I had many formative
experiences in the forests of
West Virginia, my home state. I hiked
to the top of Shavers mountain, sledded down the slopes of Chestnut
Ridge Park, ate wild clover, used sassafras to make blazing
campfires, and built shelters from forest debris and slept inside.
The state slogan is “wild and wonderful” for a reason. But my
home state is also a war zone. In the mountains and hollers, hidden
from the view of city-dwellers, behind orange fences and threatening
signs against trespassing, a small number of workers drive giant
machines. The machines cut down the forests, and bombs detonate the
tops of mountains.
Every week, an explosive force equivalent to one
Hiroshima bomb strikes Appalachia. They dump the mountain's remains
into nearby streams; then throw down some grass seeds and call the
land “restored.” This process, called
mountaintop removal,
obliterates widlife and soil, contaminates rivers, and gives people
cancer and birth defects. Now,
hydraulic fracturing (or “fracking”)
has also made inroads to West Virginia. Giant towers inject poisoned
fluids deep into the Earth, to break up the rocks and create seams
for extraction of methane fuel (or “natural gas” if you prefer
the euphemism.) The process converts pristine mountains into energy
factories, and pollutes air and water. In mid-March, I came to know
both of these extractive industries, in a more direct, up close and
personal way than I ever had before. And I partook in an effort
against these destructive approaches and for a clean energy future.
I attended
Mountain Justice Spring Break.
We, the people of
Mountain Justice Spring Break, came from all over the United States
(and from other countries, such as Sweden.) Our 150 or so
participants included many college students, as well as diverse
professionals, and local residents. We assembled in the Doddridge
County Park, located in the heart of the Appalachian mountains, near
to extensive coal mining and marcellus shale drilling. Trucks loaded
with fracking fluid rumbled past the park, day and night. The March
weather was of the winter, with gray skies, cold, and snow.
Nonetheless, we set up tents on the grounds, next to a mountain
stream—wherein, on the first evening, I saw a band of mergansers
out for a swim. It was the first time I had encountered the diving
ducks in Appalachia! We also set up shop at the Lodge Building,
which provided us with dining hall, dormitory, and classroom, all in
the same structure. We had to keep a security watch round-the-clock,
for detractors with bad intent.
While we called
ourselves Mountain Justice, the local people called us
“the protestors.” Even though we held no local protest this time around
(our day of action happened in Charleston), our presence still
caused a stir, and
prompted local discussion about the economy and environment, and
preparedness for disruption.
At Mountain Justice Spring Break, the week's schedule consisted of one presentation, one
workshop, one field trip, after another, after another, after
another. I stayed busy, and struggled to make time to setup my tent
or brush my teeth. We learned about extractive industries, such as
coal, nuclear, and methane (“natural gas”), their repercussions
for human and environmental health, and ways to take a stand for a
better world. We also learned and practiced internal
anti-oppression, and developed our skills at climbing trees via rope
(in preparation for a tree-sit, should we choose to hold one at a
future date.) We learned about the power of nonviolent
direct action
for stopping environmental destruction in its tracks. Mountain
Justice considers direct action a viable option, but only if the
local community requests it. This time,
they did not.
Our guest-speakers
included Emily Bee of the
Beehive Design Collective, who presented
their visual map (or poster) of "
The True Costs of Coal." The Bees
never fail to amaze. Every square millimeter of their intricate
visual maps is loaded with information, symbolism, and passion.
Comics at its best. “The True Costs of
Coal” is a story told through juxtaposed still pictures, therefore comics, as I see it. The narrative is so packed with meaning and complexity that I
would even call it a graphic novel.
We visited the home
of Diane Pitcock, the Program Administrator of
West Virginia Host Farms. She came to rural West Virginia to retire to a quiet home in
the woods. And then drillers of the Marcellus Shale built a fracking
operation directly adjacent to her mountain home. From beside the
bonfire in her backyard, I stood under the glare of halogen lights,
from the tower that loomed on the horizon, like a
tripod from the planet Mars, injecting poison into the Earth. Diane explained that
in the past, she held bonfires to the tune of owls and coyotes. Now,
lights blaze and trucks and machinery rumble and churn, day and
night. She receives no compensation for the natural resources
extracted, even from beneath her property, due to claims over mineral
rights. And the contents of the toxic “frack brew,” syringed
underground beneath her land and well, are a proprietary secret.
While the companies claim that the fracking fluid never contaminates
drinking water, the “faucet fires” of the film
Gasland make a
different testimony. Diane has responded to this disruption of her
retirement by educating a new generation of emerging leaders about
extractive industries, with the hope that they will guide a shift to
wiser approaches to natural resources and energy.
We took a night
hike, to get a better view of the fracking operation. From atop the
hill, we stayed on Diane's side of the fence, and surveyed the scene.
The industrial lights cast the landscape in eerie chiaroscuro. Men
drove giant trucks around giant tanks of fluid, and pumped it with
hoses. The smell was fetid. Meanwhile, we listened on the two-way
radios, and overheard police and rescue services speak about the
large number of “protestors” on the hill. Multiple police cars
and ambulances awaited nearby. But our trip was purely educational
in nature. The cops and medics saw no action, other than whatever
nightmare scenarios went through their imaginations.
We visited the home
of
Larry Gibson (1946-2012), the legendary “
Keeper of the Mountains.” The son of a coal miner, Larry spent his early
childhood on Kayford Mountain, West Virginia. He experienced the
joys of a life in the woods, near to the graves of his ancestors,
going back to the 1700's. After living in Ohio for some years and
working for the automobile industry, Larry retired to his childhood
home—only to be plagued by explosions, from surface mining
operations nearby. Larry chose to stay and protect his mountain, and
refused millions of dollars from coal companies, who sought to buy
the land for resource extraction. He established a cabin with a
solar panel. Later, relatives
joined him, and built cabins of their own. Larry brought many
thousands of visitors to his mountain home, and spoke against
mountaintop removal and for preservation of wild, wonderful West
Virginia. He moved and motivated many mountain activists—and
angered pro-coal forces. Larry stood his ground despite
death threats, beatings, attempts to run his car off the road, and the slaying of his dogs. What could motivate a person
to take such risks? In Larry's own words:
“What do you have in your own circle of life that is so precious that you can't put a price on it, what would it be for you, and what would you do to protect it, and how far would you go? For me, it's a way for life. For me, it's walking through the woods. For me, it's listening to the critters when I'm out there. For me, it's Appalachia.” [1]
Larry's 50-acre home
property is a forest preserve, resplendent with life. The rest of
the Kayford Mountain has been less fortunate. From Larry's home, we
hiked uphill. We came to an overlook of
Coal River Mountain, still
intact, still covered in trees, colored with the greens and browns,
purples and yellows of plant life. Then we came to what used to be
the upper 500 feet of Kayford Mountain. We stood at the edge of a
pit of jagged rocks, dull-grey and devoid of life. It looked like a
crater on the moon. We stood in hushed silence at the devastation.
This is mountaintop removal.
Surrounding Larry's home are 12,000 acres of ravaged land.
Amidst the many
lectures and field trips, our Mountain Justice camp made time to plan
and conduct an action, a culminating event for the week. Our action
was a protest in Charleston. For the first time, the campaigns against mountaintop removal and fracking in West Virginia united for a single demonstration. And for the first time, I learned how to
properly plan and conduct a public protest. We divided
into teams and working groups of various sorts. Like in a
well-orchestrated medical response, everyone had a specific job. We
had working groups for songs and chants, signs and banners, and media
outreach. We had “peacekeepers,” trained in de-escalating
stressful situations. We had a jail support team, prepared and on
standby should our people be arrested. (We didn't plan on getting
arrested, but the possibility exists at any political demonstration.)
As for me, I took on the role of “action medic,” to put my EMT
skills to use. The lead medic Noah gave me bridge training for
protest medicine, including flushing eyes of pepper-spray.
Naturally, I made a
sign for the event. While guest speaker Becky from the
Heartwood Forest Council gave me the slogan, I took on the challenge of producing a
picture to address both mountaintop removal and fracking. I had only
four colors and large paintbrushes to work with, and so I created
simple, iconic imagery.
Despite an entire
week of staying up late and getting up early, we still manged to rise at six AM on the morning of the protest. I slept in the
building that night, knowing that if I were in my tent in a warm
sleeping bag at cold dawn, I would have trouble getting up. After a
quiet breakfast, our caravan assembled, with the five action medics
in one vehicle. Off the Charleston!
In Charleston, we
gathered on the terrace by the fountain, before the capitol building,
with its golden, domed top, against the grey sky. A cold breeze
whipped through. A long line of police cars had parked nearby. Many
officers in dark green uniforms and flat-hats positioned themselves
at various locations on the terrace. Some came and spoke to us
before the events, with their hands on their pistols. I smiled at
the officers, said hello, and avoided conversation beyond that,
insofar as possible. We had a “police liason” working group,
consisting of two individuals trained and prepared to talk to the
cops—so I left the task to them. However, they weren't the only
ones who spoke to police, as some of the other West Virgians on our
team found it necessary to correct a cop's mistaken notion that we
were all “outsiders.” (For this scene and other rally highlights, see this
excellent video by Nathan Grant of Eye on the Ground.)
On the other side of
the fountain, the other protestors assembled. The
counter-protestors, proponents of the coal industry and its present
practices, including mountaintop removal. Their signs read “Coal
keeps the lights on,” “Stop the war on coal,” “We support
MTR,” “Impeach the dictator,” and “Undying Second Amendment.”
They numbered around 35, including men, women, and a few children. Their side had coal miners on it, but so
did ours.
On our side of the
fountain, around 100 demonstrators. The action began. We raised our
signs to full display. They read “Diversify the economy,” “Save
our mountain homes,” “People over profit,” “Clean water is a
human right,” and “Keep West Virginia wild and wonderful.” We
chanted “Hey, Governor Tomblin, we don't want no mountain bombin',”
and “Don't give me no frack, don't give me no coal, just give me clean
jobs.” And we sang classic protest songs from the civil rights
movement. I say “we” in the communal, not literal, sense. As an
action medic, I did not display a sign, chant or sing. I had to stay
“neutral.” I stayed in the background, within an arms length of
the other two medics on my team. All of us wore jackets and carried
bags decorated with crosses of red duct tape. Although honored to
have a specialized role, it was hard for me to miss the energy and
passion of the protest's front lines. (Luckily, a comrade displayed my protest sign.)
On the other side of
the fountain, the pro-coal rally chanted “We love coal,” or
simply “Coal.” They shouted questions and proclamations across
the fountain. “Where did you come from?” “How many of you
work?” “Where do you work?” and “You need soap.” Indeed,
when they tired of chanting coal, they took to a repeated chant of
“soap.” If this were philosophy class, the counter-demonstrators
would have a very low grade: they sought and made
ad hominem arguments.
Next, we began the
scariest part of the rally. The march inside, past the
counter-protestors, who formed a line accross the capitol steps. We
positioned a team of two medics in the front, and a team of three
(myself included) in the back. My senses went onto high alert, and I
made a steady visual scan of the people ahead of me. Everyone on the
Mountain Justice side had agreed to a written policy of non-violence.
I doubted that the other side had made any such agreement. Their
repeated taunts and personal attacks, the shout of “
We don't want you here,” as we hiked up the steps—made me worried for my
fellow demonstrators. I clutched my medical bag in anticipation.
There were more verbal accusations from the other side as we crossed
their path. But luckily, there was no blood. I saw some of our
peacekeepers talking to our opponents, and evidently doing good work.
Inside the capitol,
we marched in a clockwise circle in the public arena, and draped
banners over the walls. The counter-protestors marched in a
counter-clockwise circle outside of ours, and continued their praise
of coal. Confined indoors, the cacophony of voices only became
louder, a semi-musical thunderstorm. We had more featured speakers,
including Dustin White, an Organizer for the
Ohio Valley Environmental Council. When a counter-protestor shouted “You don't even live here,” Dustin responded forcefully. “I am an eleventh generation Appalachian West Virginian, born and raised, from the coalfields of Boone County. I am from a long line of coal miners, who never supported strip mining.” Later, Dustin said to his fellow demonstrators, “Don't let anyone here tell you that you're not somebody, because you are. If they want to say that you're an outsider, well, we true West Virginians have invited you here to help support us!” [3] As he continued his speech, the counter-demonstrators
resumed their chant of “We love coal.”
After energized
chants of “We are unstoppable, another world is possible,” we
marched out of the capitol to the somber tune of the John Prine's
“Paradise” (AKA “Mr Peabody's Coal Train.”) On the way out,
we passed a crew of middle school students on a field trip; some
hailed us with peace signs. As I stepped outside, and passed by some
counter-demonstrators, one said, “You want a job? The coal
companies are hiring.” I ignored him.
We re-gathered on
the sidewalk, away from the capitol. One of the officers thanked us
for not causing any trouble, but still kept watch on us, until we had
fully cleared the scene.
By the end of the
event, I had a surprisingly high heart rate for my low amount of
action. My only “medical” task for the day was to act as part of
a human shield to outside cameras, while Noah treated a young woman
who had stumbled on the capital steps, and twisted an ankle. She
recovered well, aided by an ace bandage and cold pack. I was proud
of all my comrades, but especially those on the front lines. They
had conducted themselves with grace, dignity, and strength, in the
face of adversity. It was a good day for the first amendment, and
for our vision for the future.
Many of our opponents were
concerned about threats to their jobs. At present, in parts of rural
West Virginia, few alternatives to coal jobs exist. A transition
away from coal must include plans to re-employ miners.
Notably, mountaintop removal has destroyed not only mountains, but also jobs. In the early 1950s, West Virginia had at least 125,000 people employed as coal miners. By 2004, the number had dropped to 16,000, even as coal production increased. When machines and bombs do the work, people are left out in the cold. Coal-producing counties of Appalachia are among the poorest in the nation, while outside corporations and their executives reap the wealth.
We seek to find a
better way. We seek to create a better economy, with sustainable
jobs, healthier communities, clean water and air, a stable climate, a
good life for children and adults, plants and animals. We might not
have the transition planned in every detail, but that won't prevent
us from launching a dialogue. We might follow in the footsteps of
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and use
direct action to
“create such a crisis and foster such a tension” such as to force the community to confront the issue.
[4] We are
wise to recall another piece of wisdom from Dr. King:
“I refuse to accept the idea that the "isness" of man's present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal "oughtness" that forever confronts him.”[5] Indeed,
we ought to use all our collective wisdom and ingenuity to move
beyond fossil fuels, and achieve mountain justice.
Image Credits
Topmost photo (of Ross at Cooper's Rock State Forest) by Susan Moyle Studlar.
Photo of Mountain Justice group at Kayford Mountain by Nathan Grant.
"True Costs of Coal" thumbnail by the Beehive Design Collective.
"Diversify the Economy" photo by Ritza Francois.
Artist unknown for "Mountain Justice" logo and "Ross at Capitol" photo.
All other images by Ross Wood Studlar. © to respective creators.
Quotes
Other quotes from my own records/ memory.
Recommended Further Reading / Viewing
My folks' three rain barrels proved to be worth more than their weight in gold, and I also got a lot of exercise hauling buckets of water from the neighborhood swimming pool. (Up the road in Weaverville, large numbers of people filled water containers from Lake Louise.) Our refrigerator was well-stocked, and we ate well by candle-light post-storm. We regained the ability to text and call after a few days of near-total cell phone blackout in North Carolina. On Sunday, we connected to the web for the first time since the hurricane by accessing a temporary cell tower near the Pack Library downtown (at a neighbor's suggestion). By mid-week, after more trucks with bottled water and other supplies had gotten through and more retailers had reopened, post-hurricane life felt less like survival and more like camping (although camping is still a lot of work). I returned to Florida two nights ago feeling that things are stable out by Country Creek. Many communities of Western North Carolina had it many times worse than we did, and their road to recovery is long.
