well in Athens County is an old well that has been converted, most before we even had laws,” says the lawyer, before outlining what legal recourse the communities have. It becomes obvious to Rachel that his role is to teach Appalachia Active how to get around things, how to stay within the law in their protests, how to use the loopholes in the law to fight the fracking companies. He is arming the members with legal tools on how to beat the fracking industry at its own game. He has really studied the law as it pertains to extractive industry and has explored the many avenues that aggrieved communities can follow to take their cases to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources, to city and county officials, to state representatives, to the state governor and to the courts.
The chairperson seems to have a different view, at least that’s what her facial expression shows as the lawyer uses PowerPoint slides to sum up his argument. She does not directly challenge him, though. After he has answered a few questions from the assembly and taken his seat, she calls upon Skye Riley to make his presentation. When he stands up one can see how scrawny he is, yet he moves and gesticulates as though he has just been ejected from a dynamo. His is not a meticulously prepared PowerPoint presentation. He just speaks off the cuff.
“We can’t play by their rules,” he says. “They are pillaging our land and poisoning our water. We need direct action.”
The audience is immediately electrified, especially the front pew of young women. Rachel is all agog.
“You can actually change the situation you live in without dealing with politicians,” Skye Riley continues. “You need no one’s permission to confront the industry that is killing our families. We can’t wait for two years dealing with the courts; we need direct action now.”
There is prolonged applause. The lawyer is trying very hard to hide his wounded look behind a smile. But it is a very mechanical smile. He takes the young man’s utterances as a personal attack on him.
“Direct action,” someone shouts from the floor, “what does it mean exactly?”
All eyes turn on the heckler. It is Genesis de Klerk.
“It means you chain yourselves to pieces of equipment,” says Skye.
Everyone knows exactly what he is talking about. Some people are already resorting to that line of action. An Appalachia Active member is currently on trial for doing exactly that. The news has been on Power 105 FM and in the Athens News. It is what scared Nana Moira; the way things are going Rachel may suffer the same fate.
“It means you sit in the governor’s office and refuse to leave. It takes endless energy and money to go into the community organising. Slow and patient work needs resources and time, which we don’t have. In West Virginia we decided direct action is the only solution. We can’t wait for state regulatory bodies to work.”
The young women are screaming like Skye is some rock star. The young men are clapping and nodding their heads in agreement. Jason is unimpressed. His attention is on the women in the opposite front pew.
“He’s been staring at you all this time,” Schuyler whispers to Rachel.
“He’s not staring at anybody; he’s speechifying.”
“Come on, you know I’m talking of Jason.”
“How do you know he’s staring at me and not you?”
“You were his girlfriend, not me.”
Rachel elbows Schuyler in the ribcage, and they giggle away.
Skye Riley is looking directly at them; they fall silent and pay attention. He is explaining that extractive industries affect poor people everywhere. The people who are doing mountain top mining in West Virginia are the same people who are poisoning Ohio water through fracking. They are also the same people who drive poor folks of colour out of their houses in New Orleans.
“We need people who are willing to lock themselves to equipment. We need folks who are not afraid to go to jail,” he says before sitting down to even greater applause.
“Shut down the injection wells in Ohio now!” some people are chanting.
It is obvious that most people in the room agree with the direct action route and some may even personally commit themselves to it. Rachel finds the chants electrifying. Such gatherings are what make life so wonderful in Athens County.
The two girls agree that Skye Riley is “awesome”, especially when he glowers at the mention of elected officials who have sold out to extractive industry. When he shapes his lips into a defiant smirk he is even more “cute”. They admit to each other that they fancy him, although it is all in jest and laughter. Rachel is happy that Schuyler is gradually coming out of her shell and is becoming herself again after the death of her lover and then a trial that left her broken-spirited and on probation. She is beginning to appreciate life and men again. But the fact that she has a permanent limp and will walk with the aid of a crutch for the rest of her life will be a constant reminder of a sad chapter in her life.
After the meeting Skye rushes out for a much needed smoke as the rest of the people mill about the aisle debating the merits of direct action versus legal channels. Genesis is obviously a rule of law guy. He says he believes in protest, orderly demonstrations and court actions rather than in this so-called direct action which to him is tantamount to violent revolution. An elderly woman says Genesis is living proof of how people change as they age. After all, he is no stranger to jail; back in the day he used to lead sit-ins and lie-ins and other kinds of defiance campaigns against every cause known to man ranging from the Vietnam War to the saving of seals and whales and all sorts of animals that don’t even exist in America. A fellow sixties hippy – an unreconstituted one – asks: “When did Genesis become so conservative?”
“Bullshit! You guys just want West Virginia folks to take over our fight,” says Genesis, looking around for Jason. “Let’s go, Jase.”
Jason bumps into Rachel.
“Excuse me,” says Rachel.
“You’re excused,” says Jason. “Although I should be the one to apologise.”
“Jason!” she says.
“Yep, the one and only. Good to see you’re as pretty as you ever was.”
She doesn’t say “thank you”. Compliments always embarrass her.
“Meet my pa.”
“You’re Nana Moira’s girl,” says Genesis.
He shakes her hand heartily. “How’s the grand ol’ lady?”
“She’s doin’ great, Genesis. I didn’t know you were Jason’s dad,” says Rachel. “I knew him way back at high school.”
Rachel only got to know Genesis de Klerk a few years ago when Jason was already playing a hippy in Yellow Springs. He never talks about a son when he visits the Jensen Community Centre to hang out with the other seniors and gossip about the good ol’ days or to donate fresh produce for Nana Moira’s Food Pantry. She and Nana Moira have been to Genesis’ house deep in the Wayne Forest to glean tomatoes from his vast garden. Nana Moira makes them into salsa. He is the most organic of all the old hippies of southeast Ohio. His home is self-sufficient in almost everything, including electricity, which he gets from solar panels that are on the roof and on the boulders
