
          A Time to Cast Away Stones
          By Waller, Kathryn J.Kathryn J. Waller
          Vol. 10, No. 3, 1988, pp. 10-11
          
          It seemed an unlikely situation. I was driving to a farmer's rally
in Conway, S.C., to hear speeches from local politicians, mostly
white, building up to the keynote address by political activist Jesse
Jackson. It was spring of 1986, and no one yet (except Jesse) was
thinking of the presidential race. The farmers were thinking of
survival: meeting daily the threat of failure and destitution. But
anyone who really farms, who wakes up in darkness and labors hard
until after the sun is gone, is not apt to lie down and become an easy
victim, not if there's any way to stay on your feet. These "at risk"
farmers were standing up, standing together, and plowing new
ground-not in their fields, but in kitchens and church basements, and
in the halls of legislatures and the U.S. Congress.
          For most urban Americans the greatest impact of the farm crisis, so
far, has been exposure to a lot more Willie Nelson music than they
might have ordinarily heard. Many people do not yet see the larger
implications of land loss for the nation's economy, and for democracy
itself. Most have never had any direct contact with grassroots
farmers, the ones facing the wrong edge of the scythe.
          In the crowded parking lot of Conway's National Guard Armory I
found Betty Bailey. She'd given up an overdue vacation to help this
fledgling group, the United Farmers Organization (UFO), pull the rally
together. It showed in her face. Exhausted, the large turnout kept her
smiling, and last minute details kept her moving. Inside the armory
were hundreds of farmers--men and women, black and white, mostly older
but some in their twenties and thirties, and more filing in the door
all the time. At a table inside, Linda Clapp, a dairy farmer and
former UFO president, was greeting friends, and selling hats and
T-shirts.
          I was apprehensive. Not about the T-shirts but about how the rally
would go over. Eight years of working in the rural South had taught me
that attitudes hadn't changed much since the volatile heyday of the
civil rights movement. I couldn't help but wonder how these grizzled
white Carolina farmers would respond when Jesse Jackson took the
stage.
          And take the stage he did. Took the whole room. Took the audience
in the palm of his hand. "Let's be sure we understand each
other," Jesse said. "It's not black loss or white loss. We all
have a stake in holding on to the land. If the black farmer goes out
in the morning, the white farmer follows in the afternoon!" Black
and white men and women were on their feet cheering and holding hands
in song and prayer. In that room I could see old walls beginning to
fall. Family farmers are discovering that no matter what their skin
color, they are together a new kind of American minority--an economic
minority.
          The small part I've played in helping the United Farmers
Organization grow has since shown me that what I saw at that rally
goes far beyond a South Carolina armory. All farmers have problems,
but all farmers' problems are not the same. Black farmers, for
instance, have struggled for generations with the issues of land loss
and access to credit that many white farmers have only seen since the
start of this decade.
          The divisions are more than black and white. Row crop farmers have
interests separate from dairy farmers. Peach growers don't really have
time to worry about the needs of poultry producers; people with
tobacco allotment and a small hog operation are not overly concerned
about the beef industry.
          But by focusing first on the common needs of family farmers as an
economic minority, the diverse needs of these various groups become a
common agenda, breaching barriers rather reinforcing them. This is
what is happening among Carolina farmers in the UFO. Row crop farmers
call their legislators advocating a bill to protect poultry growers'
rights. White farmers support a lawsuit alleging racial discrimination
in FmHA lending practices. When UFO tobacco farmers won a court
decision allowing access to their co-op's books it was a victory for
all commodity growers.
          A year later and another farmers' meeting: George Ammons, a black
North Carolina turkey farmer who was 1987 UFO vice president, is at
the podium. "Black farmers have been in a continuous crisis for the
past fifty years. Blacks are losing land at an annual rate of 500,000
acres. There are only 181 black farmers under the age of twenty-five
in the United States. If this current trend continues, blacks will be
a landless people within the next ten years." It is not news. The
statistics have been reported before. What is different is that here
white farmers share the stage, and these views. When George leaves the
microphone, Tom Trantham, a white South Carolina dairy farmer and
current UFO president, steps up and says "I've been working with
George in the UFO for over two years now and I am proud to call him my
brother."
          Time after time the UFO has sent delegations of black and white
farmers to meet with political officials, to show the strength of
unity. Each time the UFO has presented testimony about farm problems
and recommended remedies, the particular problems of discrimination
and the startling rate of black land loss has been stressed. Often a
UFO spokesperson who is white raises the issue of black land loss, and
the UFO's proposed solutions. Other times a UFO spokesperson who is
black will list that issue among 

the many pressing concerns shared by all farmers.
          It's a pattern that's repeating and growing stronger in the
Carolinas, as the UFO grows. Now with some 1,500 members, the UFO
counts a rising number of victories, small and large, all the result
of cooperative effort between traditionally independent people, people
of different ethnic backgrounds and different farming
backgrounds. From advocacy--including major input to the farmers'
rights portion of the new farm credit legislation--to the start-up of
purchasing co-ops, to halting foreclosure sales, farmers are
discovering that united they have a fighting chance to stand their
ground.
          A black farmer, Leon Spaulding, stands at the edge of a crowd
gathered for the court-ordered auction of his land, his house, and his
farm equipment. UFO members, black and white, distribute one-page
leaflets among the crowd telling Leon's story. Bold print at the top
of the page urges "Don't Bid On Your Neighbor's Farm." The result: few
bids are offered; one small piece of land is sold. The buyer is so
ashamed he later offers to sell the land back to Spaulding, financing
it himself at low interest.
          When drought, the worst on record, struck the Southeast in l986
thousands of farmers learned the value of the UFO's solidarity.
          What began as an offer of help from one farmer in Iowa to one South
Carolina farmer grew into a massive relief program, bringing many tons
of hay and thousands of bushels of seed for replanting to financially
strapped Southeastern farmers. North Carolina agriculture officials
were derisive of the idea that farmers could initiate and implement
distribution, but working side-by-side farmers of the UFO got the job
done. When the dust cleared over 3,500 farmers, most with small
holdings, had received substantial aid. The program was more timely,
and of greater benefit to small farmers, than any drought-relief
effort of the government.
          
            Kathryn J. Waller is executive director of the Rural
Advancement Fund.
          
        