Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right
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By 2016, Louisiana's financial sinkhole had exacerbated the Great Paradox. Their beloved Louisiana still ranked 49th out of 50 on general well-being and 44 percent of its state budget still came from the dreaded federal government. The state itself was a "poor me" who had to "cut in line" in front of other states—a situation worsened by Jindal's policies. But people weren't talking about Jindal or the unmoving Great Paradox. They knew it was there. They disliked it. But it wasn't on their minds. The deep story was.
"Victim" is the last word my Louisiana Tea Party friends would apply to themselves. They didn't want to be "poor me's." As Team Loyalists, Worshippers, and Cowboys, they are proud to endure the difficulties they face. But in the loss of their homes, their drinking water, and even their jobs in non-oil sectors of the economy, there is no other word for it: they are victims. Indeed, Louisianans are sacrificial lambs to the entire American industrial system. Left or right, we all happily use plastic combs, toothbrushes, cell phones, and cars, but we don't all pay for it with high pollution. As research for this book shows, red states pay for it more—partly through their own votes for easier regulation and partly through their exposure to a social terrain of politics, industry, television channels, and a pulpit that invites them to do so. In one way, people in blue states have their cake and eat it too, while many in red states have neither. Paradoxically, politicians on the right appeal to this sense of victimhood, even when policies such as those of former governor Jindal exacerbate the problem.
In the meantime, left and right need one another, just as the blue coastal and inland cities need red state energy and rich community. The rural Midwest and South need the cosmopolitan outreach to a diverse wider world. As sociologist Richard Florida notes, "Blue state knowledge economies run on red state energy. Red state energy economies, in their turn, depend on dense coastal cities and metro areas, not just as markets and sources of migrants, but for the technology and talent they supply."
In my travels, I was humbled by the complexity and height of the empathy wall. But with their teasing, good-hearted acceptance of a stranger from Berkeley, the people I met in Louisiana showed me that, in human terms, the wall can easily come down. And issue by issue, there is possibility for practical cooperation. Left and right in Congress now agree on the goal of reducing the prison population. Young conservatives are far more likely than their elders to care about the environment. The last time I saw Mike Schaff, he surprised me with another crossover issue. "Big money escalates our differences. Let's get it out of politics—both sides!"
Now seated back at my desk in California, with the names of my new friends in my address book and with hopes of continued contact, I gaze out my study window. Gray clouds are rising in the far distance to the north—the Richmond Chevron oil refinery on the east shore of the San Francisco Bay. I'm reminded that the issues raised by Bayou d'Inde are not so far away. The 1969 Union Oil spill in the waters outside Santa Barbara, California, was, at the time, the largest in the United States, and there are others elsewhere. Blue states are cleaner than red states, but the challenge is nationwide—and growing. For after decades of improvement, since 2009 rates of air, water, and land pollution have been rising again across the nation. The focus in this book on the keyhole issue—environmental pollution—is a keen reminder of the great importance to us all of what, beyond deep stories and politics, is at stake.
If I were to write a letter to a friend on the liberal left, I would say:
Why not get to know some people outside your political bubble? Set aside Ayn Rand; she's their guru, but you won't find people personally as selfish as her words would lead you to expect. You'll probably meet some very fine people who will teach you volumes about strong community, grit, and resilience.
You may assume that powerful right-wing organizers—pursuing their financial interests—"hook" right-wing grassroots adherents by appealing to the bad angels of their nature—their greed, selfishness, racial intolerance, homophobia, and desire to get out of paying taxes that go to the unfortunate. As I saw at the Trump rally in New Orleans, some of that appeal goes on. But that appeal obscures another—to the right wing's good angels—their patience in waiting in line in scary economic times, their capacity for loyalty, sacrifice, and endurance—qualities of the deep story self.
Consider the possibility that in their situation, you might end up closer to their perspective.
If I were to write a letter to my Louisiana friends on the right, I might say:
Many progressive liberals aren't satisfied with the nation's political choices any more than you are. And many see themselves in some parts of your deep story. As one sixty-year-old white, female, San Francisco-based elementary school teacher put it, "I'm a liberal but, hey, I can sympathize with that part about waiting in line." I know the goals you have in mind—vital community life, full employment, the dignity of labor, freedom—but will the policies you embrace achieve those goals? You want good jobs and income, of course. You may not want to hear this, but in income and jobs, historically the Democrats have done better than the Republicans. In Bulls, Bears, and the Ballot Box, for example, Bob Deitrick and Lew Goldfarb note that over the last eighty years, on eleven of twelve indicators, the economy has fared better under Democratic presidents than under Republicans. (See Appendix C.) Still, differences between the parties are otherwise far from clear; Bill Clinton, a Democrat, ushered in an era of deregulation, generally favored by the right, while Richard Nixon, a Republican, initiated environmental regulations now generally favored by the left.
And Louisianans, take a look at Norway. It's a small, capitalist democracy with about the same population as Louisiana, five million people. It has a long coast and its people, like you, look to the water, boats, and fishing. Like you, Norway has oil. One difference between Louisiana and Norway, however, is their philosophy of governance and concept of freedom. Norwegians expect—and get—a great amount from their elected officials. Norway has the world's largest sovereign wealth fund—$800 billion—and the vast majority of Norwegians live upper-middle-class lives. They enjoy the very high scores in health, education, and overall well-being that come with such affluence— they enjoy freedom from need. We Americans have our own culture, but at our best we're good at drawing on good ideas from around the world. In the long run, we may be able to liberate ourselves from oil itself, but in the meantime, as an alternative to the Bobby Jindal path, it's worth a look at what could be done to "liberate" Louisiana from its paradox.
As you get to know them, you'll find progressives have their own deep story, one parallel to yours, one they feel you may misunderstand. In it, people stand around a large public square inside of which are creative science museums for kids, public art and theater programs, libraries, schools—a state-of-the-art public infrastructure available for use by all. They are fiercely proud of it. Some of them built it. Outsiders can join those standing around the square, since a lot of people who are insiders now were outsiders in the past; incorporation and acceptance of difference feel like American values represented in the Statue of Liberty. But in the liberal deep story, an alarming event occurs; marauders invade the public square, recklessly dismantle it, and selfishly steal away bricks and concrete chunks from the public buildings at its center. Seeing insult added to injury, those guarding the public square watch helplessly as those who've dismantled it construct private McMansions with the same bricks and pieces of concrete, privatizing the public realm. That's the gist of the liberal deep story, and the right can't understand the deep pride liberals take in their creatively designed, hard-won public sphere as a powerful integrative force in American life. Ironically, you may have more in common with the left than you imagine, for many on the left feel like strangers in their own land too.
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Given our different deep stories, left and right are focused on different conflicts and the respective ideas of unfairness linked to them. The left looks to the private sector, the 1 percent who are in the over-c
lass, and the 99 percent among whom are an emerging under-class. This is the flashpoint for liberals. The right looks to the public sector as a service desk for a growing class of idle "takers." Robert Reich has argued that a more essential point of conflict is in yet a third location—between main street capitalism and global capitalism, between competitive and monopoly capitalism. "The major fault line in American politics," Reich predicts, "will shift from Democrat versus Republican to anti-establishment versus establishment." The line will divide those who "see the game as rigged and those who don't."
Ironically, both sides of the political divide are struggling to address the same new and frightening face of global capitalism. In an age of extreme automation and globalization, how can the 90 percent for whom income is stagnant or falling respond? For the Tea Party, the answer is to circle the wagons around family and church, and to get on bended knee to multinational companies to lure them to you from wherever they are. This is the strategy Southern governors have used to lure textile firms from New England or car manufacturers from New Jersey and California, offering lower wages, anti-union legislation, low corporate taxes, and big financial incentives. For the liberal left, the best approach is to nurture new business through a world-class public infrastructure and excellent schools. An example is what many describe as the epicenter of a new industrial age: Silicon Valley—with Google, Twitter, Apple, and Facebook—and its environs, as well as the electric car and solar industries. The reds might be the Louisiana model, and to some degree, the blues are the California one.
Interestingly, both respond to the new challenge of global capitalism with a call for activist government, but activist about different things. When Bobby Jindal gave $1.6 billion of Louisiana taxpayer money as "incentives" to private corporations, he was being a government activist. Liberal politicians calling to restore our crumbling infrastructure are being a different kind of activist. And there are ideas beyond either party yet to be born.
I walk down Berkeley's Shattuck Avenue past Cafe Gratitude, a vegan restaurant (since closed) that once a month charged whatever customers wish to pay. I dropped in once a long while ago and wasn't thrilled with the maple coconut bacon, but felt charmed with the idea of the place. Now, I catch myself wondering: would Janice Areno see it as hippy-dippy or as a business with a touch of church? And what about those green, black, and gray recycling bins by my garage? Would Donny McCorquodale see them as regulatory "cement" or as a smart idea? Sharon Galicia, the single mother who had taken me with her as she sold medical insurance to plant workers, was planning to run for local office in the Republican Party, but her fifteen-year-old son was a fan of Democratic presidential candidate Bernie Sanders. She was giving her two children a childhood she had never received, taking them to California, Iceland, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, the UK, and Russia and inviting them to consider many universities, including U.C. Berkeley. I invited her to stay and to show her son Berkeley—who knows what he would think? Our deep stories differ, of course, anchored as they are in biography, class, culture, and region. But I feel great admiration for the people I've met on the other side of the empathy wall. And while my vote will surely differ from theirs, I wish them well.
Farewells
With their canoe long upturned by the banks of Bayou d'Inde, near the dead cypress tree stumps that stood vigil over their ordeal, Harold and Annette Areno opened the door to their friend, Mike Tritico. It was October 2014. They had long missed the evening racket of the frogs, the sound of jumping fish, and a sense of trust in their land and water. Mike sat with them in their living room and solemnly delivered bad news: their lawsuit over the harmful pollution of the waters had been thrown out. The Arenos had never been compensated for illness or lost value to their property, not to mention the mental anguish of living with a larger cultural amnesia about their plight. With Mike Tritico's help, Harold and twenty-one others—including Lee Sherman—had filed a class-action lawsuit in 1996 against a number of companies, including Pittsburgh Plate Glass. Now, after eighteen years, it had been dismissed for "lack of evidence." Nothing, the court said, connected pollution to deliberate harm to humans. So the Arenos were left as prisoners of their lost paradise, rememberers.
Meanwhile, like the lawsuit, talk of cleaning up Bayou d'Inde had dragged on lackadaisically for decades. At last, in February 2015 a cleanup crew had been stirred into action. The contaminated sediment from the bottom of seven hundred acres of the bayou was to be dredged and pumped into an open containment pool. Along the bottom of the bayou, workers would lay down a reinforced concrete mat and place six inches of clean sediment on top of it. "They say it really doesn't have to be a perfectly sealed clean layer," one local official remarked about the cleanup. "As long as you reduce the chemical concentrations on the surface, you're okay." But Mike Tritico saw potential danger. "What's going to happen to the large uncovered pool the toxics have been removed to? Tropical Storm Bill in June 2015 almost raised its level so high it overflowed," he told me.
On the other side of the Arenos' home, a South Korean firm has contracted with Axiall—the former Pittsburgh Plate Glass—to build a large ethane cracker and monoethylene glycol plant. At a small, public gathering of residents to air their views of the new plant Harold said, "To y'all, this is progress." But whether it is or not "depends on which side of the fence you're on." Noise from the plant was so loud one night that he rose from bed to read the Bible until 2:30 A.M., when it finally died down. In my last phone conversation with Annette, she explained that at certain times on certain days, odors from the plant keep them from stepping outside.
One day when I was thinking and writing about him, Lee Sherman, the man who held up the "I'M THE ONE WHO DUMPED IT" sign, telephoned me. Now eighty-three, Lee had been tuning up his racing cars. Leaning along one wall of his garage is that stack of thirty plastic lawn signs Lee plans to plant in local lawns for the EPA-cutting Tea Party candidate, John Fleming. "It's a little harder now I'm crippled up, but I get myself sitting down with my screwdriver and hammer," Lee reminds me. "The signs stay pretty good."
In Longville, Mike Tritico and Donny McCorquodale had been visiting Brother Cappy and Sister Fay's and arguing about Donald Trump, I heard. Mike was against, Donny was for. Cappy and Fay's cousin, Brother Michael, in training to become a minister, was considering setting up a Pentecostal church in the Marina neighborhood of San Francisco. "There are a lot of single people there, without family," Michael said. "I think I could do some good."
Madonna Massey, the lively gospel singer who took Rush Limbaugh as her "brave heart," was shocked to discover that her teenage daughter, Chapel, had downloaded "Anaconda" on her iPad—a video of the highly popular, black, scantily clad diva, Nicki Minaj doing buttock-mobilizing "twerking." When Chapel returned from school, Madonna spanked her, banished her iPad, unhinged her bedroom door, and stored it in the garage for a month. "Minaj is at the top of Billboard Top 100. Look at the culture we've got to protect our kids from," Madonna told me the last time I saw her.
Jackie Tabor, who had said, "Sunday is my favorite day," flew her family to Israel to see the Holy Land. "We were the youngest couple on the trip," she recounted. She has also opened a gym called "On a Roll," featuring stationary bicycling, energetic music, and healthy vegetable drinks, in downtown Lake Charles. Jackie was back to being her mother's girl, the organizer, the leader. In one promo video, some thirty people were featured cycling to rhythmic music, facing a vista of lush green countryside on a giant TV screen.
At the end of my last visit to Janice Areno, we passed her great array of colorful elephants, and as we headed out the door together, Janice adjusted the thermostat so the air conditioning would go off. "See," she said with an impish grin, "I'm a green person! "
At the last meeting of the Republican Women of Southwest Louisiana, a Benelli Super Black Eagle II shotgun was raffled off. Proceeds were to be used to promote "Pillows for the Troops, college scholarships, and assistance to military families." A tense split had opened be
tween those who would vote for Donald Trump gleefully and those who would do so reluctantly. (A few didn't know what to do.)
The lifelong red-blue friends, Sally Cappel and Shirley Slack, now live in different towns—Sally in Lake Charles', Shirley in Opelousas. They talk two or three times a week by phone, and avoid mention of Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders. Sally is deeply upset about "the GMO monster Monsanto."
Shirley frets about skyrocketing national debt. They recently flew together to Cleveland to see Shirley's daughter perform as a professional ballerina in the Ohio Ballet.
As for the friends living around Lake Charles, the last time I visited with them, most were still driving back and forth across the "spooky" I-10 bridge between Lake Charles and Westlake, but most did not link their distrust of the bridge to the EDC spill.
Former Bayou Corne residents had dispersed in every direction, some to Mississippi and Texas. The community of Belle Rose, next to Bayou Corne, was deserted—nearly. Twice a refugee from industrial accidents—one a 2003 methane leak from Dow Chemical, and one the sinkhole caused by the Texas Brine drill—an auto mechanic lives with his wife in a trailer on the ruined grounds of his old home near the sinkhole. Two couples relocated to the sprawling suburbs of Baton Rouge, over a hundred miles to the north. "We hate the area; we're just here to be near our son," one retired emergency response worker declared while her husband, a retired twelve-wheeler truck driver, nodded in agreement. Another refugee couple, now living hours away from former neighbors, spoke lovingly of good times past. Nick, a retired postal worker, shared a large color photo of himself, smiling in a white suit, cummerbund, and straw hat, among a dozen colorfully costumed neighbors—clown, Indian, cowboy, king, and queen, drinks held high, celebrating Mardi Gras in Bayou Corne before the disaster. "I used to collect driftwood along the shore of Bayou Corne, for my wife to paint and sell.' He pointed to pieces of painted driftwood, "But we can't do that now."