Headwaters Magazine Fall 2020

HEADWATERS The University of Vermont’s Environmental Publication

Environmental Justice Issue Fall 2020

Masthead Editor in Chief Avery Lentini Managing Editor Maya Bostwick Managing Designers Katelyn Lipton Gretchen Saveson Treasurer Sydney Decker Contributing Editors Julia Bailey-Wells Chris Gish Corinne Hill-James Deniz Dutton Ellyn Lapointe Luke Zarzecki Maya Bostwick Noah Beckage Contributing Artists Ella Weatherington Maggie Alberghini Sam Shaeval

A World Apart

By Deniz Dutton

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his piece aims to address ocean pollution. 14 billion pounds of trash are dumped into the ocean every year, most of it plastic. However, the impact of this garbage on sea life is still not well understood. My intention with the piece is to demonstrate how the ocean— typically thought of as vast— is shrinking, in a sense, as humans influence every corner of the Earth. We are treating the ocean like a garbage can, shrinking the habitat of the wild animals that call it home. As humans, our presence on the Earth is so formidable that the ocean can no longer be thought of as an entity apart. What was once considered vast and mighty is now at our mercy. We can choose to respect the ocean and the life within it or, rather, we can continue treating it like a giant garbage can and face the consequences.

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Planning and Outreach Danny Holman Grace Mungenast Dakota Smith Passionate about an environmental topic? Want to see your art or writing in the Spring 2021 edition?

1. Write a 100 word pitch that outlines your topic and approach (investigative piece, a series of interviews, op-ed, photo essay, art piece—fill us in on how you want to present your work).

2. Email uvmheadwaters@gmail.com by Wednesday, February 17th at midnight.

Please include your pitch, a potential article title, your name, and your year.

Find us @uvmheadwaters on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter and online at uvmheadwaters.org Cover: Art by Katelyn Lipton Copyright © 2020 Headwaters Magazine This magazine was printed on the traditional land of the Abenaki People

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s Grandmother’s Walnut Tree

By Eric Kloeti | page 3 Transcending Boundaries with Wings

By Katelyn Lipton | page 5 Diversity & Rubenstein: A Timeline

By Luke Zarzecki | page 8

Stranger in a Strange Land: Arrival of the Spotted Lanternfly in Pennsylvania

By Niki Teir | page 24 My Time with the Flock: Finding My Sense of Place During the Pandemic

By Sara Klimek | page 27 BIPOC Environmentalists at UVM

By Katelyn Lipton | page 21

Where the White Supremacy of Academia and Environmentalism Intersect: Racism in UVM’s Environmental Program

By Katelyn Lipton | page 11 The Makah and Marginalization in the Environmental Movement

By Tessa Weir | page 17 Island to the Inland Mountains: Jamaican H2A Workers in Vermont

By Alexander Wehr | page 19 Trick or Treat: Agroecology, Community Resilience, and the Impending Fright of the Climate Crisis

By Corinne Hill-James | page 21

The Abenaki Land Link Project

By Emily Wazner | page 31 Grains of Truth

By Reese Green | page 33 An Eco-vision for the Future: How Ecovillages Offer an Alternative Model for Sustainable Living

By Noah Beckage | page 35 California’s Shrinking Sea

By Alexandra De Luise | page 38 Leaves Aren’t Only Green

By Malachi Lytle | page 42

Photo by Ella Weatherington Headwaters Magazine 2

Grandmother’s Walnut Tree

By Eric Kloeti

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his piece is separated into very distinct sections. The roots, shown with jagged edges and straight lines, and the canopy, full of color and life. The reason for combining these two themes is to represent the world people think is happening, versus the world that is actually happening.

Back in Switzerland, my grandmother has a nearly 175-year-old walnut tree that was there before she moved into the house. Her creaky, quaint farmstead house is over 225 years old. The land she is on has remained untouched and clean from industrial pollution for generations.

With Switzerland having serious issues with land usage (both environmental and literally not having enough land for all the people), her home is fetching a high price. Given, it is about an acre and a half in the middle of a rather affluent town. The Swiss government wants to tear down the walnut tree and her house in order to build an apartment complex.

With so many offers coming in, it is only a matter of time before she inevitably sells it and thus it is only a matter of time before the tree and house are removed. This piece is meant to demonstrate the terrifying reality that change is the only constant in the world. The sharp and angular roots are made to represent modern change. This change slowly creeps its way up the trunk until the change is seen in everyday life. Development does not always mean destruction, and this is shown by having the colors blend into one another. Change can bring greatness, but the extent of that greatness is unknowable until the change has been done. H

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Dear Reader, Behold! In your hands— or on your screen, rather— is the ninth edition of the environmental publication we proudly call Headwaters Magazine. This body of work is the product of hours of thoughtful reflection and dedication from our talented writers, editors, and designers. The logistics of pulling together a magazine in the age of coronavirus were, admittedly, significant. We were tasked with finding new and creative ways of communication and overcoming unfamiliar physical distance. In light of these obstacles, I could not be more proud to be a part of this team.

As we continue to be challenged by the pandemic, we must never lose sight of our commitment to the environment and our common humanity. The past nine months of this public health crisis have reminded us of the fragile interconnectedness of the modern world and the active role we must take in shaping our future. We seek, as artists and environmental journalists, to find meaning and guidance in this dizzying complexity. We seek, as young people, to create a better, more equitable world for ourselves and others.

Global reckoning on racial injustice in recent months has called upon us to examine the intimate ways race and the environment are tied. We cannot have conversations about the environment without first acknowledging the systemic injustices that persist within the mainstream narrative of environmentalism. With this edition, we seek to amplify voices of those who are too often left out of the environmental conversation and work towards dismantling the pervasive legacy of white supremacy within the field.

In these pages, we explore stories related to environmental justice and the complex ways humanity responds to a changing world. You will be transported to a disappearing lake in California, a sustainable living community in Vermont, and towns where agriculture is being threatened by an invasive pest in Pennsylvania. You will learn of the unique ways communities are responding to unprecedented challenges within food systems and in the fight for the preservation of indigenous traditions. You will be confronted with truths about the reality of BIPOC experiences in the environmental field, administrative actions and shortcomings at our own university, and challenges foreign seasonal farmworkers face in our state.

It is my sincere wish that this patchwork of stories prompts reflection during these strange but profound times. I hope that it instills within you, a faith in the young voices who will serve as the next generation of thinkers and environmental stewards. We can find great empowerment when we look to our networks of community and truly listen to the wisdom others can share. Thank you to our business team, UVM’s Environmental Program, the Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources, our advisor, Josh Brown, and UVM’s Student Government Association in helping to make the sharing of this wisdom possible.

“Action on behalf of life transforms. Because the relationship between self and the world is reciprocal, it is not a question of first getting enlightened or saved and then acting. As we work to heal the earth, the earth heals us.”

— Robin Wall Kimmerer With gratitude,

Avery Lentini University of Vermont ‘21 Editor-in-Chief of Headwaters Magazine

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TRANCENDING BOUNDARIES WITH WINGS

By Katelyn Lipton

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irds transcend boundaries with their wings. The birds I depict are examples of migratory species that travel from the northeast of North America to Central and South America.

Birds migrate based on necessity, crossing countless state and national border lines in search of a warmer climate with a bountiful food supply. However, these borders become barriers when applying migration to a human context. The border lines that birds cross instinctively and unknowingly become physical barriers for people, who become legal or illegal immigrants based on paperwork. Some get sent back home. Others are arrested, detained, and treated as criminals when they are simply trying to search for a better living situation, much like birds.

However, laws do not apply to birds, who are able to fly freely across these anthropocentric boundaries.

My use of maps in this project references the idea of borders and boundaries in addition to the geographic connectivity of a migration route. The maps do not form the shapes of any countries. This emphasizes the triviality of boundaries and what lies within them. The creation of boundaries is a colonizing practice that disregards pre-existing natural boundaries of ecosystems and indigenous boundaries that were there first.

There is a strange phenomena that is occurring during this year’s seasonal time of migration.

Birds such as Wilson’s warblers and barn swallows have left their homes in the northeast of the United States and Canada, beginning their journey to Central and South America. However, many of these birds are not surviving their full journeys. Birds are found falling dead from the sky, and no one is sure why. The most probable answer lies in the unseen effects of deforestation and climate change. The pit stops where birds usually stop to rest their wings and eat have been increasingly deforested in the past years. Accordingly, researchers speculate that birds could be trying to make the entire flight in one trip rather than taking multiple breaks.

Arvind Panjabi, an ornithologist with the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies, hypothesized that the smoke from fires occurring on the west coast of the US is impacting the air quality and affecting the lungs of migrating birds. It is also possible that climate change has impacted the availability of insects birds feed on. These effects of climate change on migration are transforming birds into climate refugees. Seeing birds as such brings awareness to the human climate refugees who are forced to flee their homes due to wildfires, bad air quality, flooding, drought and other natural disasters resulting from climate change. These bird deaths are foreshadowing the increasing effects climate change will have on people.

Countless refugees, escaping climate-caused disaster and other forms of social strife, die in their attempts to reach a better life. Those that find themselves in US Immigration and Customs Enforcement facilities too often never make it out. Both birds and people are dying on their journey looking for a better life. H

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Diversity & Rubenstein: A Timeline 1988

By Luke Zarzecki

The Rubenstein School of the Environment and Natural Resources began its quest to make their college more inclusive, equitable and diverse. Since then, there have been numerous initiatives to change the foundational issues within the college as well as weave in more diverse views, opinions and teachings into their curriculum. Those efforts have been revamped due to student activism, such as the 2018 NoNames for Justice protests. What follows is a brief timeline of public administrative efforts to address racism within the Rubenstein school. The next pages include anecdotes from BIPOC voices and some aspects of the college that need more attention in pursuit of achieving racial justice at UVM.

Diversity initiatives within the Rubenstein School begin According to the School’s Diversity plan, these initiatives were made possible by “USDA grants to support high school outreach and multicultural scholarships. Since 1988, the School has received well over $2 million in federal funding to support multicultural students.”

1992 1995

Rubenstein Diversity Task Force forms Created to investigate and address racism within Rubenstein, this group of about 20 volunteer members focused on recruitment of undergraduate students and training for faculty members. One of their tasks was to vet new candidates’ experiences with equity and inclusion.

Recruitment activities for a new Multicultural Scholars Program begins “with visits to several of the high schools cultivated during the 1988-1991 Lecture Series for Inner City High School Students program,” according to the School’s Diversity Plan document.

Rubenstein first offers NR 6, Race & Culture in Natural Resources.

1996

Rubenstein releases a Diversity Plan, formally endorsed by faculty and staff.

Rubenstein holds the Seminar Program for Women in Natural Resources after female-identifying students express “desire for assistance in networking with other [female-identifying] students and for increased interaction with [female-identifying] scientists in the field.

The goals of the spring 1996 seminar program were to present positive stories and role models, to increase excitement about professional opportunities for women in natural resources, and to facilitate the formation of mentoring relationships between [female-identifying] students and [female-identifying] faculty in the School.”

Photos by Gretchen Saveson

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1997 1999

2008 2012 2015

2017

Diversity Task Force presents a workshop titled, “Trying to Infuse Multiculturalism into the Curriculum: A Dialogue Between Students, Faculty and Staff at “Building Our Community 1997: Dismantling Racism at UVM”

Rubenstein holds Building Our Community—Our Common Ground Discussion event According to Rubenstein’s Diversity Plan document, “65 people from The Rubenstein School attended this event. Four propositions were voted upon and accepted: 1. The Rubenstein School will reduce its dependence on automobiles by 50% by 2005. This reduction will not be made at the expense of the quality of Rubenstein School teaching and scholarly problems.

2. The Rubenstein School will include diversity learning as a specific component of evaluation for undergrad and grad student requirements for graduation and faculty and staff advancement. This process will include an evaluation of the effectiveness of current diversity programs.

3. The Rubenstein School encourages the UVM Trustees to cooperate with UVM Students Against Sweatshops in developing a socially responsible purchasing code of conduct and with the UVM Coalition for Responsible investment to bring the University investment portfolio in line with the stated goals and shared values espoused by “Our Common Ground”.

4. The Rubenstein School will hold at least one forum meeting per year, facilitated by the Rubenstein School Diversity Task Force, for the next 5 years.”

The New York Times publishes an article detailing Rubenstein’s recruitment efforts of high school students in New York City. These efforts were a collaboration of both UVM students and professors.

Rubenstein releases updated diversity objectives

Rubenstein initiates a cluster hire of four faculty whose work focuses on sustainability, equity, and inclusion. The members of this cohort are Bindu Panikkar, Trish O’Kane, Brendan Fisher, and Rachelle Gould.

Faculty member Allan Strong mentions that bringing in this cohort gives space for more conversations, research and instruction around these issues. “The idea is, bringing in multiple faculty together enables them to start off with the same research interests and have the ability to work as a team. This is an opportunity for folks to work together and tackle bigger issues [of sustainability, equity and inclusion within the environment and the environmental field].”

The School begins work on an Inclusive Excellence Action Plan “in collaboration with the UVM President’s Commission on Inclusive Excellence...to address inclusivity within academics, community, environment, and operations and in the School.”

Rubenstein conducts a college-wide Diversity and Equity Assessment

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2018

The Building Bridges Symposium is hosted by RSENR Graduate Students

Sonya Buglion-Gluck presents her senior thesis on racial climate in RSENR

Rubenstein hosts the BIPOC Environmental Collective and Black History Month Gallery of BIPOC Environmental Leaders

Rubenstein’s Diversity Task Force becomes the IDEA Committee an acronym for “Inclusion, Diversity, Equity and Action” The group felt they needed to be more than a volunteer group. Now, the committee is made up of two faculty members, three students and two staff members who work together to form a more inclusive, equitable, and welcoming college. The group brainstorms how to incorporate diversity and equity into annual reviews and reappointment and tenure processes, puts together an inclusive excellence plan, and rewrites Rubenstein’s diversity statement.

Students raise concerns over Rubenstein core curriculum course NR 6 NR 6: Race and Culture in Natural Resources was originally only two credits in the first semester for every first year student. Each student met with their assigned advisor in a class of about 2025 students. The alleged goal of the class was to serve as an advising seminar and discussion based space about social justice within the environment; however, many BIPOC students felt that much of the learning within the class rested on their shoulders, having to speak to their own trauma and experiences. “[This class] forced BIPOC students to consistently re-live [their] trauma and the trauma of [their] BIPOC siblings for the sake of the potential self-growth of white students,” according to Rubenstein environmental science major Maya Greally.

IDEA committee restructures NR 6 This demand came out of the 2018 list of demands from NoNames for Justice after protests on the Waterman Green.

Now, NR 6 is in the Spring semester instead of the Fall with a maximum of 18 students. Rubenstein Students will take a one credit class in the Fall focused on advising and then NR 6 in the Spring. Mariah Rivera, a Rubenstein Steward (student mentors and activity organizers in RSENR) and Wildlife Biology major, worked with the leaders of Rubenstein to reformat the class to be more inclusive of BIPOC voices and perspectives, and to be more sensitive to discussions around race.

Although Rubenstein has put forth efforts to make the college’s climate more inclusive for over three decades, it has been criticized for not putting in enough work to systematically right the wrongs of historically white-dominated environmental spaces. Addressing these issues will take long-term, action-based commitment on behalf of the university’s administration, and there is still more work to be done.

Continue reading to learn more about some of the problems the Rubenstein administration must address.

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Where the White Supremacy of Academia and Environmentalism Intersect Racism in UVM’s Environmental Program Forward It is never easy to talk about one’s experience as a person of color in a very white institution because it can be an uncomfortable and painful experience. However, it is important to reflect upon in order to improve the institution. I am a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences (CAS) studying Environmental Studies and Studio Art. Most of my college experience was in the Rubenstein School for the Environment and Natural Resources (RSENR), as I transferred to CAS this past fall semester. I am also one of the Managing Designers for Headwaters Magazine. This is my first written, non-art piece for the magazine. I felt called to write this as one of the few people of color who contribute to this magazine. Whiteness assumes a uniformity of experiences, and I want to challenge this by highlighting the BIPOC experience in the Environmental Program at UVM. To begin, I care about UVM and the community within the Environmental Program. I have gained an abundance of knowledge and grown as a result of my near four years at UVM. My education has also taught me to think critically and question the systems we exist within. That being said, I am challenging UVM and the Environmental Program to do better. While I have gained a lot from my experiences, I have also been disappointed by how much was missing from my education. As a person of color, I have kept my qualms with the university inside me for my time at UVM, and I excused racist and uncomfortable situations. However, I am realizing that I have internalized microaggressions and racism, and I am not alone in my experiences. It is time to expose the shortcomings of the Environmental Program that UVM is so proud of. I organized a series of interviews with students and faculty of color, and I am writing to uplift our voices. In the words of a UVM alum, we are here to stay: “I’m here. I’m in the environmental field whether the environmental field wants me or not.”

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By Katelyn Lipton

These conversations were very personal and emotional, and I want to send my gratitude to everyone who participated for giving me their time and emotional energy. I also want to acknowledge the importance of my own identification as BIPOC and that I would not have pursued this article or these interviews otherwise.

Overcoming the Whiteness of UVM I am drawing from my own experiences and that of those I interviewed when I say that colorblind racism is very prevalent at UVM. Students claim to be progressive and supportive of BIPOC yet ignore the different experiences and discomfort of students of color. A professor of color in the Environmental Program explained this phenomenon: “Colorblind racism is a real thing. You have been taught not to pay attention to people’s identities, but everybody has an identity to some extent.

To think [your identity] doesn’t exist and that there is no preferential treatment based on that is convenient. It’s convenient for some. By not addressing it and recognizing it, you become complicit in ignoring the reality of things. There is this idea that based on the U.S. Constitution, everyone is treated the same as an equal, but we know this is not true, look at the statistics. Some people are dying because of who they are.”

Over 80 percent of UVM’s student population is white.

I contribute to the 2.8% of the Asian population. I am telling you these statistics so you can understand how small this nonwhite community is and how often I am the only BIPOC in the room or the only Asian person in the room.

I have only had a handful of classes in the environmental program where I was not the only person of color. Regardless of how progressive we are, colorblindness plagues the students and faculty of UVM. I think this rhetoric comes from a place of discomfort and white guilt. Regardless of its origin, it is harmful because it erases people’s experiences and the struggles that they faced to get to UVM or to enter

the environmental field. A BIPOC at UVM does not have the same experiences as a white person, and that is a fact.

The percentage of white faculty is higher than that of the percentage of students, but still around 80 percent. There are only two professors of color in the Environmental Program at UVM. This is beyond disappointing—it is harmful. UVM needs to uplift and value people of color and give them the space to contribute to the environmental field. This is not a problem unique to UVM and its Environmental Program. Before looking into the issues at our university, it is important to take a step back and understand the barriers that people of color face between them and the elitist nature of the environmental field.

As we shared our similar experiences, a student spoke with expressed this connection: “There is such diversity within the BIPOC community at UVM, yet there is still such a common experience. I said people who look like me, but we all necessarily look like each other. You’re sharing similar experiences here that we can all connect on to some degree.”

Through these interviews, a common experience of BIPOC at UVM in the Environmental Program became very evident. We all experienced the initial shock of entering a white-dominated institution and leaving the comfort of friends at home: “My freshman year I was really struggling with being in such a white space and institution. Even my residence hall felt very white, so I wanted to find community somehow and be in affinity spaces, so I could be with a community I felt more comfortable around.”

“I also grew up in a really white place and most of my friends were Asian of some kind. Even though I grew up in a predominantly white place, I didn’t really have any white friends. Then going to UVM, I didn’t know what to expect. I had no idea what was happening.”

There is also a misconception of Vermont and UVM being a comfortable place for BIPOC. Like a professor I spoke with said: “It’s 95 percent white, but then it’s a very progressive state. I thought since everyone was progressive it was a nice place to be.”

A student voiced the same feelings saying, “When I met people [at UVM], I realized it was not really that woke. It was kind of like a weird reality check when I got here.”

Financial Barriers in the Environmental Field It is assumed there is a uniformity of experiences within the environmental field. The common narrative I’ve heard from UVM environmental students is that their love of nature stems from a life-changing camping trip or grand hiking expedition. However, this is not the reality that many BIPOC have experienced. Money is a serious barrier when people are unequipped to enter the outdoors or unable to pursue higher education to study the environment. The elitism and white supremacy of universities is a barrier that all BIPOC must overcome in order to academically pursue the environment.

There is a culture around outdoor recreation, at UVM and beyond, that emphasizes having the best gear from the best brands, so much so that it becomes a social contest. This issue impacts students in environmental classes at UVM because they are expected to attend field labs as part of the curriculum. A Rubenstein alum explains: “I know [professors] talk every so often saying that sometimes gear is an access issue where some students won’t have a winter jacket or snow boots, so they can’t go on the field labs. ‘If they have this issue they can talk to me one on one.’

But no, they actually can’t, because you’re super unapproachable. You have the large presence of a white guy. You are hard to interact with. Gear is not easily accessible if you have to go through so many people to find a winter jacket or snow boots for this lab.”

Even though there are opportunities to borrow gear through the university, that does not mean it is accessible or free. It is humiliating to be singled out as unprepared when other students, who all have expensive gear and equipment, assume that everyone is on equal, colorblind footing. BIPOC students do not need to be othered any more at this institution than we already are, which is why the People of Color Outdoors club (POCO) is such an important affinity group.

“Outdoor recreation is very white, and if you go out, you don’t see as many people of color

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dominating the field…Having that space where you’re with people that may also look like you and experience similar experiences as you in the outdoors is really important. In POCO, they don’t create an environment where you feel like you need to have everything ready or have all of the experiences or gear.”

The White Supremacy of Outdoor Recreation on Stolen Land In addition to the barriers of gear and experience, it is essential to note the white supremacy of outdoor recreation culture.

“Some BIPOC individuals don’t feel welcomed in these spaces still due to the history of the creation of greenspaces or due to the fact that they might feel like they are that one BIPOC individual who’s interested in outdoor activities. They could be uncomfortable going into a predominantly white space on their own and not want to go away from the pack.”

Additionally, many BIPOC students are painfully aware that this interaction of nature occurs on stolen land, prefacing recreational activities with immense privilege and injustice. People hike, bike, and explore these lands, yet do not acknowledge the fact that they are not theirs to begin with. Western culture enforces the consumption and conquest of nature, as people explore with a sense of accomplishment similar to white colonizers. What reparations are we paying to recreate on indigenous lands? UVM is built on Abenaki land. This is the context we are learning and recreating within. In addition to land theft, outdoor recreation is also historically white supremacist. National Parks have a history of segregation in which people of color have been legally excluded from these spaces in the Jim Crow era. The segregation of parks was not officially eliminated until the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964. This means that our peers’ parents could have grown up without access to greenspace.

Simply having access to the outdoors is a major determinant in studying the environment and being part of the environmentalist movement. I’ve heard countless students in the Environmental Program at UVM talk about camping with friends and family, hiking ridiculously long distances, backpacking across mountain ranges, rock climbing and ice climbing. I love spending time in nature, but I have never had extreme experiences like these. I went on a hike with the Outing Club my freshman year, but I didn’t really feel included or seen. I was the slowest hiker which made

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me feel self-conscious. I never understood why I felt so excluded from this culture at UVM or from the outdoors in general, but talking to other BIPOC students made me realize I am not alone.

“I was scared because I was seeing all of these other individuals who had all of this experience and knowledge and were talking about their experiences in the outdoors. I knew I did not have that, or I didn’t feel like I would be supported in these groups if I were to go into the outdoors with them.”

Racism in UVM’s Environmental Program Another shared experience of students of color in the Environmental Program is the frustration with professors and their curriculum, specifically white professors. Every student I interviewed shared the same critiques of their environmental classes. One student summarized our discontent perfectly: “The story and the narrative I have been fed [studying the environment], and am still being fed as a senior, is primarily the cis straight white man story of being in the environment and connecting to the environment. If traditional indigenous knowledge is incorporated into the classroom, it feels like an add-on to the primary narrative the professor is teaching as a course. It is being taught in a way that is othering indigenous people and BIPOC individuals who might be present in the class or who’s narrative is being shared by a white professor who might not be doing their narrative justice.”

The environmental movement has historically excluded people of color. However, BIPOC environmentalists, scientists, researchers, and activists are important players in representation and pushing for a transformation of the environmental field to be intersectional and to include the junction of racism, class, and gender in environmentalism.

Why do our environmental classes at UVM continue to highlight old white racist men, when they could be uplifting BIPOC voices in this movement?

“Other cultures also understand the environment and plants and systems at a biogeochemical molecule compound scale. That’s not unique to Western science. That’s an argument a lot of environmental scientists make, that we can’t get

that specificity or detail if we use traditional ecological knowledge or indigenous villager knowledge. That’s just not true.”

A student shared how one of their professors acknowledged the problematic history of some white environmentalists, but continued to teach them in a positive light. This is unacceptable and offensive to people of color that these historic figures abused. “[A professor] was talking about these early white environmentalist movements, and people like Thoreau or Roosevelt who technically have done nice things for the environment, but things have come up, and they’re actually really racist and have caused a lot of damage to indigenous groups. But then they’re like, ‘but that aside, they did so many great things for the environment’. You can’t just say that aside. It’s like a check mark. ‘Okay I acknowledged it, I’m going to move on’.”

White professors routinely check off the box of acknowledging race at the beginning of every semester, as the professors introduce themselves to their classes. It usually goes something like: “Hi, my name is [blank]. I want to acknowledge that I am a white, straight, cis-gendered male, and these identities give me privileges.”

While it is essential for white professors to acknowledge their privilege, I want to tell them that this statement is merely a charade if you do not follow through and prove that you have educated yourself. You cannot make these claims and pretend you are aware of racial issues and tensions in the environment yet continue to make statements that offend your students of color. Every student I interviewed shared an experience where a white professor either made them uncomfortable or irritated. I will share the most extreme anecdote first.

“My experiences in [this course] were pretty traumatic, and that was a big part of my organizing at Rubenstein, to change that course. It’s a D1 class, so that’s supposed to introduce you to the race dimension of the environment. But the way the class was taught, the faculty were not equipped to do it well. They were constantly microaggressing and macroaggressing. It was so othering from other [white] students in the class also. It was so bad. That class ruined so many relationships for me because of what students

would say in class or say to me after class.”

The course this student is referring to is taught by a white professor. The student is an alum, and since their graduation, the course has been revised and radically altered.

However, current students have also voiced discontent with the nature of this course.

“It’s hard to have these initial conversations with a lot of white students who haven’t really learned much about [race] yet. There are a lot of generalizations they make. Then it’s about you [BIPOC] in the class.”

The fact that this course is centered around BIPOC in the environment yet is taught by a white professor is very troubling. How can a white teacher facilitate learning on a matter that is not within their realm of experiences? It can feel very othering for students of color. When a white professor is talking about the “BIPOC experience”, they are not speaking from their own personal experiences. Students of color are forced to sit and listen to a white person tell them how they are feeling, and this is problematic. Students want to see change: “I think there should be some evaluations for some professors. I understand we have diversity training and these discussions being had within the administration, but still, we see some professors doing harm to BIPOC individuals unintentionally in classes. They are probably coming forth with good intentions, but they still themselves are uncomfortable having these conversations about race and equity, they aren’t representing the narrative appropriately. That can be traumatic or harmful to individuals.”

“It’s not that I don’t think white professors can do it, but all of the ones that I’ve had don’t really do the extra work.”

This is an important note. I am not trying to say that white professors should not be able to teach about the environment. They just need to put in the time and energy to educate themselves about BIPOC opinions, cultures, and experiences in order to share diverse voices and avoid offensive statements. The majority of white professors in the environmental department do not show any indications of self-education and instead rely on students of color to come forth with corrections and complaints.

“I feel like they’re not willing to do the work and they put it onto BIPOC students to do the

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work which is frustrating because I don’t think it should be our responsibility to do that.”

When the responsibility of talking about diversity and representation falls on students of color, it does not fall on all of us collectively. I could handle these uncomfortable confrontations if I had BIPOC support. These confrontations occur in individual courses where there is likely only one person of color. This leads to the tokenization of that student and burdens us with the responsibility of bringing in a non-white perspective. I agree fully with what the following student said: “I feel so much pressure sometimes when people would ask “what do you mean?” I don’t want to misspeak. Sometimes I’m not always ready to have that conversation.”

One student I interviewed made sure to remind me that this is not our job as BIPOC students.

“You start to get into the mindset or think of yourself as filling that role of explaining or being the representative for your race or identity. No, you don’t. You are putting in emotional labor that no one is supporting you for.”

While it is irritating and exhausting to be the one to talk about race in a class full of white people, it is more hurtful when our input is dismissed or ignored.

“Whenever I bring [race] up, there’s this disconnect. I feel like I get blank stares. People’s eyes glaze over. That hurts over time. You fundamentally don’t understand anything I am saying and you’re not trying to either. That is constant in Rubenstein, and I know you know what I mean.”

There is vulnerability in sharing our experiences with racism, and it takes effort from white people to understand our experiences that they will never live. I want to see this effort required from professors and students. In addition, while it can be exhausting to share, BIPOC are the only ones who have the right to share our stories. When I asked a professor of color if they felt tokenized, their response initially surprised me.

“No. Issues of race and equity are something that impact us personally. We have to step up and actually speak up about it to some extent. I would rather that I step up and do it rather than have a white person step up and do it while assuming this is what’s best for people of color. I know that

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has been problematic.”

It is important to learn from BIPOC voices, but it is also important to understand that these conversations can become burdening. It is essential to always respect a person’s willingness or unwillingness to talk about their experiences.

A common phrase that came up in every interview was, “you know what I mean.” It was said as a statement, not a question. This means I feel supported, and I feel comfortable. In voicing our common experience in UVM’s Environmental Program, students shared outlets in which they found support. Many students turned to BIPOCEC, the Black Indigenous People of Color Environmental Collective.

“BIPOCEC emerged as a more significant community or option in Rubenstein, as a space for BIPOC. I’m glad that it’s stayed this relatively informal place to hang out and get to know each other. That was the intention. To center our rest and joy. Yes, the organizing is really important, and you could say that BIPOCEC is a form of organizing. The equity work and justice work that is white-centered doesn’t have a space in BIPOCEC. It’s really about us [BIPOC folx] and what we need and how we can build resistance and resilience for ourselves.” “[BIPOCEC] is really a space to find community within other BIPOC environmental individuals. [BIPOCEC] is such a beautiful community, and we really want to continue to facilitate that community for any other individual who feels like they’re struggling to be a BIPOC individual in the environmental field or in the outdoors.

We want to let them know there is community and support for them there. This space can be anything they want to turn it into.”

Students have also mentioned feelings of support and connection with other BIPOC faculty. A student described how she formed a connection to one faculty member of color.

“I’ve formed a personal connection with my advisor over my years at UVM. They were one of the only BIPOC individuals I saw in the administration, so I thought they could give me support and we could talk about these issues.”

In talking about the support that exists for students, it caused us to wonder, what support exists for faculty of color in the Environmental Program? In talking to profes-

sors of color, I learned that there is no organized support for them. The most revolting information I learned is that there are confirmed white supremacists within the faculty at UVM. I accepted that this institution was founded on racist principles, with the Eugenics Movement and all, but I always saw it as a more subtle and subconscious force today. However, that is not the case. A professor enlightened me to the presence of white supremacists teaching at our institution: “You would be surprised how much. There are some faculty members that do believe that it’s not just Black Lives Matter, it’s All Lives Matter.

I’ve heard people say that in our university community.”

The Solution Requires an Overhaul of UVM’s Power Dynamics How can professors of color feel comfortable if there is white supremacy within their coworkers? What harmful ideologies are making their way into their pedagogy that students are then absorbing as fact? Why is this accepted at UVM? The solution is deceptively simple.

“All of this could be changed if we could have more visible faculty of color, more students of color, staff of color. People wouldn’t feel left out.”

Adding more faculty of color seems like the most intuitive solution to the problems within UVM and the Environmental Program. However, the university has made it clear that this is not one of their priorities. A professor shared that they have been witnessing more and more BIPOC professors choosing to leave UVM. Their decision to leave the university could be tied to the lack of community and inclusion. However, UVM’s response, or lack of response, is more telling about how this institution views its professors of color.

“One of my friends who is a faculty member who left could have easily been given a counteroffer but they didn’t. I do not think UVM is doing everything they can to keep people of color here.”

The fact that UVM keeps professors that support All Lives Matter yet does not bother to give counter offers when BIPOC professors are leaving speaks volumes. The lack of effort to retain professors of color shows that it is not a priority to support them and include them in the university.

This is a fundamental flaw of UVM and is rooted in white supremacy.

“Retention is recruitment. Any student of color you can keep here is a recruitment of other students. Ultimately, you have to build a space that everyone feels that they belong to. The concept of placemaking is about building a community where everyone feels like they can contribute to it and they have some part in shaping it and constructing it. If you’re feeling left out, if you feel like you do not fit in, it’s easy to feel that you don’t belong here. The university has to do a better job at thinking about who UVM wants. Why do people of color, students of color, faculty of color, or staff of color feel like they do not belong here at UVM? ” This is not a simple issue to solve by adding more courses or more faculty of color. There are power dynamics that need to be challenged within the university in order to create a space that supports its students and faculty of color.

“Essentially it’s an issue of power. Power can be good when it’s good, but it can be quite abusive.

I think in a university system that’s so hierarchical, it’s a hard thing to address. Staff might not feel comfortable talking to their faculty about issues or junior faculty might not feel comfortable speaking up for fear of being fired. These issues are very much alive at UVM.”

Closing Statements It may be hard to hear that UVM is not the woke and progressive bubble that people once thought it was. For some students and faculty, it has never felt like a comfortable space to exist within. The “diversity” that UVM advertises is capitalist branding. It is misleading and allows the university to profit while co-opting the traumatic experiences of people of color while not giving back to the BIPOC community. An alum stated why this needs to change: “I don’t think Rubenstein or UVM should be actively recruiting right now in diverse areas right now. The fundamental systems at that college need to change so that it can actually support the “diversity” that they bring into the school.

Otherwise, BIPOC are just going to keep having horribly negative experiences” I offer these criticisms to help improve the university and its Environmental Program and move forward to highlight BIPOC voices and support students and faculty of color. H

Headwaters Magazine 16

The Makah and Marginalization in the Environmental Movement

By Tessa Weir

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he Makah are an indigenous people whose homeland surrounds the Neah Bay in so-called Washington State. The Makah have a rich, complex culture filled with unique woodcarving, dance, and song. They are also known in mainstream media for their controversial practice of whaling. Whaling is a significant part of the Makah culture, so much so that the tribe gave up thousands of acres of their land in exchange for the right to hunt whales.

Despite this, the Makah have been barred from hunting for 70 years due to a federal ban on whaling as a result of the Endangered Species Act. Gray whales were once endangered due to colonial overhunting but their populations are currently thriving. The Makah have fought for their right to hunt ever since gray whales were removed from the Endangered Species list in 1994. A new exemption to the federal ban was proposed by the NOAA on behalf of the Makah in 2019 that would allow tribal members to hunt whales once again to a limited degree. Over the next ten years, the Makah are allowed to hunt a total of 20 whales.

While on one hand this exemption is a triumph in a fight to preserve their culture, it has also made the Makah a target for animal rights activists.

Indigenous hunting rights have long been controversial amongst environmental activists. For native communities, hunting and fishing have enormous cultural and religious value and can be far less exploitative than the mainstream meat and dairy industries in the US. Treaty rights often grant Native Americans different hunting and fishing regulations than non-native citizens, even beyond formal reservation lines. As a result, some treaties give native peoples the right to hunt and fish off the reservation, prompting opposition from non-native hunters who are subject to stricter regulations.

Still, it is not just non-native hunters who target indingenous peoples, but animal rights activists as well. When the Makah people first announced their return to whaling in the 1990s, they attracted a wrath of activists who believed the lives of the whales to be more important than Art by Sam Shaevel

17 Headwaters Magazine

the cultural practices and health of the Makah tribe. These activists ignore the fact that the Makah willingly gave up whaling when the whales became endangered, only wishing to begin the practice again after the population had recovered. The tribe received such severe harassment—as far as death threats—that the National Guard was called in to protect the reservation.

Decades later, the threat of climate change further marginalizes native groups like the Makah. Native communities are more vulnerable to climate change, environmental degradation, and species extinction than their non-native counterparts. From rising sea levels and increasing severity of storms to declining animal populations, indigenous tribes are disproportionately impacted by climate change.

As a result, native communities are often pushing for environmental conservation and research. An example is the climate change program of the Affiliated Tribes of Northwest Indians, an organization of multiple tribes that aims to combat climate change through legislative action and education. By relying on traditional knowledge to identify the best ways to protect resources, the group aims to reduce emissions and identify the best ways to mitigate climate change. Despite this, the use of animal products by indigenous peoples is often heavily criticized by conservationists, often resulting in harassment similar to what the Makah people face. It is easier to blame already marginalized groups with limited resources than it is to take on large corporations whose profits depend on perpetuating climate change.

The true culprits of environmental degradation are large corporations, many of which the average US consumer relies on for day-to-day life. According to the Climate Accountability Institute, 71% of greenhouse gas emissions can be traced to just 100 companies, with the biggest contributors being Shell, BP, Exxon Mobil, and Chevron.

The meat and dairy industries are responsible for 14.5% of global greenhouse gas emissions through the production and transportation of products as well as massive deforesta-

tion. Even the animal products that cause the least amount of environmental degradation still have a more severe impact than plant-based substitutes. With such wide-scale environmental damage being perpetuated by mainstream energy, food, and clothing industries, it is almost impossible for any person, no matter how environmentally conscious, to avoid contributing to climate change. The sustainable consumption of goods is even more difficult for indigenous people who cannot afford climate-conscious options that may be more expensive due to the elevated rates of poverty they experience.

Despite this reality, the mainstream white-dominated media tends to focus on the individual instead of the systemic causes of climate change, often excluding BIPOC voices. We all hear the quick and easy fixes. We see the infographics detailing how much of the rainforest we could save by going vegan. We read the articles about reducing our personal carbon footprint. We are advised to only travel by bus, to recycle, to take short showers, and to never touch anything made of plastic again. It has been shouted from the rooftops: if only people cared enough about the environment, climate change would no longer plague us. Nevermind how expensive it is to be vegan, nevermind that the largest contributors to global gas emissions are the fossil fuel and agricultural industries. Often this guilting comes in the form of advertisements that claim to sell more

sustainable products without any proof of follow-through.

This narrative ignores the efforts of indigenous activists, essentially commodifying the environmental movement.

When the mainstream media simplifies the issue and blames consumers, it causes environmental activists to turn on each other. As a result, some of the most vulnerable within the environmental movement—indigenous peoples—face descrimination not just at the hands of exploitative corporations, but also at the hands of so-called activists who claim to be on the side of justice. The backlash against the Makah trying to execute their legal hunting rights is just one example of environmentalists targeting the wrong group. The structural causes of climate change cannot be overturned quickly, easily, or by any one individual or community. As a result of the narrative that it is individuals that cause climate change, a sense of guilt and hopelessness has permeated the environmental movement.

In an effort to alleviate that guilt, those that are privileged further shift the blame to marginalized peoples despite the fact that these people bear little responsibility for climate change and already see the worst of its effects. Climate change is an intersectional issue, a fact often overlooked by the media and the environmental movement as a whole.

As individuals who care about the environment, it is our responsibility to see beyond misguided media and hold the right people accountable. H

Art by Braden DeForge Headwaters Magazine 18

Art by Eileen Brickel

Island to the Inland Mountains:

Jamaican H2A Workers in Vermont

By Alexander Wehr

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he weather channel alert went off on my phone this morning—they warned me, but I didn’t listen. The heat today was supposedly going to break June temperature records. It was a humid 95 degrees, and I felt dizzy-drunk. We were supposed to plant the chard a foot and a half apart and I was screwing up. Max, a Jamaican guest worker planting across from me, would remind me in a stern voice: “A foot and a half.” I wanted to scream at him, express my current frustration and say something like, “I’m

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thirsty, sunburned, all the joints in my body ache, and on top of that, I’m probably going to faint soon.” But instead, when he reminded me, I would grumble, “sorry.” He cared about teaching me the most efficient farming techniques. I listened, but not enough.

Max is a seasonal farmworker who was granted a work visa through the federal H2A program to live and work here in the US. The H2A program was implemented by the US government in 1986 to help seasonal labor shortages on farms by allowing foreign workers into the country on fixed contracts. Max and I worked on Lewis Creek Farm in Starksboro, Vermont, with two other H2A workers and another University of Vermont (UVM) student. We were planting chard for this long shift in the Big Field, the largest open area on the farm. The mile-long field was quite a sight, with long rows of various sprouting crops and a creek so close that you could hear it bubbling, all tucked away in a small mountain valley. Like most days, the Jamaicans laughed and spoke Patois quickly as they worked. I could sometimes make out what they were saying, but usually not. They planted impressively fast and didn’t seem deterred by the heat. I was quiet, especially during this shift. I did not speak unless spoken to. Max made conversation the most. He was funny, and despite my poor mood, I would laugh along with him when he noticed my pain: “Your back is in pain, you need the Guinness stout, Guinness for your back.”

Eventually, the shift was over. I got to relax and swim for a bit in the creek before leaving the Big Field. I hopped onto the platform attached to the tractor to catch a ride back to the farmhouse. I was aching and sore, but satisfied that I had made it through the day. On the ride up I caught a full glimpse of the Big Field. I thought to myself, how could Max and the other H2A​workers do this every day, working in the field for up to ten hours a day, through all sorts of weather?​Even though I didn’t complain to anyone during that shift beside myself, I still felt like a brat. The work ethic of my Jamaican coworkers was impressive, and I was humbled to work with them.

In office, President Donald Trump has emphasized “border security”, increased undocumented non-violent deportations, and has not condemned white supremacy groups. “Trump Fans the Flames of a Racial Fire ” as the New York Times put it, contributing to the systemic racism many immigrants experience in this country on top of the challenges they’re facing of leaving home and navigating a foreign culture and bureaucracy. What’s more, migrant workers coming to the US in 2020 have to bear heightened risks of the COVID-19 pandemic. In early October, thirty-two Jamaican H2A workers tested positive for COVID-19 at one orchard in Shoreham. This was a

significant outbreak for Vermont, where transmission rates have been some of the lowest in the country. The association between the virus and foreign workers may contribute to negative prejudices about immigrant laborers coming to the US. But if anything, what it should prove is the dedication of these workers for their willingness to risk contracting the virus—from a country that handled the crisis very poorly—in hopes of securing income for themselves and their families back home.

We don’t see pictures or hear much about the foreign labor force we depend on, consisting of both H2A workers and many undocumented non-H2A workers. When our community thinks of local food, Vermonters should not forget or downplay how essential migrant workers are to our farm economy. Vermont is the second whitest state and second most rural state in the US. Furthermore, Forbes ranked Vermont as the third worst state to do business in, and as of 2019, its population was declining. While Forbes ranks the state as one of the best states to raise kids and one of the safest states in the country, the lack of adequate incomes, diversity, and affordable housing fail to attract newcomers to fill labor shortages. The agriculture industry has propagated images of farmers in the state as primarily white, but the true backbone of our local agriculture economy remains hidden and underappreciated.

On Lewis Creek Farm, I was the youngest employee.

The H2A workers I worked with were all older than me.

Max was in his fifties, and he’d been working there since the nineties. As the national H2A program started recruiting more workers to meet farming demands, more H2A workers came to Lewis Creek. The newest worker at the farm was Rayon; he is thirty years old, from Manchester, Jamaica, and is Max’s son. The first time I met him, he was riding the tractor and doing irrigation work while a few other UVM students and I were planting in the Big Field.

After we finished, he asked for my number and suggested that we go to Burlington’s bars that weekend. I unfortunately could not take him up on his offer due to my age, but throughout my work at Lewis Creek, I continued to build my relationship with Rayon. I learned that he was a mechanic, went to technical school, and farmed yams and bananas in Jamaica. A mechanic isn’t an easy job and it struck me how a trained mechanic in Jamaica has a better opportunity in the US as a farmworker. The wage disparity between Jamaica and the US makes low-wage farm work in the US is more economically advantageous than trained blue collar work in Jamaica.

But his year in Vermont has brought Rayon more than just economic opportunity. He got married and began the processes of obtaining citizenship. I met his wife, then-fiance, at a Harvest party back in September, and she

is lovely. Rayon is no longer an H2A worker; he’s a U.S. citizen and a farmworker. He challenges the stereotypical view of a local farmer as a non-white immigrant who lives in the very rural and homogenous town of Starksboro. He followed the path to citizenship to gain a better life for himself and his family. His journey coming to Vermont shows that the H2A program can help bring hardworking, educated citizens into the state.

I asked Rayon if he ever had any doubts about coming to the US, wanting to know more about his experience. I asked if he ever was concerned about his safety because of the virus, “no man, it’s an opportunity, follow the procedures...wear a mask.” Only if we all could follow protocol we could create a much safer community.

When working at Lewis Creek Farm, I could hardly imagine any US American I knew to have the Jamaican H2A workers’ dedication—the work is physically demanding, with long hours and very few days off. You have to be tough to work a job this demanding. I noticed that the Jamacains always had an upbeat attitude and seemed to be having fun while they tended to the land. Even when I had a long, tough day, I felt a sense of pride in my work. Jamaica may be very far away from Vermont and have a different climate, but I wondered if Jamaicans felt the same way I did—connected to the Vermont land. I asked Rayon if he felt connected to the farm and whether it helped him with his work. “It’s a good feeling, lots of opportunities...feel tired, yes...it’s beautiful here”. Anyone can be an environmentalist when you work with the land all day; it affects you in a very intrinsic way.

After the season wrapped up in Mid-October, I came back to Lewis Creek Farm to interview Rayon about his experience. But first, I headed to the Big Field to take pictures. I didn’t even make it that far, though, before I stopped by the rocky bank of Lewis Creek. The sound of the stream and the chirping of birds felt tranquil. I could only see some of the Big Field from an opening in the trees.

I remember one of the rows. Patches of grass and weeds now grew where the crops I once planted did. It’s strange how fast it takes for a seedling to be ready for harvest. I thought of how many people it took to run Lewis Creek Farm; young college students, Jamaican H2A workers, mid-20-year-old bohemians, and our sporadic, quirky old farm manager. It took so many helping hands to cultivate food. With the United States so divided, I can’t help but think that if people had an accurate view of who’s involved in the process of producing food, that divide might lessen.

Rayon called me, and I snapped out of my daydream. I walked up to the farmhouse to talk to Rayon, now a new Vermonter, one who against all odds became an American during one of the most stressful times in our history. H

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TRICK or TREAT: Agroecology, Community Resilience, and the Impending Fright of the Climate Crisis

By Corinne Hill-James

F

armers are always at the whim of the weather. One drought or storm can mean the difference between bounty and bankruptcy. As the global climate crisis unfolds, our food systems are becoming increasingly vulnerable to natural disasters and unpredictable weather. How can we, as farmers and the people who depend on farmers, prepare for the changes in climate that are to come?

As the climate evolves, how we practice agriculture must evolve. Agroecology is not new, but it has been forgotten by much of our industrialized, profit-driven system of agriculture that predominates in the United States. In an agroecological approach, farmers begin to rebuild networks of resiliency within the greater community they are part of, something that conventional farming neglects. According to the Warf Encyclopedia definition of agroecology written

by V. Ernesto Méndez, “in agroecology…farming commu-

nities are seen as part of a broader social and ecological landscape in which farmers and other rural actors interact and negotiate to pursue their particular goals.”

This is what the resiliency of those community networks looks like in practice: October 31, 2019 was a memorable day for farmers that depend on the rich, fertile land of the Winooski River floodplain in Burlington, VT. 3.3 inches of rain fell and temperatures reached a balmy 71 degrees, breaking records on a holiday where trick-or-treaters would ordinarily plan to hide their costumes under down jackets and hear the crunch of dried, frosted leaves beneath their feet. On a landscape that has been prized for thousands of years for its productive agricultural soils fertilized by the frequent flooding of the Winooski River, this Halloween brought farmers one scary trick.

Art by Gretchen Saveson 21 Headwaters Magazine

A Facebook post from ICF calling for community help to save crops from floodwater.

Eight farms operate on more than 250 acres of land in the floodplain that is managed by the Intervale Center, a nonprofit that supports sustainable local food systems.

The land of Burlington’s Intervale, insulated by the river and the surrounding hills of the Champlain Valley, usually supports a longer growing season than other frost-prone farmland at higher elevations nearby. A Halloween flood, however, caused the sudden fright of a season cut short.

Farmers feared damage like that from 2012’s Tropical Storm Irene, a storm of unprecedented impact that affected the state for years. Crops contaminated with floodwater become unsellable, rendering anything left in the field a lost investment. A landscape that usually provides the community with $1.4 million worth of food each year forced the community to sacrifice their final months’ bounty to the monstrous power of Mother Nature.

Now, in October 2020, one year after the Halloween flood, weathered shards of blue and green glass sparkle in the soil alongside agricultural fields. The glass is left over from when the land was used as a dumping ground after being abandoned by dairy farmers who had never recovered from a tragic flooding event in 1927. While gentle in

The Old North End Farmers’ Market in Burlington in June 2016, taken from the market’s Facebook page. comparison, the flooding in 2019 was powerful enough to wash up buried glass and metal artifacts and scatter them across the floodplain. The tool shed on Diggers’ Mirth Collective Farm still bears a shocking waterline revealing the ghost of several feet of floodwater.

The fright for farms on the Intervale was severe. Diggers’ Mirth would normally have at least a month left to harvest and sell late-season crops, but as the rain fell, they had to rush to salvage everything they could before water reached their fields.

But something special happened during this scare that brought Diggers’ Mirth and other farms on the Intervale a surprising Halloween treat. Overnight, the farms gathered an army of dozens of volunteers to help salvage their endof-season produce from the fields.

Hannah Baxter, Gleaning and Food Access Manager at

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the Intervale Center, refers to the response as a true example of “community-supported agriculture” (CSA). Diggers’ Mirth and its neighbor, the Intervale Community Farm (ICF), had developed deep ties within the greater Burl ington community that created a network of resiliency in the face of a natural disaster. Micah Barritt, one of the five co-owners of Diggers’ Mirth Collective Farm, spoke of the farm’s commitment to community while leading a tour to students in the University of Vermont’s undergraduate Advanced Agroecology Course: we “give people what they really need,” he said. He explained how they pioneered the Old North End Farmers’ Market in a neighborhood of Burlington where the lack of access to fresh, healthy food makes it a food desert. Vendors sell produce here at a fraction of the price they would sell it for at other markets.

Furthermore, due to the transportation and access barriers created by COVID-19, the farm began offering a home delivery service to get their produce directly to the doors of people in need. Micah explains that these management decisions do not make the farm rich—they do things this way because they are committed to serving their community.

Commitment to community pays off in other ways.

Hannah, a professional crop salvager, joined the gleaning efforts at ICF after the Halloween flood because she wanted to make sure she, a member of ICF’s CSA program, and others would have veggies to eat for the rest of the Fall.

These farms grew by listening to and responding to the demands of their consumers. They set aside maximizing yield and profit and instead ensured that they were truly meeting their communities needs for access to healthy, local, delicious food.

This connection to community is an essential dimension of agroecology that sets it apart in practice from conventional farming. The United States Department of Agriculture estimates that the agriculture industry lost $20 million due to Tropical Storm Irene in 2012. The department lists potential strategies to help farmers to adapt to flood risks associated with climate change in their resource page on their website, “Farming the Floodplain: Trade-offs and Opportunities,” but they fail to mention anything about the power of community relationships.

Our national food system will risk a complete collapse as the climate crisis unfolds if we do not begin to move away from industrial farming that exists in isolation from its neighbors and consumers. Agroecology’s value of community-interdependence will become essential. The response to flooding disasters on farms on the Intervale prove how valuable strong communities are for farms. If we follow the example of Diggers’ Mirth and ICF and bring farming back to the community, we will begin to regain resiliency. H Art by Corinne Hill-James 23 Headwaters Magazine

“But something special happened during this scare that brought Diggers’ Mirth and other farms on the Intervale a surprising Halloween treat. Overnight, the farms gathered an army of dozens of volunteers to help salvage their end-of-season produce from the fields.”

T

Schultz, the Lanternflies first appeared last year but have he year 2020 has brought upon profound changes to drastically increased since then. Schultz spoke to his worry our everyday lives. Within the context of a global panabout the future of the orchard as the Lanternfly situation demic, there are parallels between the consequences of bioworsens: “We heard about them a few years ago, and we are logical invaders and our changing climate. Similarly to the concerned about them. Winemaking is something on our coronavirus, insect invaders can incite quarantines, intense 10 year plan, which has caused us to pause on going forcontact tracing, and economic destruction. A particular ward with that project. We do have Concord grapes, and invasive species quickly damaging Pennsylvania’s ecosyswe saw the Lanternfly in there a little bit last year, but this tem, the Spotted Lanternfly, is destroying the livelihood of year they probably increased fifty-fold. Last year there were many small farmers in the state. only a few, so we worked with the state to start controlling The Spotted Lanternfly steals from science fiction novthem, but even with the control measures in place els; its beautiful, black spotted wings with a deep red you’re seeing them almost non-stop from July center are alien-like, it multiplies at dangerous until [October].” rates, and it appears suddenly with little According to Schultz, the lanternflies notice, unimpeded by natural predafeed primarily on the Ailanthus altissitors. The beauty of the lanternfly is in ma, also known as the Tree of Heavstark contrast to the destruction that en, a striking tree with vibrant green it causes to the environment—the colors. Referencing a conversation sap on its mouth, which transfers with a state inspector, Schultz to the tree during feeding, leads says, “I was questioning her and to destructive mold growth on the she said that they are finding that outer bark and the feeding also the population in Berks County, weakens the tree’s defenses which Arrival of the Spotted Lanternfly where it started, is actually going causes it to be susceptible to other in Pennsylvania down because they think they have maladies. The insect feeds on trees killed the Ailanthus. And instead of and other plant life, crippling balattacking other crops, they’re just movanced native ecosystems and destroyBy Niki Tier ing to a wider circle...her perspective is ing important agricultural crops. These that they’re moving out.” This means that eye catching, red creatures look out-of-place the Lanternflies have the capacity to completely against the green landscape of Pennsylvania: the decimate a population of trees and then move to a differlonger they stay, the less green Pennsylvania will be. ent region to repeat this dangerous cycle.

Originally from eastern Asia, the Spotted Lanternfly Expressing his fears for the future of the orchard, Schulhas quickly spread throughout eastern Pennsylvania since tz laments both the ecological and financial threat at hand. its first sighting in 2014. The insect’s rapid spread is es“We see the tree actually dying from it. So far there hasn’t pecially threatening because the rural populations concenbeen an economic impact, but we are concerned about trated in eastern Pennsylvania depend on agriculture for what will they move to next. How will the grapes rebound income. Having already spread to New Jersey, Maryland, after all the feeding on them this year? If the Tree of HeavVirginia, West Virginia, and Delaware and showing no en, Ailanthus, trees die, what tree are they moving to next? signs of slowing, the Lanternfly presents a threat that for Are they going to move to a fruit tree or another deciduwhich most states are not prepared. Luckily, Pennsylvania ous? We’re not sure,” Schultz says. can serve as an example to ill-prepared states of what the This uncertainty about the future is something that government and individual property owners can do to efPennsylvanian farmers and farmers in other states have fectively stop the spread of the Lanternflies, but the necesfelt before. This is not the first time invasive species have sity of state-level responses brings with it new challenges directly threatened the livelihood of agricultural workers. as well.

Schultz remembers a Plum Pox virus outbreak in PennNorman Schultz—a manager of Linvilla Orchard, a sylvania from 15 to 18 years ago. This virus completely small, family-owned orchard in Media, Pennsylvania—is eradicated the growth of peaches in the state of Delaware one of the many people affected by this invasive species. years before. He compared these instances and recalled the Lanternflies have already impacted his business and also state responding swiftly and even inspecting his property. threaten his future plans for the orchard, which specialBecause Linvilla Orchards has seen the consequences of izes in pick-your-own vegetables and fruits. The orchard similar situations before, its employees take invasive species also houses a farm market and garden center. According to

Stranger in a Strange Land:

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very seriously. Experiences with these unwanted invaders gives Pennsylvania an advantage. However, the Lanternflies are reproducing at fast rates and its quick spread leads to the question of whether or not other states are as ready as Pennsylvania to fight against the insect.

Federal aid and government response have been critical in fighting against the Lanternfly. Schultz explains some of the aid that he and the orchard had received thus far: “[The state inspectors] more or less identified all Ailanthus on the property. When the insects would feed on that tree, they would die from feeding on it because it was injected with an insecticide.We think we’ve definitely done our part to help control it right in our immediate area. It’s just such an expensive program.”

In response to whether or not the state has done enough to combat the Lanternfly, Schultz says, “the government has its place, and this is where they should be investing their interest. This is just such a quick moving insect right now. Time will tell how the resources can be spent. Once you start losing your livelihood, then you want more support, but to have the answers to these big problems, myself being a manager, I know it’s not an easy task. I hope it’s the right people making the right decisions, but that’s not my decision to make.” It seems as though the issue may be bigger than the resources the government has available considering the amount of money required to investigate and track each Lanternfly outbreak. Ensuring the removal of Lanternflies is an expensive and arduous task; However, state agencies and landowners need to ask the question: are the money and expenses worth it in the long run to ensure the eradication of the Lanternfly?

Shannon Powers, the Press Secretary of the Pennsylvania State of Agriculture, offers one perspective on this question. Powers emphasizes that the Lanternflies influence more than just the agriculture sector. “They can threaten the food economy, outdoor dining, and entertainment, things well well beyond agriculture. It hinders your enjoyment of the outdoors,” Powers says. The crippling damage that the Lanternfly has inflicted upon human environments explains Pennsylvania’s timely and nuanced response.

Powers explains that in early 2020, the state and federal government invested over 31 million dollars in Pennsylvania for control research and to establish a Lanternfly hotline, which allows anyone to report Lanternfly sightings. “We follow up by sending out a team that surveys the area and confirms whether or not it’s Spotted Lanternfly and treats it accordingly. We don’t treat every homeowner’s property, but we certainly educate people on what to do on their own property to treat it without harming the environment or having other unintended effects,” Powers says. In conjunction with the hotline, Lanternfly control

25 Headwaters Magazine

work is a strategy of the state’s Department of Agriculture and the U.S. Department of Agriculture in collaboration with Pennsylvania State University to further research and educational outreach on the lanternfly. Though some funding came from federal and private sources, money came in great part from the state in the form of the Pennsylvania farm bill. “Pennsylvania passed our own farm bill last year, devoting $3 million dollars to rapid response for agricultural emergencies,” Powers says.

Powers describes an essential yet surprising method of quarantining the Lanternfly: spreading awareness that Lanternflies are dangerous hitchhikers. The transportation industry is another industry impacted by the spread of this invasive species. Lanternflies do not primarily travel by flight, but instead hitchhike, which puts the transportation industry at high risk for spreading the species, especially in a state with high levels of tourism and commerce like Pennsylvania, according to Powers “It’s an appealing place to do business, but that also means lots of people are visiting here. We need them to be aware that they need to look at their vehicles before they leave so that they don’t take the Spotted Lanternfly home with them,” Powers says.

As for treatment, Powers states that the state has treated “high impact areas,” which are zones most likely to cause further spread. These areas include highways, insterstates, trucking centers, and as such, this treatment has an impact on transportation workers. Powers explains: “we have issued upwards of a million permits, and that permit system basically consists of your company getting a permit. They go online, take a course and demonstrate that they know how to inspect for Spotted Lanternflies.”

Powers believes that the issue of awareness and understanding why the insect is so dangerous is the most important aspects of slowing Lanternfly spread. “Engaging kids and families, and checking their properties, looking for egg masses and getting rid of them...really engaging the public and recognizing this insect as something you really want to get rid of. It affects the way you live outdoors.”

Powers’s focus on education has had a direct correlation with the number of homeowners in Pennsylvania who have taken action in preventing the spread of Lanternflies, like Sharon Wojcik, a homeowner from Montgomery County, PA. Discussing the methods she uses to protect her trees from the species, she states that in April, when the Lanternflies were just hatched, she wanted to stay away from pesticides and other chemicals. Instead, she resorted to putting tape around the trees in her yard which would effectively trap and kill the larvae.

With excitement, Wojcik explains the industrious ways landowners have been handling the Lanternfly arrival. “We had heard that applying double-sided tape or doing it with

the sticky side out would capture them and sure enough it did! Within a few hours of applying the tape, we saw literally thousands of captured bugs, which just emphasizes how many babies they can produce. It was difficult being outside this summer with the Lanternflies landing and jumping on us, and especially now in the Fall, where the grown up bugs are around even more. Our patio is filled with them and requires sweeping several times a week,” Wojcik says. She continued, explaining that she also went around scraping off the egg sacks on the trees and placing them in a bag with rubbing alcohol in order to kill them.

Next year, she plans to do this same procedure earlier to kill the eggs before they hatch, preceding the season’s first wave. Wojcik’s experience exemplifies the important role that every member of society plays in reducing the Lanternfly population and illustrates that the species is not just negatively impacting farmers, but homeowners.

Communities impacted by the Lanternflies have been working hard to do their part in preventing their spread.

Trees with tape around them, as Wojcik has employed to catch and kill the flies, have become ubiquitous. While walking on trails, people comically go out of their way to step and kill the flies. The trails are littered with squashed Lanternflies, demonstrating that the community is willing to fight for the safety of our trees. Every Lanternfly killed prevents subsequent populations of flies from doing more ecologically lethal damage.

Some homeowners often incorrectly assume that the issue of the Spotted Lanternfly is outside their control. As seen in Pennsylvania and in Berks County, specifically, individual people have a place in controlling invasive species outbreak. As the Lanternfly spreads, it is more important

now than ever that landowners, agricultural workers, and state employees alike, are educated and aware of the threat to the trees and agriculture.

There is also an important relationship between farmers and the federal government around this issue. Because Pennsylvania has such a strong agricultural history with invasive species that the infrastructure to defend against the Lanternflies is well-established. Evidence of this is seen through Powers’s comprehensive list of what has been done so far by the state and federal governments. The concern lies with the threat that the Lanternflies will spread to other states that are less dependent on farming and whether those states will be able to combat the Lanternfly effectively. It is important to note that there is still a lot of unknown concerning the containment of the Spotted Lanternfly. The only way to truly measure the effectiveness of the protocol and the implemented quarantine in Pennsylvania will be time.

The Lanternfly threatens to devastate the agricultural sector of states it has invaded. While Linvilla Orchards is just one example, many other farms have had their future plans compromised due to the invasion of Lanternflies and have lost revenue. There is a role for both the average citizen and the government in controlling this invasive and deadly species. States have a precedent and a procedure in dealing with Lanternflies because they are not the first invasive species to completely devastate a population in a given area, and they will certainly not be the last. There must be an overlap between individual citizens and the government to ensure that Pennsylvania still has its trademark orchards and beautiful trees next fall. H Art by Sam Fertik Headwaters Magazine 26

My Time with the Flock:

Finding My Sense of Place During the Pandemic By: Sara Klimek

I

t’s a rainy Tuesday morning in Huntington, Vermont.

The skies keep the score of the morning rainfall, complete with lingering clouds that blanket the nearby mountains. An impatient blue jay cries in the distance, but he is no match for the cantankerous roar of quacks, chirps, and honks coming from the adjacent barn. It’s feeding time.

I’ve always been amazed at how animals maintain such a precise biological clock. As humans, we often forget that time is a societal construct; no natural law dictates how many seconds there are in a minute or how many minutes there are in an hour. You would think that because animals cannot—to our knowledge—calculate time, they would be somewhat removed from the pressures of its particularity.

No “do this at this time, no later.” No “we can’t spend too much time on this because we have other things to do.”

This summer, time stood a little differently for humans.

The COVID-19 outbreak, as apocalyptic as it still seems,

27 Headwaters Magazine

has fundamentally changed our relationship to time. As millions around the globe are sequestered in their homes, people are relieved from the compulsory pressures of dropping the kids off at eight, arriving at work at nine, working until four, cooking dinner at six, and going to bed at eleven. For many, we are lingering in our homes and our thoughts now more than ever. Will we be able to resume life’s normal activities? Do we even want to?

I would say my flock of ducks thinks a little differently.

It’s eight in the morning and regardless of the global panic ensuing in the world beyond, they are very, very insistent on being fed.

The story of how I found myself feeding over one hundred rescued Khaki Campbell ducks is an odd one, to say the least. The turbulence of the pandemic left me both laid off from the local pizza restaurant and torn from my student life at the University of Vermont. Without a means of paying upcoming summer rent, I began looking around for potential avenues for living that were both financially feasible and safe. A Facebook search led me to SHO Farm and an open position for a summer duck caretaking internship.

The farm (I should note here that farm is an understatement) is home to 1,300 acres of preserved Vermont forest, white-tailed deer, bears, porcupines, grouse, five staff members, and over one hundred rescued ducks. But you would never expect that from the immaculate stone wall and unsuspecting “private drive” sign on the road. At its heart, SHO is a sanctuary for both its human and non-human residents. What initially drew me to the farm was its emphasis on working synergistically with the land and its inhabitants rather than against it. Even the rats who nest in the eves of the barn are relocated carefully to other parts of the property where they can forage, deposit seeds, and propel the next generation of flora. Soiled hay from the barn is deliberately plopped into the permaculture orchard where it acts as a green manure for nut pines and seaberry bushes.

Freshly picked bedstraw, comfrey, and amaranth are fed to the ducks to boost their phytonutrient intake. Everything has its time and its place.

Before coming to SHO, my experience with animals was primarily exploitative. This is not something I take lightly, but rather matter-of-factly. I rode horses competitively since age three. I ate meat until going vegan four years ago. I never stopped to think about where the leather on my saddle or my purse came from. I was kept blind by an exploitative animal agriculture paradigm that predicates

itself on people’s willful ignorance. In the business of animal agriculture, corporations don’t willingly show images of our slaughtered kin hanging in shackles from the ceiling or sessile beings writhing in pain on the cold concrete of the “kill floor.” We’ve managed our own collective discomfort by forgetting that “humane slaughter” is an oxymoron and that animals die every day for the food that appears on our plates. In other words, we have divorced ourselves from the idea that Big Macs come from living beings because it’s easier than contending with the reality that our consumption choices kill.

SHO’s inhabitants are no different than the copious amounts of animals in the slaughter pipeline. The ducks rescued by founder Shawn Smith and Melissa Hoffman in 2016 were “byproducts” of the system: bound for slaughter when they stopped producing eggs. The male drakes would have been faced with an even shorter lifetime, as they provide less “benefit” to humans than their egg-laying counterparts. Shawn and Melissa were faced with a decision: to provide the ducks with a safe place to live out their days or remain complacent with the system. For two outspoken animal-welfare advocates, it was a no-brainer.

Shawn and Melissa found a team of three duck caretakers to join them on what would prove to be a blissful, yet turbulent journey. Alex (they/them), who joined the team in 2018, was the senior-most caretaker and served as a mentor for me throughout my months at SHO. They had many of the same questions I had about what it means to truly be an ethical vegan. Does ethical veganism extend itself to also protect the vulnerable workers who pick avocados and berries? Is it possible to create systemic change by opting to become an ethical vegan, or is larger-scale action needed? How can we shift the public mindset around the oxymoron of “humane slaughter?” These conversations solidified my justification for humid summer afternoons spent chiseling concrete blocks free of duck feces.

As a duck caretaker, I was the wearer of many hats and gloves. A good duck caretaker is able to maintain a careful eye for potential predators, coo startled ducks, and resolve disputes between pen-mates, all while cleaning, organizing, and maintaining a pristine living space for them. In many ways, SHO is both a matter of presence and a place where time stands still. Forget to close a gate? Shut off a water valve? The ducks remember, and you put them in jeopardy every time you decide to nod off rather than remaining attentive to the task at hand. It’s your job, but it’s their life. And in the wake of COVID-19, we have learned how precarious life can be.

Although my friends and my family laugh when I tell them how I spent the “Corona Summer” playing with rescued ducks in rural Vermont, I can’t help but admit how

exhausting the job of duck caretaking really is. So why would anyone choose to spend their summer hucking hay bales into a stairwell, precisely angling door covers to prevent any heads from peeking out of pens, and refilling outdoor water bowls when the ducks clog them up with heaves of mud?

It’s for the moments I walk into the barn and see Sawyer and Finn, two of the drakes, taking a nap side-by-side in their pen, their tiny heads coddled into their feathers. It’s for the laughs the caretakers and I share when we watch the ducks play in their water bowls, splashing and diving around like kids in a pool for the first time. It’s for the after-work walks into the Vermont wilderness where deer forage five feet away from me, their long legs and delicate heads pulling at tufts of grass. It’s for the time I don’t have to spend worrying about the paper I have to write or the job I need to get after graduation. It’s for the time I can spend being, rather than waiting for what’s coming next.

And in a world where everything moves so quickly, it’s become a rarity for me to sit back and envelope myself in what I have— quacks included. H

Art by: Ella Weatherington Headwaters Magazine 28

Highlighting BIPOC Environmentalists at UVM Mariah Rivera

She/her, Senior in RSENR, Major in Wildlife and Fisheries Biology, Minor in Zoology, Leader of BIPOC Environmental Collective (BIPOCEC) “I want to devote my career to making a difference for endangered species and focusing on conservation. That’s how I got interested in environmental work and what led me eventually to UVM” “[BIPOCEC is] such a beautiful community, and we really want to continue to facilitate that community for any other individual who feels like they’re struggling to be a BIPOC individual in the environmental field or in the outdoors.

We want to let them know there is community and support for them there.

This space can be anything they want to turn it into.”

Catherin Van-Evan

She/her, Senior in RSENR, Major in Environmental Studies, Minor in Forestry, Leader of People of Color Outdoors (POCO) “I became interested in studying the environment from watching wildlife documentaries when I was growing up. I loved learning about different species, habitats and the special roles they play in their environment. As I got older, I began to understand how many of the threats wildlife face are influenced by human activity. I wanted to study more about the environment to get a better understanding for ways to better balance the needs of humans and the natural world.”

“In POCO, we don’t create an environment where you feel like you need to have everything ready or have all of the experiences or gear. I think that’s important to feel comfortable.”

Katelyn Lipton

She/her, Senior in CAS, Major in Environmental Studies, Minor in Studio Art, Co-Managing Designer of Headwaters Magazine “I am passionate about creating art and environmental justice. My artwork is very inspired by the natural world, and I approach my studies through an interdisciplinary lense. I have combined my love for art and the environment through graphic design and marketing for various environmental organizations. I have also been a designer for Headwaters Magazine for my four years at UVM, and this is my third year as a Co-Managing Designer”

Photos by Gretchen Saveson 29 Headwaters Magazine

By Katelyn Lipton

Kunal Palawat

They/them, Graduated from RSENR 2018, Majored in Environmental Science, Minor in Soil Science, A founder of BIPOCEC, Currently attending the University of Arizona “My interest in the environment came from my relationship to food, Jainism, family, queerness, gardening, mental health, and trying to understand complex sociopolitical influences on our (dis)connections. Now, it is really all about centering BIPOC liberation.”

“I’m glad that [BIPOCEC] stayed this relatively informal place to hang out and get to know each other. That was the intention. To center our rest and joy.

Yes, the organizing is really important, and you could say that BIPOCEC is a form of organizing. The equity work and justice work that is white centered doesn’t have a space in BIPOCEC. It’s really about us and what we need and how we can build resistance and resilience for ourselves.”

Ernesto Mendez

He/him Professor of Agroecology and Environmental Studies, Interim Chair of the Department of Plant and Soil Science, Co-Director of the Agroecology and Livelihoods Collaborative “I was born and raised in El Salvador, and both my grandfather and father were involved in agriculture. After graduating high school I left El Salvador to go to college in the U.S. Here, I experienced a deep reflection and transformation that led me to passionately pursue a career in agriculture and natural resources conservation, with the hopes that I could support smallholder farmers and resource poor rural communities in Central America. I found agroecology, while pursuing my undergraduate degree in Crop Science, which addressed the social and environmental concerns that I was interested in helping resolve. I am passionate and committed to doing research and co-learning that advances our society to attain food systems that are socially just and ecologically sound. In the last 5 years, I have been working with farmers in Latin America and Africa to support agroecological transformation processes started and led by the farmers themselves.”

Bindu Panikkar

She/her, Professor of Environmental Justice, Women’s Health and the Environment and Emerging Technology and Health “I am from India. I was born there and I grew up in India in a small state called Kerala. I was always a reflective person, to some extent. I was really concerned about marginalized views. I was also interested in environmental issues, partly because I grew up in a very rural area. It was mostly agriculture and a lot of paddy fields. Close to my house they used to spray a lot of pesticides. We used to have a couple of summers where there were a lot of dead animals. Every summer we would have these summers with situations where animals are dying. I really got interested in the issue.”

Photos from top to bottom by Caroline Mosely and UVM Headwaters Magazine 30

The Abenaki Land Link Project

By Emily Wazner

F

ood means connection—to each other, to our own bodies, and to the earth. In an increasingly uncertain and unstable world, many communities all around Vermont are creating, discovering, and revisiting strategies for building more accessible, just, and resilient connections. The Abenaki Land Link Project is an exceptional example that recognizes our interrelation while getting good food to some of the people who need it most. It highlights indigenous sovereignty, partnerships, and culturally significant food and points in the direction of a better Vermont.

The Abenaki Land Link Project is a partnership between the Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk Abenaki Nation, Rooted in Vermont (a project of the Vermont Farm to Plate Network), and the Northeast Organic Farming Association of Vermont (NOFA-VT). Beginning in spring 2020, fifteen growers—gardeners, homesteaders, and farmers—all around Vermont planted traditional Abenaki crops to be harvested in the fall. The seeds provided by the Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk included Koasek/Calais mix and Calais flint corn, Algonquin squash, and true cranberry, skunk, and Mohawk beans. Most of the food grown from these seeds will be returned back to Abenaki citizens, especially to elders, those with disabilities, and those who are food insecure.

In his role as Chief of the Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk, Don Stevens grapples with the question, “how do we help our citizens gain access to natural foods, but also to live in the means that our ancestors did?” In Vermont, native people are disproportionately affected by poverty and health issues, especially diabetes and heart disease. Growing, connecting with, and eating traditional Abenaki food could be a way to combat this disparity. Chief Don thinks that “there are specific crops that we have that we want to keep control of or be stewards of because they were given to our ancestors to feed us and we can process them. It’s unique to our bodies.” These seeds, that have been passed on for generations, are at the core of the project.

Chief Don speaks about how stewardship is fostered by

31 Headwaters Magazine

cultivating thought processes that decenter ownership and extraction. The Abenaki people in Vermont today are survivors of hundreds of years of a ruling culture that tried to drive them to extinction though war, disease, familial separation, and the eugenics movement of the 1900s, and is still failing them today. For Chief Don, this project is about working within the system to survive, so that “our kids can be proud of who they are and won’t become extinct.” It also offers an opportunity for non-native Vermonters to give back to First Nations People who helped and provided for European settlers. That opportunity in and of itself is a gift. Through the seeds, the growing process, and the native crops, participants in the project can learn different ways of connecting to our food source. They can learn, as Chief Don says, that “you are but one strand in the web of life and not dominion over it.”

Complementing this food security work are Chief Don’s efforts to regain access to land that his tribe once stewarded. This year, he helped to secure free hunting and fishing rights for state-recognized Abenaki citizens. He has also worked with corporations like TransCanada and FirstLight to get gathering permits for his tribe on private-owned land. Similar permits followed for state land managed by the Fish and Wildlife Service, the Agency of Natural Resources, and Vermont State Parks and Recreation areas, as well as for some federal land including the Mohegan Basin in the Silvio O. Conte refuge and the Green Mountain National Forest. The tribe can use these permits to gather food (such as nuts, berries, leeks, and fiddleheads), medicines, and materials for crafts and art.

Chief Don has many goals for the future. He hopes to gain more access to lands with fewer hunting and fishing restrictions for his tribe and wants to continue working with non-native people to grow Abenaki foods to help feed his tribe. Unfortunately, because he doesn’t get paid for this work, the reality is that Chief Don “can’t do native things full-time… [but] by partnering,” he says, “I’m able to help our people.” Ultimately, he would love to identify a prod-

uct, such as a Nulhegan cornmeal, that could provide a revenue stream to the tribe. Another mutually beneficial endeavour, going “above and beyond,” as Chief Don puts it, would be employing indigenous people as consultants (for cleaning up Lake Champlain, or for food sovereignty programs, as examples) and educators for students of all ages throughout Vermont.

These ways of thinking that Chief Don and the Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk are offering at the center of this project are incredibly valuable to us all. In a society dominated by white supremacy culture, indigenous wisdom and frameworks of thinking can offer a path towards liberated culture, mutual aid, and the survival of life on Earth. Chief Don says that when people come to him questioning ‘what happened to the world, why did things go sideways?’, he can tell them that his people know exactly what happened, but they had no way of preventing or changing it. To begin unlearning in the context of this project, non-native people must work towards an understanding of the overall philosophy of the tribe’s thinking, while also holding the recognition that there is not one monolithic indigenous experience and that Chief Don is speaking on behalf of his tribe, the Nulhegan Band of the Coosuk-Abenaki Nation.

The Abenaki Land Link Project was never mandated or prescribed by external institutions. Instead, it was centered around what Chief Don was looking to do for his tribal citizens, with other parties, such as NOFA-VT, brought in as partners as the need arose. Shane Rogers, communications manager for Farm to Plate (Vermont’s food system plan), was clear that this project is not about charity, nor showing off social justice projects, nor speaking for all Abenaki folks.

He says that it is about building resilience in the food system and ensuring that people don’t fall through the cracks.

For the white-led organizations that are involved, part of this work is recognizing the “really horrific relationship” between European colonists (and later the United States government) and native people and examining the ways in which that relationship is perpetuated today. Shane sees

this project, if carried out with careful intentionality, as the first small step in repairing and healing those relationships here in Vermont.

NOFA-VT was able to utilize their network of homesteaders, gardeners, and farmers to expand the reach of the program beyond that of any individual college or commercial grower. Livy Bulger, NOFA-VT’s Education and Engagement Manager, says this feels more powerful. Food provides connective tissue between people, and that connection has the potential to foster empowerment. While Shane and Livy are excited by the progress made with the project, they recognize that this project is a step, not a solution, and the only way to move forward is to continue listening to Abenaki leaders through every step of the process.

In a post-pandemic world, the group plans to host a community harvest festival open to the public where all can celebrate and share in the culture with the gift of a meal, storytelling, and harvest demonstrations. The state and dominant culture is still failing indigenous people, as it has failed them for hundreds of years, all of us—especially non-native white people—have work to do in every aspect of our lives to build solidarity, trust, and radical acts of allyship (connection). The Abenaki Land Link project is a reminder that this work can and should be a joyful part of our everyday lives. As we all work to build a reciprocal relationship with food, land, and other people, I invite you to draw on these ideas and collective wisdom. There is incredible beauty in that by doing right by others, we do right by ourselves. When we follow indigenous leadership, we actively build a better world through nourishing acts of connection and community care. H

Art by Maggie Alberghini Headwaters Magazine 32

G r a i n s o f Tr u t h

By Reese Green

Meet modern wheat: Modern wheat, belonging to the Trictum genus, was developed in the 1950s during the “Green Revolution.” This highly productive grain was designed to maximize output and efficiency, providing immediate relief for starving populations. However, new strains required pesticides and fertilizers to grow and ultimately led to a monoculture crop which fed people, but not the soil. Coupled with these new wheat strains that impacted soil health were new methods of processing. The processing of this wheat into the smooth, silky flours we enjoy today strips wheat of its nutritional value; modern wheats are linked to chronic digestive and inflammatory illnesses .

A N AT O M Y O F W

endosperm

rbs • made of starchy ca is made of • what white flour

H E AT

bran

germ

ids, and minerals • full of vitamins, lip

33 Headwaters Magazine

ins

vitam • contains fiber and

That doesn’t mean grains are bad for you!

Ancient grains differ from modern wheats because they have been grown for thousands of years without manipulation and are resistant to extreme climates. They grow tall enough to naturally suppress weeds, their tough husks are pest and disease resilient, and their deep roots strengthen soils. They are also naturally rich in fiber and protein.

buck

o

whea

t

tef

f farro

quin

ats

oa

There are sustainable grains grown in Vermont!

Red Hen Baking

bakes bread with local wheats and focuses on supporting local agriculture.

Available at City Market and Healthy Living.

Nitty Gritty

produces local, certified organic grains that go through minimal processing and are blended in small batches. Sold at City Market and Healthy Living.

Beidler Family Farm

believes in the cycle of nutrients between animals, plants, and the soil. Grows spring wheat and spelt in rotation, sold at local markets.

Headwaters Magazine 34

AN ECO-VISION FOR THE FUTURE: How Ecovillages Offer an Alternative Model for Sustainable Living

By Noah Beckage

N

ot far from the flagship factory where world-famous Cabot cheese is made is a narrow dirt road that winds up a steep, shady hill. There, small gardens, half-built homes, a chicken coop, and a handful of yurt-like roundhouses dwell. This small, clustered settlement is called Headwaters Garden and Learning Center (no affiliation to this magazine). I had come to meet Gwendolyn Hallsmith, the community’s founder, who graciously volunteered to speak with me and give me a tour of the property that day.

When I asked about her intention for this place when she envisioned it just over ten years ago, her response was direct: “to build an ecovillage.”

As I was soon to find out, fulfilling that simple declaration of community and environmental stewardship can be a complicated undertaking.

According to the Global Ecovillage Network (GEN), an ecovillage is a “community that is consciously designed through locally owned, participatory processes…to regenerate their social and natural environments.” In other words, it is a group of people who decide they want to live with each other in a sustainable manner. It is a definition that has to cast a wide net out of necessity; no two ecovillages are exactly alike.

Ecovillages have seen a steep rise in popularity in the last 25 years. When the GEN was founded in 1995, it consisted of representatives from 25 self-identified ecovillages worldwide. Today, the GEN databases lists over 950 Eco Communities, and it has been estimated that there are probably tens of thousands more that are not registered with the GEN. This rapid, yet relatively quiet, growth in popularity of ecovillages makes perfect sense if interpreted as a response to the continued failings of our current Capitalist society. Especially in the United States, where political institutions have failed to adequately address the climate crisis, COVID-19 pandemic, social justice issues, gaping economic disparities, and the mental health epidemic–just to list a few of our societal wounds—it is no

35 Headwaters Magazine

wonder many are looking for alternative ways of living in the world.

For Headwaters, that alternative includes growing food, conserving land, and raising chickens and ducks, all together as a community. I happened to visit on their once-a-month community meeting and work day, when all the resident families gather around a small fire to share a midday meal and discuss the dealings of the community, ranging from communal garden planning to new-member homebuilding. Afterwards, residents work together on communal projects like gardening and maintaining infrastructure.

I arrived just in time to offer my help in aerating the new terraced garlic beds the community had built. While breaking up compacted soil with Gwen and a handful of her neighbors, I asked her how they make group decisions.

As it turns out, when you and your neighbors get along amicably and share values, not a whole lot of bureaucracy or governing needs to happen, other than monthly meetings like the one that had taken place just before my arrival. At some meetings, bigger decisions that concern the entire community—whether or not to invest in building a new greenhouse, for example—have to be made as a group.

Cynthia, another Headwaters resident told me that at these meetings, residents always reach an agreement as long as it is “good enough for now, safe enough to try.”

According to sociologist Dr. Debbie Van Schyndel Kasper, author of the 2008 article “Redefining Community in the Ecovillage,” that sentiment is rooted to a feeling of community membership, carrying with it “a certain obligation to be committed, to some degree, to the community’s overall mission and goals.” It is this felt obligation that facilitates ‘consensus style decision-making,’ where decision-makers openly discuss issues with the hope not necessarily of reaching a majority vote, but of coming to a group consensus. Group consensus is distinct from majority decision making in that it doesn’t require participants to like or even agree with the choice being made, but rather that they accept and move on with it; in effect, consensus deemphasizes the role of the individual ego in decision-making processes and instead appeals to the wisdom of the group. Phil Rice, a Senior Scientist at the non-profit think tank Climate Interactive, and a founding member of the eco-village Cobb Hill Cohousing, pithily sums up the process as, “not the art of compromise, but the art of finding what’s best for the whole.”

For an ecovillage, that ‘whole’ includes more than the human residents that make up the community. The environmentally-conscious sensibility that serves as a north star for ecovillages is a manifestation of what environmentalist Aldo Leopold called the ‘land ethic.’ Leopold wrote in his

1949 book A Sand County Almanac that the land ethic “simply enlarges the boundaries of community to include soils, waters, plants, and animals, or collectively: the land.”

It would not be a stretch to call this expanded notion of community—one that encompasses the non-human— as the defining paradigm of ecovillages. “What primarily distinguished the ecovillage model of sustainable community from the mainstream…,” according to Dr. Kasper, “is an expanded notion of community and an accompanying ethic.” As Dr. Kasper was apt to point out, ecovillages aren’t concerned with this ideal alone, but in “the ways in which they organize practical life around these intentions.” As I was soon to learn during my visit to Cobb Hill Cohousing in Hartland, Vermont, sometimes attempts to reach those ideals work beautifully, but other times they bring less-than-practical results.

Cobb Hill, one of the older ecovillages in Vermont, sits on 280 acres of forest, pasture, and farmland purchased from two adjacent dairy farms in 1997. Donella Meadows, a coauthor of the famous 1972 Club of Rome report Limits to Growth, pioneered modern systems-thinking and expanded on pre-existing ideas around holistic, sustainable communities. It was her 1972 report that popularized the concept that there are “limits to growth in a finite world,” and made the ominous conclusion that unless sustainability on a global scale could be attained, modern society would likely succumb to a collapse in the 21st century. The findings and implications of the landmark report are still contentiously debated to this day, but undoubtedly, have had a large influence on modern environmentalist thinking.

Meadows, nearing the end of her career, had evidently decided enough thinking had been done, and was compelled to act. According to Phil, in 1996, Meadows reached out to a group of friends and cohorts, including Phil and his wife, about her desire to form an ecovillage. Unfortunately, Meadows died in 2001 before she could witness her vision materialize, but the community she had gathered eventually carried it out.The ecovillage that exists today has successfully integrated sustainability into the fabric of the community. All of the homes, for Photo by Noah Beckage

example, are designed such that “even if you’re a total energy hog, you’re still using half to two-thirds of the energy of somebody else living in a standard-built home,” Phil tells me. From the looks of it, I would not guess anybody here is trying to test that claim. Photovoltaic solar panels line the roofs of the dairy barns, (which still house a herd of Jersey cows), gardens fill the spaces between homes, and homemade cheese rounds line the shelves of the common room basement.

Cobb Hill’s strides towards sustainability are impressive, but they are not just for show; they have been shown to create a measurable reduction in environmental impact. A recent study published in the Journal of Cleaner Production in 2019 found that the average resident of an ecovillage has 67 percent less global warming potential than that of an average conventional American citizen. The study, authored

by Planning and Public Policy doctorate Jesse Sherry, concludes that “if all the residents of the U.S. could achieve similar reductions, it would reduce carbon dioxide emissions in the U.S. by at least 1 billion metric tons per year.”

To put these values in perspective, that’s about 15 percent of the total greenhouse emissions produced by the country, according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.

Yet for all the benefits that ecovillages seem to offer, I couldn’t help but wonder what, if any, were the hidden costs? When I posed this question to Phil, he didn’t hesitate to openly, if not disappointedly, admit that “you have to be able to afford a certain amount to be able to live here,” though he makes it clear that was never the intention. It is the cost of homes at Cobb Hill that necessitates any potential buyers to be fairly well-off—a lack of developmental foresight during the initial construction phase of Cobb Hill drove up the price of homes. Phil tells me that the community recognizes the unaffordability of their homes as an issue, and that they’ve brought down prices of a few homes with the proceeds earned from selling their development rights to a land trust. “If we’d been able to manifest more money,” Phil says, “we would’ve done that even more widely.”

Back at the garden at Headwaters, Gwen tells me she believes that oversights like these can

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be forgiven. After all, the founders at Cobb Hill were academics, not carpenters. Still, by no means are these cost barriers inevitable. She should know, considering that she was also a part of that initial circle of friends Donella Meadows reached out to, back when Cobb Hill was still just an idea. In addition to being an author and vocal advocate for ecological economics, Gwen has spent her career immersed in sustainable development. She is well aware that it takes more to create an ecovillage than to simply, as she puts it, “buy a piece of land out in the middle of nowhere and plunk a village on it.” When I asked her what exactly the shortcomings of Cobb Hill’s initial members were, she didn’t hesitate to share. There was no water supply or wastewater system on the land, and the cost of permitting and building that infrastructure wasn’t accounted for. “I could tell at the beginning,” she recalls, “that because of the way they were proceeding, it was just going to be too expensive. So I dropped out.” It was almost a decade later when Gwen again found herself immersed in the process of building an ecovillage from the ground up—only this time, she was going to do it the way she saw fit.

As we were wrapping up our work in the garlic beds, Gwen told me how it all got started here at Headwaters.

In 2007, while she was working as the sustainable development director for the city of Montpelier, her friends at Rhapsody Foods, a small natural foods facility next door to Headwaters—initially introduced her to the land upon which Headwaters now sits. “They invited me out for tea one Sunday. It was something like this, me just coming out, like you came out here today,” she remembers. “I had this uncanny feeling about having come home.” That feeling turned out to be infectious, not just to those families that would eventually decide to come and raise their kids here, but even to brief unsuspecting visitors like myself.

Fortunately, those families that do come to live here don’t have to break the bank to do so either.

Concerned about the ways in which the price tag of an ecovillage can creep up, Gwen found clever means to keep the cost of living at Headwaters affordable without sacrificing sustainability. According to community guidelines, homes must be built only with locally-sourced, renewable materials, and there’s an upper limit on how big a house can be so that nobody can come in and build a huge castle that few else would later be able to afford.

The wisest measure Gwen knew

to take – perhaps thanks to her background in development – was to ease the land at Headwaters to a Community Land Trust. This kind of trust, one that protects the land and property on it from inflating real estate prices, is designed for low income housing projects, but can be strategically applied to community lands, such as those at Headwaters, as well.

In the ecovillage movement at large, there are signs that communities are taking steps to make their sustainable, alternative lifestyle accessible to all. Leopold’s land ethic may expand beyond the realm of the human, but it should go without saying that it must encompass all humans as well.

Recognizing that the popular western conception of environmentalism has historically focused on the predominately white narratives of the movement, the Foundation for Intentional Community—a network similar to the GEN, but encompassing communities beyond ecovillages— has launched a fund to help support BIPOC individuals who want to join intentional communities or start their own. Other initiatives such as Ecovillage Development Programs, reach out to impoverished villages in underdeveloped countries and use “an integrated, community-led approach to transition communities to resilience and restore their environments.” These programs seek to preserve cultural sovereignty, develop economic opportunity, and honor the indigenous origins of sustainable principles all the while adhering to the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals and Paris Climate Agreements.

As I left Gwen and Headwaters that sunny fall afternoon, I couldn’t help but be inspired by seeing that process in action, a genuine environmental vision turned into reality. In a world in which our current systems – climatic, economic, social, and political alike – are failing in deep and critical ways, it’s more important than ever to re-envision what a better world might look like. Trying to live in social and environmental harmony won’t always be easy, but I remember what Phil told me about how to confront that challenge: “I think it goes back to trying to find sustainability,” and in an ever-changing world where sustainability is always a moving target, “you just sort of have to craft ideas, by ongoing discussion.” In that way, maybe Leopold’s land ethic and expanded notion of community can be thought of more as a direction than a fixed state. Not quite an accomplishment to be achieved, but a process to be practiced, one garden bed at a time. H Art by Deniz Dutton

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C a l i f o r n i a’s Shrinking Sea Writing and Photography By Alexandra De Luise

A Brief History: ramed against the distant Santa Rosa and After being separated from Chocolate Mountain Rangthe Gulf of California miles stands a glistening body lions of years ago by a land of blue surrounded by white barrier, the lake existed in shores—an oasis amidst the many different forms. Deparched Southern Calipending on river inflow, fornia landscape. Imagine evaporative loss, and cliyourself here, approaching matic conditions, scientists the water’s edge. You expect propose that lake-states to be walking on sand, but would occur in cyclical roAn abandoned chair on the Salton Sea’s desolate shores to your surprise, there is no tations of about 500 years silent softness underfoot. or so, with its content flucHorror consumes you as a crunching sound confirms you tuating between saline and freshwater. are walking atop a thick layer of dried bleached bones from These dynamics shifted abruptly in 1905, at a time millions of washed up fish. As a toxic stench fills your noswhen the lake was in a dry cycle. That year, extra snowmelt trils, you realize that something here is wrong. Welcome to and rainfall caused the nearby Colorado River to swell. the Salton Sea, a lake created by human accident nearly a Concurrently, the California Development Company was century ago. Left unchecked, it now poses serious environworking on the construction of irrigation canals to divert mental consequences and a potential health crisis to several water from the river to the dry lakebed, in hopes of makmillion people in nearby population dense areas. ing the valley fertile for agriculture. Manipulation of waThough many are unaware it exists, the Salton Sea is ter resources was a common practice of the time, as many California’s largest lake; nestled between the agriculturally western states wanted to increase agricultural productivity dense Imperial and Coachella valleys. Even more are unin dry regions. Human intervention sometimes had uninaware that it is rapidly evaporating, its salt content now fiftended consequences though, and because the canal walls ty percent higher than the Pacific ocean. As playa becomes were not built to withstand that season’s excess water, they exposed, massive toxic dust deposits are being left behind gave way. It took 18 months for engineers to successfully on drastically receding shores. Desert winds are carrying stop the massive flow. By then, a 400 square mile lake was these harmful pollutants over heavily populated Southern born—filling the previously dry basin.

California counties, intensifying already harmful air polInitially, the area became quite nutrient dense, attractlution problems. This lake was once home to abundant ing wildlife and bird species that were keen to feed on the wildlife and supported a vibrant tourism industry. Today, Colorado River fish that had washed in with the flood. In entire resort communities remain completely abandoned, recognition of this increase in biodiversity, a national wildwith boating docks and lakefront homes thousands of feet life refuge at the southernmost point of the lake was estabfrom the water’s edge. lished in 1930 by executive order. Since its creation, mil-

F

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lions of birds and over 400 different identified species have found sanctuary. The area attracted humans as well when developers realized they could profit from the creation of resort communities in the surrounding area.

By the 1950s, the lake was popularized as the “Salton Riviera,” dense with hotels, golf courses, yacht clubs, and vacation homes.

Ecological Impact: Since then, the ecological state of the lake has been deteriorating as its desert location provides little regenerative rainfall. The surrounding valleys are predominantly agricultural land, and runoff filled with toxic pesticides and fertilizers have seeped in and accumulated because the lake has no outlet.

As it has become more nutrient rich, algae growth has increased, depleting oxygen levels and in turn causing immense fish dieoffs. With no stabilization system, the Salton Sea has been undergoing this process of eutrophication for nearly fifty years.

Cyclical fish die-offs tied to increasing salinity occurred largely over the decades until the problem became so severe that by the 1990s, dead fish remains blanketed the shores of the lake. According to a 2012 article by the New York Times, in the summer of 1999 eight million tilapia, genetically one of the most saline tolerant fish species, died in a single day. These die-offs are poignant specifically because a lack of fish depreciates the primary food source for the many birds who depend on the Salton Sea. The lake evolved

Western view from Sonny Bono National Wildlife Refuge to become one of the most important migratory stops on the Pacific Flyway for birds flying south for winter, and there is great potential for migration disruption as the lake becomes less safe for wildlife. An additional risk to bird life is disease, which has run rampant in the area due to water toxicity. A 2004 study by the National Wildlife Health Center found that in the late 1990s, type C avian botulism, a common paralytic disease, killed nearly 10,000 white and brown pelicans. 150,000 eared grebes also died around this time, representing the largest documented mortality event of the species, as nearly six percent of the North American population was destroyed.

Human Impact:

Map of the Salton Sea, Image courtesy of LAO California

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Tourism died off too in the 1970s as the shorelines of the lake receded and the water became uncomfortably salty. By the early 2000s, it was becoming obvious to those in the area that the lake was beginning to pose serious environmental and health threats. A number of grassroots restoration groups began to emerge and raise awareness at this time, such as the Salton Sea Authority and the Salton Sea Action Committee.

Then in 2003, the state of California and three water management districts in the region began negotiating political solutions to some of the longstanding issues regarding the allocation of Colorado River water. Known as the Quantification Settlement Agreement (QSA), water that was typically used to irrigate agricultural lands near the sea would be reallocated to two Southern California districts for residential use. As this switch reduced the water avail-

shares his thoughts on the matter, saying that the “Government ignored the problem. It’s just poor planning and basically ignoring a predominantly low-income disadvantaged community.” Most recently, Olmedo has been working on “The School Flag Program,” a state-funded program that uses brightly colored flags to notify children, parents, school personnel, and the community what the daily air quality conditions are. Each day, a different colored flag is raised based on the severity of air quality, helping those with asthma or other health conditions know if they should remain indoors throughout the day.

Intervention and Funding: Eastern view from Sonny Bono National Wildlife Refuge able for agriculture in the Imperial Valley, less fresh water was able to run off the fields and into the lake. This decision expedited the rate that the sea would shrink, further increasing salinity.

In anticipation of reduced water inflow, the state intervened and required the QSA be delayed so they could buy time to develop a long-term response plan for the Salton Sea. This requirement only lasted until 2017 though, and as the lake continues to shrink, people worry about the increasing dust levels exposed from the drying lakebed. Less water means that this dust, filled with toxins such as arsenic and selenium can easily become airborne, increasing the amount of particulate matter in the Coachella and Imperial valleys. The most concerning danger is for nearby residents, particularly children, the elderly, and those who are disproportionately affected by environmental health issues.

Over time, exposure to the heavy metals in the dust accumulate, elevating the frequency of asthma rates and lung related diseases amongst the immediate population.

New data from a 2019 study in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health shows that this health crisis is impacting children in the area significantly harder, “In this primarily low-income, majority Mexican-American region known as the Imperial Valley, the rate of asthma-related emergency room visits and hospitalizations for children ages 0–17 years is double the CA state average.” This is causing great public unrest, and a recent USA Today article shares how the health crisis has been affecting community members personally. Luis Olmedo, leader of the local non-profit, Comité Cívico Del Valle,

In 2003, the three regional water agencies that negotiated the QSA had spent $133 million in hopes of mitigating the effects of the water transfer situation, pledging to support the humans and wildlife affected by the change. Despite this, 17 years have passed since the agreement, and the state has taken little concrete action in rectifying the environmental issues. One small step in 2017, put in place a 10-year plan to direct public attention to proposed state projects that address the Salton Sea, which mostly focus on dust suppression.

According to the Legislative Analyst Office’s August 2018 Salton Sea status update, “a total of $730 million has been authorized for Salton Sea mitigation and management activities from state, federal, and local sources, of which $507 million has remained unspent as of June 2018.

Of this amount, $280 million will be dedicated to begin implementing the projects in the state’s ten-year management plan.” Despite this, it is expected that more money will be needed, as the state is still uncertain regarding who will continue funding over the next ten years, and in what ways. A recent article from the Desert Sun, a local newspaper, speaks to this uncertainty as it advertises a request made by The California Natural Resources Agency for anyone from the public to submit their ideas on what to do in respect to mitigation.

Salton Sea Today: After decades of debate and inaction, the Salton Sea situation is only becoming more toxic, leaving many wondering who will take control as no coordinated leadership or funding has emerged. Despite this, numerous small-scale initiatives are currently having a positive impact on humans and the environment. In regards to wildlife, the Red Hill

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One of millions of dead fish carcasses

Bay Restoration Project is helping to restore and maintain healthy wetland habitats along the shores of the lake. The Sonny Bono Salton Sea Wildlife Refuge has also been beneficial, as it federally protects 826 acres of land and provides a stable habitat for thousands of birds to pass through or breed in along the Pacific Flyway.

For mitigation efforts, the State of California has initiated and funded the Salton Sea Dust Suppression Action Plan for a small area of exposed lakebed. Local activists have established the Desert Shores Restoration Project to address water quality for remaining inhabitants by implementing a berm and pumping system in residential boating channels. Currently, 10 geothermal plans are operating in the Salton Sea area which sits atop the second largest geothermal field in the United States. Investment in the extraction of the area’s rich lithium resources is increasing in response to demand generated by the electric vehicle and alternative energy industries. These new emerging economic activities generate tax and royalty revenues that may help the state cover mitigation costs.

Looking Ahead: Nonetheless, without any comprehensive plan, state and federal funding has not and will not be committed to any of the proposed controversial large-scale geoengineering ideas. Such ideas range from controlling the drying lakebed dust to channeling water from either the Sea of Cortez or the Pacific Ocean to stabilize water volume. In the meantime, toxic dust from the Salton Sea continues to create the potential for a public health crisis at a time when California is also dealing with the impacts of Covid-19 and forest fires. Though there is public concern and desire for change at the Salton Sea, decisions need to be made soon. There is sufficient scientific evidence which warns of the negative environmental and health outcomes ahead, but what matters most is understanding the urgency of the situation— and charting a course of action. H Geothermal plant and farm

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L eaves A ren ’ t O nly G reen

By Malachi Lytle

A

round us is a world of alien-looking landscapes, hidden under the veil of the narrow part of the visual spectrum we get to experience. While we may not get to experience this with our own eyes, many animals do get to see the world in wavelengths outside of those visible to the human eye. Luckily, our cameras can help us peer into this alternative reality. With an infrared filter it is possible to block out all visible light so that the only light reaching the camera’s sensor is infrared. With this comes a world of possibilities with color infrared photography. Trees are a common choice for infrared photographers, as the high reflectivity of leaves in infrared wavelengths causes a beautiful ghostly white color. Infrared photography also opens other avenues for creativity in the editing process. Swapping around the color channels as I did here can turn a mundane scene into something much more striking.

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Headwaters Magazine Statement on Racial Justice It is no secret that we are living through complex, unprecedented times. 2020 has exposed the oppressive realities of our systems and brought forth a long-overdue racial justice reckoning conversation into the mainstream. As an environmental organization, we at Headwaters feel it is essential to examine how our own field plays into the complex systems perpetuating inequity.

We cannot in good conscience continue to advocate for threatened bee populations or plant species while leaving human experiences out of the narrative. Our environmentalism must be intersectional to fight not only the oppression of our environment but the oppression of black, indigenous, and people of color, for they go inextricably hand-in-hand.

At the same time that we are seeing countless instances of police brutality and other horrific acts of violence play out in disturbing patterns against people of color, communities of color are also shouldering the burden of industrial pollution that contaminates their air and diminishes their access to clean drinking water. These communities are intentionally targeted and are denied a platform to advocate for themselves because they are seen as disposable in the eyes of those who hold power. People of color also shoulder the burden of climate change in a way that many white communities do not.

The environmental movement has historically prioritized white voices and experiences with little to no acknowledgement of the complex and profound ways BIPOC communities have interacted with the environment for generations. This is not acceptable. At Headwaters, we will be expanding our advocacy for BIPOC voices and strive to elevate them in order to challenge the legacy of white supremacy that dominates our field. We stand in solidarity with those whose voices have been marginalized and are committed to lifting up these voices instead of driving them down. We want our magazine to represent diverse stories and perspectives that reach beyond the prevailing white narrative of environmentalism and contribute to the emerging era of intersectionality within our field. This intersectionality is crucial to dismantling our society’s deeply ingrained racism and oppression and creating a just future that uplifts BIPOC and their environment.