An Update on the Black Farmer Documentary Effort

The last update from us was back in June as we wrapped up the intense week of traveling across Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Alabama. Since then, the work has continued though on a slower pace for me, but for Shoun, things are continuing at warp speed.

Here is a brief summary of what we’ve been up to over the last two years.  In terms of funding, we received a sizable grant from the Black Farmers and Agriculturalists Association and its amazing leader, President, Gary Grant. While that was sizable no doubt, and got us moving down the road, we realized early on that expenses were going to be higher than we anticipated. That is where our friends stepped in.  Many of you prayed over the effort and offered words of support, 90 of you reposted my posts on the FB fund raising page, and 146 of you donated a total of $10,225. We find that both amazing and humbling.

Thus far, in both 2018 and 2019, Shoun and I (and Charla), have made six trips across eleven states.  We have been in Texas (twice), Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, North Carolina, Virginia, Georgia, Alabama, New Jersey, Maryland, and Washington, DC.

We have interviewed legal counsel, farmers and families; a former USDA Secretary of Agriculture; a former Director, Office of Civil Rights, USDA; the president emeritus of the USDA Coalition of Minority Employees; and the author of the premier book on injustices perpetrated by the USDA upon Black farmers during the age of the Civil Rights.

To the best of our abilities to ascertain, there were 15 farmers who settled administratively with the USDA in 1997, 1998, and 1999. The Department of Justice was deeply involved, but that is a story for another day. Of those 15 farmers, we were unable to locate three of them either because they were deceased and we could not contact family members, or we could not contact them period. May they Rest in Power from their trials and tribulations.

Three declined participation. Two are currently living but have legal obligations in areas that conflicted with our efforts. One son of a deceased farmer declined because “that was then and this is now.” We were disappointed in all three of these, but we understand complicated matters of various sorts.

We interviewed living farmers or family members of the remaining farmers. Of the 15 total, we interviewed 9 for a total of 11 interviews. These involved the farmers and spouses themselves, adult children of deceased farmers, adult grandchildren of deceased farmers, and a mother of a farmer.

The interviews took on a life of themselves, so to speak. Arrangements had been made, we arrived generally on time, or if we were not going to make it, we’d make a courtesy call, and then we’d arrive and begin to set up. Shoun handled all of the technical, camera, filming-related issues. I handled explanations, honoraria, signatures, and questions. Charla was marvelous for helping us get these things together. Then, we’d move toward the cameras, with note pad and questions in hand, we’d begin the interview once Shoun was squared away.  The interview would generally continue start to finish though there were times when we would need to stop for a break of some sort of other. Then we would finish.

After finishing the interview, Shoun would take portraits of the farmers and families. He would then walk the land with or without the farmers and families, taking what is called “b-roll” footage. Charla and I would oftentimes help him with his equipment. Sometimes, we would just stay out of the way. Other times we would chat with the farmers and families while Shoun was capturing what his eye said to capture.

Sometimes we would head into town for lunch, or sometimes we would chat a bit and then head on down the road. While I cannot speak for Shoun or Charla, I oftentimes found my head spinning and my heart moving into unique spaces and places.

At this point, the work actually continues. We believe that drone footage will help tell the stories. We have secured a photographer who understands racial issues and will help in telling the stories. Your financial support there is deeply appreciated. Along with that, there is a myriad of details to get done such as contacting folks whose names may or may not appear in the film, who may or may not want to speak for themselves, and all manner of other things.

While this is certainly longer than I’d intended to write today, it does give you a glimpse of the work to which you have contributed.  I’ll write more about gratitude later.

Words Spoken at DOJ September 24, 1997

"Their circumstances are well documented. A variety of discriminatory actions were perpetrated upon them over long periods of time with a range of seven to thirty years and a mean of 14.8 years.  Those actions included the sale of land at an inflated price, an overestimate of crop productivity, insufficient loans, insufficient technical and managerial support, denial of loans, bankruptcy, loss of purchased land, loss of family-owned land, altered figures on loan applications, the request (or demand) for signatures on blank applications, perjured testimony, loss of equipment, the application of farming loans to other indebtedness, the receipt of half of what was promised, loans issued well into planting season, and numerous others."  ------ Waymon R. Hinson, Ph.D., Department of Justice Hearing, September 24, 1997.

Let Justice Ring: Black Farming and Worriation

Let Justice Ring: Black Farming and Worriation: This encounter lingers still. It is like a mist that never goes away, or a haze that stays longer than necessary. It was an odd meeting. I...

The Big C and Access to Care Here in America

I have long been concerned about access to care for the poor of our country. The same concerns bother me today.  If you read what follows, you’ll hear an undercurrent of “yes, we can afford this,” as we have Medicare and all the supplements that one would want. I am painfully aware that not everyone can afford supplements and the best of care.  I advocate for universal health care because it is a right, and it is not a privilege for the chosen ones of our society.

What this contains is my own journey through what follows.  While there is certainly healing in the telling, hopefully this is not telling for the sake of mere egocentric concerns.

The X-Rays and MRI Day Has Arrived

The day of deciding had slowly crept up on me.  I knew it was coming.  I’d think about it off and on. Then it arrived.  It arrived in full force. The day had respectfully, so to speak, waited its turn. It knew that there were other things that were the rightful focus of attention. It sat on the back seat.  It waited its turn.  It made little noise.  It seldom, if ever, waived its hands for attention. It seldom, if ever, shouted above the din of the normal days’ activities to assert itself.  No, it just waited and waited.

Until its day arrived.

It caught me off guard.

Since certain specialists live in the Dallas area, we drive there for consults. Though this area has a huge hospital and a not so huge hospital, no one does the sort of surgery that I need. We trek south.

My confidence in the urological oncologist is high.  His style, procedures, and explanations merit trust. Stories of his successes are found in local folk that my wife and I know. 

No food for four hours prior to the MRI.  Answer all the questions for both imaging and the MRI.  Prepare to go from one building third floor to second building second floor. And wait.

Valet parking only.  Crowded with people and cars and attendants.

Check in at the desk. Wrist band.  Bathrooms down the hall. Your name will be called.  Hello, Mr. Hinson, can you tell me your complete name and date of birth. Please take off your necklace. Stand here. Hold your breath.  Now, turn toward that window. Good. Hold your breath. Those are good images.  We are finished. I’ll take you back to where your wife is waiting.

Over to the other building. Downstairs. Across the entry way.  Another set of elevators. 

Another check-in at the desk. Wrist band. Bathrooms down the hall. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Mr. Hinson? That would be me. Come this way, please. He explains the process well.  He is a graduate of Boise State. Had lived a while back in Portland, Oregon.  We had just come from there. Numerous points of connection.

Change in there out of your street clothes and put on pants and shirt that fit you. Bring your key with you.  I’ll insert your port.

Which arm? How about the left. That vein is closer to the skin. Looks good. Done. Your wait will be about 12 minutes and then the tech will come and get you.

I visit with a woman who is from east Texas.  She’s driven almost two hours.  I tease her about snoring in her sleep.  You’re kidding me, she says with a chuckle. Yes, I was teasing. You weren’t snoring. She is alone. 

The tech gets me, takes me into a very, very cold room, only to realize after about five minutes of prep that I am the wrong patient for the room. We apologize Mr. Hinson, but you are supposed to be over in that room, not this one.  He’ll clean up your room and we’ll get you shortly.

I laugh with the woman and now with another gentleman who is there for an inner ear MRI.  He tells a brutal story about a friend and a tumor that is woefully out of place for the spot that I am in.  He is friendly and cordial so I do not tell him that he is an insensitive idiot. The woman leaves. Did I tell you that she is an African American woman? That she is alone? That she has a two-hour drive back home?

My turn. The room is not so cold. The attendants are attentive. I opt not for Stevie Ray Vaughn but for Robert Johnson on the head set. The tube is big and imposing. I am fascinated by it. We’ll have to practice breathing in there so we can get precise images. I’ll be the one guiding you, the male tech says.  The woman tech gets Robert Johnson on the headset for me. Can you do one thing for me? Can I scratch an itch? No, you can’t, but I can. She finds the itch on my right cheek, just below my right eye that is tormenting me.  Relief.

Equipment is placed around me. The IV is now ready to flow with dye. The headset is on. The machine is primed. I am ready for the slow slide into it.

What will the machine find? What is lurking within my body that is prompting this consult on Inwood at the imaging center, that has led to me lying on my back amidst a whirling mass of technology that is more than I can comprehend. I lay aside my fears, apparently, and lean toward fascination and curiosity as we begin. To be centered on the tumor inside my abdomen would lead me down anxiety and fear and worry and panic and inside this tube, there is no room for that.

Clanking. Loud clanking, Robert Johnson is muted to the sound of now breathe in, breathe out, and hold it.  Johnson comes back into my headset. Again, breathe in, breathe out, and hold it.  I soon get the rhythm of the sounds and the verbal instructions. I can breathe again when the machine has stopped its orgasmic sounds and build up and all.

I open my eyes and look around. This thing is small. This tube is not very big.  It is not very long. You could get claustrophobia inside this thing. 

About five minutes, Mr. Hinson. Are you ok? Sure. Rock and roll.

Then I am finished. Pulled out. Disconnected. How long was I in there? About 25 minutes. How many pictures did you take of me?  Liver, each kidney, and other things, oh, about a thousand.

He is cordial, engaging, and now curious that I’d had one of these before while wearing a football helmet sort of contraption several years ago when I was being tested for neurological problems at the time of an ocular migraine thing. We chuckled that he had one of those.

He walked me to the waiting room. I changed clothes and slowly reality came back and with a huge rush of energy and emotion.  I had completed the diagnostic process.  Now I could step outside into normal life and routine and all.  I could now admit that what I had gone through, while shaping it as interesting and fascinating and all, was stress producing.  Those other emotions were a ruse that covered over my anxiety about it all.

I was there, not because all is well with my body.  I was there because all is not well with my body.  There is a thing growing inside my body, attached to my right kidney, something that must be removed.

I am exhausted. Will need some time to process the spoken and the unspoken.

This part is over and done with. Now the waiting awaits. The diagnosis and surgical instructions to follow on Thursday.

Pre-Op With Anesthesia Call Has Arrived

This one-half hour phone call was painless. We just went over the obvious, meds, protocol, procedure. And then there was the, oh by the way, you have to come to Clements Hospital to do the blood work and EKG.  OK, then we’ll do that next week.

The Anticipated Call from the Physician

We are sitting at the breakfast table when the call comes. It is a 214-area code, so I answer it.

Hello, Mr. Hinson, this is Dr. Cadeddu.  I’ll be performing your surgery on June 19^th.  Yes, there is a 95% chance that the tumor on your right kidney is cancerous.  And, there is another one on your left kidney that is 1 centimeter. We’ll just watch that one. OK. Sounds good to me. Thanks for letting me know.

Also, I need to let you know that your MRI has revealed that there are two swollen lymph nodes adjacent to this kidney that the CT scan did not pick up. How severe is this, what are the odds? We don’t know for sure, but I’d say that there is a 50/50 chance that there are cancerous, so I’ll be taking them out. I know this is not the news that you wanted, but I have plans A, B, C, and D and I’ll take care of you.  Even if we wanted to go faster, I cannot get to you until June 19.  I do not want to go any faster.  We have things to do, so I’m happy to wait until the 19^th.  Yes, that is just 19 days from now.  We could not go any faster. Thank you for calling.  See you on the day of surgery.

While this is a blow, it is not an insurmountable blow.  We will handle whatever comes.  Charla and I embrace and tear up a tad.  Maybe more than a tad.

The future has become a tad more uncertain.

I will have to accept the fact that I am a cancer patient.  Yes, that word.  A cancer patient. Then, down the road a piece, I will become a cancer survivor. 

Back to the main point at the lead of this painfully long post, is that I am well aware that I am a man of privilege. There is “Dr.” before my name, or “Ph.D.” after my name, though that is not a card that I play with physicians.  I am a patient, not a colleague.  My privilege speaks loudly: white, male, insurance, physician who calls me at home, automobile to travel the distance to all of the pre-op stuff and then the surgery, family who love me, middle to upper middle-class status, and the list could go on and on.

I believe that all people regardless of race, color, creed, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, etc., etc., should receive the kind of care that I am getting.  Yes, here I take my stand. All should receive the care I am receiving.

The Justice of Your Cause

As most of the readers and followers of this blog know, Shoun Hill and I are in the midst of a two-year period of development of the documentary on the Black farmer movement.  We are specifically focusing upon 15 farmers and families who against all odds, many seemingly insurmountable odds, faced off against the USDA, metaphorically and perhaps not so metaphorically as "David" against "Goliath." These cases were settled (though two were settled and then unsettled) administratively which meant out of sight, no court battles, and little publicity.

They led ultimately to what became the Pigford Class Action Suit which was certified in 1999. Without these farmers and families, there would not have been a Black Farmer Movement.

Shoun and I have been inspired by this journey and committed to telling the stories of pain and suffering and resilience for years.  From what Shoun said the other night on the blog radio talk show, his interest goes back to graduate school in Ohio.  My interest goes back to that afternoon in the Spring, 1994 when the attorney for Black farmers called me.

In the early morning hours of a day or so ago a text from the psalmist David caught my eye.  I found it again this morning and am drawn to it and its applications.  Join me in that text, if you will: Psalm 37:5, 6:  

                                   Commit your way to the Lord; 
                                               trust in Him and He will do this: 

                                   He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, 

                                              the justice of your cause like the noonday sun.

That text was written a long time ago by the poet King David.  No doubt many can see many applications in that text.  I am not alone.

The cause for which Shoun and I are working is indeed a just cause.  People hurt by people working for a powerful institution.  People at the lower levels of a governmental agency, with power in their hands, hearts, and pens,  can cause unspeakable pain and suffering in the lives, souls, and families of those committed to this country, their families, and to farming. That someone at that level of the bureaucracy could reek havoc is an injustice that has no words.

These are not Shoun's and Waymon's stories.  These are the stories of the farmers and families in Texas, Georgia, North Carolina, Virginia, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, and other states as well who fought and won.  Or, they fought, won, and lost. They won their cases, but the stress of dealing with the USDA wore their bodies and families out. Some died early. All wore the scars of the battle. Fighting racism is a costly fight. 

Yes, we are committed to the Lord, yes, we trust Him, and, yes, we are not asking for our righteousness to shine like the sun in the middle of the day, but we do rest in His promise, that he will make the justice of our cause to shine like the noonday sun.

That is bright.  The sun at that time of day is very, very bright.

We humbly ask God to do what He is promising in this text. 

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