Fuck Farming

Why I'm considering quitting after 10 years of sustainable farming.

Fuck farming. There… I said it.

Now before you get all defensive, and gesture angrily to your No Farms No Food bumper sticker, I should point out that I’m allowed to say mean things about farming, because…

I’m a farmer.

It took me a long time to feel comfortable calling myself one, but after ten years of chasing down escaped livestock, wrestling with tractors, and freezing my fingers off in meat coolers, I feel like I’ve earned the right. There is no other group of people who I have greater respect for, enjoy the company of more, or am prouder to associate myself with than farmers. Unfortunately, my hard-won accomplishment of farmerhood isn’t worth the price of an organic heirloom carrot (I mean, have you seen what everything costs at the farmer’s market? Farmers are basically printing money).

(We are not.)

For the record, I don’t claim to speak for all farmerkind. I’ve started this Substack to vent my frustration about farming, and explain why after 10 years of literal sweat, tears, and blood (by order of volume), I am seriously considering quitting, because…

Fuck farming.

Old joke: A farmer wins a million dollars in the lottery. A reporter asks her what she’s going to do with all that money. Her answer: “I guess I’ll just keep farming a little longer until it runs out.”

It’s funny because it’s true, and especially so in the case of small-scale sustainable farms… and I don’t think it’s discussed enough. Most people are quick to agree that farming is “hard,” but they’re usually referring to the long hours, backbreaking labor, and ridiculous scope of skills necessary to master as a farmer, which… yeah, totally.

What’s not mentioned often enough are the economics of sustainable farming, and how difficult it is to make a living at it. For perspective, I have worked for myself for most of my adult life, because like most farmers I’ve met, I don’t like being told what to do. Before farming, I had a successful freelance career in video production for almost 20 years. There were ups and downs, but in general I made very good money. I know what it is to work hard and make a fair wage. I also know what it’s like to barely do much of anything and be paid a small fortune. And now, after 10 years of farming, I know what it is to work past the point of physical and mental exhaustion, and earn little to nothing, if not owe the bank for the privilege.

I never expected to get rich farming, but I was led to believe that if I just made smart choices and worked hard that it was a reasonable way to make a living. I’m here to report back that it isn’t.

Fuck farming.

Since you rock the aforementioned bumper sticker on your Subaru or Rav 4, I’ll assume that you already know why conventional agriculture is problematic, but if not… hoo boy, could I talk your ear off about how terrible it is. In short: it’s bad for the environment, exploitative of farm workers, unnecessarily cruel to livestock, detrimental to the general public health, and relies upon a fragile global economy that can break down at the drop of a new Covid strain.

In response to our broken food system, sustainable farming becomes a moral imperative for many a sensitive soul who interrogates it even a little bit, and every year comes a fresh crop of bright-eyed folk ready to save the world with rotational grazing, compost, and heirloom tomatoes. There’s a whole industry of books, workshops, and non-profits in place to spread the gospel of small sustainable farming, with some wonderful educational resources. Padawans are welcomed with open arms into a community of like-minded idealists who believe that if we all work together we can someday live in harmony with the planet and one another. It’s easy to believe that change is possible when surrounded and encouraged by so many peers working for the greater good. Kumbaya hallelujah namaste.

Except without a well-paying off-farm job, savings to burn through, or a trust fund, they will be hard pressed to make enough from farming to live above the poverty line. In fact, it’s worth asking what drove people like Joel Salatin and Jean-Martin Fortier to write books, charge speaking fees, and form brand partnerships in the first place. I can guarantee you that it wasn’t because they were rolling around in so much money that they felt the need to share the wealth.

If you’re not familiar with them, both of these men make farming seem easy (as long as you buy their books). They lead eager readers to believe that x+y+z equals profit and a clean conscience. I’m not saying they’re the root of the problem, or that what they prescribe is impossible, but it’s much harder and less likely to achieve than most people realize. Far from the only ones guilty of this deception, they’re emblematic of the whole culture.

In a series of eight So You Want To Be An Organic Farmer 101 classes, the second or third from the last session might be devoted to the business of farming. In this class they will teach something that no other business class in the world would dream of saying. “Don’t set your prices based on the market.”

It doesn’t take an economist to understand that a business must charge enough for their product to cover expenses and then some, but that’s not remotely possible if expected to compete with what’s already on grocery store shelves… even in the organic aisle. After taking into account inputs, prices need to be set at 3-5x what conventional farming has on offer to achieve even a slim margin of profit. It’s a terrible reality, which as far as I know is unique to sustainable farming. It relies on an educated and at least somewhat altruistic consumer with money to burn, who is willing to pay more for the “right” choice. These customers do exist (and we desperately appreciate them), and it can seem like the path to farm nirvana is clear.

But the spreadsheets that eager new farmers walk away with as proof that they can quit their job and live out their dream of being a back-to-the-roots roll-up-your-sleeves real deal farmer, don’t begin to represent reality. The most obvious thing missing are the start-up costs. Land access. Equipment. Infrastructure. All of which are super expensive, especially when starting from scratch in an area where tourism and weekend homes are valued greater than farming. You have to sell an awful lot of micro-greens to justify the purchase of a million-dollar property. These budgets also don’t tend to factor in modern amenities like health insurance, childcare, vacation time, sick days, or investment for retirement. Going without these essentials is often considered part of the farm hustle, and a badge many wear proudly, but these are sacrifices no one should have to make. All that aside, many farms, including my own, figure out a way to make it work, because farmers tend to be savvy, inventive, and resilient.

But what happens when the $60,000 tractor breaks down at a crucial point in the season? When a storm tears the roof off of the barn, deer eat all the crops, or coyotes decimate the flock? When the farmer gets Lyme disease, or breaks a leg in a tractor rollover? Drought? Flood? Blight?

These things sound like once in a blue moon emergencies, but I can say from experience that they are more a matter of fact. There are so many things that can go wrong on a farm, that one, or two, or ten unexpected emergencies a year should safely be expected. The expense of these disasters can be immense, and are impossible to predict. The only way a business can survive such unforeseen costs is by padding margins that small sustainable farmers have already padded well past what is reasonable to even the most generous and well-intended consumer.

The potential for disaster on a farm is endless, and the longer I am a farmer, the more I understand why certain practices became commonplace among large scale commercial farms. When faced with having to actually turn a profit, it becomes easy to see why industrial farms have cut corners that sacrifice the environment, animal welfare, and the ability to pay workers a fair or even legal wage, but avoiding these things is exactly why most of us got into this maddening line of work.

All of which to say: sustainable farming isn’t possible without significant external inputs, namely… money, which means it’s not actually sustainable.

I struggle to write this article in a way that doesn’t sound like whining. If it’s not clear, I have experienced many of the above hypotheticals first hand, including winning the farm lottery, but that’s a story I’ll share in another post. I take responsibility for my failings as a farmer. I’m sure there are examples of genuinely successful small sustainable farms out there, but the closer I look at what is actually going on, the harder they are to find. It’s easy to assume that things are going well for the farmer who is all smiles at the farmer’s market, but that’s often at least half good marketing, because we really need to sell all this kale.

Case in point, and one of the last straws piled upon this particular camel’s back:

For a while now, when complaining to my non-farmer friends about how hard it is to make a living as a farmer, I have pointed out that there are very few if any successful farms out there who don’t rely on significant outside incomes or trust funds. There are a couple outliers, who seem by all outward appearances to be thriving. One such farm raises pigs as I do. The farmer very clearly hustles her butt off, not just in the production of quality ethically produced pork, but in its sales and marketing. As is often touted as a secret to success, she has developed value-added products that command higher prices, and worked hard to gather an educated community of loyal customers willing to pay them. I have long admired her farm, and I couldn’t help but be jealous of success that felt out of reach, for what surely was my fault.

But then…

Recently she posted a six figure GoFundMe, because the farm is at risk of going out of business. There isn’t any one particular disaster responsible, but rather the ongoing day-to-day disaster known as farming. In order to survive, she is asking her community for a tremendous amount of money. I genuinely hope she gets it, because though she’s technically a competitor, I am rooting for her alongside every other sustainable farm attempting to make a go at it. Much like the reality of not setting prices according to the market, most farmers I know don’t feel like they’re in competition with each other. Instead we collectively struggle against the vulgarities of conventional farming which are driven by market forces… i.e. capitalism, but are somehow expected to win through… more capitalism?

In contemporary America that unfortunately means we are in a fight against reality, making each and every small sustainable farmer Don Quixote tilting against windmills, and expecting profit. My wife would point out that the problem lies with capitalism itself, and I don’t disagree, but that feels like an even bigger quixotic mess to untangle, and one that I am even less qualified to tackle. Barring violent upheaval, radical revolt, and the enrichment of our soil with the blood of billionaires, we are left without much hope for real change as sustainable farmers.

There are some bright spots in terms of government funding, but not nearly enough, and it varies dramatically state by state. In Massachusetts for instance, I know farms who’ve received huge infrastructure grants, but in New York we’ve only had access to dribs and drabs of support, and the number of hoops I’ve jumped through, only to be told “maybe next year,” has me feeling like a trained seal repeatedly denied my sardine. As you may imagine, things have only worsened under the current administration.

I know what you’re saying to yourself right now: “but, but, but… I have the bumper sticker, and when the weather’s nice, and we’re having company over, I shop at my local farmer’s market!” Unfortunately, as hard as this might be to hear, it’s not enough.

Through some truly miraculous circumstances, our farm is situated in a beautiful bucolic rural area, perfectly suited to farming. Yet year by year, the multi-generational working farms have died slow painful deaths. Where once were working class farmers, the population is split between wealthy weekenders/retirees, and a “local” economy supported by mowing their lawns, building their mansions, and serving up farm to table tapas or whatever. People move here with the expectation of some sort of “authentic” rural experience. They yearn to bump along on dirt roads, while they look out at fields of sunflowers and happy cows.

There’s a story my neighbors tell themselves about the place they live being a farm community, but their presence leaves very little room for working farmers. I don’t see enough of these same people at the farmer’s market… not that it would be enough to keep small farms in business. I don’t hear them speaking up about the plight of farmers, with the same ferocity that they rally against developing the land, because it seems like they care primarily about the view out their window, instead of any genuine support for local agriculture.

Don’t get me started on the pitfalls of modern feudal lords buying up all the old farms, and allowing us serfs to work their pretty fields for tax breaks and bragging rights. I have literally heard wealthy weekenders refer to “their farmers,” like they were rescue puppies. I will leave the details for another post, but I have experience with this too, and spoiler alert… it sucks.

I believe that the world needs sustainable farming. Nobody would put up with this shit if they didn’t. Farming has become my identity in a way that is hard to justify, but even harder to shake off. Sustainable farmers are idealists and dreamers, but there’s an unspoken expectation of farmer martyrdom, which isn’t realistic or fair. Much like it took me several years to feel that I earned the right to call myself a farmer, I’m having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that I should quit.

When asked why I became a farmer, I will often jokingly say that my wife tricked me into it. When I met her, she was already enrolled in that farmer 101 class mentioned earlier. Her passion and commitment were infectious, and I fell in love with both her and farming at the same time. To be fair, she never asked me to become a farmer, and I was the one who had to trick her into marrying me. Much like my love for her, my love of farming is evergreen and forever… but one of them treats me better than the other.

(To be clear, Martha is delightful, it’s that jerk farming who’s abusive.)

I believe without any doubt that our food system is a disaster, and if we don’t shift to more small-scale localized food production, that takes into consideration animal welfare, and the health of both the environment and the individual, we are doomed to suffer irrevocable consequences… but there is a price that must be paid to accomplish this. Up until now, farmers have carried far too much of this burden upon their backs, but it’s been obscured by some romanticized notion of the plucky resourceful farmer, and us plucky resourceful farmers are guilty of contributing to that lie. I’m not sure why we do it, but I think many of us are ashamed to admit that the books just don’t balance. I think it’s because we want it so badly that we can’t accept that it’s not reasonable, or even possible at all.

For the time being at least you can find me slinging breakfast sandwiches at the farmer’s market every Saturday morning. Subscribe to read more stories about my time as a farmer, and maybe I can score a lucrative book deal and sell out.

I’m a farmer, but…

Fuck farming.