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Beloved community, April arrives the way it always does in Michigan; tentatively at first, then all at once. One morning, the ground is still stubborn and cold, and the next, something is pushing through. We call it Earth Month, but Mother Earth does not need a month. Mother Earth is always working. What Earth Month does, at its best, is return us to attention; to the slow, faithful labor happening beneath our feet, whether we notice or not. This month, I want to talk about that labor. Not just the labor of growing food, but the labor of staying whole while doing this work. The labor of belonging to one another. The labor of grief. Food sovereignty has never been only about food. It has always been about the conditions under which people live; who controls the land, who decides what is grown and for whom, whose hands are trusted to tend it, and whose labor is rendered invisible in the process. When we plant together, across our differences, we practice a different way of being in relationship with the earth and with each other. We are rehearsing the world we are trying to build. This is food sovereignty at its fullest: not a policy framework alone, but a practice of restoration. Of the land, yes. But also of people. Of community. Of self. Earth Month, then, is not just a celebration of the natural world. It is an invitation to remember that we are part of it; that the health of our soil and the health of our souls are not separate questions. This spring, I am carrying something heavier than usual. And I suspect many of you are too. Our community lost Melvin Parson. And that loss has settled into me like the coming of spring here in Michigan: quietly, then suddenly, everywhere. Melvin was a farmer, a visionary, and a neighbor. Through We The People Opportunity Farm, he built real pathways of belonging and dignity. He understood that food sovereignty is not only about growing food; it is about restoring people to possibility. Melvin planted seeds that will outlive all of us. In the soil and in the lives he helped rebuild. Rest in power, Melvin. We will keep tending what you planted. But grief does not arrive alone. And I think we need to name that. Something has been accumulating in many of us. The anxiety of not knowing whether your rent will hold, whether the program keeping your mother's medication affordable will survive the next budget cycle, whether the news tomorrow brings another cut, another threat, another loss. The weight of watching war unfold on a screen while packing your child's lunch. The low hum of uncertainty has grown so constant that many of us have stopped recognizing it as something being done to us. Mental health in our communities is rarely one dramatic moment. It is the slow erosion of the conditions that makes life feel possible. And right now, those conditions are under pressure from every direction. We are not imagining it. It is real. And it deserves to be named. I do not want to move past this moment too quickly, because I think it is asking something of us. Those of us who work in food systems, in community organizing, in the daily labor of trying to repair what has been broken, we carry a particular weight. The need is constant. The resources are not. The work is relational, which means every loss is personal. Every family facing hunger has a name. Every policy that fails our community lands in someone's body. We are not separate from the communities we serve. We are one of them. And that means the strains of this moment: economic precarity, political hostility, grief, isolation, and the relentless demand to do more with less all live within us. I have been thinking about what it means to tend ourselves the way Mother Earth tends herself. To acknowledge that fallow seasons are not failures. That rest is not retreat. That asking for help is not a weakness, but the most honest form of community care. Mother Earth is not asking us to be strong; she’s asking us to be present. This April, I am inviting Growing Hope's community into that same practice. Tend your plot, yes, but also tend your people. Check on your neighbors. Come to the farm not just to grow food, but to be held by the community. Let the soil remind you that transformation is slow, and real, and worth it. We are in this together. And together is the only way through. In solidarity, Julius P.S. If this month is weighing on you, you don't have to carry it alone. The NAMI HelpLine offers free, confidential one-on-one support, mental health information, and resources — available Monday through Friday, 10am–10pm ET. Call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or text NAMI to 62640. And if you need a reason to get outside and be with people, join us on April 11, 10am–1pm for our Spring Seedling Distribution.

Beloved community, Last season, organizers of all sizes hosted 168 events at the Ypsilanti Farmers MarketPlace, from mutual aid distributions and cultural gatherings to health outreach and food policy conversations. These moments reflect how we steward shared resources to maximize good and meet multiple community needs at once. At the heart of it all is the Ypsilanti Farmers Market itself. If you’ve spent any time at the market, you know that it’s never just been a place to shop. It’s a place to linger. To listen. To organize. To feed one another, body and spirit. Together, we are building a food ecosystem where everyone has access to fresh produce and where advocacy, mutual aid, and belonging intersect. That was especially clear this year when our community faced a sudden gap in food access. When early federal funding shifts threatened nutrition dollars, our community didn’t wait. Together, we rapidly designed and launched the Ypsi SNAP Gap Program, a locally powered response that ensured hundreds of local families could continue to access food. As we move through spring, your support sustains this work; keeping vendor fees low, strengthening food access programs, and maintaining the MarketPlace as a space for belonging. Every gift sustains a place to live, organize, and nourish one another. With deep gratitude, Julius Buzzard Executive Director P.S. Your early spring support ensures we’re ready to respond when our community needs it most.

Beloved community, March is National Nutrition Month, and across the country, we’re told to read labels more closely, count nutrients more carefully, and “eat real foods.” But nutrition is not a trend cycle; it is a question of power. I invite you to join me in curiosity and ask: Who has access to what’s being recommended? Who can afford the “real” food being celebrated? Who grows it, and who gets paid? Are we treating illness, or are we transforming the conditions that produce it? Health outcomes matter, but health equity goes further. Health equity asks why certain neighborhoods have higher rates of diabetes in the first place. It asks why fresh food feels exceptional in some zip codes and ordinary in others. It asks why farmers struggle to survive while healthcare systems expand. If we do not address land access, procurement policy, and economic extraction, then “eat real” risks becoming a quiet moral judgment instead of a structural commitment. Michigan once modeled real structural commitment through 10 Cents a Meal for Michigan's Kids & Farms ; matching school dollars to buy Michigan-grown produce and making local food standard in cafeterias. It strengthened children’s health, stabilized farmers, and shifted institutional purchasing habits. This year, the program was not funded. And as a result, students miss the chance to build lifelong food memories rooted close to home. And still, we are not retreating. Together, we are building a foundation of generational health. Generational health is the long game. It is the work of ensuring that today’s third grader doesn’t just eat a fresh apple; but grows up expecting apples from Michigan orchards in their cafeteria. It is ensuring that a teen doesn’t just volunteer at the market; but understands zoning laws, farm bills, and supply chains well enough to challenge them. This is the foundation of our theory of change. We build generational health by shaping habits early and reinforcing them often; through initiatives like our Teen Leadership Program, where young people gain the skills and critical lens to navigate and influence the food system; through field trips to our urban farm and incubator kitchen, where learning is rooted in soil; through Farm to School programming that normalizes local procurement; and through Power of Produce (POP) Club, where children practice agency by choosing fresh food for themselves. This is how we shift from reactive nutrition work to regenerative nutrition culture. We do this by pairing conversations about Food as Medicine, dietary guidelines, and eating real foods, with: An insistence that farmers are part of the prescription. Guidelines that align with affordability and access. Understanding that real foods need to be reachable, culturally meaningful, and dignified. Nutrition is not simply about what’s on a plate. It is about who has the right to thrive. This National Nutrition Month, I invite you to see nutrition not as an individual burden, but as a collective project that treats fresh food not as charity, but as infrastructure. We are cultivating a community where children expect fresh produce, where farmers are stable and respected, and where health is inherited as legacy. That is generational health. And that is the future we are growing together. In solidarity, Julius P.S. Check out the FoodCorps Policy Action Map or sign up for our Farm to School Newsletter if you’re interested in building generational health.

Long before reparations entered mainstream conversation, Queen Mother Audley Moore was clear: justice required land, resources, and self-determination; not symbolic gestures. A descendant of enslaved people, Moore spent decades organizing for reparations rooted in material reality. She understood that stolen labor was tied to stolen land, and that food insecurity was not accidental; it was engineered . Moore advocated for land redistribution, cooperative economics, and community-controlled food systems as necessary steps toward repair. Her vision aligns directly with modern food sovereignty movements: returning control of food, land, and labor to the people most harmed by their removal . This is not history; it is instruction. Growing Hope’s work exists within this continuum. From urban farming to food hubs, from youth leadership to market access, we are building the kinds of systems Moore demanded, systems that repair harm by restoring agency. Food sovereignty is reparations in practice. And the work is unfinished. 

During the Montgomery Bus Boycott, when formal fundraising was surveilled and criminalized, Georgia Gilmore organized something deceptively simple: a kitchen network . Known as The Club From Nowhere , Gilmore and other Black women sold pies, cakes, and home-cooked meals to quietly raise money for the movement. Their anonymity was protection. Their food was infrastructure. For over a year, as the boycott stretched on, these funds paid for carpools, gas, and daily survival. While history often centers on speeches and marches, Gilmore reminds us that revolutions are sustained behind the scenes by those who feed people, organize logistics, and keep the lights on. Her kitchen was a site of resistance. Her recipes were tools of liberation. At Growing Hope, we honor this lineage every time we invest in food entrepreneurs, incubator kitchens, and cooperative models. When food businesses are community-rooted, they do more than generate income; they fuel movements . Never underestimate what food can do. And never forget who has always been doing the work.

“If you have 400 quarts of greens and gumbo soup canned for the winter, nobody can push you around.” Fannie Lou Hamer said this not as a metaphor, but as a lived experience. In 1969, after being evicted from her plantation home for registering to vote, Hamer founded the Freedom Farm Cooperative in Sunflower County, Mississippi. The goal was simple and radical: Black families deserved land, food, housing, and economic independence, without having to ask permission. Freedom Farm grew vegetables, raised livestock, built homes, and supported cooperative ownership. It addressed hunger and poverty at their roots, refusing the lie that liberation could come without material security. Hamer understood what we still grapple with today: political rights mean little without food sovereignty . Voting doesn’t protect you from hunger. Legislation doesn’t replace land. Dignity requires access to the means of survival. This is why Growing Hope centers farming, education, and entrepreneurship together. Food sovereignty is not just about what’s on your plate; it’s about who controls the systems that decide who eats .

In 1969, the Black Panther Party launched the Free Breakfast for Children Program , serving tens of thousands of children across the United States every single school day. Not as an act of charity, but as a declaration. The Panthers understood something the dominant systems refused to acknowledge: a hungry child cannot learn, organize, or imagine a future . Feeding children was a political act. It was protection. It was strategy. Volunteers cooked before dawn in church basements and community centers. Children were served breakfast while learning about Black history, self-determination, and collective responsibility. The state noticed and felt threatened. The FBI labeled the program “the greatest threat” to internal security, not because it was violent, but because it worked. And it worked so well that the U.S. government was forced to expand public school breakfast programs nationwide . Mutual aid didn’t just meet immediate needs; it reshaped public policy . This is food sovereignty in action: communities identifying harm, meeting their own needs with dignity, and building power in the process. At Growing Hope, we carry this legacy forward. When we insist on dignified access to food, when we support farmers markets as sites of connection and not extraction, when we center youth and Black leadership, we are walking a well-worn path. When communities feed themselves, systems change.

Beloved community, Many hearts, mine included, remain heavy as we enter into a new month. Right now, immigration enforcement is being used in ways that are destabilizing people’s lives, and in the process, destabilizing the food system that all of us depend on. Across the country, intensified immigration crackdowns are pushing workers into hiding. People are staying home rather than risk detention. Parents are weighing whether it’s safe to take their children to school. Farmworkers, food processors, delivery drivers, and food service workers are being forced to choose between survival and visibility. Immigrants are essential to every step of how food moves in this country. They plant and harvest crops. They process meat and produce. They transport food across regions. They cook and serve meals. When enforcement actions target farms, food facilities, or entire neighborhoods, the consequences ripple outward immediately: fields go understaffed, food rots before it’s harvested, supply chains strain, and prices rise. Families, especially those already navigating scarcity, are pushed closer to hunger. A food system built on fear cannot feed people well. And a just food system depends on more than abundance. It depends on safety. It depends on dignity. It depends on sovereignty. Here in Ypsilanti, this national climate is not abstract. Families are feeling it in their bodies. Schools have warned parents to take precautions amid reported ICE activity. That alone should stop us in our tracks. When fear follows children into classrooms, we are witnessing a profound failure of care. At Growing Hope, we refuse to accept fear as the cost of feeding one another. The Growing Hope Urban Farm and the Ypsilanti Farmers Market are built on the belief that everyone deserves a safe and welcoming place to gather, grow, and nourish one another. We affirm clearly and publicly that no person should be targeted, questioned, detained, or surveilled based on immigration status. Over the past several months, we’ve been developing response plans for our markets, events, and shared spaces that center collective care. This includes clear protocols, staff and volunteer training, and alignment with partners who understand that food access and community safety are inseparable. Safety is not separate from justice. If people are afraid to buy, sell, grow, or gather around food, then we are not talking about a functional food system; we are talking about harm dressed up as policy. As we move through Black History Month, I am reminded that Black food history has always taught us this lesson: when systems fail us, we feed each other. From mutual aid kitchens to cooperative land ownership, from feeding children before school to organizing entire communities around food, our ancestors understood that food is both care and resilience. This is the work in front of us now: to stand in solidarity across Black and immigrant communities, to reject policies that criminalize survival, and to build food systems rooted in dignity rather than disposability. I carry this responsibility with humility. I am here because others fed people when it was dangerous to do so. I am here because food has always been one of our most powerful tools for care, resistance, and imagination. And I am here because silence has never kept us safe. In solidarity, Julius P.S. How you can show up right now: Stay informed. Interrupt misinformation when you hear it. Support organizations doing accompaniment, rapid response, and food access work for immigrant families. When you come to the Ypsilanti Farmers Market, help us uphold it as a space of care and protection. And if you’re able, donate or volunteer with local groups defending immigrant dignity, because a just food system requires all of us.

Hello, good people! As we crossed the threshold into this new year, I found myself holding two truths at once. The first is grief and exhaustion from a year marked by chaos, confusion, and compounding pressures on food assistance, health care, housing, and the basic dignity of our neighbors. The second is the deep knowing that we have always survived moments like this by turning toward one another. This is not a soft optimism. It is a practiced one. We are bracing for hunger and need at levels we may not have seen before. And yet, history and our own lived experience here in Ypsilanti tell us that when systems fail, community does not disappear. Together, we’re showing up with care, skill, and imagination. That is the soil from which Growing Hope was built, and it is the ground we are still tending. In 2026, we remain committed to building a food system rooted in justice, dignity, and self-determination. Here’s a peek at what some of those steps look like for us in the coming season: Building Generational Health. We are doubling down on youth leadership, working alongside teens who are already shaping the future of our food system. This year, we’re deepening partnerships that model what farm-to-school can be when it’s relational, local, and led with intention. Investing in a Community of Growers. Our Produce Cart continues to evolve into a shared ecosystem, stocked not only by Growing Hope but also by local farmers, gardeners, and home growers alike. Alongside building depth within our Home Vegetable Garden support, we are making our farm spaces more accessible and inviting. Our hope is that our farm is a place where neighbors can come to harvest, learn, and experience food sovereignty for themselves. Food Is a Human Right. You’ll hear us saying this more clearly and more often in the coming season. We’re committing to deeper education, base-building, and collective imagination around what it means to move food as a human right from value to policy to reality here in our community. A Year-Round Farmers Market in Ypsilanti. For the first time ever, the Ypsilanti Farmers Market is running downtown year-round. We’re excited to host the winter market through April and keep this vital community space alive in every season. Farmers markets are sites of care, culture, and connection, and we’re thrilled to keep those connections rolling year-round. Cooking Up Futures: The Accelerator Kitchen. I’m thrilled to publicly share Cooking Up Futures, our accelerator kitchen project, slated to break ground this month! This project will renovate the welcome center (16 S. Washington) into a kitchen that will serve as connective tissue across the Ypsilanti Farmers MarketPlace campus, linking growers, makers, and neighbors in a living, local food economy. At the heart of our theory of change is a simple truth: when we invest in the whole food system, from seed to belly, we generate lasting vibrancy, equity, and opportunity downtown and beyond. If you’d like to learn more or explore ways to support this work directly, I invite you to reach out to me. As I look forward to 2026, holding our team and our community clearly in view, I’m holding tightly to the fact that we persevere not because conditions are easy, but because community is strong. Thank you for being part of this work and helping to uncover the food system we all believe in, need, and deserve. In solidarity and hope, Julius P.S. Join me for Food Literacy for All this semester. This Tuesday evening course is open to the public, virtual, and will feature a number of phenomenal food systems advocates over the next few months.