‘With Many Hands,' Otero County residents address food insecurity
When Courtney McCary-Squyres started noticing the lack of fresh fruits and vegetables at the market and on the store shelves in Alamogordo during the COVID-19 pandemic, she said she decided to take action.
McCary-Squyres is a lead organizer with the non-profit With Many Hands, an organization developed out of the Addition Collective Action Fund supporting community organizing efforts across the country. In Alamogordo and Tularosa, the organization is working to address food instability by creating community gardens in vacant lots.
McCary-Squyres, her family and volunteers will join representatives of Roadrunner Food Bank Friday for Hunger Action Day at the Roundhouse. The group is advocating on behalf of House Bill 229, which proposes a $430,000 appropriation from the general fund to New Mexico State University for the New Mexico Department of Agriculture to distribute to approved supplier programs. The House Agriculture, Acequias and Water Resources Committee last week advanced the bill, which now heads to the House Appropriations and Finance Committee.
When she started talking to her neighbors and fellow residents, McCary-Squyres said she found that access to food, particularly fresh foods, was a concern shared by many.
'And I had seen some communities online doing community gardens and being able to distribute fresh food via community gardens so that's when I started to become passionate about believing that that could happen in our community as well,' she told Source NM.
Today, With Many Hands has developed three community gardens in Alamogordo and one in Roswell where volunteers join in the process of planting seeds, watering raised garden beds and harvesting the growth. McCary-Squyres said about 100 volunteers take part in some way throughout the year – so much so that they sometimes run out of jobs for people to take on.
A wide variety of fruits, vegetables and herbs are grown in the gardens – 'anything you can think of,' McCary-Squyres said. And when crops are ready to harvest, everyone is welcome to take as much as they need. For those who are unable to access the gardens, volunteers deliver produce to their homes.
McCary-Squyres added that not only are the gardens providing nourishment and bringing people together, but also transforming areas of the community that showed blight and disuse.
Volunteer work day at the New York Alleyway garden in Alamogordo. (Photo courtesy Courtney McCary Squyres)
Their Puerto Rico Avenue garden is the organization's latest project. At about half an acre, the land will allow for larger yields and an area dedicated to children.
'We can encourage people to bring their families out to enjoy the garden,' McCary-Squyres said, adding that her own four children have been involved in community work days in the gardens when they're not in school. 'They were coming with us to water, to plant seeds.'
Advocates are also supporting House Bill 77, which proposes an amendment to the Public Assistance Act requiring the Health Care Authority to create an annual Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) outreach plan to promote the program. The bill has passed two committees and is set to appear on the House floor next.
McCary-Squyres noted that there are a multitude of federal and state programs that help people establish secure access to food. Otero County residents are doing their part to join in the efforts.
'We consider ourselves New Mexicans now,' McCary-Squyres said, adding that she is from North Texas and her family moved to the area six years ago. 'We're from here now and we're planning on staying in Alamogordo for many years to come.'
According to a news release, organizers estimate approximately 150 hunger advocates from across the state will attend Hunger Action Day, which will commence at noon in the Rotunda with music by the Cibola Choir, comments from both The Food Depot and Roadrunner Food Bank leaders, as well as remarks from state Rep. Charlotte Little (D-Albuquerque) and Sen. Leo Jaramillo (D-Española).
Little is a co-sponsor of House Bill 17, which would create the Commission on Reduction of Grocery Costs to study and determine strategies for reducing grocery prices for consumers. Jaramillo co-sponsored Senate Bill 4 in 2023 establishing free and healthy school breakfast and lunch for students K-12.
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Axios
6 hours ago
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Vox
7 hours ago
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The incredible global collapse of fur production, explained in one chart
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The rapid transformation represents a shift in the perception of fur from a luxury good that signals wealth and status to an ethical faux pas. It's perhaps the biggest animal welfare campaign success story of the 21st century, achieved by pressuring major fashion brands to drop fur from product lines and persuading lawmakers across Europe and elsewhere to ban the production and even sale of fur. Covid-19 hastened Europe's move away from fur production, as mink — the species farmed for fur in the greatest numbers around the world — were found to be especially susceptible to the virus, and mink-associated strains spilled back over to infect humans. Economic headwinds and shifting political dynamics in Russia and China, two of the world's biggest fur producers and consumers, helped change the course of the global industry, too. The outlook for billions of animals used by humans every year, in industries from meat production to scientific research, is largely bleak. 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These bleak conditions cause the animals to engage in what are called 'stereotypical' behaviors — repetitive motions that are a sign of stress. When caged, mink will pace or bob their heads — even perform somersaults — while foxes might constantly scratch at the corner of their cages in a fruitless attempt to dig and burrow. 'They've literally gone insane in these operations, because they're not fulfilling their natural behaviors,' PJ Smith, director of fashion policy at Humane World For Animals, told me. How animal advocates — and shifting political and economic conditions — put fur out of fashion Today's animal rights movement is largely focused on cruelty to animals raised for meat, milk, and eggs. But in the 1980s and '90s, ending the fur industry was the cause du jour. PETA put the issue on the cultural map, stigmatizing fur by throwing fake blood on runways and recruiting A-list celebrities to wear next to nothing for its 'I'd Rather Go Naked than Wear Fur' campaign. In 1991, The Go-Go's launched PETA's 'I'd Rather Go Naked Than Wear Fur' campaign. Greg Gorman/Courtesy of PETA The impact of that early advocacy, however, is hard to discern; Calvin Klein committed to going fur-free in 1994, while other brands resisted PETA's campaign. US fur sales declined from the late 1980s to the early 1990s, though it's unclear how much of that was attributable to animal rights campaigning. By the late 1990s, animal advocates had largely moved on to other issues, while US fur sales began to recover. At the same time, China joined the World Trade Organization, which opened up its capacity to export fur, while the US's growing prosperity led it to become a major fur consumer. Fur production boomed, and fur trim became a popular lining for winter coat hoods. But some advocates maintained pressure against the industry, and in the 2000s, a few mid-level brands, like Ralph Lauren and went fur-free. 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Chicago Tribune
8 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
They're here. They're queer. They're farming. New generation of LGBTQ farmers more visible and vocal.
Laid off by a bar during the COVID pandemic, Jarvi Schneider turned to the internet for job leads. The Chicago Botanic Garden was offering a training program for would-be farmers that included paid, hands-on experience, and Schneider signed up. That led to a business class and four years growing vegetables at a shared plot in Bronzeville. Now Schneider, who is transgender and uses they/them pronouns, is taking the next step with their spouse, Soraya Alem. The couple is leasing a 43-acre farm in McHenry County, with the intention to buy. 'Unlike a regular job that you go to, where maybe it's not what you want to be doing, it's rewarding to have a spiritual and emotional connection to what you're doing,' Schneider, 36, said of farming. 'And then it's also it's your business, and you're in charge of it.' Schneider and Alem are part of a new wave of LGBTQ farmers who are more visible and better organized than previous generations, with 'convergences' — or regional grassroots gatherings, support resources such as the Queer Farmer Network and farm websites that include the owners' LGBTQ identities. The Department of Agriculture's census of farmers and ranchers doesn't track gender or sexual orientation, so data is very limited. But enterprising researchers crunched the agriculture census numbers for two-person farms and found that 1.2% of those farmers were in same-sex marriages. That equates to about 24,000 LGBTQ farmers in the U.S. And that number is likely a big undercount because the findings, published in 2020 in the journal Society & Natural Resources, don't include LGBTQ farmers who aren't married, aren't living on two-person farms, aren't married to the person they farm with or are transgender or gender nonbinary. The only large U.S. survey, by the National Young Farmers Coalition, found that 24% of farmers age 40 and under don't identify as heterosexual, and 64% say they are not cisgender males. That survey of 3,300 farmers included participants reached through various organizations, and the findings may not be representative of farming as a whole. Still, the large numbers are in keeping with anecdotal reports from progressive places such as Chicago and Austin, Texas. 'It feels like there are so many more queer farmers,' said Chicago-area farmer Fresh Roberson, using the younger generations' preferred term for LGBTQ. Roberson, who is queer and owns Fresher Together, a collaborative food and farming project in Beaverville, said it's hard to know if there has been an actual numerical increase, or if queer farmers are just more visible, due to factors such as the rise of the internet. Either way, Roberson, 42, has noticed a big uptick, even in just the past seven years. Queer farmers — and young farmers in general — often don't come from established farm families that pass down big plots of land from generation to generation. Instead, they discover farming on their own, while navigating an industry that tends to be white, male and socially conservative. The American Farm Bureau, for instance, still defines family to include only blood relationships, legal adoption and 'marriage between male and female.' Schneider and Alem were already interested in sustainably grown food and how to make it accessible to more people when Schneider began their farm training program. In addition, both had childhood experiences at their grandparents' hobby farms: Schneider's grandfather had a horse ranch and vegetable farm in Michigan, and Alem's grandmother grew corn, tomatoes and cucumbers in Louisiana. 'We have the same passion for growing food and being outside, and the importance of getting in the dirt and connecting to the earth,' Alem said. Schneider's training at the Botanic Garden's Windy City Harvest apprenticeship program played a big role in their journey, allowing Schneider to get hands-on work experience. 'It was cool through the apprenticeship to see a couple of rounds of produce that I had either grown or our class had grown from start to finish,' Schneider said. 'It just always seemed (that) to operate that way, you needed a big team, you needed to have all these tools, and you had to have all this space. (But) you can actually do this with less space and you don't need all the tools and resources.' Scheider and Alem never thought they would be able to own a farm — the financial hurdles were just too great. But Schneider had a knack for the work, and was drawn to the idea of running their own business. The couple both took a business class after Schneider's apprenticeship — and then took the leap to farming at Windy City's incubator farm in Bronzeville. Their farm, Otter Oaks, is named for Schneider's grandfather's ranch. 'It's been a learning process every year,' Alem said with a laugh. 'We don't have employees. We're doing the labor, on top of running the business, and on top of having other jobs,' Schneider said. 'Fortunately, Windy City has so many resources that have allowed us to figure all this out — inch by inch,' Alem said. Roberson, who grew up in North Carolina and came to Chicago to attend college, also had family roots in farming: maternal grandparents who were sharecroppers growing tobacco, cotton and peanuts. 'I often say I feel like there is something ancestral that is calling me back to the land, that I don't quite understand,' said Roberson, who uses they/them and she/her pronouns. Growing up in a small town surrounded by farmland, Roberson said they had access to sweet potatoes harvested from a local field, and greens bought from a truck that would pull up in a parking lot. There were many steps on their long road from studying engineering and physics at Northwestern University, to culinary school, to full-time farming, but a big moment came when Roberson was a first-year college student. Roberson went to the store to buy pecans for pecan pie, but couldn't afford them. 'I was like, 'What?'' they said. Back home, their aunt had a pecan tree next to her house. 'I didn't realize how expensive this thing was — or how inaccessible.' As a chef Roberson made sure that they worked at restaurants where they could afford to eat, and today their customers include a local food bank. Farming is a tough business, with many farmers in the Young Farmers survey reporting barriers such as lack of access to land or capital and high health care costs. And LGBTQ people can face additional problems, including discrimination and social isolation, research indicates. President Donald Trump has added to the pressure on queer people in general by insisting that there are only two genders, and attempting to block gender-affirming health care for transgender teens. In March, Secretary of Agriculture Brooke Rollins brandished two triumphant scissor emojis on X in a post saying her department had terminated a $361,000 grant in New York City to support queer and transgender farmers and urban consumers. Chicago-area farmers, including Schneider and Alem, were directly affected by the Trump administration's attempt to freeze funding for the Local Food Purchase Assistance Cooperative Agreement Program, which increases profits for small farmers and provides fresh produce to communities in need. Schneider and Alem were set to participate in the program for the whole season, Schneider said. Then, all of a sudden, the funding stopped: 'That was really scary.' Some farmers did get money again for a short period, Schneider said, and recently there was more good news: The money would be back until Sept. 30. Schneider and Alem figured out how to keep selling their produce, although for less money than they had planned. Alem said they were heartened by the way small farmers worked together, sharing strategies and solutions. 'We've all been doing this for years, and we're not going to just stop,' Alem said. Being in Chicago has shielded the couple from outright discrimination, but there are times when they are clearly in the minority as farmers. 'I think as queer people — and I'm trans — you're around a lot of people who aren't those things and sometimes it's fine, it doesn't really matter, and other times you can feel like you're in a really traditional setting and it's like, 'Is it worth talking about this? Is it work bringing this up?'' Schneider said. 'For me, usually not — unless I'm in the company of people that are comfortable,' they said. 'There are not many queer people who own their own farms, and there are even less trans people.' Roberson has also noticed some self-censoring, in their case regarding clothing choices. 'I might not go into my USDA office as this Black, fat, queer person in my Dyke March shirt and sit down and talk. … Maybe they're cool, but I'm in Iroquois County. I don't know,' they said. Studies indicate that many queer farmers anticipate discrimination, and that fear of discrimination itself can have a real impact on peoples' lives. Michaela Hoffelmeyer, an assistant professor of public engagement in agriculture at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, recalled interviewing early-career queer farmers who worried that valuable internships and apprenticeships would place them in hostile work environments or unsafe communities. Queer farmers may also be forgoing good farmland because they want to avoid harassment, Hoffelmeyer said. Alem and Schneider arrived at their farm plot in Bronzeville in broad-brimmed hats and sturdy boots, ready to harvest zucchini and cucumber under a blazing summer sun. Schneider's enthusiasm was infectious as they delved into the specifics of mushroom cultivation, brushed aside the notion that farming is particularly hard work and jumped up to rescue a dragonfly from a puddle. Alem cheerfully described working a full-time job in digital publishing, but still managing to farm on some evenings and early mornings — and all day on Saturdays. 'For me, it's really fun to do something so productive,' Alem said of farming. 'It's the most productive thing I do.' Asked about the future of queer farming, Schneider was similarly upbeat. 'In 10 years, if I had to guess, they'll probably be a lot more queer folks who are farming and living sustainably, even if they don't own their own farm,' they said. 'It just seems that that is really popular.' The couple hope to help pave the way at their new farm in McHenry County. They want to host music events and workshops, renovate an old dairy barn so guests can stay there, and launch a farm incubator project, with space and support for early-career farmers. 'We really want to help people find their own journey with farming,' Alem said.