If the World Won't Eat Our Meat, Why Should We?

Trump's deregulation agenda and the case for reclaiming local, sustainable farming

The Trump administration's sweeping deregulation of food safety, agricultural oversight, and environmental protections has been met with justified outrage from public health officials and global trade partners. But if we take a moment to look past the carnage, there’s a sliver of opportunity glinting in the rubble: the chance to reclaim control over how and what we eat.

In April 2025, Trump railed against countries like Australia for refusing to import American beef, calling their safety standards "unfair trade barriers." But it wasn’t always this way. These countries didn’t suddenly become picky. They’ve refused U.S. beef and poultry for decades because our products don’t meet their basic safety or animal welfare standards. Trump’s solution, predictably, was not to clean up the industry, but to demand that other nations lower their standards or face retaliation.

That should tell us something. If our food isn’t safe or humane enough for international markets, Europe, and Asia all decline our meat products, why are we feeding it to ourselves?

To understand how we got here, we need to revisit the transformation of American agriculture. For much of the 20th century, American farming was defined by small, family-run operations grounded in local economies and seasonal rhythms. But with the rise of industrial agribusiness in the post-war era, the model shifted dramatically. The same ethos of mechanization and monoculture that brought chemical fertilizers and pesticides into wide use also ushered in a dangerous new philosophy: conquest of the land rather than collaboration with it. This was not without consequences.

Timothy Egan’s The Worst Hard Time chronicles one of the earliest large-scale environmental disasters brought on by industrial farming: the Dust Bowl. In the 1930s, farmers driven by profit and federal incentives tore up millions of acres of native prairie grass in the Southern Plains to plant wheat. What followed was ecological collapse, decades of drought, dust storms, and mass migration. The soil, no longer anchored by deep-rooted grasses, turned to powder and blew away. As Egan writes, this wasn’t just a natural disaster; it was man-made. The very ground beneath rural America was sacrificed in the name of production.

The lesson wasn’t just about the past, it’s a warning. When we industrialize food systems without regard for ecological balance, we destabilize the very foundation of life. And yet, we’re repeating the same mistake today with CAFOs, pesticide-laced crops, and genetically engineered monocultures.. Farms grew larger, more mechanized, and more chemically dependent.

By the 1980s and 1990s, the family farm was being swallowed whole by corporate consolidation. Nowhere was this transformation more evident than in the meat industry. Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations, or CAFOs, became the dominant model, replacing pastures with confinement, antibiotics, and waste lagoons.

Howard Lyman, a former cattle rancher turned whistleblower, captured this shift in his book Mad Cowboy. "We went from being stewards of the land to engineers of efficiency," he wrote. Lyman described how land-grant colleges taught young farmers to embrace chemicals, speed, and yield at any cost. "The goal wasn’t to raise healthy animals or feed communities, it was to outproduce, outcompete, and outscale."

Lyman's own father confronted him with the consequences of this shift. In a moment seared into his memory, Lyman recalled: "My dad looked me in the eye and said, 'You are wrong.'" That judgment wasn’t about economics, it was about ethics. About poison in the soil, suffering in the feedlots, and the slow death of rural America.

At the heart of this crisis is the industrial meat complex, concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs) that rely on overmedicated, confined livestock and hyper-efficient but deeply toxic methods of production. This isn’t agriculture, it’s meat mining.

Ironically, many of the federal regulations developed by agencies like the USDA, EPA, and FDA, originally intended to safeguard food quality and public health, ended up creating enormous barriers for small, local farmers. While the industrial behemoths could afford fleets of compliance officers, small farms were often priced out of the market altogether. Pasteurization mandates, facility standards, and expensive inspection protocols, though often rooted in good science, were designed for scaled-up systems, not backyard dairies or ten-acre organic plots.

As Joel Salatin famously said, "The government is far more concerned about whether my chicken processing room has a screen door than whether Tyson’s chickens are swimming in their own manure." The system tilted toward consolidation and away from local resilience. Farmers who wanted to sell raw milk or hand-butchered poultry faced fines or shutdowns. Meanwhile, massive processors that triggered multi-state E. coli outbreaks were allowed to keep operating with minimal consequences.

And now, as the administration guts these regulatory bodies altogether, the paradox grows: we're left with fewer protections from industrial abuses, and still no room for local farmers to thrive under the remnants of an outdated and unequal regulatory regime.

Still, some communities have begun fighting their way out of this regulatory chokehold. In Maine, voters approved a groundbreaking Food Sovereignty Act that allows towns to set their own rules for local food production and sales. That means farmers can legally sell raw milk, home-slaughtered meat, or garden-grown produce directly to neighbors without navigating federal red tape. Similar efforts are sprouting in places like Vermont and parts of the Midwest, where regional food hubs and cooperative kitchens are helping small producers access markets previously closed to them.

Meanwhile, states like California have experimented with flexible certification programs for small-scale farms, creating pathways for farmers to meet safety standards without sacrificing their financial viability. These models aren’t perfect, but they show what's possible when policy reflects the scale and values of community-based agriculture rather than the demands of multinational agribusiness.

It's in these localized experiments that we find the blueprint for resilience: deregulate not to exploit, but to empower. Give local communities the tools to feed themselves safely, ethically, and sustainably, while concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs) that rely on overmedicated, confined livestock and hyper-efficient but deeply toxic methods of production. And as the administration guts regulatory bodies like the USDA, EPA, and FDA, the protections that once made the American food system (relatively) safe are being swept aside. In their place: more leeway for feedlot operators, fewer inspections, and growing risks to our health.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. Take Jeremiah Hagens and his Crop Swap LA initiative. What began as a microfarm in South L.A. has grown into a local movement that reclaims front yards for food production. His network transforms lawns into lush plots growing everything from beets to peaches, addressing both food insecurity and climate resilience. This kind of hyperlocal agriculture doesn’t just feed people, it builds community, restores soil, and reconnects neighbors to the land.

Unfortunately, these grassroots gains are under threat too. The EPA’s composting initiatives, which helped fund regional programs aimed at reducing food waste, lowering emissions, and building soil health, are being defunded under the Trump administration’s deregulatory crusade. A project in Rhode Island that took years to develop, training residents to launch compost hubs and create green jobs, is now starved of federal support.

These policy choices declare war on sustainability. But if we’re honest, they’re also a dare. A dare to do better.

Trump's deregulatory firestorm clears a path not just for polluters and profiteers, but also for anyone brave enough to rebuild a food system rooted in health, justice, and common sense. In the absence of federal oversight, communities can choose to sidestep Big Ag’s poisons and chart a new course, one garden, one compost pile, one CSA at a time.

Start with your own yard, front or back. Whether it's a few containers on a balcony or a converted lawn bed, growing your own food is a radical act of independence and resilience. It's not just about tomatoes and kale; it's about taking back control from systems that have proven unwilling or unable to feed us safely.

If you're a consumer, seek out local farmers and buy direct. Support your nearest farmers market, join a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), or volunteer for a community garden. If you're a policymaker or advocate, push for municipal food sovereignty ordinances and invest in local infrastructure that helps farmers meet safety standards without going bankrupt. And if you're a grower, know that you're not alone. A growing network of urban and rural producers is resisting industrialization by choosing biodiversity, transparency, and care.

This is not just a moral stand, it’s a practical one. Local food systems are more resilient to climate shocks, pandemics, and supply chain disruptions. They retain wealth in communities. They taste better. And they remind us that feeding people isn’t a corporate entitlement. It’s a public good.

Let’s plant the future, literally and politically, before it’s too late.

If the world won’t eat our meat, maybe it’s time we stopped eating it too, or at least stopped subsidizing it with our health and tax dollars. We can’t rely on regulators to protect us anymore. But we can protect each other. And that’s how every true revolution starts: from the ground up.