Bob Kincaid is a journalist, activist and co-founder of H.O.R.N.: (The
Head-On Radio Network www.headonradionetwork.com) broadcasting from the
heart of West Virginia's coal fields; from the heart of the whitewater
rafting country. Founded specifically on the internet because, "barring
a paradigm shift of monumental proportions," Bob says, "progressives
will NEVER get a voice in terrestrial radio. HORN uses a a new form of
radio format: "Conversation Radio," in which guests and callers get all
the time they need to put their ideas forward. The host is not the star
and does not ramrod the conversation. HORN has seven professional
broadcast hosts, all doing shows every day without pay, with hosts in
Chicago, Washington D.C., West Virginia, Florida and Australia, not to
mention the only gay conversation program going on the internet. Bob is
one of those people who talks straight, is tough as nails and stays
broke so he can help sponsor the fight for the dignity of the ordinary
working man. As far as I am concerned, Bob Kincaid is the only
progressive talker in the medium with a Southern background, talking
genuine progressive politics and still living in the South.
-- Joe Bageant
Coal keeps the lights on and the workers locked in darkness
By Bob Kincaid
I live in Fayette County, West Virginia, the heart and soul of West Virginia's whitewater rafting tourism industry. Thousands and thousands of people come here every year to raft the New and Gauley Rivers. They roar down gorges as old as the earth itself, past the ghost towns that are all that's left of the mine wars of a century ago; towns where Mary Harris "Mother" Jones worked to organize the slaves of the coal industry: Thurmond and Glen Jean and Brooklyn and Cunard and Hawks Nest and Prince and McKendry; places that are little more than wide mossy spots by the riverside, with a few squared stones marking where entire generations played out. These are the Tombstones and Dodge Citys of Appalachia.
If asked, most folks would tell you that the days of the mine wars are a long gone piece of West Virginia's violent past. Most folks would be wrong. I saw with my own eyes last Saturday, April 5, that the past is never so far away that we can't see it come to life before our eyes. There's a war going on in West Virginia again.
Gauley Mountain looms over the little town of Ansted, West Virginia. Ansted sits astride the old Midland Trail on the banks of Mill Creek's descent to the New River, said by some to be the oldest river in the New World. To walk from Ansted to the mouth of Mill Creek a couple of miles down is a journey through some ten million years of geology. The town is a hundred and thirty-five years old, although the area has been "settled" since the late 18th Century. My own people came to this area in the mid-1800s. Present population of the town proper is about fifteen-hundred folks. Nearby communities push the region's population closer to three thousand. My home here is on a plateau ringed by the surrounding mountains, some of which create the 900-foot deep gorge of the New River. On the other side of Gauley Mountain, the Gauley River joins the New River to form the Kanawha River, likely a mis-Anglicized version of some Indian word meaning "Plenty of good food here, let's stay a while."
The town was named for the English geologist David Ansted, who first identified the vast coal seams (mostly long gone now) of this part of the world. His discovery changed, and still changes, the face and the future of the region.
A hundred years ago, when my great-grandfather was mining coal in these hills, he and his folks understood that human dignity required a community to stand together against the coal bosses who treated them like slaves. They knew they were slaves and resented it. A lot of blood got spilled, but in the end, the coal miners of the early twentieth century won the right to form a union, be paid a living wage (in actual U.S. cash, no less), have health care and a pension for their old age. But you know all that.
Anyway, about fifty folks from my hometown went up on Gauley Mountain Saturday for an event termed a "Blessing of the Mountain." See, the mountain in question is presently in the early stages of its execution. A coal company has gotten a permit to utterly destroy the mountain right up to the boundary of the New River Gorge National River, all in the name of seams of coal that are sometimes as thin as six inches. The company controls 18,000 acres or more that completely encircle my town. The mountain's drainages are the Gauley and New Rivers themselves. The coal company has begun the process of blasting the mountain to death from the top down. Here at my home about four miles from the site, we already hear the distant rumbles, like bombs going off, as the blasting of Gauley Mountain proceeds.
Like I said, that mountain's been mined before. Like all played-out coal mines, it's full of water. Heaven help the mariner when some blast breaks the mountain open and sends those millions (if not billions) of gallons hurtling down onto our HeadStart Center right before it washes the rest of our town and its people down the creek and into the New River. By the way: the coal company owns the HeadStart Center's property, so HeadStart won't even complain about little poor kids being the first to go. See how it works?
We drove up the winding mountain road, intending to go up to the scene of the crime. Where the road turns to rock and dirt, we found it had been barred by the company, and a hastily spray-painted "No Trespassing" sign erected on steel cable crossing the road. The Episcopal priests who were leading the worship service weren't fazed. They began setting up to hold the service where we were. Prayers for Justice, after all, being prayers, can reach the ears of the Almighty whether those doing the praying are standing over the victim's bleeding heart or standing at her feet. So the fifty or so of us prepared for the little service that was planned. Folks passed around flyers with the Order of Worship. Song lyrics were passed around in lieu of hymnals. My three children and I stood together among the assembled congregants.
That's when everything changed. Charging around the further curve came a couple of four-wheelers, roaring up the road past our group. Immediately following them were all manner of vehicles (mostly pick-up trucks). Out of the vehicles poured what looked like the majority of the coal company's demolition crew, along with their wives and even some of their children. They were all clad in identical sky-blue t-shirts with a logo on the back and the slogan "Protect An Endangered Species -- Save a Coal Miner" or some such corporate drivel. They deliberately blocked our little group in between the mouth of the road and the No Trespassing barrier, like some group of penned animals they planned to slaughter just like the animals that die when they push the detritus of their "mining" into the valley below.
Since we're fairly new to having our homes attacked by Mountain Top Removal here in my neck of Fayette County, some of us were surprised at the show of force. I checked with my friends down in the coal fields of southern West Virginia, however, and they said it's a typical company tactic. Here's what happens: the coal company tells its people (the people who are owned by the company) that the Evil Environmentalists (who, they're told, love trees, fish and numerous species of snails more than people) are trying to take away their jobs. The bosses tell their wage slaves that America can't have electricity without blowing the hell out of the oldest mountains on the planet. The slaves are told that they're actually even "patriots." They get some spiffy new T-shirts and are told, not asked, to take the wife and kids to help intimidate the "Environmental Wackos." Failure to do so, can mean one of these peoples' jobs.
Of course, the bosses DON'T tell their demolition crews that as quick as the last seam has been scraped from the earth, as soon as they've pushed the last bit of mountaintop over into the valley that is my home and killed every living thing that walks, creeps, swims or crawls, they'll be gone like an itching john from a low-rent bordello. They don't tell their "associates" that two or three spins of the Wall Street roulette wheel will reduce those much-vaunted "profit sharing plans" to the value of your great-granny's cache of Civil War Bank of Montgomery Confederate notes. Nope. All those pathetic people hear is that "Coal Keeps The Lights On." All they know is that as long as they keep up the bombing, the paychecks keep coming.
As the mountaintop removers swarmed up the little dirt road in their bid to intimidate a couple of priests and a bunch of mostly fifty- and sixty-something activists, I looked at my own kids (14, 12 and 11). I told them "Kids, these people are more to be pitied than despised. They're slaves. They don't even have the freedom to wear their own clothes. On the job and off, they have to wear what the company tells them to. They go where the company tells them to go. They say what the company tells them to say. They're not even allowed to think for themselves." Amid cries of "Turn your lights off, then!" and "Coal keeps your lights on!" from the CONSOL slaves, my kids looked at me and nodded in understanding. One of them said, "Go talk to them, Daddy."
It was one of what I call those "Atticus Finch" moments: a moment when a parent can't do anything but be straight with his kids, knowing that everything he's tried to teach them before hangs in the balance. "I can't talk to them, baby. They're past learning. They're past comprehending the harm they're doing. They're hurting their own children with what they do, and they don't even care. They're slaves. Slaves live in fear of the Master. Nothing I can say can take away the fear their Master has put into them. They think the only thing in the world they're capable of is dynamiting our mountains so they can have a payday."
The service started, with Father Roy leading the call and response. My kids learned the truth as the company people snickered and guffawed at the priest and the worshipers.
The cat-calls and jeering rose to outright mockery when, responding to the priest's confession that "We remember and confess that we have become alienated from the earth. . . " the people replied with "We have polluted rivers with waste from mountain mines . . . We are sorry." Forced laughter rose from the people who were paid and threatened to compel their attendance. More cries of "Coal keeps the lights on" and "Turn off your lights." The company people knew their catechism far better than we did ours.
Undaunted, the priests continued on. There was some singing. Then Father Stan moved into his homily. He began talking facts about mountaintop removal. Some of the company wives ratcheted the tension up, beginning to scream at the priest. They hollered "stop lying" as he described the toxic effects of mountaintop removal.
When Father Stan got into the meat of his homily, a short, squat company man came storming down from the makeshift gate, yelling at the priest all the way. "I worship the same god you do," he cried, as though addressing some be-robed mullah from an alien, distant land, "but I ain't gonna let you tell these lies! Who's gonna feed my family? Who's gonna send my kids to college," never managing to identify just what "lies" had slain him in the Spirit.
People around the man explained to him, "Sir, this is a worship service." It didn't matter. The company people had managed to put an end to the service. They began hollering their same, tired, chants of "Coal Keeps the Lights On" like some holy, soul-saving mantra, and waving their "Friends of Coal" placards like pieces of the True Cross. A company wife standing in the bed of a pick-up truck began squealing again about what she apparently thought was her husband's constitutional right to destroy anything upon which he set his eye, as long as they made a nice living at it.
At the height of the tension, a clear, pure voice rang out among us. One of our folks sent "Amazing Grace" onto the air. It was quickly picked up by the rest of us, silencing the coal people. Once it was clear that the service would go no further, that Almighty God would no longer be implored to save our community from mountaintop removal, the company people seemed content.
It looks like the mine wars are on again here in West Virginia. Those of us who are fighting to save our communities are committed to principles of non-violence, emulating Dr. King, the fortieth anniversary of whose murder had passed only the day before this confrontation. The company people, however, have shown their hand. Working people kept in the depths of pitiful ignorance, they will bluster, scream, shout, intimidate, threaten and perhaps engage in actual violence to protect not themselves, but their Masters. That's the saddest part of this whole tableau: these people are so far gone down Big Coal's toxic garden path that they don't realize we're struggling for their children's future every bit as much as we are for our own.
As I looked at the company wives in attendance, smirking, cat-calling, hooting and hollering, I couldn't help recalling a statistic that stays on my mind: because of all the mercury coal has put into our lives, every company wife there, like my own wife, and my own daughters, had within her body enough mercury to ensure that every child she bears will suffer at least a ten point IQ deficit. Her very breast milk contains enough mercury to qualify as toxic waste under the EPA's own standards. Her husband's proximity to the blasting, not to mention the poisons he's forced to work with, in and around, promises a tormented old age, if they have mind enough left to comprehend it. And yet, that gray April Saturday in the oldest mountains on earth, she saw me as the enemy.
After they left Pharaoh's bondage and ran into some tough sledding in the desert, it's said that a great number of the Children of Israel preferred a return to Pharaoh and his three-hots-and-a-cot. The preacher in Ecclesiastes said, "There is nothing new under the sun." Reckon he was right.