by Silas House
I’m not real crazy about heights, so I kind of eased out as close to the edge as I could. As soon as I got out of the trees I could see it. There were three ginormous bulldozers and a HUGE dump truck working on the mountain over to my left. The ’dozers were pushing down ROWS AND ROWS of trees. I couldn’t believe it. I know we have to cut down trees to build our houses and stuff like that, but they were PUSHING them down into a big mess and piling them up. Then the back of the dump truck raised up so that all these tires rolled out on top of the trees. Then the driver got out and poured gas all over the tires and trees and struck a match and — POOF! — they all caught fire, like somebody snapping their fingers.
I sat there a long time, wondering what in the world they were doing, and they just kept on pushing down more trees. Then I looked down at Black Banks. Looking down on the town from up there, you’d think that everything was perfect below. All the little houses in their neat rows, and the Black Banks River catching some sun on its waves, and the cars going about their business. I could see seven or eight church steeples and my school down there right at the foot of Town Mountain. Everything just right, while a mountain that close to town was getting treated this way.
When I got home Mamaw was worried to death, because I was never that late. When I told her what I had seen, she froze and said for me to tell her every single thing and not to leave out anything, so I did. Then she got on the phone right away and called somebody. She went in the laundry room to talk to them so I couldn’t hear her. I went over to the door and tried to listen in as good as I could, but the washer was running, so it was hard. But I did hear her say the words “mountaintop removal” over and over and over. And when she came back out, she told me that that’s what I had seen.
“I’ve been working with this group on fighting mountaintop removal for about a year now,” Mamaw said. She had set down across from me and was talking to me like I was grown. She has always treated me like I’m older than I am, and she says this is why I make good grades. “I knew that it was happening more and more, but I never dreamed it would get as close as Town Mountain.”
Mamaw said that Town Mountain was public land and the coal company had leased it, and now they could pretty much do whatever they wanted to do to it. She said that mountaintop removal is just what it sounds like: they take the whole top off of a mountain to get to a thin little seam of coal! I took my mother’s camera and got a picture of it and am going to paste it in here:
Can you believe that used to be a mountaintop, that had birds and deer and foxes and a million trees on it? Do they do this to your mountains in India?
Then whatever dirt and burned up trees or whatever else they have left over, they push down between two mountains and make a valley fill, and this causes all kinds of bad floods. Mamaw said that if a place has coal and poor people, then the coal companies will take it out any way they can and don’t care what happens to the people. She told me so much stuff that I never will remember it all. It was just too much to take in. The thing I will never forget is that she said we might as well prepare, because eventually they’ll get closer to the house, since that land is right up against her property.
I don’t want to think about it anymore, Meena. And I can’t talk to anybody about it except for you and Mamaw. My friend Mark called me this evening, wanting to know if I could come stay all night with him, and I started telling him about it and then he got real quiet and said, “What are you talking about, man? Do you want to come over and play Nintendo, or not?” Like I was mental or something.
All right, so I have to get my mind off of it. I’ll do it by answering the questions you had in your last letter. I’ll try to make my answers brief, since this letter is going on waaaay too long.
Freckles are not bumpy.
I’m an only child.
I wouldn’t say it’s fun to mow the yard. But I kind of like it, too, because I can think the whole time I’m mowing. The thing I hate to do is weed-eat, which takes forever and is so annoying you can’t think about anything while you’re doing it.
We have three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a laundry room, and a living room. So that’s seven rooms. And a total of ten windows (the laundry room doesn’t have one, but the living room has three). That’s a weird question, by the way. Nobody has ever asked me how many windows I have in my house.
Yes, I have my own room. It used to be Mamaw’s guest room, and when I first moved in it had pink curtains and a big fluffy bedspread, but we finally got rid of that and now the bed has my Simpsons comforter on it and blinds instead of curtains.
Yes, I am a Christian but I don’t think you’re going to hell. You’re way too nice.
Now I’ll reply to some things in your letter that weren’t really questions but need responding to.
I’m sorry somebody called you and Kiku terrorists. To tell you the truth, though, I might have thought the same thing before I met you, because I never knew anybody different from me before. I hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings, but it’s the truth. But even if I had THOUGHT that, I would have never been as rude as that moron who called you all that.
I think it’s really cool that your mayor takes the subway. The only time we ever see our mayor is in the homecoming parade, when he rides in the backseat of a convertible Cadillac and waves to everybody. He has jowls, which tremble when he waves.
It’s easy to remember that Mother Nature is in charge when you live in Eastern Kentucky, like me. If we stand out at the cliffs where the big black teeth are on the side of the mountain, we can see storms coming from a long way off, and smell them, too, long before they get here.
I think “Cuba” is the best name for a dog, ever. Besides Rufus.
Thanks for telling me that the red dot is a bindi. I like learning something new.
You talk a lot about Obama. I know Mamaw is voting for him, but I don’t think a lot of foks here are. I know Mamaw gets into arguments at the Piggly Wiggly about him. (Do you all have Piggly Wigglys? It’s a grocery store, in case you’re wondering.)
I see what you’re saying about staring at the Patels, but I didn’t do it to be rude. I just think they’re interesting to look at. I don’t understand how that’s bad of me.
You said that people made fun of you because of your accent. Well, just like I mentioned above, people do this to other Americans, too. Where I’m from we talk real different from everybody else in the country, so people are always making fun of us, especially on TV and in the movies. Mamaw says that the only people it’s still OK to make fun of out in the open are hillbillies and crazy people. One time Mamaw was in Cincinnati visiting her brother, and some woman called Mamaw a stupid hillbilly, just because of the way she talked. Mamaw told her off, which is what you should do when people make fun of your accent.
I guess that’s all. I’m going to try to go to sleep now. It’s real late and I’ll never be able to get up and go to school tomorrow. I’m going to read a chapter of Old Yeller (that’s what I’m reading now and it’s real good) and then go to bed.
Since you are in New York, I wonder if you are thinking about 9-11, too. It happened seven years ago today. I remember my parents sitting in front of the TV all day and night, crying. We had a moment of silence at school today.
Oh, one more thing. I don’t want to make you mad or anything, but I need to tell you something. In your letter you said that something was “a close calling.” I think what you meant to say is “a close CALL.” I didn’t know if I should mention it or not, but then I thought, a good friend is somebody who will tell you when you are doing something that might be embarrassing. Like if you had a booger on your face or a big trail of toilet paper stuck to your shoe after leaving the bathroom, I’d tell you. So I guess I should tell you that you are saying something wrong.
12 September 2008 (one day later)
Dear Meena,
I was going to go ahead and mail your letter but then today happened, which I HAVE to tell you about.
Today in school, my science t
eacher, Mrs. Heap, was talking about “cohesion” and giving us instructions on this exercise we had to do in class where we got into groups and tried to see how many drops of water we could get onto one penny. Right while she was telling about this, I figured out that she’d probably know even more about mountaintop removal, since she is a science teacher, so I raised my hand.
She ignored me for a little while, but then finally she put her hands on her hips and looked aggravated and said, “Yes, River? What is SO important?”
I asked her if she could explain mountaintop removal to us.
“We’re not talking about that right now, River. If you were paying attention, you’d know that.” I never have liked that woman. She always sits and eats Skittles right in front of us, even though she knows we’re not allowed to have any kind of candy at school. I think that says a lot about her. Plus, she wears way too much perfume, and sometimes it gives people headaches.
So then I said it was so important that maybe we OUGHT to be talking about it.
“Well, fortunately you don’t dictate what gets talked about in here, mister,” Mrs. Heap said, and laughed a little bit, looking at her daughter, who is also in my class and is the biggest snob in the entire school. She tells everybody she is rich, but Mamaw says that sometimes people just try to act rich and are actually in debt up to their eyeballs, and this must be the case with the Heaps, since they are both teachers and teachers don’t make squat.
Mrs. Heap smiled in this real fake way and took a step toward me. “Why are you so curious about it, anyway?”
“Because they’re doing it to Town Mountain, and a lot of other mountains, and my mamaw says that if something doesn’t change, then every mountain we’ve got is going to be flattened. If the coal companies have their way.”
“Let me remind you, Mr. Justice, that lots of people in this county make their living by working in the coal industry,” she said. “So your mamaw ought to mind her own business.”
Well, that made me real mad. I felt my face go red. So then I told her some of what Mamaw had told me last night. I said that lots of people, like my very own daddy, had lost their jobs because MTR (mountaintop removal) uses more machines than it does people. And then I told her that my mamaw had said that this WAS our business and if Americans hadn’t spoken up for what they believed in we’d still have slavery and women wouldn’t be able to vote and besides that we’d probably still be a colony of England instead of our own country. Right about there Mrs. Heap started telling me to hush and kept coming closer and closer, slapping her pointer across her palm, but I couldn’t hush. I felt like I had to say it all out, to set her straight. I had to take up for Mamaw. So I just kept talking. The last thing I said was “Mamaw said that the only way to be a good American is to speak up for what you believe in.”
So Mrs. Heap sent me to the office for disrupting class. I had to wait forever in the front office because the principal, Mr. Wright, was in the lunchroom breaking up a fight. He finally came in and looked down at me and said, “Let’s go, son,” and swung his arm through the air like a traffic cop directing me into his office. He thinks he’s really cool but I think he’s a big turd. He wears his pants too tight and the back part of his tie is always hanging lower than the front, and he is always fooling with his hair and checking himself out in windows or mirrors or anything that will show him his reflection.
He asked me all about the problem and I told him exactly what had happened, and he just said I couldn’t interrupt the teacher like that and I needed to stay in after-school detention. I got real mad. I couldn’t help it. “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
He stood up and leaned over his desk and pointed his finger in my face and spoke in a tight little voice. “You better watch it there, buddy,” he said, and widened his eyes at me. Then he said he was calling my mother.
So I had to sit for a half hour and wait again. I had to sit there while he signed papers and read letters without ever saying a word to me or even looking at me. Once I asked him if I could go get my copy of Old Yeller out of my locker so I wouldn’t have to sit there and stare at my shoes, but he just said no without looking at me. I had to miss history class, which I really love. We were supposed to learn about the Boston Tea Party today.
But after a while, here came Mamaw (I knew Mom wouldn’t come; she hasn’t left the house in ages). I was so glad to see her, but she didn’t hug me or anything the way she usually did. She just shot me a funny look like “What have you done?” and sat down and put her big old pocketbook up on her knees and asked Mr. Wright what was the problem.
“River here interrupted class by refusing to stop questioning the teacher today,” Mr. Wright said. He had his elbows up on the chair arms and was touching all ten of his fingertips together the whole time he talked. For the first time, I noticed he had sleep in the corners of his eyes. It was brown.
“Well, that’s not like him. He usually has awful good manners,” Mamaw said, looking at me like I ought to give her some kind of clue as to what was happening. “What were you questioning her about, River?”
“I was trying to get her to tell us about mountaintop removal, and she wouldn’t.”
Mamaw told the principal that seemed like a perfectly good question to ask a science teacher.
“Mountaintop removal is a controversial topic in these parts, as you well know,” Mr. Wright said. “And it’s not appropriate for teachers to be talking about with students.”
“If it’s controversial then that’s exactly WHY she should be talking about it with them,” Mamaw said.
Mr. Wright said “perhaps” I ought to wait out front, but Mamaw said no, she didn’t protect her children or grandchildren from the truth. “Tell me exactly what happened, River.”
So once again I had to tell it, and by the time I got to the part where Mrs. Heap told me that Mamaw ought to mind her own business, I could tell that Mamaw’s blood was boiling. So then she turned to Mr. Wright and said she wanted to speak to Mrs. Heap with him. He sighed and started to make up some kind of excuse, but Mamaw said, “I want to see this woman RIGHT NOW!” So he picked up the phone and called her to the office, and that’s when Mamaw turned to me and said that maybe it was a good idea for me to wait out front so she could talk properly to Mrs. Heap.
When it was all over, Mrs. Heap was the first one out of the door. She shot past me, her arms swinging as she walked away huffing and puffing. Mr. Wright said I could go back to class and there would be no after-school detention. Mamaw winked at me and said she’d see me later. So I went on back to class, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. During my chorus class Mrs. Heap came in and whispered something in the ear of my teacher, Mrs. Greer, and then they both looked right at me. They are real good friends, so Mrs. Heap was probably in there telling her to give me a hard time.
And when I got home, the bulldozers were even louder. After supper (salmon patties and soup beans, which I love), we walked back out to the high cliffs, and you wouldn’t believe how much damage they’ve done in one day. It made me want to throw up. We stood there with the sun setting so red and orange that it seemed like the whole world was on fire, and for a long time Mamaw didn’t say anything. Something about it reminded me of when your grandmother said “God is great” during that big thunderstorm, because it was like Mamaw’s silence was saying that very same thing while we looked out at the good mountains and the one that was being destroyed.
I can’t even talk about it anymore. I’m sorry that I’ve written such a depressing letter, but I had to tell you all of that.
13 September 2008 (Saturday)
Dear Meena,
I was going to mail your letter this morning, but then one good thing happened and I wanted to tell you about it, so that I wouldn’t have to send a letter full of bad stuff.
This morning I went in and sat with Mom awhile. She was in agony with a headache and couldn’t even talk to me. I rubbed her temples for a while and then read a whole chapter of Ol
d Yeller out loud to her, and that made her feel better. She kissed me on the cheek and told me to go play.
But I went to the grocery store with Mamaw instead. And sure enough, soon as we got to the Piggly Wiggly, there was Dr. Patel and his wife. Dr. Patel started laughing and threw out his arms for a hug and said, “Mama Justice!” and Mamaw hugged him and they talked and went on, and his wife leaned over just a bit and smiled at me. “Hello, young man,” she said. Meeting you gave me the courage to talk to her, so I said hello. And then I asked her what her name is. It’s Chandra. (What does that mean?) She told me I should call her that, and not Mrs. Patel.
Then I told her I have a pen pal from the mountains of India who now lives in New York City, and she seemed real pleased by that. She asked which mountains but I’m sorry I couldn’t remember, so I just said, “The ones that look like these,” and she laughed a little and said she was from Ahmedabad. I had to ask her to repeat it a couple times, and finally she said, “Here,” and held out her palm and wrote it there with a blue ink pen, so I could see. I told her I wanted to be sure to tell you where she was from, and so she wrote it on my palm, too, holding on to my fingers with her other hand. Her skin was very warm and she smiled the whole time she wrote it. She was leaning down close to my face, so I got to stare at her bindi real close. You were right, too, because hers is made of felt, just like your mom’s.
Mamaw was finally finished laughing with Dr. Patel, and so Chandra put out her hand to shake mine. “I am very pleased to meet you, River Justice,” she said. “I’m always glad to make a new friend.” She has really brown eyes that stare right into you. I liked her a lot.
I wanted to let you know that now I have TWO Indian friends, all because of ONE (you).