Utopia on the Hill
Andrew Vermeulen answers the shrilly ringing phone. He is sitting behind the desk in the Security Office at Kalamazoo College, wearing a stiff-looking blue shirt and black pants. His hair is cropped and short, and, much like the sparsely decorated security office itself, he looks like a man of business. On the other end of the line, a high-pitched female voice sounds panicked, desperate. It is the mother of a student at the college. She sounds as if there is an emergency, but Andrew’s face does not contract or express any sense of urgency. He holds the phone away from his ear, sighing. Her son is lost, the mother says. He must be in a very bad situation. The mother has not heard from her son in 48-hours. Can Andrew please track him down on campus? No, she does not know his room number. Or what residence hall he lives in.
Andrew hangs up the phone. “People expect us to know and do everything,” he says with a slight grimace. “I’d say seventy-five to eighty percent of the time they [parents] don’t know what dorm their kid lives in.”
This is a typical Thursday night in the Security Office, according to Vermeulen. Vermeulen has worked in Security at the school for three years, and, unlike what many students might expect, the majority of the petty crimes that security is called to deal with are just that: petty. Sometimes, like the mother calling about her missing son, the things that security is called upon to handle aren’t even crimes at all.
If there is anything stressful about the job, it seems to be not the occasional stolen I-Pod, or the even more occasional campus flasher. If anything, it’s the kids at K College themselves that pose problems for security. “They so pamper and shelter these kids – it’s laughable,” says Vermeulen.
He recalls being taunted and laughed at by students. As he makes the rounds, he says he is often thrown dirty looks. He says that several students on his most recent round yelled something about a “police state” at him before running off. He feels students don’t give security a fair appraisal. “There’s a perception that our department is bumbling. We’re put in positions where we can’t win. We’re constantly made to look foolish,” says Vermeulen. He cites the lack of authority campus security guards have. Unlike what many students believe, security guards have no power to touch or arrest students. In fact, security is not even authorized to seize illicit drugs from students. He states that if he were to “arrest” a student, it would qualify as nothing more than a citizen’s arrest.
As one of the few minority members of the Kalamazoo College staff, director of security Tim Young reports being treated badly by students as well. In particular he says that even on a campus where students pride themselves on being open-minded, Young felt discriminated against for his first year on the job. “It took awhile, it wears you down. If you’re not a strong person, it’ll get to you,” Young says. He comments that the other minority workers that students see on campus are typically in low level positions, and he says he feels as though they are treated badly by students. “I would venture to say myself and Dean Joshua are fortunate in that our positions are different,” he comments, referring to the one of the college’s deans, who is also black.
Five years ago, when Young first came to the department as the chief of security on campus, he recalls a dispute he had with the BSO, the Black Student Organization on campus. As a black man, he insists that his staff treats students of color with the same policies as white students, but he will admit that the perception of unequal treatment is still there. Young recalls that the BSO came to him asking to borrow a security guard uniform for a skit. They had planned to depict what they felt was racist treatment and racial profiling by security guards on campus, and needed the uniform as a prop.
Young does say that he feels rude or insensitive behavior from students directed toward him and his staff has gotten better since the arrival of college President Dr. Wilson Oyelaran. “A chunk of it [the racism] changed when the president came.”
When all is said and done, Young attributes the rude behavior he and his staff have experienced to the relative privilege of students at Kalamazoo. “Some students have never worked – and they don’t have compassion.” Amanda Geer, a freshman at Kalamazoo College, feels strongly that everyone is nice to security and members of the staff at K. “I’m nice to everybody,” she says. “Except for people I hate.”
If there is any kind of criminal activity bubbling under the surface of K’s seemingly idyllic campus, for the most part it has to do with drugs and alcohol. Under the Cleary Act of 1989, all undergraduate universities in the United States are required by law to report all criminal activity that occurs on campuses across the country. Last year, while there were no aggravated assaults or reported cases of robbery, there were one hundred and fifty five liquor law violations, and ten drug-related violations. In every one of the liquor law violations, not one arrest was made. Instead, disciplinary action by the school was taken. All but two of the drug-related offenses were treated in the same manner.
Young, who retired from the Paw Paw, Michigan state police force several years ago, takes the job of supervising security at K seriously, but ultimately, doesn’t seem too worried about criminal activity on campus. He sits in the over air-conditioned security office, so cold compared to the heat of the oncoming summer weather outside that goose bumps rise on his brown skin. “We all get held accountable, at the end of the day,” he says, and he leans back in his chair.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Revised Profile
Scraping By: Life on the Small Farms of Southwest Michigan
May 19th, 2009
By Elizabeth Porter
Willie the boar grunts. He shoves his glossy wet nose into the side of a plump female pig several times. He sniffs, grunts again, and with surprising agility for the three-hundred plus pound animal, hoists himself onto the back of the impatient looking female. “The first pigs he tried to mount were cut males,” Kim, his owner, sighs. “We thought he was gay at first – but now he’s doing his job.” By “doing his job” what Kim means is that Willie is functional – if only with some rather intimate assistance from Kim. Kim entering the pig pen dons rubber gloves and explains the procedure of “lining it up.” He says that on a good day, he can ensure that Willie’s rather skinny penis enters, “the right hole.”
Willie’s sole purpose on this farm, owned by Kim and his wife Sandy, is to sire offspring: offspring that will grow up grazing under the lush organic apple orchards of the farm, and will eventually be butchered, sold and, ultimately, provide an income for the McNee family.
Usually, this story would serve as a marginally humorous anecdote, maybe a good bar story or the “gay pig” punch line of some low-brow joke. But for the McNees’, the seemingly homosexual pig, and what he means for their bottom line is a serious problem.
On a drizzling Monday morning, the rolling landscape of Paw Paw, Michigan is a graying blur. On the outskirts of Paw Paw, past an aging bowling alley, a few haggard mechanic shops, and a dimly lit diner, a gravel road twists towards the McNees’ farm. A large, prominently displayed sign reads “DEAD END” and hangs haphazardly on a rusting signpost; the smell of manure is thick.
Sandy stands on the front step of her small house. She is past sixty, and her dark hair seems too youthful against her aged face. “You don’t have to take off your shoes – I just hate shoes,” she explains, as she hobbles, barefoot, to the recliner in her small living room.
She and her husband Kim have been farming here for the past fifteen years, the two of them doing almost all the work it takes to grow and harvest their organic vegetables and now, increasingly, hogs and cattle. To sustain Barefoot Farm, the only additional labor they bring in is the occasional high school kid, usually in the summer, when the backbreaking field work becomes too much for them. They estimate their average workday at sixteen hours, give or take, during those summer months.
Sandy hobbles outside to the greenhouse toward her seedlings. Severe arthritis and old injuries make walking a struggle, and it seems to take a long time to get to the field. Sandy sighs and admits to the pain. “I have a high pain tolerance and I’m stubborn as hell.”
Entering the greenhouse, where Sandy spends most of her time, rows and rows of tiny green shoots are lined up; box after box of the sprouting plants are just breaking the surface of dark soil. She points to different groups of boxes: jalapeños, onions, broccoli, some lettuces, zucchini, even garlic.
Regardless of the difficultly of the farm tasks, she and Kim make it on the profits they earn at the weekly farmers markets all over southwest Michigan. Travelling sometimes up to an hour, Sandy and Kim wake at 3 or 4 on the mornings they go to the market. On one drizzly market morning, the crowds that pour into the small stalls, picking over produce and freshly butchered meats, hover over Sandy and Kim’s booth, shoving handfuls of fives and ones over the mountains of vegetables. These market days gross a surprising amount of money for the McNees, typically upwards of six or seven hundred dollars, much more on a good day. Back in the greenhouse, talking about money pushes a nagging problem to the forefront of Sandy’s thoughts. She sighs. She starts to talk about the problems with Willie the boar.
For the last several weeks, she and Kim have been trying with yet unknown success to ensure that Willie impregnates as many of the young females as possible. “There’s no pregnancy test for pigs, unlike cows,” Sandy informs me. Not that a pregnancy test seems needed in any case. Just in the last few days have the McNees begun to see success with Willie, meaning he has, indeed, begun to mount females. However, it has been a long struggle to get him to this point. Getting Willie to adjust has been difficult; getting him to procreate has proved impossible. Given the choice, or just the chance, he will mount one of the McNees’ cut males.
The gamble of whether or not Willie has done his job is a palpable source of stress to Sandy and Kim. As the McNees age, it becomes harder every year to maintain the farm solely off of the profits they make on agriculture and the McNees are increasingly reliant on the gamble of raising livestock. Sandy wrinkles her brow and runs her hands together, thoughtful. “Physically, the vegetables are getting harder to do,” she says.
And yet, the McNees seem sure that if they could produce enough pork next year to start phasing into livestock, and out of agriculture, that they will make it. They describe themselves, even after twenty-one years together, as best friends. “I was born to be a farmer,” Sandy says. Kim doesn’t say anything, but seems to agree with Sandy, and nods his head. Kim finally looks up. If it weren’t for the financial burden, farming would be their ideal lifestyle. “I wish I were richer,” Kim finally says, his sun weathered skin wrinkling like leather as he laughs, a mix of anxious joy, smiling through the struggle.
WORD COUNT: 976
May 19th, 2009
By Elizabeth Porter
Willie the boar grunts. He shoves his glossy wet nose into the side of a plump female pig several times. He sniffs, grunts again, and with surprising agility for the three-hundred plus pound animal, hoists himself onto the back of the impatient looking female. “The first pigs he tried to mount were cut males,” Kim, his owner, sighs. “We thought he was gay at first – but now he’s doing his job.” By “doing his job” what Kim means is that Willie is functional – if only with some rather intimate assistance from Kim. Kim entering the pig pen dons rubber gloves and explains the procedure of “lining it up.” He says that on a good day, he can ensure that Willie’s rather skinny penis enters, “the right hole.”
Willie’s sole purpose on this farm, owned by Kim and his wife Sandy, is to sire offspring: offspring that will grow up grazing under the lush organic apple orchards of the farm, and will eventually be butchered, sold and, ultimately, provide an income for the McNee family.
Usually, this story would serve as a marginally humorous anecdote, maybe a good bar story or the “gay pig” punch line of some low-brow joke. But for the McNees’, the seemingly homosexual pig, and what he means for their bottom line is a serious problem.
On a drizzling Monday morning, the rolling landscape of Paw Paw, Michigan is a graying blur. On the outskirts of Paw Paw, past an aging bowling alley, a few haggard mechanic shops, and a dimly lit diner, a gravel road twists towards the McNees’ farm. A large, prominently displayed sign reads “DEAD END” and hangs haphazardly on a rusting signpost; the smell of manure is thick.
Sandy stands on the front step of her small house. She is past sixty, and her dark hair seems too youthful against her aged face. “You don’t have to take off your shoes – I just hate shoes,” she explains, as she hobbles, barefoot, to the recliner in her small living room.
She and her husband Kim have been farming here for the past fifteen years, the two of them doing almost all the work it takes to grow and harvest their organic vegetables and now, increasingly, hogs and cattle. To sustain Barefoot Farm, the only additional labor they bring in is the occasional high school kid, usually in the summer, when the backbreaking field work becomes too much for them. They estimate their average workday at sixteen hours, give or take, during those summer months.
Sandy hobbles outside to the greenhouse toward her seedlings. Severe arthritis and old injuries make walking a struggle, and it seems to take a long time to get to the field. Sandy sighs and admits to the pain. “I have a high pain tolerance and I’m stubborn as hell.”
Entering the greenhouse, where Sandy spends most of her time, rows and rows of tiny green shoots are lined up; box after box of the sprouting plants are just breaking the surface of dark soil. She points to different groups of boxes: jalapeños, onions, broccoli, some lettuces, zucchini, even garlic.
Regardless of the difficultly of the farm tasks, she and Kim make it on the profits they earn at the weekly farmers markets all over southwest Michigan. Travelling sometimes up to an hour, Sandy and Kim wake at 3 or 4 on the mornings they go to the market. On one drizzly market morning, the crowds that pour into the small stalls, picking over produce and freshly butchered meats, hover over Sandy and Kim’s booth, shoving handfuls of fives and ones over the mountains of vegetables. These market days gross a surprising amount of money for the McNees, typically upwards of six or seven hundred dollars, much more on a good day. Back in the greenhouse, talking about money pushes a nagging problem to the forefront of Sandy’s thoughts. She sighs. She starts to talk about the problems with Willie the boar.
For the last several weeks, she and Kim have been trying with yet unknown success to ensure that Willie impregnates as many of the young females as possible. “There’s no pregnancy test for pigs, unlike cows,” Sandy informs me. Not that a pregnancy test seems needed in any case. Just in the last few days have the McNees begun to see success with Willie, meaning he has, indeed, begun to mount females. However, it has been a long struggle to get him to this point. Getting Willie to adjust has been difficult; getting him to procreate has proved impossible. Given the choice, or just the chance, he will mount one of the McNees’ cut males.
The gamble of whether or not Willie has done his job is a palpable source of stress to Sandy and Kim. As the McNees age, it becomes harder every year to maintain the farm solely off of the profits they make on agriculture and the McNees are increasingly reliant on the gamble of raising livestock. Sandy wrinkles her brow and runs her hands together, thoughtful. “Physically, the vegetables are getting harder to do,” she says.
And yet, the McNees seem sure that if they could produce enough pork next year to start phasing into livestock, and out of agriculture, that they will make it. They describe themselves, even after twenty-one years together, as best friends. “I was born to be a farmer,” Sandy says. Kim doesn’t say anything, but seems to agree with Sandy, and nods his head. Kim finally looks up. If it weren’t for the financial burden, farming would be their ideal lifestyle. “I wish I were richer,” Kim finally says, his sun weathered skin wrinkling like leather as he laughs, a mix of anxious joy, smiling through the struggle.
WORD COUNT: 976
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Week 7: Reading Response
I liked "The Road is Unfair" much better than "Access."
Both articles brought up ethical issues, but I feel like Conover did a much better job of navigating a different culture. His writing does not come across as judgemental - he just says it the way it happens. Somehow, I think this gives the reader a sense of power - there isn't an interpretation already glossed onto the story. The reader is able to think whatever they think.
One example of this is Conover's treatment of Bradford as a character. The frustrating thing about Bradford is that he KNOWS how AIDS is spread - he totally gets it. But he sleeps with prostitutes anyway...BUT Conover doesn't describe the scene where this happens with judgment. It just happens. I decided on my own that Bradford is a frustrating character, and I like having that power as a reader. In a way, it makes the point that *presumably* Conover is making more palatable - I don't feel like I am being spoon fed something that already seems biased.
This is different Kramer's story. From the first sentence of "Access" the narrative is rife with his own judgments. I lost interest in the story MUCH more quickly, in part because I felt like the answer to what these people, this culture, was about at the time was already given to me - and it wasn't my answer, it was Kramers.
That said, both pieces relate to the chapter on Ethics. Obviously, it is an ethical issue how you paint the characters in the book. This is something I struggle with as a writer - I need to get over feeling guilty when I write what I see...the way I see it. I think I need more of Conover's "What I see" and less of Kramer's "How I see it." Although I DID like Tracy Kidder's comparison of an interview, and the need to convey what the consequences of an interview might be, to Miranda rights. I need to figure out how to word my own version of "Miranda rights" before an interview. I think that might help the guilt factor I feel in writing. That, and keeping a boundary between me and my interviewee...there is ALWAYS the temptation to start think they are your friend...
Both articles brought up ethical issues, but I feel like Conover did a much better job of navigating a different culture. His writing does not come across as judgemental - he just says it the way it happens. Somehow, I think this gives the reader a sense of power - there isn't an interpretation already glossed onto the story. The reader is able to think whatever they think.
One example of this is Conover's treatment of Bradford as a character. The frustrating thing about Bradford is that he KNOWS how AIDS is spread - he totally gets it. But he sleeps with prostitutes anyway...BUT Conover doesn't describe the scene where this happens with judgment. It just happens. I decided on my own that Bradford is a frustrating character, and I like having that power as a reader. In a way, it makes the point that *presumably* Conover is making more palatable - I don't feel like I am being spoon fed something that already seems biased.
This is different Kramer's story. From the first sentence of "Access" the narrative is rife with his own judgments. I lost interest in the story MUCH more quickly, in part because I felt like the answer to what these people, this culture, was about at the time was already given to me - and it wasn't my answer, it was Kramers.
That said, both pieces relate to the chapter on Ethics. Obviously, it is an ethical issue how you paint the characters in the book. This is something I struggle with as a writer - I need to get over feeling guilty when I write what I see...the way I see it. I think I need more of Conover's "What I see" and less of Kramer's "How I see it." Although I DID like Tracy Kidder's comparison of an interview, and the need to convey what the consequences of an interview might be, to Miranda rights. I need to figure out how to word my own version of "Miranda rights" before an interview. I think that might help the guilt factor I feel in writing. That, and keeping a boundary between me and my interviewee...there is ALWAYS the temptation to start think they are your friend...
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Comments
Jackie -
I can see you are struggling here...I guess I would ask you: Is this a profile of Lisa, or a profile of the health center? I think you need to narrow everything down to a specific part of the health center, if that's what its about. What about mental health at K? You mentioned Lisa is very interested in repro. rights. Could you talk about how THAT has influenced her work?
Right now it just seems to clean...there's no tension, no real theme.
It's tough though, I know...especially when you have a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of different directions that it could go.
Mae -
I think there's a lot of potential here.
I think the article needs to offer the reader some MORE than what they would get just walking into a bar - I KNEW your story before you told it, if that makes sense. (anyone who's been in a dive bar does).
I think it needs to be more complex - like Jackie, I think you need to figure out where the tension is. Is there one person in particular that you could focus on? Is there some part of the neighborhood you could look into? You mention drunk driving in passing...what about looking into that issue and how bars are handling that in Kalamazoo?
Like I said though, there's a lot of potential. I like your descriptions.
Regis -
I like your story - its about something different, someplace I have never been before and know nothing about. I am interested to hear what you have to say at workshop tonight.
I DO think it could use a better lede - I really wish, given that your topic is really interesting, you have given me something more to get pulled into.
Also, I realize that we just did personal essays...but your profile sounds too much like a personal essay I think. (I mean...that's my opinion though...) I think it needs more focus. Less "I" and more of a target for the reader to hone in on...
This is going to be good though, I can tell...
Toni -
I just love your writing. You have such excellent descriptions, and such active verbs - I love how they "plop" a bag of cheetos and a soda on the counter - that one word says so much: they are casual kids, carefree, comfortable - this seems like a place they must come often.
And your descriptions make me remember Las Juanitas almost exactly, even though it has been months since I have been there.
I think the one place where I would like to see more is....well, honestly, I wish your story had more trouble. It needs something to pull me along...its just too perfect.
I think you need to go back and poke around...this is the one place you WANT to find trouble, drama, problems...it does need to be positive, in fact, I feel like readers enjoy reading about trouble..
Martin -
One thing that I am coming to love about your writing is that you know just how much you should be in the story. I love the details about your sense of smell being deadened...and at the same time, there is no self-judgment or otherwise in your writing. If there is (rarely) its humorous. It's so honest...and that's powerful, because you can get your readers to trust you...
Would it be wrong to say that I see nothing immediately in need of revision? You really SHOW people what it feels like to be in Fourth Coast...and there is definitely tension lurking under the surface. Maybe it needs more of a direction, early on? That's about all I can think of...
Very nice job.
Austin -
I really, really like this piece, with one exception....I hate to be so blunt...but, well: Is this actually a profile? Or is it a personal essay?
Your writing is great, I love the details you include. I love that you can see dialogue and the reader really gets inside your head. But, it seems like a personal experience. What is it a profile OF?
I can see you are struggling here...I guess I would ask you: Is this a profile of Lisa, or a profile of the health center? I think you need to narrow everything down to a specific part of the health center, if that's what its about. What about mental health at K? You mentioned Lisa is very interested in repro. rights. Could you talk about how THAT has influenced her work?
Right now it just seems to clean...there's no tension, no real theme.
It's tough though, I know...especially when you have a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of different directions that it could go.
Mae -
I think there's a lot of potential here.
I think the article needs to offer the reader some MORE than what they would get just walking into a bar - I KNEW your story before you told it, if that makes sense. (anyone who's been in a dive bar does).
I think it needs to be more complex - like Jackie, I think you need to figure out where the tension is. Is there one person in particular that you could focus on? Is there some part of the neighborhood you could look into? You mention drunk driving in passing...what about looking into that issue and how bars are handling that in Kalamazoo?
Like I said though, there's a lot of potential. I like your descriptions.
Regis -
I like your story - its about something different, someplace I have never been before and know nothing about. I am interested to hear what you have to say at workshop tonight.
I DO think it could use a better lede - I really wish, given that your topic is really interesting, you have given me something more to get pulled into.
Also, I realize that we just did personal essays...but your profile sounds too much like a personal essay I think. (I mean...that's my opinion though...) I think it needs more focus. Less "I" and more of a target for the reader to hone in on...
This is going to be good though, I can tell...
Toni -
I just love your writing. You have such excellent descriptions, and such active verbs - I love how they "plop" a bag of cheetos and a soda on the counter - that one word says so much: they are casual kids, carefree, comfortable - this seems like a place they must come often.
And your descriptions make me remember Las Juanitas almost exactly, even though it has been months since I have been there.
I think the one place where I would like to see more is....well, honestly, I wish your story had more trouble. It needs something to pull me along...its just too perfect.
I think you need to go back and poke around...this is the one place you WANT to find trouble, drama, problems...it does need to be positive, in fact, I feel like readers enjoy reading about trouble..
Martin -
One thing that I am coming to love about your writing is that you know just how much you should be in the story. I love the details about your sense of smell being deadened...and at the same time, there is no self-judgment or otherwise in your writing. If there is (rarely) its humorous. It's so honest...and that's powerful, because you can get your readers to trust you...
Would it be wrong to say that I see nothing immediately in need of revision? You really SHOW people what it feels like to be in Fourth Coast...and there is definitely tension lurking under the surface. Maybe it needs more of a direction, early on? That's about all I can think of...
Very nice job.
Austin -
I really, really like this piece, with one exception....I hate to be so blunt...but, well: Is this actually a profile? Or is it a personal essay?
Your writing is great, I love the details you include. I love that you can see dialogue and the reader really gets inside your head. But, it seems like a personal experience. What is it a profile OF?
Week 6: Writing Process
The most difficult thing about writing this story is that I HAD NO IDEA WHERE TO BEGIN. I guess it might be obvious from the lede, but basically, I just decided to cut straight to the point - what would I say if I were trying to explain this story to a group of my friends, in one sentence? And...that's what I wrote. But somehow, I feel like it could be stronger...
There is SO much I could have written - if our word limit was longer, I would have been able to flesh out Sandy's character much more. She's a hoot - and there are SO MANY darn good quotes that I wish I could have included that say so much about her outlook on life, which is one that I love. Sandy: "I have my shit together, sometime I just don't know where it is" (on life in general) Or, "Natures a bitch as it is, I don't know why people feel like they need to change it" (on all non-organic farming) Or, "He's a very disgusting person. He loves this work" (on her husband, Kim).
So, basically, my hurdles with this piece focused on discerning what was ESSENTIAL and what was not...there is so much here, and so much tension that figuring out what, exactly, I would focus on as tension...(the love story between Kim and Sandy, the economic struggle of sustaining the farm, organic versus non-organic farming, etc)it was difficult to compile succinctly.
Honestly, when I sat down to write, I typed my lede. Then I went downstairs, had a glass of wine, looked over my notes with a highlighter, and just started writing what I thought was most important. I still don't feel like I did it justice...but, it seems increasingly like that is sortof what its like to write...to not ever feel like you have something perfect...
There is SO much I could have written - if our word limit was longer, I would have been able to flesh out Sandy's character much more. She's a hoot - and there are SO MANY darn good quotes that I wish I could have included that say so much about her outlook on life, which is one that I love. Sandy: "I have my shit together, sometime I just don't know where it is" (on life in general) Or, "Natures a bitch as it is, I don't know why people feel like they need to change it" (on all non-organic farming) Or, "He's a very disgusting person. He loves this work" (on her husband, Kim).
So, basically, my hurdles with this piece focused on discerning what was ESSENTIAL and what was not...there is so much here, and so much tension that figuring out what, exactly, I would focus on as tension...(the love story between Kim and Sandy, the economic struggle of sustaining the farm, organic versus non-organic farming, etc)it was difficult to compile succinctly.
Honestly, when I sat down to write, I typed my lede. Then I went downstairs, had a glass of wine, looked over my notes with a highlighter, and just started writing what I thought was most important. I still don't feel like I did it justice...but, it seems increasingly like that is sortof what its like to write...to not ever feel like you have something perfect...
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Yes, this is my pig story...
A gay pig is threatening to ruin Kim and Sandra McNees’ family farm. The boar, purchased for the sole purpose of siring offspring; offspring that would grow up graizing under the lush organic apple orchards of farm, and would eventually be butchered, sold and, ultimately, provide an income for the McNee family.
Sandra and Kim, who name all of the animals on their farm, named their new boar Willie. Arriving on the farm, Willie was immediately charged by the eager female pigs: he ran away squeeling. Getting Willie to adjust has been difficult; getting him to procreate has proved impossible. Given the choice, or just the chance, he will mount one of the McNees’ cut males.
Usually, this story would serve as a marginally humorous anecdote, maybe a good bar story or the “gay pig” a punchline of some low-brow joke. But for the McNees’, the seemingly homosexual pig, and what he means for their bottom line, and Barefoot Farm, a labor of love built over fifteen years of backbreaking labor, is a serious problem.
Arriving on the McNee farm on a drizzling Monday morning, the rolling landscape of Paw Paw is a greying blur beyond the windshield of my car. On the outskirts of Paw Paw, I pass an aging bowling alley, a few haggard mechanic shops, and a dimly lit diner. The gravel road that leads to the McNees’ is ominous: a large, prominently displayed sign that reads “DEAD END” hangs haphazardley on a rusting signpost; the smell of manure creeps into the secure interior of my car.
Sandra McNees, who immediately tells me that she prefers “Sandy,” is waiting on the front step of her house. She is past sixty, and her dark – not grey – hair seems too youthful against her aged face. “You don’t have to take off your shoes – I just hate shoes,” she explains, as she hobbles, barefoot, to the recliner in her small living room. This preference, she later tells me, is the reason for the name of the farm – Barefoot Farms.
She and her husband Kim have been farming here for the past fifteen years, the two of then doing almost the entirety of the work it takes to grow and harvest their organic vegetables and now, increasingly, hogs and cattle. The only additional labor they bring in is the occasional high school kid, usually in the summer, when the backbreaking field work becomes too much for Sandra and Kim. They estimate their average workday at sixteen hours, give or take, during those summer months.
Sandy hobbles outside to the greenhouse to show me her seedlings. Sandy is severely disabled, and even walking seems to take a long time. “I have a high pain tolerance and I’m stubbon as hell,” she says when I ask her how she manages to work the farm.
Entering the greenhouse, where Sandy says she spends most of her time, rows and rows of tiny green shoots are lined up; box after box of the sprouting plants are “popping,” as Sandy says. She points different groups of boxes: jalepenos, onions, broccoli, some lettuces, zucchini, even garlic, which she says she has let go too long. She pulls one of the garlic shoots from the black soil and peels back a portion of the milky stem with a fingernail. She lifts the bulb to my nose. One whiff of the plant makes my eyes water; indeed, even I can tell that something has been allowed to get out of hand with the garlic. She chucks the plant over her shoulder, and starts to talk about the problems with Willie the boar.
“When I first saw the boar, I thought ‘he looks like my first husband,’” Sandy sighs. Apparently, this was not a good omen. For the last several weeks, she and Kim have been trying with yet unknown success to ensure that Willie empregnates as many of the young females as possible. “There’s no pregnancy test for pigs, unlike cows,” Sandy informs me. Not that a pregnancy test seems needed in any case. At this point, Willie has yet to mount a female. That is, without direct guidance from Kim. The procedure is a messy one – and just as I am starting to visualize what this might entail, Kim chimes in, the first time he has entered our conversation so directly in the hour I have been at the farm. “The first pigs he tried to mount were cut males,” Kim says. “We thought he was gay at first – but now he’s doing his job.” By “doing his job” what Kim means is that Willie is functional – if only with some rather intimate assistance from Kim. Kim dons rubber gloves, and, entering the pen, explains the procedure of “lining it up.” He tells me that on a good day, he can ensure that Willie’s rather skinny penis enters, “the right hole.”
Sandy and Kim are increasingly reliant on the gamble of raising livestock. Livestock, apart from the sometimes graphic nature of ensuring procreation, is much easier for the aging couple to raise. “Physically, the vegetables are getting harder to do,” Sandy says. As the McNees age, it becomes harder every year to maintain the farm solely off of the profits they make on agriculture. Their income comes from the farmers markets they frequent, sometimes selling through small shops and at fairs. They only sell what is in season, right now, asparagus. Still, with the endless work, they are still just scrapping by. “The expense of it is a struggle – every single year,” she says. This year, with the unusually cold winter, the McNees nearly gave up on the farm altogether. “The colder it is, the more they eat – we depleted all the money we had, trying to keep them fed.”
And yet, back in the warm living room of the McNees home, they seem sure that if they could produce enough pork next year to start phasing into livestock, and out of agriculture, that they will make it. They describe themselves, even after twenty-one years together, as best friends. Kim gets up to pour coffee for Sandy, and he pats her hand as he sets the mug down next to her on the side table. “I was born to be a farmer,” Sandy says. Kim doesn’t say anything, but seems to agree with Sandy, and nods his head. Do they have any regrets? Kim finally looks up. “I wish I were richer,” Kim says, his sunweathered skin wrinkling like leather as he laughs.
Sandra and Kim, who name all of the animals on their farm, named their new boar Willie. Arriving on the farm, Willie was immediately charged by the eager female pigs: he ran away squeeling. Getting Willie to adjust has been difficult; getting him to procreate has proved impossible. Given the choice, or just the chance, he will mount one of the McNees’ cut males.
Usually, this story would serve as a marginally humorous anecdote, maybe a good bar story or the “gay pig” a punchline of some low-brow joke. But for the McNees’, the seemingly homosexual pig, and what he means for their bottom line, and Barefoot Farm, a labor of love built over fifteen years of backbreaking labor, is a serious problem.
Arriving on the McNee farm on a drizzling Monday morning, the rolling landscape of Paw Paw is a greying blur beyond the windshield of my car. On the outskirts of Paw Paw, I pass an aging bowling alley, a few haggard mechanic shops, and a dimly lit diner. The gravel road that leads to the McNees’ is ominous: a large, prominently displayed sign that reads “DEAD END” hangs haphazardley on a rusting signpost; the smell of manure creeps into the secure interior of my car.
Sandra McNees, who immediately tells me that she prefers “Sandy,” is waiting on the front step of her house. She is past sixty, and her dark – not grey – hair seems too youthful against her aged face. “You don’t have to take off your shoes – I just hate shoes,” she explains, as she hobbles, barefoot, to the recliner in her small living room. This preference, she later tells me, is the reason for the name of the farm – Barefoot Farms.
She and her husband Kim have been farming here for the past fifteen years, the two of then doing almost the entirety of the work it takes to grow and harvest their organic vegetables and now, increasingly, hogs and cattle. The only additional labor they bring in is the occasional high school kid, usually in the summer, when the backbreaking field work becomes too much for Sandra and Kim. They estimate their average workday at sixteen hours, give or take, during those summer months.
Sandy hobbles outside to the greenhouse to show me her seedlings. Sandy is severely disabled, and even walking seems to take a long time. “I have a high pain tolerance and I’m stubbon as hell,” she says when I ask her how she manages to work the farm.
Entering the greenhouse, where Sandy says she spends most of her time, rows and rows of tiny green shoots are lined up; box after box of the sprouting plants are “popping,” as Sandy says. She points different groups of boxes: jalepenos, onions, broccoli, some lettuces, zucchini, even garlic, which she says she has let go too long. She pulls one of the garlic shoots from the black soil and peels back a portion of the milky stem with a fingernail. She lifts the bulb to my nose. One whiff of the plant makes my eyes water; indeed, even I can tell that something has been allowed to get out of hand with the garlic. She chucks the plant over her shoulder, and starts to talk about the problems with Willie the boar.
“When I first saw the boar, I thought ‘he looks like my first husband,’” Sandy sighs. Apparently, this was not a good omen. For the last several weeks, she and Kim have been trying with yet unknown success to ensure that Willie empregnates as many of the young females as possible. “There’s no pregnancy test for pigs, unlike cows,” Sandy informs me. Not that a pregnancy test seems needed in any case. At this point, Willie has yet to mount a female. That is, without direct guidance from Kim. The procedure is a messy one – and just as I am starting to visualize what this might entail, Kim chimes in, the first time he has entered our conversation so directly in the hour I have been at the farm. “The first pigs he tried to mount were cut males,” Kim says. “We thought he was gay at first – but now he’s doing his job.” By “doing his job” what Kim means is that Willie is functional – if only with some rather intimate assistance from Kim. Kim dons rubber gloves, and, entering the pen, explains the procedure of “lining it up.” He tells me that on a good day, he can ensure that Willie’s rather skinny penis enters, “the right hole.”
Sandy and Kim are increasingly reliant on the gamble of raising livestock. Livestock, apart from the sometimes graphic nature of ensuring procreation, is much easier for the aging couple to raise. “Physically, the vegetables are getting harder to do,” Sandy says. As the McNees age, it becomes harder every year to maintain the farm solely off of the profits they make on agriculture. Their income comes from the farmers markets they frequent, sometimes selling through small shops and at fairs. They only sell what is in season, right now, asparagus. Still, with the endless work, they are still just scrapping by. “The expense of it is a struggle – every single year,” she says. This year, with the unusually cold winter, the McNees nearly gave up on the farm altogether. “The colder it is, the more they eat – we depleted all the money we had, trying to keep them fed.”
And yet, back in the warm living room of the McNees home, they seem sure that if they could produce enough pork next year to start phasing into livestock, and out of agriculture, that they will make it. They describe themselves, even after twenty-one years together, as best friends. Kim gets up to pour coffee for Sandy, and he pats her hand as he sets the mug down next to her on the side table. “I was born to be a farmer,” Sandy says. Kim doesn’t say anything, but seems to agree with Sandy, and nods his head. Do they have any regrets? Kim finally looks up. “I wish I were richer,” Kim says, his sunweathered skin wrinkling like leather as he laughs.
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