that formed the red rocks and painted dunes surrounding us. The destination that day was Tuba City, Arizona—one of the “big cities” of the reservation. The little grocery store sign reads YA'AT'EEH (Navajo for welcome ). There were two traffic lights, a strip of four-lane road lined by gas stations and fast-food joints, a trading post, a hotel for tourists, and federal institutions aplenty.
Some people might see a third world community, right at the intersection of poverty and the potential for modern prosperity. I see “home.” I didn't grow up here, but it's fairly similar throughout the reservation—communities struggling, under the weight of McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken, to find a balance between being Diné and being “American.”
That day, my car, full of friends and organizers, was heading to the Tuba City Chapter House—the local government office, which is essentially a large meeting room with linoleum floors and florescent lights. The California Public Utilities Commission (CPUC ), which regulates California utility companies, was holding a public hearing. The bigwigs had come out—commissioners and their staffers—and we rarely had visitors like that. This was a major meeting; they came to decide whether to give over a billion public dollars to keep one of Southern California's main power plants, the Mohave Generating Station, open. The plant provided power to the big cities of the Southwest. It is fed coal and water solely through a 275-mile (442.6-kilometer) long steel straw stretching all the way from my home, the Black Mesa region of the Navajo Nation.
Pulling up into the dirt parking lot of the Chapter House, we passed each other some of the stickers that read S HUT D OWN M OHAVE! in bold letters, slapping them on to our jackets and shirts. At first, nobody got out of thecar; silently, we stared at the gate entrance. At the entrance stood a group of older Navajo men wearing Peabody Western Coal hats. This is gonna be ugly , I thought. I recognized a couple of the men as my friends' parents and clan relatives. We must have been pooling our strength silently in the car, because collectively we felt the push to keep going. Luckily, the worst we got as we squeezed through the gate's entrance were harsh stares and murmurs in Navajo. These were their jobs after all that we were threatening.
We arrived before the meeting began, but the list to speak had already filled three pages. I put my name down and my heart beat fast. When I looked at the list, it was filled with the names of Navajo employees of Peabody Coal Company. Where were all the community people we had urged to come? I wondered. We had spent days driving throughout the Black Mesa region, letting people know about this meeting, offering to pay peoples' gas expenses, telling them what's at stake. Many said they would come. My heart sank.
Inside the Chapter House, all the folding chairs were set out and filled; still more people stood against the walls. At the front of the room sat the commissioners, a professionally dressed group of older white men and women. The rest of the room was mostly Navajo with a few non-Navajo supporters mixed in. There were Navajo Peabody people, government people, grandmas and grandpas, and us—the only young people. We called ourselves the Black Mesa Water Coalition, a year-old group of which I was a leading member.
It turned out that more people opposed to the mine did show up, but in good Native time—late. We spent most of the morning listening to Peabody employees tell the CPUC commissioners why they had to keep the power plant open: jobs, college for their kids, a chance at the “American Dream.” The same story you hear from many continuously oppressed communities. I grew more and more irritated hearing it.
But when I heard my name called as one of the next on the list to speak, my palms began sweating and I wondered if it was normal for my heart to beat this fast. I waited against the wall
Some people might see a third world community, right at the intersection of poverty and the potential for modern prosperity. I see “home.” I didn't grow up here, but it's fairly similar throughout the reservation—communities struggling, under the weight of McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken, to find a balance between being Diné and being “American.”
That day, my car, full of friends and organizers, was heading to the Tuba City Chapter House—the local government office, which is essentially a large meeting room with linoleum floors and florescent lights. The California Public Utilities Commission (CPUC ), which regulates California utility companies, was holding a public hearing. The bigwigs had come out—commissioners and their staffers—and we rarely had visitors like that. This was a major meeting; they came to decide whether to give over a billion public dollars to keep one of Southern California's main power plants, the Mohave Generating Station, open. The plant provided power to the big cities of the Southwest. It is fed coal and water solely through a 275-mile (442.6-kilometer) long steel straw stretching all the way from my home, the Black Mesa region of the Navajo Nation.
Pulling up into the dirt parking lot of the Chapter House, we passed each other some of the stickers that read S HUT D OWN M OHAVE! in bold letters, slapping them on to our jackets and shirts. At first, nobody got out of thecar; silently, we stared at the gate entrance. At the entrance stood a group of older Navajo men wearing Peabody Western Coal hats. This is gonna be ugly , I thought. I recognized a couple of the men as my friends' parents and clan relatives. We must have been pooling our strength silently in the car, because collectively we felt the push to keep going. Luckily, the worst we got as we squeezed through the gate's entrance were harsh stares and murmurs in Navajo. These were their jobs after all that we were threatening.
We arrived before the meeting began, but the list to speak had already filled three pages. I put my name down and my heart beat fast. When I looked at the list, it was filled with the names of Navajo employees of Peabody Coal Company. Where were all the community people we had urged to come? I wondered. We had spent days driving throughout the Black Mesa region, letting people know about this meeting, offering to pay peoples' gas expenses, telling them what's at stake. Many said they would come. My heart sank.
Inside the Chapter House, all the folding chairs were set out and filled; still more people stood against the walls. At the front of the room sat the commissioners, a professionally dressed group of older white men and women. The rest of the room was mostly Navajo with a few non-Navajo supporters mixed in. There were Navajo Peabody people, government people, grandmas and grandpas, and us—the only young people. We called ourselves the Black Mesa Water Coalition, a year-old group of which I was a leading member.
It turned out that more people opposed to the mine did show up, but in good Native time—late. We spent most of the morning listening to Peabody employees tell the CPUC commissioners why they had to keep the power plant open: jobs, college for their kids, a chance at the “American Dream.” The same story you hear from many continuously oppressed communities. I grew more and more irritated hearing it.
But when I heard my name called as one of the next on the list to speak, my palms began sweating and I wondered if it was normal for my heart to beat this fast. I waited against the wall
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