King Corn

According to the Department of Agriculture, Iowa produced 19% of the nation’s corn in 2007, and 17% of its soybeans. 18.9 million hogs were raised in Iowa, a state where 89% of the land is used for farmland. I kept to the secondary highways through Iowa, leaving Rte 20 when it turned to interstate, working my way south on Rte 4 to Rte 30, the Lincoln Highway. I drove through allées of corn, patented corn. About ¾ of the fields bore markers with the logo of the company that engineered the seed and sometimes a slogan, Pioneer: technology that yields. A combine surged across a billboard with the message “your combine will sue you for overtime.”

Now and then, tucked back from the road, I encountered long, low barns equipped with ventilation fans and miniature grain elevators. The white sides held no windows. It was the smell that revealed what was inside – these were poultry farms.

Don’t get me wrong, I lived on a farm for seven years, and I’ve raised chickens in my classroom for the past several years. I’m familiar with the ammonia-rich smell of chicken shit. But there was more to the cocktail that emanated from these barns. For one thing it was magnified, the number of chickens in those barns far exceeds the capacity of a normal coop. And there was an insidious layer as well, something chemical that I couldn’t place, something that turned the smell beyond that of a familiar barnyard.

In the past few years I have both read Omnivore’s Dilemma and seen Food Inc. While I’m willing to believe these don’t contain the whole story, the unease I felt in driving across Iowa deepened. I felt the same impulse I do toward soldiers: how can I support these farmers, who are out to make a living, who feed thousands if not millions of people, without condoning their farming practices?

My unease had begun in on the eastern edge of Nebraska. I left Rte 20 and worked my way up to Ponca State Park. A break in the rolling hills of corn revealed a city of cows standing shin deep in churned black earth. They were spread through maybe a hundred small pens, each holding maybe a dozen cattle, or at least this was my impression as I swung my gaze between cows and the road. And, as with the poultry, the bouquet spreading from that farm held many smells besides manure. Driving across Wyoming where range fencing kept cows off the road, I had wanted to stop for steak. In eastern Nebraska and Iowa, I began to contemplate becoming what a friend of mine calls a “restaurant vegetarian,” eating meat only when I know, and am comfortable with, its story.

And all that beef and poultry? It’s fed on corn. As underwriters of Marketplace’s sustainability desk on public radio, Monsanto claims they are “committed to sustainable agriculture: creating hybrid and biotech seeds designed to increase crop yields and conserve natural resources.” Like water. Monsanto is engineering seeds that require less irrigation. Which should be a good thing. But the genetically modified (GM) seeds are illegal in most of Europe, and several African governments including Zambia and Zimbabwe refused UN food aid because it came from donor countries like the US that produces large quantities of GM food. I’m inclined to agree. I find Monsanto’s pledge to sustainability frightening and ironic. Farmers are unable to save the patented seeds and so rely on purchasing them each year along with required fertilizers and pesticides. Is that sustainable?

That night, in Chicago farmer’s market kale and potatoes provided the antidote I needed. Sharing a meal of locally grown produce with dear friends eased my mind and lightened my heart, at least until Marketplace came on.