The effects of these changes emerged surprisingly quickly. Even before the end of the summer program, some of the volunteers had already embraced the new approach to community action. The minutes of a July 1966 ad hoc meeting of the AV Board of Directors indicate that, while the early renovation and enrichment projects did not “muster much community participation,” the current emphasis on community organization did. Now “communities were directly involved in the work of the AVs.”32
It did not take long for evidence of the success of the AVs’ new approach to surface. In October 1966, the communities of Wilkerson, Midspring, Gatliff, and Hanging Rock (the latter hosted an AV outpost), in Whitley County, sent representatives to the county CAP meeting to request road improvements. When they introduced the issue, the agency director ruled them out of order. In response, the towns of Hanging Rock and Wilkerson organized petition drives. Because Hanging Rock received only a “token” response to its petition, the VISTA volunteers and AVs assigned to the county made arrangements for fifty people from not just Hanging Rock but also Wilkerson, Midspring, and Gatliff to visit the county fiscal court. According to a Volunteer report: “For the first time people from several communities stood together. Two of these communities are now directly feeling the effects of their efforts. Wilkerson is actually building their own road with some county support.” Even more dramatic: “Midspring is now taking steps that may lead to a suit being filed against the county fiscal court.” Things did not stop there, however: “Folks from several areas in Whitley County participated in a multi-county effort to (1) demand more representation of the poor on the [CAP] board and (2) . . . force the board to submit to their demands or at least keep the board honest.” Should the county CAP refuse to cooperate, the Volunteers promised to help the poor people of the county form their own CAP and apply directly for OEO funding. Already the new, more confrontational approach of the Appalachian Volunteer program had made one county in Kentucky a political battleground in the War on Poverty.33
One consequence of the success in Whitley County was the curtailment of Volunteer work in northeast Kentucky. Following the end of the summer project, the northeast fieldman Bill Wells informed his superiors that the last eighteen months “would not be considered a period of accomplishment.” Rather, it was just a period of learning about the region. This “education” had convinced Wells that, while destitution was widespread in northeast Kentucky, there was a “fundamental difference between poverty in an agricultural region and poverty in a coal region.” Culturally, he argued, small farmers were more independent and reliant on their own abilities and initiatives to make a living. They did not expect assistance from their neighbors or the government. Community organizing was the solution to poverty in this region as well as in the rest of eastern Kentucky, but the people of the northeast needed to organize themselves around agricultural questions such as crop diversification. These were problems, Wells believed, that the Volunteers were ill equipped to handle or understand. He thus recommended that they try to introduce to the region an organization better equipped to help farmers. “I feel,” he concluded, “that in order for the AVs to continue to work in the area would mean a kind of emphasis that we are neither equipped to understand nor prepared to support in light of the opportunities for successful concentration in other areas.”34
The first expression of this newfound focus on the coalfields was the AV-sponsored Appalachian Community Meeting, held in Washington, DC, at the end of August 1966. Though billed as the product of the “shared experience of poverty [in the coal camps] and a heritage of economic and political exploitation” and as an attempt to establish “a dialogue between Appalachian people and those who control the resources of this country,” the Appalachian Community Meeting was, in actuality, an indictment of the CAPs in the Southern mountains. Because the CAP staff developed programs, set priorities, and determined budgets “with virtually no active involvement on the part of the board, poor or otherwise, and least of all by those to be affected by the programs,” the AVs asserted, there was only “nominal . . . representation of [one-third] poor” on agency boards. What organizing these CAPs did accomplish was “geographically based” and reflected a limited neighborhood approach to the problem of poverty. Under this approach, the AVs argued, the poor once again were simply recipients, not participants.35
Not content just to condemn, the Appalachian Volunteers offered solutions. Most of these struck at the heart of county-run CAPs. First, county CAPs needed, the AVs believed, to provide the poor in their jurisdiction with “the necessary technical assistance” that would enable them to make thoughtful decisions concerning the poverty programs they wanted. Hand in hand with this idea went the demand for increased public accessibility of such information as budget reports, meeting proceedings, and advanced notice of planned meetings and their agendas, which would further facilitate poor people’s ability to generate their own antipoverty efforts. Additionally, the AVs contended, too much program money was tied up in staff salaries. Funds from CAP grants should immediately be made available to those local community groups willing to tackle the problem of poverty. This would give the poor the “most powerful kind of local control”—financial control.36
The Appalachian Volunteers decided to put their ideas to a test. When a 1966 amendment to the OEO act allowed for 5 percent of Title II funds to be allocated to organizations operating independently of a funded CAP, they provided the residents of Myers Fork, in Menifee County, with information on how to apply for a federal grant. Unfortunately, such an application was replete with potential political difficulties. If Myers Fork was funded, the AV staff member Bill Wells believed, the Licking Valley Community Action Agency’s grant would be reduced by the amount that Myers Fork received. He therefore told the head of the Myers Fork organization: “I think you can see the kinds of pressure that you will be up against.” Wells intimated that he had contacted the state OEO office, which concurred with his position. He added, however, that the state office advised him to “keep it quiet so that the various politicians . . . in the area don’t get wind of [the application].” Though it is not clear whether the Myers Fork group ever received its funding, this exchange indicates the growing antagonism between the poverty warriors and the local establishment.37
Much like the new OEO rules, welfare in the Appalachian South, the Appalachian Volunteers believed, actually resulted in the “enforcement of pauperism” because eligibility requirements prohibited welfare recipients from accumulating “more than a very small amount of wealth as a source of economic security”: “In Kentucky, for example, a family of six on welfare is permitted a total wealth of only $1100 in addition to a homestead.” Employment restrictions, they felt, also “tend to foster dependency upon the welfare system.” In many cases, “the rigid determination of welfare payment makes the acceptance of anything but the most lucrative job impractical from the point of view of the individual.” A job usually meant no significant change in income because the individual’s welfare benefits would be reduced by a comparable amount, if not cut entirely. When faced with this dilemma, “the practical and economic decision is to do nothing.”38
Welfare payments alone produced distrust and hostility on the part of the recipient. For one thing, they were “shockingly small” and based on “inadequate and antiquated standards which again prevent economic security and independence.” In addition, the county welfare office kept secret its criteria for eligibility. Therefore, the AVs concluded, “basic decisions about [the recipient’s] way of life—his income, his expenditures, and his food—are made at the welfare office at the county seat without his knowledge or consent.” Distrust and hostility were, of course, focused on the welfare caseworker, the actual decisionmaker, who had “the power, in practice . . . , to force the recipient to follow his directives on a wide range of issues.”39
To remedy the situation, the Appalachian Volunteers proposed certain changes designed to put the poor in control. Caseworkers shoul
d concentrate solely on administering such social services as offering advice on budgeting and purchasing. Eligibility for, or any change in, benefits should be determined by an investigator working independently from the caseworker. Recipients should receive “a written notice thirty days prior to any change of payment, giving the nature and cause of the change.” Finally, the welfare department should establish an appeals procedure that allows recipients to question benefit changes without “fear of further cuts or discrimination.”40
Equally important, the AVs felt, was the welfare department’s need for an independent source of information, and to that end they proposed a “welfare advisory board.” This group should “exist and be active at all levels of welfare administration, yet independent of it.” To “reduce the possibility of political domination,” it should include a majority of welfare recipients elected by fellow welfare recipients. In addition to providing a source of information, it should also act as a “check on the welfare department” and hear appeals of controversial cases. Those not on the advisory board should, moreover, be organized into “unions of welfare recipients.” These unions should keep members informed of their rights and aid in protecting them. Were these changes to be realized, the AVs concluded, they would remedy the present situation in which “governmental agencies . . . maintained to afford economic security and independence to needy people, by their own regulations and administrative procedures, further increase the burden of poverty.”41
The Appalachian Volunteers had also come to believe that the coal industry dominated the Appalachian South politically. The “political structure depends,” they argued, “on the good will and support of the mining interests,” the relationship between local politicians and mine operators worked to the disadvantage of the poor, and, in return for political and economic support, county judges gave the coal companies virtual carte blanche. Additionally, technological changes in the mining industry and the impact that these changes had on employment further concentrated economic and political power in Appalachia.42
Strip mining, the method of removing coal from the land used increasingly in Appalachia by the late 1960s, began during the Second World War, when the nation needed an economical and faster means of mining. By the 1950s, it was rapidly replacing underground mining. The strip-mining process involved the miner removing the topsoil or “overburden” off the top of a coal seam and pushing it down the mountainside to form a “soil bank.” Next, he stripped the layer of shale covering the coal seam and dumped it onto the soil bank. Finally, he dug the coal. In the end, a vertical wall, known as a “highwall,” remained where soil and coal once were. Because the shale now formed the top layer of the soil bank, it seriously hindered the growth of new vegetation. What was once a lush, green mountainside now was desolate. Even worse, loose rock and soil frequently washed down the mountainside, causing even more damage to the land and, more important, the mountaineers’ homes and property.43
So widespread was the destruction from strip mining in the state of West Virginia that, on May 8, 1966, the governor, Hulett Smith, declared: “The rape of West Virginia has occurred.” Strip mining, however, did much more than just scar the land. Because one man operating a bulldozer could do the work of many men using picks and shovels, the most obvious human hardship it caused was unemployment. Also, because it severely restricted the number of jobs available, the coal operator (i.e., mine owner) could use those jobs to exercise his own political and economic position, just as school superintendents did with the jobs they controlled.44
With Governor Smith taking the lead, West Virginia sought to reform its strip-mining laws, and the Appalachian Volunteers gave their full support to the effort. With the help of the AVs, the people of West Virginia worked diligently to “make their voices heard and their opinions known,” and the first step was “to see that further damages do not occur from irresponsible mining operations.” Recognizing that Appalachia needed land reclamation on a large scale, the AVs called on the federal government to provide funds to help West Virginia restore its damaged land. These funds should not be provided indiscriminately. Instead, they “should be tied to requirements of state laws and state enforcement of the laws to see that the future cost is born by the stripping company.”45
Acting as a lobbyist organization, the Appalachian Volunteers formally announced its support of strip-mining-reform laws at their 1967 winter meeting in Huntington, West Virginia. The people who attended the conference, “representing all of Southern Appalachia,” deplored “the waste and destruction that has occurred . . . as a result of irresponsible and reckless strip mining operations.” This meeting culminated in the endorsement of the bill to reform strip mining introduced in the West Virginia legislature by Governor Smith and the action of the citizens’ task force on service mining.46
Though not as destructive as strip mining, deep mining, the process of going underground to remove coal, also came under AV attack. The Appalachian Volunteers accused deep-mining operations of causing serious air and water pollution. Water, which naturally accumulated in a deep mine, absorbed large quantities of the iron and acidic chemicals found in coal. After the water was pumped out, or after it drained naturally, it seeped into aquifers, ruining the water supply—sometimes permanently. It also flowed into nearby creeks and streams, killing plant and animal life—destroying potential food sources. As the streams flowed into one another, the contamination traveled with it, and the effect of water pollution was often widespread. Those living farther away from the mine felt the same effects as the people who lived in its immediate vicinity. “Gob piles,” the waste removed from the mine to reach the coal and usually containing iron, sulfur compounds, and low-grade coal, also created a serious air pollution problem. Spontaneous combustion resulting from pressure and heat or fires set intentionally by the company as a means of waste control released toxic carbon monoxide gas and caused serious health problems for local residents. These fires, moreover, burned for years once ignited.47
The foremost obstacle to solving these problems at the local level was, the AVs felt, the industry’s claim that “there is no economically feasible way to treat waste materials so as to prevent pollution.” This claim, they insisted, attempted to cover up the industry’s “reluctance to seek a way” to clean up pollution. Because local or state governments were not in a strong enough position to “force industry to carry its share of the burdens it creates,” the Appalachian Volunteers called on the federal government to step in with money and a research program to solve the pollution problems.48
Initially, the results of the Volunteer onslaught were mixed. Judy Ross, a VISTA volunteer assigned to the Perry County CAP, complained: “I found myself in the frustrating position of recognizing effective ways of encouraging change but being powerless to do so.” Her relationship to the sponsor “was superficially cordial but honestly antagonistic; they neglected to furnish adequate supervision but restricted independent and potentially subversive activity.” Despite its initial enthusiasm for the project, one mountain community failed to push the county to resurface its road “in order to avoid possible political implications.” Volunteers in general, Ross asserted, “lacked the power and authority to carry out plans worked out with the people . . . as long as these plans challenged [the] established political structure.” “The causes of poverty, at least in Appalachia,” she concluded, “are fundamentally political, and that the people of Appalachia need to be encouraged to exert their own political power.”49
Exerting collective political power was the goal of a letter-writing campaign targeting the teacher of the Abner’s Branch school in Leslie County. As with similar AV projects, the letters followed a certain pattern. All began with proper grammar and correct spelling but closed with a rougher pen and noticeably poor grammar, suggesting that the authors received help. All addressed the same general topics—the terrible physical condition of the school and playground and the fact that the teacher, Ruth Lewis, failed to adequately supervise t
he students. As for the latter charge, a series of serious accidents had, allegedly, occurred during school hours. Two youngsters had broken arms, and one girl had broken her leg in two places. In each case, the teacher was accused of exercising poor judgment, of not properly supervising the children, and of not reacting appropriately after the injuries occurred. All this could have been avoided, one resident wrote, if the school had a responsible, adequate teacher. This same person claimed that the Leslie County superintendent, Hays Lewis, canceled the state-administered achievement tests “to save embarrassment.” Another resident wrote that, even though he lived in Leslie County, he sent his children to Harlan County schools because “at the Abner Branch School our children aren’t watched.” Lewis allowed them to wander up to a half a mile from the building to play. Further, even though most children earned As and Bs, they still were unprepared for high school. When some of the Abner’s Branch residents requested a new teacher, the superintendent’s response was “that its in the family and thats as far as we got.”50
Other communities took up the banner of school reform. The people of Buffalo, in Rockcastle County, protested the fact that, as they put it, they had “no actual cooperation from the school board” when they asked for improvements for their school. “Oh yes, we have the seeming cooperation[;] the very syrupy sweet greeting . . . and the perpetual answer ‘we will do all we can,’ then nothing.” Moreover, board meetings were “closed as far as we are concerned.” When the protestors finally managed to send a representative to a meeting, the board discussed “things of no interest” to the community and then let the Buffalo delegate know that it was time to leave by refusing to answer his questions.51
As these examples illustrate, by the fall of 1966 the Volunteers experienced, at best, eroding relationships with many eastern Kentucky school superintendents. When Julia McKeon, an educator from the Bronx, New York, asked for help finding a teaching position in eastern Kentucky, the AV staff member Thomas Rhodenbaugh admitted that the Appalachian Volunteers “do not have the best working relationship with many school superintendents.” In fact, they had troubles with nearly every level of local government. In November, Steve Daugherty became enraged when he learned that the postmaster of Evarts had hired his own wife as postal clerk. “We are attempting to fight a War on Poverty,” Daugherty wrote to the regional director of the U.S. Postal Service, “and yet, how successful can we be if even the positions created by the various government agencies are filled only with members of the same family.” Still, the AVs felt that they were achieving some level of success. “Three years ago,” the antipoverty organization announced, “the primary words used to describe the isolated Appalachian Mountaineer were apathetic, unmotivated, uninspiring, culturally deprived, and in some cases even dull. At the present time we are hearing him described as activist, trouble-maker, organized, impatient, frustrated, and in some cases angry. The reason for this change is attributed to [AV and VISTA] Volunteers.” According to the AVs, the catalyst for this change was “dependable information which tends to decrease or even eliminate the activity of the rumor mill which previously was the primary source of ‘information.’” That is, whereas the organs of local government gave local residents disinformation, thereby keeping them in a subservient position, the Volunteers gave them the knowledge they needed to make informed decisions about the issues affecting their lives.52
Reformers to Radicals Page 22