On Wednesday, May 24, over 200 people were at the Farm at Alameda and 41 Street to show their support to the farmers of the South Central Farm. When I got there at 8:30 PM, I couldn’t see any Police at all, but there were farmer vigilantes with walkie talkies at the 4 corners, some listening to the Police on scanners. For security measure all visitors were asked for Identifications and their bags and clothes were checked and their wrists were rubber stamped with ink.

A mix of poets, rappers and traditional musicians performed from 8 PM to Midnight. Among them was a 16 member folk group from Vera Cruz, Mexico that captured the crowd with their songs for almost one hour. The music was amazing, and I’m glad that I came over because it was a lot of fun. The crowd was very pleased.

A few times during the evening speakers reminded the crowd that Joan Baez was still high in the tree, and was going to spend the night there. Also the cops reminded us that they were there. We got the visit of two LAPD helicopters that flashed their high power light into the crowd that replied by brandishing their fists high up in the air.

At the end, the Farmers urged people to come back to the farm tomorrow, Thursday, May 25, around 7 PM.

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

error

Full report someday. For now, notes on staying at the Farm

LOS ANGELES, 25 May 2006--It wasn't quite a spur-of the moment decision--the Farm had cast its spell, and watching those folks take up their perches in the tree had grabbed me. Add to that, the idea that developer Ralph Horowitz might actually net $10M on a $5M investment at the Farmers' expense had me pissed. My schedule wasn't really open, but close enough, so when my friend said, "Let's spend the night," I said, "Sure."

I didn't know Holly, but she helped me put up my tent before daylight sipped away. Lots of people on blankets, sleeping bags. Tents are definitely middle class.

7:00 p.m. When I arrived, two hundred people were circling the perimeter of the Farm, with candles, chants, songs--claiming the Farm and blessing it at the same time.

8:30 p.m. Joan came down from the tree. Everyone applauded, everyone was grateful, but everyone knew, consciously or unconsciously, her absence from the tree--the Heart of the Farm--would make it that much easier for LAPD to bring in the fire hoses or cattle prods or whatever the hell they were planning.

I've never eaten Food Not Bombs' beans and sticky rice with such relish. I'd been warned about mosquitoes, but maybe the sage was keeping them away.

A steady outpouring of song, music, dance, spoken word, testimonials, for hours, from artists determined to hold on to the crowd. Everyone in LA's left wing were friends tonight, no partisanship, no bickering--the Farm's magic at work. And everyone seemed to be there. Tracy introduced me to Cindy . . .I found Marcos and finally got to gush over his photography . . .Rafael hung out . . .Sally nodded, Peter smiled . . . Jess, Javier, Sarah . . . Daniela's spending the night, along with Tiel and her friend! . . . Aura's my neighbor . . . Rodrigo and I chat about his kids . . . the helicoper spotlights make crisp silhouette patterns of the tree leaves on the ground . . . and the Farm rocks on.

midnight. Vigilers are asked to leave, the rest of us cluster in small groups to chat or hand by ourselves to jot notes by flashlight. The shadows of a bush are outlined by the street lights on the very close far end of my tent. People fussing, greeting; walkie-talkies tracking cars. The noises quiet to a droning murmur, a burst of laughter, distant guitar strumming.

3:30 a.m. Ka-boom! again, ka-boom! Two explosions, and then, "Fire!" Everyone was out of their sleeping bags and onto the campgrounds common area, except Farm security, who were already deployed to emergency positions. On the southwest corner of 41st, a building's roof was on fire. Relief--it was too far from the Farm to be a threat--then speculation, then some serious private conversations about interior security, emergency evacuation, coordinated actions.

6:30 a.m. The gentle wake up call, then a small celebration: the LA Times and La Opinion had frontpaged the Farm!

We take turns brushing our teeth and rinsing off in the sink.

7:30 a.m. A camp meeting, and Farmers show up with their hoes and pruning clippers and head to their plots. Supporters break into crews, we write the lawyer's phone number on our arms, newbies fill in legal information forms so we don't get lost in the system. I go on duty, welcoming visitors, but there aren't many at 7:30 a.m. Plans everywhere to move the political mountain, to bring people out to the vigils, to keep a 24-hour vigil, perhaps. Mike rolls tobacco in a corn husk . . . great smell.

8>30 a.m. A Farmer had brought coffee and cachinas . . . word spreads . . . one by one people find their way to her plot. She teaches me "cachina," I thank her, she thanks me. We smile and laugh.

I have to leave, go to work, but I leave my tent up. The Farm needs me.

Thursday, 10:00 p.m.    Dele shouts "Hello Sister" in his rumbling Nigerian accent.  Arrived late, after the vigil, in time for Dan's legal training.  Somebody had brought some pink-purple glow sticks, tonight's fashion statement.  Tomorrow, we were warned, they might try to take the Farm.

I have other obligations tomorrow, with people who were depending on me.  I call a friend, asking for advice--if the bust is tomorrow, I have to walk out, we agree.  But I'm still not sure.

A friend from outside has come to be with me for a while.  We chat with mutual friends, plan vigils and weekend actions.  The affinity teams meet, there's a call for additional security.

My friend smudges me, than another resident who happens to walk by and asks for the blessing.  For the first time, I'm holding the sage, smudging my friend before he departs.  It feels rights.

More conversations, hugs for people who are leaving.  My friend stops to talk with Reina about consequences, what has to be considered, who has to be considered.

midnight.    I've circled the tree with the sage and wafted it up to the sleepers above.  Especially for Julia, for strength in her fast.  I'm trying to sleep, but I can't.  I blame it on noisy neighbors and their talks of vegan cuisine and hybrid cars, people coming and going from their tent.  Then somebody's walking behind my tent . . . what is that sound? . . . massive glass collection for recycling perhaps.

But it's not my neighbors or the clinking.  Unlike last night, tonight I'm hearing the helicopters and every squad car blocks away.  I'm tossing around, I'm sitting up staring at the sky.  But the car and truck horns, every few minutes even through the night, are soothing.  I'm not sure what I think of the trains, but I can sleep through them.

Friday, 5:23 a.m.    I awake before my cell phone's alarm goes off.  A helicopter and a couple of cop cars at the same time.  Going back to sleep is hopeless, so I take my gear out to my car.  People are sleeping on chairs and on the ground at the entrances, on the sidewalk out front, wrapped in blankets.  The mask I call "Eyes of the Farm" lingers against the fence.  It's looked sad to me before, but today it seems puzzled.  

Back inside, I notice that someone has bothered to find vases for the cut flowers that are everywhere.  I read the banners on the fences around the campground and blow ants off my arm.

Clean porta-potties! and genuine cold and cold running water.  I'm not alone--a couple of people are milling around, but we're pretty much keeping to ourselves, quiet greetings, finding work.

The Farm has lived another day and another night.  It's like that.

7:58 a.m.    The Farm is holding its breath.  Eight o'clock comes and goes.  People start chatting, laughing just a little.

8:00 a.m.    Breakfast again, with fruit and bagels, peanut butter, cachinas, coffee.  Then stretching.  We are instructed to root ourselves in the earth, to open our hearts, to find our courage.  Seven breaths to the seven directions.  "Remember--you are the ancestors.  Stand in the tradition of the ancestors you respect," says the wise woman.

At the morning briefing, I find out that, when Ralph Horowitz bought the land from the City, he got more land than he originally owned, before the City took it in the late '80s.  I realize that he got to hand that bonus parcel back for the soccer field and an eventual big tax break.  We're told that when Horowitz bought it back from the City in 2003 for $5.3M, the land had been appraised at $20M.  The City--the taxpayers--had handed nearly $17M to Horowitz.

Today there are thirty of us, plus the security crew.  The Farmers aren't here, but the birds are chirping, the butterflies are carrying pollen, food is growing.  The residents will water the Farm this afternoon. 

9:30 a.m.    Maria shows me how to clean nopales for lunch, then she goes to the healer for help with her back.  I learn about patience and picking cactus spines out of my fingers.  And I finally get brave enough to try out my Spanish.  It works! sort of.  The kitchen crew is trying to figure out which tribe occupied this land, while Dan the lawyer reviews with the media contact crew for the press conference.

Working in the kitchen area is a bit of an awakening for me.  The women here--nearly all of us are women--work with dignity and pride.  Yes, it's "women's work," but here on the Farm, women's work is respected.  Somehow, "women's work"--scraping nopales--has been transformed, and I'm proud to be doing it.

10:30 a.m.    Mike the healer, from New Mexico, works on my back, as he intuits my physical and psychological needs.  He's amazing.

11:15 a.m.     Daily press conference.  Julia announces the Mayor has asked Horowitz to sell the land to the Farmers for the $6M they've raised.  Obviously, the Mayor is trying to take the heat off himself.  We know that, but maybe, just maybe . . . .  Julia's been getting calls of support from Italy, France, Germany, up in the tree.  Ten thousand dollars in three days from online donations.  Then she urges people to come out to the Farm, to show their support with their physical body.  And she asks people to call Horowitz, not to harass him but to ask him to be the hero of the Farm, to invite him to be a part of the Farm, and sell it to the Farmers his cost and interest.

Horowitz's number is 310-440-7878, she tells us.

donate

I walked through the farm last year and was amazed that this natural oasis existed in the middle of an industrial area. It's a no-brainer that the farm should be permitted to remain. A sustainable garden in the heart of Los Angeles is inspirational as well as nutritionally responsible.

Please keep the farm going. It makes more sense to encourage positive community action rather than trying to end it.

SOUTH CENTRAL FARM, 30 May 2006--It's been too wonderful--I haven't taken time to written about he concert and the hundreds of people getting down on the Farm on Friday.  Or two days ago, when the kids came back for the market, bringing their parents.  Many of the Farmers rush through the open gates (kids leading the way), safe with the cover of the market-goers, to nurture their food, much of it ready for first harvest.  Some Farmers chopped meat and tomatoes and cilantro for the best soft tacos I've ever had.  At this Farmer's Market, food is cut to order--if you want a cabbage or some mint, the Farmer will step into the Farm to bring it to you, and that way, at the end of the day, no food is left wilting on a table.  The kids, under the guidance of local artist Janice Kim, lie on oilcloth to sketch the outlines of what emerge as life-size paintings of themselves with messages for the Farm.

And I haven't told you about the ecumenical Earth-based spiritual service yesterday morning.  The votive candles now encircle the walnut tree, and a ring of flowers circle them.  This tribute to both the tree and the tree-sitters is unremarked, but not unnoticed.  Chairs have been set up for visitors; palm fronds line the paths between them to the tree.  "This ground on which we stand is holy because it's alive," Michael Beckwith of Agape International Spiritual Center reminds us.  "From the ashes of challenging times here arises a jewel in the community of Los Angeles," he continues.  "We were brought into the world to be farmers."  The Farmers who've left their crops to join the service form a circle around the walnut tree, where we try to show them honor.  Joan offers us "No nos moverán," a reprise of her first appearance here, nearly a week ago now.  She follows it with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," with the beautiful warbling that only Joan can invoke.  She changes one line:  today it is "a band of Farmers comin' after me, comin' for to carry me home."

Then there are the recognitions, of the Humbolt County farmers who've joined us to leading South Central activist Evelyn Knight (sorry, Evelyn, if I haven't gotten your name right). Knight compares her presence at the Farm to her marches with Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King, Jr.  

Ross Altman reminds us that Joan made "We Shall Overcome" into a legendary revolutionary anthem at the 1963 March on Washington.  Joan and the rest of us join Ross in today's version:

We shall save the Farm
We shall save the Farm
We shall save the Farm today . . . .

The connection from my youth to where I stand today rips through me.

I wave to Celes, and talk with Doug about his gas-guzzling 10-cylinder truck, with Dele about anarchists, and with Teso about plans to defend and save the Farm.  Teso is good for my soul: he assures me that things are happening, progress is being made.  He talks about maneuvers and actions that I can't outline here, but it's evident that the Farm is much closer to salvation than it was a week ago.  But Ralph Horowitz has upped his asking price from $16M to $20M--he's mad at the protestors, and he's retaliating.

I come back for last night's vigil, greeting Sasha, John, and Wolfie as we pass on the sidewalk.  For this vigil, I sit inside the Farm and take in the movement of a hundred people chanting in the distance--to my left, then in front of me, then to my right, then behind me.  Most go home after the vigil--tomorrow is a work day--but a few stay for the drum circle.  Julie's inside, and I take a picture for her website.  About twenty tents, big and small, jam the campground behind and to the side of the walnut tree.  Sleeping bags are wedged in between, and the security crew have blankets and bags scattered along the perimeter.  Some tents are painted with messages or sport signs, "Save the Farm" and so forth.  Most are occupied, but a few are left by departed campers, waiting for newcomers.

At the nightly meeting, the legal crew tells us they expect the sheriffs in the morning or on Wednesday.  Plans, actions are reviewed, rehearsed, questioned and detailed.  People make commitments to the Farm.  The playfulness of the past week turns somber and determined.  Some people leave, planning to return at 6:00 a.m. to protest outside.  The rest of us label our stuff and put valuables in bags for rescue.  I've been teased here about being the Farm's "embedded reporter" but tonight, when we lock down at 11:30 p.m., I'm not laughing.  The helicopter circles.  No one's sleeping.

A guy wrapped in a blanket walks up to me and asks in Spanish, "What are you writing?"  I can't answer in Spanish, so I explain in English.  He can't sleep, hasn't slept in three days, but he has to get some sleep tonight so he can go to work tomorrow.  He can only be self-sufficient for a week, he reflects.  I add that it's a shame we're so tied to the system.   We also agree that maybe, when the rest of us are killed off by capitalism, or environmental devastation, or imperialist war, or whatever finally comes, the Farmers will know how to survive.  We drift off to our tents.

Most of us have slept fully clothed.  This morning we do a runthrough of our response to the sheriffs, then sit down and review what worked and what needs to be changed.  Good suggestions, better camaraderie.  Then breakfast with a treat: fresh blackberries!  Crews head out to fill in the gaps in the response plans, while others go about the daily business of maintaining the Farm.  People on the outside, I'm assured, are frantically seeking out donors and having some success.  Today's press conference promises more celebrities, along with Maxine Waters and South Central community activists.  It's neck and neck now between the will of Farm supporters and the machine of the sheriffs.  But today I've got to go to work.