This 95% minority, poverty-stricken area surrounds the rolling 146 acres of Paul Quinn College, a private, faith-based liberal arts college. Eight miles south of downtown Dallas, there lies an area that is federally recognised as a food desert, meaning there are no grocery stores or restaurants where fresh, nutritious food can be obtained for those devoid of the luxury of cars.
Instead, the 20-yard line is occupied by bulging sweet potatoes, radishes, hens laying eggs and fresh tilapia swimming in a state-of-the-art aquaponics system, according to a report by ESPN. It was in 2007, that college President Michael Sorrell, a former college basketball player, decided to kill Paul Quinn’s cash-strapped football program. And at minimum, 10 per cent of the farm’s yield went back to the community it called home. That is, until he became a student at Paul Quinn and took a work-study job at the farm for $10 an hour.
Because no team calls this place home, all. Sorrell went to his board, insisting he had found the idea that was going to save the cash-strapped school, which had lost its accreditation a year earlier amid financial and academic concerns.
The man said yes. “They said, ‘It’s going to make that much money?'” Sorrell recalled. “I said, ‘No, it’s going to serve notice as to who we are going to be. “It was a job,” he said.
Set in a valley on the northeast corner of campus, the field is everything you might expect at a tiny NAIA school. Bright white goalposts. A fading, antiquated scoreboard. A yellow and purple shack where fans can purchase tickets. And, tucked behind one end zone, a pair of navy blue blocking sledges for training. But there is no football practice happening on this ground, no whistles, no tackling drills and no sprints. At a luncheon with a local entrepreneur who had been interested in community gardens, Sorrell suggested investing in the idea of farming on the field. A voice for those without voices and hope for the hopeless. And if no one else wants to stand up for what’s right, we will. Slowly but strongly, the farm succeeded. Through fundraising and a partnership with PepsiCo and its Food for Good initiative, a few training beds turned into the entire field. Students worked on the field as part of a work-study program that decreased their tuition. The farm became a cornerstone of the school’s required social entrepreneurship program, which teaches students to become leaders and generate wealth through breaking the cycle of poverty and giving back to the community. Chanson Goodson, a member of the community, had grown up seeing posters of the football team around town but had never seen a game. Instead, when he roamed around, he would see children covered in dirt and wonder what they were doing. “Just a regular job. I would just go there and try to knock it out. I didn’t want to touch dirt. I didn’t want no bugs. If it was too cold, I didn’t want to work. If it was too hot, I didn’t want to work. It was a paycheck.”
When Sorrell took the job at the college in fall 2007, it was in a financial crisis with a 1% graduation rate. By spring, he had gained 15 pounds, thanks to lunch and dinner options that were limited to chicken shacks, convenience stores and fast food. He scrapped the football program, saving the university $600,000 a year. When the alumni of the program protested, he challenged them to raise $2 million to save football and none raised a dime.
But he soon realised the healthy food scarcity the surrounding area faced. The healthiest choice was Subway, three miles down the road. That’s when he had the idea to turn the field into a farm.
He had no experience running a college, and had previously worked as a lawyer and White House special assistant.