The Middletown Press (Middletown, CT)

Black farmers await billions in promised debt relief


There was a time when Black farms prospered.

Just two generation­s out of slavery, by 1910 Black farmers had amassed more than 16 million acres of land and made up about 14 percent of farmers. The fruit of their labors fed much of America.

Now, they have fewer than 4.7 million acres. Black farms in the U.S. plummeted from 925,000 to fewer than 36,000, according to the U.S. Department of Agricultur­e’s latest farm census. And only about one in 100 farmers is Black. What happened? They were able to overcome the broken promise of “40 acres and a mule” to the newly freed slaves — a military order, later rescinded.

But again and again over the last century, they faced one obstacle after another because of their race.

Lenders — chief among them, the USDA — often refused to give them money, and often rushed to foreclose. Suppliers and customers undercut them. Laws of inheritanc­e led to the breakup of homesteads.

Now the government wants to make amends by providing billions of dollars in debt forgivenes­s for farmers of color. But a judge has put the money on hold in the face of lawsuits filed by white farmers claiming that the program is unfair — reverse discrimina­tion.

Today’s Black farmers and the descendant­s of Black farmers who lost their stakes argue that they are the ones who have been the victims of injustice:

The Virginia farmer who barely was able to keep part of his farm when the USDA threatened to sell it at auction. The Kansas man who lost the land his grandparen­ts once homesteade­d. The Arkansas farmer who is holding on by a thread, praying the federal aid will come through in time.

It was racism, says farmer John Wesley Boyd Jr. And it still is.

“I think discrimina­tion is still pervasive. I think that it’s done in a much subtler way,” Boyd says.

Boyd was just 18 years old when he assumed an existing USDA loan when he bought his first farm in the early 1980s. He says walking into his local USDA office was like a return to the Jim Crow era. Black farmers had supervised accounts and could only get appointmen­ts with the local lending officer on a single day of the week, a practice that came to be known as Black Wednesday.

Boyd endured racial slurs. A loan officer once spat tobacco juice on him — he accidental­ly missed the spit can, the official would claim. Another time, Boyd saw an official tear up his applicatio­n and throw it in the trash.

In 1996, USDA took just 30 days to foreclose on some of his Virginia farmland. Then the department moved to auction off the remaining 110 acres.

Boyd joined other Black farmers at a protest in Washington, tying a mule named 40 Acres to the White House gate. Less than a week later, then-Agricultur­e Secretary Dan Glickman declared a farm foreclosur­e moratorium. Boyd had just enough time to save his farm.

Documents from a USDA internal review show investigat­ors found his operating loan requests were not processed for years, despite explicit instructio­ns from the agency’s state director. It also found that his account was improperly referred to a credit bureau as delinquent when it should have been restructur­ed, deepening his financial difficulti­es.

These kinds of practices prompted approval of the landmark settlement of the

Pigford v. Glickman lawsuit filed by Black farmers in 1999. Though USDA paid more than $2.4 billion, state taxes eroded recoveries, debt relief was incomplete and the settlement­s did not cure the problems faced by minority farmers.

Government lawyers noted in a court filing that between 2006 and 2016, Black farmers were subject to 13 percent of USDA foreclosur­es — despite receiving fewer than 3 percent of direct loans.

Tucked amid the vast plains of Kansas are the remnants of what was once the bustling Black settlement of Nicodemus. Just a couple of miles outside the town sit the 200 acres that the grandparen­ts of Theodore Bernard Bates once homesteade­d.

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