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SIU | Soybean Research
SIUC researchers struggle as Illinois Soybean Association turns away from universities

CARBONDALE — Each year soybean farmers across the country contribute a small, but significant, .5 percent of their crop sales to soybean research, development and promotion.

It’s the industry’s way of thinking long-term, searching for stronger, more useful plants, new products, and new markets, to increase the value of U.S. soybeans for farmers nationwide, in years to come.

At only 50 cents per $100 sold, these soybean “checkoff” funds, as they’re known, don’t sound like much, but they have accounted for more than $1.38 billion in soybean R&D and marketing since 1970.

In the past, the checkoff money supported researchers like Khalid Meksem, of Southern Illinois University Carbondale’s Department of Plant, Soil Science and Agricultural Systems.

Since he joined the university in 2000, Meksem has been awarded multiple patents for his work identifying pest-resistant genes in soybeans and potatoes, and has been published three times in "Nature," the most cited scientific journal on the planet.

Despite that success, he is fighting for funding to continue research at his lab.

“Last year I was funded at the level of $160,000,” in soybean checkoff funds, Meksem said. “This year, $0.”

The checkoff funds are split between state, regional and national soybean boards, each of which disburses its share of the money as it believes will best help the farmers it represents to maximize value.

In Illinois, the Illinois Soybean Association is governed by 24 elected volunteer farmers from across the state, who allocate the checkoff dollars, about $12 million last year, according to Chairwoman Lynn Rohrscheib.

In recent years, the ISA has cut university research funding, to focus on other priorities.

“The board as a whole decided to shift how it invested,” Rohrscheib said. ISA’s farmer-leaders felt that private industry donors, chemical and seed companies, and the United Soybean Board, the national organization that allocates 50 percent of all soybean checkoff money, could “have more impact [on research] than we can with our yearly funds,” Rohrscheib said.

But as the ISA turns to other priorities, like opening new foreign markets to Illinois soybeans, and advocating for improvements to Illinois roads and waterways, researchers like Meksem face a funding shortage that undermines their work.

In 2008, Meksem’s colleague, professor Stella Kantartzi, was hired to head SIU Carbondale’s Soybean Breeding and Genetics Program, with financial assistance from the ISA.

She started with an ISA budget of about $170,000 a year, which she used to establish her lab, and begin research that has led to more than 60 publications and the development of several proprietary soybean varieties, bred for traits like yield and disease resistance.

Back then, it was common for the ISA to fund start-up packages for faculty that it wanted to work with, said Dr. Karen Jones, who chairs Kantartzi’s department at SIUC. That’s part of the reason Meksem, Kantartzi and other researchers came to SIU in the first place.

But by 2011, Kantartzi’s support was down to half its 2008 level.

Then, in 2013, “without any notice, without even a thank you for our years of collaboration, we were by ourselves,” Kantartzi said, without a cent of ISA funding ever since.

“I felt that I was fully supported by ISA, and I needed that support and the yearly communication with the farmers,” Kantartzi said, to continue her work. “Now, we feel pretty isolated.”

Every soybean scientist has been affected differently by the ISA’s shift away from direct funding for university research, said Jason Bond, a professor of plant pathology at SIUC.

“Today, I’m a better researcher for it,” Bond said.

Bond and a colleague adjusted their research to pursue support from the North Central Soybean Research Program, which distributes checkoff dollars to much of the Midwest, and from the national-level United Soybean Board.

To win those organizations’ support, “you need to have research that’s important to the Illinois grower, and to the wider region,” Bond said. “We looked at projects that could get other universities involved, and we built teams across states. That was a result of the ISA choosing to put resources in other areas.”

Bond has seen his ISA losses replaced with an influx in support from the regional and national boards, which are also funded by Illinois checkoff dollars.

“Today my funding looks different, but it didn’t destroy my program,” Bond said.

Since he lost his ISA funding, Meksem has been able to secure some money from the USB, he said. But that funding is getting more competitive, as federal support for university research dwindles.

“The National Science Foundation is funding less and less and the United States Department of Agriculture is funding almost nothing,” Meksem said, two institutions that previously supported his work. “Now you have some of the biggest labs, big names and well-established researchers, also applying to the USB.”

Meksem’s lab now competes for funding against labs at Harvard, the University of California at Berkeley and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, whose budgets, staff and facilities dwarf his own at SIUC.

He’s not upset by that challenge, and calls the USB, “a great partner.” But Meksem believes the Illinois Soybean Association is neglecting an important role it once filled, as an incubator for in-state research.

“I cannot apply to the Iowa state board, but any Iowa researcher can apply to the USB,” whose funds are open to every university lab in the country, Meksem explained. “What the ISA forgets is that the money Illinois farmers contribute will end up being spent in Tennessee, instead of in Illinois.”

But soybean board leaders say that’s exactly the purpose of the national and regional soybean boards — to support projects that benefit the broader soybean industry, across state lines.

“We can’t be compared to what the USB does,” said Rohrscheib, the ISA’s farmer-elected chairwoman. As a state board, the ISA’s first responsibility is to maximize value for Illinois farmers.

“We have to be able to work and make a living,” Rohrscheib said. 

Rather than fund plant genetics, pathology and weed control research, in competition with seed and chemical companies, the ISA is studying other areas of the soybean industry, like “how to upgrade locks and dams in disarray across the state, that could falter at any time,” Rohrscheib said. “From there, we take that info and try to make people aware of the dire need to find dollars at the local, state, federal and national levels to fix these problems.”

A breakdown of 2017-2018 spending priorities shows the ISA allocated most of its checkoff income in four areas: Forty-one percent of its budget went to promoting Illinois soy to the industries that buy it, like biodiesel and animal feed, 24 percent to helping farmers adopt new technologies to improve yield and sustainability, 17 percent to improving transportation efficiency, and 16 percent to outreach to corporate partners and Illinois farmers.

“We need to help our farmers be the most knowledgeable and profitable in the global marketplace,” Rohrscheib said. “We’re thinking about new uses for our soybeans, how to help expand trade, and how to become more sustainable with technology.”

Recent ISA programs have been lauded, including a 2012 project testing new uses for soy-based fish feed named one of Time Magazine's "50 Best Inventions of 2012."

But Meksem said he believes the cuts to academic research will be extremely harmful to Illinois agriculture, in the long term.

Traditionally, Meksem’s checkoff funding allowed him to hire 6 undergraduate research assistants per year and fund several graduate students, he said. This year, he’s down to 3 undergrads and 2 grad students, and Meksem expects he won’t have money for a single undergraduate next year.

bhetzler / Byron Hetzler, The Southern 

Dr. Khalid Meksem (seated) and members of his research team (from left) Daniele Brookshier, Zhou Zhou, Courtney Barnes and Oumaima Chetto, examine germinating soybean plants that are part of his research into developing soybeans that resistant to soybean cyst nematodes, a microscopic roundworm that feeds on the roots of soybean plants.

“Instead of increasing our enrollment, we will have to downsize,” he said. “Our kids that come to SIU and the University of Illinois, these are kids that grew up on farms, and grow soybeans on their farms. If the ISA is not funding universities, they are not funding their own kids, and they are not helping them get the right education to compete for better jobs,” in the ag industry, Meksem said.

Nathan Kleczewski, a field crop pathologist at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana, also sees long-term risks in the ISA’s shift away from university research.

Kleczewski is an extension specialist. That means his research is guided by direct communication with Illinois soybean, corn and wheat farmers. They tell him what plant disease issues they’re facing in the field, and he searches for solutions, designing experiments specifically for Illinois’ climate and soil conditions.

“We want projects that address grower concerns in a rapid fashion,” Kleczewski said, with results within three to five years, at most.

Prior to his hire at U of I, about a year ago, Kleczewski held a similar post at the University of Delaware, where he was supported by state checkoff dollars from soybeans, wheat and other grains.

In 2015, with $10,000 from the Maryland Grain Producers Utilization Board, Kleczewski worked with Maryland and Delaware farmers to predict, avoid and combat, a grain disease called Fusarium Head Blight.

The one-year return on that project, was calculated at nearly $5 million in potential production gains, Kleczewski said.

“Applied research can easily result in significant returns and unbiased data,” Kleczewski told the Southern. But since he was brought to U of I, he’s received $0 in support from the ISA, despite multiple project proposals.

“I can’t even get something to be looked at by the Board of Directors,” Kleczewski said.

In many states, the boards who administer checkoff funds reach out yearly to formally request research proposals from scientists.

In Illinois, that procedure was phased out about 10 years ago, around the time Meksem and Kantartzi’s ISA funding began to dry up.

ISA director Rohrscheib stressed that proposals are “always welcome,” but researchers say they’ve lost the dialogue they once enjoyed with the ISA’s farmer-leaders, which helped them refine their project proposals, and ultimately get them funded.

“It’s one person who decides if [a proposal] is going to be submitted,” to the board, Kleczewski said. “If they aren’t interested, people don’t see it.”

Now, when Illinois growers have a research question, they may go to “Purdue, Iowa State or the University of Wisconsin,” he said. “But Illinois is not those places. We have different challenges, different climates and different soil types. Using their information may work for a while, but it won’t work forever.”

Kleczewski pointed to an outbreak of Tar spot in Northern Illinois’ corn this year as an example of the potential consequences.

“We’re dealing with an epidemic in corn that was ignored for three years,” he said. “We have millions of dollars in losses, in DeKalb county alone, and people are scared.”

With small checkoff investments like he received in the northeast, Kleczewski believes the ISA could create big value for Illinois farmers, with the unbiased data and solutions that university Ag programs are in a unique position to provide.

“I disagree completely with the idea that the ISA’s funds aren’t enough to make a difference in university research,” Kleczewski said. “We’re not talking about millions of dollars here.”

A recent checkoff-funded project at the University of Wisconsin that will help predict white mold outbreaks is expected to save farmers “millions and millions of dollars,” Kleczewski said, on just a few hundred-thousand dollars in investment.

“It wouldn’t take a lot of effort to reestablish an effective relationship [with universities], if the ISA would just open a Request for Applications, and a put small amount of money to support a few programs a year,” Kleczewski said. “But shutting everything off is not good for our growers or for the state.”

Kleczewski’s colleagues at SIU Carbondale also lamented the relationship they’ve lost with the ISA, and agreed both parties must work to rebuild it.

“We used to have very nice meetings and discuss our problems, projects and ideas,” Kantartzi said, allowing farmers to see how their checkoff dollars were being used, and give researchers feedback. “If the stakeholders don’t know what we can do and can offer, there is a major gap of communication,” Kantarzi said.

As they work to secure national grants at the USB, some Illinois researchers feel they’ve lost needed support from ISA leaders, who no longer prioritize research, said Dr. Kris Lambert, a plant pathologist at U of I.

“We don’t have a voice at the table any longer,” Lambert said.

And the funding the researchers hope for could become even scarcer, with soybean prices down more than 10 percent over last year, in the wake of Chinese tariffs imposed in the ongoing trade war with the Trump administration.

“In the last 10 years we’ve all had pretty good revenues as far as checkoff. We’re starting to see that slip a little with the tariffs.” said Jared Hagert, who sits on United Soybean Board. “The acres and bushels are there. The price isn’t. We’re going to have to be a lot more cognizant of what we fund going forward.”

Lower crop prices means less money contributed to the checkoff funds, which means less funding for all that the soybean boards do, including research.

If Khalid Meksem doesn’t find new funding by the summer, he will be forced to send his current research to a collaborator at another university to finish the project, he said.

Research that began in Illinois would be finished out of state, and Meksem would continue to reduce his lab’s undergrads and grad students. For now, he’s applying to every grant he can, he said, trying to make up the difference.

“We are hungry to address grower concerns. We want to start working with growers and working with the ISA,” Kleczewski said. “But right now it’s like you bought a new car and there’s no gas.”


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'We are people. We are humans.': As President tries to define gender, 3 trans Southern Illinoisans share their stories

CARBONDALE — Dylan Caraker doesn’t understand why his genitals are a political statement. He actually isn’t even sure why they are the subject of anyone’s thoughts at all.

He said humans wear clothes to cover themselves for a reason — privacy.

As a transgender man, Caraker and thousands like him are the subject of speculation, curiosity and discrimination every day.

This fact was reinforced last month when it was revealed that President Donald Trump and his team at the Department of Health and Human Services are considering limiting the definition of gender to an immutable, biological status as defined by a person’s genitals at birth.

A transgender person has a different gender identity than what is assigned by the appearance of their genitals at birth. The way trans people express this varies. Some choose to socially present themselves as a different gender, while others seek medical treatments like hormone therapy or surgeries. Some transgender people don't change their physical appearance at all.

A New York Times report from Oct. 22 sites an internal Trump administration memo saying that certain government agencies needed to come up with a uniform definition of gender determined “on a biological basis that is clear, grounded in science, objective and administrable.”

“The sex listed on a person’s birth certificate, as originally issued, shall constitute definitive proof of a person’s sex unless rebutted by reliable genetic evidence,” the memo also states.

The Times story says these moves to tighten the definition of gender are related to Title IX protections that bar federally funded educational institutions from discriminating students or employees based on gender.

Caraker thinks the Trump administration plan is ridiculous on its face. “Is (Trump) going to have us all wear little badges with a picture of our baby genitalia?” he asked.

Despite his tone, Caraker and other trans people in Southern Illinois said these types of comments from Washington do have a big impact on the mental well-being of transgender people. Caraker said he thinks Trump is OK with that.

“The pain that he is causing," Caraker said, "I honestly think he takes glee in it."

Growing up different

Isaac Smith / ISAAC SMITH The Southern 

Clare Killman poses for a portrait in her home in Herrin. Killman, a transgender woman, said she doesn’t like to look at photos of herself that are not mirrored because it causes her dysphoria to flare. Gender dysphoria is explained as the distress a person feels when the gender assigned at birth does not match what they identify as mentally. 

“I was brutally abused by my parents and sent to conversion therapy,” 23-year-old Clare Killman remembered.

She came out as trans at 14 and recalled weeping over her homework in the backseat of her parents' car several times a week as they drove her several hours to and from St. Louis for her therapy.

“They went so far as to modify the way I sat,” she said.

Killman’s family also removed all vestiges of femininity from her life — one of the few remaining items from this time is a small, ceramic miniature tea set that sits on Killman’s dining room table in Herrin.

In 2015, Gov. Bruce Rauner signed into law a measure making conversion therapy for minors illegal in the state — the practice has been derided by critics as non-scientific and is said to present serious mental health risks for those going through the programs.

Caraker said he put himself through such a program before he transitioned and came out not cured of his attraction toward women but with a deep-rooted sense of loathing for his feminine side.

Like Killman, Caraker always knew he was different. He said it was as early as kindergarten that he started noticing he was treated differently than he felt. At that age, it meant being told not to play with trucks and blocks, but with dolls and tea sets.

“Quit bothering the boys and come over here,” he recalled his teacher telling him as she brought him from the “boys' toys” to the play kitchen.

There was some validation, Caraker said, when he got the status as a “tomboy.”

“OK, well, that’s halfway there,” he thought.

Jennifer Davolt said that growing up, she was raised in a house of hippies and openness, but not without its limitations. She remembered being bookish — interested in history and music. This was a hard sell when all her friends started to love baseball.

This meant, to fit in, she had to find some way of relating — in this case, it was memorizing team histories and rules. She said it wasn’t until she was 15 that she really started to learn about what being transgender meant, and thinking that this might fit the feelings she’d had her entire life.

It was then that she made her first email address with her female name and told an online community that she might be trans.

Caraker said he had a similar experience — as the child of a professor, he had access to Morris Library and was able to read about people whose genders didn’t fit the binary male-female model. At 12 or 13, this started to open his mind to the idea that his feelings might have a place.

However, it would take decades and three marriages to decide he needed to make the transition from female to male.

The dark place

Isaac Smith / ISAAC SMITH The Southern 

Dylan Caraker looks at a recently found quilt made for him by relative Monday at his home in Carbondale. Quilting is something he took up years ago and is something he has occasionally caught flack for as man.

The human experience is not static, but one thing Davolt, Killman and Caraker said they all related to was crippling depression. The roots and causes vary, but each said their feelings in some ways stemmed from their identities as trans. This has led to suicidal ideation, social distance and even eating disorders to cope with feeling out of place, not just in their own bodies, but also in the world.

There is another dark place, though: abuse, discrimination and threats of violence.

Davolt said she has routinely had a problem keeping a job and finding a steady place to live.

“I’ve had trouble getting into places, let alone paying for them,” she said. “I just couch surf a lot.”

Davolt is currently staying at her brother’s house in Carbondale, and has semi-regular work as a merchandiser — a job that takes her around the country. But, it’s hard for her to get ahead. She said this is a common thread among trans women.

Killman said she, too, has had job problems with employers and companies in the area discriminating against her because of her status as a trans woman. She recalled one man calling her “it.”

Killman and Davolt said they live in fear. A lot of times they said they can pass socially as a cis woman — "cis" being a term to describe a person who identifies with the way their genitals appeared at birth. However, both said there are scary moments when people may catch on that they are trans.

Davolt and Killman said they also worry about their friends and family and the retribution they may face for associating with them — Killman described this as a heavy burden.

“I don’t want to put them in danger,” she said.

As a trans man, Caraker said he he is able to hide a bit better. But, he said fear has cropped up as the rhetoric at a national level has become more openly hostile toward trans people.

“The fear didn’t kick in until this thing with Trump flared up,” he said.

An uncertain future

Davolt, 34, said she looks to 53-year-old Caraker as a second father and said she is afraid that all the work she has done to change her official documentation will be voided by what the Trump administration is suggesting.

Beyond the documentation, the choice by Health and Human Services to potentially define gender this way could drastically affect Davolt’s and others’ health care options.

Davolt said her health care needs are different than a cis woman — for example, if identified as a man, Davolt is unsure how she would go about affording mammograms for the breasts she developed through hormone therapy.

“That’s why these things are important,” she said.

Life, not lifestyle

All said their statuses as a trans people were not something they chose.

“I don’t think of myself as trans, I think of myself as male,” Caraker said. “I never have existed as a female.”

Isaac Smith / ISAAC SMITH The Southern 

Jennifer Davolt plays songs on her guitar Nov. 14 at her home in Carbondale. Davolt said music has been a great comfort to her for her entire life and was part of her transition.

Each identifies as a person, and that is what matters most.

Each said their mental distress began to lift when they began their physical transition, which can include things like hormone therapy and other procedures.

Caraker said his “worst days now are better than the best days pre-transition.”

All said it’s important to note that the physical side is not what their transitions are all about — it’s not just a boob job or hair extensions. It’s helping to bring their bodies in tune with their own minds, and with this, bring them the stability they see others live with.

The ask

Caraker said so many people identify with biological sex instead of someone’s humanness, which is part of the problem.

It’s not unreasonable to understand why shifting this thinking is a big thing to ask, but it’s also not unreasonable to see it as possible, either.

But the real request Caraker, Killman and Davolt ask is to look beyond their physicalities.

Davolt said instead of having the world fit into a very limiting, binary mold, it should be the other way around: The mold should be built to fit the world, remembering that someone’s feelings and identity are not exclusively defined for them by the outward appearance of their bodies.

“Sorry, I have a girl penis, and I’m OK with that,” Davolt said.

As moves are made to erase their gender identities at the national level, Killman, Caraker and Davolt all said they had one thing they wished people would understand about their experiences as trans people.

“We are people. We are humans,” Killman said. A professional artist and trans activist, Killman said she works constantly to get this message out there, but it’s times like these that her efforts get harder.

“I don’t know how much louder I’ll have to scream,” she said.

Editor's Note: This story has been updated to correctly spell Dylan Caraker's last name.


State
Video gambling sees significant growth

CHICAGO — Video gambling has seen significant growth in Illinois, with revenues increasing by more than 75 percent in just the last three years, a new state report concludes.

The report released last month by the state's Commission on Government Forecasting and Accountability found that video gambling racked up a net income of $1.4 billion in the fiscal year that ended on June 30, generating about $70 million in tax revenue for local governments.

Video gambling is the driving force behind overall gambling revenues that reached a record high last year in Illinois, The Chicago Tribune reported .

Chicago has banned video gambling, but the report shows that there are roughly 11,000 individual gaming machines in the city's metropolitan area. That's the equivalent of adding nine casinos.

Illinois' first legal gambling machines were rolled out only six years ago. Now video gambling terminals have popped up in bars, truck stops and pizzerias.

Video gambling's success is helping offset the "relatively stagnant performances" of the lottery, horse-racing and river gambling, the report said.

Illinois' riverboat casinos have seen their revenues decrease by more than 15 percent since video gambling machines were introduced in 2012.

But some Illinois business owners argue that the popularity of video gambling is diluting the market.

Juventina Mesa of La Cabana Mexican Restaurant in Melrose Park said most of her customers come in to gamble on the restaurant's video poker and slot machines. But she said business isn't as good as it used to be since there are now five businesses in the strip mall that have machines.

Illinois lawmakers are considering whether to expand gambling in the state by adding sports, sports fantasy and online betting. But the report concludes that these ventures would need to appeal to new consumers in order to make a difference in the government's earnings.

"The state could have a large expansion of gambling, but yet have little new tax revenues to show for it," the report said.