The Bean That Betrayed Them

How Trump Tariffed the Heartland to Death

By Kelly Watt

There was a time not so long ago when a bean saved the American heartland.

It wasn’t sexy. It didn’t carry the romance of wheat, the poetic nostalgia of corn, or the blood-soaked legacy of cotton. But in towns hollowed out by the slow death of American manufacturing, the soybean stepped up like an unlikely hero—quiet, adaptable, resilient. A crop that could restore soil, restore balance, and restore dignity. And then, just as quickly as it rose, it was sacrificed. Not by nature. Not by drought or blight. But by politics. A bean buried under a red hat.

For much of the 20th century, the American farmer was the backbone of the nation’s image—if not its actual economy. But that image, like so many things, had been eroded by time, technology, and trade. By the 1980s, under Reagan-era deregulation, farms were consolidating, agribusinesses expanding, and smallholders vanishing. Corn was king, but king didn’t pay like it used to. Tobacco was in decline, both economically and socially. Cotton had long since lost its stronghold. Farming was bleeding, and the cure needed to be both innovative and practical.

Enter the soybean.

It had started modestly, seen mostly as a rotation crop or feedstock. But in the post-war years, especially from the 1970s forward, it quietly grew in stature. It restored nitrogen to the soil. It worked in tandem with corn. It fed the world—not just humans, but livestock, particularly pigs and poultry. When China’s meat consumption began to skyrocket in the early 2000s, it created a hunger that only soy could feed.

And America was ready to supply it.

Farmers in Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, Arkansas, and even the Carolinas began shifting from traditional row crops to soybeans. Extension programs promoted it. USDA subsidies supported it. Export markets guaranteed it. It was, for a while, a beautiful thing—proof that American agriculture could evolve.

But no one in the tractor cab ever suspected that their survival crop would be turned into a weapon. No one thought a president would come along and make that bean a pawn in a chess game with a nuclear-capable, meat-hungry superpower.

Donald Trump didn’t understand farming. That’s not an insult. It’s just the truth. What he did understand was showmanship. Tariffs were his version of fireworks—explosive, patriotic, and easy to misunderstand.

In 2018, Trump imposed billions of dollars in tariffs on Chinese goods, claiming it was time to put America first, to punish China for intellectual property theft and currency manipulation. In retaliation, China slapped tariffs on over 100 U.S. goods, including the crown jewel: soybeans.

The impact was immediate.

Soybean prices crashed. Shipments stopped. Orders vanished. Suddenly, farmers who had followed every rule, invested in new equipment, and pivoted to soy to keep their land were stuck with barns full of beans no one would buy. Their lifeline had become an anchor.

Government assistance came, but it wasn’t enough. The Market Facilitation Program was supposed to ease the pain, but it felt like hush money. It didn’t stop the bleeding. And it couldn’t erase the sting of betrayal—because this wasn’t a force of nature. This was inflicted by their own president.

**And yet—**they stayed loyal.

Rural America clung to Trump in 2020, not because they were thriving, but because they believed in the promise. They believed the hardship was part of some long game. That Trump’s “toughness” would yield better trade deals. That loyalty would pay off in the end.

But it didn’t.

Now, in 2025, the soy economy is crashing again. As of Friday, soybean front-month futures on the Chicago Board of Trade plunged 3.7%—the largest daily drop since June 2023. That puts soybeans at around $9.73 a bushel, down from nearly $15 just two years ago.

The immediate cause? Another round of tariffs. This time, China hit back with an additional 34% tariff on all U.S. goods, set to begin April 10. It was a direct response to President Trump’s decision earlier that week to slap a mirror 34% tariff on Chinese imports.

China had already imposed a 10%–15% tariff on $21 billion worth of U.S. agricultural products back in March. Now, it’s clear that soybeans are again being used as political leverage—and once again, American farmers are the ones holding the bag.

To make matters worse, China’s General Administration of Customs suspended the import licenses of three major U.S. soybean shippers, and on Friday, additional U.S. entities that trade in sorghum, poultry, and bone meal were blacklisted.

“Soybeans are selling off on Friday’s news of the additional tariff, as traders turned less hopeful that the dispute between Beijing and Washington would be solved any time soon,” reported analysts. Leah Fahy of Capital Economics wrote, “This is an aggressive, escalatory response that makes a near-term deal to end the trade war between the two superpowers highly unlikely.”

It’s déjà vu all over again.

During the last trade war, U.S. soybean exports to China dropped by 75% from 2017 to 2018. And even when tariffs cooled, China had already begun the process of restructuring its supply chains. Brazil stepped in, quickly becoming the preferred supplier. Argentina and Paraguay followed suit.

The American Soybean Association released a grim statement Thursday, warning of the economic fallout. “We are hoping the administration will swiftly work with the affected countries to create new market access opportunities,” said ASA President Caleb Ragland. But hope doesn’t hold much sway in a market driven by retaliation.

The damage isn’t just external. Favorable weather in both the U.S. and Brazil has produced bumper crops, flooding the global market with soybeans and driving prices down even further. That’s supposed to be good news—except when you can’t sell your harvest.

And the irony is rich: the American farmer, once hailed as the heart of Trump’s base, is now being crushed by the very policies meant to “put America first.”

This is the cost of grievance-based economics.

Trump’s tariffs were never part of a comprehensive agricultural strategy. They were symbols—flags planted in scorched earth. And symbols can’t replace markets. They don’t grow crops. They don’t pay bills. They don’t save farms.

The soybean isn’t just a crop. It’s a metaphor.

It was a progressive idea once: feed the world, fix the soil, fight climate change, keep farms alive. It represented adaptation, not regression. It was smart science applied to economic need. It wasn’t bound to one political party—it was embraced across the aisle.

But it died at the altar of grievance.

This betrayal is uniquely cruel because soybeans were the backup plan. Farmers had already pivoted from traditional crops—tobacco, cotton, wheat, rice—many of which had been battered by regulatory shifts, cultural stigma, and market decline. Soy offered a second chance. A new identity. An economic lifeline.

And Trump torched it.

The second term may finish what the first began. With tensions rising and a renewed appetite for confrontation, the American farmer may find themselves permanently shut out of the markets they helped build. Once displaced, it’s rare for trust to return. And China—through its state-run directives—can simply tell companies not to buy. No market-based negotiation needed. Just a quiet nod from the top.

What’s left? A surplus of beans. A deficit of dignity. And a hard truth: loyalty to a politician doesn't pay the bills.

The American farmer, once courted as a symbol of rugged independence, has become collateral damage. And the soybean, that humble legume, carries the scars of betrayal.

In this election year, the question shouldn’t just be “who wins?” It should be “who pays?” And if the answer is once again the farmer, then maybe it’s time to stop planting the seeds of loyalty in soil that yields only loss.