Davidson’s death. Southwestern Virginia is “traumatized,” she says, and no grassroots organization has arisen to fight MTR there. She suggests that people go to the area now to start Listening Projects and scouting in advance of the MJS camp slated for the area in late June. The other main event in Virginia this summer will be a demonstration at Massey headquarters in Richmond on July 8, coinciding with an international day of action against climate change. Planning for this is just beginning.
Speaking for Tennessee, Chris Irwin, manically caffeinated, delivers a grand rant on the history of mining and landscape in Tennessee. “We are really close to turning the tide in Tennessee, which is why we need your help,” he says. MJS organizing there is focused on two coalfield areas, both near the Kentucky border: the New River watershed area (including Zeb Mountain) just west of I-75, and Eagan Mountain to the east of it. Chris notes that National Coal has bought up the land or coal rights to more than 100,000 acres, including the Zeb Mountain site. Eagan is being mined by Mountainside Coal, a Kentucky company. Paloma reports on the Listening Project in Elk Valley, in the shadow of Zeb Mountain; similar efforts are being planned around Eagan. “There is a place for everyone in this campaign,” she says, from direct action, to legal monkeywrenching (filing requests for hearings and studies to slow the permit process down), to letting locals know what they can do about blasting and other problems. john johnson adds that the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA), a huge producer of electricity, has signed contracts with Massey and Arch to buy MTR coal from West Virginia. TVA’s headquarters in Knoxville will be another focus for MJS protest this summer.
Leaving camp late the next afternoon to drive to Marsh Fork Elementary School for the 6 PM hearing there, I pass a green minivan parked near the camp’s driveway and angled to get a good look at cars leaving the camp. Two people, neither in uniform, sit in the front seats. They’ve apparently been there a while—the guy in the passenger seat has his feet propped up in the window. I wave as I pass, and a mile or so farther on as I approach the main road, the van pulls up alongside me and turns off in the other direction. (Later, I learn that a white Jeep Cherokee parked in the same place has followed a car leaving camp all the way to the hearing.)
When I arrive at the school, I stop under the big oak tree to chat with people from the camp, Chad and Gabrielle and their baby, Ukiah. A tall, big, middle-aged man approaches us and asks: “Are you for us or against us?” His tone is belligerent, his manner ambiguous. Feeling a bit protective of the very young little family, I step closer to the man and tell him I’m a writer. He hands me a paper to read, a quote from something published back in 1884 about a local land grab. He said his family’s land had been taken from them by a 2 cent per acre tax: They couldn’t afford to pay it, but a land company could and did. I thank him for the paper and head for the school gym, leaving him and Chad chatting.
More than 130 people assemble for the meeting, filling up the bleachers in the gym, facing a folding table and chairs at which several state DEP officials are seated. More than half of those attending are from MJS camp. Several state troopers stand near the doors of the gym.
As people arrive at the hearing, they’re handed a list of rules, including one that says the only people who will be allowed to speak are those who’ve previously shown an interest in the permit under consideration this evening. Bo, standing with Judy, Sarah, and Vern, floats the idea of putting masking tape over the mouth of everyone who’s not allowed to speak. Instead, he negotiates with DEP officials an agreement that everyone here who wants to speak should sign up to do so, but that the officials running the meeting reserve the right to schedule some of the speaking for another hearing, if this one runs too late. Each person who wants to speak will be allowed to do so for only two minutes.
Ukiah and her parents sit next to a thirty-something-year-old local woman, who’s totally charmed by the baby. Other folks from MJS camp are looking noticeably more cleaned-up and conservatively dressed than usual. (Chris Dodson tells me, “I realized when I was coming here that I do not have any non-hippie pants. I’ll have to work on that.”) john johnson hands flyers about MTR to anyone who’ll accept one. Local print and TV reporters work the room.
Outside, a stranger, not in uniform, is taking photos of license plates, walking from car to car, sometimes looking inside a car through its windows. Most likely he’s either a coal company operative sending a message to locals that their presence here has been noticed, or plainclothes law enforcement keeping tabs on MJS. When two MJSers approach and ask him questions, he doesn’t say a word and keeps “a completely blank look on his face,” one of them later tells me. One of the two gets the idea of standing in front of the license plates, and for a while plays tag with the camera guy, dashing forward to where he’s going, then veering off to another car when he does the same. Finally the guy with the camera cracks a smile and gives up.
The state official who opens the meeting looks nervous. The bleachers are now full to overflowing, with some people sitting on the floor.
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