way to him. Self-described as a black man who understood walking in the white world, an activist, and one committed to representing the marginalized, he moved to the forefront of the battlefield. Competent, prepared, resourceful, and ostentatious, James Myart was up for the fight.

Recently, Shoun and I spent a day with him as he reminisced about the early days and the battles won and lost on behalf of farmers. Surely, he would do some things over again, but he finds great pride in winning some battles, and grieved that he did not win more. We sat for several hours, talked, remembered, and cried. Without Attorney at Law James Myart, there might not have been a farmer movement. With him, cases were settled out of court via administrative processes, and with those farmers, wins, and trials and tribulations, the Black Farmer Movement would eventually emerge in what is called the Pigford Class Action Suit. Mr. Myart played a pivotal role then, and he’ll play a pivotal role in the documentary.

Recently, Shoun and I traveled to rural Georgia to meet with the Long brothers and to hear their stories of their parents’ fight as Davids against Goliath. We met on a Saturday morning in the shade of the shop of one of the brothers. A cool southerly breeze caressed us as we talked, filmed, and walked about on a hot and humid day. They were full of stories of their parents. 

They were into truth-telling in its most intimate ways. They reflected a commitment to telling their parents’ stories in a way that mirrored their parents’ commitment to justice for themselves and for all black farmers. With intense emotion intermingled with tears and laughter, the brothers three told story after story after story that limned the edges of their father’s farming while black against all manner of odds and discriminative behavior, farm/home plans altered, operating funds received too little too late, too few consults from the local FmHA office, and on and on the story went. These legends in the black farmer movement died too young. Farming is hard work, farming while black is even harder, and farming while black while fighting Goliath is even more arduous, painful, and life-shortening.

We broke for lunch of southern fried catfish, hush puppies, and cole slaw and more story telling. We wrapped up a full day by walking the old home place. The win over Goliath allowed their parents to hold on to the farm and even to fix it up some. A story of a white friend went beyond the bounds of friendship. The white friend bought the farm which kept the FmHA from seizing it. When the Long case was settled, Goliath defeated, the farmer bought the land back from his white friend.

Shoun and I have much, much more to do. We will go southwest, south, and up even into the DC area. We are covering a lot of territory. We are hearing a lot of stories.

We have more to tell.

Blessed Are You, Or Maybe Cursed, Revised

Blessed are you who protest against injustice

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on earth, great is your mistreatment.

Blessed are you who march for causes that are righteous

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth, great is the derision with which people treat you.

Blessed are you, Black farmers of this land, who till the soil you love

For great is your reward in heaven

But here on the earth, great is the time that you will wait for your loans. 

Blessed are you, Black farmers of this land, whose blood is on the land

For great is your reward in heaven

But here on the earth, great is your suffering as you wait for justice. 

Blessed are you, whose skin is dark, who labor sun up to sun down

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth, great is your grief as your friends pass to the ancestors.

Blessed are you who resist programs and policies that malign the least of these

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth, you will be viewed as anti-American.

Blessed are you who kneel on behalf of people who are treated with brutality

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth, you will be maligned by folks who think it is about the flag.

Blessed are you who write or speak up for the good of the poor

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth you will be viewed as ungrateful for the opportunities you have had.

Blessed are you who do not settle for laws that enhance the rich and marginalize the poor

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth, the privileged will view you askance.

Blessed are you who stir the pot for things that are righteous and good and true

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth expect pushback after pushback after pushback.

Blessed are you who dream of a better world

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth you know sleepless nights.

Blessed are you who recognize that privilege has been yours to wear

For great is your reward in heaven,

But here on the earth anticipate ridicule for your beliefs and ideas.

Blessed are you who recognize that the world can be a better place,

Who do not wait for heaven to bring about change,

Who protest, march, resist, kneel, write, speak up, stir the pot, recognize, and other things

Because you could not live with yourself otherwise.

No, you could not live with yourself otherwise.

And in doing so, you find other advocates and friends, and you all make the world a better place.

Davids versus Goliath: Black Farmers Versus the USDA

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, several black farmer cases were settled administratively with the United States Department of Agriculture and Department of Justice.  These case of black farmer litigants have been well-kept secrets until now.  As they were settled out of court, they have received little to no notoriety.

Here is one of the Davids of this movement. His name is George.  He died fighting for this righteous case. I think of him often and with much fondness.  I met him in 2005.



Shoun Hill, professional photographer from New York City, and I have begun the documentary process that will culminate in our telling their stories via their faces, voices, and lived experiences. In conjunction with the Black Farmers and Agriculturalists Association, Tillery, North Carolina, our dream of telling their stories is finally being realized. We are indebted to Gary Grant for his support and leadership.

The details are lengthy and dreadful. Farming is hard enough work.  Farming while black is even harder.  Farming while black and attempting to work with programs and services of the USDA and the FSA has led down dark and foreboding paths for many, many African American farmers.  See this article for a summary. Be on the lookout for "African American Land Acquisition and Dispossession: Reconstruction to the 21st Century" which will be published later this year in the American Journal of Sociology and Economics. It will attempt to describe the unbelievable yet believable obstacles that the formerly enslaved had to experience in order to become land owners as well as the obstacles encountered by those who wanted to sell land to African Americans.  The window of 1890 to 1910 was a period of immense gains for land ownership.  Thereafter, black land ownership began to decline.  Small farmers lost their land at precipitous rates, but black farmers lost their even faster.

The documentary, then, will tell the stories of blatant racism at the hands of the USDA.  It will tell stories of freedom fighters who advocated for them both in and out of court.  It will chronicle the immense pain and suffering that these unknown heroes had to experience as they attempted to hold on to their land.

Shoun and I have begun the filming process with a three-hour conversation with the former lead counsel. The details he provided were chilling and revealing.

While this is a two-year journey, I hope to share details and stories along the way with you. I have been moved by their stories, and I think you will be as well.

The Davids went up against Goliath.  With a large number of smooth stones and rough stones, they prevailed via administrative procedures. Some died before they were granted justice.  Some died shortly thereafter.  Some still live.  Some lost their farms.  Some still own their farms.

The stories are rich and compelling. They are heart-rending stories of struggle and resilience.

Justice, Prayer, and Persistence

Several things have come together for me of late.  They may be random, or they may be more thematic. They come from a variety of sources.  The biblical text, the slave narratives, interviews with black farmers and families, and prayers in a book that I’ve prayed from for several years, “Conversations with God.”

The parable of the persistent widow in Luke 18 which reminds us, in the words of the Man from Nazareth, to pray and not give up, is up at the top of the list. Justice was a theme of that prayer.  I am this type of prayer.  What about you?

We all have our ways of talking and ways of praying.  I remember when I was a much younger man, I irreverently referred to one brother who prayed publicly as praying with a “stained glass voice” because he did not talk that way in normal conversation. How do you pray, either quietly or publicly?

While working on an article about black land acquisition and dispossession over the last few months, I had occasion to dive in the slave narratives again. The slave narratives were conversations that various people, men and women, white and black, had with those with stories that traced their way back to days of enslavement. These were recorded or transcribed during the 1930s.  My opinion is that the interviewer probably got more truthfulness when she or he was a person of color like the interviewee. The language they used is very different than the language I use, but I find the language incredibly provocative as they tell their stories. I occasionally dive into these materials to hear what life was like in their own words and to know how they survived and, in some places, thrived despite the inhumanities of the “peculiar institution.”

This one is painful to read: 

“Iffen a nigger run away and dey cotch him, or does he come back ‘cause he hungry, I see Uncle Jake stretch him out on de ground and tie he hands and feet to posts so he can’t move none. Den he git de piece of iron what he called ‘slut’ and what is like a block of wood with little holes in it, and fill de holes up with tallow and put dat iron in de fire till de grease sizzlin’ hot and hold it over de pore nigger’s back and let dat hot grease drap on he hide. Den he take de bullwhip and whip up an down, and after all dat throw de pore nigger in de stockhouse and chain him up a couple of days with nothin’ to eat My papa carry de grease scars on he back till he die.” (Berlin, Faureau, and Miller 1998: 29)

Life was indeed brutal, much more so than most of us can imagine, though its system still abounds in America today. More on that later.

The poem in the “Conversations with God” book was written by Maurice N. Corbett in 1914. A politician and poetry writer, he also worked in the US Census Bureau for a time. His poem, “Lord, Your Weak Servants Bow,” is one I return to periodically.  Here are a few lines:

“You said dat dem you jined in heart

No one should dare asunder part,

But my ol’ marster, (cuss his hide),

Sol’ my companion from my side;

An’ while in agony I lay,

Dey come an’sol’ my chil erway;

Dey lef me nuffin here ter luv,

Cep you Dear Jesus, You, erbuv.”

“O Lord, my way is very dark;

Sometimes I thinks I hears de bark

Of hell-hounds howlin’ on my track;

Come my good Lord an’ drive ‘em back.”

“Sometimes when I kneels down ter pray,

I feels dat you fur erway;

Sometimes I feels so fur I stray

Dat you can’t hear me when I pray.

Sometimes my faith grows very slack,

But den your spirit drawns me back;

You promised jestice wid Your lip,

An’ I won’t let your mem’ry slip.”

(pp. 123-126).

There is a lot in that poem, and there are more verses to it, along the lines of faith, and especially persistence with God in troublesome times. I think he was a “persistent widow” prayer, reminding God that he was going to remind God of promise of justice.

How do you pray?  For what do you pray?  How are the dominant themes of your life intertwined with your prayer life?  Do you pray in the same language that you talk, or do you use a different language?

Just wondering about things these days. 

Blind I Was Until I Could See

Blind I lived

Until I could see

Going to and fro

As privileged as could be.

Blind I lived

Everywhere I looked

Felt comfortable

Every turn I took.

Built into my spaces

Those assumptions that I made

I held to them like a cloak

From the chill of winter afraid.

Sameness is what I saw

Left and right so it seems

Those people over there

Blinding that heavy beam.

Whiteness is how I lived

Who would be surprised

The folks with different skin

Were somehow to be despised.

How long could that be maintained

And live and be somehow sane

To hide behind that wall

And pretend to be humane.

There were small dents here and there

By Cora and the prof we called Doc

My father’s friend named Charlie

The Black preacher even more the shock.

College opened up the door

To more people of other races

Still the assumptions just lingered

Without opening up all the spaces.

Then the call came that day

“The severity of the cause”

The words I heard

More than made me pause.

Into their world I wondered

Stories of farming while black

The powers and oppression

My white world did severely crack.

The mediation hearing in DC

Powerful people all around the room

Farmer, wife, and legal counsel

Would the feds their lives consume.

By grit and determination

The lawsuits they did win

How much of life they lost

These things America’s greatest sin.

Other people and conversations

Continued to challenge my thinking

Gary Doc Van Welchel Janice Major

My blindness rapidly shrinking.

Enslaved Africans chained

Inside the brutal ship

Bought and sold like cattle

On the auction block forced to strip.

Brought here to work the land

To support the owners greed

Never to own the land

Freedom a deeply planted seed.

From then until now

Whiteness the dominant color

Who made that determination

Of the value of the other.

We see it all around

When we live with open eyes

Oppression left and right

To many there is no surprise.

From red lining

To obstacles at the voting booth

Crime violence against people

Passed time to learn the truth.

To fulfill the dreamers dream

Cease judging by color of skin

But by content of ones character

Living beyond our original sin.

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