Sustainability 2.0
Permaculture Activist Andrew Millison On Creating The Modern "EcoHood"
By Susan DeFreitas
EcoHood, n: permaculture retrofit of a mid- to low-income neighborhood
with a high potential for ecological sustainability.
What's wrong with the 1960s vision of moving toward a more sustainable
lifestyle by growing your own food and raising kids with a few (or a few
hundred) of your closest friends? Only one thing, says Andrew Millison:
"The idea that you have to leave society to do it." A Prescott College
instructor, landscape contractor, homeowner and self-described
permaculture activist, Millison is helping to spearhead a community
sustainability initiative in the Lincoln-Dameron Street district of
Prescott, AZ (pop. 45,000) that's become increasingly known as "the
EcoHood."
Andrew Millison with a rainwater cistern and his rooster, Soft Crow.
Permaculture (a combination of the words "permanent" and "agriculture")
was first developed in Australia in the 1970s as a design system for
local self-reliance based on patterns found in nature. Combining
principles of homescale agriculture, environmental stewardship and
community design, permaculture has captured the imaginations and
energies of a new generation of environmentalists worldwide in the years
since its inception. With an undergraduate degree in Ecological Design
and Sustainability and a Master's in Horticultural Preservation,
Millison has taught permaculture at Prescott College for the Liberal
Arts and the Environment since 2001.
What is Prescott's "EcoHood"? It's a mid- to low-income neighborhood
situated around the floodplain of nearby Miller Creek that encompasses
roughly two blocks, two apartment buildings and thirty houses, the
majority of which were built in the 1930s. Fifty percent Hispanic/Native
American, it's also home to a significant number of retirees and college
students. The district now has six systems that reuse household
graywater for irrigation in the landscape, two rainwater cisterns, five
organic gardens, 25 heirloom fruit trees, and (at last count) 57 chickens.
"I'd always thought of this area as a prime location for an
eco-village," says Millison, a Dameron St. resident on and off for the
past eight years. "But I still had this idea of a community out on the
land somewhere." Managing the organic farm at Paolo Soleri's Arcosanti
Urban Laboratory for two years had shown Millison the challenges
inherent in a traditional "back to the land" scenario. But it wasn't
until he purchased a home 20 miles outside of Prescott that the concept
for the EcoHood began to emerge.
The mid-income "EcoHood" in Arizona.
"Here I was," says Millison, "burning up a quarter to half tank of gas
every day, while reading David Holmgren's book about peak oil
[Permaculture: Principles and Pathways Beyond Sustainability, which
suggests that permaculture is the best way to confront the challenges
resulting from peak oil]... That's when it hit me--the age of cheap oil
was coming to a close." At the same time, three ecologically minded
friends moved to the Lincoln-Dameron district with the intention of
becoming more community and sustainability oriented. "I could see that
the vision I'd had was starting to manifest," says Millison. "When there
was an opportunity to move back to the neighborhood, I jumped at the
chance."
Since that time, the EcoHood has grown to encompass seven area
households. While Millison has contributed key expertise in areas such
as graywater irrigation, rainwater catchment and permaculture design,
the process has unfolded organically, with neighbors swapping skills,
information, tools, and, at times, even child-care, chickens and compost.
Response from neighbors not directly involved with the project has been,
for the most part, either neutral or positive. Millison relates that his
next-door neighbor has commented on how friendly everyone is, and how
"great it is" that people in the area like to garden and "be outdoors."
On the other hand, an elderly woman who's lived on Dameron for the past
35 years has been known to place calls to city officials regarding the
legality of her neighbors' roosters and piles of woodchips, which some
consider unsightly.
Pollution is the biggest hurdle.
However, Prescott's EcoHood seems to be gaining ground. Last year, the
local ECOSA Institute (a training program for sustainable architecture
and design) purchased a plot of land in the area slated for development
as green student housing. In the summer of 2006, ECOSA's permaculture
design certification course will focus on plans for public space in the
neighborhood as a whole. And a recent presentation on the EcoHood at a
local satellite of the Bioneers Conference succeeded in attracting the
attention of two investors instrumental in a number of Phoenix-based
permaculture developments. Plans are now in the works for a permaculture
apartment/condo complex centering on community gardens and supported by
graywater, rainwater and solar-energy systems.
Even though the EcoHood area is part of a region experiencing a booming
real estate market, complete with tony new developments, Millison
maintains that--from an ecological point of view--Lincoln-Dameron truly
is the wealthiest neighborhood in town.
"These ritzy new houses up on the hills," says Millison, "are situated
high off the water table on solid rock. They're exposed to wind and
wildfire, isolated from town, and they're huge, which means they're
costly to heat and cool." The EcoHood, on the other hand, has water at
12 to 20 feet (with old wells situated throughout the neighborhood),
sits on an average eight feet of topsoil and is sheltered from wind by
the surrounding topography as well as large, established cottonwood
trees. The more modest size of the older homes also makes them cheaper
to do green retrofitting.
"The native people of this area lived around the floodplains of the
creeks," says Millison. "When the settlers arrived, they did too. In a
lot of Western towns like Prescott, it's a similar scenario; the area
was settled around some type of fertile pocket. This means that some of
the oldest and most affordable neighborhoods also have the greatest
potential for sustainability."
The biggest hurdle faced by these eco-minded neighbors? "Pollution,"
says Millison. "We're downstream from the K-Mart parking lot, and
wherever you dig around here, you find garbage. Bioremediation is a key
challenge."
The neighborhood is sheltered by older cottonwood trees.
Still, Millison maintains that the advantages of the EcoHood model of
community sustainability are far-reaching and fundamental. "By working
in a mid- to low-income neighborhood, you make it accessible. By working
within the existing human footprint, you preserve wilderness, cut down
on fuel consumption, and give yourself access to the waste stream of the
city for recycled materials." Additionally, the EcoHood model doesn't
require a large initial investment or a shift from mainstream models of
family and homeownership. "Really, the concept is about bringing
traditionally rural values like self-reliance, respect for the land and
community into the city," says Millison.
His advice for others seeking greater sustainability? "We need to take
matters into our own hands," says Millison. "It's time to start where we
are."
More information on Prescott's EcoHood and other Arizona-based
permaculture projects is online at www.azpermaculture.org. Information
on the ECOSA Institute's summer Permaculture Certification Course:
"Permaculture and Water for Drylands" is available at
www.ecosainstitute.org.
Resources
Permaculture: Principles and Pathways Beyond Sustainability by David
Holmgren (2002)
Superbia: 31 Ways to Create Sustainable Neighborhoods by Dan Chiras,
Dave Wann (2004)
Susan DeFreitas is a writer, poet and freelance journalist with a
passion for sustainability and community. She has made her home in the
high desert of Prescott, AZ since 1996.
Peak Oil and the South Central Farm
by Eric Einem Wednesday, Jan. 18, 2006 at 11:44 AM
eric@einem.us <mailto:eric@einem.us>
Jan Lundberg and Tezozomoc join in Defense of the South Central Los
Angeles Community Farm
Peak Oil and the Sou...
scf.jpg, image/jpeg, 487x200
On Sunday, January 29th, Jan Lundberg and Tezozomoc will speak at an
event called "Petrocollapse and Food Security" at the South Central
Community Farm. It may sound like an unlikely combination, Jan Lundberg,
an oil analyst and presenter at peak oil conferences, and Tezozomoc, an
organizer with South Central Farmers Feeding Families, but they actually
have much in common.
Jan Lundberg started his career working for oil companies as on oil
analyst -- but had many years ago gave that up to fight for
environmental issues. He's been known as "Depaver" Jan, fighting against
the building of roads and depvaing parking lots and driveways, and had
also was a publisher and editor of "Auto Free Times". He currently
publishes www.culturechange.org <http://www.culturechange.org> which
calls on us to address our addiction to plastics and fossil fuel and
address the coming petrocollapse.
Click for more pictures
<http://www.southcentralfarmers.com/index.php?option=com_gallery&Itemid=29&include=albums.php>Tezozomoc
has been organizing to defend the 14-acre farm, which is tended by 350
low-income families and is under threat of eviction. The farm has been
sold by the city to a warehouse developer and the developer has not
taken control of the property yet only because of community support, and
the determination of local activists.
From the standpoint of local food supply, Jan points out that "The
South Central Community Farm will be a critical resource for people
caught short when the trucks don't come into Safeway and all other
stores. In Cuba a petrocollapse occurred in the early 1990s, so Havana
had to become a place where it now grows over half its food for the city
of 2.2. million."
Tezozomoc asks the city and Los Angeles community to stand up to protect
this life-sustaining farm and start the reversal of environmental
pollution and degradation of inner city neighborhoods. The fresh foods
grown by the South Central Farmers feed children and families living in
poverty in South Central Los Angeles and increases the food security of
the community.
Trouble in the Garden
The 350 families who banded together as the South Central Farmers
transformed an industrial dump into a jungle paradise. But now they're
being evicted
~ By DEAN KUIPERS ~
Photo by Steve Appleford
Let it rain: John Brown, 11, helps farmer Lucino Cardozo and his son,
Enrique, 11
Aqui estamos y no nos vamos! (We're here and we're not leaving!)
-sign hanging on the fence at South Central Farm
ear the birds? Where else in L.A. do you hear that many birds?" says
Tezozomoc - pronounced "tesomoke," or "teso" for short - an energetic,
well-spoken Latino man with an ancient-sounding name. He halts a
discussion with a class visiting from the Pacific Oaks School in
Pasadena, a "seminar in bicultural development," to point into the
thick, jungle-like foliage behind him.
"We create like this biosphere bubble here, with all of this
vegetation," he adds. "We have 500 trees. We have lizards -"
"Snakes?" asks one of the students, eyes wide open.
"Only politicians," he laughs. "But what we call our other relations
depend on this space, too."
The space is the South Central Community Farm, a 14-acre community
garden just south of downtown smack on Alameda Street, right up
alongside the industrial warehouses of the City of Vernon. The contrast
with community gardens elsewhere in the city is shocking. These aren't
tiny weekend projects with a few tomatoes and California poppies. The
330 spaces here are large, 20 X 30 feet, many of them doubled- and
tripled-up into larger plots, crammed with a tropical density of native
Mesoamerican plants - full-grown guava trees, avocados, tamarinds, and
palms draped in vines bearing huge pumpkins and chayotes, leaf
vegetables, corn, seeds like chipilin grown for spice, and rank upon
rank of cactus cut for nopales. The families who work these plots are
all chosen to receive one because they are impoverished by USDA
standards, and use them to augment their household food supply. These
are survival gardens.
The thick chains, padlocks, and security on the entry gates are evidence
that these gardens are something more, too. Since Los Angeles developer
Ralph Horowitz took control of the property in late 2003, they have
become a symbol of resistance. The farmers, who have now been working
these plots since 1992, were given eviction notices in 2004 and are
suing everyone involved - Horowitz, the city, and original permit-holder
the L.A. Regional Food Bank, whose massive building sits next door just
across 41st Street - in an effort to turn the block into a new city park
that would include continued gardening.
And if that was all it was about, this would just be another squatter
land dispute. But the reason teacher Roberto Flores and his students
from Pacific Oaks are here, and why activists and academics from Bolivia
and Venezuela and Palestine and a land-holding corporation from Colorado
and the Italy-based International Alliance of Inhabitants have descended
on the place is because it has become a model for community land-use.
Its formal decision-making structure, park planning, political outreach,
and indefatigable presence at City Hall - they've spoken at every City
Council meeting this year - have transformed the place into a democracy
workshop.
Tezozomoc, one of two elected leaders who represent the farmers to the
city, insists that the political and educational battle is now the
point. An academic himself, working toward a masters in Linguistics at
California State University, Northridge, he addresses the students in
their own language.
"In human development, we talk about a heuristic, right? A tool or
strategy that leads you toward a solution. If you have tools, then tools
lead to new theories. Look what's happening here. So, giving people this
tool - the land - leads to new solutions."
The gardens, he emphasizes, are a safety net program. First and
foremost, they feed needy people.
"But, within the democratic process here, part of the work that we do is
to develop people with the ability to be leaders in their communities.
We had some people here who have come out and become part of the
neighborhood councils, and others who advocate on behalf of people. That
is actually what is more important: It's not only about saving this
project, but to develop people with a conscience so that they can stand
up for what they believe."
A Sweet Deal
Fernando Flores, a young architect who is working on future plans for
South Central Farm, points out that this food safety net program is an
extraordinarily cheap one - the city provides nothing to the farmers and
they foot all the bills DIY for water, trash service, security, and
farming supplies. In fact, it is expensive for only one guy: Ralph
Horowitz.
Horowitz is less than impressed by all the empowerment overlay on the
political occupation of the Farm. If the farmers have all been getting a
crash political education for the last two years, he has been paying for
it. The mortgage on the property is roughly $30,000 a month, he says,
plus there's insurance, property taxes, and the legal costs he's accrued
trying to defend against the farmers' lawsuit.
"They've had the use of it going on 14 years!" Horowitz exclaims. "Even
welfare recipients are asked, after so many years, to start to fend for
yourself and stop asking your fellow taxpayers to carry you. These
particular individuals should be thanking the city of Los Angeles - and
suing the city isn't the way to thank 'em."
Still, one figures that Horowitz knows what he's doing. Maybe it's cost
him a million bucks to own the plot at Alameda and 41st for the last two
years, but he got a very sweet deal on the property. Even if he decides
in the end to sell it back to the city, he might make eight or ten
million in profit. And there are some real questions as to why the deal
happened that way.
Horowitz owned this same property once before, when the garden's saga
really began, in the late-1980s. These two city blocks - 40th Street
runs down the middle of the garden, but has been choked off on either
end by fences - were seized by eminent domain to make way for the city's
Lancer Project, a waste-to-energy incinerator that would have generated
electricity by burning trash. Horowitz's Alameda-Barbara Investment
Company was the largest of nine co-owners and received $4.7 million in
compensation after a lawsuit was settled.
But there was some fine print. Since Horowitz's company owned about 80
percent of the original property, he claimed he had right of first
refusal on the property if the city decided to sell it.
And in fact, that's exactly what happened. A group called Concerned
Citizens of South Central got up in arms about the incinerator plan, and
the city backed away from it, letting the property become an ad hoc
dump, full of discarded couches and refrigerators. In 1992, after the
Rodney King riots brought some City Hall attention to bear (albeit
briefly) on what was then called South Central L.A., the L.A. Regional
Food Bank approached the city and secured a revocable permit to use the
property as a community garden.
"When we first started out trying to get low-income residents to come to
the property, we actually had a tough time, because nobody would believe
that somebody would let you come and garden for free," says Darren
Hoffman, communications manager at the Food Bank. "But once we got a
couple people on there, word spread like wildfire."
The 14 acres were split into 330 plots, and the Food Bank tested the
soil for safety and set up the trash, toilet, and water arrangements
that still cost each family only $13 a month. Considering that most
plots were worked by a family of four or more, they were directly
affecting anywhere from 1,300-to-2,000 people. But the paperwork with
the city was explicit: It could pull the plug at any time.
"Originally, we were thinking temporary - we thought this would be like
a two-year project. But two years turns into 13-14 years, and nobody
sees it as a temporary project anymore," says Hoffman.
In 1994, the city's Department of Public Works, which was going to build
the incinerator, sold the property to the Harbor Department for over $13
million. That sale was later ruled illegal and reversed.
In 1995, the city began negotiations with Horowitz, who wanted to buy
the land back, this time as the Libaw-Horowitz Investment Company. An
agreement finally went before the City Council, which refused to adopt
the sale. In 2002, Horowitz sued for failure to execute the sale
agreement, his second suit with the city over this property.
In August 2003, the City Council finally approved the terms of a sale in
a closed session, awarding it to Horowitz for $5.05 million. In essence,
selling it back to him for as much as it was worth during the eminent
domain process in the late-'80s. Eviction notices were sent out the next
month to the farmers working the land.
Since the 1980s, however, big changes would have greatly increased the
value of that land. City, state, and federal governments had spent $2
billion building the Alameda Corridor, a modern rail and big-truck
super-pipeline from the Port of Los Angeles straight through the
warehouses of South L.A. and Vernon. This was now hot property.
"All the goods that are for Wal-Mart are going out to the Southwest from
here, from Long Beach and from the L.A. Port," notes Tezozomoc, pointing
at Alameda Street. "About 70 percent of the product that comes into the
Long Beach ยดยด port is destined for Wal-Mart."
The land, the farmers argue, was clearly worth a lot more than $5
million. Nine years earlier, the city had paid $13 million just to
transfer the land from one department to another, so even using that as
lowball number, Horowitz had received an eight-million-dollar break.
And then there was this matter of the right of first refusal. Judge
Lawrence W. Crispo ruled several times against Horowitz, saying that a
landlord could not negotiate a right of refusal on a condemned property
- which is what an eminent domain seizure is, a court condemnation. But
the City Attorney's office, which offered e-mailed responses from
attorneys via spokesman Frank Mateljan to questions submitted about this
situation, said the "Libaw-Horowitz' right of refusal was negotiated and
became part of the stipulated judgment in condemnation." City Attorney
Rocky Delgadillo urged the City Council to concede and sell the property
to Horowitz.
"That just doesn't hold, though," says Tezozomoc. "Go back to the
original case of Chavez Ravine, right?"
Chavez Ravine was an impoverished Mexican neighborhood of hundreds of
households overlooking downtown L.A. that was condemned to make way for
low-income housing to be built by Richard Neutra. "If that was the case,
if the city changed its mind about building low-income housing there,
then they would have had to give the land back to each one of those
families, the original owners - which they didn't," adds Tezozomoc. "Who
did they give it to? The Dodgers."
Still, the farm deal was sealed in early 2004, and Libaw-Horowitz sent
out notices that the gardens would be closed as of February 29, 2004.
The Food Bank agreed to begin tearing out the plants and interior fences.
"We were supposed to return the property in the way we received it,"
said Hoffman. "So all of the interior fencing would have to go ... and,
basically, all of the foliage."
"The Food Bank became our enemy," says Tezozomoc. "We have gained a lot
of enemies."
Before these notices had even hit the fences, the farmers formed a
political committee, South Central Farmers Feeding Families. Elected
representatives met with Horowitz.
"Well, I own it, so I've been by numerous times just to see what goes
on," Horowitz says. "They called me, and acknowledged that I'd just
bought the property, and they asked me if they could stay on it another
60 days rent-free. And I said yes."
That gave the farmers just enough time to file a lawsuit against
Horowitz et al., and get an injunction, allowing them to stay on the
property until the suit was resolved. And to buy chains and padlocks.
~ Direct Democracy ~
Alberto and Maribel Tlatoa grew up on their plot at South Central Farm.
The Tlatoa family has been growing food there for eight years, and now
Alberto, 19, has become one of the elected captains of the occupation.
He and his sister Maribel, 21, are sleeping on the property at least one
night a week, standing guard, while still going to college - a perfect
example of the new level of sophistication enlivening the farm
community. Most of the farmers are impoverished immigrants, many still
speaking the indigenous languages of the Guatemalan highlands or growing
treasured 5,000-year-old heirloom corn seeds brought from Puebla, the
heartland of Mexican culture. Many of them can't afford to be involved,
politically. But the kids learn to speak English, and learn to make
themselves heard. Alberto goes to East Los Angeles College and has been
to City Council meetings every week for a year solid.
"They know who I am," he says softly. Every week he has his name on the
list to speak. He's glad that new City Council President Eric Garcetti
has moved the public comment to the start of the weekly meeting, because
now he only spends a half-day there instead of getting out late. (City
Councilmember Jan Perry, whose district includes the farm, declined to
comment for this story, citing the ongoing lawsuit.)
Tezozomoc is proud of Alberto, saying, "He wants to be mayor of L.A. one
day."
Alberto and Maribel turn up to give a tour to the Pacific Oaks class and
answer their questions. It's a day of hard winter sun, and a light
breeze flaps a row of 20 flimsy-looking tents that stretch along 40th
Street. Alberto is on duty every Monday night, standing around a burn
barrel for warmth. "I play the radio real loud at night," he smiles.
Their duties are now pretty well defined. There's a General Assembly
meeting every week, where all 350 or so families can vote on farm
matters like marches or buying a generator. The captains hear concerns
and are in charge of security and logistics. Tezozomoc and Rufina Juarez
are the elected representatives interacting with lawyers and city
officials. And then there is a massive outreach campaign in which
everyone does his or her part, bringing in supporters, money, and
outside organizing expertise.
"We used to just like work on a little parcel, do our little gardening
thing, then just go home," says Maribel. "We would interact, but mainly
just like neighbors. But now, since the whole movement, sometimes we
vote and we gather and tell stories."
She means the farm community, of course, but also the Latino and
indigenous Mesoamerican community. "Especially being in South Central,
with all the gang violence and everything - we don't go out much in the
community due to that. But now the whole movement has brought the
community together."
Alberto says that Mesoamerican community was one of the reasons why
their parents remained committed to the place. The farming was necessary
for their family of six to survive, but it quickly took on another
function. "Our parents always wanted us to learn these farms were not
just about putting something in our mouths, but to learn to grow our
culture," he adds.
Strangely, other demographics are barely represented. There are few
blacks, fewer anglos or Asians. Perhaps that represents some kind of
accurate picture of who would garden for food these days, but the
gardens show a shocking cultural homogeneity.
"This 200 or 300 people wanted to get this property for themselves,"
explains Horowitz. "That's the purpose of their lawsuit.
"It's not like a park, where you and your wife and your child can go
into a park and use any of its facilities, at any time. These farmers
are gardening these plots exclusively. As long as they're standing on
there, you can't use the property. This is not a public function."
In fact, the park is not even open now, except on Sundays for a farmer's
market. The farmers, it seems, are acutely aware of this perception, and
if they can save the gardens as a city park, they are prepared to make
big changes. Fernando Flores has already mapped them out.
Flores, 25, was not, like Tezo and the others, someone who grew up on
South Central Farm. Last year, he was living in Ontario and going to
California State Polytechnic University, Pomona for architecture when
one of his mentors there brought him over to see the farm. He saw the
potential to give his work a political perspective, and made it his
architecture thesis project to redesign the place as a public park.
"You want to check it out? It's in the back of my truck," he says,
opening the back of a big black SUV.
His model represents about a quarter of the actual land now occupied by
the farm, and represents a clear answer to those who say it's not a
public place. A central plaza, surrounded by farm plots, would feature a
square of low buildings with a stage area.
"We just finished this this past summer: A hybrid park," he says. "This
is a community center. We have offices, in case we want to have doctors.
We have health fairs, here. If you want to have social services, as well."
"One of the things that is lacking in South Central is, people don't
have access to like a community center where they can have theater or
they can have a public event like a concert, right?" says Tezozomoc. The
farm already has a stage set up, where bands like Ozomatli and former
Rage Against the Machine singer Zach de la Rocha have played, and has a
$5 punk show going on the 27th called Disfest. "So it's a way to help
our talent, and our youth, and our community. And that's really what the
basis of this project has been."
Flores is now co-chair of the Support Committee, networking with
community activists outside the farm. "This is the stuff that you read
about and watch films about in school," says Flores, walking through the
plots, chatting with people working here and there. "I never imagined
this would become my focus. But this is a movement that's growing out of
a seed right now."
~ Far from over ~
Late on a Sunday afternoon, the farmer's market is just closing up. They
don't sell produce on South Central Farm - although individual farmers
might sell you a pumpkin or slice off some cactus for you, if you ask -
but Sunday vendors do make hot food to whip up a little cash. There are
quesadillas calabasitas (squash), tacos, fried plantains with sweetened
cream and shaved cheese, and super-sweet tamarindo and hibiscus drinks.
Only a few dozen people mill about, but there's still time to have a
huarache - "like the shoe," a vendor explains - a folded pastry filled
with squash and smothered in sticky nopales, white cheese, beans, and
hot chili sauce. A lot of this prepared food comes from outside the
gardens, including the chicken or pork; they don't raise any livestock
there.
The place is tranquil, smelling gorgeously of cilantro and hoja santo, a
leaf used to wrap tamales which gives off a perfume like licorice when
you rub it. If it weren't for the frequent passage of Metro trains
bombing past on their way to Long Beach, you could almost forget these
gardens were in the middle of a heavy industrial district.
On June 30, 2005, a state appeals court overturned the Superior Court
injunction on the property, giving Horowitz the right to remove the
farmers. That was immediately appealed to the California Supreme Court,
which refused to hear the case in October. Some elements of the farmers'
case, however, are still alive in the courts. Part of their suit claimed
the city violated municipal code by selling the land cheap to Horowitz
and partners Jacob Libaw and Timothy Ison. And Judge Helen Bendix had
refused to allow the farmers to depose Libaw and Ison - but was recently
reversed by a higher court. So, that part of the case moves forward.
"We are going to write another Temporary Restraining Order, because now,
we're saying you cannot destroy this because we need access to these
other people, and then we have a good chance to win this," said
Tezozomoc. It's not clear what information the other partners would have
that might swing the case in favor of the farmers. But on the day
Tezozomoc was meeting with the class from Pacific Oaks, he said he was
"spending the night with the lawyers" to get that next TRO ready to file.
If it's not already too late. On January 13, Tezozomoc and the captains
among the South Central Farmers were gearing up for what they thought
might be an imminent raid by L.A. County Sheriff deputies. According to
the e-mailed responses from the City Attorney's Office, Horowitz's
company has sued the L.A. Regional Food Bank for unlawful detainer,
since they were the group administering the gardens, and once that's
settled, the eviction might begin. "A judgment is anticipated this week
in the unlawful detainer case," said the Monday e-mail from city
attorneys. "That case is between Libaw-Horowitz and the L.A. Regional
Food Bank, which administers the garden. The Food Bank is not resisting.
A judgment for possession can be enforced using the County Sheriff."
So the Food Bank, which Tezozomoc considers the farmers' "enemy," is all
that is standing between them and eviction. The Food Bank's Darren
Hoffman says they're not sure that, if the city were to take possession
of the land again, their permit would still be in place or not. He says
they have to wait for the "quagmire" in the courts to be settled.
"From my window here, I can see this beautiful urban garden," says
Hoffman. "We'd be sad to see it go. It would definitely be a loss to the
community."
Horowitz, for his part, says he would consider a buyout offer from the
city.
"I wouldn't agree with their rationale for doing it, but if they wanted
to pay fair market value for the property to solve what they foresee is
a problem, I wouldn't stand in the way," he says.
Meanwhile, the South Central Farmers are appealing to Mayor Antonio
Villaraigosa, who has visited the site with his family, and to members
of City Council, while they gear up for civil disobedience when and if
the eviction comes.
"I've been so busy organizing I haven't had time to eat my own produce,"
says Tezozomoc, snatching sweet guavas off a tree planted by his dad. "I
just want this place saved so I can get back to farming, get back to
school, pay some bills. But this fight's a long way from over."