Courtesy of Grand Risings Farm
Grand Risings Farm
Zedé Harut begins her day collecting fresh eggs from her chickens. Her partner, Degen, heads out to their pasture—dewey and chill these mid-spring mornings—to care for their goats and two rescued sheep, Ice and Cocoa. As the day warms, they tend to around 1500 seedlings growing in their garage, stuffing their wood stove with logs to heat the space. Here at Grand Risings Farm in Sandstone, Minn., Zedé and Degen grow organic fresh produce like greens, tomatoes, and peppers. They spend long days outside, building raised beds and greenhouses, readying the earth for a summer crop. Grand Risings is one of a growing number of Black-owned farms across the state. In Minnesota and across the country, Black farmers are emerging as land stewards with a renewed vision for agriculture, and an ancestral relationship with the soil.
Grand Risings Farm is bordered with deciduous forest, and the Kettle River, a tributary of the St. Croix, flows through its backyard. By July, Zedé and Degen will be harvesting raspberries from the bushes that grow all around their land.
“It feels very intuitive, and very healing,” says Harut. “It feels very familiar, working this land, although we're in an area that does not primarily represent me as a place. When I get in the field, and when I'm out in my backyard, looking over the river, it feels so comforting. Like, this is where you're supposed to be. For so long, a lot of our ancestors lost what we were used to. To try and feel that again, through growing food, and then growing food for other people—it feels like not only am I honoring what they always wanted us to have in the first place, but I also feel like I'm coming more into myself.”
Grand Risings Farm is fundraising for a small summer CSA that will bring their produce to families in both Minneapolis and Sandstone. Harut practices regenerative farming—she composts and ferments the soil and avoids tilling, to help nurture the land’s natural microbial ecosystem. “The soil is struggling right now, after industrialization and colonization took over,” says Harut. “The term regenerative agriculture, which really just means what our ancestors were doing before industrialization, is really important for our world, for our society, for our Earth, for us to continue to sustain food.”
Courtesy of Grand Risings Farm
Grand Risings Farm
Harut’s farming inspiration comes from her mother, Angela Dawson, who runs 40 Acre Co-op on the same farmland in Sandstone. That name is a reference to the order made by Union General William T. Sherman to grant formerly enslaved people 40 acres and a mule at the end of the Civil War—a promise that was never delivered. Harut and Dawson are part of a growing national movement to secure land access and economic viability for Black farmers, working alongside Indigenous farmers who have a related history of land theft, and other farmers of color.
Nationally, about 1.3 percent of farmers are Black. But that percentage is even smaller in Minnesota: according to a recent agricultural census, it’s 0.03 percent. That’s about 55 Black farms out of the state’s nearly 70,000. And disparities in income are enormous: in 2017, the Center for American Progress found that the average full-time Black farmer made $2,408 in income, compared to the average white farmer’s $17,190. This disparity is partly due to the fact that Black farmers’ average acreage is about one-fourth the national average.
There’s a reason for that. In 1910, Black farmers owned 16 to 19 million acres of farmland. A century later, in what The Atlantic’s Vann R. Newkirk II called “The Great Land Robbery,” 98 percent of America’s Black agricultural landowners had been dispossessed of their farms. In the early 20th century, a series of federal homestead acts offered mostly white settlers deeply subsidized land, entrenching white-held titles in American soil. Later—mostly from the 1950s onward—local USDA offices acted as arbiters of land ownership across the country, regularly denying Black farmers credit and loans, forcing many into foreclosure. Their farms were usually bought up by wealthy white landowners, who absorbed them into massive operations. What was once a major lifeway for rural Black communities across the country nearly disappeared. By 1999, white people owned 98 percent of all private American farmland, and 97 percent of its value.
Black farmers’ total loss is estimated to be at least $250-$350 billion. And the pattern continues today: According to Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack and data from the USDA, 0.1 percent of pandemic bailout funds went to Black farmers, while around 97 percent went to white farmers. These payments, which were linked to production, mostly benefited the largest, most successful farms.
“It's really important that these things are brought back to our communities, because we've lost [billions] of dollars simply because we didn't have land ownership,” says Harut. “Those things are really important to me, as a way for generationally taking care of our children and our future. Because we deserve the same exact resources that land ownership brings: food, financial support to communities, and more sustainable cities and neighborhoods.”
The American Rescue Plan recently dedicated $5 billion to disadvantaged farmers, which will fund debt relief, grants, training, and education. In February, Sen. Tina Smith introduced the Justice for Black Farmers Act, which aims to rectify the USDA’s legacy of discrimination against Black farmers.
Naima Dhore, executive director of the Somali American Farmers Association, has been working with Sen. Smith to address land access barriers that Black and immigrant farmers face in Minnesota. Dhore started growing microgreens in her apartment in 2009 as a way to feed her new baby—eventually, she and her husband began cultivating organic kale, carrots, and Swiss chard at Big River Farms in Marine on St. Croix. She’s in the process of purchasing her own land, and will bring Naima’s Farm there.
This year, SAFA has secured a small plot in Minneapolis, where they plan to grow food that’s familiar to the Twin Cities’ East African communities. Mangoes and bananas are out of the question, says Dhore, but they’re experimenting with leafy greens. SAFA also plans to engage youth who are interested in farming. “For me, it's really important that the economic opportunities for our young people who are interested in agriculture are feasible for them,” Dhore said. “That's another major goal for SAFA, to establish that. But we have to have the support from our policymakers, and folks that are implementing the long term funds that hopefully will translate well for the needs of our community.”
Dhore says it’s hard to be an emerging farmer. Navigating the state’s web of resources can be overwhelming, and at the end of the day, farming is often expensive and risky. If new farmers haven’t inherited land, it’s difficult to gain access. As SAFA’s executive director, she works with mostly white-led farming organizations that have capital and infrastructure to connect their resources to her community. But she says that to really help Minnesota’s farmers of color and immigrant farmers gain land access as baby boomers retire, well-funded white organizations need to ramp up their outreach. She’s excited about the recent legislation, but says we need to see sustainable change.
“We’re in a very vulnerable position, and many of us are trying to build wealth as well,” says Dhore. “I’m trying to figure out—what does my retirement look like? I have no idea, because I still have to work 40 hours [a week]. … That's the reality for a lot of farmers too, whether they're Black or not. Small scale farmers or emerging farmers, they still have to work multiple jobs. These are the folks that are doing essential work. Why can’t we support them in a way that is sustainable?”
Courtesy of Naima's Farm
Naima's Farm
Harut says entering the farming landscape as a newcomer has been hard for her as well. Having a network is crucial. She has applied for grants to set up her greenhouses, but so far, nothing has come through. She’d love to see the state support Black farmers by helping to purchase equipment, which is a major investment. Right now, she’s getting the most support from mutual aid networks of neighbors and other supporters who’ve contributed to her fundraiser.
As Harut, Dawson, and Dhore sustain their work in Minnesota, they’re part of a national movement of Black farmers with a plan for healing: to reclaim land, restore agricultural practices based in care for the earth, and build food sovereignty for Black communities both rural and urban. Similar farming collectives and organizations have cropped up in New York, Seattle, in the southeast, and across the country, and continue to expand.
“The vision that Black farmers have for themselves is just so monumental,” says Harut. “It feels like a really loud claim of reclamation of what we've always wanted to do.”
