The story of Black farmers in Tennessee is a profound narrative of resilience, a "long walk" from the forced labor of the plantation to the hard-won independence of the family farm. It is a story not just of agriculture, but of food sovereignty—the right of a people to define their own food and agriculture systems. For over a century, Black farmers in the Volunteer State have fought to feed their communities while simultaneously battling systemic exclusion, land loss, and economic disenfranchisement.
The Roots of Independence: 1865–1920
Following Emancipation, the transition from enslaved labor to land ownership was the primary vehicle for Black freedom. In Tennessee, this journey was slightly different than in the Deep South. Because parts of the Upper South had more diversified economies and a less entrenched history of massive cotton plantations, some African Americans found white landowners more willing to sell land.
By 1910, the progress was staggering. Black Americans across the country held title to roughly 16 million acres of farmland. In Tennessee, "Century Farms" like the Black Family Farm in Dover (founded over 100 years ago) began to take root. These farmers did more than just grow crops like tobacco, corn, and strawberries; they built the economic foundations of Black middle-class life. A Black farmer who owned his land was his "own boss," making him harder to intimidate during the burgeoning era of Jim Crow.
The Era of "Farmland Blues" and Discrimination
The mid-20th century brought a devastating reversal. A combination of the Great Migration and systemic discrimination led to a massive decline in Black land ownership. Between 1920 and today, the number of Black farmers in Tennessee plummeted from tens of thousands to fewer than 1,400.
The primary culprit was often the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). Local committees, often dominated by segregationists, systematically denied Black farmers the loans and disaster relief they were legally entitled to. Loans were often granted too late in the season to be useful, or were structured in ways that led to inevitable foreclosure. This "slow squeeze" resulted in the loss of millions of acres—land that represented not just a livelihood, but a legacy for future generations.
The Fight for Justice: Memphis and Beyond
Tennessee became a central battleground in the fight to reclaim this lost heritage. In 1997, the Black Farmers and Agriculturalists Association (BFAA) was established in Memphis. Led by Thomas Burrell, the BFAA spearheaded the awareness campaign for the historic Pigford v. Glickman class-action lawsuit. This suit eventually resulted in billions of dollars in settlements, acknowledging decades of USDA discrimination.
While the settlement could never truly replace the lost land, it signaled a turning point. It brought the struggle of the Black farmer into the national spotlight and birthed a new movement focused on food justice.
A New Renaissance: Feeding the Future
Today, a new generation of Black farmers and activists in Tennessee is redefining what it means to "feed Black America." In urban centers like Nashville, Memphis, and Knoxville, the focus has shifted toward hyper-local food systems to combat "food apartheid"—areas where fresh, healthy food is intentionally made inaccessible.
• Rooted East (Knoxville): This organization uses ancestral wisdom and "reparative agriculture" to teach community members how to grow their own food, fostering self-sufficiency.
• Black Family Farms (Dover): Now operated by three generations, they have expanded from traditional crops like tobacco to agritourism and pick-your-own strawberries, keeping the family legacy alive in a modern market.
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The history of Black farmers in Tennessee is a testament to the belief that land is the basis of all freedom. From the pioneers who bought their first 40 acres in the 1880s to the urban gardeners of the 2020s, these individuals have remained the stewards of their communities' health and heritage. To feed Black America is not just to provide calories, but to restore the connection between a people and the land that sustains them.
Thursday, February 5, 2026
The Call To Free Cuba, What does this Really Mean ?
The Miami exile community’s relentless cry for a "Free Cuba" is often wrapped in the noble language of democracy, but look closely at the nostalgia, and a much grittier picture emerges. When they talk about "the good old days," they aren't talking about the Cuba that exists today—the one that boasts one of the highest literacy rates in the Western Hemisphere and exports world-class medical doctors to every corner of the globe.
No, the "Free Cuba" they pine for looks a lot more like a grainy, black-and-white noir film, where the air is thick with cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the heavy hand of the American Mafia.
The "Pearl" of the Mob
Before 1959, Havana wasn't a sovereign nation so much as it was a mid-Atlantic subsidiary of the Syndicate. Under the watchful, paid-off eye of the dictator Fulgencio Batista, the island was handed over to Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano on a silver platter.
The "freedom" the exiles seem to miss was the freedom to run an economy built on the "three pillars" of 1950s Havana:
The Syndicate’s Casino: Where the American Mob laundered millions while the local population (Afro-Cubans) lived in tin-roofed shacks just miles away.
Unchecked Prostitution: A "tourist industry" that essentially commodified the Cuban people for the amusement of visiting American businessmen.
A Pipeline of Drugs: Serving as the primary transit point for the Mob's narcotics trade, long before Medellรญn or Cali were names on a map.
The Reality They Ignore
The exile narrative conveniently glosses over what has been achieved since the "glory days" of gambling ended. Today’s Cuba—despite the crushing weight of a decades-long embargo—has achieved a 99.7% literacy rate. Their education system is a model for the developing world, and their doctors are consistently on the front lines of global health crises, from Ebola in Africa to COVID-19 in Italy.
Furthermore, the "Free Cuba" of the 1950s was a playground for the white elite. It is no coincidence that Afro-Cubans, who were largely excluded from the swanky casinos and private clubs of the Batista era, have largely embraced a system that, for all its flaws, offered them dignity and social mobility that the "Latin Las Vegas" never could.
A Yearning for a Gilded Cage
When the exile community demands a return to the pre-Castro era, they are essentially asking to tear down the schools and clinics to make room for more baccarat tables. They want the neon back, but they forget that the neon only lit up the faces of the tourists and the mobsters.
The dream of a "Free Cuba" in Miami isn't about progress; it’s a desperate, condescending longing for a time when Cuba was "fun"—at least for the people who held the chips.
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