Soul Food Farm, the Tour

My friend, Jessica, works in the office at Chez Panisse. A tour of the farm that raises Chez P’s meat chickens was organized for the employees and their guests, so, naturally, I went. I had never seen a chicken farm before and although I normally abstain from the said meat, it is because I have a tremendous reverence and respect for the animals. Therein lies my interest in attending the tour.

I peeled myself out of bed on Sunday morning, stopped at Genova’s (an old and locally famous deli in Temescal) to get sandwiches for lunch, and met with Jess at her house in El Cerrito. Her and her partner, Russ, have an awesome container garden in their backyard. El Cerrito switched from small recycling bins to large cans, so Russ goes around retrieving the old bins for use as planters. They come complete with drainage holes and everything, and provide enough room for several little rows of seedlings.

Then, Jessica and I were off to Vacaville, where the fog does not make it in the hot sun. Our little East Bay selves were roasting (just like the fate of them chickens). 

Soul Food Farms is owned and run by Alexis and Eric Koefoed and lies just a couple minutes from the 80 freeway, but is flanked on one side by oak-speckled hills that give the feeling of seclusion. Alexis studied viticulture (raising grapes for wine), and bought the land for that purpose. Soon after, however, grapes took a downturn on the market, and Alexis and Eric sort of “fell into” chicken raising. The niche was there, and they reshaped to fit it.

 Now, they have 3000 laying hens and 10,000 meat birds, as well as a couple llamas and dogs. 

Alexis showed our group around, starting with the meat chickens. They come as chicks in the mail from a hatchery in Pennsylvania– the only hatchery in the U.S. that breeds this special French variety. The chickens were separated by age, which is calculated in weeks. At nine weeks, the chickens are “harvested” and sent to buyers, including Chez Panisse. A Sept. 2007 SF Chronicle article (“Raising Poultry the New-Old Way”) reported the chickens were harvested at 12 weeks. During our tour, Alexis emphasized the importance of harvesting at nine weeks, noting that this was the prime age for the best taste.

The same aforementioned Chronicle article discussed the balance between intimate, small-scale arrangement and industrial-like organization: “streamlining will help, but they’re wary of heading too far down the road toward higher production and efficiency.” Indeed, the chickens seemed much more organized than those at Green String, which, I think, is good for the chickens. Although, the structure did seem to highlight the purpose– these are for eating. It was slightly disturbing to hear people on the tour joke about how tasty the chickens were going to be, and about naming them before eating them. Like I said: reverence and respect. 

And nine weeks does seem like a short little chicken life, but, you know, those chickens looked good— happy, I mean. Olive trees were planted for the double use of shade for the chickens and the fruit for pressing into oil. They obviously had no diseases and there were no sore, featherless spots that are the indicator of pecking and fighting. 

The laying hens wander about the property and have a significantly longer life than the meat chickens. Alexis and Eric search about the property daily to look for eggs that have been laid in bushes and under trees— the prototypical Easter egg hunt. The llamas and hens hang out together under a big tree. There are no roosters, as Eric and Alexis said they cause too much drama and tension amongst the hens. Although, once, someone abandoned a little Bantam rooster on their property, and the humor of this one little rooster crowing everyday and surveying his harem of 3000 prompted Eric and Alexis to keep him. 

That is, until the day he disappeared– a predator must have snatched him, Alexis said. Well, we’ve all gotta eat.

the Search for Soil

Trying to garden in Oakland is like training a housecat to ride a bike. The waitlist for the city-run garden plots is too long to cope with, and the city does not exactly encourage the creation of new such community gardens. My back porch is choked with containers growing tomatoes, strawberries, bean sprouts, chard, mustard greens, and lemon verbena, but the containers do not satisfy the urge to get one’s hands deep into the soil, and the plants are also not so satisfied with this restriction.

The front of my apartment building is donned with two plots of plant space, each around 10 by 25 feet. All the plants (except for what seems t0 be a volunteer cilantro plant in its flowering stage) are typical lets-just-cover-some-space landscaping plants. Granted, some of the flowers are gorgeous and much-needed, but even still, I held that this small parcel of earth could be put to work to satisfy some basic subsistence needs as well as psychological contentment. 

The plots are covered in life-suppressing mulch where the landscape plants do not grow. Upon observing some of these in-between places, I decided to utilize them for gardening purposes. In went my other lemon verbena cutting, in went a squash, some broccoli (i know, not the season, but my roomie sprouted them for whatever reason), in went a pumpkin (also, roomie, is it really the season?), and in went a tomatillo. At another interstice, in went a tomato transplant, in went melon  and bean seeds. The other day, in went three cukes and an eggplant. 

Back to the training cats to ride bicycles, the apartment manager came out to walk her dog and discovered me watering the newly transplanted tomato plant. She said accusingly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m planting a tomato plant!” I replied in an excited and naive tone. 

“But I don’t think this is your property.”

“It belongs to the building, doesn’t it?”

Shaking her head, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I will ask the owner.” I didn’t hear anything more about it, and so far, my babies are intact. I painted on a brick ‘Garden Please Do Not Disturb’ to mark one spot.

The owner of the building, by the way, is a faceless corporation. So nice to feed the usurers, while others do all the work (the managers– I am sympathetic despite the excessive grumpiness). 

When I left the farm to return to Oakland, I knew my gardening capabilities would take on this character, and that I would be forced to plant in the overlooked extra spaces that do not exist as one large swath, but rather as a collection of interstices that demand a different set of strategies of locale and care, and involve education (training, if you will) of the residents in new values and aesthetic standards.

One Week

I have decided to post my actual fieldnotes here–— names have been changed:

06-19-06

Yesterday, I finally met some people and did some interviews. I met Swig, who was the one I recognized from Berkeley. Swig was with a guy in his early 20s, Deeno, who had also previously been in Berkeley. I told them I would pay them for an interview. Swig said, “I’m not gonna lie, we’re gonna buy beer with the money.” I said I would too, so who am I to judge? Deeno left to get booze as Swig and I talked with the recorder going. Swig left to go to the bathroom and Deeno and I decided to go to a quieter spot for a one-on-one interview. Swig and a young guy (a squatter) named Omie-Z, walked up about 30 minutes later. Swig was pissed at Deeno for leaving his things unguarded, but that swiftly passed. Swig is 37, wears a b&w bandana symbolizing train-hopping, has a large belly and several teeth missing. He’s quite goofy and entertaining. Wore a GG Allin shirt. Deeno wore overalls and a train conductor hat. Swig and Deeno were both of light complexion. Omie-Z had an Afro and a goatee and rode a bike. He looked in his early 20s and was of dark complexion. I cannot recall where he’s from, if I was told at all.

More and more people kept accumulating in the spot where we sat at Thompkins Square Park. There were several runs to the liquor store for more 40s. Among those who joined us were a man named Thunder, dressed like a gutter punk and from Oakland (!) and a young woman named Jaala from the Bronx who does fortune telling and rides a bike. Thunder, I’m guessing, is in his late 30s and says he sold reptiles in Oak-town (illegally, on the street- and claims to have sold to some celebrities). He also wears a black bandana around his neck. We talked quite a bit. Two very young kids (over 18?) from Santa Rosa (!) came around. They were a couple and Mark is a singer in a punk rock band. Both Mark and his girlfriend Tara wore all black, tight black jeans and band shirts. Tara’s was the Subhumans and Marks was The Oppressed, both punk bands. Mark talked about a tour he did in Denmark, liked to sing a lot (much to some people’s dismay).

A woman named Mary sat with us and had a black eye from a fight she got into. I took pictures of her without asking. Later on, she asked me not to take any photos of her. “Have you taken any already?”
“No,” I lied, “I ask before I take pictures of anyone.”
I don’t think I can, in good conscience, keep those photos.

There was also a girl named Molly with her boyfriend Mothballs. He told the story of how he got his name. He and Molly were in a traveling carnival, it was really hot one night and Mothballs slept naked. A moth was flying around him and kept flying around his balls.

Jerry was a guy with dreads in the form of a Mohawk. He said, “Out of curiosity, what’s with the camera?” I said, “I’m doing a research project and an art project.” He talked about how friends of his had gotten their pictures taken for an “art project” and they ended up in a newspaper. I assured him I am not a journalist and that the photos may be used for a gallery show in Berkeley. Swig was backing me up, “I met her in Berkeley,” “she’s cool,” etc. Swig had also backed me up when Mary asked if I took her picture. He said, “She was taking pictures of me, not you.”

Everyone was drinking beer out of cups which had been poured from 40s, myself included. A police car drove through the park very slowly then left. It came again later, just sitting and looking over at our quite large group. Frank is another young guy who was there with us, dark skin and an afro, short stature, a little insane, a little self pitying (09-07-06: too judgemental for fieldnotes. I think he may have been talking about his bad experiences with family life). He asked me if I had 75 cents. I said no. Tara said, “It’s for this really good malt liquor.” I gave Frank a dollar. I felt a bit silly. I did say no when he asked if I had 75 cents. I don’t think a “real” member of the group would have responded that way. I still feel defensive about my resources like that.

Tara and Mark were sitting next to eachother, Mark doing some very animated gestures. I took a picture, this time with a flash. Another guy with dreads, John, who was with his girlfriend said in a very irritated way, “Who’s taking pictures again?” I responded, “I’m taking a picture of people who said it was ok to take their picture.” I had spoken with him earlier about my research and he did not seem irritated with me, but expressed concern, as he had participated in a gathering in the desert blown up by the media.

06-20-06

Walked to Thompkins and saw Swig and Deeno again. Sat with them, showed them pictures and said they could keep any they wanted. Swig wanted the whole roll so I told them they could keep them. I just needed the negatives and contact sheet

Dude with dreads (John) says from the bench across (about 20ft away) “Hey, Berkeley.” I asked him if he wanted to look at the pictures, but he said he didn’t feel like getting up. Another guy with a dog was sitting on the bench across. He gets up and his dog walkes over and starts eating some food that was sitting in a Styrofoam bowl on the ground from the Street Ministry. The dog’s owner, Chayse, runs up, takes the dog and throws him about 5 ft away. Often, people living on the streets don’t allow their dogs to eat human food. This can be a problem if they do not supply enough dog food. [Chayse stays in a squat nearby, the See Skwat. My later informant, Casey, thinks many people who live in the squat are jerks. It probably is quite a closed community (inserted 06-25-06).]

Chayse was leaving and asked Swig to watch some photo paper someone had left with him. “They’re taking forever and I don’t want to take it with me. Watch it for me, but if someone snags it, don’t worry about it too much.”
Swig says, “I’m not an idiot.”
“Well you look like one.”
Swig says, “Someone can look like Tweety Bird and act like the werewolf of London.” John leaves on his skateboard with the photo paper not more than 3 minutes later. Swig mentions it, but that’s about it.

As Chayse walked away, he said something that sounded like, “I wear flip-flops. I’m not homeless.” Swig didn’t hear it this way, but I interpreted it as a reference to me. Made me feel kind of hurt and uncomfortable. He’s not even really homeless. He lives in a squat (09-07-06 he lived in a van in front of a squat). I’m not putting on any fronts. I’m not pretending to be anything I’m not.

Swig can talk about some boring things, I swear. He was giving me synopses of about ten different movies. About Saving Private Ryan and war movies in general, he said, “the soldiers say some pretty philosophical shit.” He told me his brother’s in Iraq right now in the Army. He told me of a biopsy he had done on his liver. He wasn’t happy with it. He thinks it may have been done incorrectly because they had an intern do it. He told me he’s waiting for a girl (“I like her… and she likes me”) to come to NY and meet him here (09-07-06 in the two months I was there, this never occurred). He wants to take her to his mom’s house in upstate NY.

Deeno left with Mary to panhandle. I think they both do heroine and panhandle together to purchase it. Swig left to use the bathroom and a man named Emanuel with some kind of mental illness/ disability was talking with me. I wanted to ask him if he had been diagnosed with any psychiatric disorder, but didn’t. He said his parents are from Spain and has been in NYC so long, it’s “making [him] bananas.” I was a bit uncomfortable with this person next to me, but I have now (6-23-06) come to find that he is an ok dude. Swig says he doesn’t have any kind of disorder, he has just done so many drugs. I don’t know. He has a speech impediment, has a bit of a hard time talking, so I don’t know if that’s from drugs or a prior disability. When he was talking with me though, he was urging me not to do drugs. Emanuel is tall and slender with dark skin and hair. He wears a golfing cap and patterned, mismatched shirt and pants. He is often carrying around a radio. He has a home in Chinatown, I don’t know by what means.

Swig returned, Emanuel left to go sit on the other bench with John, who had returned sans photo paper. A man named Santa, extremely inebriated, came over to talk with Swig as well as a couple of others. Swig was telling everyone to look at the photos. He seemed very happy with them…

Later on, John motioned for me to come over to where he was sitting and introduced me to someone else who was doing a project—not for school or anything, just borrowed a video camera to film people for fun. I sat and talked with John for a while and he was very interesting to talk to. He gave a book recommendation called Rules for Radicals, talked about Herbert Hess and some damn poet who’s name I can’t remember, but who was a contemporary of Ginsberg (bouroughs). He starts reciting Howl to me. He can really come off as a jerk, actually I think, but he’s not. It seems a defense. He talks about the “haves and the have-nots,” talks about “modern world going astray.” He’s from L.A. County; talks about tenderloins and how it refers to an area of town that police run and historically, get the choicest cut of meat from. He lived in Santa Cruz for a while, applied for financial aid and went to school there, but couldn’t work supporting himself and go to school at the same time. He ended up failing his classes. He seemed a bit angry that he doesn’t have the privilege that others have with parents paying their way through school. He said he knew of people doing cocaine everyday, but still getting through school and maintaining an apartment because mommy and daddy pay for it.

06-21-06

I walked around 5th Ave/ Central Park today. Saw a few homeless people. One woman was sitting out in front of a business building on 6th Ave asking I believe only women for money (she was calling everyone she asked “sweetheart”). I supposed she could have been talking to men as well, but for some reason it sounded to me like the former. I left some grapes I had bought next to a sleeping man inside the park. He was an elderly asian man sleeping next to a wheelchair.

After taking the subway home, I ate some dinner and went grocery shopping and loaded up my new Holga [camera]. I went to the park, but not many people were there. I think I may have been a little too late. Swig was there though, of course. He has a bad leg and can’t get around all that much. The only other people there were a bunch of guys, older and younger, who were getting so wasted and were getting a bit obnoxious, to me and Swig. He asked me if I wanted to sit on the benches across the walkway, about 20 ft away. We did so and chatted. Omie-Z came by, as he had been all night- stopping for a bit and then leaving to sell pot or something. Two young girls came by (meaning perhaps 20 or so) and hung out with me, Swig, and Omie-Z. Honestly, though, they weren’t the friendliest as can be with me. They seemed a bit standoffish but obviously knew Omie-Z very well and knew Swig as well. I would like to hear their story, though.

So, I walked with Swig to the spot on the sidewalk about a ½ block from the park where he sleeps every night. There’s a lot of foot traffic, but he said it doesn’t bother him, he only gets residents asking him to move occaisionally. I said I could not understand why they would care so much, as him being there doesn’t harm them. He said, “yeah, it’s not like we’re littering or anything. You can take the cardboard and throw it in the dumpster when you’re awake, and you take all your stuff with you… People think now that if you don’t live inside, you don’t deserve to live. It used to be in New York ‘Give us your tired, your homeless.’ Now it’s like, give us your credit card…People forget that the first pioneers who settled America slept outside. The Indians slept outside…”

Swig found a piece of cardboard in a dumpster on the other side of the street and laid it in his sidewalk spot, carefully chosen, as he told me, because of (1) the isolation from any police that may drive through the street caused by the parked cars right off the curb about 1 ft away, (2) no obstruction of foot traffic (it’s right next to a planter that already obstructs some of the sidewalk, and (3) does not obstruct any doorway. Swig lays down the cardboard and tells me I can take a seat on the end. As we converse, Coach slippers and Louis Vuitton purses walk by. Occaisionally, I look up at the passersby. They look perplexed- or intrigued- I can’t really tell which. Maybe both.

Swig tells me about how he got his leg hurt. He was at a concert in Roanoke and got into a fight with someone who had friends that came back to beat up Swig. They smashed his foot up and broke it. Edema, liver and kidney dysfunction, swelling of the legs, Hep C from a fight (?) [more likely the hep c is from injecting heroine, which he quit doing in ‘96 he says]. I felt so bad because earlier we had been listening to the radio and the Doors came on. I tapped my hand to the beat on Swig’s shoe, not realizing it was his bad foot. Oh, I felt so bad; I could tell it had hurt him.

Swig also told me the story of his dog and how she got taken from him. He had been sleeping behind a dumpster in Roanoke and his dog was taken to the SPCA when he went to jail. They don’t euphenize, but every time your dog has to be put in there, you have to pay more money to get it back. After the 4th time having the doggie in there, he couldn’t get her out again. He had been working, doing odd jobs for a company that hires out manual labor, but after the foot incident, he was unable to work and get enough money for his dog, He said, “So, that’s pretty sad.” And he did seem very sad about it, referring to the dog as “her,” like a lost lover.

I excused myself when it got too late and walked home. It didn’t seem like Swig wanted me to leave.

Houselessness in NYC

After getting a bit frustrated walking all over Manhattan without meeting anyone who I would like to interview for two days, I decided to relax a bit and let my body rest. That just so happened to be the day that I finally met some people. I saw a man who I recognized from Berkeley, of all places, and he agreed to be interviewed. He says I interviewed him before, but I cannot recall that. I hung out with him and a large group of people for the rest of the day, taking pictures and chatting with other houseless people as well as some young punk kids who live with parents. I was getting a bit of stigma for the picture-taking from a couple of people, but the first guy I met, Swig, was backing me up— “She’s cool. I met her in Berkeley.” I made a mistake and photographed someone without asking. She had a black eye from a fight and I suppose I just knew she really wouldn’t want her picture taken. But all these thoughts of making such things that are often concealed or turned away from into things that are strikingly visible swirled through my head. She didn’t notice me taking her picture, but later on asked me not to. “I feel ugly right now,” she said. “You haven’t taken any already have you?” On the spot and feeling guilty, I lied and said, “No. I ask people before I take their picture.” Swig, again backing me up said, “She was taking pictures of me.” That makes me feel even worse, violating his trust. I cannot in good conscience keep that photo. I got some ’stigma’ from a couple of others as well. One guy asked, “Out of curiosity, what’s with the camera?” and went on to tell me about how a friend of his had their photo taken for an “art project” that ended up in the newspaper. I assured him I was not a journalist and the only places the photos may be shown is in a gallery in Berkeley. I had similar concerns from another person as well.

I have been thinking of getting my senior thesis printed so that it can be available for my current informants to read. It may build more trust and understanding if they see the results of my Berkeley venture. Other than that, I think it is only time which can build trust. That being said, I go now to walk around the East Village and into Tompkins Square Park to hang out some more.