Access to healthcare supports climate resilience everywhere, but especially in rural America

Salinas River near Greenfield, CA
© Jillian Gronnerud (2018)

Human health and environmental health are undeniably interdependent. Clean air and water, limited exposure to pollutants, a preserved natural environment, and adequate protection from occupational health and safety hazards are a few of the ways that robust environmental protection can support human health. As the effects of climate change become more visible and more severe, so too do the effects on human health and well-being. 

The World Health Organization's overview on environmental health tells us that climate change is profoundly affecting human health: natural disasters, infectious diseases, heat-related illnesses and death, effects on food production, migration, and economic instability are among the direct and indirect impacts. According to the WHO, more than 13 million people worldwide die each year due to modifiable environmental conditions. 

Zooming in on food production, climate change is already having major impacts on agricultural operations around the world. In the United States, impacts manifest directly as higher average air temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, and rising concentrations of atmospheric carbon dioxide. Indirectly, productivity is harmed by changes in disease occurrence and insect and weed populations. According to one USDA report, "research has documented cases where elevated atmospheric levels favor the growth of weeds over the growth of the crop species with which they compete." 

Taking a more nuanced look at climate change effects on the economics of US agriculture, the same USDA report notes that agricultural production is chronically vulnerable to environmental stressors (dry spells, insect damage, disease outbreak), making the added unpredictability of climate impacts unwelcome. In some cases, climate change effects render agricultural operations economically non-viable. 

In a March 2026 piece for Inside Climate News, Jordan Gass-Pooré interviewed a family farmer from upstate New York who stopped growing vegetables because "they were afraid extreme weather events would ruin their crops." Reflecting on the decision, Samantha Kemnah told ICN: "'We really enjoyed growing vegetables [. . .] [b]ut we couldn’t continue to commit to people, to raise food, and then have a hailstorm wipe it all out.'"

Photo Credit: US Department of Agriculture (2016)

A lack of formal, institutional support for farmers like Kemnah complicates the picture further. Diversified farms and smaller family farms face a lack of governmental support, in part because subsidies remain geared toward commodity crops and often come with a minimum base acre requirement. The result? Small family farms are hemmed in by stiff financial conditions and unable to access capital needed to run their business. Recent USDA research reveals that "[m]any farmers face steep hurdles to diversify their crop rotations. More diverse rotations may make management more complex and may require new equipment. Farmers may also need to learn how to grow new crops."

When farms like the Kemnah's are forced away from diversified crops and toward subsidized commodities, they are also driven away from crop rotation and other environmentally beneficial practices that could serve as part of the farm's climate change mitigation strategy. 

Cows in field near Duncan Mills, CA
© Lisa Pruitt (2025)

With a clearer picture of the impacts of climate change on US agriculture in mind, the remainder of this post will focus on one key aspect of the nexus between the environmental and human health. The basic argument goes – and research supports – that access to high quality healthcare might be one of the best preventative measures we can implement to promote climate resilience for American farmers, farmworkers, and the lands they live and work on. 

The recent Inside Climate News article by Gass-Pooré paints a picture of the current relationship between healthcare and those with agricultural livelihoods:

In the U.S., nearly half of rural residents, including farmers, are uninsured or insured by government-funded programs such as Medicaid or Medicare. Nearly one in four people under the age of 65 [...] have Medicaid coverage [...] Now, even this system is in peril as millions of Americans are expected to lose coverage as a result of pending changes and cutbacks to Medicaid [...] As a result, some farmers risk losing their lifeline and becoming uninsured. It would leave them even less prepared to do farm work and to tackle the oncoming impact of climate change. 

These dynamics suggest that healthcare access is not merely a social service for farmers, but a critical component of resilience, both at the individual and systemic level. Rates of work-related death for farmers are seven times the national average. Working in the elements, with heavy equipment, and near chemicals mean that farmers face increased rates of occupational risks, injury, and chronic illness. Demanding work, economic instability, and isolation manifests in the form of mental health challenges at rates far higher than the general population (a 2021 CDC report shows a male suicide rate of 52.1 per 100,000 among farmers and ranchers, compared to 32.0 per 100,000 among male working-aged adults across all occupations).

Despite this risk profile, farmers routinely encounter barriers to care, including provider shortages, cost, and the associated prospect of medical debt.  In a 2022 study by Florence Becot & Shoshanah Imwood, researchers reported that 20.3% of American farm households had medical debt exceeding $1,000, and that 55 percent of these households were not confident they could cover the costs of a major illness or injury.

The concurrent loss of Affordable Care Act subsidies and challenging economic conditions means that health insurance will become outright unaffordable for many farmers. The decision then becomes whether to continue working and forgo coverage – a risky proposition in such a dangerous occupation – or to leave the industry altogether in search of a job that will provide health insurance.

By contrast, Gass-Pooré's article documents describes not-for-profit health plans in Germany, which are not tied to employment and strictly limit how much patients must pay out of pocket. These plans enable farmers to work full-time and "take advantage of reliable government support" as they implement farming practices meant to improve soil health and provide other climate mitigation benefits.

The situation in America is something else entirely. Gass-Pooré summarizes the current state of affairs: 

Climate change makes it harder to maintain a productive farm, health care cuts threaten farmers’ ability to work the land and cuts to the programs that could help with both mean their lives are more uncertain than ever. 

The connections between environmental health, agricultural viability, and human well-being are increasingly difficult to ignore. Climate change places growing strain on farmers and farmworkers, while structural barriers, from limited healthcare access to outdated and failing subsidy systems, compound their vulnerability. 

As this post has explored, improving healthcare access offers a tangible pathway to support both individual resilience and broader environmental outcomes. By treating healthcare as part of the infrastructure that sustains agriculture, policymakers can better equip rural communities to withstand climate pressures while preserving the systems that feed and sustain us all. 

The looming red wave: How a crowded Democratic field might hand California’s governorship to a Republican

California gubernatorial candidate debate Tuesday, Feb. 3, 2026, in San Francisco.Photo Credit: Laure Andrillon/AP

When I was little, my parents always voted blue. When the ballot offered one Democrat versus one Republican, it was an easy pick between the two. I always viewed California as an impenetrable fortress of blue politics. With our heavily populated progressive cities, it seemed practically impossible for a Republican to win a gubernatorial election. As the June 2 primary approaches, however, an overcrowded field of Democrats vying for the office is threatening to turn that assumption completely upside down.

According to recent polling by UC Berkeley IGS Poll (sponsored by The Los Angeles Times), conservative commentator Steve Hilton and Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco are leading the gubernatorial race as of March 18. Hilton captures roughly 17% of the vote, while Bianco is close behind at 16%, leaving prominent Democrats like Eric Swalwell and Katie Porter trailing them in the low teens. You can follow the latest polling updates on The New York Times. Because California utilizes a top-two primary system where candidates are listed on the same ballot regardless of party, the sheer abundance of Democratic candidates is severely fracturing the liberal vote.

The California Democratic Party is actively panicking about the very real possibility of a general election without a single Democrat on the ballot. On March 3, party chair Rusty Hicks issued an open letter pleading with unviable candidates to assess their paths to victory and suspend their campaigns:

If in the unlikely event a Democrat failed to proceed to the General Election for Governor, there could be the potential for depressed Democratic turnout in California in November. The result would present a real risk to winning the congressional seats required and imperil Democrats' chances to retake the House.

Despite these dire warnings, all eight Democratic hopefuls have stubbornly refused to step aside. Meanwhile, the conservative surge is being heavily fueled by voters in California’s rural and inland regions, who are expressing deep dissatisfaction with the state’s current trajectory. A recent survey from the Public Policy Institute of California revealed that 54% of Californians believe the state is headed in the wrong direction. Their views are driven largely by anxiety over the cost of living and inflation.

Candidates like Bianco are successfully capitalizing on this widespread frustration. Polling data shows the Republican sheriff is absolutely dominating the race in rural, historically red areas like the Inland Empire and the North Coast/Sierras. While Democratic candidates fight each other for urban votes in Los Angeles and the Bay Area, Republican candidates are unifying the rural base.

Despite needing to split the conservative vote evenly to advance to the general election, Republican candidates Steve Hilton and Chad Bianco are not cooperating and are instead aggressively attacking one another to consolidate their base. Both candidates are utilizing similar platform strategies centered on heavy deregulation, reversing prison closures, boosting oil production, and slashing taxes.

A critical element of both their campaign strategies is courting voters in California's rural, agricultural, and inland regions where conservative momentum is currently the strongest. For instance, both men recently campaigned directly to these demographics by participating in a gubernatorial forum at Fresno State hosted by Western Growers. Bianco, the current Riverside County Sheriff, has been particularly successful at rallying these rural and inland voters by leaning heavily into his outsider status and harshly criticizing the environmental regulations that many inland residents blame for the high cost of living.

While the media fixates on the fractured Democratic field, they are completely ignoring the socialist candidates running in this election, including Ramsey Robinson of the Peace and Freedom Party and Butch Ware. It is frustrating that candidates who are actually running on working-class platforms receive absolutely no press coverage and are shut out of major platforms, like the highly criticized (and ultimately canceled) gubernatorial debate co-sponsored by USC and the Los Angeles TV station KABC.

Comparison to the last Governor Race

2019 California Governor Election Results. Credit: The New York Times

While outgoing Governor Gavin Newsom practically coasted through his past elections, the 2026 primary is shaping up to be an entirely different beast. In his 2018 race, Newsom secured a landslide victory against Republican John Cox, winning by a massive 24 percentage points (the worst defeat for a GOP gubernatorial candidate in California since 1950). Newsom enjoyed such, unified party backing that his races were defined by inevitability, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos and uncertainty of this year's crowded primary. Today, the Democratic field is severely fractured among eight established candidates who stubbornly refuse to drop out, creating a messy, unpredictable contest heavily focused on intra-party squabbling. Unlike Newsom's clear march to the governor position, this current division is threatening to split the liberal vote so thinly that two Republicans could actually advance from the top-two primary, potentially shutting Democrats out of the November general election entirely.

My Final Thoughts 

It is wild to think that in a state where registered Democrats outnumber Republicans two to one, we might see two Republicans facing off for governor this November. This situation highlights a massive disconnect between urban liberals and the rural conservatives who are successfully mobilizing behind their preferred candidates. If the Democratic party cannot figure out how to consolidate their base and appeal to the varying wants and needs of all Californians, they will only have themselves to blame for handing over the governor's office.

The carcinogenic classification of glyphosate faces new pressure

Glyphosate, the most widely used herbicide in the world, is a controversial product in agriculture due to its potential carcinogenic effects. In 2015, the International Agency on the Research for Cancer (IARC) published a monograph concluding that glyphosate is “probably carcinogenic to humans.” However, in February 2020, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) issued an interim registration review decision (ID) finding glyphosate poses “no risks of concern to human health when used in accordance with its current label.”

© Kristy Ardalan 2024.

On March 20, 2020, the Natural Resources Defense Council challenged the EPA’s ID in the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. In May 2021, the EPA requested—and the court granted--a partial voluntary remand without vacatur of the ecological portion. The EPA later withdrew the entire ID, and the status of glyphosate remains under reconsideration.

As of 2026, the EPA maintains that there is no evidence glyphosate causes cancer in humans; there is no indication glyphosate is an endocrine disruptor; that residue on food items are safe for consumption; and that ecological risks are low, with the exception of potential harm to bees.

Despite these conclusions, public skepticism remains high. The widely publicized Monsanto Roundup litigation—through which Monsanto has paid nearly $11 billion to tens of thousands of plaintiffs alleging cancer caused by Roundup—has intensified doubts about the EPA’s classification. Additionally, organizations such as the Environmental Sciences Europe and the World Health Organization have criticized the EPA for failing to adequately consider individuals with heightened exposure, such as farmworkers and nearby residents. The Center for Food Safety has also cited emails between an EPA scientist and a Monsanto officer that suggest “coordinated efforts to undermine the legitimacy of IARC’s… determination.”

White House Easter celebration 2023.

© Kristy Ardalan 2024.

On February 18, 2026, President Trump signed an executive order titled “Promoting the National Defense by Ensuring an Adequate Supply of Elemental Phosphorus and Glyphosate-Based Herbicides.” A related fact sheet states that the order is intended to “protect domestic production of elemental phosphorus and glyphosate-based herbicides” which are “essential to military readiness and America’s agricultural strength.” The fact sheet emphasizes that currently only one domestic company produces elemental phosphorus and glyphosate-based herbicides. It also notes that the demand in the U.S. far exceeds current output, which “gravely endangers national security and defense” including food-supply security.

A particularly controversial provision of the order grants immunity to domestic producers that comply with federal law.

The famously polluted Potomac River in Washington, D.C.

© Kristy Ardalan 2023.

Environmental groups, such as the Waterkeeper Alliance, have strongly criticized the order arguing that “it puts chemical industry profits above public health and clean water.” Granting immunity for industrial chemical producers that follow federal directives makes it harder to hold them accountable for harm to human and environmental health. As discussed in this prior blog post, critics also point to broader legislative trends—such as provisions in the recent farm bill—that may weaken environmental protections, including removing dozens of pesticides from health and environmental safety reviews, granting the USDA power to block EPA health and environmental safeguards, removing Clean Water Act protections that limit pesticide pollution, etc.

However, there are signs of legislative pushback. On February 20, 2026, Representatives Thomas Massie (KY) and Chellie Pingree (ME) introduced the bipartisan “No Immunity for Glyphosate Act” to Congress in effort to undo the February 18 executive order. Representative Pingree stated “If there was ever any doubt about whose side this Administration is on, this Executive Order makes it crystal clear: Big Chemical comes first, and the health of Americans comes last.” Representative Massie similarly argued that “If the goal is to 'Make America Healthy Again,' the federal government should not be using its authority to promote or protect the production of glyphosate.”

© Iowa Environmental Council and The Harkin Institute, Environmental Risk Factors and Iowa’s Cancer Crisis, p. 9. Data from the National Cancer Institute state cancer profiles.

The No Immunity for Glyphosate Act was introduced to Congress shortly before a disruptive report from the Iowa Environmental Council and the Harkin Institute for Public Policy and Citizen Engagement titled “Environmental Risk Factors and Iowa’s Cancer Crisis” was released on March 25, 2026. The report focuses on pesticides, PFAS, Nitrate, Radon, and other industrial contaminants in Iowa. The Executive Director of the Iowa Environmental Council stated that the report “demonstrates clear links between environmental pollution and our health and well-being.” As found in the 2020 census, the majority of Iowans live in rural areas and the rural areas are surrounded by endless fields of corn all likely sprayed with glyphosate. The graph below shows that rural residents in Iowa experience and live around the most dense pesticide application areas in the United States and the cancer rates reflect that.

A map of counties depicting high and low cancer rates

© Investigate Midwest, National Cancer Institute, and the CDC

Iowa’s cancer rate exceeds the national average by more than 10%, with a particularly elevated rates among individuals under 50. The state has the highest number of concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs) in the country, a number more than 2.5 times as many CAFOs than the next highest state. With emerging research linking glyphosate and other environmental contaminants to adverse health outcomes, pressure is mounting for legislative action—and soon.

Back-to-the-land has come...back?

Barn in Benton County, AR.© Lisa R. Pruitt (2011)

If you're a young woman on TikTok, the algorithm likely feeds you some flavor of "tradwife" content. Names like Nara Smith and Hannah Neeleman have become household names among twenty-somethings in the last few years. These women use their online platforms to play out a fictional reality of subservience to their husbands on gorgeous rural acreages, all while raking in millions from sponsorships and $70 bone broth powders. They espouse live simple, pared-down lives, cooking everything from scratch for a big, happy family, while finding time to spend their afternoons barefoot in the grass. They want you to believe that their life is good, and that more young women should aspire to be homemakers and homesteaders. 

These young women are the most visible group of young people promoting a modern "back-to-the-land" movement. They often root their desire in religion and "traditional" roles of men and women. Many scholars and commentators criticize the tradwife movement, saying it is regressive and uninformed. You can read excerpts of a New York Times article about modern "rural" aesthetics centered in patriarchy here. While some of the criticism rings true, this practice isn't new. Americans have demonized processed foods and dreamt of homesteading for decades. Back-to-the-land movements have drawn people's attention since their inception, inspiring families with traditional values as well as environmentalists and counterculturalists. 

The origins of back-to-the-land

America began its foray into the homesteading movement with the Homestead Act of 1862, which offered full title to government lands taken from Indigenous tribes to any settler who lived on and improved the land for five years. The back-to-the-land movement, however, originated in the 1900s. 

Many scholars cite Bolton Hall, an American lawyer and activist, as the origin of the movement. In the early 1900s, he formed the Little Land League, which wanted to make land ownership and homegrown food a reality for low-income New Yorkers. This organization existed to "assist in the acquisition of land and show how to make the best use of it." He allegedly planned a $70,000 endowment for a program that would teach people how to farm and help them purchase the land. His book, A Little Land and Living, extolled the virtues of rural living and explained how to begin to make a living for yourself off the land. 

John Korvola's Homestead in Valley County, ID from the early 1900s. Credit: Jerrye & Roy Klotz, MD under a CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

A group of reformists picked up Bolton Hall's work, arguing that subsistence farming could help white Americans survive during the Great Depression and avoid the dangers of urbanization. Their writings sparked a the "third wave" of back-to-the-land in the 1960s and 70s. The third wave originated from the protest movements of that era, and grew into a "rural antimodern counterculture". As Jinny A. Turman-Deal's article We Were an Oddity: A Look at the Back to the Land Movement in Appalachia identifies, many third-wave participants were driven by non-economic factors: a desire to "leave the rat race" or political and social turmoil in the city. Their migration created a 4.5% increase in West Virginia's population. 

A New York Times article from 1975 posits that these new, young farmers desired hard work and an escape from American capitalism. They generally eschewed tractors and other "labor-saving devices." This movement reached across the country, with people from Maine to Oregon allegedly growing up to 75% of their food in their backyard. While this article states that most farmers relied on their families' middle-class incomes to make this a reality, a 1991 article states that only about 48% of participants came from a middle-class background. 

Modern takes on back-to-the-land

Homesteading, a popular part of the back-to-the-land movement, has picked up considerable steam in the last 10 years. A November 2024 report from Fannie Mae shows that interest in rural mortgages has increased almost 80% since the start of COVID-19. Homesteaders of America, a conservative, Christian-adjacent homesteading advocacy group, conducted a poll in 2022 to assess the state of homesteading in America. They found that approximately 50% of their respondents were under 40 years old, and about 50% identified as conservative. Most were employed full-time, making at least 50,000 a year. Over 80% were married.

These findings align with the prevailing modern conception of homesteading. Conservative, young families with enough capital to secure property are the ones moving out to a subsistence farm. While I used the example of tradwives as the group most visible in mainstream media, queer and trans homesteaders utilize social media to share their experiences of living off the land, too. A recent CNN article highlighted some of these influencers, who stated they didn't see homesteading as a "conservative, separatist" movement, but rather a community-centered endeavor to build something they're proud of. 

Regardless of politics, many young aspiring farmers and homesteaders take up homesteading for similar reasons: increased health and well-being, an escape from tumultuous politics, and a desire to be more in touch with nature. These groups face a common challenge: a daunting rural real estate market. A 2022 Study from the National Young Farmers Coalition, however, found that 59% of young farmers stated that finding the land to farm was their biggest hurdle. Young farmers are being outbid by more established farmers, as well as large agricultural corporations. This statistic has been true for decades (as this 2012 blog post explains in an analysis between the United States and Greece). In some communities, leasing from community members or land trusts makes homesteading more accessible. In major cities, organizations exist to help low-income residents urban homestead in community co-ops. 

Despite the obstacles, homesteading and back-to-the-land movements draw new converts every day. While the media continues to criticize the tradwives from a feminist perspective, we should recognize that their lives resonate with so many young people. So many of the political pressures of the late 60s and 70s exist today: high inflation, declining trust in politics, and foreign wars impacting oil.

Back-to-the-land has come and gone as a desirable life path for over a century. It seems as if proponents, for decades, have thought it is the cure for societies' ills. Interestingly, the draws are the same, regardless of politics, though each group seems to try and fit their politics to their reasons. At the end of the day, tradwife or drag queen, some people want to put their hands in the dirt.

Rastafari roots of plant-based eating

An Ital meal of rice, ackee, callaloo, and veggie chunks.

Source: Wikimedia Commons (2009)

In considering a vegan diet, I imagine a young, progressive urban consumer motivated by environmental or animal welfare concerns. In other words, someone who likely shops at a Whole Foods. In the West, veganism is packaged as something performed through individual consumer choices. That framing obscures the structural conditions shaping diets, and reinforces the mistaken belief that veganism is a modern invention. The “Ital” tradition complicates the popular narrative of modern veganism. Long before plant-based eating carried a price premium in Los Angeles, it was ordinary in the hills of rural Jamaica. 

The Rastafari movement began in the 1930s in Jamaica among the working poor who had been devastated by the global financial crash of 1929 and prolonged colonial mismanagement. These forces created mass unemployment and rural-to-urban migration into the slums of west Kingston. Rastas fled to the rural mountains where they could access land and practice self-governance without persecution.  

Leonard P. Howell, an early Rastafari leader, drew on the practices of Hindu indentured laborers in Jamaica to promote what became known as Ital living. The word “Ital” comes from “vital,” dropping the first letter to emphasize the pronoun “I”. This linguistic practice signals unity with the speaker, the listener, and Jah (God). Ital eating is an expression of “livity,” a Rastafari concept that the individual can embody and express spirituality through the practices of daily life.  For Rastafarians, Jah exists in all of creation, including plants, animals, and people. As such there is a divine force or energy in everything. 

What one puts in one’s body either enhances or degrades this life force. Food that has been processed or chemically altered is considered corrupted and further from Jah’s creation. Life force does not begin at the moment of consumption. Powell’s research participants described farming, cultivation, and conservation as the literal pouring of one’s energy and emotion into the earth. The sincerity of this effort determines how the earth responds and reciprocates that energy. 

Rural Rastafari food is shaped by what the land yields. Coconuts are naturally abundant across Jamaica. They are cracked, drained, grated, and squeezed into milk that forms the base of most dishes. Vegetables and aromatics are sautéed in coconut oil. The food typically contains beans, spices, chili peppers, and the coconut milk, stewed for hours over low heat and eaten communally. A strict Ital diet rejects salt as “a needless adulteration” of what Jah placed on the earth, so herbs and dry seasonings are key. Scotch bonnet peppers, thyme, lemongrass, allspice, and nutmeg build complex flavor without salt. 

The one-pot stew is a practical response to the rural conditions of Rastafari life. Land access is limited, so the range of available produce is narrow. A single pot stretches what is on hand to feed the community. Cooking takes place outside in clay pots often balanced over a wood fire by three stones. Metal cookware is avoided on the belief that it harms the body. 

In Saint Lucia, a young Rasta farmer described conversing with plants throughout their life cycle to transfer positive energy to them. He explained that during planting one must ensure a positive heart is present because this very energy will be transmitted to the earth. The same is true of cooking. Ital food involves preparing food with a clean heart to transfer life force into the food. Food must be cooked slowly, with intention and gratitude. This preserves and transmits the life energy that began in the soil. Food is not just physically nourishing; it is also spiritually nourishing.

Food that is rushed or processed severs the energy force and transmits a lower form. It follows too that food grown under corporate conditions is spiritually degraded. Jahson Peat, who runs a vegan restaurant in London called Zionly Manna, presents Ital as a process of relearning that strips away the method of eating brought about by colonialism. This is inseparable from a rejection of capitalism itself. Commitment to Ital eating is tightly linked to a broader turn away from the imported industrial and materialist ways of life, which are all combined under the Rastafari concept of “Babylon.” 

By contrast, mainstream veganism operates according to market logic. It converts diet choices into an ethical identity. For some, it is an exercise in personal branding, where what you eat signals who you are. This channels genuine ethical concerns for animals and the environment into demand for plant-based products. In this sense, the market-based vegan movement can be seen not as a challenge to the current food system, but a force that risks expanding it further, as seen through the IPO of Beyond Meat. The growth of this plant-based segment does not depend on replacing meat consumption, only on expanding overall consumer demand. The Ital diet is not a consumer identity. It seeks to reject the economic system and the very notion of consumerism upon which it relies. 

However, Ital does not operate entirely independent of market forces. Jaffe’s concept of “Ital chic” describes the convergence of middle-class consumerism and the Ital diet. In Kingston, Rasta symbols have been used to market artisanal soap lines and premium vegetable products. When a brand sells coconut-milk products with Rasta packaging, it co-opts a tradition built on self-sufficiency and places it inside the very market that tradition was designed to reject. This dynamic is similar to that explored in a blog post from this semester about rural tourism. It noted that rural culture is often packaged to meet consumer expectations, with authenticity operating as a selling point. 

Plant-based eating did not begin with a farmer’s market or with a marketing campaign. It owes some of its roots to rural Jamaica, where people grew what the earth offered based on a theological conviction. That story deserves to be remembered before it is repackaged.

40 hours or 60: Who decides what rural labor is worth?

Sugar beet worker in Colorado (1938). Source: Library of Congress 

In 2011, this blog post observed that farmworkers:

[R]eceive little protection from the law...[and] are excluded from the National Labor Relations Act.

The National Labor Relations Act gives workers the right to unionize, and the exclusion of farm workers is part of a broader pattern. The Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938 similarly exempted agricultural workers from overtime protections; a carve-out that persists at the federal level today. As the National Employment Law Project has noted, Congress approved this exemption as part of a:

[G]rand compromise that excluded farm and domestic workers - who were overwhelmingly Black - from the protections being afforded to other workers.

Colorado is now testing whether states can succeed where the federal government has not; a move is afoot there to extend overtime protections to farmworkers without triggering the very harms those protections are meant to prevent. 

Here's some recent history. In 2021, Colorado Governor Jared Polis signed Senate Bill ("SB") 21-087, the "Farmworker Bill of Rights," which brought agricultural workers under state overtime rules for the first time. The law was phased in gradually, initially kicking in at 60 hours per week, then declining over time. Currently, the law operates through a bifurcated system: workers harvesting outside the peak season are generally paid overtime after 48 hours, while peak-season workers receive overtime after 56 hours. 

Map of Colorado Counties. Source: David Benbennick, Wikimedia Commons

Now, five years later, Democrats in the state legislature are split over what comes next. One bill would lower the threshold to 40 hours, matching the standard for other industries. A competing bill would raise it back to 60, essentially returning to where the phase-in began.  

Senator Jessie Danielson has introduced SB 26-081, which would lower the threshold to 40 hours per workweek or 12 hours per workday, matching the standard for most other Colorado workers. Senate Majority Leader Robert Rodriguez is expected to introduce a competing bill that would raise the threshold to 60 hours before overtime applies. 

Farm operators argue that a 40-hour threshold could be fatal. Don Brown, a Yuma County farmer and former state agriculture commissioner, told Colorado Politics that if the 40-hour bill passes, "we will have to figure out how to eliminate jobs and mechanize more."

Peach picker in Palisade, CA (2015).
Source: Library of Congress. 

Bruce Talbott, owner of Talbott Farms, is the largest fruit grower on the Western Slope: a portion of Colorado that is west of the Continental Divide (the mountain ridge that separates rivers flowing to the Pacific Ocean from those flowing to the Atlantic Ocean), and is home to the state's fruit-growing industry. Talbott Farms recently built a new bunkhouse to spread hours across more workers to minimize overtime. In response to the possibility of lowering the overtime threshold to 40 hours, Talbott stated: 

All businesses have to live within their means. In the end, it's the farmworker who gets hurt. 

The industry also faces broader challenges. The director of the Colorado Department of Agriculture's market division noted that net farm income is projected to drop to $1.8 billion in 2026 - $400 million lower than the previous year - citing fluctuating markets and low commodity prices. 

Farmworker advocates see the issue differently. Betty Velasquez of Project Protect Food Systems Workers argues:

[Farmworkers] are the people providing food on our tables. They should have access to earn more money as well. 

Advocates also contend that the industry has not produced data showing overtime rules specifically cause harm, and they point out that reduced hours have given workers more time with their families. Yet, the empirical picture is also contested. 

A 2023 study by UC Berkeley researcher Alexandra Hill found that California's overtime law led to reduced hours and earnings for farmworkers after employers shortened workweeks to avoid overtime costs. Hill's continued research found that by 2022:

[California farmworkers] earned about a hundred dollars less per week on average than they would have without the law in place. 

The Colorado debate exposes a structural tension in rural livelihood policy. Agricultural exceptionalism - the legal tradition of treating farm labor as categorically different - was born of a racist compromise in 1938. States like Colorado and California are now experimenting with alternatives. Those experiments produce uneven results, with some states like New York and Oregon offering tax credits to offset higher labor costs while others press forward without such cushions. Workers and operators each claim to speak for the rural interest. 

Senator Danielson insists the state should be doing more to protect farmworkers. Senator Rodriguez frames the dilemma as "death by 1,000 cuts" - death to farmers, that is - by water shortages, tariffs, and now labor costs. 

Both are Democrats. Both represent rural livelihoods. Neither has a clean answer.

The Grange: Community building in rural America

                      

Credit: Anderson Valley Grange

Some of my earliest memories are attending the yearly variety show at the Anderson Valley Grange in Mendocino County, California. During these performances the bustling Grange hall felt like the busiest gathering of the year, besides the county fair. The Grange gives fair warning that “this is a variety show NOT a talent show.” In catching up with my grandma about the Grange, which she was a member of for many years, she remembered most performances as “really bad,” noting affectionately that the emcee was “extremely corny.” She and her hippie friends were often among the acts of the night and may have been at least in the neighborhood of “really bad” also.

Regardless of the varying quality of the performances, the Grange provided a sense of community in a place where many people lived too deep in the woods to see their neighbors regularly. There was always some friend of my parents or grandparents who had apparently known me since I was a baby, and I likely would not see them again until the next variety show. Unbeknownst to me as a child at the variety show, the Grange had been playing a similar role in rural communities across America for almost 150 years.

The origins of the Grange

The Grange, formally known as National Grange of the Order of Patrons of Husbandry, began as an organization dedicated to agriculture when it was founded in 1867 by Oliver Kelley, a Minnesotan with an interest in reorganizing and educating agricultural workers. Kelley had been sent to the South after the Civil War by President Andrew Johnson to assess the agricultural conditions of the region and formed the Grange partially in reaction to this tour.

I Feed You All! Image Credit: Library of Congress 

The Civil War had marked the culmination of a rapid series of changes to farming communities. The draw of urban economies and the increasing efficiency of agricultural technology had steadily reduced the share of the US population engaged in farming, declining from 90% in 1790 to 42% in 1880. This demographic shift brought changes to the social fabric of rural communities.

Once, farmers had engaged in subsistence agriculture and frequently labored together if one member of the community needed help planting or with harvest. Now, innovations like the cast iron plow greatly reduced the need for farmers to work together in the fields. Additionally, most farmers had shifted from subsistence farming to commercial farming, rendering them competing market actors rather than a community with shared goals.

Kelley began the Grange with the increasing obsolescence of traditional farm life in mind, and his vision for a new farming community was a rather radical one. The National Grange claims that “[s]ince our founding in 1867, we have lived by our motto, “In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity.,” and that “[w]e have always welcomed and invited people of all races, creeds, religions and nationalities into our membership.”

The Grange did in fact embody principles of equality in many ways. The institution not only welcomed women, it required that at least four members elected to the board be women in order for a Grange to be chartered. Recognition of the labor that women provided in agricultural life was central to the Grange from its inception.

In addition to the social principles espoused by the Grange, the group was strongly motivated by Kelley’s longstanding interest in developing and proliferating farm technologies in an equitable manner. Kelley saw people engaged in agriculture being left behind. In his words, "Everything is progressing. Why not the farmers? The inventive genius of the country is continually at work improving tools, and farmers remain passive."

A particularly interesting feature of the Grange is their Masonic-inspired secrecy and ritual. Kelley had found that his membership in the Masons was a helpful foot in the door during his time in the South. He believed, quite correctly it would seem, that “[t]he secrecy would lend an interest and peculiar fascination.” Grangers ascended through a variety of ranks, known as “degrees”; wore sashes, badges, and regalia corresponding to their rank; and had secret handshakes and passwords. These features faded in modern Granges, but my grandmother still recalls a secret handshake and being given a “goddess name” when she joined in the 80s.

Expansion, goals, and advocacy

The Grange was a near-immediate and explosive success, with over 24,000 chartered local Granges and almost one million members within eight years of its founding. While Kelley had founded the Grange with central planning in mind, hoping to eventually incorporate the Grange into the U.S. Department of Agriculture, Grange chapters quickly became extremely independent, with the National Grange exerting little control over their operations. The Grange was focused on farmers, but were very lenient regarding who could become a member. Even from shortly after its founding, Granges members often included lawyers, judges, and educators.

The early National Grange strongly advocated for cooperative farming. While we commonly think of cooperative farming as groupings of producers, the Grange additionally endeavored to unify production and sale of agricultural products to extract greater profits, a practice known in economics and antitrust law as vertical integration. At the peak of the Grange collectivization attempts in 1877, about 30,000 co-ops existed. The Grange also operated the infrastructure necessary for these co-ops, facilities like mills, grain elevators, and warehouses.

Though the Grange is ostensibly non-political and discourages discussion of politics at their meetings, their concern for the agricultural class manifested in advocacy for a variety of political causes, especially in their early history. Perhaps most prominent was the effort of the Grange to combat the high rates charged by railroads, an effort that resulted in the Granger Laws and inspired modern antitrust law. A contribution that perhaps has the most lasting impact on rural communities is their campaign for rural free delivery of mail.

A critical view of the early Grange

While many accounts of the Grange dote over its inclusivity, Prof. Charles Postel provides a rather scathing perspective on the Grange in his book Equality: An American Dilemma. He notes that gender equality was a relatively palatable position in Washington D.C following the Civil War, where seven of the eight founding members of the Grange were working as members of the federal government at the time of the founding. While women did occupy prominent leadership positions in some Granges, many female members were relegated to secretarial roles.

Additionally, the Grange was somewhat wavering in its support for suffrage. The National Grange came out in support of suffrage in 1885, but the next year reverted to support for state rights to set suffrage policy. Granges did provide an audience for suffragettes, and the National Grange finally backed the suffrage amendment in 1915.

The Grange did not explicitly discriminate against African-Americans; it was nevertheless clear to many that they were not welcome. Kelley was a lifelong Democrat, and many Granges made quite obvious overtures to white Southern farmers. Prof. Jenny Bourne of Carleton College notes in her book In Essentials, Unity: An Economic History of the Grange Movement that the National Master of the Grange in 1873 said that admitting “colored” members was a question best left to local interests. Unsurprisingly, many communities in the South answered this question with exclusion. Black farmers responded by creating the Colored Farmers’ National Alliance near the end of the 1880s.

Many positive accounts of the Grange’s early history acknowledge and discuss the exclusion of African Americans, but the relationship of the Grange to Native Americans is often left unexplored. Prof. Postel notes that Kelley was largely disinterested in the Civil War because his “deep antipathy towards the Indians of Minnesota” motivated him to cooperate with Republicans, despite being a lifelong Democrat. While the Grange performed a variety of charitable work for Native Americans from the 1940s onwards, it must be acknowledged that the interests of white farmers were often in direct opposition to those of Native Americans during the early history of the Grange.

As aptly put by Prof. Bourne, “the history of the Patrons of Husbandry exposes the classic tension between the desires for achieving overall economic success and for dictating how the spoils are split.”

The fall, rise, and second fall of the Grange

While declining profits from farming rendered cooperative efforts very attractive, Grange efforts to collectively sell and purchase agricultural products suffered from defection by individual farmers. A lack of effective cooperation between the National Grange and local and state Granges was an additional challenge. Additionally, the cooperative methods employed by the Grange often required an upfront investment that many farmers were unable to afford as the economy became increasingly strained in the late 1800s.

Grange membership had fallen precipitously in the 1880s and 1890s, as many members found that the costs of their membership outweighed the perceived benefits. It did not help that some members apparently found the agricultural programming “dull as well as not worth the money.”

In terms of rural political advocacy, the space once occupied by the Grange had been effectively co-opted by new organizations like the Farmers Alliance, the Farm Bureau, and the Greenback Party by the late 1800s. While the Grange thus receded from national politics, it was a significant influence on these successor organizations and on modern farm interest advocacy groups, like the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association and state dairy marketing boards.

   Combined Grange and Farm Bureau Facility in Del Norte County, California

 (c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2019

While the Grange had largely withdrawn from the political stage by the early 1900s, membership had begun to rebound as Grange organizations started to offer important services to rural communities. In particular, the Grange began offering insurance and created power cooperatives in the 1930s.

While nonprofit utilities and insurance providers initiated by the Grange still serve rural communities, these enterprises are now mostly under non-Grange management and no longer exclusively serve Grange members. The fact that these services gradually stopped being linked to Grange membership and decreasing rural populations has caused a steady decline in Grange membership. Since the 1955 Grange membership has fallen from 850,000 members to 140,000.

The National Grange currently advocates on the level for relatively modest and non-partisan goals, like increased spending on agricultural research. They maintain their longstanding anti-tariff views and have generally favored immigration, but the organization seem to be tempering their language to assuage Trump voters in recent years.

The Anderson Valley Grange and the new role of Granges

The Anderson Valley Grange has a particularly Northern California themed history. This wonderful article by Lisa Morehouse, published recently by KWED, the San Francisso details the initial frictions at the Anderson Valley Grange in the 70s and 80s as the longtime residents of the area, largely loggers, apple farmers, and sheep herders, were suddenly overwhelmed by hippies hoping to use the Grange, home of the best dance floor in town.

The Anderson Valley Grange, Mendocino County, California

 (c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2022

The current head of the Anderson Valley Grange is a man known around town as Captain Rainbow who “wore a loincloth [and] lived up in the woods” when he first moved to Anderson Valley. He tells the story of how a crisis led to a reconciliation of this "old-timer" vs hippie conflict. 

In his early days in Anderson Valley, “if you were a hippie, you weren’t particularly welcome here.” He didn’t go to the local bar, nicknamed “the Bucket of Blood” for about 10 years “because it was chainsaw haircut time if you did." 

Things changed in 1985 when the old Grange hall, built in 1939, burned down. When the Grangers came together to build a new building, the hippies begged the Grangers to include a dance floor and offered to help rebuild the hall if the insurance money ran out.

Captain Rainbow recounts that even if you had a bad encounter with an old timer, “The next day, hungover, both of you would be hanging sheetrock together, and you’d find out that, hey, you’re all right.” After the hall was built, Captain Rainbow was delighted to receive an invite to join the Grange, along with the many other hippies who had been involved in the effort to rebuild the hall.

A post buried about half way down this archive of the Anderson Valley Advertiser shares a similar sentiment, noting that running out of insurance money, “was a blessing in disguise, forcing us to rely on each other, it forged new friendships and respect.”

My grandmother recalls joining after this cultural divide had somewhat mended. She joined because she wanted to find a venue for her Congolese dance teacher to offer lessons, and both were welcomed with open arms.

Today, the Anderson Valley Grange still acts as a center of community for the region. They host their annual variety show, monthly pancake breakfasts, dances, and quinceaneras. The Grange maintains ties to its agricultural roots, collaborating with Anderson Valley Brewery, using the hall for agricultural education, and hosting seed exchanges. Mendocino County Grangers also started a retirement facility that houses 170 people.

Food Bank Sign at the Anderson Valley Grange (c) Lisa Pruitt (2022)

While still lively, the Anderson Valley Grange faces the same issues as Granges nationwide. In Captain Rainbow’s words, “We need some fresh blood.” The Grange is active, but the membership is aging. “When my generation came in and became part of the Grange, the old-timers, they needed us. And [], I’m a geezer now!”

While Grange membership has been on a long downward trend, there has been some incremental growth in the last few years. The Anderson Valley Grange, like many in California, has an increasingly Latino membership. It is also making overtures to Native Americans in the area.

Conclusions

The Grange is an institution with an extremely rich and complicated history that this post has barely scratched the surface of. While its political relevance has faded, local granges still remain as a hub of community in many rural areas. Living in the city, it is easy to forget how crucial simple infrastructure like a large hall with a stage is to cultivating community. As rural communities struggle and decline, we should be mindful of the role that organizations like the Grange play in supporting them.