The farmers and the community get down so they don't get plowed under.
The "guardians" of Los Angeles, its City Council, looked at the fourteen acres of the South Central Farm and saw nothing: they determined the land was not being used and sold it to Ralph Horowitz. Courts up to the State Supreme Court agreed that nothing was here. But Tuesday night, more than 2000 people waited for a quarter mile down Long Beach Boulevard and around East 41st Street, some for more than two hours, to tell the City Mothers and Fathers that they were blind.
Quetzal, Zach de la Rocha, Ozomatli members, and the South Central Farmers drew the impressive crowd for the free-and-donations Defend the Community Farm Concert. The mix of mostly young adult Chicana/os and Native Americans with a smattering of African Americans, chatted with each other with patience and determination, stalled by security checks. Event organizers admitted they were unprepared for the huge turnout.
A group of six of us struck up a conversation under the night canopy, the beats of the music reaching as far as we were waiting. Urban light pollution drowned out the stars, and the half moon blended in with the shaded street lights in the industrial and warehouse area that sprawls across the boundary of the City of Vernon into South Central. One woman, a Native American, looked at the fields of cacti and corn to our right and reminded us that plants were the lungs of Mother Earth, providing oxygen for the planet. She attributed the crowd's calm comaraderie to the fresh air in this otherwise heavily polluted neighborhood. Another suggested it was respect for the Farmers that kept the crowd there and patient.
We exchanged what we knew about the Farmers' plight, all in agreement that the City had sold off an invaluable resource. We wondered out loud if there was any hope for the farm; we didn't know, but that didn't seem to quell anyone's support for the Farmers and their mission. Periodically someone would walk to the front of the line and bring back a report: another two hours, an hour and a half, forty-five minutes. One woman worried that her kid brother, attending his first concert, wouldn't want to go to a concert again, but Kid Brother seemed mellow. A substitute teacher entertained us with stories of Bush's gaffs, asserting he'd rather see Bush as President than Cheney because Cheney wasn't funny. The security crew, more recognizable for their flashlights than their T-shirts, occassionally passed by, urging those who were wandering from here to there to stay on the sidewalk, although to little effect.
The line started moving, and organizers passed out letters calling on Mayor Villaraigosa to find an alternative for developer Ralph Horowitz, who has promised to remove the farmers by force, if necessary. Chains of people formed, signing the letters on each others' backs, and pens were handed around. Villaraigosa, who had himself photographed with the farmers while he ran for office, now reportedly refuses to meet with them.
We turned the corner to Long Beach Boulevard; a long half-block stretched in front of us. It was 11:20, and people started to speculate that the concert would end with a midnight police raid. Thinking about going to work on a few hours' sleep, I'll admit I started to walk away, but my temporary friends pulled me back into the line. A police helicopter flew overhead and a squad car pulled up, but the police made no other move. As we reached the gate, a security member promised "just a few more minutes, single file, don't clutter, thanks for your patience." Then he pointed to some fireworks set off across the tracks and jokingly told us that was part of the show, our reward for hanging in.
I dutifully rolled up my sleeve for the stamp (it seemed to be of a farmer), had the flashlight shown in my bag, and was perfunctorily patted down. I walked onto the farm and turned around: all but one of my friends had vanished into the darkness. I awkwardly thanked the remaining woman for her conversation. I started down the asphalt road, past the crackling of fresh roasted corn and the snap of bottle openers prying the caps off Jarritos, into the noise. An activist I've known for several years appeared at my side. We hugged and continued our walk, rows of candles sparkling through small white produce bags lining either side of the road.
I've seen Zach before, so it didn't matter much that I couldn't get to the
front to see him again. I shouted at my friend, a member of the farmers'
support committee, "Is there any hope?" He didn't know, but he added that
many in Los Angeles' Black community understood the meaning of a farm in
the middle of the industrial zone and were adamantly supporting the
farmers. I shouted, "What about the white community?" He shook his head and
said the environmentalists, who the farmers had been counting on, weren't in the
mix. He wondered where the Green Party was, and then he answered his
own question. I barely heard him over the din, but he looked away and said
they were too invested in private property rights. The Mayor and City
Council, too, were notable for their absence.
My friend left to join another group, and for a while I just grooved to the music and the party on the farm. At the end of Zach's set,
spokespeople for