below the podium for the speaker before me to complete his three minutes. The mother of a good friend of mine from high school had just finished speaking. She worked for the mine, and she spoke about needing the coal income for her kids' education.
Walking down from the podium, she made a beeline for me. I braced myself; this was going to be painful. I hadn't seen her since my high school graduation, and now to see her here like this with my sticker blaring on my chest. I prepared for the worst. But she didn't attack me with mean words; instead she came over, leaned in close to me, and whispered, “Enei, think about what you are doing, think about what you are saying, think about my son, his college education—don't take that away from him,” and then she left me.
Her words jabbed me harder than any insults could have. For a few seconds, I blinked back tears. Was I about to ruin people's lives? And then I got mad. Why did we have to be beholden to this exploiting corporation just to go to college? Peabody has already destroyed so much here. It was not me that was doing the harm.
When I found myself at the podium looking down at my notes, all I could see were indecipherable amounts of scribbles. I took a deep breath and just told the decision makers my truth from my heart:
I am “Red-Streak-Running-Through-The-Water” people, and I am born from “Bitter Water”; by these clans I am a Diné woman. I am from Shonto; I went to high school in Kayenta, both on Black Mesa's northern edge. And I went to college without Peabody's money. I am a member of the Black Mesa Water Coalition, and we represent young Navajo and Hopi people who say, “Shut down the Mohave Generating Station.” I have seen the coal company give our people little things here and there to keep us “nice”—money for the school, machines to keep the dirt roads smooth— but I have also seen what the coal company has taken away from us: our water, our lands, our choices, our dignity. I grew up drinking the soft, sweet Navajo Aquifer water. And I have seen where the coal company pulls this sacred source of water from the female Black Mesa. Huge pipes pulse with a heartbeat as they take this life force from her and mix it with coal. Our communities have become economic hostages to the coal company. There has to be a way where we are not the exploited and disposable waste of the megacities' power and luxuries, of the overconsuming and all-consuming American Dream .
That CPUC hearing went on late into the night. This was just the beginning for us, young people picking up the reins of community organizing from so many older and exhausted community leaders. And it was this meeting that put many of us face-to-face with our first challengers—our own people, friends, family members, and relatives. If I had been alone at that meeting, I might not have had the courage to step forward and confront it all. But we were together, and so we kept right on going. For the next few years we organized just about anything we could think of—spiritual runs, protests, community meetings and trainings, nonviolent direct actions. With no money in our pockets but with passion in our hearts and bullhorns in our hands, we worked to elevate our community's voices.
On January 1, 2006, due to the work of many Native and non-Native individuals and organizations, the mine, the pipeline, and the power plant all closed. It was a bittersweet victory, however; jobs and tribal income would be lost. Like weeds in a freshly watered and tended garden, new coal proposals began popping up as solutions to this Navajo economic “crisis.” It was no time to celebrate. I felt a crushing weight; we had helped do this, we had helped take away some of the few jobs on the rez and spur new desperate coal proposals. If we were ever going to be welcomed back to the community without side glares and distrust, we were going to have to do more. Our communities deserve a fair and just economic
Walking down from the podium, she made a beeline for me. I braced myself; this was going to be painful. I hadn't seen her since my high school graduation, and now to see her here like this with my sticker blaring on my chest. I prepared for the worst. But she didn't attack me with mean words; instead she came over, leaned in close to me, and whispered, “Enei, think about what you are doing, think about what you are saying, think about my son, his college education—don't take that away from him,” and then she left me.
Her words jabbed me harder than any insults could have. For a few seconds, I blinked back tears. Was I about to ruin people's lives? And then I got mad. Why did we have to be beholden to this exploiting corporation just to go to college? Peabody has already destroyed so much here. It was not me that was doing the harm.
When I found myself at the podium looking down at my notes, all I could see were indecipherable amounts of scribbles. I took a deep breath and just told the decision makers my truth from my heart:
I am “Red-Streak-Running-Through-The-Water” people, and I am born from “Bitter Water”; by these clans I am a Diné woman. I am from Shonto; I went to high school in Kayenta, both on Black Mesa's northern edge. And I went to college without Peabody's money. I am a member of the Black Mesa Water Coalition, and we represent young Navajo and Hopi people who say, “Shut down the Mohave Generating Station.” I have seen the coal company give our people little things here and there to keep us “nice”—money for the school, machines to keep the dirt roads smooth— but I have also seen what the coal company has taken away from us: our water, our lands, our choices, our dignity. I grew up drinking the soft, sweet Navajo Aquifer water. And I have seen where the coal company pulls this sacred source of water from the female Black Mesa. Huge pipes pulse with a heartbeat as they take this life force from her and mix it with coal. Our communities have become economic hostages to the coal company. There has to be a way where we are not the exploited and disposable waste of the megacities' power and luxuries, of the overconsuming and all-consuming American Dream .
That CPUC hearing went on late into the night. This was just the beginning for us, young people picking up the reins of community organizing from so many older and exhausted community leaders. And it was this meeting that put many of us face-to-face with our first challengers—our own people, friends, family members, and relatives. If I had been alone at that meeting, I might not have had the courage to step forward and confront it all. But we were together, and so we kept right on going. For the next few years we organized just about anything we could think of—spiritual runs, protests, community meetings and trainings, nonviolent direct actions. With no money in our pockets but with passion in our hearts and bullhorns in our hands, we worked to elevate our community's voices.
On January 1, 2006, due to the work of many Native and non-Native individuals and organizations, the mine, the pipeline, and the power plant all closed. It was a bittersweet victory, however; jobs and tribal income would be lost. Like weeds in a freshly watered and tended garden, new coal proposals began popping up as solutions to this Navajo economic “crisis.” It was no time to celebrate. I felt a crushing weight; we had helped do this, we had helped take away some of the few jobs on the rez and spur new desperate coal proposals. If we were ever going to be welcomed back to the community without side glares and distrust, we were going to have to do more. Our communities deserve a fair and just economic
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