Carmen Macri
Words by Carmen Macri
“I think community-based beekeeping is both a literal and a symbolic act of healing a land and a people.”
Self-reliance and sustainability have long stood as cornerstones in Mika Hardison-Carr’s life philosophy. Growing up in a time when the quality and integrity of our food seemed to steadily erode, she decided to reclaim control over what nourished her and her family. What began as a modest experiment — a handful of vegetables planted in her backyard — soon blossomed into a flourishing garden. Initially, the work was manageable; her crops thrived with the help of hand pollination. But as the seasons passed and her garden expanded, the simple act of tending to it transformed into something more daunting and demanding.
She recalls the day when she decided to invite a colony of bees to her garden—not simply to tend a garden but to enlist nature’s most diligent economists in the art of productivity.
“I remember handling the hive and setting the hive and having a sense of its synergy. And it was romantic and it was sexy. It was different. It was unique. It felt revolutionary. Because this hive is one of the avenues that I’m using to remove myself from being dependent on a food system that’s not sustainable,” recalled Hardison-Carr.
What started as a practical solution soon blossomed into a wholehearted passion she was eager to share with her community. She began rescuing honey bees from nearby neighborhoods, adding them to her thriving hive. Yet, much like her once-manageable garden, the burgeoning colony demanded more room and care than she had initially anticipated, prompting her to expand her horizons along with her growing swarm. More than just out of necessity, she wished to integrate beekeeping in urban neighborhoods and expose disadvantaged communities to agriculture.
So Hardison-Carr co-founded the Herban Bee with her husband.
Her journey into beekeeping was entirely self-taught, born out of determination and curiosity rather than tradition. “There are no beekeepers in my community,” she explained. “When people from my neighborhood find out I’m a beekeeper, they’re shocked — they’ve never met a Black beekeeper before.”
Much of what she learned came from visiting the homes of older white beekeepers who welcomed her into a world that, historically, hadn’t included people who looked like her. In stepping into that space, she not only expanded her own knowledge but began to redefine what a beekeeper looks like for the next generation.
Hardison-Carr began building a hive at Eartha’s Farm and Market in Moncrief, and what better place to bring her natural pollinators than to a farm that offers the bees nutrients year-round.
“I beekeep here in Moncrief, an area called Health Zone 1, for a few reasons,” she explained. “There are so many flowers on this farm, and often in disadvantaged neighborhoods, there are no flowers — kids don’t grow up with that. But I think it’s important for people to see something beyond their daily life. It’s important for a child to know that there is such a thing as a beekeeper, that there is a place where flowers grow. It’s important for children to have the opportunity to connect science and math and to understand that there’s something besides being a rapper or a football player.
“There’s a soil scientist who comes here. There’s a beekeeper here. There are people who grow food here. And so this place is expanding [beyond] what people think is possible. So I beekeep here, and I intentionally build my business here because the thing that’s different about the Herban Bee is that when you buy our honey, you are investing in the community that you would want to live in. You’re investing in the way you want the world to be.”
There’s a quiet, deliberate trust required when working with an active hive — an unspoken agreement between keeper and colony that Hardison-Carr has cultivated over years of hands-on experience. She understands, deeply, that the honey isn’t simply hers for the taking; it’s the bees’ lifeline, a product of their labor and intricate social structure. The relationship is both tactical and reverent, built on observation, patience and respect. It took years to hone, and even now, Hardison-Carr insists she remains a student of the bees—always listening, always learning.
Her dedication runs so deep that she launched an internship program through the Herban Bee, inviting others to learn the art of beekeeping alongside her. Many of her former interns have gone on to graduate from the program and now work as salaried members of the Herban Bee team. Interns learned everything from how to safely handle and inspect a hive to identifying brood patterns, recognizing signs of disease and understanding the social structure of a colony. But more importantly, Hardison-Carr instilled a deeper awareness of the bees’ role in the ecosystem and the ethical responsibility that comes with tending to them. For many, it was their first time seeing a hive up close, let alone being trusted to tend one.
“Beekeeping as a tool for self-reliance. Beekeeping teaches patience, observation and resourcefulness. All of the same principles that are required to rebuild a community from the inside out,” she explained. “Pollinators are essential for food sovereignty, you know, being in the driver’s seat when it comes to your food. I think community-based beekeeping is both a literal and a symbolic act of healing a land and a people.”
There’s one thing Hardison-Carr wishes more people would do in honor of the “save the bees” movement: plant native, pollinator-friendly plants. While hashtags and honey jars are helpful in raising awareness, she emphasizes that meaningful change starts in our own backyards. Native plants not only provide essential nectar and pollen sources for local bee populations, but they also require less water and maintenance, making them an easy yet impactful step toward restoring ecological balance.
If you are interested in Hardison-Carr’s hive, check her out at Eartha’s Farm and Market or head over to theherbanlife.org.
Follow FOLIO!