Mapping Gendered Ecologies: Engaging with and Beyond Ecowomanism and Ecofeminism 1793639469, 9781793639462

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Mapping Gendered Ecologies

ENVIRONMENT AND RELIGION IN FEMINIST-WOMANIST, QUEER, AND INDIGENOUS PERSPECTIVES Series Editor Gabrie’l Atchison Environment and Religion in Feminist-Womanist, Queer, and Indigenous Perspectives is a series that explores the subject of ecofeminism from feminist-womanist, queer, and indigenous perspectives. The governing assumption of the series is that ecofeminism is not only a mode of scholarly discourse and analysis, but also a hub for social formation and action. What distinguishes this series in particular is that it focuses on ecofeminism as a disciplinary matrix through which the voices of women, particularly women of color, and indigenous peoples can speak from their religious and spiritual traditions and practices to address the environmental challenges and concerns of the age. Volumes in this series will attend to the environmental and ecological issues that impact women, people of color, and indigenous populations, as these communities are, in almost all respects, the most immediately threatened by contemporary climate and ecological changes and catastrophes. Works in the series will focus on the history; scholarly resources and perspectives; constructive practices; religious, spiritual, and natural traditions from which these voices speak; and how these can provide alternative narratives, illuminate hidden agendas, and generate resistance to environmental and religious racism and exploitation. Titles in the series Mapping Gendered Ecologies: Engaging with and beyond Ecowomanism and Ecofeminism, edited by K. Melchor Quick Hall and Gwyn Kirk

Mapping Gendered Ecologies Engaging with and beyond Ecowomanism and Ecofeminism Edited by K. Melchor Quick Hall and Gwyn Kirk

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2021 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. Morales, Aurora Levins. “Water Road” in Silt: Prose Poems. © 2019. Reprinted with permission from the author. Flenniken, Kathleen. Plume: Poems. © 2012. Reprinted with permission of the University of Washington Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available ISBN 978-1-7936-3946-2 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-7936-3947-9 (epub) TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

KMQH: To the long history of Indigenous women’s healing traditions that have sustained communities. To Ugandan herbalist Molly Nassali and her son, my friend, Bunny Ssengooba. May you continue to heal each other and others. GK: To the contributors to this collection who share their passion and conviction that the world can and must be organized differently, based on justice, reciprocity, care, and love.

Contents

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1 Maps, Gardens, and Quilts Gwyn Kirk and K. Melchor Quick Hall 2 Darkness All Around Me: Black Waters, Land, Animals, and Sky K. Melchor Quick Hall 3 Roots, Branches, and Wings Gwyn Kirk 4 Cultivating Intergenerational Gardens with Judith Atamba: An Ecowomanist Analysis of a Transnational Black Women’s Gardening Collaboration K. Melchor Quick Hall and Judith Atamba 5 Theorizing Ecofeminist Intersectionalities and Their Implications for Feminist Teachers Christina Holmes 6 On Black Ecofeminist Resistance: The Space between Home and Land Dannie Brice 7 Rematriation: A Climate Justice Migration Aurora Levins Morales 8 A Conversation with Stephanie Morningstar, Coordinator of the Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC) Land Trust Stephanie Morningstar and K. Melchor Quick Hall 9 Ecofeminism as Intersectional Pedagogy and Practice Tatyana Bakhmetyeva vii

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10 Climate Justice in the Wild n’ Dirty South: An Autoethnographic Reflection on Ecowomanism as Engaged Scholar-Activist Praxis before and during COVID-19 Frances Roberts-Gregory 11 Lifelines: Repairing War on the Land Gwyn Kirk with Ruth Bottomley and Susan Cundiff 12 Intimate Pedagogy, Melancholic Things Linh U. Hua 13 Teaching and Learning Gendered Ecologies across the Curriculum Yvonne A. Braun, K. Melchor Quick Hall, Christina Holmes, and Gwyn Kirk 14 A Word about Womanist Ecology: An Autoethnography of Understanding the Restorative Value of Community Gardens for Africana Indigenous People in America Ravá Shelyn Chapman 15 A Conversation with Nuria Costa Leonardo: Feminist Visionary, Builder, Farmer, Teacher Nuria Costa Leonardo and Margo Okazawa-Rey

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Index

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About the Editors

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About the Contributors

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Acknowledgments

KMQH: I want to thank the humans who have made this possible, and especially honor the Nipmuc Indigenous people whose ancestral territory I occupy. Also, I want to honor the black cat who visits my home regularly, whose space I have quite obviously invaded, as well as the den of foxes snuggled under what used to be a pool deck, and now is a garden deck, behind my house. However, it is the connection between human and nonhuman animals and the relationships of all animals to other elements of nature and spirit that I want to acknowledge here. It is the cat that I do not own and the foxes that humans cannot control that make me feel at home. The black cat in particular has been present for the writing of this book, reminding me of my godmother’s home, which happens to have the same house number even though it sits on a different 8-letter street. Her home has seen several black cats that have stood as reminders of our connection to, but not control of, other beings. I am so grateful for the familiarity of ecosystems within which I have been able to thrive, even as I shift location. I continue to shape and be shaped by my environment, and must engage with care for these mutually-sustaining cycles to continue. GK: I am deeply grateful for life, health, and places to shelter. For the Oakland garden, on Ohlone land, that inspires and grounds me, and to all who share in it: trees, plants, people, animals, insects, and birds. For students, teachers, family, and friends, some of whom I name in the pages that follow. To Cathy Cockrell, Martha Matsuoka, and Margo Okazawa-Rey for helping me express what I wanted to say in this book. To faculty members who helped me keep a toehold in the academy: Susan Cavin, Margi Duncombe, Margaret Gentry, Priya Kandaswami, Judith Raiskin, Myrna Santiago, and Marianne Whelchel. To long-time friends who enrich my life with conversaix

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tions, love, and support: Christine Ahn, Judith Arcana, Betty Burkes, Alice Cook, Adrienne Cool, Sherry Gorelick, Deborah Lee, Martha Matsuoka, Albie Miles, Aurora Levins Morales, Margo Okazawa-Rey, Carrie Pester, Martin Perrigo, Anne Simon, and Kathy Yep. To the Sunday morning women’s circle for your honest reflections on life. To everyone in the International Women’s Network Against Militarism; I’m honored to work alongside you. Many thanks to Margo Okazawa-Rey for introducing me to K. Melchor Quick Hall; to Gabrie’l Atchison, series editor, who invited us to edit this collection; to Darrell Gane-McCalla for creating the artwork for the cover; and to Michael Gibson, Kasey Beduhn, and everyone at Lexington Books for getting our words into print. Finally, my deep gratitude to Melchor for such an enriching and rewarding collaboration that I hope will continue long after this book is doing its work in the world.

Chapter One

Maps, Gardens, and Quilts Gwyn Kirk and K. Melchor Quick Hall

This chapter outlines the purpose of this anthology and the process by which it came about, using the imagery of maps, gardens, and quilts for a collaborative work that has grown and developed over time, pieced together by many contributors, with motifs that are repeated in varying shapes and sizes. We also offer a road map that provides one way of connecting the chapters. We touch on the questions and convictions we brought to the curating process and the main lessons learned from it. We have each written sections of this chapter, with our own emphases, as well as borrowing from each other’s words and thinking. Like much of the book, this chapter links personal conversation, analysis, activist projects, and visions of a sustainable future. SEEDING OUR HOPES AND EXPECTATIONS KMQH: This was my first time editing an anthology, and I was not sure what to expect. I imagined that I’d give proofing comments on a couple of essays, after selecting my favorite submissions. Although I knew that I wanted to write about my relationship to nature and Earth, I do not think of myself as an ecofeminist or ecowomanist. This was an awkward entry point for me. In spite of that, I kept inviting contributors who I thought had similarly unconventional entry points until I felt at home in this anthology. Now, as we complete the manuscript I see how much of me and my relationships are spread throughout the volume, which is not what I anticipated. At the same time, it seems an important lesson for me about nature, humanity, and community. As editors we are inextricably embedded in the communities represented in this volume, even as we have connected those communities through this text. 1

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I did not expect that this process would bring me so close to my co-editor. We started as acquaintances, leveraging our participation in a 2018 National Women’s Studies Association panel for a submission to what was initially someone else’s book project. We’ve spent months talking every Friday. I know more about her, her neighbors, the plum tree in her yard, and her activist networks than I know about my brother’s children. We’ve grown to be friends, and I have joked with her that we’ll have to continue regular meetings even after this volume is published, so as to avoid withdrawal in the absence of the meetings that have become a salve in a toxic environment where Black lives are particularly vulnerable. Maybe because of the expanded timeline for this project that extended into a global health pandemic, California climate fires, an active Gulf Coast hurricane season, racial justice uprisings in the United States, and an unusual and critically important presidential election period, almost everything was different than the original plan. Nearly two years later, we have witnessed unprecedented changes in how people are relating to their environments amidst local and regional travel restrictions. Certainly, the virus that originated in (non-human) animals is shifting human relationships to both non-human and human animals, as well as nature beyond the world of animals. Many people have been reflecting on the impact of human encroachment on the habitats of other animals, as many of us spend more time outdoors with clearer skies and cleaner waters, which were rare sights and scents in many cities before the pandemic. GK: It took us a while to find the direction for this collection. Hall and I had proposed a chapter for an anthology to be edited by Gabrie’l Atchison, a series editor with Lexington Books. As things turned out she invited us to take on the editing role, using her initial call for submissions as a starting point. At the beginning I was in dialogue—in my mind—with white feminist teachers and scholars, and what I thought they’d expect in a book concerning ecofeminism, or gendered ecologies as we’ve framed it. That meant acknowledging the excitement many (mainly white) women had felt about ecofeminism in the 1980s and 1990s; reckoning with its theoretical possibilities and limitations; and facing my deep frustration that academic feminism has done so little to engage questions of ecological sustainability. As someone outside this history, Hall asked me what intervention this book would make in feminist scholarship. This helped me to articulate how white feminist thinking had been bogged down by arguments about women’s essential nature. Women of color critics had argued that, as with much white western feminism, ecofeminism privileged gender over race and class, and elevated ideas over material reality (e.g., Agarwal 1992, Nanda 1997). In response, I’d advocated an intersectional approach that links gender, race, class, nation,

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and environmental justice (e.g., Kirk 1997, 1998). Others had different points of entry, including a focus on speciesism or spirituality. The theme of the 2005 National Women’s Studies Association conference was “Women and the Environment: Globalizing and Mobilizing,” with keynote speakers, conference panels, and workshops. I was disappointed that this interest was not sustained. Christina Holmes, a contributor to this volume, made a breakthrough for me when she argued that “feminist thought is limited by the marginalization of ecofeminism” (2016, 23). She urged feminist scholars to “work through knotty debates . . . disciplinary divides and tensions” (2016, 23) and to set feminist environmental thinking into “new motions” beyond exclusions and “stuck places” (2016, 146). Hers was such a welcome voice, and I see this book as one answer to her call. KMQH: Because of Kirk’s long history with feminist activist networks and immersion in ecofeminist scholarship, I entered this project expecting some form of mentorship. With my first single-authored book recently released and no experience in editing an anthology, I was not sure how my connection to (Black maternal) legacies that are under-represented in a white patriarchal academy would mesh with her experience. I wondered what she would expect of me and whether she would be able to listen to me. I had my doubts that we would be able to achieve a genuine partnership through our co-editorship. GK: I didn’t have clear expectations at the start but I was open to an exploratory process. Hall has her own experiences and analysis. Her opinions helped me to see how mine have been influenced and limited by my location and viewpoint. I have not felt like a mentor, more like a partner, and sometimes a junior partner, as we’ve worked things out together. It took us a while to clarify what we wanted this book to be about. This happened in reference to contributors’ submissions and to the unfolding conversation between us. Since we come from very different backgrounds and have been shaped by different experiences, part of getting to know each other—and defining our positions as co-editors—has involved recognizing the overlaps and points of difference between us. We had to be explicit about our thinking and perspectives rather than taking things for granted. This has been a ground-up process, undertaken with patience and respect. We could not write a shared introductory chapter, so we decided to explain the journeys that brought us to this book (chapters 2 and 3). The time the project took to develop meant that some people moved on. We weeded out a few and carefully cultivated others. I learned to trust this way forward, a process of pruning, grafting, and composting. It took time for the book to settle into place, as we moved more fully into our networks and worldviews and, to use Hall’s words, “farther from the disciplining of the academy.” What did I learn during this project? Trust the process; keep clear lines of communication; stick to your values and sense of what matters.

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This has been a wonderful experience for me, slow and exploratory, as we worked out what we wanted to include and why. When Margo Okazawa-Rey and I found a publisher for what is now Gendered Lives: Intersectional Perspectives (Kirk and Okazawa-Rey 2020), Franklin Graham was our first editor. He had a light hand on the steering wheel but a clear sense of where we were headed. He asked great questions. “What teaching problem will this book solve?” is one that’s stayed with me. I had no clear sense of where we were headed in this book, but I knew it had to be broader than much ecofeminist work and big enough to address the enormity of the interconnected crises facing humankind: environmental destruction, climate crisis, white supremacy, economic exploitation, misogyny, and gender oppression. CULTIVATING RELATIONSHIPS GK: A key for me in this process has been cultivating relationships: to each other, to our gardens, and with the community of contributors. We are all teaching, some in our communities, others in classroom settings, and several in both. We are all learning about how to live on the Earth that sustains us. Margo Okazawa-Rey played an important role in seeding this project by introducing me to Hall. She knows us in different contexts and saw that we could likely work together even though we did not know this ourselves. This makes me think about the importance of introductions and what is shared, especially for people who might work together across differences. Who makes the introduction and how it’s done may affect the openness people bring to early conversations, seeing beyond stereotypes and obvious categories of race, gender, or generation. KMQH: Although Kirk suggests that we had to decide if we could work together, my commitment was made once my mentor Okazawa-Rey made the introduction. I was definitely going to try to work with Kirk on this project unless and until it became impossible. I would have stayed engaged until I could figure out why I thought Okazawa-Rey suggested that we work together. In my world, lessons don’t come easy. I didn’t expect this collaboration to be easy or comfortable. I was astonished that I found it to be both. I continue to think about why Okazawa-Rey connected us. Where I am with this today is that Kirk has an unconventional path, untethered to any one institution. In a way, she has had to define the ground in which she roots. Although I am new to the academy, I know that I will not be able to grow deep roots in a white, private university. My mother taught at historically Black colleges and universities when I was a child, so I know what education is on the other side of the racial divide. In my professional career, I have worked at two historically Black universities in the nation’s capital. It is interesting to be and feel so thoroughly Black in my (political and cultural)

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identity while spending so much time in places that are so white, in terms of demographic percentages and culture. I am trying to figure out if I must root or whether I can float. My options will differ from Kirk’s for many reasons, not the least of which is my Blackness. Kirk’s friendship has been a grounding force. It turns out we both love rocks and their grounded stillness, even as we have committed ourselves to currents of resistance to the academy’s inaction and inertia on issues we care about. GK: Our relationships to academia have formed a backdrop to our work together. I’ve had one foot in and one foot out over the years, straddling academic and community settings, not wanting to have to choose between bifurcated worlds that are often defined as two separate packages: academia and activism. This is both a personal decision and also my (enforced) accommodation to the job market. When I first got a teaching job in this country (at Rutgers in 1989), 33 percent of faculty worked part-time or on short-term contracts. The word “contingent” wasn’t in use back then, as far as I remember. Now, the ratio is reversed as academia has become more corporate, requiring a more flexible workforce, with the limitations, challenges, and opportunities that entails. KMQH: As we have worked on this book I have developed several relationships with other colleagues that have fed this project in unexpected ways. During the final editing stages of this book, I have been a Resident Scholar at Brandeis University’s Women’s Studies Research Center (WSRC). In ways that I could not have imagined, convening monthly with a small cohort of WSRC artists and scholars, during the 2019–2020 academic year, shaped my vision for this collection. In particular, I feel compelled to highlight the ways that the art, sculpture, and photography of Donna Dodson 1 and Vaughn Sills 2 have impacted me. In October 2020, as we finalize our manuscript, Dodson is installing and curating an exhibit on rocks and stones, entitled “Interpreting the Natural: Contemporary Visions of Scholars’ Rocks.” 3 Dodson is a white female artist, who has committed herself to learning more about white privilege with other white people, and who is listening to and learning from many people of color. Spending a month at New York City’s Korean Cultural Center, the “Interpreting the Natural” exhibit featured contemporary artists with cultural ties to China, Korea, Japan, Argentina, and the United States. I see her work as helping to develop human relationships to nature and with the Earth; her artistic work and curation is part of the ecosystem that shifts humans towards right relationships with nature. GK: I’m excited about artwork that helps to connect people to nature. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop taking photos of plants and rocks? The world needs people who are fully alive to the challenges and dangers human communities face, and to the thousands of possibilities open to us to create a more just and sustainable world. This is long haul work; it has to nurture us,

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as art can do. Tatyana Bakhmetyeva mentions the importance of artists’ work in the classroom (chapter 9). This book has offered us, as editors, opportunities to make relationships with teachers, practitioners, activists, and organizers, in a community of care. While engaging each other’s words and gardens, we have developed relationships that keep us in community with one another, even in a challenging period when so many people feel isolated. I see these connections as part of the harvest of this process. KMQH: In thinking about how to embody the natural ecology of this project, I was inspired by photography of Vaughn Sills, another artist at the WSRC. Much of her work highlights an intimate relationship between humans and plants, through the emotive expressions of flowers or carefully curated home gardens. In particular, I have been moved by Sills’ Places for the Spirit: Traditional African American Gardens. 4 Sills is a white woman who shared excerpts from an essay about her experience visiting African American traditional gardens. She talked to our cohort about questions of ownership and appropriation, belonging and imposing. I appreciated and respected how she was struggling with her relationship to the work, even as I relished the images, grateful to be able to visit my elders’ gardens, praying that they were thriving and giving their owners spiritual strength and food sustenance during this challenging pandemic. COMPOSTING ACADEMIC FRAMEWORKS KMQH: Recently, I attended a Soul Fire Farm virtual skill share workshop on soil health, led by Leah Penniman and Germaine Jenkins; it was part of a series by and for Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC). 5 We talked about the importance of good soil and discussed how to enrich the soil. This made me think about the colonial roots of the US academy. We must break down, or deconstruct, academic frameworks, so that they might serve as fodder for a richer, more nourishing, rooted mapping of the world. This collection is curated in that spirit. GK: Our conversations shaped this collection in crucial ways. Our first table of contents had a section on theory and another on practice. Perhaps not surprisingly, those we’d initially labeled theorists were white scholars; the practitioners were women of color. We quickly repudiated this division. No practice is without theory. Figuring out what is happening in our lives informs most people’s activities, even though they may not think of this as theory making. This was an important inflection point that changed the balance of work we wanted to include. One of our goals is for teachers, scholars, students, and activists, who may inhabit all these roles simultaneously, to see how people generate knowledge by reflecting on their own experiences and those of others.

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KMQH: This intention means being explicit about the role of the academy in producing and valorizing certain types of knowledge. Several contributors, including us, are in the academy but not necessarily of the academy. Instead, our primary allegiances are with communities whose perspectives and struggles often precede and inform academic thinking and teaching. We bring certain privileges to our work. We live and work in worlds that exist beyond the academy and invite them into our scholarly work. Thus, this volume includes the work of community activists who we expect to be recognized and served by the academy. In this way, we insist that the academy attend to the pressing (racialized, classed, and gendered) ecological concerns of the day, which connect human oppression to environmental degradation and violence against all beings. It is not enough to offer courses about these challenges; we are calling for the kind of messy engagement that demands action, in collaboration with other institutions and organizations. GK: As the academy becomes more corporate, students are defined as consumers or customers. Tatyana Bakhmetyeva worries about whether she is giving students “value for money” in her course on ecofeminism and reflects on how she has come to terms with this contradiction (chapter 9). Especially given the current crises, we challenge the academy to do more to fully engage communities in the issues presented here. We see this volume as one set of maps to guide this effort, offering a solution to epistemological and teaching problems. Despite its elitism, the academy is an important institution with untapped potential for social and ecological change. Unless it moves in this direction, it will become more of a bastion of the elite and irrelevant to the challenges ordinary people face. Research should be relevant to real world problems and researchers more connected to affected communities. How do they see the challenges they face? What will constitute meaningful solutions? How bad do crises need to get before people respond—those immediately impacted, others who are less impacted, and those in formal power positions? What additional information do we need? What new insights can be achieved? I’ve heard women’s and gender studies teachers say environmental issues are too technical; there’s too much to learn. I think the technical issues are the least of it. It’s the economic and political issues that are keeping things stuck. This book questions what constitutes valid knowledge, who creates it, and who has authority and expertise. To address ecological crises, research must be of interest and value to activists and policymakers, rather than abstract academic feminism, which is often co-opted by patriarchal notions of scholarship. We need organizations and contexts where working relationships between activists, researchers, and policymakers can develop, and where students can learn this approach in practice. As the academy reels from the impacts of this current pandemic and faces a tightening economic situation, courses on social and ecological transformation are desperately needed.

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Accordingly, we emphasize teaching and learning—for students and for teachers. Linh Hua introduces the work of Marilyn Doerr (2004), who argues for responsible pedagogy (chapter 12). Doerr writes, “I don’t believe the AP Environmental Science course produces ecologists . . . it produces students who have memorized a body of knowledge, spat it back for the test, and moved on” (127). Similarly, in writing about the Holocaust, philosopher Alan Rosenberg (1988) distinguished between knowing about this atrocity and understanding its significance. Knowing is about facts. We can learn facts without “their having any impact on the way we understand ourselves or the world we live in,” Rosenberg argued (382). Understanding the meaning of an event is a much deeper process, by which “it becomes integrated into one’s moral and intellectual life” (382). In addition, “Understanding compels us to action, even though we may not initially want to change our habitual ways of thinking and being” (382). How does this transition from knowing to understanding happen? What helps people do this? What holds us back? These are questions we are asking of the academy in these times of worsening crisis. Education must integrate the head, heart, and hands. It has to be transformative. TAKING CUES FROM NATURE KMQH: The final months of work for this book project happened during a global health pandemic, in which many non-human animals and plants were thriving. My co-editor and I were mostly at home. It is in talking about the nature outside of our homes that we discovered our shared love of rocks. We swap images of our natural environments. I am converting my pool into a garden and she is harvesting plums and making all kinds of plum products. As we talk about the need for academic institutions to collaborate with and engage other kinds of organizations, we are reflecting on what we can learn from our own natural environments. Our attention to the nature around us informs this text. Several years ago, I moved into a New England home that could accommodate my mother and grandmother. We only needed a first-floor bedroom and accessible bathroom, but we got an outdoor pool that required expensive chemical treatments. When I contacted local contractors about the cost to convert the pool into a garden and/or greenhouse, I was shocked by quotes in the tens of thousands. That started a multi-year conversion project that began with my rental of a jackhammer to demolish the pool bottom. Over a year later, I have purchased truckloads of dirt that could not be driven to the back of the house but had to be moved by wheelbarrow. The process was further slowed by fact that the frozen ground (and dirt) of New England winters only allowed this transfer to happen in warmer months. After several truckloads of

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dirt, the top layers required topsoil, and pebbles for walking paths running the length of the pool. My mother documented the transformation through a series of photographs that we shared with Judith Atamba, one of the volume contributors. Atamba and I were co-researchers in a participatory action research project that was (and is) a transnational exchange about intergenerational family and community gardening as a response to the (food and economic) insecurities of the pandemic. My mother and I worked together in the US, while Atamba and her daughter worked together in Tanzania. Atamba provided support and advice to me, a novice gardener, since she has considerable personal and professional farming and permaculture experience. GK: Like many people during this pandemic I’ve been focused on my immediate environment. I moved into a duplex in Oakland (California) twelve years ago with a younger couple. Together we created a beautiful and productive garden. These original partners have moved, but other upstairs neighbors have worked on the garden, which has been a source of great joy as we shelter in place. Indeed, the garden has flourished this spring and summer. Working from home, we’ve noticed birds, butterflies, ladybugs, and bumblebees like never before. For a while our lives revolved around the plum tree, a Santa Rosa plum, a variety bred by horticulturalist Luther Burbank in the early 1900s. It blooms in February, a cloud of small white flowers. Each year I worry that it’s too early for pollinators, but each year fruit sets. This season we had a bumper crop, maybe 200 pounds harvested over a month or so. The plums were so heavy that the branches touched the ground. I didn’t realize that trees have such elasticity, gradually stretching to accommodate the extra weight. We shared bags of plums with friends and neighbors. Some went into CSA food baskets. We made plum sauce, plum juice, baked plum desserts, and jars of plum schnapps, stowed away for the winter. KMQH: The slowdown caused by the pandemic meant that work on the book slowed down. We waited several months for feedback on our proposal. This is common enough in publishing, but it was hard to maintain momentum. We were grateful when the proposal was accepted. Suddenly the project gained new life. Some people included in the original proposal were unable to contribute because of competing priorities and life’s circumstances. Others joined along the way. If the project continued for another six months, we might have had a completely different set of contributors. We decided to embrace the weeds of this project that refused to conform to curb cuts and resisted disappearance into manicured landscapes. Indeed, the delivery of the manuscript is an artificial stopping point in an organic process of engaging one another’s work in ways that extend beyond the book. Spending this year engaging the artistic projects of Vaughn Sills and Donna Dodson was wind behind the wings of this anthology for me, as Kirk and I embraced its unwieldy nature. We plan to nurture the parts of the

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project that spill over and go beyond the pages of this manuscript. Words only go so far. Much of what we write about may be better expressed through images and art. For that reason, we are creating a companion website at www.mappinggenderedecologies.org, where contributors and readers can share, see, and experience our gardens, and other artistic and poetic developments and offshoots of our relations with the natural world. MAPS, GARDENS, AND QUILTS GK: Early on, we chose mappings as a central image for this work. Contributors’ geographical locations stretch across the continental United States to Canada, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Britain, and East Africa, women connected across locations, a community that is dispersed geographically, diverse in terms of race and class, but passionately engaged with ecological concerns and caring for the Earth. Linh Hua connects sites in the US, the US-Mexico border region, and locations in Vietnam and Malaysia (chapter 12). Kirk notes lessons learned from people in many places, and the power of maps to define reality (chapter 3); also the mapping of environmental contamination caused by war and preparations for war (chapter 11). KMQH: Kirk and I have thought through many metaphors when writing this chapter, which we originally thought would be a concluding chapter. We have reflected on how parts may be assembled to make something new. This made me think of quilts and my godfather, Roland Freeman, a well-known photographer and cultural documentarian, 6 who uses visual anthropological methods to preserve folk life and culture throughout the Black diaspora. My home, where I have spent so much of the past months, is full of his photography. During this project, however, I thought specifically about his work on African American quilts and quilters. Below is an excerpt from A Communion of the Spirits: African-American Quilters, Preservers, and Their Stories: Many quilts are made as “just something to keep you warm,” and many are intended for far more. Some are used directly as instruments of cultural transmission: they, along with the stories of their origins and histories, are part of the family legacy, at times explicitly recording significant events from individual, familial, or cultural life—sometimes memorializing great pain, and other times, great triumphs. Other quilts are created with specific powers: to heal, protect, woo, resolve, or acquire. Still others are made as gifts, usually across generations, and honor significant rites of passage or are a key part of a dowry. For some, quilts are made to be sold for economic survival, while for a few, they become the road to real economic empowerment. (Freeman 1996, xviii)

The mappings presented in this text do work in different areas. Some search for home, others challenge disciplinary divisions, many suggest a path to-

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ward justice. Just as quilts have many functions, so do the maps of this volume’s contributors. GK: The book’s different pieces, voices, registers, and styles overlap, diverge, come together, and reinforce one another. Details are repeated from one chapter to another: the complicated nature of home and belonging, the brutality of the slave trade, reasons to eat a plant-based diet, teachers’ aspirations for their courses, and so on. This repetition was not planned but arises out of contributor’s experiences and frames of reference. Since so many contributors write about gardens, gardening metaphors are particularly apt. Tatyana Bakhmetyeva links gardens and curriculum quite explicitly. Quoting Karen Wilson Baptist (2002, 20), she notes that they “invite participation through physical movement, intellectual engagement and creative imagination” (chapter 9). KMQH: Some chapters discuss human-nature engagement through the lens of university professionals, while other chapters begin with questions of home and migration. We could have organized these chapters in various ways, just as patchwork quilts can be designed in many ways given the same scraps. Below we offer one mapping that shares some of the connections we see among the chapters. At the same time, we recognize that the individual chapters offer their own mappings of paths that lead one away from the text and onto other projects. We are an unlikely pair, a bit disheveled and disruptive, and this book reflects that. In both content and form, we want to offer a radically different mapping, something to chew on that is fresh and nourishing. Having traversed this collection from many directions, we wondered which path through the volume to offer. Although the chapters are numbered, we think of this collection as an unordered list. We did not want to section some members off from others, which would disrupt the community that has developed. Instead, we envision the collection as a circle that has the uneven roundness of a rock formation. We have no expectation that the chapters will be read from first to last. At the same time, we want to offer a pathway, in the spirit of providing a careful curation for this broad collection of work. A TRAIL OF INTERCONNECTED STORIES Following this chapter we each introduce ourselves. First, Hall offers an autobiographical essay, “Darkness All Around Me: Black Waters, Land, Animals, and Sky.” She discusses how being a “daughter of Chocolate City,” known to some as Washington, DC, has shaped her ecological relations (chapter 2). Having discussed race and the marginalization of people of color in much academic ecofeminist scholarship, we chose to start with a Black

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woman’s mapping to disrupt the white-centric tendencies of many ecofeminist texts. Next, Kirk’s essay, “Roots, Branches, and Wings,” describes the path that brought her to this book (chapter 3). Her story starts in a Manchester suburb in England, and travels through various migrations to Liverpool, to Tanzania, back to Britain, and finally to the United States. These autobiographical essays situate us both. We pair these chapters as a way to reveal the multiple roots that generate the shared foundation of this anthology. Our histories have taken each of us to Tanzania, a crossing in place, though not in time. In thinking about this shared geography, we turn to the co-authored chapter by Hall and Kenyan national and Tanzanian resident Judith Atamba (chapter 4). This chapter uses transnational Black feminist and ecowomanist frameworks to contextualize the collaborative relationship between Hall and Atamba, focused on creating gardens during this time of global pandemic. This account highlights labor and land traditions of Judith’s Luhya tribe, recalls her ecomemories, and describes her women’s gardening project. In this project, Atamba is a teacher to community women and to her daughter, who assists in the project. We continue with the theme of teaching in a classroom context (chapter 5). In “Theorizing Ecofeminist Intersectionalities and their Implications for Feminist Teachers,” Christina Holmes engages readers in an exploration and theorization of intersectionality, which has been developed in the United States to highlight racialized sexism (and sexualized racism) impacting Black women. Holmes explores intersectionalities in relation to feminist methodologies and pedagogies, how teachers understand the classroom environment, the students in it, and the activities the class might undertake. In this nuanced and detailed mapping of the broad-based implications of intersectionality for feminist teachers, she discusses vegetarianism, speciesism, and “queering” the environment. The following chapter similarly attends to “queer” pathways through ecofeminist frameworks. Dannie Brice’s “On Black Ecofeminist Resistance: The Space between Home and Land” reflects on the discomfort of being in between places (chapter 6). Moving between Haiti and the United States, between house and home, Brice presents a Haitian eco-femme lens that resists cis-assumed identities and invites readers to open queer closets. This chapter is a search for home and mother/land for a Black queer migrant who journeys through geopolitical and disciplinary borderlands to arrive at an analysis of the work of Haitian writer Marie Vieux Chauvet. Chapter 7, “Rematriation: A Climate Justice Migration,” continues the theme of motherland and migration. Aurora Levins Morales describes her return to Puerto Rico, or Borikén. She brings readers into close contact with the human and non-human organisms of the land, while also revealing the political tensions that wreak havoc and unleash unnatural disasters. Inspired

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by Taíno ancestor and leader Anacaona, Levins Morales describes contemporary projects and movements of resistance against ecological crises and colonial racism. The next chapter also highlights contemporary land-based movements. In “A Conversation with Stephanie Morningstar, Coordinator of the Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC) Land Trust,” Hall listens to the journey that led Haudenosaunee citizen Morningstar to her current work (chapter 8). Raised in the matrilineal culture of the Haudenosaunee nation and formally trained in women’s studies and botany, Morningstar describes varying influences that have prepared her to lead a regional effort to unite Black and Indigenous people in shared land stewardship. Haudenosaunee territory crosses the USCanada border, as does Morningstar’s work. She is a movement leader and an herbalist, inspired by the women of her clan and tribe. Chapter 9 continues to blur the (unnatural) separation between teaching and activism. Tatyana Bakhmetyeva, who teaches at the University of Rochester, explores “Ecofeminism as Intersectional Pedagogy and Practice” and explains how the classroom can be a site for reimagining environmental education, guided by intersectional ecofeminism. She challenges students to (re)consider how they think about nature and wilderness through texts as well as direct experiences with nature, community-based work with urban farmers, opportunities for activism, and engagement with performance art and popular music. In her class, students discuss Beyoncé’s “Formation” music video that opens with the question, “What Happened in New Orleans?” Frances Roberts-Gregory takes up the question of what is happening in New Orleans in “Climate Justice in the Wild n’ Dirty South: An Autoethnographic Reflection on Ecowomanism as Engaged Scholar-Activist Praxis before and during COVID-19” (chapter 10). She offers a glimpse into the grassroots organizing of the Gulf Coast. As an ecowomanist ethnographer, she provides rich descriptions of sweltering summer days, balancing her life as an academic and an activist in the US and as a participant in an international climate conference in Madrid, Spain. Highlighting the environmental and climate justice work of BIPOC communities, she outlines an ecowomanist methodology, and highlights tragic loss of life alongside healing practices. This chapter and the next both lay bare unnatural (policy) disasters and toxic geographies. In “Lifelines: Repairing War on the Land,” Gwyn Kirk recalls the consequences of atomic fallout on the food supply in the north of England, her later participation in the Greenham Common women’s peace movement against nuclear arms, and an international network of women who repudiate militarization (chapter 11). This chapter, co-authored with Ruth Bottomley and Susan Cundiff, connects militarization and toxic environments and shares activist reports from the United States and Cambodia. The chapter

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begins with a story about the toxicity of children’s milk, a reminder of the intimate nature of ecological struggles, which is taken up in the next chapter. Linh Hua’s “Intimate Pedagogy, Melancholic Things” interweaves experiences of university teaching and family migrations, with reference to colonial structures throughout (chapter 12). The chapter is organized according to elements in nature, starting with oceans (and flooding), traversing through the desert (and the demolition of community gardens), and arriving at the sand (after a perilous journey). Bridging environmental studies and humanities in her course and in this chapter, Hua reflects on the (inter)personal nature of classroom encounters and the life experiences that students bring with them into the classroom. The next chapter similarly focuses on classroom environments. “Teaching and Learning Gendered Ecologies across the Curriculum” was developed through a collective writing process with co-editors Hall and Kirk and co-authors Yvonne Braun and Christina Holmes (chapter 13). For weeks, we passed around a draft with our responses to initial questions about our teaching and learning practices and experiences, inserting comments and questions for one another, pushing each other to reveal more of ourselves and explain more of our thinking. Working together, we were able to show aspects of our teaching struggles and aspirations. We are a community of scholars who want to create transformative classrooms whose lessons extend beyond the academy. Chapter 14 explores an example of teaching and learning in a community setting. Ravá Shelyn Chapman’s contribution, “A Word about Womanist Ecology: An Autoethnography of Understanding the Restorative Value of Community Gardens for Africana Indigenous People in America,” focuses on Bush Mountain Community Garden in Atlanta, Georgia, where Chapman was garden manager. The garden is a site of trauma and healing for community members. Bush Mountain speaks to Chapman in powerful and transformative ways, and she is reminded of lessons from her church family and grandmother’s garden, as she faces the challenges of under-resourced community work. This chapter and the next highlight the importance of an ecological community network that connects humans and plants. In “A Conversation with Nuria Costa Leonardo: Feminist Visionary, Builder, Farmer, Teacher,” Margo Okazawa-Rey and Costa Leonardo discuss Bosque de Agua, an ecovillage in Morelos, Mexico, founded by Costa Leonardo (chapter 15). Having spent time at Bosque de Agua, OkazawaRey interviewed Costa Leonardo to learn more about the values, philosophy, politics, and purpose of this sustainable community space. Because Okazawa-Rey introduced us co-editors, we end this anthology with yet another connection that she makes, this time one rooted in forests and sustainability.

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The mapping we have provided for this anthology includes departure points, migrations, places of refuge, returns, and places of stillness. This path invokes other maps that highlight patterns of contamination, displacement, dereliction, gentrification, state violence, hurricanes, fires, rising sea levels, and a lack of oxygen. We have curated this collection in order to create space for these maps and to give the people they map room to breathe. We take lessons from our gardens and those of our mothers, grandmothers, and foremothers. This anthology has grown slowly; it involved seeding, sprouting, flowering, fruiting, decaying, dying, rotting, and reseeding. Also, there has been growth, development, soil enrichment, and water harvesting in the gardens that have grown alongside this book. This collection and the community of contributors keep us warm like the multi-purpose and artistic quilts sewn in many African American communities. There has been piecing together and patching, with messages and signs woven into the fabric of this text that honors women’s art and connections to nature. We see this book as a series of gifts—writings, conversations, projects, generative thinking, and activism. Its contributors are leaders in their communities. They bring their creativity, hope, vision, skills, life experience, invitations, and passionate convictions that the world can and must be organized differently, based on justice, reciprocity, care, and love. REFERENCES Agarwal, Bina. 1992. “The Gender and Environment Debate: Lessons from India.” Feminist Review 18, no.1: 119–157. Baptist, Karen Wilson. 2002. “The Garden as a Metaphor for Curriculum.” Teacher Education Quarterly 29, no. 4: 19–37. Doerr, Marilyn. 2004. Currere and the Environmental Autobiography: A Phenomenological Approach to the Teaching of Ecology. New York and Berlin: Peter Lang. Freeman, Roland L. 1996. A Communion of the Spirits: African-American Quilters, Preservers, and Their Stories. Nashville, TN: Rutledge Hill Press. Holmes, Christina. 2016. Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Kirk, Gwyn. 1997. “Standing on Solid Ground: Towards a Materialist Ecological Feminism.” In Materialist Feminism: A Reader in Class, Difference, and Women’s Lives, edited by Rosemary Hennessy and Chrys Ingraham, 345–363. New York: Routledge. ________. 1998. “Ecofeminism and the Chicano Environmental Movement: Bridges Across Gender and Race.” In Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics: Subversive Kin, edited by Devon G. Peña, 177–200. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Kirk, Gwyn, and Margo Okazawa-Rey, eds. 2020. Gendered Lives: Intersectional Perspectives. New York: Oxford University Press, 7th edition. Nanda, Meera. 1997. “‘History Is What Hurts’: A Materialist Feminist Perspective on the Green Revolution and its Ecofeminist Critics.” In Materialist Feminism: A Reader in Class, Difference, and Women’s Lives, edited by Rosemary Hennessy and Chrys Ingraham, 364–394. New York: Routledge. Rosenberg, Alan. 1988. “The Crisis in Knowing and Understanding the Holocaust.” In Echoes from the Holocaust: Philosophical Reflections on a Dark Time, edited by A. Rosenberg and G.E. Myers, 379–395. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

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NOTES 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

See https://www.donnadodsonartist.com/. See http://www.vaughnsills.com/. See https://interpretingthenatural.blogspot.com/. See http://www.vaughnsills.com/#/snow/. See https://www.souldfirefarm.org/food-soverignty-education/3d/. See http://tgcd.org/.

Chapter Two

Darkness All Around Me Black Waters, Land, Animals, and Sky K. Melchor Quick Hall

I was born in a place called Chocolate City in the late 1970s that was built on swampland. The community that birthed me was one of Black freedom fighters who created schools and developed networks to advance liberation struggle. Being born in that time and place has shaped my relationship to the natural (and unnatural) world. As a Black girl child, I knew that many Black girls stayed away from water. I also knew of a history of dangerous waters for my people, symbolized by all those who died during the transatlantic slave trade, and whose bodies line that route in the Atlantic Ocean. Those who didn’t die were forced to work on stolen land. They were treated like “animals,” which has always made me think twice about how (white) people treat animals, especially when I see a kindness extended to pets that I don’t see in interracial relations. I have always craved a different relationship to (other) animals for Black people. Resisting domestication and advocating for wild spaces for feral beings seems wise given that, depending on the political climate and our location, we could easily find ourselves being treated as (non-human) “animals.” This precarious connection to (other) animals has shaped my plant-based diet as well as my reluctance to killing animals—small and large—with whom I share space. What you should know about me is that I was born into an all-Black world. I was eight or nine before I realized white people existed. My mother was as light as anyone I saw, and my father as dark. Since they were both Black and my brother and I were a shade of brown between their complexions, skin color never triggered awareness of a white race. My first school was an intentionally allBlack school called Roots; it is still open and nurturing Black children. It wasn’t until my parents were divorced and my mother, my brother, and I moved to North Carolina, away from Chocolate City, that I understood that a group of 17

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people who called themselves white existed and thought they were superior to others. However, I was a well-formed eight-year-old, and would forever be a daughter of Chocolate City. Because I was and am a daughter of Chocolate City, I recognized something very different in the city of Durham about white people’s expectations. Most of my white teachers started the school year assuming that I was not very smart. When walking on sidewalks, white people often took up more space than they needed, for themselves, their children, and their pets. The white people I encountered in Durham seemed not to know much about Black people, or Chocolate City, even though there were clearly Black people living among them. The structures reminded me of—and in many cases were—plantations. Even if there were no slaves, white supremacy persisted, as did its architectural remnants. As Toni Morrison (2008) described, “Although they called it architecture it was in fact elaborately built toilets, decorated toilets, toilets surrounded with and by business and enterprise in order to have something to do in between defecations since waste was the order of the day and the ordering principle of the universe” (Morrison 2008, 203). And so oftentimes where white people saw (and see) beautiful “colonial” homes, Black people saw (and see) a pile of shit. This is what it means to open oneself up to another mapping of the world. Although I have come to understand that white people in power like to hear their version of history and the “lay of the land” repeated to them, I am unable to discuss my relationship with Nature outside of my experience of being a Black woman. And even if I could, why would I want to? Doesn’t someone have to be present to tell a story? This essay seeks to set the stage for multiple and diverse mappings of gendered ecologies that have guided contributors. We acknowledge how our locations in worlds has oriented us differently toward land, water, plants, and other beings. Our challenges and privileges in relation to various mappings are shaped by race, gender, sexuality, indigeneity and other factors. My mapping explores my relations with water, land, animals, and sky. This mapping of how I understand my location in a world is not designed to be “applied” to the other essays in this volume. Instead, it is designed to set a tone, or open up space, for multiple mappings. This collection is enriched by its appreciation for different perspectives. BLACK WATERS: TRANS-ATLANTIC OCEAN TRAUMA AND WHITE PEOPLE’S DAY AT THE POOL Given how we arrived, it’s reasonable that African Americans descended from Africans trafficked across an Atlantic Ocean, where many of them perished, would have some form of water trauma. Even if those memories

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didn’t haunt Black girls and women, we (middle-class Blacks) are often encouraged to stay away from water, including our own sweat, because of how the humidity alters neatly laid locks. For me, I can trace my traumabased relationship to a swimming class that I took when I was a child. In the locker room, I was confronted by a young white girl who told me, “Today is White People’s Day, and you have to do whatever white people tell you to do.” To my recollection, no words actually came out of my mouth. Even though it was before the swimming class, I do not remember whether I actually took the class. What I do know is that I didn’t learn to swim that summer, or any other summer during my childhood. When I went to sleepover summer camps, I carried a note from my mother, indicating that I should not be forced to participate in any swimming activities. I spent my entire childhood and my early adulthood being very uncomfortable with large bodies of water. In particular, I noticed a lot of dishonesty near swimming pools. For example, adults would say they were going to hold on to children, and then would yell to them that they were swimming on their own. As a child, I understood that white people could not be trusted near water, and adults (of all races) would lie about whether they were keeping children safe around it. I (over)heard adults talking about throwing children into water and letting them flail around until they figured out how to keep themselves afloat. As a teenager, I saw peers throw unsuspecting friends into pools. Women (and girls) were particularly vulnerable, being lifted off the ground and thrown into water. I avoided pool parties and water parks. When other people were around, I stayed far away from the water’s edge. In private, I cultivated a more intimate relationship with water, whispering across the waves of the Atlantic whenever possible, wondering about the bodies on the ocean floor. I stood in shallow waters, or shoals. Tiffany Lethabo King (2019) has written the following about shoals: The word “shoal” has a number of meanings. Geological sources define it as the area in which the sea or body of water becomes shallow. As a process, it is the movement of the ocean from greater to shallower depths. It is not the shore; it is a formation before the shore or offshore. As a location and geological formation it is often described as a sandbar or a coral reef. It is an accumulation of granular materials (sand, rock, and other) that through sedimentation create a bar or barrier that is difficult to pass and, in fact, a “danger to navigation.” As a geological unit, it is a physical place, a shallower place in the ocean before one arrives at the shore. (2)

When I am alone, in the water, whispering to my father (and other ancestors), I know the danger that is beyond the shallow waters. For me, the shoals are impossible to pass. King (2019) described shoals as important ecological spaces that are dynamic and hard to map:

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K. Melchor Quick Hall Because the shoal’s shape, expanse, and density change over time, the shoal is as much a dynamic and moving set of processes and ecological relations as it is a longitudinal and latitudinal coordinate that cartographers attempt to fix in time and space. It is a mobile, always changing and shifting state of flux. As an ecological space, it represents an errant and ecotonal location made of both water and not water. Ecotones are classified within environmental science as a combination or meeting of at least two distinct ecological zones. The shoal is liminal, indeterminate, and hard to map. (3)

This, of course, makes sense. These ecotones are reminiscent of Borderlands, “wherever two or more cultures edge each other” (Anzaldúa, 1987, preface). Similar to shoals, Borderlands, inhabited by my Xicanx sisters, are “in a constant state of transition” (Anzaldúa, 1987, 3). This recognition of a place in flux is familiar. It is a frequent reality in mappings of the marginalized. Often, this fluidity is missing from the maps that get posted in the government’s schools. In naming Black shoals, King (2019) worked “to disrupt the movement of modern thought, time, and space to enable something else to form, coalesce, and emerge” (King 2019, 11). This essay exists in that space, in the Black shoals, indeterminate, hard to map, forming something that resists colonial narratives. King (2019) offered the idea of Black fungibility to assist in mapping these unstable spaces: “As a Black fleshy analytic, I argue, Black fungibility can denote and connote pure flux, process, and potential” (23). In this essay, and in this book, we are mapping spaces of possibility. Flux, process, and potential are centered. We are not stable. I situate myself in the shallow depths of the Black shoals, where the land can still be felt, but which is undoubtedly among the water’s waves. As King (2019) described, it is “a space off the shores of White academic and political discourse to continue ongoing conversations, and create new ones, among Black and Native peoples within and outside the academy” (35). In this way, the essays in this collection intend to decenter a white (supremacist) academic canon and engage Nature’s elements from multiple perspectives. Although my anxieties have always been greatest in the deep waters, there also is no safety for the Black body on land, which those of us who made it across the Atlantic discovered. BLACK LAND: FARMING FOOD AND KILLING AUNT GRACE’S PLANTS Black farmers, literally, fed the US civil rights movement. Black people know that liberation is rooted in land. The land, if we treat her with care, will allow us to provide sustenance for our families. Both non-violent and mili-

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tant Black freedom fighters have emphasized the importance of land ownership and access to healthy, affordable food (White 2018, 17). Historically, Black farmers “connected work in the fields to their commitment to civil and human rights through developing communities, using a reconnection to the earth as their ally” (White 2018, 20). For that reason, Black farmers are a critical part of any liberation struggle. Maybe that is why I have always wanted to have a “green thumb.” My great-aunt, whose name was (tellingly) Grace, could grow anything. Before she died, Aunt Grace gifted me a collection of her (tree-sized) plants, which I killed one-by-one, each death more troubling than the last. Since then, I have re-committed myself to being a grower, even joining the Northeast Farmers of Color network, hoping that by claiming the name I will “grow” into the title. I have always known how important food is to life and culture, and how central women have been in nurturing (plant and animal) life. For many enslaved Africans, food production was central to connecting to home(lands): “Using food production, the enslaved were able to practice the cultural and ceremonial uses of land they had brought with them, as a way to celebrate their ancestors and the homeland they left behind” (White 2018, 14). During the mid-twentieth century, Black farming and agricultural cooperatives were critically important: “In these cooperatives, black workers drew on the skills they had used in growing cash crops for white landowners to create organizations that spoke to the liberatory impulses of the day, the oppressive forces of economic discrimination, as well as their dire needs. They grew food crops for themselves as a basis for political autonomy” (White 2018, 98). In this sense, Black (alternative) geographies are political maps. When we consider that Black landownership peaked in 1910 at 14 percent, and fewer than 1 percent of today’s farms are Black owned (Penniman 2018, 7), we must engage questions of shifting landscapes. In spite of the important connections between culture and land cultivation, “working in the fields is often tied to times of traumatic oppression for people of color” (Bowens 2015, ix). Leah Penniman is one of the co-founding directors of Soul Fire Farm, which has as its mission to end racism and injustice in the food system. The farm provides immersion programs, in which I have participated. This interaction with so many farmers of color has given Penniman (2018) insight into our relationship to the land. Hundreds of years of enslavement have devastated our sacred connection to land and overshadowed thousands of years of our noble, autonomous farming history. Many of us have confused the terror our ancestors experienced on land with the land herself, naming her the oppressor and running toward paved streets without looking back. We do not stoop, sweat, harvest, or even get dirty, because we imagine that would revert us to bondage. And yet we are

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K. Melchor Quick Hall keenly aware that something is missing, that a gap exists where once there was connection. (263)

My participation in Soul Fire Farm’s activities has been an important part of healing my relationship to the land. This healing has deepened my connection to women the world over whose agricultural work is central to community life and legacy: “Through food and farming, women are continuing our legacy of providing spaces to gather, food to share and nourishment that goes beyond the belly” (Bowens 2015, 119). There is no doubt about the overwhelming anti-Black racism in the United States that has complicated Black people’s relationship with land, and subsequently food. A well-rounded analysis must attend to “how and where Black people create food geographies” (Reese 2019, 3), since it is clear that “geography is not race neutral” (Reese 2019, 3). Ashanté M. Reese (2019) described the importance of mapping Black food geographies as follows: A focus on Black geographies reinscribes Black ways of being, knowing, and doing as essential to understanding place-making, an often neglected aspect of what it means not only to acquire food but also to experience one’s community in the process. Black Food Geographies focuses on a Black sense of place to center Black humanity rather than solely focusing on suffering and dispossession. This is an effort to examine what is happening rather than simply what is wrong in Black communities, revealing geographies of self-reliance that unfold within spatialized food inequities. (8)

Too often, colonized, and (otherwise) marginalized, people start with a story that does not recognize our own humanity. We often see ourselves through the eyes of those who have never really seen us. Mapping the world from diverse human vantage points allows for a more nuanced mapping of this land. This is important theoretical and practical work. Reese (2019) used “geographies of self-reliance” that “reveal different yet related experiences, namely, how the everyday lives of residents disrupt the dichotomy between death and survival to reveal how hope and visions for an uncertain future animate decisions” (Reese 2019, 8). When talking to white audiences about Black life (and death), I am often confronted with questions about whether it is possible to talk in more “general” terms. In other words, “Do you have to use the word Black?” My short answer is yes. The longer response is that until questions about white comfort fade to the background, I will continue to foreground and focus on Black lives and humanity. With an awareness of the ever-present need to engage racial justice, Reese (2019) wrote, “Food justice is fundamentally about racial justice, because in the United States, race and racism not only structure everyday experiences, but also influence the (under)development of neighborhoods and the implementation of policies that disproportionately disenfranchise Black communities”

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(Reese 2019, 11). Black food geographies highlight “contemporary ways to alter or navigate the uneven landscape” (Reese 2019, 12). We cannot accurately map this uneven landscape without Black (and Indigenous) geographies because we exist in a context of “food apartheid.” Penniman (2018) uses this term “because it makes clear that we have a human-created system of segregation that relegates certain groups to food opulence and prevents others from accessing life-giving nourishment. . . . This trend is not race-neutral” (Penniman 2018, 4). How would our maps be different if they were rooted in the histories and realities of people of color? Shouldn’t those people who know the land best, who have worked with it most intimately, draw its maps and outline its geography? How is this land, which is a site of profound trauma for Black folks, also mapping a path to freedom and liberation? As White (2018) suggested, “Grappling with the travails and how they gave rise to black farmers’ responses provides an enriched story and a counternarrative that unveils the way that black people not only have been connected to the land but have used the land individually and collectively to challenge white supremacy and political and economic exploitation” (142). One of the goals of this collection is to provide multiple individual and collective counter-narratives that do not aim for a singular story, but instead intend to leave space for diverse entry points. For Black farmers supporting liberation struggle, “Growing food was a life-affirming, collective strategy” (White 2018, 143). Similarly, the goal of this collection is to point to how people can affirm life, humanity, and difference. Even as we speak of our shared humanity, we might consider the importance of challenging the human-animal divide. BLACK ANIMALS: “AFRICAN AMERICAN” DUCKS AND CHICKEN TRAUMA I grew up in urban areas and had pet dogs. My early interactions with animals were shaped by zoos and (pet) cages. During a high school senior project, I chaperoned younger Black girls on a trip to the zoo. My cousin, who was one of the girls, pointed to a duck and asked if it was African American. Pretending not to be shocked by the question, I asked her why she thought it might be. Her response was that it had a lot of different colors and was different than the other ducks in the pond. Her analysis was both naïve and profound. For her, any animal could be made Black by its color (difference) and marginalization. Growing up in urban areas shaped my relationship to (animals as) food. The Black middle-class neighborhoods where I was raised did not experience

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food apartheid, as far as I know. My memories are of always having more food than I could possibly eat. Often, I overate. Today, I describe myself as having a “plant-based” diet, meaning I don’t seek out animals to eat, although in certain socio-cultural settings (e.g., when I was doing ethnographic research in fishing villages), I consume animals. Even though I was raised among Black meat-eating Southerners, I became vegetarian the year I left home for college. Much of my adult life, I have been a strict vegetarian, or a vegan, avoiding all animal products. As a (former) Black vegan and Black (almost) vegetarian, I value what Black vegans can teach us about the relationship between racism and speciesism. Syl Ko (2017b) defined Black veganism as “a methodological tool to reactivate our imaginations. . . . Dismantling racism will also require us to reconsider how we view and treat all life” (126). In this way, we see how racial oppression can shape one’s view of the oppression of other beings. We might ask, “What is the relationship between racism and speciesism?” Ecowomanist Layli Phillips (2010) wrote about veganism as a way to disrupt destructive processes that are “human harming, animal hurting, earth disrupting, and spirit negating . . . and, in general, creating artificial distance between humans and the earth in their symbiotic and spiritual relationship” (18). This attention to Black women’s spirituality is common in a womanist lens. Womanists consistently push us to consider the kinds of spiritual relationships we want to have with one another and other beings. Certainly, in the face of contemporary global climate and health crises, we should think about who we are (going to be) in the world, in relation to plants and (other) animals. Never has there been a more urgent need for us to act from within an integrated awareness not only of the intersections among race, sex, and class oppression but also of the ways that these and other disparities among people influence and are influenced by the ways that people exploit animals and ecosystems. Climate change, fueled more by meat consumption than by transportation, charges forward faster than predicted. In the context of continued racial and economic inequality, this ensures that more unnatural disasters like hurricane Katrina are on the horizon. Meantime, a worldwide surge in meat consumption further depletes and poisons world water resources while bringing the diet-based diseases that already kill so many people of African descent in North America and the global South. (Jones 2010, 188)

What would it mean to think of our relationship to (other) animals in a way that would not allow us to eat them? What would it take to consider ourselves as close relatives to other animals? Even as I write these questions, I feel a bodily resistance to asking them of other African Americans, who were at one point enslaved and whipped while being called animals. Isn’t the ques-

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tioning of the human-animal divide a slippery slope? Shouldn’t those of us who have only recently been recognized as fully human (by the US state) be careful to protect that status? Or does that desire to protect call into question our commitment to an end to racism? Syl Ko (2017a) insisted that “almost any good analysis of racism or coloniality usually calls attention to the degree to which racialized folks are animalized. That is, we animalize or dehumanize certain folks, individually or as groups, thereby justifying their violation” (45). This is something I’ve always known and felt. I recall people being animalized in their denigration, as they were described as “stubborn as a mule” or “slick as a fox.” Of course, some animals need no adjective because to be called a “pig,” “dog,” “snake,” or “rat” says it all. Syl Ko (2017a) highlighted that both racialized human hierarchies and the human-animal division “are deeply intertwined, and cannot be made sense of independent of one another, were creations invented by a small percentage of people who took themselves to be the singular point of knowledge and, through centuries of violence, genocide, and control made their view of the world, themselves, and others universal” (46–47). Ko (2017a) forces us to consider that anti-racism may require confrontation of the human-animal divide. But what is to be made of the (relatively recently acknowledged) humanity of Black folks, which is yet to be respected in terms of a shift in (white supremacist) praxis? Does accepting “the animal” mean that we never get to enjoy the kind of humanity that is defaulted to white? Can we only advocate for better treatment alongside dogs and rats? Could it be that even Blackness depends on the existence of a category beneath us that can be mistreated? According to Syl Ko (2017e), “The organizing principle for racial logic lies in the human-animal divide, wherein the human and the animal are understood to be moral opposites” (66). Must our self-advocacy be defined by the exclusion of rights for other beings? In other words, is our humanness dependent on the othering of animals? And if so, what does that mean? I must admit my own discomfort in reading Ko’s challenge, even as I acknowledge my sense that she is right to state it. When I attended Soul Fire Farm’s farmer immersion program for people of color, it included a chicken slaughter. The staff went to great lengths to kill the chickens humanely (assuming that it is possible). Program participants were given the option to skip the slaughter. In addition to not participating in the actual killing, after a sleepless night, I rose the morning of the slaughter and prayed with the chickens before other participants woke. I apologized to the chickens for not being able to stop what was coming. Standing in the field, I repeated a peace mantra 180 times. For the rest of the day, I fasted. What did it mean to have this mass killing in an immersion program for Black and Latinx people? Even though our histories of (ethnoracial and intersectional) oppression had brought us to the farm, and though we’d talked

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about food apartheid in our communities, we did not talk about the status of animals. Syl Ko (2017e) wrote about the connection between human inferiority and animal status: “In short, then, what condemns us to our inferior status, even before we can speak or act is not merely our racial category but that our racial category is marked the most by animality. Its proximity to animality signals inferiority” (67). What does it mean that many Black people, in advocating for our more humane treatment, insist upon greater distance between ourselves and (other) animals? What does this say about our desire(s) for greater proximity to (white) humanity? Just as whiteness (rooted in notions of purity) is created differently than Blackness (based on a “one drop rule” of contamination), shouldn’t Black humanity raise questions that white humanity doesn’t (and can’t) raise? Since our “contaminated” humanity has always been defined by (white) others as more animalistic, might we have a responsibility to liberate “the animal” within and outside of Blackness? As Syl Ko (2017e) wrote, “It is clear to most of us that ‘animality’ is not exhausted by reference to nonhuman animals but that we share in it as well, by virtue of our perceived and felt ‘less than’ status. The feeling of the lack comes from the animal within. The animal is smuggled in with the black. Or, put more accurately, the animal within makes possible the black within” (68). If the animal has been smuggled in with our Blackness, how can we liberate Black humanity and the non-human animal that was devalued in the name of our mistreatment? Syl Ko (2017e) insisted, “Reclaiming blackness, then, will require going a little deeper and reclaiming animality as well. If we are going to reconfigure and understand blackness on our own terms, we must also do this with the notion of ‘the animal’” (68). What does (and can) this kind of reclamation mean for a meat-eating Black majority whose activities are linked to an agricultural industry that is causing planetary harm? Some people want to eliminate oppression, but many more just don’t want to be oppressed. Are Black people prepared to join with (other) animals, understanding that our fates are intertwined? Again, Syl Ko (2017e) suggested, “In reclaiming ‘the animal,’ we thereby refuse to accept that there is a morally relevant conceptual difference between the category ‘human’ and the vague category of ‘animal’” (69). In this way, she suggested that we “generate a certain commitment to animals from within an anti-racist commitment” (Ko 2017e, 69). If we followed this path, we would do so with a deep understanding of the ways in which the world has been mapped to pit us against “others.” Kathryn Yusoff (2018) described this mapping and mattering in geological terms: “To trace racial matterings across the category of the inhuman, and specifically the traffic between the inhuman as matter and the inhuman as race, is to examine how the concept of the inhuman is a connective hinge in the twinned discourses of geology and humanism” (Yusoff 2018, 5). Discussion of the Earth’s inhuman matter often leads us to extractivist processes

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that disproportionately harm marginalized communities. Understanding our racialized and gendered relationship to these extractions can also lead us to the need for alternative (decolonial) mappings. One way to contend with unjust and uneven human/inhuman categorizations is to think about, and perhaps employ, the alternative geographic formulations that subaltern communities advance. Geographies of domination, from transatlantic slavery and beyond, hold in them both the marking and the contestation of old and new social hierarchies. If these hierarchies are spatial expressions of racism and sexism, the interrogations and remappings provided by black diaspora populations can incite new, or different, and perhaps more just, geographic stories. (McKittrick 2006, xix)

Certainly, this essay intends to explore Black maps, and specifically those Black maps that intend to chart a path to liberation. How might we imagine freeing ourselves and other animals from the systems that seek to devalue us as (human and nonhuman) beings? According to Syl Ko (2017d), “We are at the center of a radical shift taking place in pro-animal discourse precisely because, upon self-reflection, we can see that our struggle is their struggle. I don’t mean this symbolically. I mean this literally” (75). She asks that “we voluntarily align ourselves with our fellow beings, those who do not belong to homo sapiens” (S. Ko 2017d, 75). The idea is terrifying, in part because it seems so just. We would have to put everything on the line in our commitment to the elimination of a hierarchy of beings, because moving up in status on any such hierarchy would never be enough. When I look around at the Black people who surround me, I do not think many of them would join me in this kind of solidarity with other animals. In searching for freedom in this darkness, I look to the sky. BLACK SKY: MOON CYCLES, CONSTELLATIONS, AND OTHER WORLDS For African Americans, the sky has always provided direction that (white) maps could not. When street maps, drawn for white people’s transit, were dangerous for African Americans, we followed the sky’s constellations. The North Star was our guide to freedom, and often the full moon showed the path. In this way, the sky has always helped Black people orient themselves toward freedom in this foreign place. Black people have always needed maps that were not drawn by those who enslaved us. Because I do not want to become disoriented by white notions of time and space, I attend to moon cycles, resting on new and full moons. There is so much that disorients Black people from our humanity, it has been helpful for me to link to something, or

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someplace, untouched by white supremacy. For that connection, I depend on the moon’s cycles. Whether following moon cycles or being guided by Indigenous worldviews, I have needed to center myself in perspectives constructed outside of (and prior to) whiteness. White people also should decenter whiteness and white supremacist frameworks in order to shift conversations about human relationships to Nature. Syl Ko (2017c) suggested that “de-centering whiteness essentially means we need to take seriously non-white theoretical constructs and frameworks and use these to change our understanding of the world, others, and ourselves” (42). This anthology intends to do such work. As an example, “Afrofuturism is about carving out a new type of blackness that isn’t captive to white supremacist definitions” (A. Ko 2017, 133). There are other frameworks, rooted in Black experiences, or leveraged against Black bodies, that give us access to different ways of seeing the world. Kathryn Yusoff (2018) defined Black Anthropocenes as “an inhuman proximity organized by historical geographies of extraction, grammars of geology, imperial global geographies, and contemporary environmental racism. It is predicated on the presumed absorbent qualities of black and brown to take up the body burdens of exposure to toxicities and to buffer the violence of the earth” (Yusoff 2018, xii). Black ways of relating to the Earth provide perspectives that are often excluded from whiter narratives. Earth sciences, as expressed by white colonizers, have written Black humanity out of the story. Black perspectives offer a different view, a more nuanced map of the world drawn from locations other than the top of social hierarchies. I reject our designated mapping as property and embrace our animality in a commitment to the dissolution of hierarchies of being. Too often, I have had students who talked about the “hard sciences,” by which they mean to exclude social sciences, in ways that are “black and white,” which they mean to be politically neutral and clear-cut in terms of “right” answers. It is almost too easy that the appropriate response is hidden in plain sight, because these sciences are in fact Black and white, or “colored” and white, in all the ways that have shaped the racial hierarchies of their “unnatural” relations. As Yusoff (2018) wrote, “Geology (and its fossil objects) have been entwined with questions of origins, processes of racialization through speciation and notions of progress, as well as being a praxis for inscripting racial logics within the material politics of extraction that constitutes lived forms of racism (from eugenics to environmental racism)” (5). The goal (of this anthology) is to allow multiple geologies and geographies to be viewed alongside one another. What happens when people, who are descended from white property (as understood by the state) share what they have extracted from this land

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and history? Yusoff (2018) asked, “Why is it that the language of geology allows for the exchange of a person as a material object of property and properties (a unit of corporeal energy), and how does it bypass established biopolitical registers of critique?” (7). Here we are rooting in our lived experiences in a way that does not allow such a bypass. We are mapping our worlds and rooting in those realities. The offerings are gendered (and racialized or animalized) ecological mappings. In charting unfamiliar territories, we recognize that some readers may have difficulty interpreting these maps because the signs are unfamiliar, especially to the colonized and (academically) disciplined mind. Thus, we must commit ourselves to a certain amount of instability in the name of freedom. In doing so, we challenge the narratives of a stable and steady geographical mapping, instead offering unstable and contingent mappings. McKittrick (2006) suggested that “the relationship between black women and geography opens up a conceptual arena through which more humanly workable geographies can be and are imagined” (McKittrick 2006, xii). This essay has already identified some of those openings and concepts, including Black shoals, Black food geographies, Afrofuturist practices, and Black Anthropocenes. McKittrick (2006) took a broad view of geography that “extends to cover three-dimensional spaces and places, the physical landscape and infrastructures, geographic imaginations, the practice of mapping, exploring, and seeing, and social relations in and across space” (McKittrick 2006, xiii). This anthology is a project about mapping physical and social relations in and across space (and time). The “in flux” realities of Black people have much to offer this unstable mapping, as McKittrick (2006) described: “The history of black subjects in the diaspora is a geographic story that is, at least in part, a story of material and conceptual placements and displacements, segregations and integrations, margins and centers, and migrations and settlements” (xiv). She contrasts these Black geographies with “long-standing geographic frameworks that materially and philosophically arrange the planet according to a seemingly stable white, heterosexual, classed vantage point” (McKittrick 2006, xv). In decentering these white frameworks, we are denaturalizing them. This work is rooted in the diverse bodies of its contributors, who are made visible through their mappings: If who we see is tied up with where we see through truthful, commonsensical narratives, then the placement of subaltern bodies deceptively hardens spatial binaries, in turn suggesting that some bodies belong, some bodies do not belong, and some bodies are out of place. For black women, then, geographic domination is worked out through reading and managing their specific racial-sexual bodies. This management effectively, but not completely, displaces black geographic knowledge by assuming that black femininity is

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K. Melchor Quick Hall altogether knowable, unknowing, and expendable: she is seemingly in place by being out of place. (McKittrick 2006, xv)

I often find that I am out of place. In the academy, I am a faculty member, who encourages other faculty members to use our relative power and privilege to flatten the hierarchical relations between ourselves and the staff who “serve” us. I push my faculty colleagues to consider the purpose of the university beyond its own preservation. Who are we serving? To what end(s) do we exist in this formation? I am pushing us down, forcing us to root in another kind of geography. Even in this anthology, for which I am co-editor, I am in many ways out of place, neither identifying strongly as ecofeminist nor ecowomanist, yet mapping land, water, animals, and sky implicated in such frameworks. This is a harsh reality, and a familiar one to the Black (feminist body), often judged as unknowing, and also (easily) knowable. Often alternative mappings are judged as extraneous and expendable by outsiders, even while they are essential to those of us who create them. To omit those beings and bodies most often left off of the official maps (of states or academic disciplines) is to map a sky with no reference to the ground. It is lacking in perspective and proportion. The intervention of this collection is that it intends to highlight stories that have been obfuscated by dominant narratives. It complicates understandings of the relationship of the (racialized and class-specific) female (human) body to her surroundings. Maps are not as much about detailing particular destinations as they are about describing surrounding environments. McKittrick (2006) sought “to consider the ways in which practices of domination are in close contact with alternative geographic perspectives and spatial matters that may not necessarily replicate what we think we know, or have been taught, about our surroundings” (xxvi). Just as McKittrick (2006) illustrated “the powerful connections among race, sex, gender, and displacement, and the oppositional implications of saying, thinking, living, and writing black geographies” (xxxi), this anthology opens itself up to multiple entry points to conversations about our relationships with Nature, Earth, and other beings. Black people have long searched the sky (and its constellations) for paths to freedom, and used moon cycles to determine the timing of our travels, knowing that full moons provide well-lit journeys on clear nights. My hope is that this chapter will provide a powerful alternative to maps that claim stolen territories, disappear Indigenous nations, separate human civilization from animal wilderness, and, generally speaking, map domination rather than chart a path to our shared liberation.

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REFERENCES Anzaldúa, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books. Bowens, Natasha. 2015. The Color of Food: Stories of Race, Resilience and Farming. Gabriola Island, Canada: New Society Publishers. Harper, A. Breeze. 2010. “Introduction: The Birth of the Sistah Vegan Project.” In Sistah Vegan: Black Female Vegans Speak on Food, Identity, Health, and Society, edited by A. Breeze Harper, xiii–xix. New York: Lantern Books. Jones, Pattrice. 2010. “Afterword: Liberation as Connection and the Decolonization of Desire.” In Sistah Vegan: Black Female Vegans Speak on Food, Identity, Health, and Society, edited by A. Breeze Harper, 187–201. New York: Lantern Books. King, Tiffany Lethabo. 2019. The Black Shoals: Offshore Formations of Black and Native Studies. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ko, Aph. 2017. “Creating New Conceptual Architecture: On Afrofuturism, Animality, and Unlearning/Rewriting Ourselves.” In Aphro-ism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 127–137. New York: Lantern Books. Ko, Syl. 2017a. “Addressing Racism Requires Addressing the Situation of Animals.” In Aphroism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 44–49. New York: Lantern Books. Ko, Syl. 2017b. “Black Veganism Revisited.” In Aphro-ism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 120–126. New York: Lantern Books. Ko, Syl. 2017c. “Emphasizing Similarities Does Nothing for the Oppressed.” In Aphro-ism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 37–43. New York: Lantern Books. Ko, Syl. 2017d. “Notes from the Border of the Human-Animal Divide: Thinking and Talking about Animal Oppression When You’re Not Quite Human Yourself.” In Aphro-ism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 70–75. New York: Lantern Books. Ko, Syl. 2017e. “We’ve Reclaimed Blackness Now It’s Time to Reclaim ‘The Animal’.” In Aphro-ism: Essays on Pop Culture, Feminism, and Black Veganism from Two Sisters, 63–69. New York: Lantern Books. McKittrick, Katherine. 2006. Demonic Grounds: Black Women and the Cartographies of Struggle. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Morrison, Toni. 2008. Tar Baby. New York: Alfred A Knopf. Penniman, Leah. 2018. Farming While Black: Soul Fire Farm’s Practical Guide to Liberation on the Land. White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing. Phillips, Layli. 2010. “Veganism and Ecowomanism.” In Sistah Vegan: Black Female Vegans Speak on Food, Identity, Health, and Society, edited by A. Breeze Harper, 8–19. New York: Lantern Books. Reese, Ashanté M. 2019. Black Food Geographies: Race, Self-Reliance, and Food Access in Washington, D.C. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. White, Monica M. 2018. Freedom Farmers: Agricultural Resistance and the Black Freedom Movement. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Yusoff, Kathryn. 2018. A Billion Black Anthropocenes or None. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

Chapter Three

Roots, Branches, and Wings Gwyn Kirk

When K. Melchor Quick Hall and I started to work on this anthology together we realized we needed to talk about where we came from, the very different paths that brought us to this work. This chapter is based on my part of our conversations, my social biography, elaborated here in hopes that it may be useful for others, as I reflect on people and experiences that have shaped my thinking about ecological feminism. Growing up, I learned something about gender, class, race, and nation, “lenses” I use to understand my life and the wider world. Much of this came from an unconscious position of dominance—perspectives I’ve been working to unlearn. Margo Okazawa-Rey introduced me to philosopher Alan Rosenberg’s distinction between knowing and understanding, which has been a touchstone in this process. Knowing is about facts. Rosenberg (1988) noted that people can learn facts without “their having any impact on the way we understand ourselves or the world we live in” (382). Understanding the meaning of an event or relationship is a much deeper process, such that these become “integrated into one’s moral and intellectual life” (382). This is a jarring, bumpy journey that dis-integrates privileged ideas and forces one to see situations from unfamiliar angles. What makes such a transition possible? What personal qualities, what settings, and challenges help me to do this? What holds me back? What do I gain as a result? Poet and writer Minnie Bruce Pratt (1984) described expanding her awareness of racism as a white woman, which involved a way of looking at the world that is more accurate, complex, multilayered, multidimensioned, more truthful. . . . I’ve learned that what is presented to me as an accurate view of the world is frequently a lie. . . . So I gain truth when I expand my constricted eye, an eye that has only let in what I have been taught to see. (17) 33

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In addition, “Understanding compels us to action, even though we may not initially want to change our habitual ways of thinking and being” (Rosenberg 1988, 382). I hope to be doing this for the rest of my life, wanting to become more fluent, less faltering, in intersectional thinking and compelled to act on these insights. This account is personal but nothing is ever only personal. I note how opportunities for education, work, and activist projects, as well as macrolevel forces of history, government policy, and the global economy, have shaped my ideas and commitments. I’m very fortunate to have had generous teachers and guides. Some are friends or became friends. A few I met briefly or by chance. Also, there are writers, scholars, activists, artists, and students whose work and questions have pushed my thinking, including K. Melchor Quick Hall and other contributors to this book. I give thanks to all those named here and many more I’ve not mentioned in this highly selective narrative, full of gaps and jumps in time and place. Learning is a many-layered process, deepening with reflection and time. I’ve learned a lot in formal settings but much more by participating in group projects. Reconstructing this journey here makes it more linear and coherent in the telling than it often felt in reality. GROUNDING I was born in the north of England just before the end of World War II. Dad worked on a farm during the war; afterwards, we lived in a suburb of Manchester. My local map was small. I walked to school, home for lunch, and back for afternoon classes. I rode my bike to Gran’s house, the grocer’s, the library, the sweet shop where my friend Susan lived, and the pool where I learned to swim. When I was five, I’d spent months in hospital. That’s where I first saw a Black person—a nurse on the night shift, and an anomaly in my white world. Dad worked in a bank but his passion was gardening, which we three kids learned through a kind of osmosis. It seemed so slow and boring back then, though gardening has become a love of mine, too, later in life. Mum cooked meals from scratch, sewed clothes, and did piles of mending. Her radar was fine-tuned to nuances of class. She distinguished “the likes of us” from people who were “proper posh” or “top drawer.” She justified the gap between us and people lower down the ladder in terms of Protestant values: hard work, thrift, and being a good manager. People above us had connections. They were in the Masons, the golf club, the sailing club, the Conservative party. But the very rich—those with real wealth, land, and titles—were invisible to me.

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When I was about eight I came across an old atlas. A world map was color-coded according to colonial occupation. I don’t recall the exact colors now. Let’s say Dutch colonies were pale blue, Belgian territories pink, French were green, Spain’s were lemon yellow, Italy’s were lilac. I do remember that British colonies were red. Canada, Australia, and New Zealand were red plus many parts of Africa. India was red including what later became Pakistan and Bangladesh. Also small islands like Hong Kong, Fiji, and the British Solomon Islands. The red jumped out—even the color was dominant. My reaction was, “Wow, this is all ours!” Nobody told me to think like this; somehow I already knew. I’ve often wondered what it meant for a lower-middle-class girl to identify, however naïvely, with this empire. My people had no direct connection to the colonial administration. Coming from small towns and farms, they’d gravitated to Manchester and Salford, northern cities at the heart of the industrial revolution. Mum’s father worked in a foundry. Her mother wound thread in a cotton mill and later worked in a shop that sold tripe and cows’ heels. Her father—my great-grandfather—worked in a mill, preparing the warp for weaving. Dad’s mother, our Gran, sewed shirts at home before she married. Sometimes she sewed for well-to-do families. She’d spend a week at large houses, eating with the children and sharing the nursery with the nanny. Gran’s sister worked for Dewhursts, a cotton spinning, weaving, and thread factory. Dad’s father worked in the cotton industry, too, as a salesman for the Calico Printers Association. Cotton did not grow in Britain, I realized at some point, but it generated jobs and wealth there, one way that people benefitted from empire across the class spectrum. When I was twelve, Dad was transferred from Manchester to Liverpool. He was moving up a notch and we with him. Liverpool was a thriving port, with freighters and ocean-going liners—Blue Funnel, Cunard, Elder Dempster, John Holt, the White Star Line. Near the docks, factories refined sugar, milled flour, made soap and detergents. The raw materials came from red places on the map. We did not learn that Liverpool had been a center of the slave trade. This was entirely legal, financed by investors and banks, and a source of wealth and status. In my teens I walked along streets named after slave-trading families but had no idea that’s what they’d done. Years later, I read the novel Sacred Hunger that exposed this history (Unsworth 1992). It centered on the Liverpool Merchant, a ship employed in the slave trade between Liverpool, West Africa, Florida, and the West Indies. Unsworth showed its brutality and ruthlessness, driven by a “sacred hunger,” the profit motive. I went to a girl’s grammar school, a state school, nothing fancy, even though we had to wear dark blue uniforms and felt hats. Most girls left as soon as they could, at age 16. Those of us who stayed on were encouraged to become

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teachers or nurses. Our teachers knew little about architecture or journalism, for example, and thought such fields inappropriate for young women. The message from the wider society was “Get married and have babies.” At least that was the message to white girls, spelled out in a leaflet from a eugenics organization someone left in the art room one time, urging us to have at least four kids. I did expect to marry at some point but first I went to university, as this highly elitist system was opening up a little in response to the expanding economy. I studied sociology, the first in my family to graduate from university. Government grants for tuition and basic expenses meant that we had no loans to repay. I had no idea what to do with my life, but I wanted to live in a wider world than my mother, my aunties, and the women they knew. They urged me to learn typing, a useful skill “you can always fall back on.” Typing wasn’t needed at school or college, as we wrote our papers by hand. I avoided learning to type. Over the years I’ve wasted hours correcting my lousy typing but back then I didn’t want to be boxed into what I saw as “women’s work,” stuck with typing for other people. When I was 21, I married a guy who was studying agriculture. Since it was hard to find work in farming in such an urban country, he got a job in Tanzania, a former red place, as part of Britain’s “overseas aid.” For two years we lived in Musoma, a small town on Lake Victoria, a thousand miles inland from the Indian Ocean. It was 1967. Tanzania was recently independent from Britain. The president, Julius Nyerere, published inspiring ideas about African socialism (Nyerere 1966). I taught English in a boys’ school, the first female teacher many of the students had seen. I thought of myself as much more progressive than some in the small white community in town. But I looked like them, and our car, like theirs, threw up the same red dust over everyone walking along the unpaved roads. Back in Britain at the end of the contract, I did a master’s in urban planning. Then my husband got a job in Malawi, also in eastern Africa, where our marriage unraveled as our differences, which had been so stimulating at first, turned into tensions we didn’t know how to surmount. He decided to leave. I worked in the Planning Department and wanted to stay on. I saw more of the country and spent time with African colleagues, our interactions circumscribed by careful etiquette and the burden of our very different histories. My job was available to me, a young white woman with university education, because the former British colonial administration, my countrymen, had starved this nation of professional education, wanting only the brawn of its people for plantations, kitchens, and mines. I was hired on a local contract, not as “overseas aid” like my husband. Government housing was reserved for people like him or high-ranking Malawians like my boss. Indeed, my boss told me that no “ordinary Africans” (his

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term) would rent to a white woman alone. After a few fruitless inquiries I had to agree with him. With nowhere to live I wrapped up the job and left. STARTING OVER I was nearly thirty, learning to think of myself as a single person not a failed wife. I moved to London, fascinated by the enormity of the city. I started a PhD, supporting myself by teaching part-time and living rent-free in squatted housing. Squatting has a long history in Britain, going back at least to 1649, when the True Levellers, or Diggers, occupied and farmed vacant land that had been privatized by enclosures (Hopton 2011). In the 1970s, squatting also met a basic need and exploited contradictions in housing policy, where public and private housing was left empty despite a severe housing shortage (Wates and Wolmar 1980). I studied the political and economic factors that drove urban-planning decisions, and how social and economic inequalities were mapped onto the city’s many neighborhoods. I participated in an organization of tenants and workers trying to impact the development of derelict wharfs and warehouses across the river from the City of London. They wanted affordable housing and decent paying jobs, but this was prime real estate ripe for development. They got office towers and gentrification on a major scale (Ambrose and Colenutt 1975). After graduating I took a teaching job, but it soon felt like a dead end. I worked for community organizations as a gardener and designing a playground with kids. I hung out with a maverick punk band, who used their gigs to talk about sexual politics, anarchism, vegetarianism, and disarmament. In 1982, we visited women who were living outside a US Air Force base at Greenham Common, 60 miles west of London, a site slated to house nuclear missiles (Cook and Kirk 1983, Kirk 1989). This bold protest against the nuclear arms race provided a powerful context in which women spoke out about interpersonal violence, state violence, and the international violence of militarism (Moore et al. 2017, Roseneil 1995, 2000). Like many others, I began to find my political voice in this movement. Greenham women were mainly white, somewhat mixed in terms of age and class, and with a strong lesbian presence. Some saw patriarchy and militarism as a “continuum of violence . . . that pervades all our lives, from the nuclear family to the nuclear state” (Chester et al. 1983, 18). Some embraced women’s role as mothers, perhaps with a belief in an essential female connection to the earth and forces of life. Rifts over charges of racism from women of color and from some Greenham participants led to anger, defensiveness, and hurt feelings, but also pushed us as white women to develop a more intersectional analysis, though we did not use this term. Activists from Pacific Island nations and Indigenous communities in Austra-

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lia and Aotearoa (New Zealand) came to speak about the dire effects of British colonialism, uranium mining, and atomic testing carried out in the 1950s and 1960s by Britain, as well as the United States and France (Cohn et al. 1987, Women Working for a Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific 1987). They scorned our Euro-centered thinking and told us we needed an anticolonial approach. They brought a fabric banner, a map they’d titled “Nuclear Colonialism in the Pacific.” It was a revelation. First, the Pacific filled the map, one huge ocean. The maps I knew put Europe at the center and reduced the Pacific to two blue strips at the margins. Second, I’d never seen a map of nuclear sites, especially from the perspective of affected communities. This banner showed the power of maps to define specific views of reality. I began to read about ecofeminism (e.g., Caldecott and Leland 1983) and came to think of Greenham as an ecofeminist movement. I met Ynestra King, ecofeminist activist and writer, at Greenham and learned that, in 1980, US feminists had organized a conference entitled “Women and Life on Earth,” following the near meltdown of Three Mile Island (PA) nuclear power plant. The conference led to the creation of the Women’s Pentagon Action, 1 which identified militarism as a cornerstone of the oppression of women and the destruction of the earth. Thousands of women surrounded the Pentagon in November 1980. This action, both protest and performance, was organized in four stages: mourning, rage, empowerment, and defiance, culminating in the arrest of women who blockaded the Pentagon by weaving yarn across its doors (King 1983a, 1983b). ECOFEMINISM, ENVIRONMENTAL JUSTICE, AND MORE Fast forward to the late 1980s. I was living in the States, connected to the Women’s Pentagon Action group in New York, and teaching women’s studies courses. I found ecofeminism a compelling framework, with antimilitarism my point of entry. Others emphasized speciesism and the liberation of animals (e.g., Adams 1990, Collard and Contrucci 1988, Gaard 1993) or earth-based spirituality (e.g., Adams 1994, Spretnak 1990, Starhawk 1990). Feminist work on environmental health (e.g., Kettel 1996, Nelson 1989, Nelson, Klenen and Klitzman 1990); population (e.g., Hartmann 1987, Lappé and Shurman 1988; Silliman and King 1990); and critiques of genetic engineering (e.g., Corea 1986, 1987, Shiva 1991) explored these related issues. Other women activists were more focused on race and class than gender. They were involved in campaigns against polluted environments (e.g., Gibbs 1998, Krauss 1993, 1996); the impact of pesticides on farmworkers’ health (Pulido 1996); and the effects of chemical pollutants on local food supplies and whether it was safe for Indigenous women to breastfeed (Cook 1985,

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LaDuke 1999, ch. 1). The Citizens Clearinghouse for Hazardous Wastes 2 provided information, training, and support for organizers, many of them women (e.g., Zeff, Love, and Stults 1989). In 1990, I moved from the east coast to teach at Colorado College. A colleague, Devon Peña, asked, “What does ecofeminism have to say to Chicano environmentalists?”—both a challenge and an invitation. He’d read ecofeminist work (e.g., Diamond and Orenstein 1990, Shiva 1988, Warren 1990) and found it weak on race and class, and not sufficiently rooted in place. He introduced me to people in Los Ojos (New Mexico) who opposed anti-ecological development and were creating small-scale projects that were culturally, economically, and environmentally sustainable (Pulido 1993, Sargent et al. 1991). We visited farmers in San Luis (Colorado) (Peña 1998). I saw how they managed the shared acequia irrigation system and listened to them talk in poetic terms about the texture and fertility of the soil. I recognized the strengths of Chicano environmentalism in rural and urban contexts, as well as the importance of a gender analysis, which was often missing in Chicano perspectives (Kirk 1997a, 1997b, 1998). Critics of early ecofeminism pointed to the limitations of its emphasis on gender over race and class, and the assumption—held by some ecofeminists—that women have an essential caring nature or are closer to nature than men. The charge of essentialism, by which many feminist scholars and teachers dismissed ecofeminism, stymied its development within feminist thinking. I saw women’s caring work across many cultures in terms of socially constructed gender roles, rather than women’s caring nature. Sustainability involves biological reproduction, socializing and educating children, and caring for all members of society—sometimes called social reproduction (Di Chiro 2009)—much of this done by women, both as family members and professionally as teachers, nurses, and caregivers. I relied on the work of feminist philosopher Val Plumwood (1993, ch. 2), who emphasized links among hierarchical systems: racism, economic exploitation, militarism, and colonialism, as well as the domination of women and the non-human world. Hence, creating a sustainable future goes beyond gender to include racial and economic justice, decolonization, and demilitarization. In 1992, I applied for a teaching position in Michigan. I wasn’t hired, but going there to interview was a chance to take up an invitation that Detroit activist Shea Howell had thrown out at a women’s gathering some years earlier: “Come to Detroit and see the future!” Magnificent murals by Diego Rivera in the Detroit Institute of Art, painted in the early 1930s when the auto industry was booming, showed the past. These paintings portrayed a powerful but ambiguous relationship between car assembly workers and machines. Were the people running the

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machines or was it the other way around? The auto industry went from boom to bust in thirty years or so, as jobs were automated or moved overseas. By 1992 whole neighborhoods were virtually abandoned. In summer, grass grew waist-high among derelict houses, with acres of vacant land within easy reach of downtown. The city council floated the idea that people should be moved out of such “under-inhabited” areas. Basic services like street lighting, water, police, fire service, and trash pick-up would be cut off and these areas surrounded by fences, a graphic metaphor for the bankruptcy of official approaches to the city’s devastation. Through Shea I met James Boggs (Ward 2011) and Grace Lee Boggs (1998, Lee 2013), movement activists and intellectual giants who were envisioning a new local economy and new social relationships. Since capital had all but abandoned the city, they put no faith in industry to provide jobs for residents, 75 percent of whom were African American. Given the monumental scale of the problem only a radical rethink could address how de-industrialized cities might provide food security, livelihood, care, meaningful education, and a sense of community for their residents. Boggs explained: Instead of putting our organizational energies into begging Ford and General Motors to stay in Detroit—or begging the government to keep them afloat—so that they can continue to exploit us, we need to go beyond traditional capitalism. Creating new forms of community-based institutions (eg. co-ops, small businesses, and community development corporations) will give us ownership and control over the way we make our living, while helping us to ensure that the well-being of the community and the environment is part of the bottom line. (Boggs with Kurashige 2012, 48)

For a couple of years, I taught at Antioch College in Ohio, near enough to drive to Detroit, four hours away, on many a weekend. In July 1993, I participated in Detroit Summer as a cook and a driver to help support Jimmy and Grace, Freddy Paine, and other movement elders as they worked with young people to think about how to “rebuild, recreate, re-spirit the city from the ground up.” Key elements of this were: “growing food on abandoned lots, reinventing education to include children in community building, creating cooperatives to produce local goods for local needs, developing Peace Zones to transform our relationships with one another . . . and replacing a punitive justice system with restorative justice programs” (Boggs with Kurashige 2012, 74). This was the future Shea had in mind. James Boggs died that summer. Comrades founded the James Boggs and Grace Lee Boggs Center to Nurture Community Leadership, which continues the Boggses’ cutting-edge work, currently advocating for food justice, and an end to evictions, water shut-offs, and police surveillance. 3 Grace Lee Boggs maintained her activism, writing, and public speaking; she died at age 100, in

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2015. In 2020, I’m re-reading her prescient ideas in these current chaotic and transformational times, also “times to grow our souls” (Boggs with Kurashige 2012, 28–51). TRANSNATIONAL ORGANIZING After Antioch, I moved to the Bay Area and was part of a group that invited Grace Lee Boggs to speak to students and community members here and in other west coast cities. In 1997, I became involved in the International Women’s Network Against Militarism, a group of activists, teachers, and scholars who address the impacts of US bases and military operations, especially in the Asia-Pacific region (Cachola et al. 2010, Cockburn 2007, 67–78, Kirk and Okazawa-Rey 2000). Network members live in Guam, Hawaii, Japan, Okinawa, South Korea, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and continental USA, sites that are part of a global mapping of US military power projected from 400 bases in this country and about 1,000 more overseas (Lutz 2009, Vine 2015). Early on, we emphasized sexual violence as integral to military culture, as well as environmental destruction caused by military operations (which I discuss in another chapter). Women from Guahan (Guam), Hawaii, and Puerto Rico brought Indigenous and anticolonial perspectives that strengthened the group’s analysis (Cachola et al. 2010, Hoshino, Kirk, and Lee 2012). Network members see demilitarization and genuine security as intertwined with women’s liberation, racial justice, and an end to colonization, economic exploitation, and ecological destruction. A key lens here is “nation.” People may be disadvantaged within the United States in terms of race, class, or gender, for example, but outside this country they benefit by carrying a US passport. Negotiating our very different social and political locations is crucial in our work together (OkazawaRey 2020). The US-based Women for Genuine Security is a small affinity group within the Network, made up mostly of Asian American women living on the west coast. We continue to figure out how best to contribute to the Network as citizens and residents of this imperial nation, and what it means to decolonize solidarity. 4 Network members recognize the importance of sustaining relationships to keep us connected across vast distances and differences of language, history, and culture. International meetings are not conferences where people drop in for the parts of the program that interest them. Instead they are four-day gatherings that include internal discussions, site visits, public forums, and media work. We’ve included creative activities like painting, making a quilt or a banner, or staging an antimilitary fashion show with outfits that reference military contamination, recruitment ads, sexual violence, and land taken for military bases. 5 We’ve visited former WWII “comfort women” in the

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Philippines and stood together at the Cornerstone of Peace, a WWII memorial in Okinawa. The Okinawan group invited women from Puerto Rico to the Network, recognizing the similarities in their situations—small islands used for US military bases or bombing training. When the US group hosted the international meeting in the San Francisco Bay Area in 2007, we met with Native American women leaders, which catalyzed connections based on experiences of US colonial oppression. In Guam in 2009, Network members staged a ritual burning of the Treaty of Paris, our rejection of the 1898 agreement that transferred Guam, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico from Spanish to US colonial rule. These activities underscore our different histories and relationships to dominant nation-states like Japan and the United States, even as they deepen our understandings and sense of connection. The Network includes women who speak English, Japanese, Korean, Pilipino, and Spanish—many of us monolingual—as well as dedicated interpreters and translators who see this as vital political work. 6 From the beginning, we decided not to use only English at international meetings, as many women activists in Puerto Rico and the Asia-Pacific region are not fluent in English. In practice, using multiple languages requires time, patience, and determination, as well as skilled interpreters, and we’ve struggled to do this well. Even with the best of intentions, it is difficult to avoid generating the same power hierarchy among us as exists among our nations. Besides language, other inequalities within the Network include our financial resources, the buying power of our local currencies, the ease or difficulty of obtaining visas for international travel, and the personal and political stakes for engaging in and being identified with this Network. These disparities have a bearing on the location of international meetings, how money is raised and shared, even the wording we use to report on a meeting. Despite these complex inequalities, we seek to define a “common context of struggle,” a term introduced by Chandra Talpade Mohanty (2003) in discussing the possibility of feminist solidarity among diverse groups. SETTLING In 1989 when I started teaching in the United States one third of jobs were temporary or part time; now it’s the reverse, as academia has been restructured along corporate lines that require a more flexible workforce. When a job fizzled out I had to move on. Also, I thought of rootedness as a trap. Years ago, a Native American woman, whose name I regret I can’t remember, challenged me to rethink this. She said: “Find a place. Any place. Stay there and look after it.” This became possible twelve years ago when I bought a duplex in Oakland with a younger couple. We got rid of cement to free up more soil; we brought in compost and mulch. We drew dia-

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grams and made lists: a Santa Rosa plum, Concord grape, fig, apple, pear, avocado, and citrus trees. Christine added roses and dahlias; Albie chose salvias. I planted asparagus, dug in deep to last a decade or more, I hope. I bought a stunning white camellia, and irises with names like “Overjoyed” and “Waltzing Widow.” Coming home here, I am welcomed by plants, their subtle energies both vibrant and calming. I’m grateful for the garden’s many gifts: lemons, greens, flowers, and a feeling of groundedness. I see the year as an unfolding performance: seeding, sprouting, flowering, fruiting, decaying, dying, rotting, and reseeding. In thanks, I compost everything that decomposes. I celebrate the winter solstice, a physical marker of the cycles of time moving forward. Having turned my back on organized religion in my teens, I’ve come to a homegrown spirituality rooted in plants’ eager embrace of life. Soon after moving to the US I bought a map of former Native American territories, all across this continent, which challenged my earlier thinking. I’ve come to see myself as an immigrant, a settler, recognizing that Europeans stole this land in the Bay Area from Ohlone people. Before World War II, families with German and Italian ancestry lived in this neighborhood. African Americans arrived in the 1940s and 1950s as part of the Great Migration from the south. The bare-root fruit trees we planted here are doing well but rooting for me has been slow and tentative. The high-tech economy priced us newcomers, mostly white and Asian American, out of other neighborhoods. In turn, we are part of the gentrification of this area, with its history of redlining and foreclosures. Yoga studios and pour-over coffee shops are mixed in alongside Black churches, barbershops, and check cashing places. Filmmaker Josh Healey says North Oakland “feels like the North Pole. . . . The native inhabitants, the native polar bears, are being pushed out and becoming like an endangered species in their own environment” (quoted in Connor 2019, Iturriaga 2017). As I saw in London and in Detroit, capitalism cannot provide security for many city residents, who are vulnerable to rising rents or, conversely, losing their jobs. We’re a jumble of people on this block—old timers, newcomers, homeowners, renters, white, Black, Asian American, and Latinx—connected in small ways at best. To make deeper association across lines of race, class, and age we need contexts and spaces to do it. The local library has put on events that honor the African American history of this area, including the work of the Black Panther Party. 7 Occasionally, churches host community gatherings. Though provisional and fragile, I appreciate these efforts as I look for authentic ways to live here. I wonder what it means to belong to a place? Who can make that claim, and on what basis? Despite differences among ourselves, we incomers all benefit from the violence committed against Ohlone people, past and present. Women leaders have created an urban land trust, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust, as a way to

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return land to Indigenous stewardship (Feinberg 2015, Levin 2019, Singh 2019). They invite non-native people to make an annual donation, a gratitude tax, as a small way to repair our broken relationships with each other and the land we’re living on. Their website states: “No amount of money will undo the damage that’s been done, will bring back the lost lives or erase the suffering of the people. But this is a step in a long-term process of healing, a small way you can, right now, participate in a movement to support the selfdetermination and sovereignty of the local Native American community.” 8 I’m glad to be able to contribute and hope there are many more such efforts across this vast stolen country. SOCIALLY LIVED THEORIZING Individuals and groups generate knowledge from our lives, our specific locations, and worldviews. Even among feminist teachers and scholars, knowledge and sensibilities may be diverse and patchy. My approach to ecological feminism is based on the experiences I’ve described here. I believe feminist ecological thinking must generate visionary solutions to hunger, displacement, extractive economies, climate crisis, and pandemics (see e.g., Federici 2018, Shiva 2005). It must engage with Indigenous knowledges (e.g., Aikau and Gonzalez 2019, Anthony 2018, Dunlap 2018, Wildcat 2009), and with artistic and poetic work that lifts us beyond mundane ways of thinking (e.g., Kimmerer 2013, Levins Morales 2019). It must be big enough to address the need for reparations and the redistribution of land and resources necessary for economic, environmental, racial, and social justice, especially to Indigenous people on this continent, African Americans brought here by force, and those who have been abused and displaced, injured, and killed in the interest of imperial and corporate dominance. This requires spaces—classrooms, community projects, social media, or public discussions, face-to-face settings as well as films, music, books, and on-line talks—for sharing knowledge, for visioning, and for conscientious listening, where activists and scholars from many backgrounds may become “subversive kin” (Peña 1998). Christina Holmes (2016) urged feminist scholars to set feminist environmental thinking into “new motions” beyond the exclusions and “stuck places” (p. 146) I mentioned earlier. This book is one response to her call. REFERENCES Adams, Carol. 1990. The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory. New York: Continuum. Adams, Carol, ed. 1994. Ecofeminism and the Sacred. New York: Continuum.

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Aikau, Hōkūlani K., and Vernadette Vicuña Gonzalez, eds. 2019. Detours: A Decolonial Guide to Hawai’i. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ambrose, Peter, and Bob Colenutt. 1975. The Property Machine. London: Penguin Books. Anthony, Na’alehu. dir. 2018. Moananuiākea: One Ocean, One People, One Canoe. https:// www.moananuiakea.film/. Boggs, Grace Lee. 1998. Living for Change. An Autobiography. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Boggs, Grace Lee, with Scott Kurashige. 2012. The Next American Revolution: Sustainable Activism for the Twenty-First Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cachola, Ellen-Rae, Gwyn Kirk, LisaLinda Natividad, and María Reinat Pumarejo. 2010. “Women Working across Borders for Peace and Genuine Security.” Peace Review: A Journal of Social Justice 22, no. 2: 164–170. Caldecott, Leonie, and Stephanie Leland, eds. 1983. Reclaim the Earth: Women Speak Out for Life on Earth. London: The Women’s Press. Chester, Gail, Diana Shelley, Lesley Merryfinch, Jo Somerset, and Jill Sutcliffe. 1983. Piecing It Together: Feminism and Nonviolence. Westward Ho, UK: Feminism and Nonviolence Study Group. https://wri-irg.org/en/story/2010/piecing-it-together-feminismand-nonviolence. Cockburn, Cynthia. 2007. From Where We Stand: War, Women’s Activism and Feminist Analysis. London: Zed Books. Cohn, Susie, Frances Connelly, Joan Grant, and Fran Willard. 1987. Pacific Paradise, Nuclear Nightmare. London: Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Collard, Andrée, and Joyce Contrucci. 1988. Rape of the Wild: Man’s Violence against Animals and the Earth. Boston: South End Press. Connor, Jay. 2019. “The North Pole Returns to Tackle Gentrification, Immigration Reform in North Oakland.” The Root, September 24, 2019. https://thegrapevine.theroot.com/the-northpole-returns-to-tackle-gentrification-immigr-1838399649. Cook, Alice, and Gwyn Kirk. 1983. Greenham Women Everywhere: Dreams, Ideas and Actions from the Women’s Peace Movement. Boston: South End Press. Cook, Katsi. 1985. “A Community Health Project: Breastfeeding and Toxic Contaminants.” Indian Studies, Spring: 14–16. Corea, Gena.1986. The Mother Machine: From Artificial Insemination to Artificial Wombs. San Francisco: Harper and Row. Corea, Gena, ed.1987. Man-made Women: How New Reproductive Technologies Affect Women. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Diamond, Irene, and Gloria Fenman Orenstein, eds. 1990. Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Di Chiro, Giovanna. 2009. “Sustaining Everyday Life: Bringing together Environmental, Climate and Reproductive Justice.” Climate Change Series 58, Spring. https://sites. hampshire.edu/popdev/sustaining-everyday-life-bringing-together-environmental-climateand-reproductive-justice/. Dunlap, Louise. 2018. “How my settler ancestors set us up for uncontrollable wildfires.” Yes! November 28, 2018. https://www.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2018/11/28/how-whitecolonizers-set-us-up-for-uncontrollable-wildfires/. Federici, Silvia. 2018. Re-enchanting the World: Feminism and the Politics of the Commons. Oakland: PM Press. Feinberg, Michelle Grace, dir. 2015. Beyond Recognition. Underexposed Films. Gaard, Greta. 1993. Ecofeminism: Women, Animals, Nature. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gibbs, Lois Marie. 1998. Love Canal: The Story Continues. Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers. Hartmann, Betsy. 1987. Reproductive Rights and Wrongs: The Global Politics of Population Control and Contraceptive Choice. New York: Harper and Row. Holmes, Christina. 2016. Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Hopton, Andrew, ed. 2011. Gerrard Winstanley: A Common Treasury. London: Verso Books.

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Hoshino, Lina, Gwyn Kirk, and Deborah Lee, dirs. 2012. Living Along the Fenceline. Third World Newsreel. Iturriaga, Yvan, dir. 2017. The North Pole, Web TV series. http://www.thenorthpoleshow.com/. Kettel, Bonnie. 1996. “Women, health and the environment.” Social Science Medicine 42, no. 10: 1367–1379. Kimmerer, Robin Wall. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Press. King, Ynestra. 1983a. “All Is Connectedness: Scenes from the Women’s Pentagon Action, USA.” In Keeping the Peace: A Woman’s Peace Handbook, edited by Lynne Jones, 47–49. London: The Women’s Press. ———. 1983b. “The Eco-feminist Imperative.” In Reclaim the Earth: Women Speak Out for Life on Earth, edited by Leonie Caldecott and Stephanie Leland, 9–14. London: The Women’s Press. Kirk, Gwyn. 1989. “Our Greenham Common: Feminism and Nonviolence” and “Not Just a Place but a Movement.” In Rocking the Ship of State: Towards A Feminist Peace Politics, edited by Adrienne Harris and Ynestra King, 115–130, 263–280. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. ———. 1997a. “Ecofeminism and Environmental Justice: Bridges Across Gender, Race, and Class.” Frontiers: A Journal of Women’s Studies XVIII, no. 2: 2–20. ———. 1997b. “Standing on Solid Ground: Towards a Materialist Ecological Feminism.” In Materialist Feminism: A Reader in Class, Difference, and Women’s Lives, edited by Rosemary Hennessy and Chrys Ingraham, 345–363. New York: Routledge. ———. 1998. “Ecofeminism and the Chicano Environmental Movement: Bridges Across Gender and Race.” In Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics: Subversive Kin, edited by Devon G. Peña, 177–200. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Kirk, Gwyn, and Margo Okazawa-Rey. 2000. “Demilitarizing Security: Women Oppose U.S. Militarism in East Asia.” In Frontline Feminisms: Women, War and Resistance, edited by Marguerite Waller and Judith Rycenga, 159–171. New York: Garland Press. Krauss, Celine. 1993. “Blue-collar Women and Toxic Waste Protests: The Process of Politicization.” In Toxic Struggles: The Theory and Practice of Environmental Justice, edited by Richard Hofrichter, 256–71. Philadelphia: New Society Publishers. ———. 1996. “Women of Color on the Front Line.” In Unequal Protection: Environmental Justice and Communities of Color, edited by R. D. Bullard. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. LaDuke, Winona. 1999. All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life. Cambridge: South End Press. Lappé, Frances Moore, and Rachel Shurman. 1988. Taking Population Seriously. San Francisco: Institute for Food and Development Policy. Lee, Grace, dir. 2013. American Revolutionary: The Evolution of Grace Lee Boggs. http:// americanrevolutionaryfilm.com/. Levin, Sam. 2019. “‘This Is All Stolen Land’: Native Americans Want More Than California’s Apology.” Guardian, June 21, 2019. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/jun/20/ california-native-americans-governor-apology-reparations. Levins Morales, Aurora. 2019. Silt: Prose Poems. Petaluma, CA: Palabrera Press. Lutz, Catherine, ed. 2009. The Bases of Empire: The Global Struggle against U.S. Military Posts. New York: New York University Press. Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. 2003. Feminism without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Moore, Suzanne, Homa Khaleeli, Moya Sarner, Leah Harper, and Justin McCurry. 2017. “How the Greenham Common Protest Changed Lives: ‘We Danced on Top of the Nuclear Silos.’” Guardian, March 20, 2017. https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/mar/20/greenhamcommon-nuclear-silos-women-protest-peace-camp. Nelson, Lin. 1989. “Women’s Lives against the Industrial/Chemical Landscape: Environmental Health and the Health of the Environment.” In Healing Technology: Feminist Perspectives, edited by Kathryn Strother Ratcliff, 347–369. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Nelson, Lin, Regina Kenen, and Susan Klitzman. 1990. Turning Things Around: A Women’s Occupational and Environmental Health Resource Guide. Washington, DC: National Women’s Health Network. Nyerere, Julius K. 1966. Freedom and Unity: Uhuru na Umoja. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Okazawa-Rey, Margo. 2020. “Nationizing Coalition and Solidarity Politics for US Antimilitarist Feminists.” Social Justice 46, no. 1: 37–47. Peña, Devon G., ed. 1998. Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics: Subversive Kin. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Plumwood, Val. 1993. Feminism and the Mastery of Nature. New York: Routledge. Pratt, Minnie Bruce. 1984. “Identity, Skin, Blood, Heart.” In Yours in Struggle: Three Feminist Perspectives on Anti-Semitism and Racism, edited by Elly Bulkin, Minnie Bruce Pratt, and Barbara Smith, 9–63. Brooklyn, NY: Long Haul Press. Pulido, Laura. 1993. “Sustainable Development at Ganados del Valle.” In Confronting Environmental Racism: Voices from the Grassroots, edited by R. D. Bullard, 123–139. Boston: South End Press. ———. 1996. Environmentalism and Economic Justice: Two Chicano Cases from the Southwest. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Rosenberg, Alan. 1988. “The Crisis in Knowing and Understanding the Holocaust.” In Echoes from the Holocaust: Philosophical Reflections on a Dark Time, edited by A. Rosenberg and G. E. Myers, 379–395. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Roseneil, Sasha. 1995. Disarming Patriarchy: Feminism and Political Action at Greenham. Buckingham, UK: Open University Press. ———. 2000. Common Women, Uncommon Practices: The Queer Feminism of Greenham. London: Cassell. Sargent, Frederic O., Paul Lusk, José A. Rivera, and María Varela. 1991. “Sustainable Development: Ganados Del Valle Enterprises.” In Rural Environmental Planning for Sustainable Communities, 196–212. Washington, DC: Island Press. Shiva, Vandana. 1988. Staying Alive: Women, Ecology, and Development. London: Zed Books. ———. 1991. “Land, Women, and Bio-engineering.” Edges 4, no. 1: 31–33. ———. 2005. Earth Democracy: Justice, Sustainability, and Peace. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books. Silliman, Jael, and Ynestra King, eds. 1990. Dangerous Intersections: Feminist Perspectives on Population, Environment, and Development. Cambridge: South End Press. Singh, Maanvi. 2019. “Native America ‘land taxes’: a step on the roadmap for reparations.” Guardian, December 31, 2019. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/dec/31/nativeamerican-land-taxes-reparations. Spretnak, Charlene. 1990. “Ecofeminism: Our roots and flowering.” In Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism, edited by Irene Diamond and Gloria Orenstein, 3–14. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Starhawk. 1990. “Power, Authority and Mystery: Ecofeminism and Earthbased Spirituality.” In Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism, edited by Irene Diamond and Gloria Orenstein, 73–86. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Unsworth, Barry. 1992. Sacred Hunger. London: Hamish Hamilton. Vine, David. 2015. Base Nation: How U.S. Military Bases Abroad Harm America and the World. New York: Metropolitan Books. Ward, Stephen M., ed. 2011. Pages from a Black Radical’s Notebook: A James Boggs Reader. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Warren, Karen. 1990. “The Promise and Power of Ecofeminism.” Environmental Ethics 12, no. 2: 125–146. Wates, Nick, and Christian Wolmar. 1980. Squatting: The Real Story. London: Bay Leaf Books. Wildcat, Daniel R. 2009. Red Alert! Saving the Planet with Indigenous Knowledge. Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing. Women Working for a Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific. 1987. Pacific Women Speak: Why Haven’t You Known? Oxford, UK: Green Line.

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Zeff, Robin Lee, Marsha Love, and Karen Stults, eds. 1989. Empowering Ourselves: Women and Toxics Organizing. Arlington, VA: Citizen’s Clearinghouse for Hazardous Wastes.

NOTES 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. act/. 7. 8.

See http://www.wloe.org/WLOE-en/background/wpastatem.html. Now the Center for Health, Environment and Justice. See http://chej.org/. See http://www.uixdetroit.com/projects/theboggscenter.aspx. See http://iwnam.org/about/decolonizing-solidarity/. See http://www.genuinesecurity.org/projects/fashionshow/fashionshow.html. See http://iwnam.org/what-we-do/communication/translation/interpretation-is-a-politicalSee https://www.visitoakland.com/blog/post/black-panther-party/. See https://sogoreate-landtrust.com/shuumi-land-tax/.

Chapter Four

Cultivating Intergenerational Gardens with Judith Atamba An Ecowomanist Analysis of a Transnational Black Women’s Gardening Collaboration K. Melchor Quick Hall and Judith Atamba

As a co-editor of this volume, I have had a deep desire to include members of my chosen family and community. Many of them live outside of the US. Often, their first language is not English. They do not necessarily have college degrees. However, they are the people who have taught me the most about my relationship to the earth. There are all sorts of barriers to the inclusion of many of these women. Some of what they say would have to be translated or contextualized to be “digestible” for US-based academic audiences. At the same time, the fact that I have not been able to include more of their voices reminds me of the inadequacy of this form—English language, academically framed prose. In this chapter, I have invited a dear friend, Judith Atamba, to join me in writing about her experiences with nature. It is an imperfect experiment, where my voice and our relationship is as much present as her voice and experiences. Based on what I know of Atamba, I have “framed” her words and experiences in the context of ecowomanism. Even though she has had the opportunity to read and edit the essay, I know that the distance between our educational backgrounds makes that an ineffective way to bring more of her voice into this particular conversation. In spite of these complications, this is a chapter about Atamba’s experiences with farming and our collaborative gardening project, which was funded by a faculty research grant from Fielding Graduate University (FGU). 1 49

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Before working for FGU, I was a mathematics teacher at a boarding school; that’s when I met Atamba. In March 2017, I travelled from the US to Tanzania, with a group of high school students, during an alternative spring break trip. We visited a Tanzanian private school that also provided boarding for young girls. Atamba was a teacher at this school. The curriculum of the school centered permaculture and involved farming projects and a restaurant (for tourists) that used locally grown food. After I led a professional development workshop for the teachers, I remained friends with Atamba. We discussed the challenges of women in our respective communities, and the possibility of future collaborations. When the coronavirus pandemic hit, the opportunity came for us to work across borders to share knowledge and to support our families (and communities) by investing in our gardens. Previously, I had been thinking through community-based science as embodied by intergenerational farming. When I thought about the work of the school, and the gardening and farming work of its teachers, I knew this was an opportunity to collaborate with Atamba. Together, we designed an action research project with our gardens at the center; women’s family- and community-centered gardens can and do respond to interdependent health and economic crises. We learn(ed) from each other as we plant(ed) food and share(d) labor with those closest to us. Although we both worked on gardens with our relatives—me with my mother, and Atamba with her daughter—this essay focuses on Atamba’s relationship with land and gardening. In this chapter, I outline a transnational Black feminist framework, which explains the significance of this particular collaboration with Atamba. Second, I propose an ecowomanist methodology as one way to understand Atamba’s gardening intervention. Connecting to ecowomanist concepts, I share pieces of Atamba’s ecomemory, which brings into view the traditions of her Luhya tribe. Then, using Atamba’s words, the widespread benefits of the garden project are described. Finally, I consider ecowomanist ethical futures, again engaging the words of Atamba. Because of technological (and personal) challenges, this chapter was written with Atamba texting and emailing excerpts as she could. Excerpts from those messages are included here without formal citation. With those fragments, I have attempted to weave together an essay that reflects my collaborative relationship with Atamba and her garden. I begin in the section below, by describing a transnational Black feminist framework. A TRANSNATIONAL BLACK FEMINIST FRAMING In Naming a Transnational Black Feminist Framework: Writing in Darkness, I outlined the guiding principles of a transnational Black feminist

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(TBF) framework: intersectionality, scholar-activism, solidarity, attention to borders/boundaries, and radically transparent positionality (Hall 2020). In considering a collaboration with Atamba, I reflected on these principles. She and I are both Black women, yet the differences in our lives are shaped by a number of salient characteristics, including socioeconomic class, national citizenship, and country residency. It is only when one engages an intersectional (i.e., multi-pronged and integrated) analysis that one can attend to how important these characteristics are in shaping our opportunities. As a middleclass African American woman with US citizenship, travelling with an elite Massachusetts boarding school to Tanzania, I understood how different Atamba’s life was as a Kenyan woman of modest economic means living and working in Tanzania with a temporary (and contingent) visa. The relative precarity of her life was apparent from the start, which did nothing to minimize our connection, our sisterhood. The writing of this chapter with Atamba embodies the second TBF principle of scholar-activism. Often, academic texts exclude the stories of people such as Atamba, who did not attend university. What sense does that make in the context of discussions of land and farming? Some of the people in the world with the least amount of financial resources are farmers! For me, it was important to figure out a way to leverage the resources of my university both to respond to the pandemic and to be able to share that story in this volume. Both are examples of how scholars can engage their communities in ways that are materially responsive to ongoing crises. This section highlights how I am understanding our scholarly contribution; I highlight Atamba’s words in order to discuss gardening activism and impact in later sections. Especially because an intersectional analysis highlights the fact that the major factors that separate my life and Atamba’s are accidents of birth, I engage this collaboration as a matter of justice; I understand this as a form of solidarity. Deep and long-term commitments stand in sharp contrast to more superficial, issue-oriented alliances. My relationship with and to Atamba is one of solidarity because it responds to the unevenness of the human condition in our respective locations, connecting our families and communities, enacting partial and imperfect food justice. Justice means access to basic human rights, including food and shelter, for all people, regardless of the circumstances under which they are born. Thus, when I look to create interdependencies between my wellbeing and Atamba’s, it is with the goal of creating a more just world. That requires solidarity. As an international relations scholar, I am trained to be aware of the impact of formal state borders. In this case, three countries are relevant. As a citizen and resident of the United States, I understand how my movement is (generally) facilitated by my citizenship and the (presumed white) racial majority of the country. When I travelled to Tanzania, it was with a predominantly white, conspicuously wealthy, private, boarding school group.

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Contrastingly, Atamba is a Kenyan citizen, who was (and is) working at the Tanzanian school my group visited; thus, her residency and work visa are precariously intertwined. With the health pandemic, an expired visa, and travel restrictions, she was stuck in Tanzania while her aging mother was across the border in Kenya. We talked about how she would survive the pandemic with reductions in school staffing. Radically transparent positionality, the fifth TBF principle, requires that someone reveal the connections that are critical to making things work. Often people don’t know to ask the questions that would lead to these disclosures, because they position an individual within structures of power and privilege that are not widely visible or broadly accessible. To reveal one’s complicity in structures of power and privilege is often uncomfortable, which is why I describe it as a radical intervention; it is one of transparency because it draws attention to structures that are often taken for granted by those who benefit from them. Positionality is a concept that is frequently used in feminist scholarship, although it is sometimes assumed to label an individual with regard to race, class, gender, or sexuality. Frequently, such positioning does not respond to the specific context of the discussion. In this case, there are two things that are important to reveal. First, as I have already described, it was white, US-based wealth that smoothed the path to my meeting Atamba. If I had not been working at an elite boarding school that sends teachers to countries around the world to support the “alternative” spring break experience of wealthy students, I would have never met her. Second, writing across class and educational access is challenging. Thinking about the audience for this text, I have some ideas about how Atamba’s words could be (mis)read. Aware of the impact of the separation of church and state in the US, I am sensitive to how a religious “African woman” might be read as accepting of traditional (and patriarchal) structures. In the end, these realities did not undermine my desire to share this meaningful and life-giving collaboration. It explains why I have worked to “translate” (or contextualize) Atamba’s experiences, using what I know of her as a friend and fellow educator to frame her relationships to God, family and nature in a way that maintains the integrity of those relationships. I begin to do this in the next section, as I describe how an ecowomanist framing is most appropriate to her context. ECOWOMANISM: UNDERSTANDING GOD AND GARDENS One of the major characteristics that distinguishes (eco)feminism from (eco)womanism is attention to questions of religion and spirituality. Ecowomanist Melanie Harris (2017) wrote, “As it is influenced by the discipline of

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religion, and the discourse of spiritual ecology, ecowomanism is also constructive in that it reveals the theological voices and ethical perspectives from women of African descent as they contribute new strategies for facing climate change and promoting earth justice within and beyond faith communities” (20). Atamba is a religious woman, who married a minister. She sees her every action as connected to her religion and faith. When I asked her about the relationship between religion and work on the land, she wrote the following: “God—the Father and creator—put mechanisms in place which would allow fauna, flora and the soil to co-exist with high levels of production, without soil erosion or environmental degradation.” Where (eco)feminism often hesitates at the boundary between academic and religious thought, between reason and faith, “ecowomanism unashamedly acknowledges the Spirit” (Harris 2017, 26). Spiritual considerations are central to the connection that Atamba draws between the health of her garden and her relationship with God: “The caring of the garden responds to the abundance of God. When a garden is being worked and cared for in God’s way, it will never be in a state of decline; its crops will never fail.” She blames the practices of commercial farmers, including over-fertilization, for the degradation of the land. According to Atamba, “The canopy of trees, decomposition of organic matter, and soil structure have changed. For years, the land has been exhausted by growing only one type of crop (e.g., maize or beans). Small yields lead to hunger.” Lamenting the land’s overuse and degradation, she insists that “when God gave man the land, he wanted man to take full care of it, not to destroy it.” In this chapter, I share my collaboration with Atamba, which exemplifies how she is caring for the land by cultivating her garden. According to Melanie Harris (2017), “the first step of an ecowomanist method begins with investigating one’s family story and connection with the earth” (7). The section below explores the story of land within Atamba’s tribe and family. ECOMEMORY: LUHYA TRADITIONS OF LAND AND LABOR Central to ecowomanism is ecomemory, which can be defined as follows: Ecomemory refers to the collective and individual memory of the earth and relationship to and with the earth. It can be a collective set of values that guide the earth commitments of an entire community or a singular story that reflects themes or values about the environment and one’s connection to the earth. In many cases, ecomemory is passed down through different generations and considered a part of family and communal legacy and intellectual heritage. (Harris 2017, 28)

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Certainly, Atamba’s relationship to the land has been shaped by the practices of her tribe and family. I asked her to share some of those collective experiences and memories. Below is how Atamba introduced herself and her family: I am Judith Atamba, born in the western region of Kenya, of the Luhya by tribe. Luhyans are mostly farmers. We grow a variety of crops, including maize, beans, sorghum, millet, yams, bananas, and pumpkin. We also rear cows, sheep, and goats. In the Luhya society, land is only inherited by boys in the family. The Luhya believe that a girl will get married and access land at her husband’s home. So my family’s three acres of land was shared between only two brothers, even though there were seven siblings.

Often Indigenous African traditions can be idealized and romanticized, especially among African Americans in the United States. Atamba’s description of her tribe’s gendered land practices makes clear the disadvantages for women and girls. Further, Atamba described the following land inheritance and labor practices. Land inheritance is to boys but not girls. It is claimed that women get the farm from their husbands, but not from their fathers. I grew up knowing that women have to create awareness and to struggle to eliminate some of these outdated cultural norms. Some women still think that is how it’s supposed to be, that women should depend on men to provide every necessity.

It is in this context, wherein so many women of Africa and its diaspora suffer in patriarchal societies, that it is important to forge bonds of solidarity so that we may work together to shift our circumstances. One striking element of Atamba’s ecomemory is the stark contrast between the disproportionate benefits of land ownership for men and land labor for women. Atamba’s account highlighted the double duty of women who were both agricultural workers and family caregivers. Women take care of the entire family. They work hard in the farm to make sure the family has enough food. While men work in the offices, women work in the farm. We believe that God gave women extra energy to complete all the daily duties. For instance, both a man and a woman can go to the farm for six hours. Then, when she goes home, she’s engaged in household duties such as cooking, fetching water, and washing dishes.

The politics of the family are hugely important to understanding the relationship of women and girls to the land. Atamba relayed the following: “Our mother worked hard to see to it that we had our basic needs met. She worked on other people’s farms to get money. Sometimes, our father would take some of the money to buy beer.” In this way, Atamba’s mother carried the weight of feeding her family, without full support from Atamba’s father.

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In addition to these gendered differences related to home life, Atamba’s ecomemory also highlights labor disparities within her family. One day I saw my parents coming from the farm. My mother was carrying both hoes and firewood on her head while my father was empty-handed. I used to see my mother taking a bucket of water to the bathroom, which was fifty meters from the house, so that my father could take a bath. She would carry everything for him including the soap and a towel, but when he finished taking a bath, he would leave everything in the bathroom, including his unwashed underwear.

This quote makes clear the ways that the line between farm labor and household work is often indistinguishable for women. Another important farmrelated aspect of home labor and care are food traditions. Atamba said the following about her tribe’s food: “Our staple food is ugali, made from maize flour and served with vegetables or meat. Luhya believe that chicken is a sign of peace, so if one visits our society, you likely will be served ugali and chicken.” Similar to land (inheritance) practices, food practices were also gendered, as Atamba recalled: I remember in our family if we had dinner, our father and my two brothers ate at the table and my mother and the rest of us [girls] had our food in the kitchen. . . . One evening, we had ugali with chicken. My mother served all the good chicken meat to the men and we [women and girls] remained with the head, neck, wings, and liver. We asked her why and she said it was our culture. Sometimes when the food was finished on the table, they would come and take ours, forcing our mother to cook again for us.

Atamba’s story is particular, yet familiar in the sense that it is the story of many women who have persevered in spite of a lack of support from men in their families. She remembered working on the family farm after school, and using earnings from the sale of produce to support her education and that of her brother. This is how she described those years of her life: We grew up busy on the farm, after school and most of the time. I learned not to be dependent. Sometimes I planted kale and sold it to buy school materials such as pens, books, crayons and pencils. I learned that if you can plant something on your farm, you shouldn’t buy it at the market. Even when our father abandoned us, we survived because we had vegetables, bananas, beans and maize from the farm. We sold these items to get other basic necessities. I can remember carrying a twenty-kilogram sack of beans at the age of eight to sell it at the market for my brother’s school fees. We carried it in four trips!

In Atamba’s account, women are saddled with the responsibility and the blame: “The society depends mostly on women. A woman who is not hardworking is forced to go back to her father’s home and the bride price is

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returned to her husband. Wife beating is normal and women are sometimes beaten and blamed if the family goes hungry. They claim this is due to her laziness.” Although Atamba’s story focuses on her tribe, the Luhya, other tribes, including the Kuria, have similar traditions that erase the importance and labor of women. She recounted the following story: “One of my Kuria male friends told me that they don’t count girls among the number of siblings. When I asked him how many siblings are in his family, he told me two, while there are really five—two boys and three girls.” As Atamba and I engaged in our collaboration, it was with the goal of expanding opportunities and access, specifically for women and girls, because of the kinds of erasures and barriers discussed in this section. In the next section, I discuss what our collaborative project planted. PLANTING SEEDS OF INTERGENERATIONAL AND COMMUNAL WOMEN’S GROWTH The 2020 global health pandemic has highlighted the importance of local agriculture and food options. Ecowomanism is an appropriate framework within which to understand Atamba’s land-based labor because it “focuses on connections between black women’s health, spiritualities, and ecological concerns” (Harris 2017, 105). During this period of crisis, nurturing the land and growing food has been both a matter of health and spirit, especially given Atamba’s understanding of the spiritual nature of working the land. In considering the importance of ecomemory, passed down over generations, I reached out to Atamba to develop a project that would include her daughter, Loveness Juma, whom I also met during my trip to Tanzania. The motherdaughter pair was able to collaborate on the gardening project, which impacted their family, neighbors, and the broader community. Atamba also was inspired by her mother: “My mother showed determination and she faced a lot of challenges in the family. Many women encounter a lot of problems in their families, but they persevere because the society hasn’t focused on them. My mother used to encourage us to study hard so that we would not lead a life like hers.” In addition to being inspired by her mother, Atamba has taken note of how other women in the community have worked together to create a better life for families in her community: “Sometimes women unite during farming. They plan to do the farming together, going one day to one farm and another day to a different farm until they finish working on all the farms. Group work was (and is) helpful to women.” Atamba and I share this experience of having watched community women work together; this was part of what inspired my desire to collaborate on a transnational garden project, learning from our families and communities.

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As a part of our university-funded collaborative gardening project, Atamba supported my garden in the US by giving suggestions and responding to my questions; I am a novice gardener and need guidance and advice. She also provided food to people in her community, as detailed in one of her reports. We have harvested spinach, using some at home and giving some to our neighbors who are not able to buy vegetables from the market. We are in a dry period that will continue through October. This has an effect on our project because a lot of water is needed for irrigation. The pond we use for irrigation has started to dry and this will force us to use tap water, which is expensive.

With project funding, Atamba purchased a water pump, which was a tremendous benefit to the garden. More access to water ultimately led to greater yields that benefited the community. She reported the following: “We harvested all the peas and some spinach. We had enough vegetables that we decided to sell some to the villagers to get some money for school materials.” Of course, humans are not the only animals that must eat: “We encountered challenges with villagers who let their livestock roam, which caused a problem for our farm. Because there is no green grass due to the dry weather, some people let their goats eat from local gardens. We made a temporary fence.” Responding to the challenges of a successful garden and attending to the limited resources of neighbors, Atamba explored ways that the gardening project could be expanded: It is possible to plant vegetables even in sacks around the house. In addition to providing food, the vegetables also beautify the environment. You don’t need to have a garden. With or without a garden, you can harvest vegetables and save a lot of money spent at the market. This is a very good project. I plan to have a seminar in August [2020] with our women’s group. Our aim is to make other women understand that they can make it and fight hunger with their small gardens or even without a garden.

Responding to the threat of hunger in the midst of intertwined economic and health crises, Atamba was able to influence her neighbors in a way that increased their enthusiasm and resources: Some of my neighbors have decided to start their own gardens, even though they are small. I had enough seedlings to give some to my neighbors. A week ago, I transplanted my new seedlings to the farm. They are doing well and in a month’s time we will be harvesting. We just harvested and this time we didn’t take anything to the market because we had many visitors at home. We used the vegetables at home. We still have some vegetables in the farm, but they are used for home consumption.

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These reflections highlight how Atamba’s home became a resource for family, visitors and neighbors. In Atamba’s comments about her relationship to the land, she spoke about future generations: “There’s no bigger theft than stealing the environment from the forthcoming generation. When we exhaust the land, we steal the environment from them. This is what happened to us and other poor families. They/We do this unknowingly.” In our collaborative project, we attended to questions of what could be built with—not simply for—younger generations. Her daughter, Loveness Juma, who is a high school student, participated in the project. Juma worked in the garden and was able to purchase school materials with money earned selling vegetables. She reported that she looks forward to the opportunity to continue working in the garden during future school vacations. ECOWOMANIST ETHICAL FUTURES In addition to foregrounding religious and spiritual questions, ecowomanism also engages broader ethical questions: “An ecowomanist approach then is an approach to ethics that centers the reflections and moral imperatives of race, class, gender, and sexual justice along with justice concerns for and with the earth” (Harris 2017, 136). In fact, the final and seventh step of an ecowomanist methodology requires “taking action for earth justice” (Harris 2017, 143). My collaboration with Atamba was designed to support a more radical vision for women and girls. As Atamba wrote, “Women can still work on the farm and work in the offices. Both men and women are the same, and if they can acknowledge one another, the world can be a better place. Girls need to be supported to work hard and achieve their goals. Let them be given a chance and everything will change.” I am inspired by Atamba’s vision for an alternative gendered reality than the one that shaped her early years. In part because her experience was influenced by women such as her mother, Atamba’s vision for the future is also one led by women: “My goal is to make everyone understand that women have a voice. Everyone is equal. We study the same topics and go to the same universities. We are the ones who change our own world. Let the men join us.” I hope that I have done Atamba’s story some justice in this context. My hope is that I have joined her in calling for a different reality for women and girls, just as she joined me, as an advisor, in starting my own garden. We look forward to continuing our collaboration, in ways that will spread through communities of women who care for the earth and their families, who are handed most of the responsibilities and given too much blame, with few resources. For my part, I remain committed to shifting resources to the women in our communities, who have shown themselves capable of carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

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As with other chapters, there is no neat ending to this story, but rather an invitation to engage others, in solidarity, leveraging whatever (personal and professional) resources are available to you. Although some part of my collaboration with Atamba is captured here, much is omitted. In fact, this chapter is not in the predominant language of our exchanges, which had more photos than words. When I think of this collaboration, I see images—kale and peas, stones and dirt, mothers and daughters. I am a novice gardener, thankful to Atamba for all her suggestions and encouragement. My mother was excited to upload photos of our progress, so that Atamba could provide further guidance and suggestions. In that way, we communicated, swapping photos and recommendations. Even after the project funding, we continue supporting each other in feeding ourselves, our families, and our communities, with food, care, and communion. DEDICATIONS This chapter is dedicated to Leah Makotsi, who is the sister of Judith Atamba. She was born February 20, 1967, and passed away July 22, 2020, while this chapter was being written. Makotsi travelled from Kenya to Tanzania for a funeral before the border between the two countries was closed. She died away from most of her family members, who were unable to attend her funeral. This chapter also honors the memory of Aiden Day, born January 2, 1998. He was one of the students on the Tanzania trip where K. Melchor Quick Hall met Judith Atamba. Day assisted with the professional development workshop for teachers, including Atamba. On August 29, 2020, during the final editing of this chapter, he passed away at the young age of 22. REFERENCES Hall, K. Melchor Quick. 2020. Naming a Transnational Black Feminist Framework: Writing in Darkness. New York: Routledge. Harris, Melanie L. 2017. Ecowomanism: African-American Women and Earth-Honoring Faiths. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books.

NOTE 1. Acknowledgment: Funding from a Fielding Graduate University faculty research grant supported the gardening collaboration between Hall and Atamba. In addition to paying for Atamba’s gardening consulting expertise, which supported Hall in starting her garden, and a summer stipend for Atamba’s daughter, a water pump was purchased with grant funding. A truckload of dirt, bags of potting soil, and stones for a walking path were purchased for Hall’s garden, which began as a swimming pool.

Chapter Five

Theorizing Ecofeminist Intersectionalities and Their Implications for Feminist Teachers Christina Holmes

Intersectionality theory is hegemonic within feminist studies, and I’d wager that most feminist teachers are more familiar with its history and debates than with ecofeminist and ecowomanist histories, analytic frameworks, and applications. In light of this assumption, the goal of this chapter is to highlight how theorizing through the lens of ecofeminist intersectionalities can aid feminist scholars whose primary field of study is outside of ecofeminism, ecowomanism, environmental justice, and related areas. The terminology of “intersectionality” emerged from Kimberlé Crenshaw’s study of the ways anti-discrimination legal protections assume a (heterosexual) Black male subject to racism and a (heterosexual) white female subject to sexism, therefore failing to capture the racialized sexism (or sexualized racism) that Black women have faced in the United States (Crenshaw 1989, 1991). In her recent work, Crenshaw’s support of the #SayHerName movement shines an intersectional lens on women of color who have suffered from police violence since most popular and political discussion focuses on violence against Black men, ignoring the fact that Black women and Latinas experience police violence at comparable rates to Black men, and trans women of color face critically high rates of biased harassment or assault from police officers. From at least the 1990s onward, there has been a refinement of the theoretical foundation and application of intersectionality theory, but that work built on more than a century of insights. The idea that categories of identity (i.e., woman, working class, lesbian) and systems of oppression (sexism, classism, heteronormativity) are intersecting was intimated by those working toward abolition, suffrage, anti-lynching, labor rights, immigration advocacy, as 61

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well as by those in the many other civil rights and ethnic nationalist movements of the twentieth century. Though I will look at some differing formulations of intersectionality theory, I will not dig deep into that history here. Instead, more attention is paid to the environmental take-up of intersectionality, the ways ecofeminist work expands and challenges it, and some ways feminist scholars can incorporate ecofeminist intersectionalities in their teaching. Since intersectionality theory is such a foundational tool for feminist scholarship and teaching, expanding how we understand and apply it offers feminist teacher-scholars both a more finely tuned formulation of intersectionality that can deepen our analyses and an entry point for introducing more environmental content into courses that are not created with “eco” themes in mind. INTERSECTIONAL METHODOLOGIES One of the key characteristics of intersectionality theory is that it helps us understand the production of difference and the ways it normalizes and naturalizes what ecofeminists have called “centric thinking” (Plumwood 2002, Martusewicz, Edmundson, and Lupinacci 2011, 77–81) or a “logic of domination” (Warren 2000). bell hooks explains it this way: a “politic of domination” exists that “refers to the ideological ground that they [capitalism, racism, etc.] share, which is a belief in domination, and a belief in the notions of superior and inferior, which are components of all those systems. For me it’s like a house, they share the foundation, but the foundation is the ideological beliefs around which notions of domination are constructed” (1989, 175). The norm holds this dualistic or centrist thinking in place as the foundation, and we all are caught up in it, internalizing it and measuring ourselves against it. Matrix thinking suggests that each system of domination relies on others and no one axis (e.g., speciesism or racism) can be dismantled alone. We need to take on centric thinking and its attendant hierarchical value dualisms, as they exist woven together in a vast matrix formation. Vivian May’s meta-analysis of intersectionality details four characteristics of intersectional methodologies that are relevant in research and teaching. She argues that intersectionality is: (1) “an epistemological project that contests dominant mindsets” (2015, 12; italics in original). We’ve just seen this in discussions of how the logic of domination and centric thinking exposes the cultural logics that reproduce and normalize certain knowledge systems (and their attendant notions of knowers and acceptable forms of evidence) as more truthful, objective, and valuable than others. hooks (1989, 2000), Patricia Hill Collins (1990) and others (particularly feminist standpoint philosophers) suggest that one way to get outside the trap of a dominant mindset is to start thought from the perspective of a marginalized knower.

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For example, conservative middle and upper class understandings of social organization and family life presume a heterosexual nuclear family; liberal feminists have fallen into the trap of accepting this logic that preserves an idea of the nuclear family, perhaps supported by cleaning or childcare staff, as they have argued for more opportunities for women to work outside the home. Collins, starting her analysis of the family from the perspective of Black American women, explains that their work as “othermothers” in a networked community reveals “that the mythical norm of a heterosexual, married couple, nuclear family with a nonworking spouse and a husband earning a ‘family wage’ is far from being natural, universal and preferred but instead is deeply embedded in specific race and class formations” (1990, 222–23). Related, intersectional methodology is (2) “an ontological approach that accounts for complex subjectivity and offers different notions of agency” (May 2015, 12; italics in original). Intersectional ontologies understand that subjects are multiply situated, have complex and shifting—varied and sometimes contradicting—identities. We are simultaneously privileged in some respects and disadvantaged in others, and our power is both subtle, as in efforts to root out internalized oppression, and overt, as, perhaps, when Black women mobilize to care for each other’s children when high quality and affordable childcare is either unavailable or undesirable. Such care might be resisted because it leaves children open to an onslaught of microaggressions from culturally insensitive caregivers. Finally, May’s meta-analysis shows that intersectionality methodology calls for (3) “a radical political orientation grounded in solidarity, rather than sameness, as an organizing principle”; and (4) “a resistant imaginary useful for intervening in conventional historical memory and prevailing social imaginaries” (2015, 12; italics in original). Once one fully understands the epistemological and ontological points that were addressed above, it becomes easier to understand how these last two points necessarily follow. We’ll consider an environmental example to illustrate how all four methodological characteristics come together. Among feminist academic programs and conference planning committees there has been much debate about the politics of vegetarian catering choices, especially in the wake of ecofeminist critiques against industrialized meat production and animal cruelty. In the United States, the image of a vegetarian or vegan in the popular imagination is still largely embodied by white, middle-class women despite the fact that vegetarian diets are traditional in many places around the world outside of Western culture. It has been important to contend with the recognition that mainstream environmentalists (i.e., conservation or preservation oriented) and, to a lesser extent white ecofeminists, have historically focused on animal suffering and environmental destruction without considering the ways those issues are also tied together with processes such as colonization and industrialized capitalism, or systemic oppressions undergirding them such as

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racism and ableism. Contributions in this debate came from those arguing that feminist policing around just food consumption ignored the foodways of people of color, especially Black and Latina feminists. Many water- and land-based cultures also have cultural and spiritual ties to fishing and hunting in ways that respect the animal and the environment—these foodways may not be appreciated by a hardline approach to vegetarianism or veganism (Martinez and Spizman 2017). One way to look at this debate, then, is to ask whose understandings of justice and whose cultural norms were taken into consideration and whose were not? Contributors to Sistah Vegan (Harper 2010) have brought dimension to these questions, though. In several essays, but especially those by A. Breeze Harper, the reader learns how Black Americans’ diet were warped by slavery. This history is overviewed before readers are introduced to culturally significant vegetarian foods that predate slavery. Harper shares facts about a racist food production system that relies on people of color in the US to do the hard and dangerous, low-paid work of laboring in the CAFOs (concentrated animal feeding operations) and butcher houses, and the marketing campaigns that target people of color for fast food meats that are driving up rates of illnesses such as diabetes and heart disease. Many of the contributing authors speak openly about their subject positions wherein they struggle with their gendered, raced, and classed identities and commitment to non-cruelty—they acknowledge ontological complexity and multiplicity, but also find some resolution in seeing systems of domination not as exclusive or single-axis, but as matrix-like and interconnected. In other words, one doesn’t need to choose between racial justice or gender justice, racial justice or species justice. In considering that speciesism, racism, sexism, etc. are mutually reinforcing, it becomes easier to see how the justification for eating animals (e.g., that they lack consciousness or selfawareness; that they were created for some humans to have dominion over) is related to the justification for enslaving Black people for labor, for saving the “best” parts of the animal for consumption by slave owners and the refuse for slaves. 1 Maneesha Deckha argues that speciesism should be integrated into intersectional analysis for the sheer reason that so many human claims to injustice pivot on experiences of dehumanization and the stigma of being perceived as subhuman or animal by the dominant human community illustrates how much concepts of gender, race, and class are inflected with species significance as well as how productive including species as an analytic can be for unpacking marginalizing dynamics. (Deckha 2013, 58)

Moreover, she notes that, “as many writing within the field of animal studies have shown, the human is not a stable marker of identity, but a fiercely historically and culturally contingent one” (Deckha 2013, 58). Species

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should be treated just like whiteness, heterosexuality, etc. as a way to “reduce essentializing within intersectionality rather than promote it” (Deckha 2013, 58). Here we can see how a coalitional space—or what May called “a radical political orientation grounded in solidarity”—brings together those who fight against animal cruelty, anti-Blackness, sexism, and food deserts in low income areas. Deckha’s study of animal advocacy also delivers on May’s point of a methodology oriented in “a resistant imaginary useful for intervening in conventional historical memory and prevailing social imaginaries” (2013, 12); instead of seeing animal advocacy, anti-racist, and anti-sexist social movements as separate and potentially competing projects, Deckha reorients our vision by making critical points: Not only are women, racialized others, and animals conceptually linked, but it is also true that animal advocacy movements are women’s movements made up by a majority of women and they are sites where women suffer from gendered, raced, and classed oppressions that are also linked to speciesism within the movement and its reception by those outside of it (Deckha 2013, 51). 2 In a similar move, Carol Adams and Lori Gruen (2014) reinterpret historical social movements for nonviolence through this matrix and solidarity-oriented imaginary that is newly able to see the connections among labor rights activists, suffragettes, anti-colonial supporters of Gandhi, and anti-vivisection activists in nineteenth century Great Britain. To summarize, we’ve looked at some important characteristics and methodological innovations of intersectionality theory. As Collins’ example of othermothers showed us, it allows us to ask questions in a different way while emphasizing the importance of taking a new perspective. We see social movements in different ways, as Deckha and Adams and Gruen show. Intersectionality moves us from single-axis thinking to matrix-type analysis, which means that it both illuminates the interstitial or typically invisible workings of power and it shows that privilege and oppression are intertwined and simultaneously co-occurring. EXPANDING ECOFEMINIST INTERSECTIONALITIES There is a wealth of innovative research that expands the ecologies of intersectionality known both to environmental and feminist scholars and I want to highlight a few of these diverse approaches before moving onto some of the challenges to “intersectionality-type work” (Dhamoon 2011). These include groundbreaking work in animal studies, as mentioned above (see also Haraway 2003, Lloro-Bidart 2018, Nocella 2017, Pedersen 2010, Spannring 2017, Twine 2010), which denaturalizes the categories we take for granted of “human” and “animal” and introduces us to the boundary work that goes into shoring those identities up, along with all the attendant values attached to

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certain ways of knowing and being in the world. Other work addresses the silences in environmental research and enriches feminist theory while doing so. For example, ecowomanism expands Alice Walker’s (1984) work on womanism, including its attention to Afrocentric spiritual practices. It foregrounds the important lessons on organizing taken from Black environmental justice activists while giving more attention to issues of gender and sexuality that have been buried in that field. Melanie Harris (2017) introduces ecowomanism as an approach that “interrogates the structural evils that African American women have historically faced, and argues that earth justice is and has always been a justice priority for black women” (Harris 2017, 4). This is particularly important because of lingering beliefs that environmentalism is a cause supported only by white and/or middle-class progressives and it has wide-ranging implications for what kinds of activism we consider important and the case studies we use in our classrooms. I make a similar claim in Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism (Holmes 2016) as I argue that Mexican American women’s art, literature, and organizing for social change has been misrecognized and that elements of ecological consciousness present in the work have gone unnoticed. In detailing a borderlands environmentalism, I point to the ways artists and activists theorize place-based identities and environmental, political, and economic concerns while also thinking about how “place” is always already cut through with transnational flows and built on shifting sands—what Gloria Anzaldúa (1999) names a “borderland.” Like ecowomanism’s commitment to Black women’s earth stories, borderlands environmentalism starts with the stories of Mexican American women and it embraces the creative work of art, literature, and poetry as world building and earth improving. Like ecowomanism, it sees spirituality as a resource to fuel these endeavors. Spiritual work yields material transformations in the self, in the community and, because they are deeply interconnected, in the environment. Ecowomanism and borderlands environmentalism draw out marginalized and misrecognized environmental perspectives. They validate the epistemic, ontological, and political contributions of spiritual work that is frequently ignored or denigrated by feminist studies and branches of environmental studies that are beholden to the sciences and positivist ways of knowing. And they show us new ways of thinking and potential new solidarities once we start asking questions from a different standpoint. In addition, exciting work on queering the environment has helped us to better see how heteronormativity is constructed in line with certain understandings of the environment. In one of the first essays to call attention to the historical development of linked oppressions, Greta Gaard argued that “Christianity has been used as both an authorization and a mandate for the subordination of women, nature, persons of color, animals and queers” (1997, 123). She details how narrow understandings of

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masculinity, femininity, and heterosexuality, bound up with the political and economic interests of the Catholic Church as well as its “erotophobia,” drove the colonization of lands and the brutal persecution of Indigenous peoples in the Americas. Queer Ecologies taught us that space is sexualized, from the ways environmental policies and conservation practices have relied on a hegemonic notion of (hetero)masculinity to the ways local parks fostered middle-class respectability politics in heterosexual courtship (Mortimer-Sandilands and Erickson 2010). It showed us the ways animals are anthropomorphized in everything from popular culture to scientific research in order to justify homophobia and to police particular types of sex and practices of family-making (Alaimo 2010, Sturgeon 2010). Greta Gaard’s (2015) more recent research also reveals the differential impact of climate change on LGBTQ+ identified people. With the publication of Alison Kafer’s Feminist, Queer, Crip (2013) and Sarah Jaquette Ray and Jay Sibara’s edited volume Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities: Toward an Eco-Crip Theory (2017), the identities, categories of difference, processes of differentiation, and systems of domination under examination grow more expansive. We come to understand the subjugating power of compulsory able-bodiedness and able-mindedness alongside compulsory heterosexuality—including how they presume a “natural” way of being human. The authors look at the cultural panics caused by environmental threats such as pesticides, pharmaceuticals and other chemicals that are feared to cause autism or feminize bodies, disrupting gender and sexuality identifications. Earlier, I explained how intersectional insights come from seeing how shared belonging within the matrix of domination and the logic of domination that it fosters create new solidarities. Anthony Nocella’s historical accounting reminds us that, in their shared otherness from what is normatively defined as “human,” people with disabilities and animals have suffered shared fates: “Violent acts such as experimentation, dissection, and vivisection using people with disabilities, nonhuman animals, plants, water, and other elements were condoned as the foundation of modern advancements in science and knowledge” (Nocella 2017, 146). Similarly, the history of gynecological medicine reveals that Black women, animalized under the logic of chattel slavery, were also subjects of experimentation and brutalization. There are theoretical linkages as well as potential solidarities in these histories. As I hope these examples have shown, intersectional analysis is connective; the similarities and differences in how groups are defined expose the deeply penetrating force of the logic of domination and its boundary-marking labor that serves to consolidate power around the center or what Audre Lorde (1984) named “the mythical norm.” Although feminist theorists have known this for some time, there hasn’t been the same kind of attention to integrating eco-social approaches into feminist theory as there has been to mainstreaming intersectionality

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theory despite the fact that bringing these two lenses together more sharply focuses our analyses of injustice. POSTHUMANIST CHALLENGES TO ECOFEMINIST INTERSECTIONALITIES Meta-studies of intersectionality-type work such as those by May (2015) and Dhamoon (2011) reveal debates about how intersectionality is theorized and put into practice in research and social actions. These debates do not need to be settled in order to take advantage of the insights intersectionality can offer, but I linger over a question of who or what intersectionality theory needs us to be; in other words, the ways we imagine subjects shapes how we understand those key sites of intersectional analysis: identities, categories of differentiation, processes of differentiation, and systems of domination (Dhamoon 2011, 233). Intersectionality theory has been criticized for reifying identities, hardening them up rather than allowing them to be more open and malleable. It has been criticized as taking categories of differentiation (e.g., gender, sexuality, species) as relatively stable givens rather than the products of historical processes. While the validity of those critiques depends on whose work you read and how generously you read it, it is also true that, from Sojourner Truth to Kimberlé Crenshaw, one of the major goals of intersectional analysis has been to carve out space for recognition of women of color as subjects with specific experiences that have been overlooked, but which can also serve as new sites for alternative epistemologies, ways of being in the world, and resistant politics (May 2015). Feminist standpoint theory, an epistemological approach that evolved in conversation with intersectionality theory, has many of these same goals (see Harding 2004, especially essays by Collins and Smith). Scholars working within both frameworks understand subjects as complex and potentially full of contradictions, but even complicating the notion of individuals as internally multiplicitous relies on an understanding of individual subjectivity, and one that does seem to uphold other values of Western modernity such as recognition and protection under the law (which presupposes the legitimacy of the settler state), individual agency, and foundational experience from which one can learn. Some who embrace post-structural frameworks prefer to think in terms of assemblages instead of individuals or subjects. Jasbir Puar (2012) argues that intersectionality has become hegemonic in feminist theory with the consequence that other ways to understand power, oppression, and resistance are drowned out. “Part of the assumption at work in these queries is that representation, and its recognized subjects, is the dominant, primary, or most efficacious platform of political intervention, while a Deleuzian nonrepresentational, non-subject-oriented politics is deemed

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impossible” (Puar 2012, 50). Puar understands intersectionality theory as representational, categorical and identity-based, stuck in what Deleuze and Guattari (1987) referred to as molar states of being (i.e., one is a man and men are defined as x . . .) instead of molecular states of becoming (that have no predetermined destination or identity end-point), which Puar takes assemblage theory to be better at capturing. In assemblage theory, identity emerges temporarily as an event rather than an ongoing state. Assemblages work by linking objects (human and nonhuman, like televisions, bodies of water) and the relations among them are the focus. At a specific joining of objects—an arrangement—we may come to see identifiable subjects emerge at an event site (what she allows to be similar to Crenshaw’s traffic accident at the intersection of streets such as racism and sexism), which after the fact may show that discrimination of a particular figure or subject has emerged (e.g., a Black woman like Anita Hill). Puar argues that intersectionality is too beholden to the notion of a subject with its attendant liberal humanist conception of agency and she wants to be able to move from the subject and its politics to allow for more free-flowing associations since, at some point, intersectionality perpetuates some of the logics it needs to move beyond—identities, categories of difference, processes of differentiation or subjectification. Puar and others working in the posthumanist tradition also show the implied humanism and anthropocentrism in many accounts of intersectionality; in contrast, assemblage theory is informed by science and technology studies as well as by Deleuzian posthumanism. According to Puar, scholars such as Donna Haraway, Karen Barad, and Elizabeth Grosz “have generally argued that the liminality of bodily matter cannot be captured by intersectional subject positioning. They proffer instead the notion that bodies are unstable entities that cannot be seamlessly disaggregated into identity formations” (2012, 56). For such theorists, not only can the body not be neatly disaggregated into identity formations such as a fixed gender identity or sexuality (as if those two terms weren’t already fully enmeshed for many and nonsensical to some); it cannot easily be individuated or identified from other bodies (e.g., microorganisms that populate the human body in numbers that exceed the number of human cells that comprise that same body). Further, those other bodies act over and through “us” as when those microorganisms shape our mood. Such an understanding of materiality and agency is posthumanist in that it shifts our attention away from Enlightenment attachments to individuals with human identity, rational consciousness, bodily autonomy and self-control, and a notion of and will to achieve a good life (Latimer 2013, Braidotti 2013). Posthumanist assemblage challenges the category “human” and instead names the ways we exist, in particular shifting arrangements with the other bodies, affects, and energies around us.

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To summarize, then, intersectionality theory is thought to fit better with an understanding of subjects that are recognizable through categories of identity, relative fixity, being. It privileges the individuated subject of theory and politics and sees it as positioned in a grid of identities and linked, but demarcated (individually nameable) systems of oppressions. It also converges with a humanist notion of self in so far as much of the theory of intersectionality has concerned itself with humans and the need for redress. This meshes well with the ecofeminist approaches that we have already examined, and, in this, intersectionality remains an important and useful tool for analysis. Yet, versions of posthumanism, including assemblage theory, emphasize states of transition, fluidity, becoming; they understand multiple bodies or objects as primarily in relation and in movement, looking at the quality, quantity, and temporality of connections among them. If identity is considered, it is done so as an effect of a series of encounters. Take the multiple meanings “queer” offers, from the more intersectional to the more fluid and assemblage-oriented: at one level, it might function as a stable identity marker that could be used as an alternative to, or in addition to, a lesbian identity. It also signals slipperiness in gender and sexual identities (and race and class; see Cohen 1997, McRuer 1997) as it acts as a non-categorical way of being; moving even further from identitarian territory, “queer” signifies a resistance to heteronormativity, an act of undermining power, as a verb to queer (Butler 1993). Instead of identity and matrix or grid thinking, queer critique privileges movement and the meshing of modes of domination and resistances that cannot easily be teased out into a matrix formation. Work in queer studies has given rise to similar critiques in “animaling” (Hovorka 2015) or “cripping” subjectivity and representation. Cripping “spins mainstream representations or practices to reveal able-bodied assumptions and exclusionary effects. Both queering and cripping expose the arbitrary delineation between normal and defective and the negative social ramifications of attempts to homogenize humanity, and both disarm what is painful with wicked humor, including camp” (Sandahl 2003, 37). Looking at the material foundations of compulsory heterosexuality and compulsory ablebodiedness also shows that queer and crip theory respond to shared (that is similar, not the same) discrimination in a range of issues, from housing and employment, to lack of access to quality and respectful healthcare and a concern for reproductive justice. Similarly, “animaling” challenges the idea of human exceptionalism and the multitude of ways human separation and autonomy is assumed, performed, and institutionalized; it underscores animal agencies and normalizes different ways of being in the world. Assemblage theory, queer, crip, and animal studies approaches all favor theories of performativity to explain how bodies-in-relation come to take on meaning, identity, agency, and accountability without presuming stasis: queering, animaling . . . these are doings, assemblings and not beings. Build-

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ing on Butler (1993) and Barad (2011), Alice Hovorka (2015) uses a performativity framework to study human-animal relations in Botswana and her understanding of human-donkey relationships is particularly illustrative. She studied the human construction of donkey identities (what meanings are ascribed to the animals—laziness, for example); the roles donkeys play in communities (the labor they perform, the economic and animal rights policies that support donkey well-being; gender and class associations of those whose livelihood is supported by donkeys); the personal meanings owners give to their donkeys and the affective bonds they claim; and an examination of the physical and emotional health of the donkeys to attest to their own lived experience of donkey-human relationality. Hovorka brings attention to the ways donkey and human bodies and subjectivities materialize and are performed through policy, labor, feeding and care practices, jokes about who donkeys are and how humans are to be distinguished from them, and so on. For Hovorka, performativity offers “a means of holistically getting to know the animal while doing so in relation to the human; it reveals that humans and animals are deeply intertwined with implications on their respective wellbeing. For feminist geographers, animal performativity offers an opportunity to embrace all sorts of bodies and embodied lives as legitimate and meaningful sites of knowledge production” (2015, 9). Studies such as this challenge the individual subject that is at the heart of some intersectionality research in their focus on bodies in relation, in their inseparability and continuously produced co-constitution. Yet one does not have to choose between intersectional and assemblage methodologies; instead, the approaches can be frictional (Puar 2012, 50). To return to May’s elaboration of the characteristics of intersectional methodology, where intersectionality is an epistemological project that is allied with feminist standpoint theory, assemblage theory is less concerned with questions of epistemology. In assemblage, the very idea of a knowing subject is compromised. Where intersectional ontologies stress the multiplicity and complexity of human identities, acknowledging simultaneous proximity to power and oppression, assemblage theory expands that multiplicity within and across bodies and emphasizes the agency of the more-than-human world. This has implications for how we understand solidarity and resistant imaginaries, too. If intersectionality moves us from single-axis identity-based activisms (which, are important in their own right—see Sandoval 2000, Reagon 1998) to see connections with others who share a partially overlapping position in a matrix of domination or who see benefit in shared strategies (e.g., heterosexual Black women and disability activists advocating for an end to coerced sterilization), assemblage might take us even further by showing the multitude of relationalities already present, acting upon and with us. Instead of a social movement of human actors in (always partial) solidarity, consider the broader assemblages within which we are acting. Further, because assem-

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blage theory insists on performativity and the co-constituting materiality of bodies, objects, and systems, the notion of a radical imaginary is pried open. Intersectionality theory may be better at naming oppression than imagining an outside to it, where assemblage offers what Deleuze and Guattari (1987) called “lines of flight” or a “deterritorialization”—an outside to the logic and systems that constrain us. BRINGING ECOFEMINIST INTERSECTIONALITIES INTO PEDAGOGY I put intersectionality in conversation with assemblage theories to show the advantages each confers in bringing complexity to bear in our environmental and feminist or womanist analyses. It might seem overwhelming having to keep all of these approaches in mind while conducting research or planning a new course, especially since the logics that each of these approaches challenge are so deeply ingrained for many of us. The centric thinking embedded in our “status quo stories” (Keating 2013) is pervasive and persuasive. We will never be able to attend to all of the manifold ways power works to recreate domination, even in our own classrooms. But, like all faculty development efforts, we are reminded to start small and where we are. To that end, here are a few takeaways to get you started (although I hope the numerous examples cited throughout the chapter have also sparked some creative connection and lines of flight for your teaching and research!). First, take advantage of your strengths—if you are adept at locating incidences of environmental destruction and tracing out how human entitlement and disregard for other species might come into play, start there and try Mari Matsuda’s suggestion to “ask the other question.” For example, Matsuda writes, “When I see something that looks racist, I ask, ‘Where is the patriarchy in this?’ When I see something that looks sexist, I ask, ‘Where is the heterosexism in this?’” (Matsuda 1991, 1189; see also Kings 2017, Kaijser and Kronsell 2014). Second, when introducing intersectionality theory to undergraduates, many feminist teachers use Crenshaw, hooks, and Anzaldúa, all of whom include eco-social references or examples in their work so one strategy for enhancing our lesson plans is to recover those elements of their works. However, it is also important to pay attention to those scholars, texts, and methodological frameworks we can’t seem to think without—what are their histories? What are their genealogies and how do those shape how we’ve taken them up? Intersectionality theory reminds us that the politics of citation are central to the process of knowledge production so, in addition to thinking critically about who and how we’ve read and cited in the past, aim to take cues from social movements and scholars and activists from outside your disciplinary, geography, and identity-based orbit. If they are new to you, seek out more

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work on ecowomanism or research that problematizes the normative, “healthy” body as eco-ability research does. A number of essays in this volume, and especially the collaboratively produced chapter on pedagogy, will provide further direction. Last, to decenter humanist modes of inquiry, try beginning thought by examining the character of particular relationships and the productive agencies within a network or assemblage. If we put this posthumanist advice to work in ecofeminist pedagogies, there are wide-ranging implications for how we understand our classroom environment, the students in it, the activities we might undertake, and the kinds of assessment to be conducted. For example, assessments that center assemblage-style ecofeminist values would foreground collaboration, embodied learning, and formative or development-focused assessment instead of individual and mastery-based assessment. 3 Laura Harvester and Sean Blenskinsop (2010) reframe traditional modes of assessment along these lines, asking “How has the work by this student, or group of students, helped to support the particular flourishing of each member involved and the direct community, while simultaneously not impeding the possibilities of any other” (Harvester and Blenskinsop 2010, 128). Intersectional, posthumanist, and ecofeminist pedagogies all challenge the rationalism at the heart of mind/ body dualism and uplift embodied and emotional learning. A way to bring these into the classroom might start with the recognition that many students, especially in upper-level feminist studies classrooms, identify as campus or community activists. I developed a lesson for these students that asks them to use the board or a large piece of paper to literally draw “wellness products,” the circumstances of their production (economic, political, and/or environmental), commodified self-care rituals, and the relationships present among the products, circumstances of production, rituals, and the real needs for individual and community healing. These relationships work through and across students’ bodies in ways they likely won’t have contemplated, but in working through the activity, students are asked to reflect through both intersectional and posthumanist lenses on a subject that they live on a daily basis. One effect from this exercise is that, after reading about social, environmental, and economic conditions around present-day sugar monocropping on plantations in the Dominican Republic, one student organizer for queer Latinx students on campus began rethinking the inclusion of ice-cream and other sugary “comfort foods” during weekly student meetings. In a brief review essay such as this, much more remains to be said regarding the pedagogical implications for ecofeminist intersectionalities. However, even though the marginalization of environmental work in the feminist academy has had important effects on our current curriculum, a glance at this volume’s diverse approaches shows how much ecofemininsm still has to offer faculty teaching in feminist studies. Acknowledging the gaps in our

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knowledge and areas to grow into is as useful for navigating diverse topics and difficult conversations in our classroom discussions as it is for learning to recognize the agencies and languages of the more-than-human world. Being open to different ways of knowing, sensing, being, and becoming in the world will improve our relationships with students and colleagues even as we become better inhabitants of our more-than-human communities. REFERENCES Adams, Carol J., and Lori Gruen. 2014. Ecofeminism: Feminist Intersections with Other Animals and the Earth. New York: Bloomsbury. Alaimo, Stacy. 2010. “Eluding Capture: The Science, Culture, and Pleasure of ‘Queer’ Animals.” In Queer Ecologies: Sex, Nature, Politics, Desire, edited by Catriona MortimerSandilands and Bruce Erickson, 51–72. Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Anzaldú a, Gloria. 1999. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. 2nd ed. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books. Barad, Karen. 2011. “Nature’s Queer Performativity.” Qui Parle: Critical Humanities and Social Sciences 19, no. 2: 121–158. Braidotti, Rosi. 2013. The Posthuman. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Butler, Judith. 1993. Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” New York: Routledge. Cohen, Cathy J. 1997. “Punks, Bulldaggers, and Welfare Queens: The Radical Potential of Queer Politics?” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 3, no. 4: 437–465. Collins, Patricia Hill. 1990. Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. Boston: Unwin Hyman. Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1989. “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics.” The University of Chicago Legal Forum 1, 139–167. ———. 1991. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6: 1241. Deckha, Maneesha. 2012. “Toward a Postcolonial, Posthumanist Feminist Theory: Centralizing Race and Culture in Feminist Work on Nonhuman Animals.” Hypatia 27, no. 3: 527–545. ———. 2013. “Animal Advocacy, Feminism, and Intersectionality.” Deportate, Esuli, Profughe 23, 48–65. Deleuze, Gilles, and Fé lix Guattari. 1987. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dhamoon, Rita Kuar. 2011. “Considerations on Mainstreaming Intersectionality.” Political Research Quarterly 64, no. 1: 230–243. ———. 2015. “A Feminist Approach to Decolonizing Anti-Racism: Rethinking Transnationalism, Intersectionality, and Settler Colonialism.” Feral Feminisms 4, 20–37. Gaard, Greta. 1997. “Toward a Queer Ecofeminism.” Hypatia 12, no. 1: 114–137. ———. 2015. “Ecofeminism and Climate Change.” Women’s Studies International Forum 49, 20–33. Gardner, Catherine Villanueva, and Riley, Jeannette E. 2007. “Breaking Boundaries: Ecofeminism in the Classroom.” The Radical Teacher 78, 24–33. Gruen, Lori. 1993. “Dismantling Oppression: An Analysis of the Connection between Women and Animals.” In Ecofeminism: Women, Animals, Nature, edited by Greta Gaard, 60–90. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Haraway, Donna Jeanne. 2003. The Haraway Reader. New York: Routledge. Harding, Sandra G., ed. 2004. The Feminist Standpoint Theory Reader: Intellectual and Political Controversies. New York: Routledge.

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Harper, A. Breeze, ed. 2010. Sistah Vegan: Black Female Vegans Speak on Food, Identity, Health, and Society. New York: Lantern Books. Harris, Melanie L. 2016. “Ecowomanism: Black Women, Religion, and the Environment.” Black Scholar 46, no. 3: 27–39. Harris, Melanie L., ed. 2017. Ecowomanism, Religion, and Ecology. Boston: Brill. Harvester, Laura, and Blenkinsop, Sean. 2010. “Environmental Education and Ecofeminist Pedagogy: Bridging the Environmental and the Social.” Canadian Journal of Environmental Education 15, 120–134. Holmes, Christina. 2016. Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. hooks, bell. 1989. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. Boston: South End Press. ———. 2000. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (second ed.). Cambridge, MA: South End Press. Hovorka, Alice J. 2015. “The Gender, Place and Culture Jan Monk Distinguished Annual Lecture: Feminism and Animals: Exploring Interspecies Relations through Intersectionality, Performativity and Standpoint.” Gender, Place & Culture 22, no. 1: 1–19. Kafer, Alison. 2013. Feminist, Queer, Crip. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Kaijser, Anna, and Annica Kronsell. 2014. “Climate Change through the Lens of Intersectionality.” Environmental Politics 23, no. 3: 417–433. Keating, AnaLouise. 2013. Transformation Now! Toward a Post-Oppositional Politics of Change. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Kemmerer, Lisa, ed. 2011. Sister Species: Women, Animals, and Social Justice. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Kings, A. E. 2017. “Intersectionality and the Changing Face of Ecofeminism.” Ethics & the Environment 22, no. 1: 63–87. Latimer, Joanna. 2013. “Being Alongside: Rethinking Relations amongst Different Kinds.” Theory, Culture and Society 30, nos. 7–8: 77–104. Lloro-Bidart, Teresa. 2018. “A Feminist Posthumanist Ecopedagogy in/for/with animalScapes.” The Journal of Environmental Education 49, no. 2: 152–163. Lorde, Audre. 1984. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Trumansburg, New York: Crossing Press. Martinez, Xiuhtezcatl, and Justin Spizman. 2017. We Rise: The Earth Guardians Guide to Building a Movement that Restores the Planet. Emmaus, Pennsylvania: Rodale Books. Martusewicz, Rebecca A., Jeff Edmundson, and John Lupinacci. 2011. EcoJustice Education: Toward Diverse, Democratic, and Sustainable Communities. New York: Routledge. Matsuda, Mari J. 1991. “Beside My Sister, Facing the Enemy: Legal Theory out of Coalition.” Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6: 1183–1192. May, Vivian M. 2015. Pursuing Intersectionality, Unsettling Dominant Imaginaries. New York: Routledge. McRuer, Robert. 1997. The Queer Renaissance: Contemporary American Literature and the Reinvention of Lesbian and Gay Identities. New York: New York University Press. Mortimer-Sandilands, Catriona, and Bruce Erickson, eds. 2010. Queer Ecologies: Sex, Nature, Politics, Desire. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Nocella II, Anthony J. 2017. “Defining Eco-ability: Social Justice and the Intersectionality of Disability, Nonhuman Animals, and Ecology.” In Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities: Toward an Eco-Crip Theory, edited by Sarah Jaquette Ray and Jay Sibara, 141–167. Lincoln, Nebraska: The University of Nebraska Press. Pedersen, Helena. 2010. “Is ‘the Posthuman’ Educable? On the Convergence of Educational Philosophy, Animal Studies, and Posthumanist Theory.” Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education 31, no. 2: 237–250. Plumwood, Val. 2002. Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason. London: Routledge. Puar, Jasbir K. 2012. “‘I Would Rather Be a Cyborg Than a Goddess’ Becoming-Intersectional in Assemblage Theory.” philoSOPHIA 2, no. 1: 49–66. Ray, Sarah Jaquette, and Jay Sibara, eds. 2017. Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities: Toward an Eco-Crip Theory. Lincoln, Nebraska: University of Nebraska Press.

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Reagon, Bernice Johnson. 1998. “Coalition Politics: Turning the Century.” In Feminism and Politics, edited by Anne Phillips, 242–253. New York: Oxford University Press. Sandahl, Carrie. 2003. “Queering the Crip or Cripping the Queer? Intersections of Queer and Crip Identities in Solo Autobiographical Performance.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 9, no. 1: 25–56. Sandoval, Chela. 2000. Methodology of the Oppressed. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Spannring, Reingard. 2017. “Animals in Environmental Education Research.” Environmental Education Research 23 (1): 63–74. Sturgeon, Noël. 2010. “Penguin Family Values: The Nature of Planetary Environmental Reproductive Justice.” In Queer Ecologies: Sex, Nature, Politics, Desire, edited by Catriona Mortimer-Sandilands and Bruce Erickson, 102–133. Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Twine, Richard. 2010. “Intersectional Disgust? Animals and (Eco)feminism.” Feminism & Psychology 20, no. 3: 397–406. Walker, Alice. 1984. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Warren, Karen J. 2000. Ecofeminist Philosophy: A Western Perspective on What It Is and Why It Matters. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc.

NOTES 1. See Gruen (1993), Kemmerer (2011), and Adams and Gruen (2014) for more on ecofeminist analyses of racism and the treatment of animals. 2. See also Twine (2010) on feminist (and broader cultural) discomfort with animality. 3. For more on ecofeminist pedagogies for any classroom, see Gardner and Riley (2007) and Harvester and Blenkinsop (2010).

Chapter Six

On Black Ecofeminist Resistance The Space between Home and Land Dannie Brice

In “The Space between Home and Land” I lament and wrestle with the perennial meaning of home as a profoundly obscure place and project of the nation-state in the process of geo-oceanic movement from Haiti to the United States. Reflecting on my legal, personal, and physical encounters with home, the US imaginary referential frame of home often becomes an architectural destination, a private and secured place that is assumed to be impenetrable by colonial forces continuing in the twenty-first century. The home, as a modern hallmark of residential and familial stability, is presumed to be a safe refuge from captivity and a cloak of sovereignty separated from direct control of the state. In many references to the homeplace, I am often reminded of how broad and tainted the term and logic of home is and the ways it has been used in the past as a racialized, gendered, and classist value system. The home, from Haiti to the United States, unfolds and affixes a political end point, desire for social development, and a manifestation of citizenship, often for the foreign outsider. In this chapter, I briefly recount and attend to an unlearning of home in the colonial American imaginary through a Haitian ecofemme lens per my expansive definition of eco-femme methods as an applied non-binarism untethered to gender behavioral norms. In this meditation of home and land, I posit that the home is structurally violent for Black and migrant individuals and for eco-femme practices; home continues to subdue the terrors of the real-estate proprietary enterprise. Since ecofeminism (e.g., Mies and Shiva 1993) as a school of thought and branch of the ecological movement connects the unjust conditions and plight of women to that of nature, what I call an eco-femme standpoint is a critical analysis that does not only seek to decenter a white feminist viewpoint of 77

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nature and ecology; an eco-femme viewpoint embodies a theoretical resistance to the cis-assumed identity category of “woman.” In doing this, I challenge ecofeminist discourse to expand the analytic relationship of gender and nature to non-male genders that aren’t either masculine or feminine for a broader ecological intellectual innovation. Furthermore, what I also catalyze as a Haitian eco-femme analysis is the emergence of our racialized and gendered foreign experiences to our environmental encounters for the possibility of a transnational collaborative ecology. POLITICAL CONCEPTS OF HOME Across many platforms of knowledge production and the Western imaginary, the home entails a natural space of belonging. As a foundational domain for family formation, it has been uniformly endorsed as a perpetual site for community arrangement. While these representations of home differ throughout cultures, it is imperative that we delineate and critically engage the multiple meanings and the social constructs that home upholds in Northern American landscapes. Through the guiding works of scholars such as Marie Vieux Chauvet, Saidiya Hartman, and my mapping of political concepts of home, I intend to briefly unearth and explore the relations that I possess with the universal definitions of home. I began thinking about the illusionary perimeters of the home at an early age. My family and I, like many other immigrant families, forged new spatial connections from Haiti to the United States in search of a “new” and “safer” home. Our knowledge and habitual custom of home initially assumed a place where one resides away from the public interference of the nation-state—a place that is “naturally” fit for dwelling, a property, a gathering hold wherein families convene, and a legal domicile that is either space or place, legalized through a particular jurisdiction that permits the process of residing in space to occur. In wider contexts of the world, home can only be owned, afforded, or earned through financial merit. Although we were familiar with these juridical relations in Haiti, the perversion of home, in the United States, allows me to locate my marginal identities and garner an understanding of how the state permeates the inner workings of Black life. By wielding the home as an object of study deeply rooted in violence towards the body and the land, I also arrive at the understanding that to critique the spatial home from Haiti to the United States is also to indulge in the contestation of the carcerality of property and to reflect upon the radical wayward spaces that Black femmes continue to create out of the oxymoronic debris of the penal home. The spatial residence of home is an extensive domain of borderlands (Anzaldúa 2012) that constructs the other and the foreigner. As the plane

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vacillated between Haiti and the United States, it became a pressing mediator between our bodies and the land. The bionic household that was once televised on our TV in Haiti as a marketing tool for the American dream quickly patterned and urged us into the tortuous and merciless pits of labor soon after our landing. The Haitian passport that marked my primary community and the plane ticket that allowed the passage to occur onto this new territory were pathways and windows to a place that entrapped and moved us further towards the erasure and possible catastrophes of homelessness. The home as a segmentation of the nation-state is a threshold that first establishes legitimacy onto the body as a product of the state apparatus. It is an exclusionary transient space that determines who is stateless, foreigner, outsider, non-member of the state, non-citizen of the nation, and Black. Rampant with dominant exclusive logics of property ownership, this inceptive site of labor wherein the citizen subject supposedly resides serves as a legal conduit to appease confrontation with the state. Moreover, it is where the youth resident, for example, grows up to conform with gender heteronormativity and moral habits stabilized by the nation-state. Among these norms are behavioral and policing forms of conduct that, if broken, the youth learns early in life, comes with consequences and punishments accorded by the head of the household. Through these enactments, the head of the house is a representative and practitioner of terror, undertaking the authoritarian course and position of state powers in the home. Understanding the home as a place of fundamental violence to the body, the bedroom moreover, represents a private entryway for gender rehearsal into the closet. The trope of the closet, although most often celebrated by those implementing violence, is an insular place in the home that resists the nuclearity of the family. In what may be articulated as a penal refuge, the requirement for the body to come outside of the closet is violent, burdensome, and traumatizing to many. And to us, femmes who are immigrants, the home, and coming out of the queer closet are potentially sites of isolation that endeavor the exposure of our inner lives to the public. Since the home is a stage wherein the (masculine and feminine) performances of gender are fervent determinants of labor roles in the household, to deviate from the privacy of the self and indulge in the open practice of self-disclosure for the accommodation of gender differentiation is to proceed in the concealment of the home as a resort of safety. The intramural and outward address of our embodied experiences through binary framings of colonial carnage to simply befit the social categorization of the state therefore begins at home. Another way of understanding these logics is that motherhood and fatherhood as entities of the household are often imagined in relation to property. Imani Perry (2020) posits the question, “What is a mother with-

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out a home?” in the explanation of the political concept Mother. She probes the stories of “women who survive by using their notion of motherhood as a refuge from the viciousness of the state while simultaneously colonizing the body and the mind of the child” (Perry 2020). The mother or the maternal function, as a political term, is enshrined in the household. The task of mothering is a mandated presence in the home in order to rear the child/youth into a citizen of the state. Since the mother figure in the household is what fathoms our societal understanding of a home structure, it thus strips one of the legitimacies of, and entitlement to, parenthood elsewhere. When we think of discipline and punishment, we often turn to the state’s imprisonment system as the leading construction of carceral logic and bypass the home as a central site where these conditions are groomed, enforced, and maintained through the same systems of hierarchy. In our quest to exist within the tenements of the US, the coherent and legitimate dependency of the home is also radically contingent upon our experiences, movements, communal consciousness, regard, and existence as Black, queer, and migrant individuals. The home space is broadly mapped as an ideal place of rest and identity transformation. The latter forms of identities stray from the standards of the nuclear heteronormative family and are often touted as disorderly and uncreative. In the privatization of the household, to exist as a Black queer migrant often means evading these definitions of home and engaging emancipatory measures of residency, unkept by the microscopic governance of the home place. Reflecting on Haiti as the only place I have known as home and space of return, the inversion of the structural and national homes, throughout movement across borders that operate as sanctums of refuge are largely connected to our communal imaginations. Haiti is simultaneously everywhere yet avoided in the discourse of property and land even though Haitians experience the highest rate of mass deportation across the Americas (RAICES 2020). The journey of finding home is a constant struggle and resistance to colonial knowledge, imperial hegemony, and the violence of state housing regulations that assume Haitianness in the stagnant hold of statelessness and homelessness. As our identities vacillate across gender, race, and class differentiation, our Haitian identities are thereby material axes of identity analyses that queer spaces and render a particular framing of gender ecology from the Caribbean. Haiti is ubiquitous and courses throughout scholarship of environmental feminism, land degradation, forums of immigration reforms, public health concerns, and international relations. Whether or not Haiti is directly cited in the guise of everyday news coverage, when it does appear, the world never fails to remind us of the trauma, impoverishment, destitution, and violence that lacerate the country and our national identity. In

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the movement of emigration, the territorial privatization, and the accorded preservation of property, we are excluded from the relative advantage of property ownership and the productive means of holding space. From the Haitian Revolution up until recent events, Haitians have had a history of being negated, placed outside the territorial grounds of Western property, and subjugated in the attainment of citizenship through land ownership. In this passage of learning and unlearning the national home space, Haitian immigrants, like myself, have turned to North America to seek out spatial refuge and capital from the zone of deprivation that often marks the island. The national home space is, without doubt, similar to the structural home. Both foundations comprise a terrain that wages war, stabilizes borderlands through settler logics, demands loyalty from its citizenry, extracts resources, and exploits host countries. The presupposed existence of home rests upon naturalizing the foreignness of the other and establishing a connection between communities for the possibility of a single nation. Through the colonial project of the home that is deeply wedded to the history of settler terrorization, it is aptly named since the word home originates from the Proto-Germanic khaim, meaning residence as opposed to shelter. The simulacrum of the home space is embedded with extensive concealment, the apparition of inclusion, acceptance, community-focus, and invitation. The enclosed home space, stabilized by the nation-state, borderlands, state-surveillance, and property, avidly attempts to condition the body into enforced behavioral norms that seek to topple subjectivity and weaken individual wellness. Thinking through the experience of Black queer migrants, the home is paraded as a place of safety and security across markets for the displaced, the exiled, and homeless, even though, at times, it is an antagonist mortuary that polices our unruly identities. The activist work and scholarship of ecofeminism as an international coalition among femmes, whose identities oscillate across the gender binary teach us that home can be a conduit for environmental trauma. By understanding this component of our societal structure, the ecofeminist theory and practices of femmes across borders and lands ask that we keep our communities accountable and committed to unlearning the category and settler logic of the national and nuclear homes as a safe space of refuge. Ecofeminism maps intersectional (anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-nationalist, and anti-carceral) frameworks that reorient home with the specter of environmental oppression, creating alternative spatial networks outside the extra-military measures of the state. These crafted methods compel our studies to idealize transformative community-based values that recognize, with intent, the overlapping structures of power that render many of us vulnerable without access to placement and statehood.

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ECOFEMINISM: THEORY AND PRACTICE IN THE HOME French feminist Franç oise D’Eaubonne (1974) coined the term “Ecofeminism” in French in the book Le Féminisme ou la Mort. The book contends a convergence between ecology and feminism to incite a new environmental philosophy that interconnects the oppression of nature to the political agenda of feminists. In Haiti, ecofeminism is not a newly developed concept. Although the term and politics of ecofeminism have been co-opted by white feminist movements, the ideas have been a central feature in Haitian women and gender non-conforming femme’s environmental literature, agrarian labor, and activism in the Caribbean. In “‘All Misfortune Comes from the Cut Tree’: Marie Chauvet’s Environmental Imagination,” Lizabeth ParavisiniGebert (2015) considers Haitian writer Marie Chauvet’s Fonds des Nègres as a leading text in explaining the gendered ecological relationships between the environment and the inhabitants of the island. In her reading of Fonds des Nègres, Paravisini-Gebert draws an ecological connection between the deforestation of the Haitian landscape and the corruption that has its greatest impacts on the Haitian peasantry. Published in 1960, under the paramilitary presidency of Franç ois Duvalier, Fonds des Nègres reflects the ecofeminist concerns of writers such as Chauvet, and others whose politics, in the 1960s, centered the environmental plight of Haitians in the nation-state. Marie Vieux Chauvet is one of the vanguard writers of Haitian literature. At the time of Chauvet’s writing, many canonical works focused on the stabilization of Haiti as an independent nation without acknowledging nationalism’s dismal impact on the land and the inhabitants. Chauvet’s Fonds des Nègres is notably one of the first novels to recognize the maternal nationstate as foundational to the land’s deprivation. Turning to both land erosion and the peasantry’s class predicament as interlocking forms of oppression, Paravisini-Gerbert (2015) highlights “the disablings, amputations, and deformities through which Chauvet signifies the wounds on the landscape that ultimately consolidate the land, its trees, and its people into one traumatized body” (81). Chauvet’s personification of the landscape is intentional in detailing how our actions upon nature are harmful to us. Chauvet suggests that we do not use the homelands as a militarizing source of nationalism. Instead, we should reject, reuse, and rework that framing of housing to understand and prevent further harm to nature in favor of the regeneration of our collective, geographical, and agricultural futures. To Chauvet, gendered ecologies consist of an ecofeminist approach that links the deterioration of nationalism to the detriment and vulnerability of nature and the rural population. Through this example of Haitian ecofeminism, Chauvet’s text encapsulates an antidote to one of the world’s earliest colonial projects by necessitating the cooperative use of

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nature as a resourceful catalyst for working through all forms of violence without asserting ultimate control over our spiritual, physical, animalist, and environmental landscapes. Ecofeminism recognizes the home space as a prospect for endangerment and entrapment that yields inaccessible and violent conformities for many. On that basis, Chauvet’s ecofeminist work teaches us that anything that requires the distortion of nature can also be used for the exploitation of other species. Within eco-focused rhetorics and applications, what can be understood in Chauvet’s literature as a Haitian eco-femme pedagogy attends to how the nation-state encloses the parameters of land, leaving the peasantry class without ample access to environmental reproductions. In maintaining an enclosed society in which most people don’t have sustainable land proportions, the state compulsively facilitates and regulates how our identities in the nation navigate private and public properties, including our homes. To the Black nomad, the hallucinatory aspect of privacy or the privatization of property is not a promised advantage. It may perhaps even be non-existent. Understanding through Chauvet’s reading that the peasantry class, which makes up 90 percent of the country’s population, embodies most of Haiti’s agricultural labor yet does not possess the material guarantee of home and private property tells us about the need to redirect and refigure the home spaces we fathom. Private property is an essential element of landownership and pursuit in the nation-state. The privatization and monetary exchange of land has a long genocidal and militaristic history of controlling the earth which the house is built upon and other species that make up our cosmic worlds. The privacy of the household is invented and engineered for the function of the nuclear family. Without proximity to these examples of nuclearity, we lose the home; the home that denies us entry and access to the arrangements of citizenship. Ecofeminism is significant in derailing the neoliberal, individualistic, and imperial renditions of home. Haitian ecofeminism, as a historical and social critique of nationalism and the abuse of nature and Black people, accounts for the limited cartographical proximity of the Black working class to the land; people who are categorized in Haiti as the peasantry class, are deprived of life in the preservation of nature’s shelter. By prioritizing structural axes of race, class, gender, sexuality, nationality, religion, and ability in the examinations of housing and property ownership, Chauvet’s and my views of Haitian ecofeminism urge that we examine the fundamental alienation and negating features that the household implies: misplacement, power dynamics, and the “condition” of foreignness. Ecofeminism is a broad field that is ever-expanding within academic and non-academic venues. Haitian environmental literature postulates emancipation and possibility in the ordinary waywardness of Black life that is a fluid space and eludes the containment of the juridical household. In a capitalist world that necessitates the disposability of Haitians, Black migrants find home in the ecofeminist imaginary.

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To borrow the immersive language of Saidiya Hartman (2020) in Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments, Black ecofeminist resistance is also the lived experience of enclosure and segregation, assembling and huddling together. It is the directionless search for a free territory; it is a practice of making and relation that enfolds within the police boundaries of the dark ghetto; it is the mutual aid offered in the open-air prison. It is a queer resource of Black survival. It is a beautiful experiment in how-to-live. . . . When the house of bondage looms in whatever direction you move. It is the untiring practice of trying to live when you were never meant to survive. (228)

Hartman’s words ponder deeply the foreclosure of the master’s house that presses against the waywardness of Black being and draws us to rethink inter-communal living. Although my migratory movements from Haiti to the United States converge on points of homelessness, through Chauvet’s, Hartman’s, and my encounters of space, home becomes a radicalized communal value through our insurgent desires for survival. Through these meditations of living, our bodies resist the experiments of state violence and become a part of a larger imaginary that pervades the geological forces of the household. In this vein, our definitive idealization of home is unbounded by the presence of white supremacy. It predates and exceeds the carceral geographies of the nation-state and its bordered restrictions that police our bodies. By this regard, the space between home and land is one that nurtures Black, migrant, and queer aliveness. It is the ecofeminist logic that punctuates marginalized community wellness above all else. Mapping gendered ecologies is the pragmatic ethic of care, affirmation, and accountability. It circumvents the trope of homelessness by employing other spaces of belonging that are unrecognized by the state as home. Black trans women, femmes, and nonbinary individuals have long been subjects of exile, deportation, and migration. In ecofeminism, we convene at the nexus of post-property apocalyptic imaginative narratives and the ecological rebirth of Haiti’s depleted landscape. While Haiti represents a zone of extreme deprivation and anticolonial struggles, through Black/Haitian ecofeminist pedagogies, we enter a language, politic, and consciousness that teaches the interior and outdoor landscape of home within and outside the destructive formulations of the nation-state. Understanding the home as a ground for the nuclear family project, strict gendered performance, and a system of knowledge that hinge upon nationalist, cisgender, heteronormative beliefs of dominant structures, Haitian femme literature creates a new vocabulary of the home that highlights the exhaustion and subordination of Black women and femmes’ corporeal integrity. Moreover, this pantheon of ecofeminist work suggests that we critique these domains of habitation, and also ad-

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vance new models that resist the destructive hold of the home on our bodies and the environmental landscape. REFERENCES Anzaldúa, Gloria. 2012. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books. D’Eaubonne, Franç oise. 1974. Le Fé minisme Ou La Mort. Paris: Pierre Horay. Hartman, Saidiya V. 2020. “Wayward: A Short Entry on the Possible.” In Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Riotous Black Girls, Troublesome Women, and Queer Radicals, 227–229. New York: Norton. Mies, Maria and Vandana Shiva. 1993. Ecofeminism. London: Zed Books. Paravisini-Gebert, Lizabeth. 2015. “‘All Misfortune Comes from the Cut Trees’: Marie Chauvet’s Environmental Imagination.” Yale French Studies 128, 74–91. https://www.jstor.org/ stable/24643712. Perry, Imani. 2020. “Political Concepts: Imani Perry • Mother.” Brown University talk, April 24, 2020. Audio: 23:47. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPEt6sTkSik&t=126s. Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services (RAICES). 2020. “Black Immigrant Lives Are Under Attack.” https://www.raicestexas.org/2020/07/22/black-immigrant-livesare-under-attack/.

Chapter Seven

Rematriation A Climate Justice Migration Aurora Levins Morales

When people ask me who I am, I always begin with my parents, because, more than most people I know, my life was shaped by their decisions and our enduring comradeship. My mother Rosario was a working-class Harlem child of small-town landed gentry from Puerto Rico who’d fallen on hard times, raised in the depression, a lover of books, with a clear, critical mind, who said Marx made sense of her life. My father Dick was a first-generation Brooklyn Ukrainian Jew, fifth-generation radical, the middle-class grandchild of garment workers, and he knew he was a scientist when he was eight. They met at 18 at a communist youth event and got engaged two weeks later at a lecture by Black Trinidadian communist feminist Claudia Jones on “the woman question.” They were married a year later, in 1950, as the Korean War broke out, and decided to go to Puerto Rico until they were parted, expecting that my father’s refusal to fight would land him in jail. It didn’t. But the blacklist blocked my biologist father from any work in his field, so they bought an abandoned coffee farm in the western highlands, and here I grew up until the age of thirteen, when for layered reasons, all of them political, my family moved to Chicago. Growing up the child of communists in the 1950s and early 1960s was scary in many ways, but when I talk about it now with friends who grew up in a US culture saturated with anticommunism, I say this: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My parents were not the grim, humorless caricatures of US popular culture. They were joyful, fun, intellectually curious, creative people who taught us that living a revolutionary life, aimed toward universal justice, was the most satisfying way to be. My father was a groundbreaking mathematical biologist/ecologist who also created hilarious illustrated stories. My mother 87

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was a multifaceted feminist artist-intellectual who studied anthropology, botany, philosophy of science, and women’s fiber arts, a painter and printmaker, poet, essayist, and fiction writer. I was raised at the confluence of art, ecology, and social justice, in a subtropical rainforest house full of books. I began writing in first grade. I read voraciously, memorized and wrote poems, and kept a diary. I learned the names of plants, lizards, and birds, trapped fruit flies for my father and looked at them through his microscope, climbed trees to bring my mother orchids and bromeliads, and learned from her the names of a hundred colors—those in her palette of oil paints, threads, yarns, and fabrics and the ones she pointed out to me in the lush land and ever-changing sky. I learned the impassioned Spanish Civil War poems of Pablo Neruda, the acerbic poems of Bertolt Brecht, and when my family moved to Chicago, writing, filling stacks of grey lab notebooks, was how I navigated the ecological and cultural shock of migration. I also landed in the university neighborhood of Hyde Park just as the women’s liberation movement was exploding into vibrant life. In 1968, at the age of fourteen, I spent the summer in Cuba with my family, and came back changed. My horizons had become vastly bigger and I lost my tolerance for the mind-numbing restrictions of high school. I recited the poems of Nicolás Guillén, national poet of Cuba, and skipped class to go to demonstrations. At sixteen I co-produced a feminist radio show, left home, and took part in sitins and guerrilla theater. I read and wrote my way through all the turmoil of those years, and in 1970, a woman from my consciousness raising group came back from California with a handmade book of women’s poetry and I discovered Judy Grahn, Adrienne Rich, Susan Griffin, Alta. It would be a few more years before I found the Black women who were breaking into print and making a way for the rest of us. Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, Toni Cade Bambara burst upon me and my mother at the same time. We were constantly calling each other up to read lines aloud. We began reading our own writings at events, becoming known. But the heart of this story is that we both found our way into published visibility through the collective raising of voice. I’ve rewritten Puerto Rican women’s history and the story of my sick and disabled flesh, written about Jews living in the tension of oppressed oppressor and how Jews of Color hold one way of cracking that story open, how indigenous and Jewish genocides weave and fray through my family tree, about the movement of water and people through the natural and historical landscapes of the Mississippi Rivera and the Caribbean Sea, and a million facets of how to imagine and build a better world. Most of that writing was done in Northern California where I worked in a web of interconnected, often quarrelsome movements: Latin American exiles and radical Jews, feminist agitators and researchers, lesbian publishers and

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producers, disability justice pioneers, women of color writers and scholars, indigenous grandmother climate activists and every kind of artist. But no matter what I do, the common currents have been the same: art, ecology, justice, my mother’s colors and questions, my father studying complexity and saying: “the truth is the whole,” the expansive vision of the possible my parents gifted me, and all those generations of radical people, centuries of them, reaching for a bigger, brighter common good, a rainforest house full of books, and the voices of the earth itself and all its burgeoning, endangered life. Now all those streams have brought me back to where I began, where my young parents planted ideas, vegetables, and children in this red clay, where I live in a front line island colony disaster zone, growing food and writing, and all I can say is, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

If the patria is defined by ownership, by flags and borders and treaties of states, then the matria is this: the densely woven kinships of the land, this single organism of roots and fungi, mist and pollen, anthills and circling redtailed hawks, their feathers turned amber in the sun, centipedes and berries and the billions of microbes unmaking the dead in the soil. All this matted interdependence is made of water, the one liquid being to which we belong, and all the molecular codes of creation it carries. Everywhere on earth the matria cries out to us to come home, to weave ourselves back into a fabric that is torn, fraying, falling into pieces, dying of separation. Everywhere on earth, molecules of water move though skin and sky, tracing the flows that bind us, teaching us to be woven. —from “Water Road” in Silt: Prose Poems by Aurora Levins Morales

Living in Puerto Rico in the age of the PROMESA Act 1 and its junta of robber barons, in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria and an unprecedented swarm of earthquakes, watching devastation piled upon devastation by the colonizer racism of the US government and the corrupt thievery of the colonial regime, I have been thinking a lot about Anacaona, a leader of my people in the terrible 1490s, a time when the world of my Taíno ancestors was similarly being torn apart by greed. Who, side by side with her brother Behechio, was one of the main negotiators with Columbus. She was an acclaimed poet dealing with a treacherous invader who did not see her or her people as fully human, who set up a gallows to hang thirteen Taínos in honor of Christ and his disciples, who invited Taíno chieftains to a feast, barred the doors of the house and set it on fire. Who executed people for refusing to be enslaved. Anacaona was offered an alternative to death. To become the sexual slave of a conquistador, to be raped every night and bear her rapist’s children. When she refused, she was hanged.

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I am writing these words from Indiera, a place of refuge for Taíno people in the western mountains of my homeland. On a clear day you can see the coast of Ayití, where Anacaona lived and died. I moved here in December of 2019, to the exact land where I spent my childhood. I came home because I was called. I came home because I wanted my eco-social resistance to be wholehearted and here is where my heart is whole. I came home to rejoin the ecosystem that gave birth to me and taught me how to be part of something, how to be accountable from within. I came home to plant new stories in the red clay of Indiera, in the highlands of a front line colony know as Puerto Rico, Rich Port, portal to a vein of extraction, a place where genocide is packaged as disaster relief, as debt relief, as relief. But its name is not Loot. Its name is Borikén. This is Borikén in 2020: 528 years of invaders sucking wealth from our land and our bodies. A sacrifice zone of medical experimentation 2 and genetic manipulation 3 of cash crops, of orchestrated starvation and unregulated contamination—broken thermometers leaking mercury in rivers, estrogen sprayed on pineapples and fed to chickens causing six-year-old girls to menstruate, THIRTY SEVEN PERCENT of all women of childbearing age sterilized because they want fewer of us, think we are unfit to reproduce, that our existence gets in the way of their profit. Warehouses full of expired food meant to be distributed to hungry people after a devastating hurricane, kept behind locked doors instead. A place where, like our foremother, we have been saying no to violation every single day since then. What would Anacaona say to Monsanto, now Bayer, distributing glyphosate herbicides that strip the hillsides not only of weeds, but of everything, that spray cancer into people’s lymphatic systems, that offer a feast of crops and set the house on fire? I am living in a disaster zone made of cracked buildings and colonial chaos, a frenzy of embezzlement and appropriation in which Wall Street vulture funds are directly in charge of our economy, closing schools by the hundreds, privatizing everything within reach. The rulers of our devastation even want to privatize the sun and charge us for using solar energy instead of their coal and gas. They want to raise the price of water and power and bill us whether there’s water in our pipes or not, whether anything happens when we hit the light switch or not. They want to tax our breath. In the aftermath of Maria, in the aftermath of a president tossing paper towels and contempt at people towing each other from drowned houses, in a place where thirty thousand still live under blue tarps two and half years after the storm, as hundreds of thousands evacuate the crumbling infrastructure and decimated social safety nets, a deeply eroded economy and mountains of manufactured debt, across the vast diaspora of our people, some of us are being called home. Many of us are women in our middle and later years, artists, writers, healers, gardeners, and organizers returning to this archipela-

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go, a small but steadily swelling stream we call rematriation. We come with seeds and water filters, street skills and friendships, movement building muscles and tools of discernment we acquired by living in those northern cities. Whether from the streets themselves, or in video clips posted on Facebook that we watched jubilantly from far away, we witnessed the uprising of July 2019, 4 a million people, more than a quarter of our population, in revolt against the open contempt and shameless robberies of our governor and his cronies, knowing there are a thousand just like him standing in line, but needing to bring him down, needing to feel our power, and led by young people, queer people, artists and feminists. Whether we name it so or not, our return migration is rooted in the global ecological emergency, but we are not refugees, we rematriots are justice migrants, moving into the local eye of a global storm in order to join in the cultivation of sovereignty. Across the archipelago, agroecology projects, many of them led by women, are springing up to address the profound food insecurity of our people, forced to import 90 percent of what we eat at inflated prices. Disgusted with the corrupt intent and massive incompetence of the electrical authorities, town after town is creating its own solar microgrid and ever larger numbers of households are looking for ways to finance a shift to sunlight over coal and gas. Leaning toward each other over a picnic table, I talk with Magha García, owner of the Pachamama Forest Garden, an agroforestry project 5 in nearby Mayagüez, and part of the coordinating council of the Organización Boricuá agroecology movement. Her project’s Facebook page is a photo gallery of luscious passionfruit, pineapples, achiote seeds and root vegetables, wild mushrooms and ginger flowers. Absorbing as the work on the farm is, she also travels to conferences and meetings, most recently to a women’s conference with the Brazilian Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (MST), the Movement of Landless Rural Workers, with which Boricuá has been building ties. She says we must build models of the possible, small pockets of sovereignty in a deeply colonized landscape, build rainwater tanks and permaculture farms, power our engines with sun, wind and tide, abundant enough to fully replace fossil fuels, revive our indigenous traditions of respect for trees, reforest the stripped slopes, teach people to distrust the toxic lies of pesticide makers and organize transitions toward sustainable farming, rainwater catchment, local food, and from the small scale, the neighborly, intimate, immediate, fuel the fight for systemic transformation: reclaim and defend our universities, slated for devastating budget cuts, reopen and take over our schools, drive out the junta and the corporations it represents, take back our privatized coasts, rebuild our crumbling health care system, and infuse it with traditional medicine, community based care, equality of access. These are all different ways of saying

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sovereignty, which requires independence, but independence is much too small a goal for our times. Jacqueline Perez is the director of the Fundación Bucarabón, dedicated to building the economy of our hometown of Maricao, of which Indiera is part, by empowering women’s entrepreneurship in agriculture. Women have always worked the land here, but rarely owned the money our labor generates. The Fundación, housed in a closed down junior high school, offers a wide array of workshops and trainings, and has facilities where women can process their crops, adding value that stays in their hands—canning, drying, packaging food and medicine for the market. It’s another pocket of possibility, an alternate story of what women’s lives can look like. At the peak of the earthquake swarm the Fundación became one of the main distribution points for donated supplies, but also hosted a series of readings and discussions of Latin American literature, attended by people living in tent encampments. Although most of the work is on pause for the pandemic, I’m excited to have joined the Fundación’s board, a place to put my ideas and energies into the common pot with other women of Maricao, and join forces to build a local economy based on women’s cooperation and sovereignty. Madeleine Pacheco is the principal of the local k-8 public school. When the government tried to close it, as it has done with hundreds of other schools, the community blocked the gates to prevent equipment from being removed and won. The school has started an agriculture program, and children are growing vegetables on site, relearning the arts of homegrown food their grandparents practiced, and that were lost to the general collapse of agriculture, migration, heavy marketing of processed food, and changes in people’s work lives that made it harder to tend their gardens. Together we’re planning a project where 7th and 8th grade students conduct an oral history survey of the skills and knowledge of community elders. As first the earthquakes and then the pandemic have kept classrooms closed, government officials here, as everywhere, have looked for ways to cash in on the crisis, and tried once again to reassign local children to another school so they could close this one, but were once again blocked, at least for now. Krys Rodriguez, half an hour down the road, manages her 400 cuerdas of coffee and cacao on her own, and has converted a couple of old coffee washing pools into tilapia tanks. She says when I repair an old water tank for this purpose, she’ll give me “seed” to start my own fish pond. She offers me shoots of plantain and says women farmers have to stick together. The land I have returned to was a large coffee plantation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This part of the mountains, long occupied by subsistence farmers who fled the power of church and state into the wild lands, was privatized into export crop haciendas in the 1860s, and the people who lived here became landless laborers, producing gourmet coffees that supplied the Vatican, J.P. Morgan, and the Rockefellers. In 1951,

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when my blacklisted parents decided to buy land so they could feed themselves through a time of political repression, the farm was largely abandoned, the cement tanks made for washing the coffee berries filled with weeds. But they cleared the mountaintop and planted beds of vegetables which my father sold from the back of a battered red truck, and raised hens to sell the eggs. My father was not yet the ecologist he would become, my mother not yet the well-rounded researcher whose passions included the impacts of environmental toxins on women’s health, and so they used DDT and Dieldrin, lindane and parathion. They didn’t know, no one did yet, that Dieldrin is strongly linked to multiple myeloma, the bone marrow cancer that eventually killed my mother. All around me I see clear-cut hillsides scarred with the gullies of erosion, bare earth drenched with Roundup where not a single weed grows, a dry fold of land that was once the forested spring where we all went to fetch water and wash clothes, now just another bare slope planted in rows of bananas. But for more than half a century, this piece of land we call Finca La Lluvia has been left to recover. A dense tangle of subtropical rainforest covers most of the thirty-three acres that remain of the original farm. Rain has washed the soil, microbes and fungi have broken down toxic residues, and even the longest lasting of the pesticides are undetectable now in the soil. It took weeks with chainsaws, followed by bulldozers, to open up the clearing where my family’s home once stood. The machines have left a wide swath of raw, red clay, a highly acidic, low nutrient soil underlying the topsoil they scraped away. Bit by bit, doing my best in the middle of the pandemic, I feed the soil, while I wait for my compost to ripen. I give it broken up dried leaves, chicken manure, ground limestone and bone meal, and grow sunflowers and gandules, green beans and kale, zucchini and tomatoes, bok choy and chard on hillocks of enriched dirt. I plant fruit trees and berry vines and tiny sapling hardwoods that may not flower in my lifetime. There is a photograph of my mother in 1953, pregnant with me, standing in a thicket of sunflowers taller than her, beaming. She organized local women by teaching an agricultural extension course in which women learned to make ovens out of metal cracker cans, and to confide in each other about their lives. I plant the sunflowers in her honor, missing her, feeling her hand on mine as I dig holes for sweet potatoes with my hand trowel. The sunflowers also remind me of civil rights organizer Fannie Lou Hamer, whose grave I visited in Sunflower County, Mississippi, in 2018, and who understood the power of food sovereignty for people working to get free. Leah Penniman, author of Farming While Black, quotes Hamer in an interview 6 with The Sun: “If you have four hundred quarts of greens and gumbo soup canned for the winter, no one can push you around or tell you what to do.” The same is true if you have dry farmed rice and your own pigeon peas and beans.

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This work, the rebuilding of soil, the preservation of forest, the growing of food is what anchors my other job, the work of words. In this soil, I am creating a farm not only of food crops but of stories. A ripe tomato handed to a neighbor is a poem about solidarity and nourishment. A flush of mushrooms on a fallen log is an eruption of new ideas. Bees humming in the pumpkin flowers between stalks of sunflowers and tumbling bean vines tell an ancient story of reciprocity and symbiosis. In a place ravaged by malnutrition and diabetes, each fistful of greens is an antidote. That I am doing this as an elder woman living alone, extending my own mycelium through the social soil, is also poetry. To free ourselves, we have to feed ourselves, 7 body and soul. There is nowhere that we can find the poetry of Anacaona except here and now, except as it rises from this harsh and hopeful moment. So I listen to the night wind and the whirring and gurgling voices of múcaros, tiny earth dwelling owls whose faces my ancestors carved into stone. The Taíno dead, the spirits known as opías, are said to eat guavas and walk the roads at night, kissing the living. At the edges of the newly cleared ground of Finca la Lluvia, my visiting family and I have been planting guavas, at the border of the wild, an invitation to the ancestors to join us in seeding the soil with possibilities, with choices both ancient and new. We plant medicine and food, but they are only the implements with which we are rewriting future. I listen to farmers, their hands dyed red-brown with clay, telling me the right moon phases for planting, the ways to feed the soil without chemicals, their memories of these once forested slopes, talking about the ghosts of long dried up springs. I listen to women whose mothers bore all their children at home, whose grandmothers grew most of their food and knew which plants strengthened anemic bodies, drove out the chill from lungs damp with rain, eased laboring hearts. 8 I listen to the deep distrust of and desperate clinging to politicians and ask, what if? Another world is possible is a catchphrase, a slogan, a tee shirt, but it is also a prayer, a principle, an act of courage. It begins with that question, what if? It’s a question we ask in words, but it’s also a question asked by what we plant, whose stories we lift up, by filling an abandoned water tank with tilapia and challenging the seeming convenience of glyphosate. Hard pressed small farmers can’t afford to pay for manual labor to clear the land, and a collapsed rural economy has led to emigration, so there are labor shortages anyway. In the short run, it’s cheaper and easier to saturate the soil with herbicides that decimate the land and their bodies. What if we poured resources into the farming of food? Subsidized manual weed control? Paid good wages and taught the young to value this work? What if we practiced mulching, and went back to growing coffee and our many root crops in the weed-smothering shade of roble, pomarrosa, and

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guamá? What if we counted the cancer in the cost per pound and recalculated the price we pay? We ask what if by putting equipment, seeds, and land into the hands of rural women, and blocking the gates of a tiny public school slated for closure. Each morning I walk a route of interconnected paths through my barrio, where people sleep poorly, braced for earthquakes that still shake our homes daily, asking how did you sleep, how are you today, did you feel the one at 3 a.m., do you have water and lights, do you think it will rain today, any word on when the school will open again, handing bottles of donated tinctures over fences—this is for nerves and sleeplessness, this is for your daughter’s asthma, this is for the cough that won’t go away, this is for fear, building a network of fungal threads and rootlets, strengthening my local web, linking it to a sprawling continental fabric of interconnected life. The medicines I put in people’s hands come from herbalists all over the US, most of them women and genderqueer folks in the Western United States. Packages of tincture bottles and teas arrive every few days from people building their own community-based healthcare, local projects with expanded reach. Among them are many immune boosters, for people living outdoors in rainy season, and nervines and adaptogens for stress, which turn out to be far more necessary than we imagined. The ground is still shaking along the south coast as the pandemic, born of ecological devastation and globalized markets, arrives by cruise ship and jet plane. For nearly a month I struggle to breathe, make brews of marshmallow, elecampane, and mullein multiple times a day, drink teas of medicinal mushrooms, take immune boosting capsules of beta glucan and transfer factor, breathe eucalyptus steam, working hard to avoid a trip to a woefully understaffed and underfunded hospital. Again, I think of Anacaona, and the first epidemic to arrive from Europe, sweeping Borikén within weeks of the Spanish invasion: swine flu, from imported herds of pigs. So many of our doctors have left, and Trump has cut Medicaid for Puerto Rico by half. With massive job losses under the quarantine, popular protest has reopened public school lunchrooms so food can be distributed. As far worse food shortages loom, with supply chains breaking down in the US, which maintains a price-gouging monopoly on all shipping to my country, food security is critical. Social movements are demanding that the government reallocate nine billion dollars it has set aside to pay Wall Street and use it for the health and basic nutrition of our people. Magha García says, if we can’t eat, we can’t do anything else. Planting food is an act of resistance. I live, like all of us, between dreams of transformation and nightmares of violent extraction and cruelty fueled by greed, in a front line colony, on red earth alive with potential and targeted by Monsanto for total chemical-genetic control,

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with seeds modified so we can’t save them, but have to buy each year afresh, that spread sterility into the wild, and toxic Roundup killing biodiversity and sowing cancer cells; using every part of myself to enrich the chances that dream will overcome nightmare, starting right here, patting a guava seedling into place, planting bitter melon to fight the diabetes that leaves so many in this poorest of municipalities with amputated feet, gazing out toward the coasts from these heights from which my ancestors watched invaders come. That invasion, often overwhelming in its brutality, has continued for 528 years now, but like Anacaona, I refuse to lie down for it. Like her, I continue to find a thousand ways to ask the fundamental question of a poet in a field of ruins: what if? NOTES 1. The 2016 PROMESA Act installed a fiscal board of control that is empowered to control the Puerto Rican economy on behalf of Wall Street creditors, privatizing public resources to pay off manufactured debt. The colonized can’t owe money to the colonizers who have stolen their wealth. 2. Twentieth-century medical experiments conducted on Puerto Ricans include the following: In 1930 Dr. Cornelius P. Rhoades came to Puerto Rico to “study” anemia, injecting patients with cancerous cells and treating them with radiation to study the effects. In the 1960s, birth control pills were tested on Puerto Rican women, resulting in deaths. There were 171 experiments to test the toxicity of AIDS drugs, including 24 tests on children, carried out over nearly two decades. Children under four years old were given cocktails of seven drugs. In 1996 Dr. Gary G. Clark conducted experiments in which he released dengue-contaminated mosquitos in poor neighborhoods to study the speed of contagion. Monsanto products aspartame and Agent Orange were tested in Puerto Rico, the latter being sprayed on our forests. These are just a few of many examples. 3. US companies have been experimenting with genetically modified soy, corn, and cotton seeds in Puerto Rico since 1983. All of Monsanto’s GM cotton, soy, and corn seeds originate here. Chemicals used on its fields are making employees and neighbors sick. Iris Pellot, a former agronomist at Monsanto, became so sick handling unlabeled chemicals that she almost died, but Monsanto won’t reveal what chemicals she worked with. 4. In July 2019 the Puerto Rico Center for Investigative Journalism published nearly 889 pages of telegram messages between then governor Ricky Roselló and his close associates, filled with extremely misogynistic and homophobic comments, insults, and threats against female elected officials, and jokes about feeding the corpses of the hurricane dead to the “crows” meaning critics of his administration. Mass protests shut down the capital, with a peak of one million protesters on July 17. There was strong leadership from Colectivo Feminista en Formación, and artists, LGBTQ activists and community organizers, as well as many who had never taken part in political protests before. On July 24, Roselló was forced to resign. 5. https://www.facebook.com/maghabhayali/. 6. https://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/523/to-free-ourselves-we-must-feed-ourselves. 7. Penniman, Leah. 2018. Farming While Black, 316. White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing. 8. Pioneering herbalist and oral historian Maria Benedetti has written several books on Puerto Rican herbal medicine and farming traditions. https://www.amazon.com/Maria-Benedetti/e/ B07NSM2YJL/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1.

Chapter Eight

A Conversation with Stephanie Morningstar, Coordinator of the Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC) Land Trust Stephanie Morningstar and K. Melchor Quick Hall

On February 18, 2020, I recorded a conversation with Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC) Land Trust Coordinator Stephanie Morningstar, who was working collaboratively with Çaca Yvaire at the time of the interview. I joined NEFOC 1 after participating in activities at Soul Fire Farm, which is committed to ending racism and injustice in the food system. Soul Fire Farm is part of the NEFOC network, along with other farms, organizations, and individuals in the region. The network intends to confront issues of land theft and reparations. For that reason, it has been important to include and engage Indigenous communities, as well as the descendants of enslaved Africans. As an African American, I have welcomed the opportunity to pursue these intertwined and intersectional calls for justice. NEFOC is exploring ways to accomplish this through land trusts that could ensure that a particular plot of land would be shared among residents and used for a specific purpose. In that way, collective land stewardship and coalition justice are foregrounded. As a member of the NEFOC network, I wanted to bring the voice of someone from that community into this anthology. NEFOC embodies some of my highest aspirations for remapping the territory I occupy; for that reason, they were one of the first groups to come to mind when I thought about this collection. Morningstar is an Indigenous woman and scholar who agreed to share her thoughts related to the network and beyond. Our conversation was not a structured interview, but rather an open-ended and winding conversation, designed to allow a range of topics to be discussed. In the excerpts 97

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that follow, Morningstar shares information about her personal history, academic background, and work at the NEFOC Land Trust. These are not “official” statements of the NEFOC network. In order to organize the winding (i.e., nonlinear) conversation we had and conform to the structure of a chapter, I have inserted headings below. This (forced) structure is not really how the conversation unfolded; instead they are signposts inserted in a road already traveled to help guide visitors (i.e., readers). Morningstar reviewed and approved the interview excerpts included and the headings inserted. We both added references for readers who might need additional context for the issues raised. Although for some readers, the end of this chapter, which could have easily been the beginning, will seem abrupt, this particular chapter invites readers to greater engagement off the page. In addition to the possibility of direct engagement with the work of NEFOC, this conversation resulted in the exploration of ideas for other collaborations that may materialize in the future. —K. Melchor Quick Hall AN INTRODUCTION TO STEPHANIE MORNINGSTAR I’m a Haudenosaunee citizen. I’m of the Oneida Turtle Clan and I have embodied ecofeminism before I knew what it was, or ecowomanism was, because of my identity. It was interesting that there was a name for it because that’s traditionally who we are as people. It’s like the need to say the word “please” in some cultures is a word or a qualifier when there’s no actual word for “please,” because it’s just assumed that you’re going to be offering respect and gratitude anytime you ask anybody to do something. It’s definitely a cultural difference. And that’s not saying that I’m deeply, deeply traditional as a Haudenosaunee woman. I’m not. I wasn’t brought up traditional, but there are a lot of things about practical tradition, like growing up in the longhouse, that really transfer just by being who we are and embodying our culture. Just in the way that we live our lives, we pass our values down. So I’ve always been deeply committed to connection with the land. STUDYING GENDER “BACK IN THE DAY” When I went to the University of Buffalo way back in the day, my first time around going to school, I naturally gravitated to the women’s studies program because it just resonated with me. It resonated with women being natural leaders and centering women’s voices and things having to do with women, instead of men centering their own voices and making decisions for women. And then the complications around gender identities and gender norms started really coming up for me as a young person when I realized that culturally, we don’t have two specific genders, like gender identities, that we

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have sort of a spectrum of gender identities. Even though Haudenosaunee people don’t, historically, as far as is in the ethnographic record, I should say, have two spirit people in our communities, we definitely have two spirit people in our communities. The ethnographic record doesn’t pick up on that kind of thing. They’re only looking through a patriarchal white male lens. HAUDENOSAUNEE MATRILINEAL CULTURE All of these things started coming through for me and my work and it didn’t seem like there was a separation between being a feminist and being an ecological activist, or somebody dedicated to advancing land sovereignty; it just all is rolled into one thing for me in my roles and responsibilities as a Haudenosaunee citizen. We’re leaders in a decentralized way, the leaders of our communities. We are a matrilineal culture and were targeted specifically because of that, because of our female leadership and culture. It was a two-for-one to be able to target Indigenous women—Haudenosaunee women—who were (and are) not only in charge of leadership and in charge of putting up our chiefs and making decisions for our communities, but also we’re the bearers of life. Of course, you know colonizers be colonizin’ and that’s how they do it is to target women. But it was sort of an interesting overlap. Not only were they taking down leaders but they were taking down life bearers by disrupting us and the violence against us. They’re still doing it to this day, hence the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women’s movement. SOVEREIGN LANDS AND INDIGENOUS WOMEN: BEFORE ECOWOMANISM AND ECOFEMINISM And we can see this really manifesting now in lots of ways with the recognition of the violence against sovereign nations on these lands, whether it’s here, with the pipeline stuff that’s going on, in Stockbridge Munsee Mohican territory or right now obviously in the Wet’suwet’en pipeline thing (Brown and Bracken 2020). Pipelines lead directly to violence against women—two spirit and trans—so there’s just this deep, deep connection to colonization being this monster, this beast, that does nothing but destroy and consume and extract. That is exactly the opposite of the traditional roles of Indigenous women who are to create and give life and balance things. That’s kind of where I am, and this is seeing, not like seeing through the critiques of ecofeminism and ecowomanism; I feel like there’s a lot of that. But just really seeing through that lens of me as an Indigenous woman and not really even having to give a name to who I am or why I do what I do. It’s just who I am and what I do, but there’s a

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bunch of ancestors behind me, who have been paving that way for me and guiding me along this process every day, and in this conversation. CONNECTING TO THE NEFOC NETWORK It’s interesting because my work with the NEFOC network is in some ways far removed from the NEFOC network, in that I’m living in Haudenosaunee territory out here in Niagara, Ontario and Buffalo, New York, so I’m really at the far west edge of that catchment area, but I’m also the cocoordinator developing the land trust. And I think it makes sense that if somebody is going to be doing this work that it’s an Indigenous woman. I think, if anything, I’ve offered in this work some unique perspectives. And I don’t know anybody else’s perspective or what their priorities are, but I just know that it’s sort of re-situating myself in my community, in some ways, as the leaders that we’re meant to be. I’m not a clan mother or anything like that but it’s working with this land trust and picking up that responsibility to land sovereignty and to helping the land find balance. What I’m super blessed to be able to do is to get to know folks like you on a sort of individual, more intimate basis to hear what’s living in you about why you’re doing this work and the ways that you’re manifesting land and food and ecological sovereignty, in ways that we’re all coming together and kind of casting this net of liberation out across the northeast. Every one of those pieces is very unique and individual and intimate, in some ways, but together and collectively is so empowering. BLACK AND INDIGENOUS, TRANS AND QUEER SOLIDARITIES I really feel like there’s this cascade of momentum building in this world. And it’s because of these connections and because of these solidarities that we’re building between Black and Indigenous folks who have been pitted against one another for so long, and by welcoming in trans women into the community in some ways. These are all ways that have just been building and building and building as we sort of destroy this idea of heteronormativity and gender norms. I guess I’m only one voice in that network, and I actually wasn’t involved in the network until this position, just because I’ve been living in Ontario for so long. But I’m from western New York and I’m moving back to western New York. Whether I got the position or not, I was like, “I’m at least going to be a member of the NEFOC network.” But I’m so glad to actually be participating in this and seeing how land sovereignty, how this deep tie to our colonial past, is actually being able to be loosened a tiny bit and undone, in some ways, through the decolonial strategies of the land trust. For example, we’re

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infusing every single transaction of land with consultation of those Indigenous communities and centering the voices of those communities. And this all was initially envisioned by that network gathering that kind of built the concept of how the land trust would be. That’s why I was so drawn to it because I’m like, “Wow, there’s somebody actually out there doing it and they’re doing it in a way that isn’t alienating Indigenous communities.” CO-COORDINATING LAND TRUST WORK I really appreciate that both myself and Çaca are like this yin and yang kind of balance together. I mean, I’m a queer woman; I’m not gender binary whatsoever. I’m married to a man so I have that privilege, but I came from queer culture and I came from queerness and I still reside in that space. Having that aspect as well and balancing this work out with Çaca, who identifies as male and is a combination of Black ancestry as well as Indigenous ancestry, is really like we’re birthing this new world together and not just the two of us, everybody. BRAIDING SWEETGRASS AND BUILDING SOLUTIONS I just found out that Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer just hit the New York Times bestsellers list after 10 years. It’s like there’s something happening out there and folks are really starting to pick up on this message. And I think it’s because maybe the shit’s hitting the fan just a bit too much now and that’s why people are getting activated. I don’t know. I just know that it’s this work; it’s building and it’s becoming stronger and it’s because of a lot of our collective voices being shared together. I just was at NOFA Vermont (i.e., Northeast Organic Farming Association of Vermont) this weekend and I start off my workshops asking folks if they read Braiding Sweetgrass, mainly because I know most white people in ecological/environmental studies have, and there’s this deep connection to Braiding Sweetgrass. Everybody’s like, “Have you read Braiding Sweetgrass?” and there’s a tear in their eye. And I know a lot of really beautiful settlers who have actually carried that message in them for a long time, and really what activated them was reading that book. It’s this beautiful kind of sharing of culture and connections. So what we’re doing is sort of taking a lot of that work—whether intentionally or unintentionally—and moving it to the next phase, which is actually, “How can we re-situate the balance of power in this world in a way that won’t extract anything from it anymore and is regenerative and embodies all these values?” And that’s just one example from an Indigenous perspective.

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COMMUNITIES OF COLOR AND PAST TENSE-IFICATION Then we have the Global Indigenous/diasporic perspective that is so deeply important. Living on this land and having to literally fend for our lives and be in a state of constant survival has really driven a wedge between many of our communities of color. That’s been a big piece of the work right now, to really reunite our voices or unite our voices in general, because we’re more powerful together than we are separately. It reminds me of the Cherokee Seminole Union in the South and what we can do together. I come from this really strong desire to remove the past tense-ification of our people, in general, in our knowledge, whether it’s Indigenous knowledge of the northeast or Indigenous knowledge of Turtle Island or Global Indigenous/diasporic knowledge. There’s this tendency for this past tense-ification to happen, like we’re no longer here or something. AN HERBALIST’S PLANT MONOGRAPHS My other main role is I’m an herbalist. I’m really looking at re-writing my monographs. I write monographs about many different plants, whether they’re native to the US or native to the northeast or introduced from other places, and I was having a really hard time finding monographs that weren’t written by white people and that weren’t tertiary knowledge. That was where a lot of this started for me, in working together, and solidarity work, and through working with Black and Brown herbalists to really re-situate our voices in those monographic records. To me, a story or project like this is really interesting because, for example, we’re getting funding right now to build stories of our network so that we can have video ethnographies of the individual farmers. I’m thinking along these same lines of having Indigenous, Black, and Brown earth workers and land stewards and water protectors and land protectors tell their stories so that we can share those and build solidarity and build a vision and a voice. I’m just one person talking about what I’m passionate about and kind of rambling about that but I really do see the power in telling these stories and having the stories mainly told by the people themselves versus through somebody else’s lens or voice. INDIGENOUS CONSULTATION AND REPARATIONS BASED ON RELATIONSHIP AND RECIPROCITY The first thing that we needed to do (for the land trust) is to build an Indigenous consultation process. Coming from research, that’s the first thing you do is consult with the community that you’re going to enter, especially when it comes to land transactions. On top of that, we’re also administering the

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reparations map and the reparations map is a BIPOC (i.e., Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) reparations map. It’s not specific to Black folks who are the descendants of enslaved people. What are we repairing? And is this based on the policy of reparations? Is this based on a bill? Is this based on somebody’s specific definition of what reparations are? We had to really explore all those things in order not to alienate anybody. The whole point of this is to build relationships together. It’s not about going through the same transactional economy anymore. It’s about building a new economy and that economy is based on gift and it’s based on relationship and it’s based on reciprocity. Those are the big questions that live in this land trust that really set us apart, not just in the land trust, but in the network itself. We have these stories and these histories, and they’re shared and they’re intermingled and they’re complex. There’s lots of other ways that we’re trying to work toward helping Black farmers access the funding they need in order to be able to access land because that’s a real thing. We have to figure out new solutions that honor people’s sovereignty, but also honor that we have built this, that our ancestors’ blood and bones collectively built what is surrounding us right now. And we can’t ignore that enslaved peoples were brought here and we can’t ignore that there is something owed to the descendants of enslaved peoples or even Black folks in general, who are still to this day being colonized and still to this day marginalized. To me, it’s so real. Knowing and seeing the system and how it’s built against Black farmers through this work is something you can’t un-see. And, yes, it’s on oftentimes unceded territory (Wilson 2018), and that’s where the complications start. BUILDING RELATIONSHIPS ON INDIGENOUS LANDS Soul Fire Farm is a great example of how one group is actually doing it, trying every step of the way to be in right relationship and knowing their positionality in all of that. One of the things that they’re doing, if you haven’t heard about it through the network, is they’ve been building relationships with the Stockbridge Munsee Mohican, whose territory they’re on and they’ve had several dinners and meetings and conversations. Leah [Penniman] went out there last year and presented to them, to their governance. They’re happy that they’re on the land and they’re treating the land in a good way and they’re stewarding some seeds for them, so there’s that reciprocity that’s being built. I’m curious about action steps or something, just as we’re talking about this, for folks who are getting reparations on a specific piece of land, for us to connect in with that and say, “This is the territory you’re on, so now let’s start building relationship in this way as well.” Not mandating that by any means, but just opening up the conversation to it. Because this is the

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conversation I have with many Black folks who feel very unsure about how to proceed in this way. We’re always talking with “outsiders,” like white folks who want to help or want to learn, but we’re also having a lot of these conversations internally with our communities about how we can build solidarity with one another and heal with one another. That’s really what I’m hoping for the NEFOC network this year, is that we can get to that place. One of the things that we’re doing is starting regional network gatherings, instead of just one or two really big ones, so that we can get folks talking, even in regions, and meeting more often or at least meeting. For the 275+ members we have right now, we maybe only get about 30 to 40 people who show up at a meeting. That’s a lot of people who are still isolated, who are still not really able to share skills, who aren’t really working toward advancing policy or even just coming together. Yeah, there’s a lot. EVOLUTION OF WOMEN’S STUDIES During my first foray into women’s studies in the early 1990s to the early 2000s at the University of Buffalo, there was a lot of transphobia in the community and it still exists. It’s just that there wasn’t as much of a place for trans women. I hadn’t been in school for years and then I went back in 2015 and everything had changed. Oh my god! I had stopped learning! I don’t want to say I stopped learning. I embody my learning throughout my life, but my degree was based on one set of principles and really centering people like Mary Daly and Naomi Wolf and all these white feminists. I was like, “Where are all the Indigenous and Black voices in this work?” I took one course that was offered on feminists of color or something. That was where it was like Toni Morrison and bell hooks. It was one course! Otherwise, it was Elizabeth Cady Stanton and shit. And so, everything has really evolved and when I went back to school, I was like, “Wow!” This is the first time ever where I’ve actually been able to take courses like Indigenous feminisms. How much more aligned I felt with all of that versus kind of peering in from the inside out in a way. I was so happy that the gender binary was being examined and challenged. You know, systems keep getting examined further and further and everything is so fractal in that way. And I’m really interested to see where this project ends up. MOTHERING, MATRIARCHY, AND FUTURE CONVERSATIONS What is a mother and what is mothering? Matriarchy, for example, is not the same as patriarchy, looking at matriarchy as a way of leading that includes the concept of mothering on a large scale. There are so many rich conversations that can come out of this. I don’t know where you’re going with this or

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how it is going to manifest. I would love to be able to stay in contact about it. I think that part of it would be in an academic sense. Let’s get some panel conversations happening on this so we have many voices on the same panel with several different perspectives really sharing and learning from one another. Those spaces are safe(r) spaces. I’m not talking like, “Let’s talk to an audience full of white folks,” but spaces where we can just converse together and converge together may be one of the ways that we can do that. We’re coming up with a convergence of BIPOC land sovereignty activists, whether it’s land trust folks or food system folks, to just have conversations and learn about how we can build more solidarity with one another, and I really feel like this is one of those conversations. PERSONHOOD FOR WATER, LAND, PLANTS, AND POLLINATORS With NEFOC we’re not just doing land trust work. We’re also advancing personhood, because we’re looking at how we as human beings are going to adapt, and then realizing that we’re not alone in this, that there are many nonhuman beings that are also part of this, that are being extracted, and they’re the ones who really need protection and don’t have that voice, so we’re working on personhood as a method of conservation. We’re working on personhood for water and land, sacred sites, different foods, different animals, different plant relatives. There can be so much that comes out of this, and there are these little seeds being planted right now. These conversations are an iterative process in the academic sense, but holy hell, coming from the community building process and just looking at it through that perspective of just riffing off of one another, it is so beautiful. That’s what I love best is not just talking about it, but also taking those lessons and manifesting them into on-the-ground stuff. EMERGENT STRATEGY AND RICH INTERSECTIONS We’re basically basing everything we’re doing right now off of the emergent strategy framework (brown 2017) and partially at least we’re working with AORTA (Anti-Oppression Resource and Training Alliance) collective. 2 There’s a lot of rich intersections happening. I know that, for me, what I need is to be able to tell the stories of our community, but I can’t do it myself, even though I’m an ethnographer and that’s my passion. This is my full-time job and I just don’t have a lot of time for editing and stuff like that, so I’m writing a grant right now to get some funding for some media support and we’re starting to really build projects, along with academic institutions so that we can leverage research.

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STILL AN ACADEMIC I’m still an academic. I still am doing research. I’m doing community-based food sovereignty research on this side of the border in Canada, through a grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council. I work with Indigenous communities to build research questions and proposals and then we submit them. Everything is Indigenous-led, Indigenous-driven, and I teach about that to white researchers who want to work with Indigenous communities, so it’s really teaching them what co-creative research looks like. REFERENCES brown, adrienne maree. 2017. Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds. Chico, CA: AK Press. Brown, Alleen, and Amber Bracken. 2020. “No Surrender: After Police Defend a Gas Pipeline Over Indigenous Land Rights, Protesters Shut Down Railways Across Canada.” The Intercept February 23, 2020. https://theintercept.com/2020/02/23/wetsuweten-protest-coastalgaslink-pipeline/. Wilson, Kory. 2018. “Acknowledging Traditional Territories.” In Pulling Together: Foundations Guide. BCcampus. https://opentextbc.ca/indigenizationfoundations/chapter/ acknowledging-traditional-territories/#:~:text=Unceded%20means%20that%20First %20Nations,ancestors%20traditionally%20occupied%20and%20used.

NOTES 1. See https://nefoclandtrust.org/. 2. See http://aorta.coop/.

Chapter Nine

Ecofeminism as Intersectional Pedagogy and Practice Tatyana Bakhmetyeva

As the climate crisis intensifies and scientists predict “untold suffering” in the near future, as coastal cities flood and the number of climate refugees may reach one billion by 2050, our responsibility as teachers is both to educate students about the unfolding crisis and to help them develop socially engaged responses to it. Teaching ecofeminism—and using an ecofeminist lens in teaching gender and environment-focused courses—is a way to meet both these goals insofar as ecofeminism is both a theory that exposes the link between modern cultural constructions of nature, gender, and environmental degradation and a practice that introduces students to a variety of activist strategies that ecofeminists have employed in their struggles against such degradation. No less importantly, teaching ecofeminism has the potential to help instructors reimagine environmental education within academia (Pierson and Timmerman 2017) and thus reimagine our entire approach to such pressing environmental issues as pollution, species extinction, habitat destruction, and many others. In searching for ways to slow down or ameliorate these problems, Western societies (I use “Western” to refer to a set of cultural norms, values, traditions, systems, and beliefs that originated in Europe and have been adopted by white colonial settlers of the Americas) have traditionally relied on technological and scientific solutions. This reliance is reflected in academic environmental studies and sustainability programs that tend to be staffed by scientists and engineers and housed within STEM departments. But these programs, and the general search for solutions, often exclude the voices and expertise of scholars from the humanities and humanistic social studies. In their own search for solutions, humanists rightly point out that our 107

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modern environmental crisis stems from a Western idea of nature shaped largely by Judeo-Christian injunctions to dominate and exploit, as well as a Western scientific paradigm that also emphasizes a utilitarian stance in relation to nature and relies on approaches that express a belief that “scientific knowledge means technological power over nature” (Lynn White 1967, 1205, Plumwood 1993 and 2002). Such a position tends to be explicitly masculinist in its emphasis on efficiency, production, computation, competition, and hierarchy, and it is usually combined with a rejection of traditional and Indigenous knowledge and female experience (Merchant 1980 and 1996). This modern “scientific episteme” has been criticized by ecologists for “its mechanistic treatment of the natural world as mere ‘dead matter’ devoid of intrinsic value or worth, as a sphere that must be subjected to quantification and manipulation for the sole purpose of satisfying unlimited human wants” (Gardiner 1993, 780). Given such formative paradigms, modern technological and scientific innovations and solutions will continue to fall short, humanists argue, if Western societies do not change our way of thinking about nature and embrace alternative, including non-Western, visions of the human relationship to the natural world and our place in it (Latour 2004 and 2018, Morton 2018, Purdy 2018). An intersectional ecofeminism is strongly positioned to contribute to these alternative visions. While exposing the effects of Western ideas about nature on women, Indigenous communities, and the environment, ecofeminism simultaneously highlights Indigenous, traditional, and female knowledge and alternative ecological practices and ways of thinking about nature. Furthermore and no less importantly, ecofeminist theorists have increasingly made animal rights an axis of intersectional struggle, encouraging our environmentalist discourse to shift away from the “pervasiveness of anthropocentric tendencies [that] devalue and/or ignore more-than-human voices/concerns,” these tendencies being yet another byproduct of a Judeo-Christian ecological framework that contributes to environmental destruction (Pierson and Timmerman 2017, 15). Ecofeminism first emerged alongside second wave feminism and the green movement (Chen 2014), and quickly came to be understood by many feminist scholars as essentialist—and thus anti-feminist—given its perceived uncritical acceptance of an inherent closeness of women to nature. Critics expressed concerns that this form of ecofeminism not only essentialized women, but also denied men ecological sensitivities and absolved them of environmental responsibilities. Ecofeminists and other activists who employ maternalism or who emphasize female bodies politically came to be criticized for “a very simplistic portrayal of women’s empowerment as a process that rarely involves consciousness-raising or a self-reflective political stance” (MacGregor 2004, 69) and for being “emotionally motivated” and thus unable to locate their resistance “within a sociopolitical context” (Longsdon-

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Conradsen 2011, 10). Furthermore, as critics also frequently noted, ecofeminist theory and practice might appear exclusionary given their reliance on images that not only evoke biological femininity and maternalism but also often prioritize the ecological concerns of the white middle class. This critique, however, disregards the complexity of a vast body of theoretical work that employs a variety of perspectives in thinking about the connection and relationship between women and environment (Gaard 2001). These include Marxist, social, socialist, material, intersectional, and global perspectives that neither rely on nor actively reject essentialist imagery and rhetoric. Furthermore, the labeling of all imagery and rhetoric that evokes maternalism or embraces cultural femininity as essentialist and thus antifeminist leads to the silencing of those who see essentialism as a successful ecofeminist activist political strategy (Carlassare 1993, Mann 2006), often deployed performatively and purposefully. What results from these criticisms is a dismissal of ecofeminism as an effective form of political resistance and contempt for women’s environmental activism (Moore 2008, 282). Left unaddressed, such dismissive views may complicate the use of ecofeminism in a classroom. But ecofeminism can be intersectional if scholars stress that it seeks, both in theory and practice, to expose the connection between capitalist exploitation, the degradation of nature, and the subordination and domination of women and people of color (Sturgeon 1997). In short, ecofeminism becomes explicitly intersectional if—and when—it situates itself firmly within an environmental justice framework. And that is not difficult for, as Jeannie Ludlow (2010) reminds us, “important ecofeminist concerns include the relationship of patriarchal domination to the pollution and domination of the earth’s resources; the ways gender, race, class, and sexuality shape human constructions of nature and interactions with the environment; and the ways feminist activist strategies can be used to reduce human impact on the environment” (n.p.). TEACHING ECOFEMINIST COURSES: CONCEPTS AND OBJECTIVES It is this intersectional potential of ecofeminism broadly conceived that I explore in my course, The Politics of Nature: Race, Gender, and Environment, offered through the University of Rochester’s Susan B. Anthony Institute for Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies and cross-listed with our African and African-American Studies and Environmental Humanities programs. What I mean by “broadly conceived” is a pedagogical position that sees ecofeminism as a theoretical lens that exposes not only the link between the abuse and exploitation of female bodies (especially marginalized ones)

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and the abuse and exploitation of nature, but also, more generally, the gendered character of the idea of nature that creates and sustains this link. Let me quickly outline the concept of nature and sketch out some of the most important points that I want students to understand in this course: 1. Nature is a social construct not unlike those of race and gender. Although there is an undeniable physical reality to nature—mountains, trees, rivers, oceans, weather, and the like—these physical manifestations do not have meaning aside from that superimposed on them by human beings. The understanding of a mountain as something strong and solid, for example, is a cultural one. Similar to other cultural constructs, the idea of nature is imbued with and reflects the dominant power relationships and social arrangements of the society that produced that idea. That is, ideas of nature are historically dependent and context specific (Williams 1980). 2. The Western idea of nature overlaps with the idea of wilderness, which is also a human creation that in its present form emerged in the nineteenth century. Developed by white romantic writers and philosophers as God’s temple, wilderness (and, by extension, nature) was conceived as existing apart from human society but also as a source of authentic experience, regenerative energy, and true emotions. This nineteenth-century idea replaced earlier ones, such as the Biblical vision of wilderness as a place of temptation and a source of chaos. Furthermore, this idea of wilderness was also closely connected to the notion of the American frontier as the source of American democracy and a defining element of the American national character. As Frederick Jackson Turner famously said, “American democracy was born of no theorist’s dream; it was not carried in the Susan Constant to Virginia, nor in the Mayflower to Plymouth. It came out of the American forest, and it gained new strength each time it touched a new frontier” (Turner 1920, 293). Turner’s focus on the significance of the frontier in American culture, however, happened just as it was disappearing. This created a cultural void soon filled by the idea of wilderness as a source of character building through conquest and colonization (Cronon 1996). 3. These ideas of wilderness and nature are not neutral; they are highly gendered and racialized. Imagined by white romantic writers as nature without people, wilderness was only possible if its Native American inhabitants were removed: relocated, exterminated, or placed back in nature as savages in need of being civilized (Spencer 2000). This process of naturalizing continued with other groups, as nineteenthcentury scientists came to see women in general as closer to nature because of their reproductive capacity (and as nature in turn was femi-

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nized), while people of color were interpreted by Social Darwinism and other pseudo-scientific projects as existing in a lower evolutionary stage, closer to their “natural” (understood as uncivilized) state (Schiebinger 1993). Although the colonizers removed other groups from nature or identified them with it, going into the wilderness, into nature, became a way for white men to establish, prove, or recover their masculinity, turning wilderness/nature into a white man’s playground and a site for reproduction of hegemonic forms of masculinity (Kimmel 2018). 4. These white male cultural interpretations of nature lead to several related problems: • women in general, but especially women of color, may feel excluded from the natural world due to the historical legacy that excludes them from the wilderness narrative; • the connection between this idea of nature and American national identity, as articulated by Frederick Jackson Turner, leads to the exclusion of white women and people of color from contributing to the idea of national identity or being considered part of it; • prioritizing wilderness in modern discourse about nature and environment and seeing it as something apart from the human world results in a selective environmentalism according to which only wilderness is worth protecting while the (often urban) places where we actually live, work, and play are considered “unnatural” and thus beneath environmental concern. COURSE READINGS I explore these concepts as starting points for students to understand the connection between modern Western racialized and gendered ideas of nature and the on-going degradation of the environment. I include the work of ecofeminist writers such as Greta Gaard (2001, 1998, 1993), Carolyn Merchant (1980, 1996), Maria Mies (2014), Vandana Shiva (1985, 1989, 1990, 1993, 2014), Catriona Mortimer-Sandilands (2008), Noël Sturgeon (1997), as well as William Cronon’s (1996) influential historical essay, “The Trouble with Wilderness or Getting Back to the Wrong Nature.” This essay helps students see that the cultural construct of nature is not unlike those of race and gender as it is laced with ideas about power and subjugation. But the idea of nature is also instrumental in maintaining the categories of race and gender, given that it is predicated on creating hierarchies of identity narratives based on positions of various groups in relation to nature.

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After this introductory discussion, the course investigates Western concepts of nature and environment through the prism of intersectional ecofeminism. We read Carolyn Finney’s (2014) Black Faces, White Spaces: Reimagining the Relationship of African Americans to the Great Outdoors, Elizabeth Blum’s (2002) “Power, Danger, and Control: Slave Women’s Perceptions of Wilderness in the Nineteenth Century,” Mark David Spence’s (2000) Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of National Parks, and Londa Schiebinger’s (1993) Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science—all books and articles that explore both the process and the consequences of a continuous racializing and gendering of nature that leads to certain groups of people either being denied access to nature or located in nature in a way that facilitates their subjugation. An ecofeminist lens is also useful when studying the history of the US environmental movement, with its long focus on protecting wilderness and its consequent inattentiveness to the environmental problems of urban and marginalized communities. In this unit, students study the contributions of such female environmentalists such as Rachel Carson (1962) and Lois Gibbs (Blum 2002) as precursors of ecofeminism who both anticipated and informed ecofeminist theory and practice. Lois Gibbs, in particular, is clearly aligned with ecofeminist thinking in her maternalist language and strategies, and she has also been instrumental in raising awareness about the vulnerability of working-class communities in the face of environmental degradation, emerging as a powerful voice in the early environmental justice movement (Natale 2017). The story of Lois Gibbs, as told by Elizabeth Blum (2002), invites students to reflect on the effectiveness and applicability of maternalism and white ecofeminism to the environmental efforts of communities of color where female bodies and motherhood are construed by the dominant colonial narrative in even more naturalist terms and frequently dismissed as oversexualized and irrational— more so than white female bodies. Following this, I introduce the concept of ecowomanism through a series of readings on Black women’s standpoints and the need for intersectionality in environmental movements (Cain 2016, Harris 2016, Nixon 2015). In addition, Beyoncé’s “Formation,” a visual and textual narrative, helps students see the link between environmental disaster, housing issues, and police brutality as they apply to communities of color. This music video opens with the question, “What Happened in New Orleans?” as images of the flooded city are followed by those of abandoned houses and police cars sinking under the weight of a Black female body, making a powerful argument about environmental racism as yet another form of persistent systemic discrimination and violence, but also about the role of Black bodies in radical politics as not so much essentialist but essential. 1

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EXPERIENTIAL AND COMMUNITY-BASED LEARNING Ecofeminism is a potent theoretical tool for introducing students to the interconnectedness of racism, sexism, and environmental destruction and degradation. Also, an ecofeminist classroom offers ample opportunities for experiential and community-based learning, important pedagogical practices as universities make it part of their missions to foster students’ growth as active citizens and creative problem solvers. In stressing this goal, universities respond to pressure from both local and national communities as well as students themselves. And while universities, true to their neoliberal mission, often approach civic education and experiential and community-based learning in a utilitarian way, recognizing that such forms of learning might improve student academic performance and assure better knowledge transfer (Ludlow 2010, Ryan 1988), feminist instructors see them as holistic expressions of feminist pedagogy. They recognize that “in its best constructions curriculum mimics natural forms of learning through experiential learning” (Baptist 2002, 24) as it invites instructors to disrupt the hierarchy of traditional knowledge production that often “objectifies both knowledge and learners” (Baptist 2002, 35). In my course, such disruptions occur when I move the classroom outdoors, to parks, urban gardens, cemeteries, former toxic sites, and other places that I explicitly identify to my students as alternative classroom locations. I view these shifts to off-campus locations as a purposeful attempt to embody ecofeminist theories and to disrupt the inherent hierarchy of the traditional classroom and thus create a more feminist liberatory learning space where “members learn to respect each other’s differences rather than fear them,” where we “connect to our roots, our past, and to envision the future,” creating a “web of interrelationships . . . [that] stretche[s] to the local, regional, and global communities” (Shrewsbury 1987, 6). Such a classroom is built, Carolyn Shrewsbury stresses, “on the experiences of the participants,” experiences that sometimes need to be created first, and then compared, discussed, and interpreted through new theoretical lenses or from the position of new evidence. No less important is the fact that being outdoors in nature (whether hiking or working in urban gardens) fulfills the need for self-care, particularly acute in courses that consistently focus on topics of destruction and loss. In my course, nature functions simultaneously as a classroom and as a place of healing for students who frequently express sadness or anger as they listen to personal narratives or see images of environmental degradation. Because the course is cross listed with African and African American Studies and the Environmental Humanities and Sustainability programs, it attracts a diverse group of students, many of whom are from Asia, Africa, and Latin America. They contribute their own stories of the neocolonial exploitation of their

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homelands. The sense of hopelessness or anger frequently triggered by these narratives can be pervasive and paralyzing. In such circumstances, self-care emerges both as an important teaching strategy and as an important political act when we see it as Audre Lorde described it in her epilogue to A Burst of Life, a book she wrote after she had been diagnosed with cancer for a second time. “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence,” she wrote. “It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare” (Lorde 2017, 130). Lorde’s statement helps one see self-care not as a neoliberal substitute for social care or as an individualist pursuit, but as an act of preserving oneself in a world that is hostile to one’s identity, one’s way of life, and one’s community (Lloro-Bidart and Semenko 2017, Martin, Myers and Viseu 2015, Mountz et al. 2015) for the purposes of changing the world. As Sara Ahmed (2014) reminds us, “In queer, feminist and anti-racist work self-care is about the creation of community, fragile communities, assembled out of the experience of being shattered. We reassemble ourselves through the ordinary, everyday and often painstaking work of looking after ourselves; looking after each other” (quoted in Lloro-Bidart and Semenko 2017, 18). That is, feminist self-care is a way of being that emphasizes sharing and practicing strategies of support, resilience, recovery, and transformation, but also accountability. Informed by these insights about experiential and community-based learning, I structure that part of my course around several kinds of activities, discussed briefly below. Direct Experience of Nature through Hiking and Walking These activities seek to recover the agency of the natural world by including nature in class dialogues where it is seen not as an idea but as existing independently and authentically, a partner in learning, a subject and a teacher, as it encourages moments of self-reflection and self-discovery. As Pierson and Timmerman (2017) remind us, “Dialogue is . . . an important tool to . . . disrupt the patriarchal discourse within education that continues to background the voices and experiences of both women and the more-than-human world” (13). During class hikes, as we walk, sometimes in silence, we are not discussing nature; we are experiencing and listening to it instead. Furthermore, as I take students hiking, I emphasize that I see it as an ecofeminist act of invading and disrupting spaces historically reserved to reproduce and hone white masculinity. In preparation for our hikes, we read several short articles in which women of color and queer walkers describe an experience of hiking that combines both the feeling of discomfort at being outdoors in places that are often marked in a specifically gendered and racialized way and the sense of empowerment they gain in the process (see e.g., Wesely and Gaarder 2004).

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Recognizing that self-reflection is a powerful teaching technique that has potential to generate higher-level knowledge through students’ analyses of their experiences, I ask my students to compare their experience of nature hikes to those described in the readings. In class, we discuss how it feels to be a woman/a queer person/an Asian or a Black person on hiking trails in the Adirondacks or in Letchworth State Park, where trails often pass houses with Confederate flags that mark outdoor spaces in a way that feels threatening and unwelcoming to students, especially students of color. But many students also talk about the exhilarating and empowering physicality of the experience of our eight-hour climb to the top of Algonquin Peak. To underscore how people’s racial and ethnic backgrounds shape our relationships with nature, in fall 2019 our hike in Letchworth State Park was co-organized and led by Inclusive Woods and Us: Equitable Access to Outdoors Education and Experience and included a group of city kids with their parents. 2 The founding director of this organization, Lucienne Nicholson, also became a co-instructor in the course. Community-Based Work at Urban Sites and with Urban Farmers Through course materials (e.g., Monica White 2011) and interactions with urban farmers, students develop a view of Rochester’s urban farms as important environmental sites. They learn to see the work of female urban farmers as aligned with ecofeminist/womanist political activism insofar as these women seek to revitalize their communities and address issues of food justice, land ownership, and lack of urban green spaces while practicing both an “inwardly focused resistance that produces creative and productive spaces in the neighborhood” and an outwardly focused “resistance against capitalism, corporatism of the food system, and agribusiness and its use of environmentally unsustainable food production practices” (White 2011, 24). Students’ work in urban gardens is part of “a curriculum that honors the senses, that engages our bodies; and a curriculum that connects to ourselves, our communities and to the earth” (Baptist 2002, 20). It may also satisfy “a post-millennium longing for connectiveness.” Such a curriculum contributes to the process of creating a feminist classroom, one committed “to growth, to renewal, to life” (Shrewsbury 1987, 7), the very model of a garden. As Karen Wilson Baptist (2002) eloquently describes it, The lived experience of the person within both curriculum and garden are a synthesis of orchestrated and phenomenological experience. The garden and the curriculum employ a common interpretive stance by referencing the artistry of creation within an aesthetic of experience. . . . Gardens, like curriculum, can be rigorously planned, plucked and nurtured, leaving as little as possible to happenstance; alternatively, they can be wild, left completely to nature. The

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garden and curriculum invite participation through physical movement, intellectual engagement and creative imagination. (20)

Bringing students to urban gardens unleashes this metaphoric potential of gardens as sites that mimic and manifest what we hope happens in the classroom (nurturing and growth, the bearing of fruit, careful mapping of learning objectives, and spontaneous discovery of ideas) while realizing the need for an “ecology of interrelatedness and connected thoughts, spaces, activities and symbols” (Francis and Hester 1995, 2). In my course, these rather lofty goals are met by frequently shifting the classroom to local urban gardens and, conversely, by inviting gardeners into the classroom, creating an environment where, as in a garden, “all elements are considered equally essential to the overall success” (Baptist 2002, 23). Thus, this community-engaged element realizes yet another vision of an ecofeminist classroom, one based on the principles of participatory democratic process where “at least some power is shared” (Shrewsbury 1987, 7) with community members who determine learning objectives and design assignments that contribute to the growth of the community while also promoting student learning. More specifically, students work closely with urban farmers from the Taproot Collective on assignments that are designed by partners from that organization and that advance the organization’s mission. 3 For example, over the course of several semesters, students have developed an interactive digital farm that allows farm visitors to scan QR codes for information about plants and relevant recipes from local community members. Another group of students spent a semester creating an educational brochure about composting and designing a compost bin for the farm to be installed by Engineers Without Borders. 4 I also hope that students’ work with urban farms (whether limited to completing the assignments mentioned above or working alongside local community members, digging, planting, watering, weeding, harvesting— activities that many students chose to embrace while in the course) introduces them to an ethics of care, what Russell and Bell (1996) called a “politicized ethic of care” in environmental education. This approach emphasizes that in addition to learning about the environment students should also have opportunities to develop care for and relationships with the environment (Schindel and Tolbert 2017), an important element of a classroom that seeks to bring together ecofeminist theories and practices. Ecofeminist Activism In fall 2019, my class participated in the University of Rochester Humanities Project, Artists as Community Interlocutors and Art as a Social Practice: Embodied Eco/Feminism and Spatial Politics. Funded by a Humanities Cen-

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ter grant, the project brought to campus the celebrated Polish ecofeminist artist Cecylia Malik. One of her recent performances, Polish Mothers on Stumps (the central performative element is women breastfeeding children on the stumps of logged trees), inspired a nationwide ecological campaign against the destruction of urban green spaces. Another of her works, Sisters Rivers, is a project that aims to protect Polish rivers and preserve their natural wild state. By inviting Malik to share her work with my students I hoped that they would see her use of female bodies (often dressed in costumes evocative of nature forms or animals) as a radically disruptive strategy that both imagines post-capitalist/neoliberal and post-anthropocentric public spaces and deploys these spaces as sites of struggle over the meanings of woman, motherhood, and the female body. In Polish Mothers, for example, Malik reimagines motherhood—and with it, female bodies in general—as public, performative, vocal, unsettling, and political, thus rendering them unsuitable for the ideological reproduction of femininity in the context of conservative politics (Bakhmetyeva 2021). The Humanities Project consisted of several elements. In the context of my course, Cecylia Malik discussed her work as an environmental artist/ activist and led a workshop/performance/protest, based on Sisters Rivers, that focused on raising awareness about the protection of rivers and preserving their natural flowing state. 5 Under Malik’s guidance, students selected rivers important to them, talked about them to each other, painted signs representing the rivers, and marched together to the bank of the Genesee River where Malik took photographs of the group protest that was later added to her digital installation. Also, Malik designed an open workshop/performance for the wider university community based on her earlier work, Bialka’s Braids. 6 For this project, participants were invited to create an installation by braiding bluecolored pieces of fabric into long braids, representing local rivers, mixing traditional feminine imagery with the message of environmental protection. Before introducing these workshops in the classroom, my anticipated learning outcomes for students were to increase their: 1. Understanding of ecofeminist theory; 2. Understanding of ecofeminism as a social movement; 3. Understanding of the issues of social and environmental justice and developing strategies for creative action and response; 4. Knowledge of other cultures and diverse points of view; 5. Critical skills; and 6. Communal cohesion.

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Student testimonies, which they gave me permission to use in this chapter, suggest that most of these objectives were met. Indeed, many students commented on their increased understanding of what ecofeminism is and interest in engaging in ecofeminist-based activism. Most students also came to see the use of traditional feminine imagery as a radical strategy that, through making female bodies public and performative, challenged their essentialist interpretation and turned them into sites to interrogate the meaning of femininity. Victoire, for example, noted: “The thing that resonated most with me in the workshop [was] that [Malik] used activities that are deemed to be feminine and reclaimed them as tools for activism.” Liana commented similarly, while discussing Malik’s breastfeeding mothers’ performance: “The mothers . . . call attention to the fact that a woman is sitting in a forest, which is a man’s space, confidently and purposefully.” These reflections suggest that students who participated in Malik’s workshops, performances, and installations understood her purposeful, deliberate, and powerful use of female bodies to disrupt the masculine narrative of nature and to expose that narrative as a source of ongoing ecological destruction. Edan summarized it perfectly: “Her project brings motherhood and breastfeeding, which are regarded as incredibly feminine acts, into natural spaces, challenging the narrative that femininity belongs in the home, while masculinity belongs outside and in nature. While this project does seem to support the cultural ecofeminist view that women are inherently mothers and this act of motherhood is what ties them to nature, I believe that the usage of breastfeeding blurs the gendered aspect of nature by placing a private, culturally feminine act into a public, male dominated domain.” Although some students talked about femininity in a general sense, without acknowledging its intersectional dimensions, others—particularly female students of color—saw the intersectional potential of Malik’s work as they turned to their own experiences of nature and environmental degradation. Thandie reflected, This week was very informative for me. My initial reaction to the artist was that her work was cool but I honestly wasn’t sure if I would be able to connect with her work. It wasn’t until I was actively painting and thinking about the river and what it means to me that I actually began to feel a connection to it. I think being from an African country I never felt the need to go out into nature and experience it or protect it. I always assumed that because I am African and my surroundings tend not to be as urbanized as those of the western world, I was automatically better and more connected to nature. The artist really gave me a different experience when it came to understanding and enjoying nature. Both exhibits by the artist made me feel a lot more comfortable with nature and helped me see it as something not to be feared for what it often represents. Being at the Genesee [the local river], taking those pictures made me feel a responsibility for how nature is treated and experienced. To be completely

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honest, I don’t put in as much effort into being sustainable and careful with nature, rivers and everything else but recently the classes I’ve been taking are exposing me to the feeling of personal responsibility for my environment and more specifically my place in the environment.

Others saw the decolonizing potential of this ecofeminist performance/ protest. Becca commented, This week of class was really impactful for me. . . . When we were walking around campus, holding signs that represented different rivers that meant something to us, it made my heart leap into my throat. My campus, which has long lagged in creating and fostering an environment in which sustainability is at the forefront of any campaign, had students protesting the misuse of river valleys! I got to create a sign that was to celebrate the renaming of the Genesee, which in the language of the Indigenous Haudenosaunee nation was known as Cassonchiagon. . . . I loved that I could be the person to hold that sign and in a way, reclaim the Genesee for the people who had come long before the colonists. . . . In sum, what I learned from the visiting artist was that any person, so long as they know how to make something that connects with people, can create something that will create an impact, and hopefully, spark the next revolution.

Kimberly added: It was an amazing experience that I am so grateful for and she taught us so much about what it means to be an ecofeminist activist. . . . I think the most important thing that Malik said when she discussed this project was, “the rivers are invisible.” This statement really emphasizes connection between women and nature because both are often overlooked, simply thought to be resources to be taken advantage of. The river that I painted on my board is an important part of community life but overlooked by their government. I wrote “Rio Telica” on my board. This is a very small river in Telica, Nicaragua, which I have visited twice and I have developed relationships with its community members. Telica is a very poor town and its people work very hard. The river was always a source of escape from reality for them. . . . This river was so vital to the people of Telica, but their government refused to take care of it and because of this they risked their health, simply to enjoy nature. Something needs to be done but because of the low socioeconomic status of this community, it has been ignored.

These reflections suggest that not only did the students feel inspired and empowered in their activist aspirations with new ways and strategies to engage in the environmental movement, they also saw the intersectional potential of Malik’s work. Although Malik comes from Poland, a largely racially homogenous society, the students, informed by prior ecofeminist and ecowomanist readings, were able to expand her vision of ecofeminist protests beyond that specific and somewhat limited cultural context and identify the

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elements of her work that promised an inclusive and equitable environmental future for us all. Although one can argue that my students’ work with Cecylia Malik was a unique and perhaps a one-off experience that would be impossible to replicate in other academic settings, this learning moment demonstrates the importance of bringing students in environmental-focused courses into direct contact with ecofeminist activists. Such encounters have a potentially lifechanging effect on students, demonstrating to them the power of grassroots movements. CONCLUSION Although this discussion stresses the powerful effects of these hands-on, direct, and participatory activities on students, I have to add that they had a profound effect on me as a teacher. Although I believe in the power of experiential learning, I often find myself reluctant to explore it to its full capacity in my classes. Why? Despite my best resistance to the neoliberal rhetoric that permeates higher education in the United States, framed through the lens of consumer and product-offering relationships, it inevitably affects my teaching, especially as our university increases its push for data-driven outcome assessment. As I design course syllabi, I am plagued by questions of what useful and marketable skills students will learn in my classes. In that context, experiential learning (e.g., nature walks, painting river signs, and working in urban gardens) seems ineffective in its use of time (time discipline being, of course, central to the capitalist mode of production), not immediately translatable into skills that can be logged into an assessment report, and evocative of simpler play-like pleasures and tasks inappropriate for college-age students who, after all, are being trained to enter the modern market economy. In short, I am worried that I fail in offering my “consumers” a “product” worth paying for. In fact, on several occasions in earlier iterations of this course, a few students expressed similar skepticism and wondered why we spent so much of our “valuable” (in tuition dollars) class time engaged in what seemed like infantile activities: talking about plants and digging dirt. Both these skeptical voices—and the enthusiastic ones that I quoted earlier— taught me several things: an explicitly feminist classroom goes beyond reading feminist texts and creating a safe, inclusive, and diverse environment where students can discuss these texts. It is a classroom where not only concepts central to the class topic are interrogated and redefined, but also the methods we use to interrogate them. Time, efficiency and effectiveness, productivity, and the meaning of learning itself all need to be questioned and unpacked as constructs similar to those discussed above (e.g., nature and motherhood). This challenge requires some boldness on the part of the instructor, whose actions are often

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scrutinized by the administration and by students. But the process became less daunting for me when I invited students to be active participants in it. As my students defined the concepts and methods to be interrogated, reflected on the changes that happened in their understanding of these concepts and methods, and developed new definitions of them, my misgivings subsided and I became more comfortable, as a teacher, in disrupting the traditional classroom and challenging traditional methods of instruction. I came to realize that teaching ecofeminism may offer powerful tools in meeting these goals of a feminist classroom. Above all, teaching ecofeminism promises to manifest the vision of a feminist classroom “as a liberatory environment in which the teacher-student and student-teacher act as subjects, not objects” (Shrewsbury 1987, 6). It can fully realize the potential of feminist pedagogy as engaged teaching/learning, engaged with self in a continuing reflective process; engaged actively with the material being studied; engaged with others in a struggle to get beyond our sexism and racism and classicism and homophobia and other destructive hatreds and to work together to enhance our knowledge; engaged with the community, with traditional organizations, and with movements for social change (Shrewsbury 1987, 6). Teaching ecofeminism helps instructors to reimagine environmental education in academia and helps us, as citizens, begin to reimagine a modern vision of nature and our place in it. It can do both (as the teaching framework that I describe here suggests) by inviting students to question something that is deeply familiar to them—nature—and view it not as something stable (and natural) but as a construct that is loaded with deep cultural and political meanings and interpretations that shape our attitudes to it and contribute to our current environmental crisis. Ecofeminist ethics, activism, and lifestyle encourage students to enter theoretical discussions and also physical spaces, reshaping both through critical reflection and analysis, where the physicality of experiential learning is a form of both engaged theory and social activism. REFERENCES Ahmed, Sara. 2014. “Selfcare as Warfare.” Feminstkilljoys. August 25, 2014. https://feministkilljoys.com/2014/08/25/selfcare-as-warfare/. Bakhmetyeva, Tatyana. 2021 forthcoming. “Ecofeminism and the Carnivalesque: The Art of Cecylia Malik and the Spatial Politics of Women’s Environmental Activism.” Feminist Formations 33, no. 2. Baptist, Karen Wilson. 2002. “The Garden as Metaphor for Curriculum.” Teacher Education Quarterly 29, no. 4: 19–37. Blum, Elizabeth D. 2002. “Power, Danger, and Control: Slave Women’s Perceptions of Wilderness in the Nineteenth Century.” Women’s Studies 31, no. 2: 247–65. Cain, Cacildia. 2016. “The Necessity of Black Women’s Standpoint and Intersectionality in Environmental Movements.” Black Feminist Thought (blog). Medium. April 14, 2016.

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https://medium.com/black-feminist-thought-2016/the-necessity-of-black-women-s-standpoint-and-intersectionality-in-environmental-movements-fc52d4277616. Carlassare, E. 1993. “Essentialism in Ecofeminist Discourse.” In Ecology: Key Concepts in Critical Theory, edited by Carolyn Merchant, 220–34. Amherst, NY: Humanity Books. Carson, Rachel. 1962. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Chen, Ling. 2014. “The Background and Theoretical Origins of Ecofeminism.” Cross-Cultural Communication 10, no. 4: 104–8. Cronon, William. 1996. “The Trouble with Wilderness: or, Getting back to the Wrong Nature.” Environmental History 1, no. 1: 7–28. Finney, Carolyn. 2014. Black Faces, White Spaces: Reimagining the Relationship of African Americans to the Great Outdoors. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Francis, M. and R. T. Hester Jr., ed.1995. The Meaning of Gardens. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Gaard, Greta. 2001. “Women, Water, Energy: An Ecofeminist Approach.” Organization and Environment 14, no. 2: 157–72. ———. 1998. Ecological Politics: Ecofeminists and the Greens. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gaard, Greta, ed. 1993. Ecofeminism: Women, Animals, Nature. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gardiner, Michael. 1993. “Ecology and Carnival: Traces of a ‘Green’ Social Theory in the Writings of M. M. Bakhtin.” Theory and Society 22, no. 6: 765–812. Harris, Melanie L. 2016. “Ecowomanism: Black Women, Religion, and the Environment.” The Black Scholar 46, no. 3: 27–39. Kimmel, Michael. 2018. Manhood in America: A Cultural History. New York: Oxford University Press. Latour, Bruno. 2004. Politics of Nature: How to Bring Sciences into Democracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 2018. Down to Earth Politics in the New Climatic Regime London: Polity Press. Lloro-Bidart, Teresa, and Keri Semenko. 2017. “Toward a Feminist Ethic of Self-Care for Environmental Educators.” Journal of Environmental Education 48, no. 1: 18–25. Longsdon-Conradsen, Susan. 2011. “From Maternalism to Activist Mothering: The Evolution of Mother Activism in the United States Environmental Movement.” Journal of the Motherhood Initiative for Research and Community Involvement 2, no.1: 9–36. Lorde, Audre. 2017. A Burst of Light and Other Essays. Long Island, NY: Ixia Press. Ludlow, Jeannie. 2010. “Ecofeminism and Experiential Learning: Taking the Risks of Activism Seriously.” Faculty Research and Creative Activity 9. https://thekeep.eiu.edu/eng_fac/9/. MacGregor, Sherilyn. 2004. “From Care to Citizenship: Calling Ecofeminism Back to Politics.” Ethics and the Environment 9, no. 1: 56–84. Mann, B. 2006. Women’s Liberation and the Sublime: Feminism, Postmodernism, Environment. New York: Oxford University Press. Martin, A., N. Myers, and A. Viseu. 2015. “The Politics of Care in Technoscience.” Social Studies of Science 45, no. 5: 717–37. Merchant, Carolyn. 1980. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific Revolution New York: Harper Collins. ———. 1996. Earthcare: Women and the Environment. New York: Routledge. Mies, Maria and Vandana Shiva, ed. 2014. Ecofeminism. New York: Zed Books. Mies, Maria. 2014. “Feminist Research: Science, Violence, and Responsibility.” In Ecofeminism, edited by Maria Mies and Vandana Shiva, 36–54. New York: Zed Books. Moore, Niamh. 2008. “Eco/Feminism, Non-Violence and the Future of Feminism.” International Feminist Journal of Politics 10, no. 3: 282–98. Mortimer-Sandilands, Catriona. 2008. “Eco/Feminism on the Edge.” International Feminist Journal of Politics 10, no. 3: 305–13. Morton, Timothy. 2018. Being Ecological. London: Pelican Books. Mountz, A., A. Bonds, B. Mansfield, J. Lloyd, J. Hyndman, M. Walton-Roberts, and W. Curran. 2015. “For Slow Scholarship: A Feminist Politics of Resistance Through Collective Action in the Neoliberal University.” ACME 14, no. 4: 1235–59.

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Natale, Valentina. 2017. “Lois Gibbs and the Birth of a Movement for Environmental Justice.” Deportate, Esuli, Profughe, 35: 95–129. Nixon, Lindsay. 2015. “Eco-feminist Appropriation of Indigenous Feminism and Environmental Violence.” Feminist Wire, April 30, 2015. https://thefeministwire.com/2015/04/ecofeminist-appropriations-of-indigenous-feminisms-and-environmental-violence/. Pierson, Laura, and Nora Timmerman. 2017. “Reimagining Environmental Education within Academia: Storytelling and Dialogue as Lived Ecofeminist Politics.” Journal of Environmental Education 48, no. 1: 10–17. Plumwood, Val. 2002. Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 1993. Feminism and the Mastery of Nature. London and New York: Routledge. Purdy, Jedediah. 2018. After Nature: A Politics for the Anthropocene. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Russell, Constance, and Anne Bell. 1996. “A Politicized Ethic of Care: Environmental Education from an Ecofeminist Perspective.” In Women’s Voices in Experiential Education, edited by Karen Warren, 172–181. Dubuque, IA: Kendall/Hunt Publishing. Ryan, Carol. 1988. “Educating for Citizenship Through Experiential Learning: the Advisor’s Role.” NACADA Journal 8, no. 2: 77–80. Sandilands, Catriona. 1999. The Good-Natured Feminist: Ecofeminism and the Quest for Democracy. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Schiebinger, Londa. 1993. Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science. Boston: Beacon Press. Schindel, Alexandra, and Sara Tolbert. 2017. “Critical Caring for People and Place.” Journal of Environmental Education 48, no. 1: 26–34. Shiva, Vandana. 1985. “Ecology Movements in India.” Development: Seeds of Change 3: 22–26. ———. 1989. Staying Alive: Women, Ecology, and Development. London: Zed Books. ———. 1990. “Development as a New Project of Western Patriarchy.” In Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism, edited by Irene Diamond and Gloria Orenstein, 189–200. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. ———. 1993. “Colonialism and the Evolution of Masculinist Forestry.” In The Racial Economy of Science, edited by Sandra Harding, 303–14. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ———. 2014. “Reductionism and Regeneration: A Crisis in Science.” In Ecofeminism, edited by Maria Mies and Vandana Shiva, 22–35. London and New York: Zed Books. Shrewsbury, Carolyn M. 1987. “What is Feminist Pedagogy?” Women’s Studies Quarterly 15, nos. 3–4: 6–14. Spence, Mark David. 2000. Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of National Parks. New York: Oxford University Press. Stephens, Julie. 2012. Confronting Postmaternal Thinking: Feminism, Memory, and Care. New York: Columbia University Press. Sturgeon, Noël. 1997. Ecofeminist Natures: Race, Gender, Feminist Theory and Political Action London: Routledge. ———. 1999. “Ecofeminist Appropriations and Transnational Environmentalisms.” Identities: Global Studies in Culture and Power 6, nos. 2–3: 255–79. Turner, Frederick Jackson. 1920. “The Significance of the Frontier in American History.” In The Frontier in American History, 15–87. New York: Henry Holt. Wesely, Jennifer K., and Emily Gaarder. 2004. “The Gendered Nature of the Urban Outdoors: Women Negotiating Fear of Violence.” Gender and Society 18, no. 5: 645–63. White, Lynn. 1967. “The Historical Roots of our Ecological Crisis.” Science 155: 1203–7. White, Monica M. 2011. “Sisters of the Soil: Urban Gardening as Resistance in Detroit.” Race/ Ethnicity: Multidisciplinary Global Contexts 5, no. 1: 13–28. Williams, Raymond. 1980. “Ideas of Nature.” In Problems in Materialism and Culture, 67–85. London: Verso.

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NOTES 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZB96D5OpoLM&ab_channel=OmarSlater. See http://inclusivewoodsandus.org/. See https://taprootcollective.org/. See https://www.ewb-usa.org. See https://www.facebook.com/Siostry-Rzeki-1772150046238016/. See https://www.pri.org/stories/2013-11-17/world-s-longest-braid-saves-polish-river.

Chapter Ten

Climate Justice in the Wild n’ Dirty South An Autoethnographic Reflection on Ecowomanism as Engaged Scholar-Activist Praxis before and during COVID-19 Frances Roberts-Gregory

What is climate justice and why is it important for BIPOC communities? What is the relationship between ecowomanism and Black women’s spiritual activism? How might women of color address longstanding environmental racism and racialized health disparities in the southern United States? My autoethnographic reflection explores what it means to live and research the nexus of climate justice and gender justice as a Black ecofeminist and scholar-activist in New Orleans, Louisiana. Using Melanie Harris’ ecowomanist spiral methodology, I excavate ecomemories, reflect upon my spiritual relationship to earth justice, and theorize how “teaching, archiving, planting, and dancing” climate justice creates opportunities for healing and post-traumatic growth before and during the COVID-19 pandemic. My autoethnographic findings ultimately reveal that feminist activist interventions hold the power to address research and translational fatigue within frontline communities and support intersectional, feminist policy solutions through an ethic of care. Most importantly, ecowomanist (auto)ethnography facilitates unlearning of the violence of positivism; it reclaims pleasure, rest, and joy as revolutionary acts; and pollinates more decolonized research relations grounded in reciprocity and Indigenous rights.

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ECOLOGY IS A SISTAH’S ISSUE TOO July 2019 It is a sweltering summer day in New Orleans. A light perspiration covers my damp body and twisted curls on top of my head bounce as a result of added moisture from the humidity. Streams of sweat trickle down my temples, crotch, and back, but I pay them no mind. I embrace natural opportunities to detoxify and prefer the heat rather than cold when given a choice. In fact, I choose to live, research, and teach in the South as an environmental and climate justice activist to access year-round sunshine and to prove that “ecology is a sistah’s issue too.” 1 Still, the South of my adulthood is a bit hotter, wilder, and dirtier than the South of my childhood memories. Today, the weather app on my phone reads 97°F, but it feels closer to 105°F due to the heat index. My air conditioner runs the entire summer at full blast. My monthly Entergy 2 bill, to my dismay, costs between $135–$225. Ideally, I would like to use less energy, switch to renewables, and weatherize my old shotgun apartment. 3 Unfortunately, my landlord’s disinterest in solar leaves me with limited options. I am only a disgruntled renter, so I settle for cursing Entergy under my breath and dutifully pay my monthly utility bill. I also run my air conditioner because I am unwilling to put myself at risk for further heat exhaustion. I already succumbed to immobilizing dizziness and nausea three times while living in the South. In less than a year, I overheated at a friend’s outdoor wedding in South Carolina, during a Big Freedia 4 Essence Fest 5 performance in Armstrong Park, 6 and during a New Orleans People’s Assembly and Take ’Em Down NOLA 7 rally to protest confederate monuments and white supremacy in Lafayette Square. 8 As I slurp the last drops of water from my stainless-steel water bottle, I remind myself to stay vigilant and hydrated. Despite the heat, today I ride in a hooptie 9 with Randy, a transplant (like me) who recently moved to New Orleans from California. We met on Tinder after his carefree smile, asymmetrical locked hair, and warm brown eyes captured my attention. After he informed me that he knew how to brew turmeric kombucha and once lived in a tiny home, I knew we would become intimate friends. In addition to sharing the experience of tokenization as Black millennials in white environmental spaces, he and I both share a passion for urban agriculture. His passion for Afroecology 10 manifests primarily through his gardening and landscaping work. My passion for skills and knowledge to survive ongoing apocalypse 11 manifests through my chosen circle of friends. As we cruise down the street in search of vegan cauliflower wings, Randy and I discuss the pros and cons of living in a capitalist society. He annoyingly admonishes me for choosing to work “inside the system” as an environmen-

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tal professional and academic. As we chat, I roll my eyes at Randy’s oversimplified description of my political strategies and mentally remind myself to ask him if he has an evacuation plan, pirogue, 12 or shelter-in-place supplies. You can never be too careful during hurricane season. Little do I know, it is I who will rely upon his social networks to catch a ride to Atlanta in just a few weeks after my street floods and the city prepares for the landing of Hurricane Barry. As we devour our cauliflower wings and wipe BBQ sauce from our lips, Randy and I compare environmentalism in California to environmentalism in Louisiana. I chafe at his biting remarks about greening efforts in Louisiana yet sympathize with his frustrations. He complains about the lack of clean water for swimming since the beaches in Mississippi are closed due to an algae outbreak. I complain about the high levels of pollution in communities located in the petrochemical corridor known as Cancer Alley. 13 We both reflect and draw different conclusions about what it means to grow food on contaminated soil, breathe polluted air, and drink questionable tap water. When we disagree on the merits of home ownership in the Black community, he commits himself to buying land in the foreseeable future and living off the grid as a nomadic traveler. As a car-less Black woman who grew up in homeless shelters and public housing, I commit myself to Black home ownership, social mobility, and intergenerational wealth building. Eventually, I remind Randy that despite our different, yet complementary, approaches to sustainable living and earth justice, we still live in the “wild, wild west” where drive-thru daiquiri shops are legal; corrupt, yet beloved, politicians live colorful lives fit for reality TV; 14 and corporations pollute without paying taxes. 15 Laughing heartily, his big brown eyes light up and he smiles mischievously at my cliché description for Louisiana. “More like the wild, wild South,” he muses, turning his eyes back to the road. I consider his semantic correction in my head before responding. “Yes, you are right,” I finally concede. But I expound. “Not only is it the wild, wild South—it is the wild n’ dirty South!” Satisfied with our christening and naming ceremony that pays homage to the legacy of southern hip hop, 16 we wipe sweat from our eyes and continue our debate on a moist and sticky Bulbancha 17 summer day. HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE AN ENVIRONMENTAL PROBLEM? I am an ecowomanist ethnographer, Black vegan goddess, survivor of sexual and ecological violence, and Afrofuturist scholar-activist (Harris 2017, Roberts-Gregory 2020a, 2020b, Wright 2018, de Onís and Pezzullo 2017). I am the living embodiment of “what it feels to be an environmental problem.” 18 This reality means that I dedicate my life’s work to loving Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC) communities, resisting environmental racism,

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healing intergenerational trauma, and advancing feminist climate policy solutions through speculative fiction, emergent strategies, and abolition ecologies (Ranganathan and Bratman 2019, brown 2017, Shervington 2018, Bell, Daggett, and Labuski 2020, Gay-Antaki 2020). This also means that it is my duty and spiritual calling to communicate the urgency of climate action, center the voices of frontline communities, promote civic engagement, and deepen relationships between people, planet, and other species (Raphael 2019). I ultimately agree with Shamara Shantu Riley when she asserts, There is no use in womanists advocating liberation politics if the planet cannot support people’s liberated lives, and it is equally useless to advocate saving the planet without addressing the social issues that determine the structure of human relations in the world. If the planet as a whole is to survive, we must all begin to see ourselves as interconnected with nonhuman nature and with one another. (Riley 1992, 474)

Since poverty and wealth are gendered and racialized, impoverished women of color in the Global North and women in the Global South are often scapegoated, condemned, and abandoned for their inability to access and participate in male-dominated extractive economies. Since our reproductive capacities are similarly policed and regulated, Black, Indigenous, and Women of Color (BIWOC) are erroneously and uncritically blamed for overpopulation, low income status, single-parent households, and resource depletion (Macgregor 2010, Jacobs 2018). From my experience, however, women, BIPOC communities, queer folk, and seasoned environmental justice activists are leading the movement for environmental, energy, and climate justice around the world and within the Louisiana Gulf Coast (Roberts-Gregory 2020b, Bell, Daggett, and Labuski 2020, Frankland and Tucker 2013, Macgregor 2010, Gaard 2015). We understand that we suffer the brunt of harm (as evidenced by our high rates of death, gender-based violence, and displacement) during and after climate disaster, even as we contribute the least to greenhouse gas emissions. We likewise understand that our economic and political precarity, produced by gender inequality and patriarchal cultural and legal norms, create the conditions for our reproductive oppression and unfair labor burden within undervalued economies of care (Jacobs 2018, Allison 2017). Over time, we’ve watched our communities became sacrifice zones for pollution, health disparities, uneven development, racist zoning, sexual and reproductive health inequities, political and financial disinvestment, societal neglect, lax enforcement of environmental regulations, and lastly, discriminatory housing, insurance, and transportation policies. In exasperation we’ve critiqued our routine exclusion from city planning, natural resource management, architecture, environmental engineering, and climate policy (Jacobs 2018, Taylor 2014, Bullard 2008, Wilson et al. 2020).

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Nevertheless, our voices and solutions for climate change, sustainability, and COVID-19 recovery are underrepresented in the national and international media (Sellers 2020). Our local experiences, familiarity with mutual aid, and traditional ecological knowledges (TEK) are viewed as less legitimate and credible compared to western science and technocratic expertise. As a result, technofixes (geoengineering), market-based approaches (carbon trading), and other false solutions (i.e., colonization of Mars) continue to concentrate resources and power in wealthy, white, and Global North communities while dispossessing, displacing, poisoning, suffocating, imprisoning, and abandoning BIPOC and Global South communities (Gaard 2015). The disproportionate impact of COVID-19 on environmental justice communities in the United States and in Louisiana further highlights the cumulative, intersectional, and layered impacts of structural inequality, subpar public health infrastructure and safety nets, and air pollution (Terrell and James 2020, Wilson et al. 2020). Reeling in our hurt, anger, confusion, and frustration, we vehemently reject the politics of disposability in favor of regenerative economies, inclusive care ethics, and climate justice (Allison 2017, Pellow 2016). Moving forward, we insist that essential workers be included in environmental decision-making, disaster planning, and health policy in an equitable, meaningful, and just manner. Equally, we avow that our lives have immeasurable value and have always mattered. #BlackLivesMatter #NativeLivesMatter. In fact, there is no future for humanity or other species without our spiritual wisdom, resilience, brilliance, creativity, and joy (Pellow 2016). Climate justice in the era of global pandemics thus requires a radical shift in how we a) build and sustain relationships, b) manage uncertainty, disruption, grief, and shock, and c) redistribute wealth, opportunity, risk, and accountability (Harris 2017, Wilson et al. 2020, brown 2017). It requires a “breaking of the rules,” embrace of cyborg technology, unlearning through decolonization, and reclaiming of clairvoyance. In addition, climate justice reclaims rest, refusal, recovery, and Sankofa 19 in defiance of neoliberal, positivist, modern, and linear time (brown 2019). It is permission to be undisciplined, unconventional, and unbothered by epistemological and methodological purists. It is a focus on “good trouble” 20 through engaged listening to the wisdom of the ancestors, the unborn, technology, and plant relatives. Climate justice is similarly the intentional valuation of the survivor knowledge, mutual aid networks, coping strategies, emotional intelligence, and skill-building that frontline communities and BIPOC communities have developed over centuries to resist extractive economies and necropolitics (Davies 2018). It is demanding transformative systems change over the mundanity of state-corporate crime and defending the indispensability of all human and nonhuman life (Bisschop,

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Strobl, and Viollaz 2018). It is a pragmatic reckoning with the inevitability of death and suffering, coupled with a spiritual understanding of rebirth and self-actualization in the past, present, and afterlife (Wright 2018). Climate justice thus encourages a renewed commitment to contradiction, improvisation, interdisciplinarity, experimentation, relocalization, and reconciliation (brown 2017, Roberts-Gregory 2020a). It is the practice of democratic and socialist governance, sovereignty, self-determination, mobilization, defiance, and strategic divestment. In order to embody and enact these values, women of color and allies across the globe are leading the fight against extractive and exploitative industries, including mining, deforestation, oil and gas exploration, and land grabs (Waldron 2018, Allen, Lyons, and Stephens 2019). As a result of their spiritual activism, Indigenous women across the globe are targeted for gender-based violence, sexual trafficking, criminalization, and even political assassination (Tallbear 2016, Lane 2018, Roberts-Gregory 2020b). Despite violent opposition and Neo-Malthusian narratives that demonize the reproductive capacities of women of color, BIPOC water protectors (not protestors) continue to assert the rights of nature, steward the bulk of the world’s biodiversity, defend bodily autonomy, and ensure reproductive justice as feminist climate change solutions (Sellers 2020). In other words, we lift as we climb 21 while balancing self and community care. Finally, the unrelenting degradation of the environment through a masculinist logic of domination and capital accumulation results in the devaluation, dehumanization, disposability, and impoverishment of women, people of color, and LGTBQ communities (Gaard 2015, Pellow 2016). Yet, this history, this reality, and this future is intolerable. It is unacceptable! As such, I am called to teach, resist violence, practice pleasure, fortify my nerves, and design the future I envision for my family of extended kin (Davenport 2017, Jaquette Ray 2020, brown 2017, brown 2019, Harris 2017). I also grasp and embrace ecowomanism, a feminist, Indigenous, and Afrofuturist set of ethical principles for earth justice, to guide my spiritual journey as an environmental and climate justice scholar-activist. It is through ecowomanism that I deepen my political commitment to transformative social and ecological change, remember ancestral wisdom to heal environmental violence, and use humor, embodiment, fugitivity, and connection to nature to promote post-traumatic growth (Harris 2017, Shervington 2018, Jaquette Ray 2020). So . . . instead of asking us how does it feel to be an environmental problem (Clay 2011), we ask: how does it feel to live in a dying empire? Most importantly, how does it feel to know that collaboration, democratization, reparations, indigeneity, feminism, queer ecologies, 22 science fiction, resource redistribu-

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tion, and the social death of white supremacist imperialist capitalist militarist patriarchy are the required and necessary environmental solutions? SELF-CARE IS EARTH CARE Throughout the course of my ethnographic fieldwork from 2017 to 2020, I interviewed over fifty Black and Indigenous women and allies who advocate for environmental, energy, and climate justice in Gulf Coast Louisiana. Although the long conversational interviews proved to be emotionally grueling, I learned a lot about women’s environmental activism from grassroots feminist leaders and was ultimately inspired to deepen my scholar-activist praxis as an environmental educator. After recognizing the limitations of traditional scientific approaches within environmental science and environmental studies, I eventually employed Melanie Harris’ ecowomanist methodology (2017) to better understand the entanglements of intimacy, gender, pollution, and resistance within the Louisiana riverine and bayou parishes. This was an important methodological intervention because “ecowomanism invites reflection on the inner lives of women environmental activists, the spiritual practices of those who practice environmental justice, as well as the communities of faith and encouragement that instill and reinforce their values for earth justice with hope” (Harris 2017, 73). I likewise developed my own autoethnographic approach to multi-sited feminist political ecology by centering subjectivity, partial perspective (Haraway 1988), interdisciplinarity, and non-linearity. According to Harris (2017), ecowomanist methodology (also known as spiral methodology) involves seven interchangeable steps that center critical reflection on environmental memories past, present, and future in the pursuit of earth justice and climate change solutions. In the following section I detail how I employed the values and principles of ecowomanism throughout my fieldwork. Such a layered and multi-scalar approach ultimately encouraged me to think deeply about my own relationship to race, gender, landscape, labor, joy, healing, and spirit. It also fostered critical reflection on the evolution and intersections of my ecofeminist, spiritual, and scholarly identities. Unlike more colonial and extractive methodological approaches that prioritize rationality and what the objective eye sees, ecowomanist methodology unapologetically makes space for the affective, nonlinear time, and what the intuitive spirit feels. Ecowomanist methodology stresses what “feels right” in rejection of what “feels wrong” and lets spiritual wisdom guide research endeavors. Finally, ecowomanist methodology rejects any contradiction between the embodiment of climate justice and the theorization of climate justice, and aims to heal “the beauty to burden

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paradox” 23 and to facilitate post-traumatic growth from environmental violence (Harris 2017). APPLYING AN ECOWOMANIST METHODOLOGY IN THE FIELD In this section I list the seven steps of Melanie Harris’ womanist methodology and show how I applied them in the field. 1. Honoring Experience and Recovering Ecomemory I reviewed fieldnotes, interview transcripts, social media posts, and jottings from 2017 to 2020; constructed an autoethnographic narrative; and asked what images, embodied experiences, or memories come to mind when I think about environmental justice and climate change in Gulf Coast Louisiana. What is my familial connection to spirit and nature? 2. Critical Reflection on Experience and Ecomemory I linked collective ecomemories to herstories of gendered oppression, colonization, and white supremacy; and asked: How do I feel? What did I learn? What leaves me frustrated? What brings me joy? How do I guard my sanity? What mistakes did I make? What are my solutions for the climate crisis? 3. Womanist Intersectional Analysis I drew connections between the personal and the political at multiple scales; undertook a race, class, and gender analysis; identified values, themes, and ecowisdom from narratives; centered positionality and embodied knowledge through dance/roller skating, gardening, walking, teaching, flower photography, and participant observation. 4. Critical Examination of History, Spirituality, and Tradition I linked data on disparities in housing, transportation, reproductive rights, the gendered pay gap, environmental quality, incarceration, economic opportunity, democracy, education, food, and healthcare in Louisiana to institutional patriarchal violence, state-corporate crime, plantation logics, and racialized and gendered disaster capitalism. I participated in the 2017 Fossil Free Fest to call out corporate fossil fuel sponsorship of Louisiana festivals and music concerts. I explored Indigenous heritage and Afrodiasporic spiritualities; participated in virtual Gulf Coast Center for Law and Policy Black-Native Sacred Water Pilgrimage and Ceremony down

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the Mississippi River; studied Santería and participated in shell reading and folkloric ceremonies in Cuba. 5. Engaging Transformation I donated funds to herbal medicine-making Bvlbancha Collective during COVID-19 pandemic and #BlackLivesMatter protests; planted container garden with herbs and vegetables; inspired family members, colleagues, and friends to garden; centered healing from COVID-19 deaths through talk therapy, GirlTrek 21 Day Walking Bootcamp, meditation + abundance challenges, chakra exercises, and Black planter Facebook groups. I developed relationships with other plant and animal species (i.e., Cat Mom); joined 350 New Orleans, Climate Reality, 350 BIPOC Climate Leaders Program, and the Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal. 6. Sharing Interfaith and Interdisciplinary Dialogue I participated in multi-racial coalitions for environmental, energy, and climate justice; shared information about green infrastructure, feminist environmental organizing, citizen science, and Cancer Alley through virtual lectures and webinars for community-based organizations, nonprofits, city officials, and universities. I made presentations on women and agriculture for the NOLA Women4Climate Mentorship Program; and shared petitions and articles using social media. I spoke at Berkeley March for Science and United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) 25th Conference of the Parties (COP25) to advocate for a Feminist Green New Deal. I was interviewed by the Alliance for Affordable Energy, Extinction Rebellion New Orleans, the Ocean Conservancy, Public Broadcast Station, Breaking Green Ceilings, etc. via talk radio, newspaper articles, and podcasts. 7. Taking Action for Earth Justice: Teaching Ecowomanism I taught civic engagement and service-learning courses on gender, climate justice, and environmental racism for early college and undergraduate students at Tulane University and Bard Early College New Orleans. I comanaged the Gulf Equity Waters Corps Project and mentored youth for the Deep South Center for Environmental Justice. I facilitated a climate justice workshop at the Historically Black Colleges & Universities (HBCU) Climate Change Conference; facilitated workshops on demystifying science for women of color in STEM for University of California, Berkeley Empowering Womxn of Color Conference; and participated in protests, rallies, conferences, and marches. I wrote academic articles and popular magazine articles on gender and environmental racism; pushed back at erasure of women of color in environmental fields; inspired students to major in environmental

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science and studies and become digital organizers for the Sunrise Movement; wrote proposals to birth Ecowomanist Digital Archive; and embraced pleasure and joy through “living my best life.” TEACHING, ARCHIVING, PLANTING, AND DANCING CLIMATE JUSTICE According to scholar of religion Elonda Clay, Spiritual practices among diasporic peoples, such as contemplation with nature, being in the moment, deep breathing, fishing, gardening, animal companionship, and prayer often reveal pragmatic environmental principles and sustainable practices. Not to be overlooked is the significance of music, religious visual culture, dance, folklore, film/media, material culture and the recognition of sacred places such as lakes, mountains, parks, and gardens. (Clay 2011, 164–165)

I, too, have discovered pragmatic environmental principles and sustainable practices through everyday feminist activist practices. Feminist activist practices such as teaching, archiving, planting, and dancing climate justice encouraged the reclaiming of my herstory and recovery of self. Through my role as an environmental educator for undergraduate and early college students, for example, I facilitated conversations on what it means to live on the frontlines of extractive industries along Cancer Alley and heal from disasters such as Hurricane Katrina and food insecurity. Students in my environmental racism and climate justice seminars consequently increased their critical landscape literacy through a class-curated Instagram page. After visually documenting corner stores, cracked sidewalks, sparse tree cover, refinery dotted landscapes, urban gardens, and the absence or presence of recycling bins on school campuses, many of my students could no longer “un-see” injustice in the built environment. Moreover, field trips to the Hurricane Katrina Museum in Jackson Square, Grow Dat Youth Farm, and Groundwork NOLA Earth Lab created space for me and my students to process our memories of displacement, precarity, gentrification, flooding, and loss, alongside memories of recovery, affirmation, collaboration, growth, and cultural continuity. Ecowomanist methodological practices similarly addressed research fatigue and translational fatigue 24 for me and research participants since we regularly navigated epistemic and environmental violence. To practice reciprocity and combat the devaluation of the testimonies of women of color, I donated $25 to every woman interviewed or a community-based organization of their choosing. I also shared cleaned interview transcripts with research participants to keep for their own records and for their own purposes. I plan

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to include all anonymized transcripts in a future ecowomanist digital archive to minimize future research requests on similar topics. Dancing, walking, and roller-skating in queer and/or BIPOC spaces as ecowomanist practices of joy similarly provided a physical and emotional escape from the vicarious traumatization I experienced while collecting gendered narratives of environmental racism. These traditional BIPOC activities helped me cope with imposter syndrome and the periodic anxiety I experienced after exposing my body to toxic chemicals and pollution as a Black woman of childbearing age. 25 These embodied practices also helped hone and refine my research questions after I critically examined my contradictory desire to salsa dance with petroleum engineers and gave my theoretical mind permission to rest and recuperate from information overload (Roberts-Gregory 2020b). Lastly, ecowomanism, with its focus on environmental action and transformation of the self and community through BIWOC sister circles, provided the peer-to-peer mentorship I craved as a survivor of departmental toxicity and built my confidence as a first-generation graduate student of color (Roberts-Gregory 2020a). It also facilitated unlearning of the violence of positivism, allowing for the reclaiming of rest, recovery, and ethnographic refusal 26 in defiance of the neoliberal university; most importantly, it gave me permission to step into the unfamiliar territory of radical healing and Zoom calls about feminist climate policy. HEALING IS THE REVOLUTION We are in the middle of a global health pandemic and ongoing climate crisis. For better or worse, COVID-19 and its environmental origins bring the everyday reality of environmental racism and racialized health disparities to the forefront of the public’s consciousness and political debates (Osaka 2020). No one is spared its violence, especially communities of color. My own personal and professional life provides a useful case study. As a scholar educated by elite academic institutions, I benefit from educational privilege that provides security through housing, a food allowance, and healthcare benefits. Yet, I am still a Black working-class woman with family members who continue to live in toxic geographies and disinvested neighborhoods ransacked by environmental racism. In April 2020, I lost relatives from three generations of my family in less than a week to COVID-19 and racialized health disparities. Nothing I read or learned in a classroom about differential vulnerability to disaster prepared me for the painful loss of my cousin, aunt, and great-uncle without the opportunity for goodbye or traditional funeral rites. Fortunately, daily walks, container gardening, talk therapy, and flower photography helped me grieve the loss of my family members and contem-

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plate the cyclical nature of birth and death. I soon realized that “healing is the revolution.” 27 Despite the chaos, uncertainty, grief, and inefficacy of the present political moment, I still aspire to resist climate inaction, memorialize the deaths of my loved ones, and imagine healthier and safer futures for us survivors. My colleagues and I continue to heal gendered and racialized violence through community organizations, mutual aid networks, urban agriculture and homesteading, hurricane relief funds, and digital organizing to support hazard pay and personal protective equipment (PPE) for essential workers, teachers, and other providers of care. In fact, the legacy of colonial plantation logics, enslavement, disinvestment, surveillance, criminalization, experimentation, and sexual violence has forced us survivors to develop an arsenal of practical tools (i.e., sarcasm, humor, and spiritual practices) to cope, adapt, improvise, and self-medicate when necessary (Shervington 2018, Jaquette Ray 2020, Davenport 2017). Most importantly, our shared herstory of struggle against oppression creates opportunities to rebuild and recover using anti-resilient, feminist, and abolitionist solutions for environmental, energy, and climate justice (Baker 2019). In actuality, there would be no environmental, energy, or climate justice without the prayers, righteous rage, and spiritual activism of Indigenous and women of color in the Global North and South (Stephens 2020, Baker 2019, Harris 2017). BIWOC organizers, whether they self-identify as concerned mothers, determined water protectors, or queer climate activists, make up the rank and file of grassroots environmental organizations. Since Indigenous women and women of color are often romanticized as closer to the Earth and disproportionately assigned nurturing, caretaking, and mothering roles in private and public spheres, environmental activism in Indigenous and communities of color is both contested and sanctioned in gender-specific ways. Unsurprisingly, Indigenous climate activists often invoke their identities as mothers, protectors, and warriors to justify their cultural and spiritual obligations to heal the land and water from oil spills, hurricanes, pipelines, and other unnatural disasters (Strauss 2018, Dembicki 2020). For example, Indigenous environmentalist Cherri Foytlin poignantly remembers her transformation from a journalist into an environmental activist through the lens of motherhood in a 2020 VICE World News Interview. According to Foytlin (quoted in Dembicki 2020), We came up on a pelican that was in the water, that had been oiled, and it was dying. We pulled it up into the boat and I just remember coming home that night and looking in the mirror and saying, you know, “What have I done to cause this? How am I accountable to future generations?” . . . We’ve got to center the people who have historically become the most vulnerable to climate change. If not, what the hell are we doing?

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Finally, women and communities of color have a long history of serving as teachers, social workers, journalists, nurses, fugitives, public intellectuals, and community activists in pursuit of the social uplift of oppressed peoples. Their unwavering involvement in neighborhood beautification and gardening, strikes against police brutality and incarceration, anti-lynching crusades, organizing for sovereignty and self-determination, public sanitation and housing initiatives, and other human and civil rights causes contribute to the health, wellness, and wholeness of marginalized communities from the past to the present day (Harris 2017, Ruffin 2010). Simultaneously, increased transnational consciousness of the intersection of gender and climate justice expands opportunities for women of color and allies to develop policy and planning solutions for community empowerment, disaster response and recovery, sustainable development, and intergenerational healing (Gaard 2015). Some organizations leading the fight for climate justice through intersectional feminist analysis today include the Gulf Coast Center for Law and Policy (GCCLP), GirlTrek, the NAACP 28 Environmental and Climate Justice Initiative, Another Gulf is Possible, the Climate Justice Alliance, the Indigenous Environmental Network, the Women’s Environment and Development Organization (WEDO), the Women’s Earth and Climate Action Network (WECAN), GenderCC, the UNFCCC Women and Gender Constituency, and the newly formed Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal. RESILIENCE AND A JUST RECOVERY THROUGH A FEMINIST GREEN NEW DEAL The future remains uncertain, full of struggle, and quite terrifying despite our best efforts to imagine and create viable alternatives. Disease, death, disruption, unemployment, increased caretaking burdens, and loss of safety nets catalyzed by the COVID-19 pandemic highlight the urgency of now and need for a feminist and people-centered recovery. Moving forward, emerging feminist leaders will have to decide when and where our politics exceed the confines of civility and traditional modes of political engagement. In other words, what are we willing to risk and sacrifice to bring about the change we want to see in the world? How can we manifest abundance and “enough” within systems predicated upon scarcity and extraction? Can we imagine resilience and a just recovery through a Feminist Green New Deal? 29 As a result of my ongoing autoethnographic ecowomanist research and feminist activism, I was invited by WEDO in 2019 to become a cofounding member of the Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal and to begin to answer these questions. I was also invited by WEDO to attend my first UNFCCC climate conference, COP25, after the conference was moved from Chile to Madrid as a result of social unrest. While the civil society actions

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inside and outside COP25 proved quite overwhelming, I appreciated the opportunity to network with transnational climate feminists and participate in a historic march for climate action along the streets of Madrid. I also participated in an international press conference to bring awareness to the intersections of gender justice, climate justice, and Indigenous rights with representatives from WECAN, WEDO, and the NAACP (Dolan 2019). Nevertheless, frustration mounted in the wake of climate inaction. Later in the week, youth, feminist, Indigenous, and Global South climate activists decided to risk revocation of their conference accreditation badges by protesting the inefficacy and corruption of the climate negotiations. I was swept up in the fervor and decided to observe and participate in the historic protest that confronted the conference’s guidelines for appropriate conduct. Although our demands at the protest were the same as our demands at the press conference, our chants of dissatisfaction and congregation near the negotiation floor were treated very differently by UNFCCC security. All the protestors and many bystanders were corralled outside the conference building, forbidden from re-entering the COP25, threatened with de-badging, and forced to walk through police lines in the freezing cold without winter coats. Simultaneously, many white male reporters and journalists, unlike those of us marked phenotypically by our Brownness, youth and/or femininity, were able to cross the human security barricade and avoid the long march in the cold. It was thus apparent that the UNFCCC security and police wanted to silence our dissent, kick us out of the negotiations, and criminalize us as troublemakers (Goodman 2019). Linking arms with Indigenous women and men from the Global South, I was enraged, terrified, and confused by the unnecessary militaristic show of power when we only wanted to ensure a more sustainable, just, and democratized future. Fortunately, progressive news outlets such as Democracy Now broadcasted our mistreatment and feminist activists negotiated our re-entry back into the COP25 the following day (Goodman 2019). Nevertheless, I was disgusted by the hypocrisy of the climate negotiations and fell sick with a terrible viral infection. I missed the remainder of the conference due to the lack of care in a space dedicated to negotiating the future of the planet. For these reasons, the conference was for me in many ways a failure. I thus agree with WEDO director Bridget Burns’ analysis of failure as articulated in her UNFCCC Feminist Green New Deal press conference speech. According to Burns, When we try to create climate action without gender justice, we fail. When we try to deliver climate action without racial justice, we fail. When we try to do this without the rights of Indigenous peoples, we fail. If we fail to understand the deep intersection between misogyny, white supremacy, rising right wing fascism, and climate denialism, we fail. (Burns 2020)

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Despite the failure of COP25, I continued to work with feminist climate activists after returning home to the United States and throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. Fortunately, I realize that feminist solidarity is not a failure. In the spring of 2020, I participated in an Earth Week webinar on the Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal. My fellow panelists and I discussed resilience and a just recovery for the climate crises and global health pandemic using an intersectional, feminist lens. This webinar and later Zoom calls with like-minded young transnational climate feminists left me with a clearer understanding of how capitalism, racism, and patriarchy invisibilize women’s unpaid, caretaking labor. Moreover, I became a more fervent champion for intersectional, anti-racist, feminist leadership in policy conversations. I have also begun to pay closer attention to how grassroots women of color across the United States are pivoting their climate action work to focus on food security, hurricane relief, utility shutoffs, eviction moratoriums, support for a people’s bailout, and rejection of a fossil fuel bailout (Burns 2020, Stephens 2020). These experiences ultimately teach me that I have a tremendously important role and voice in global struggles for climate justice, Indigenous rights, and human rights as a result of my educational privilege, even as my body is targeted for violence as a woman of color. These ecomemories similarly force me to reflect on the mundanity of epistemic injustice and acknowledge the lack of credibility our perspectives on resilience and a just recovery hold within androcentric, capitalist, and white supremacist governance systems. Nevertheless, it is through the power of my pen, political organizing, mentorship of future leaders, and a feminist activist approach to participatory research that I push back at the global erosion of democracy and political freedoms, unchecked state-corporate crime, extensive environmental degradation, and the loss of cultural diversity and biodiversity. I no longer believe that good science and good research requires “objectivity,” value-neutrality, and impartiality. Instead, I embrace passion and morality to combat masculinist science and racist environmental decision-making that forestall attempts at resilience and a just recovery. Finally, I realize that resilience and a just recovery post-COVID-19 requires new kinship and affinity groups, political solidarities, and collaborative networks. Fortunately, my facilitation of a workshop on climate change, gender, and agriculture for the NOLA Women4Climate Mentorship Program and participation in the GCCLP Sacred Water Pilgrimage for Black and Native Women has created new friendship bonds and opportunities to build relationships with southern BIPOC activists. I have also been invited to present at a webinar for the Greater New Orleans Water Collaborative on Black millennials and climate change as a result of my participation in these feminist initiatives. Lastly, the women I interviewed and shadowed over the course of my fieldwork shared gardening supplies and funny memes

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with me as I grieved the loss of family members; they introduced me to mutual aid networks, gifted me homemade masks, and offered me rides and hurricane supplies when faced with hurricane evacuation. Their everyday acts of care and inclusion in community embody the spirit of resilience and a just recovery. ANOTHER SOUTH IS POSSIBLE? ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE! As a lover, resident, and native of southern geographies, I pray that the South of my progeny will look, feel, and smell radically different than the South of my adult years. I also pray that my actions speak louder than my academic prose, that my faith in our collective feminist power and vision for the future revitalizes my broken heart, and that healing teas soothe my weary spirit and herbal remedies fortify my high-strung nerves. Guided by ecowomanism, I similarly cultivate a unique partial perspective on how to embody and inspire the change we desperately need to ensure a just transition to a climate justice future. So far, we have inherited a history of failure, greed, and disaster capitalism. Nevertheless, I am increasingly interested in a herstory of innovation, care, and zero-growth economies. 30 I wholeheartedly believe that another Gulf Coast, another South, 31 and another feminist future is possible. So, what is our vision? Climate justice in the wild n’ dirty South to us looks like community controlled renewable portfolio standards, repurposing of oil rigs and other infrastructure for wind and solar energy, bioremediation of toxic geographies, and mandated environmental and climate literacy in K12 curricula. It looks like planting of flood-resistant species, knowledge exchange networks for herbal remedies and community seed banks, and organic agriculture. It likewise looks like job trainings for people who were formerly incarcerated, gig workers, and former workers in polluting industries to secure well-paying, unionized jobs in green infrastructure and coastal restoration. It looks like reframing care jobs as green jobs, paying single mothers for raising our children, free Wi-Fi for all, free child, health, and elder care for all, and living wages for all. It is a revaluation of women’s work, increased funding for domestic violence prevention and mental health services, and an institutionalization of affordable housing and a universal basic income. Climate justice furthermore sounds like the return of second lines and parties after a cure for coronavirus is developed, and the happy voices of fenceline communities after they receive climate reparations, compensation for pollution exposure, and support for community-controlled relocation efforts. It feels like joy when we roller skate in a greenspace covered in permeable pavement and use a pirogue to navigate floodwaters in bayous and

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canals engineered for communities to live with water. It tastes like gumbo, Vietnamese pho, fried plantains, and red beans and rice at community potlucks, and fresh fruit picked from edible landscapes. It looks like moratoriums on the constructions of new petrochemical facilities and refineries in sacrifice zones and efforts to preserve historic landmarks such as flooded cemeteries and Indigenous mounds. It is increased funding for research on environmental toxicology, environmental engineering, and radical, feminist planning. Climate justice, in all its beautiful varieties, is wild, spontaneous, and contradictory. Moving forward, I will continue to work with the Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal and support grassroots women of color in their efforts to embody resistance, refuse erasure, and develop intersectional, feminist policy solutions. I will pivot my research to focus on how Black and Indigenous women use rural/urban agriculture and urban homesteading to fight localized food insecurity in the wake of ongoing climate disaster and as a result of COVID-19. Furthermore, I will use my scholarship grounded in the principles of “Black girl reliability” 32 to highlight how the act of growing is used to heal nutritionally and emotionally from environmental trauma, imagine postapocalyptic futures, and practice sovereignty and self-determination. These interventions will undoubtedly pollinate more decolonized research relations, create systems of accountability and reciprocity, and make space for Indigenous ceremony, spirit, and ancestral wisdom. Time will tell if the impacts of COVID-19 on the oil and gas industry will contribute to increased production of plastics, further contributing to pollution burdens in frontline communities. Time will tell if we will be able to restore trust in our local, state, and federal governing bodies, and whether they will seriously address the threat of climate change and impacts of environmental racism. Time will tell if we will commit ourselves to radical change or watch it all wash or burn away. The 2020 November presidential election will moreover decide if my country has sold its soul to the polluter elite and white supremacists determined to make Amerika hate again. Regardless of the outcome, I will continue to care for the silenced voices, write for freedom, and build community amongst likeminded feminist organizers and Louisiana folk who may or may not identify as activists. Likeminded feminist artists and climate storytellers such as Monique Verdin and Jayeesha Dutta from Another Gulf is Possible will further inspire my own activism. They will continue to remind me that “we all we got” during the chaos of climate crisis and that we will figure it out despite our confusion. Verdin, reflecting on the uncertainty of the future during a 2020 Peace Talks Radio interview, confesses, Recently my new mantra is “remain and reclaim.” I also wonder often if I’m kidding myself. Did I drink the Kool-Aid too to think that I can build a house

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Frances Roberts-Gregory on a concrete slab on top of land that is essentially sinking? There are times when I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth saying, “Home is home. There’s no place like home. Plant your fruit trees. Keep your seeds growing.” Then there is another part of me that’s like, “You know what? I live right down the street from two major oil refineries and I’ve packed my car too many times to evacuate to be naive and think that I won’t have to do that again.” I also don’t know where to run to. (Verdin 2020)

I can’t help but appreciate her courage and honesty in speaking this terrifying truth. Where will we climate feminists run? Lastly, I used to track my scholarly output through conference presentations, peer-reviewed publications, funded grant proposals, and intellectual contribution to debates in my field(s). Now I track my emotional resiliency and survivance 33 through the quality of my relationships to plants, people, and place, ability to give and receive support, and courage to be vulnerable, express gratitude, and make mistakes. Moving forward, I will continue to practice reciprocity, unlearn the white supremacy of academia, and push the boundaries of methodological innovation in the social sciences. Most importantly, I will develop my ecowomanist scholar-activist praxis with the understanding that omissions matter just as much as partial perspectives. Since knowledge is embodied and situated, feminist partial perspectives in my professional and personal opinion are needed to combat climate change and social inequality (Haraway 1988). Therein lies the potential for stubborn hope and stubborn optimism. In other words, “We are unstoppable! Another world is possible!” 34 Ya heard dat! Ase! 35 REFERENCES Allen, Elizabeth, Hannah Lyons, and Jennie C Stephens. 2019. “Women’s Leadership in Renewable Transformation, Energy Justice and Energy Democracy: Redistributing Power.” Energy Research & Social Science 57: 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2019.101233. Allison, Elizabeth. 2017. “Toward a Feminist Ethic of Care for Climate Change.” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 32, no. 2: 152–58. https://doi.org/10.2979/jfemistudreli.32.2. 21. Baker, Shalanda H. 2019. “Anti-Resilience: A Roadmap for Transformational Justice within the Energy System.” Harvard Civil Rights-Civil Liberties Law Review 54, no. 1: 1–48. Bell, Shannon Elizabeth, Cara Daggett, and Christine Labuski. 2020. “Toward Feminist Energy Systems: Why Adding Women and Solar Panels Is Not Enough.” Energy Research and Social Science 68: 1–13. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.erss.2020.101557. Bisschop, Lieselot C.J., Staci Strobl, and Julie S. Viollaz. 2018. “Getting into Deep Water: Coastal Land Loss and State-Corporate Crime in the Louisiana Bayou.” British Journal of Criminology 58, no. 4: 886–905. brown, adrienne maree. 2017. Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds. Chico, CA: AK Press. ———. 2019. Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good. Chico, CA: AK Press. Bullard, Robert D. 2008. “Differential Vulnerabilities: Environmental and Economic Inequality and Government Response to Unnatural Disasters.” Social Research 75, no. 3: 753–84. https://doi.org/10.1353/sor.2008.0035.

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Burns, Bridget. 2020. “Recording of Earth Week Dialogues.” feministgreennewdeal.com, May 2, 2020. http://feministgreennewdeal.com/2020/05/02/recording-of-earth-week-dialogues/. Clay, Elonda. 2011. “How Does It Feel to Be an Environmental Problem? Studying Religion and Ecology in the African Diaspora.” In Inherited Land: The Changing Grounds of Religion and Ecology, edited by Whitney Bauman, Richard Bohannon, and Kevin O’Brien, 148–70. Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10746-009-9113-5. Davenport, Leslie. 2017. Emotional Resiliency in the Era of Climate Change. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Davies, Thom. 2018. “Toxic Space and Time: Slow Violence, Necropolitics, and Petrochemical Pollution.” Annals of the American Association of Geographers 108, no. 6: 1537–53. https://doi.org/10.1080/24694452.2018.1470924. Dembicki, Geoff. 2020. “A Debate Over Racism Has Split One of the World’s Most Famous Climate Groups.” vice.com, 2020. https://www.vice.com/en_ca/article/jgey8k/a-debateover-racism-has-split-one-of-the-worlds-most-famous-climate-groups. Dolan, Mara. 2019. “At COP25, Women’s Rights and Climate Activists Advocate a Feminist Green New Deal.” WEDO.org, 2019. https://wedo.org/at-cop25-womens-rights-andclimate-activists-advocate-a-feminist-green-new-deal/. Frankland, Peggy, and Susan Tucker. 2013. Women Pioneers of the Louisiana Environmental Movement. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. Gaard, Greta. 2015. “Ecofeminism and Climate Change.” Women’s Studies International Forum 49: 20–33. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wsif.2015.02.004. Gay-Antaki, Miriam. 2020. “Feminist Geographies of Climate Change: Negotiating Gender at Climate Talks.” Geoforum 115: 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2020.06.012. Goodman, Amy. 2019. “‘We Want People Power Solutions’: Activists Ousted from COP25 for Protesting Corporations at Summit.” democracynow.org, December 12, 2019. https:// www.democracynow.org/2019/12/12/cop25_protesters_forced_out_of_summit. Haraway, Donna. 1988. “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective.” Feminist Studies 14, no. 3: 575–99. https://doi.org/ 10.2307/3178066. Harris, Melanie L. 2017. Ecowomanism: African American Women and Earth-Honoring Faiths. MaryKnoll, NY: Orbis Books. Jacobs, Fayola. 2018. “Black Feminism and Radical Planning: New Directions for Disaster Planning Research.” Planning Theory 18, no. 1: 24–39. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1473095218763221. Jaquette Ray, Sarah. 2020. A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety: How to Keep Your Cool on a Warming Planet. Oakland: University of California Press. Lane, Temryss Maclean. 2018. “The Frontline of Refusal: Indigenous Women Warriors of Standing Rock.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 31, no. 3: 197–214. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2017.1401151. MacGregor, Sherilyn. 2010. “A Stranger Silence Still: The Need for Feminist Social Research on Climate Change.” The Sociological Review 57, no. 2: 124–40. https://doi.org/10.1111/ j.1467-954X.2010.01889.x. Onís, Catalina M. de, and Phaedra C. Pezzullo. 2017. “The Ethics of Embodied Engagement: Ethnographies of Environmental Justice.” In The Routledge Handbook of Environmental Justice, edited by Ryan Holifield, Jayajit Chakraborty, and Gordon Walker, 231–40. Milton: Routledge. Osaka, Shannon. 2020. “‘A Common Germ Pool’: The Frightening Origins of the Coronavirus.” grist.org, 2020. https://grist.org/climate/a-common-germ-pool-the-frightening-environmentalorigins-of-covid-19/. Pellow, David N. 2016. “Toward a Critical Environmental Justice Studies: Black Lives Matter as an Environmental Justice Challenge.” Du Bois Review 13, no. 2: 221–36. https://doi.org/ 10.1017/S1742058X1600014X. Ranganathan, Malini, and Eve Bratman. 2019. “From Urban Resilience to Abolitionist Climate Justice in Washington, DC.” Antipode 0 (0): 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1111/anti.12555.

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Raphael, Chad. 2019. “Engaged Communication Scholarship for Environmental Justice: A Research Agenda.” Environmental Communication 13 (8): 1087–1107. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/17524032.2019.1591478. Riley, Shamara Shantu. 1992. “Ecology Is a Sistah’s Issue Too: The Politics of Emergent Afrocentric Ecowomanism.” In This Sacred Earth: Religion, Nature, Environment, edited by Roger S. Gottlieb, 412–27. New York: Routledge, 2nd ed. Roberts-Gregory, Frances. 2020a. “On Being the (Only) Black Feminist Environmental Ethnographer in Gulf Coast Louisiana.” Edge Effects, March 2020. https://edgeeffects.net/onbeing-the-only-black-feminist-environmental-ethnographer-in-gulf-coast-louisiana/. ———. 2020b. “My Petrochemical Love.” Anthropology News, April 2020. https://doi.org/ 10.1111/AN.1387. Ruffin, Kimberly N. 2010. Black on Earth: African American Ecoliterary Traditions. Athens: The University of Georgia Press. Sellers, Sam. 2020. “Gender and Climate Change in the United States: A Reading of Existing Research.” https://wedo.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/WEDO-RP-022920.pdf. Shervington, Denese. 2018. Healing Is the Revolution. New Orleans, LA: Institute of Women & Ethnic Studies. Stephens, Jennie C. 2020. Diversifying Power: Why We Need Antiracist, Feminist Leadership on Climate and Energy. Washington, DC: Island Press. Strauss, Mariya. 2018. “Pipeline Resistance Confronts Big Oil in the Bayou.” New Labor Forum 27, no. 2: 93–97. https://doi.org/10.1177/1095796018765148. Tallbear, Kim. 2016. “Badass (Indigenous) Women Caretake Relations: #NoDAPL, #IdleNoMore, #BlackLivesMatter.” Cultural Anthropology, 2016. Taylor, Dorceta E. 2014. Toxic Communities: Environmental Racism, Industrial Pollution, and Residential Mobility. New York: New York University Press. Terrell, Kimberly A, and Wesley James. 2020. “Racial Disparities in Air Pollution Burden and COVID-19 Deaths in Louisiana, USA, in the Context of Long-Term Changes in Fine Particulate Pollution.” Environmental Justice 00 (00): 1–8. https://doi.org/10.1089/ env.2020.0021. Verdin, Monique. 2020. “Climate Anxiety.” Peace Talks Radio, July 13, 2020. https:// www.talkstreamlive.com/program/peace_talks_radio?podcasts=. Waldron, Ingrid R. G. 2018. “Women on the Frontlines: Grassroots Movements Against Environmental Violence in Indigenous and Black Communities in Canada.” Kalfou: A Journal of Comparative and Relational Ethnic Studies 5 (2): 251–68. Wilson, Sacoby M., Robert Bullard, Jacqui Patterson, and Stephen B. Thomas. 2020. “Roundtable on the Pandemics of Racism, Environmental Injustice, and COVID-19 in America.” Environmental Justice 13 (3): 56–64. https://doi.org/10.1089/env.2020.0019. Wright, Willie Jamaal. 2018. “As Above, So Below: Anti-Black Violence as Environmental Racism.” Antipode 0 (0): 1–19. https://doi.org/10.1111/anti.12425.

NOTES 1. See “Ecology Is a Sistah’s Issue Too” (Riley 1992). 2. Entergy is a Fortune 500 utility company headquartered in New Orleans that serves Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, and Mississippi. In 2018, Entergy was involved in an astroturfing scandal when corporate officials hired a subcontractor to pay actors to lobby the city council to approve the construction of a gas plant in New Orleans East. New Orleans East is a rapidly sinking, high risk flood region in the 9th ward of New Orleans that is home to Black, Latin(x), and Vietnamese communities. 3. A shotgun home is an iconic, colorful New Orleans style apartment with West African and Haitian origins. Originally designed for the city’s poorer and working-class residents, the shotgun home and its variations consist of narrow rectangular residences with high walls, where each room blends into the next. 4. Big Freedia the Queen Diva is a New Orleans musician who helped popularize bounce music, a style of New Orleans hip hop, across the world.

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5. Known as the “party with a purpose,” Essence Festival is an annual music festival in New Orleans that centers Black women hosted by Essence Magazine. 6. Louis Armstrong Park, located in the Tremé neighborhood and across from the French Quarter, is named after the late great jazz musician Louis Armstrong. It is home to Congo Square, a spiritual site used by enslaved Africans and Indigenous peoples to preserve traditional dance styles and develop new musical rhythms. 7. The New Orleans People’s Assembly and Take ’Em Down NOLA are community organizations committed to ending symbols of white supremacy, promoting progressive social change, and resisting state-based violence and systemic inequality; NOLA is an abbreviation for New Orleans, Louisiana. 8. Lafayette Square is the second oldest park in New Orleans and located in the Central Business District across from the former City Hall. It is named after a French aristocrat and general who sided with the Americans during the Revolutionary War. 9. An old car. 10. Afroecology is an ecological approach to growing food; it is sustainable agriculture and a Black land ethic that centers African and Afro-indigenous roots and culture (i.e., Afro + agroecology). 11. Many Indigenous scholars discuss ongoing apocalypses (settler colonialism, genocide, slavery, etc.) that have violently transformed landscapes, people, cultures, and worldviews. 12. A pirogue is a flat-bottomed boat used traditionally by Cajuns and Indigenous peoples in Louisiana to travel the bayous and wetlands. 13. Cancer Alley (also known as Death Alley) refers to the 85-mile industrial corridor along the Mississippi River between New Orleans and Baton Rouge that is home to over 150 petrochemical plants and oil refineries. Many fenceline communities historically have resisted environmental racism and currently fight health disparities and higher death rates from COVID-19 in Cancer/Death/Coronavirus Alley. 14. In 2013, “The Governor’s Wife” premiered on A&E. It followed the lives of 85-year-old ex-con and ex-governor of Louisiana Edwin Edwards and his 34-year-old third wife Trina Edwards. 15. The Louisiana Industrial Tax Exemption Program (ITEP) is a corporate welfare program that deprives local governments and school boards of billions in local property taxes. 16. Dirty South music is a term to describe southern hip hop. I use it also to refer to the pollution and political corruption in the southern United States. 17. Bulbancha is a Choctaw word meaning “land of many tongues.” It is an Indigenous name for the New Orleans region which served as a precolonial port for many diverse Indigenous communities. The (differently spelled) Bvlbancha Collective makes herbal medicines in the region. 18. See “How Does it Feel to be an Environmental Problem? Studying Religion and Ecology in the African Diaspora” (Clay 2011). 19. Sankofa is a Ghanaian Adinkra symbol, shaped like a bird or heart, that encourages one to return to the wisdom of the past in order to manifest a successful future. 20. “Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America” is a quote from the late great civil rights activist Rep. John Lewis. 21. “Lifting as we climb” was the National Association of Colored Women’s (NACW) motto adopted by pioneering Black feminists and suffragists like Mary Church Terrell and Ida B. Wells-Barnett. 22. Queer ecologies refer to the use of queer theories to critically reimagine gender, sexuality, and nature, as well as the embedded heteronormativity of biology and environmental politics. 23. According to Melanie Harris (2017) and Kimberly N. Ruffin (2010), the “beauty to burden paradox” refers to the paradoxical relationship people of African descent hold to the land as former enslaved individuals who experience horror in relationship to forced labor, yet still find divine healing in connection to environmental and agricultural knowledge. 24. Research fatigue refers to the weariness experienced by over-researched communities when they are asked to participate in research studies for little to no benefit to themselves over and over again. Translation fatigue is defined by Indigenous scholars such as Dr. Twyla Baker

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to refer to the exhaustion experienced by BIPOC communities when they are asked to explain basic concepts and historical contexts to community outsiders. 25. Black women in the United States die at disproportionately high rates during childbirth as compared to our white counterparts. We also suffer from higher rates of preterm births, infant mortality, and low birth weights as a result of environmental racism and stress impacts on epigenetics. 26. Ethnographic refusal as a decolonial and Indigenous research method refers to the ethical refusal to share sensitive or painful ethnographic data to academic audiences and the refusal of research participants to discuss certain topics in order to control their own narratives. 27. See Healing is the Revolution, a healing manifesto written by Black New Orleans psychiatrist Dr. Denese Shervington (2018). 28. National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). 29. An Earth Week Online Dialog titled “Resilience and a Just Recovery through a Feminist Green New Deal” was held on April 24, 2020. 30. A zero-growth economy is an anti-capitalist concept and social movement that critiques the endless growth of capitalist markets and encourages ecological sustainability. 31. The phrase “Another South is Possible” is inspired by the Another Gulf is Possible Collaborative, an Indigenous and women of color led group of artists, organizers, and activists from the Gulf South and Global South committed to healing, sustainability, and a just transition to a healthier Gulf Coast. 32. “Black girl reliability,” a concept developed by Dominique C. Hill within Black girlhood studies, encourages Black feminist researchers to embrace paradox and multifaceted subjectivity, participate in women of color collectives, and clap back at unreliable narratives that hinder us from being accountable to the communities we research. 33. Survivance is an Indigenous concept developed by Gerald Vizenor, which loosely refers to the audacious cultural space of survival, resistance, endurance, creativity, and vitality. 34. “We are unstoppable! Another World is Possible!” is the motto of the World Social Forum and is a popular activist chant amongst young climate activists. 35. Acknowledgment: I am forever grateful to all the BIPOC women and allies who advocate for environmental, energy, and climate justice around the world. Thank you for sharing your herstories, nightmares, and dreams with me. Thank you for inspiring my activist journey. I would also like to thank the editors of this anthology for patiently waiting for this manuscript. Finally, this research was generously funded by grants, fellowships, and support networks provided by the Robert and Patricia Switzer Foundation, Gates Millennium Scholars Program, New Orleans Center for the Gulf South, Sigma Xi, Berkeley Food Institute, Graduate Research Fellowship Program (NSF GRFP), Spelman College Democratizing Knowledge Summer Institute, Women’s Environment and Development Organization (WEDO), Environmental Grantmakers Association, and Ford Predoctoral Fellowship.

Chapter Eleven

Lifelines Repairing War on the Land Gwyn Kirk with Ruth Bottomley and Susan Cundiff

When I [Kirk] was 12, my brother, then aged 6, was friends with a classmate who lived on the next street. Her mother had a degree in science. Despite differences in age and experience, Mum and Ruby—Mrs. Sing to me—were friends. One November afternoon, they were having tea together when I dropped in after school. The baby, Claire, was just walking. Mum watched her for a while, then suddenly said, “That child’s got rickets! There’s no excuse for that these days. What are you feeding her?” “I’m not giving her milk, if that’s what you mean. How do you know it’s safe?” Ruby challenged in return. “You must have heard about the fire at Windscale. And the leaks. It’s been in the papers for weeks. The wind has blown radioactive fallout for miles. The grass is contaminated. Cows are eating it. The government says it’s safe, but they’ve made farmers get rid of thousands of gallons of milk!” She mentioned chemicals I’d never heard of. Windscale was a nuclear reactor, I learned later. 1 Maybe Mum knew what that meant; I know I didn’t. Mum was remembering children with rickets from years before, kids whose parents could not afford to feed them properly. She couldn’t fathom that someone with a university education—and her husband a professor—could have a child with rickets. Ruby said it was lack of vitamin D that made toddlers’ bones soft. “We all make vitamin D in the presence of sunlight. I’m putting Claire outside as much as I can.” Mum was not impressed. In November in the north of England sunlight was in short supply. “You clever people know a lot but you’ve got to be practical. You better get her back on milk.” Later, our high school history course was full of European wars: the Seven Years War, Thirty Years War, One Hundred Years War, this dukedom against 147

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that, that principality against another, international coalitions against Napoleon, and so on. The textbook repeated: “The armies laid waste the land.” They slashed their way through growing crops, destroyed orchards, killed livestock, and poisoned wells. In the early 1980s, I was involved in Greenham Common women’s peace movement against the nuclear arms race and for a just and sustainable world. I heard activists from Pacific islands where the United States and Britain had conducted atomic tests talk about cancer, miscarriages, and that some women had given birth to babies without skeletons (Women Working for a Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific 1987). US women opposed nuclear testing in the 1960s (Swerdlow 1993); uranium miners in New Mexico had high cancer rates (Eichstaedt 1994). I heard about landmines, military impacts on wildlife habitat, and the effects of the Navy’s sonar technology on whales. Then oil wells set on fire in the 1991 Persian Gulf War burned thick black smoke for months, visible even from space (Bloom et al. 1994, Seager 1992). I focus on US militarism in this chapter. 2 A settler-colonial state and an overseas imperial power, the United States is #1 in the world in military technology and military spending, with around 400 bases at home and 1,000 more abroad to project US power worldwide (Lutz 2009, Vine 2015). Further, the US military consumes more fossil fuel and emits more carbon than many countries (Crawford 2019, Hussain 2019, Nelmark, Belcher, and Bigger 2019). Militarism is a system of investments, mindsets, and practices that take their meaning and value from war. It is driven by profits from producing and selling weapons, with ideologies of racism and xenophobia to fuel the creation of enemies. Indeed, the dominant paradigm in international relations assumes a dog-eat-dog world where war is always a possibility and “states must rely on their own power and capabilities . . . to enhance their national security” (Tickner 2001, 38). Thus, states define national security in military terms. The US Air Force base at Greenham Common was slated to become a nuclear missile site. In protest, women cut down sections of the fence, insisting that what goes on inside is our business. This chapter insists on exposing the sham of national security discourse that underlies so much misery and destruction, and it honors those who are cutting the fences. LIVING IN A TOXIC STEW Ecological contamination is an intrinsic part of agribusiness, industry, and high-tech production, as well as militarism. For humans, the effects of this toxic stew tend to show up first in women and children. Children are particularly vulnerable to noxious substances because their bodies are small and still

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developing. Exposure to hazardous chemicals may cause women to miscarry and result in congenital abnormalities in babies, as fetal development is highly sensitive to toxicities and stressors (Steingraber 2003). Also, gender roles that keep women at home may expose them “to environmental illness in a gender-differentiated manner” (Kettel 1996, 1368). Moreover, the location of hazardous facilities and operations is closely linked to race and class, as environmental justice activists and researchers have shown (e.g., Adamson, Evans, and Stein 2002, Bullard 2005, Sze 2006). Biologist Sandra Steingraber (2003) maintains that standards of safety for environmental contaminants are guesstimates at best, calculated according to abstract notions of “tolerable risk.” Victims who are exposed to toxic substances want meaningful investigation and research; compensation for poor health, injury, and loss of life; and conscientious cleanup and restoration of contaminated land and water. The US legal system requires them to show how a specific facility or practice harmed them, an onerous standard of proof. It may take months or years for effects to show, and people may be exposed to multiple sources of toxins at the same time. Governments and corporations do not need to prove that what they do is safe—a slippery concept—even when their activities are not safe, or not safe for everyone. In response, environmental activists have urged governments to impose the precautionary principle in all decisions about the use of land, so that “the proponent of an activity, rather than the public, should bear the burden of proof” (Rachel’s Environment and Health Weekly 1998, 1). Military operations create more contamination and greenhouse gases than industry, but are subject to less scrutiny, regulation, and control. Also, despite contamination of current and former military sites, the Department of Defense (DoD) continues to commandeer new locations in preparation for possible conflict. “Readiness,” the military’s priority at all times, is a flexible concept that provides inexhaustible legitimation for military activities. Other military imperatives are for secrecy, and limits to political and legal control. All US government departments come under federal law, but environmental protections within the United States can be waived for the DoD if compliance is said to harm military readiness and national security. US military operations outside the United States are not covered by US environmental law but by specific Status of Forces Agreements (SOFAs) with countries that “host” US bases or military operations. These agreements depend on how much the United States wants access and the relative bargaining power of host nations, which rarely negotiate with the US on equal terms (Kirk and Francis 2000). Early SOFAs with South Korea and Japan, for example, exempted cleanup of environmental contamination caused by US military use. In contrast, the NATO SOFA (e.g., with Germany) included some environmental provisions, although more recent agreements with Bulgaria and Romania allow lower environmental standards compared to Western European

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nations (Kirk 2008). Revisions to the SOFA with South Korea in 2018 include annexes on environmental factors but do not hold the US accountable for contamination (Shin 2020). DoD officials are in Congress regularly to lobby for their needs. The power of national security discourse means that few elected representatives appear to question this perspective. Military officials must surely know the severe impacts of environmental contamination, but military priorities mean that it continues. LAYING WASTE THE LAND: WAR AND PREPARATIONS FOR WAR Destruction of land is an ancient weapon of war with lasting effects. For example, landmines remain in the ground long after soldiers have gone in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Cambodia, Colombia, and Kuwait. Bombing training pulverizes earth to dust and rubble and leaves behind shrapnel and unexploded ammunition. Massive bombing strikes against Afghanistan and Iraq have caused untold wreckage including the strategic destruction of power supplies, sewer pipes, irrigation systems, and oil wells. Even routine military training and use of radar, chemicals, and solvents affect US bases and surrounding communities from Kelly Air Force Base (San Antonio, Texas) to Panama and the Philippines (Kirk 2008, Lerner 2010, Lindsay-Poland 2003, Olib 2000). War injures groups and nations defined as enemies; also, military technologies may harm the troops who use them. From 1962 to 1971, the US Air Force flew nearly 20,000 herbicide spray missions to destroy forest cover in Vietnam (Shenon 2000). This included Agent Orange—named for the orange stripes on the cans it was shipped in—that contained the deadly chemical dioxin. One of the manufacturers was Dow Chemical, headquartered in Midland, Michigan. Defoliation devastated rice fields, gardens, forests, and mangroves in Vietnam, and affected Vietnamese people’s lives, now into the third generation, as described by Linh Hua in this volume. It also affected the health of US veterans and residents of Midland, who were all exposed to these hazards. Contamination of land, air, and water has occurred at every stage of the nuclear cycle from uranium mining to weapons production and testing, to the disposal of radioactive waste. Nine states—China, France, India, Israel, North Korea, Pakistan, Russia, the UK, and the US—possess around 14,000 nuclear weapons in total, some stockpiled, others actively deployed. The United States and Russia own most of them, a lethal legacy of the Cold War. In the United States, the atomic test site in Nevada and production facilities at Hanford, Washington; Fernald, Ohio; Oak Ridge, Tennessee; Savan-

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nah River, South Carolina; and Rocky Flats, Colorado, are all sites of accidents, explosions, and seepage of radioactive material. These locations were selected because they are isolated from major population centers or close to a source of water. Racism was also a factor. The US government appropriated Western Shoshone land for the test site in Nevada. Under the Nixon administration, the Department of Energy justified contamination of Native American lands used for uranium mining by designating them a “national sacrifice area,” a price that had to be paid for national security (Churchill 1993, LaDuke 1999). This prompts several questions. How is nation defined here? Who is part of it and who is not? Who decides which areas and communities are sacrificed? How many “national sacrifice areas” can there be before the nation suffers? Beyond its continental borders, the United States tested atomic weapons in the Marshall Islands, a UN Trust Territory in the Pacific Ocean, which was under US administration from 1944 to 1986 (Dibblin 1990, Johnson 2013, Teaiwa 2010). Henry Kissinger commented at the time, “There are only 90,000 people out there. Who gives a damn?” (quoted in Wong 2017). In addition, the military has appropriated land for bases and live-fire training areas in US colonial territories such as the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Guam (McCaffrey 2008, Natividad and Kirk 2010, Natividad and Leon Guerrero 2010, Olib 2000, People’s Task Force for Bases Cleanup 1997). OPPOSING WAR ON THE LAND All that said, I am inspired that community activists, journalists, scholars, and some policy makers are grappling with these daunting issues. Two women report on their work here. Susan Cundiff is a core member of Oregon WAND, a group that exposes the dire human and environmental impacts of the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Ruth Bottomley is a researcher for the Landmine and Cluster Munition Monitor, 3 writing here in her personal capacity. Susan Cundiff Reports on the Work of Oregon WAND Women’s Action for New Directions (WAND) is a national organization to empower women to act to reduce violence and militarism, support nuclear disarmament, and redirect excessive Pentagon spending to unmet human and environmental needs. The Oregon chapter works on these issues, mainly through public education and often in coalition with other organizations across the state, making the case for reduced military spending and nuclear abolition as social justice concerns connected to economic, racial, and environmental justice movements. 4

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In 2019, as part of a statewide coalition, WAND members testified before the Oregon legislature, which subsequently passed a resolution calling on the US government to join the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons, adopted by the UN in 2017. The bill acknowledged that Oregon taxpayers spend roughly $188 million annually on nuclear weapons—money that could be better spent on education, health care, infrastructure, and the environment. It called out the racial injustice and harm to human and ecological health that nuclear weapons have caused including the effects of uranium mining on Indigenous land, weapons testing in the Marshall Islands, the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the contamination of the Hanford Nuclear site, alongside the Columbia River, near Richland, Washington. 5 As part of the World War II “Manhattan Project,” the Hanford Nuclear Reservation was the world’s first plutonium production complex, and generated materials used in the bombing of Nagasaki in 1945. It is now considered the most contaminated nuclear waste site in the Western Hemisphere. A 2005 Department of Energy report summarized what it called “the physical challenges” at Hanford: millions of gallons of highly radioactive liquid waste in 177 underground storage tanks, 2,300 tons of spent nuclear fuel, 9 tons of plutonium in various forms, about 25 million cubic feet of buried or stored solid waste, about 77 square miles of groundwater contaminated with chemicals and radionuclides above drinking water standards, more than 1,700 former waste disposal sites, and about 500 contaminated facilities. (Poston et al. 2006, 9)

Many people in the Pacific Northwest do not know about this contamination, as activities at Hanford remain a secret even today. The industry regularly denies problems and exaggerates progress in cleanup. It was women who first suspected something was going on there. Talking to each other at churches, schools, rural grange halls, or sitting around their kitchen tables, women noticed that members of their community, who had always been so healthy, were suddenly experiencing serious illnesses. Cancers were on a significant increase and women were having miscarriages or stillbirths. Patricia Hoover is a Hanford Downwinder and an Oregon WAND member. She has spoken at local libraries, rallies, and the state legislature about her experience of the debilitating effects of radiation. She asks audiences, “Where did you grow up?” and explains: The answer to that question is the most significant information in my medical history. I spent the first eighteen years of my life downriver and downwind from the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Beginning in the mid-1940s when Hanford’s eight nuclear reactors went on line my community was struck with high rates of thyroid cancer, miscarriages, birth anomalies, and many other irregular medical conditions.

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It took us more than 40 years to verify our suspicion that the Federal government had contaminated the air, water, and food chain throughout the Northwest. In 1986, thousands of activists were finally granted a Freedom of Information request. Despite repeated government denials, 19,000 pages of operating documents confirmed that hundreds of thousands of curies of radiation had been released from Hanford over years of operation. This finally explained many medical events in my life. Why men in lab coats came to my junior high health class to palpate the throat of every student as if it were part of the curriculum. Why my thyroid gland quit functioning at age 11 and developed a tumor the size of a grapefruit 18 years later. I no longer considered my mysteriously fractured ankle and my classmates’ numerous broken bones to be “normal childhood mishaps.”

In support of Hanford Downwinders, Oregon WAND urged elected officials to resist cuts to the Defense Nuclear Facilities Safety Board, chartered by Congress in 1988. This vital watchdog is one of the few agencies that monitor and hold US nuclear sites accountable to specific rules of operation. Its weekly reports provide a transparent, public source of information, including details of contractors’ mistakes that could jeopardize the safety of thousands of workers and nearby communities. WAND members hosted a moving conversation between Patricia Hoover and Washington’s 2012 Poet Laureate, Kathleen Flenniken, who grew up in Richland, Washington, and worked at Hanford for three years as a civil engineer and hydrologist. Each shared their experiences of living in the shadow of the Hanford Nuclear plant during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, a reality that blights people’s lives to this day. This extract from the poem, “Plume” (Flenniken 2012, 18), describes the percolation of poisons underground: it

is

out

of

our

hands

this

50

year

old

mistake this

poison

... yes

it

is

moving

to

the

river

yes

it

migrates

between

gains

down

to

saturated

sediment

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... and

like

anything with

a

a

flock

destiny of

birds

sperm breath it

will

move

downstream to

the

river

yes

the

river

will

take

it

in. 6

The cleanup of environmental contamination at Hanford is a long, slow process. It has been over 75 years since the plant started plutonium production. The effects of that activity continue to harm and threaten surrounding communities and those downstream. I believe we have to shine a spotlight on that threat and insist that the work of cleanup continues. We are all Downwinders. Ruth Bottomley Reports on Landmines and Other Explosive Remnants of War in Cambodia Landmines were first laid in Cambodia in the mid-1960s as the country was drawn into the Vietnam War. All factions in the civil war that followed (lasting until the late 1990s) also laid landmines. The most heavily contaminated regions are on the northwest border with Thailand. This includes a mine belt installed by the Vietnamese-controlled government during the 1980s to deter incursions from resistance forces living on the Thai border. It is considered one of the most contaminated areas in the world. Other explosive remnants of war (ERW) include unexploded cluster munitions found in the northeast and east of the country along the borders with Vietnam and Lao People’s Democratic Republic as a result of the US government’s massive covert bombing of Vietcong bases from 1969 to 1973. Strategies and Activities to Reclaim Land Mine clearance began in Cambodia in 1991. Since then, various groups have undertaken surveys, cleared mines, provided mine/ERW risk education, and assisted victims. These include the Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC)

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together with international humanitarian organizations: Mines Advisory Group (MAG), the HALO Trust, Humanity and Inclusion (HI, formerly Handicap International), and Norwegian People’s Aid. The Cambodian Mine Action Authority (CMAA) was established in 2000 to coordinate the sector. Cambodia became a state party to the Anti-personnel Mine Ban Treaty on 1 January 2000 and is currently committed to clearing all landmines in its territory by 31 December 2025 (Royal Government of Cambodia 2017). It has not yet signed the Convention on Cluster Munitions. The Jesuit Refugee Service is the focal point for the Cambodia Campaign to Ban Landmines and Cluster Munitions, as a member of the International Campaign to Ban Landmines and Cluster Munition Coalition. As of 2019, the CMAA reported that 1,881 km2 (approximately 464 acres) of land had been released and 1,063,918 anti-personnel mines, 24,835 anti-vehicle mines, and 2,770,612 explosive remnants of war had been found and destroyed (Cambodia Mine Action Authority 2019). Mine clearance has been considered a male occupation in Cambodia, with many deminers originally drawn from the military. Today more women are working in this sector. Although there are female deminers, more women work in mine/ERW risk education, or as community liaison personnel, or with victim assistance, utilizing so-called “soft” skills rather than “hard” technical skills. The CMAA National Mine Action Strategy 2018–2025 recommends promoting equal participation of women in mine action processes, services for survivors, risk education, and advocacy activities. Impacts of Landmines and Explosive Remnants of War Cambodia’s population is approximately 16 million, with 80 percent living in rural areas where mine/ERW contamination poses a significant threat. People frequently become victims to mines and ERW through their daily activities as mines block access to productive land and restrict access to water and to forest areas where people forage and hunt. Since the end of hostilities more than 64,000 people have been killed or injured by landmines and ERW in Cambodia (ICBL-CMC 2019). Most casualties are men, who are at higher risk of such accidents compared to women due to their greater mobility and their role in the farming cycle. In recent years, the mechanization of farming has caused tractors and trailers to trigger anti-vehicle mines, causing multiple casualties. Given that women tend to hold primary responsibility for household work and healthcare for their families, the burden of caring for injured family members often falls to them. Despite Cambodia’s rapid economic growth in the last decade and an overall reduction in poverty (from 47.8 percent in 2007 to 13.5 percent in 2014), around 4.5 million Cambodians remain vulnerable to falling back into poverty if exposed to economic shocks (World

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Bank n.d.). Within a household, a mine accident and the loss or injury of a household member can have a severe negative impact. The northeast of Cambodia is rich in natural resources such as forests, fertile soils, and gemstones. It is also home to many Indigenous ethnic groups. Here large-scale agribusiness investment has eroded the traditional customary management of village and agricultural land and forests. The 2001 Cambodian land law provides for communal title for Indigenous lands, but the process to gain title has been slow and laborious, and community members have been encouraged to take individual title. It is uncertain how the clearance of cluster munitions in this region, which started in 2013, will impact the situation regarding lands, resources, and Indigenous culture, and whether it will exacerbate existing tensions over land. Land and Environment Despite its vital importance, it is expensive and difficult to secure title to land in Cambodia, with 80 percent of households in rural areas having no secure land title, meaning that they can be easily displaced (Hughes 2008). The mine action sector has prioritized clearance of land for poorer communities and households. In the last decade land prices have risen as a result of increased investment from Cambodia’s neighbors, particularly China, South Korea, and Vietnam. In urban areas this is leading to a boom in property development and high-rise buildings, and in rural areas to concessions for crops such as cassava and rubber, hydropower, and extraction of natural resources. Land that is mine-free is a valuable commodity and this often comes at a cost for the environment and the poorer communities living in these areas. Despite these challenges, however, the clearance of landmines and cluster munitions is essential to prevent innocent civilians from being maimed and killed and to enable people in the rural areas of the country to live their lives free from the fear of these hidden killers. STRATEGIES OF RESISTANCE I recognize and honor these women who are involved in this painstaking, long-term work. Their reports suggest various ways to bring these issues into public consciousness, and many organizations—not only women—are doing so. This includes gathering evidence of the impacts of military toxics on plants, birds, humans, and other animals, as well as learning how to restore land, for example, by taking out landmines and explosive remnants of war, or by clearing invasive species, making pathways for safe access, and learning cultural practices as at Kaho’olawe, Hawaii (McGregor 2019). Okinawa

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Women Act Against Military Violence (1998) collected personal stories and catalogued the incidence of noise, fires, accidents, and pollution caused by US military operations from 1945 to 1998, a document they used to argue for more systematic research. Many grassroots groups create materials for public education and media work, including personal testimonies, maps, videos, and graphics. Groups provide services to communities affected by military contamination. This includes providing prostheses for survivors of landmine accidents; negotiating access to military-controlled areas in order to protect graves and cultural sites; and offering medicinal remedies, physical therapy, and emotional and spiritual support for people dealing with anger, hopelessness, and grief. Other strategies involve making these issues visible through public events, rallies, and demonstrations; organizing hearings, where expert witnesses and survivors testify about their experiences; and lobbying for changes in law and policy. Downwinders in Nevada, uranium miners in New Mexico, US troops who were urged to watch atomic explosions in the Pacific, and Vietnam War veterans have all filed successful lawsuits against the US government, although often only after many of those involved have died. Also, the New York-based Vietnam Agent Orange Relief and Responsibility Campaign has supported Vietnamese victims’ demands for official US recognition and compensation. Another important strategy Cundiff mentioned is to keep tabs on regulatory bodies, urging them to enforce existing regulations, and attempting to stop governments from reducing or abandoning environmental protections and cleanup. Oregon WAND members testified before the state legislature, which subsequently passed a resolution calling on the US government to join the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons, adopted by the UN in 2017. The International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN), a coalition of organizations from one hundred nations, coordinated this effort. Fifty nations must sign and ratify the treaty for it to come into effect; by October 2020 this had been achieved. Also, a total of 164 states are party to the 1999 Mine Ban Treaty (Borger 2020). Although the United States has not joined that treaty it has destroyed much of its stock and banned production and acquisition of anti-personnel mines. However, in 2020, the Trump administration announced that it would reverse this policy, a big step backwards. These major international campaigns require co-ordination and networking across issues and regions, and the contribution of many smaller networks and projects. The Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific movement, for example, started in 1975, linked groups from Hawaii, Tonga, Fiji, Micronesia, Australia, New Zealand, and the Philippines. US grassroots publications such as The Nuclear Resister and Nukewatch connect activists and allies through their reporting of protests. Such groups also honor victims/survivors, commemorate disasters, and celebrate milestones toward healing and renewal. At

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Hiroshima (Japan), a Peace Park and Peace Museum commemorate the atomic bombing that decimated the city in minutes in August 1945. Elderly survivors—hibakusha—tell their stories. Small groups hold informal ceremonies. Each year on the anniversary of the bombing, local residents and visitors float lanterns on the Hiroshima River in remembrance of those who perished. Green Legacy Hiroshima shares seeds from trees that survived the atomic blast—hibakujumoku—to be planted in public parks and gardens around the world as living symbols of man-made destruction and nature’s resilience. Many groups also oppose the expansion of military bases and the appropriation of more land for military purposes. For example, in the Pacific island of Guam, Prutehi Litekyan: Save Ritidian (PLSR) 7 has organized protests against a proposed US Marines Live Fire Training Range Complex in Northern Guam. The US military already occupies 30 percent of this small island, notably Andersen AFB and Naval Base Guam. The group condemns the proposed military build-up, and all projects that contribute to the militarization and degradation of native lands (Natividad and Kirk 2010, Natividad and Leon Guerrero 2010). Some involved in these broad efforts define themselves as feminists; others draw on national or cultural identities, and frameworks rooted in environmental justice, anti-colonialism, or human rights. Many volunteer their time, professional expertise, artistic talents, media savvy and contacts through community-based efforts. Others do this as part of their job: ensuring that funds are allocated for research, problems are not ignored, and information is made public. Still others are involved against their will—the unfortunate victims/survivors of military contaminants, including war veterans. While much is being done, there is a need for more community organizing, student projects, scholarly research, media reporting, technical solutions, money, and above all, more political will to change this military destruction of land, air, water, and ocean. RESTORING LAND AND OCEAN: FOUR CASES Struggles concerning military toxics are shaped by political, economic, and technical factors: the severity of the contamination, the political pressure that can be mobilized, the location of sites, funds available for cleanup, and the proposed future use of the land. Cleanup is slow, which means that community pressure may have to be sustained for many years. The outcomes of these complex processes are patchy. Four examples illustrate this briefly, from Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco to sites much farther away from mainland centers.

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Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, once a vital military hub located in a predominantly African American area of San Francisco, operated from 1940 to 1974. Its functions included ship maintenance and repair, clean up of vessels returning from atomic bomb tests in the Pacific, and nuclear research. As well as radioactive waste, petroleum byproducts, paint thinners, pesticides, and PCBs have been found on site (Roberts 2018). City and state officials insisted that the Navy cleanup the base. Less polluted sections were designated for housing, some already built and occupied. The San Francisco General Plan allocated more toxic areas for offices, stores, restaurants, and parks (San Francisco Planning Department n.d.). African American neighborhood organizations together with environmental advocates from outside the area have watchdogged this decades-long process, and demanded that new housing include affordable units in a city characterized by hyper-gentrification where African Americans have been displaced due to prohibitive housing costs. The cleanup process has been fraught with delays, contractor fraud, and lingering doubts about cleanup standards and safety. Much industrial waste will remain on site, covered by a concrete cap, with concerns that these areas are “at risk of becoming inundated by the bay due to sea-level rise” (Roberts 2018). At Kaho’olawe, an uninhabited Hawaiian island used for live-fire training from 1941 to 1990, state authorities got the Navy to agree to commission cleanup of shrapnel, target vehicles, and unexploded ordnance from 30 percent of the island’s subsurface (McGregor 2019). At the end of the 10-year contract period, 9 percent of the island had been cleared to a depth of four feet; the surface was cleared over a wider area; and 23 percent of the island was not cleared at all. Since then, Native Hawaiian organizations have continued to restore the land, weed out invasive species, and participate in cultural practices on Kaho’olawe, though “someone with knowledge of the cleared areas and who has trained in identifying and avoiding ordnance must accompany anyone visiting the island” (McGregor 2019, 264–65). In Puerto Rico, a US territory, the Navy used the island of Vieques for weapons storage and a live-fire range from 1941 to 2003. Families were moved from their homes to make way for military use. Some 10,000 people currently live on the island, which has high rates of cancer among adults and children. The Navy continues with cleanup. Initially this involved burning piles of unexploded ordnance in open fires on site, a further environmental hazard. The most contaminated area has been designated a National Wildlife Refuge and placed off-limits to human beings, with minimal or no cleanup (Council on Hemispheric Affairs 2011, McCaffrey 2009, 2018). In the Marshall Islands, the US government carried out an eight-year cleanup of radioactive waste from its 67 nuclear bomb tests. International treaties and hazardous waste regulations prohibited deep ocean dumping, and Congress refused to fund a decontamination program to “make the land fit

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for human settlement again” (Jose, Wall, and Hinzel 2015). Intended as a temporary measure, irradiated soil was dumped in a crater on Runit Island and covered with an 18-inch thick concrete cap (Rust 2019). Now the cap appears to be leaking and is vulnerable to rising sea levels. Local people know the place is poisonous but there are no KEEP OUT signs or anything to warn of radioactivity. LOOKING TO THE FUTURE Weapons-grade plutonium has a half-life of 24,000 years, so the future horizon here is beyond human comprehension. No country in the world has a permanent geologic repository for disposal of high-level nuclear wastes or spent nuclear fuel from power plants (Larson 2020). In the United States, high-level and low-level radioactive waste is stored at various production sites across the country, pending long term waste depositories. The Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) near Carlsbad (New Mexico) is licensed to store low-level waste underground (Iaconangelo 2017). In the 1980s, scientists, linguists, archaeologists, anthropologists, science fiction writers, and futurists started working on ways to warn people—many centuries from now—that such sites are deadly, suggesting language, pictograms, concrete and earth walls to convey this message. In the short term, containers of waste are leaking, and concrete caps will crumble over time. By any sober assessment nuclear technology has been a catastrophe. Yes, it is a carbon-free energy source in an overheating world, but its many dangers outweigh this apparent advantage. These include risks to workers’ health and surrounding communities, high financial costs, and the possibility of serious accidents as have happened at Saint Laurent (France), Three Mile Island (USA), Chernobyl (Ukraine), and Fukushima (Japan). 8 Indeed, the consequences will continue to unfold, as this is an open-ended experiment in process with no easy “technical fix.” Perhaps the best that can be done is to put these damaged and desecrated places off limits, colossal memorials to human arrogance. As French philosopher Voltaire warned, “In ignorance, abstain” (quoted in Steingraber 2003, 105), but this is not what happened. In the more immediate future, US military planners anticipate massive displacement and forced migration worldwide as a result of storms and drought caused by the heating of the planet, and are gearing up to intervene in such scenarios (US Army War College 2019). However, far less attention is being paid to the US military’s vast consumption of oil and carbon emissions that are greater than many countries and make it a major contributor to climate change (Crawford 2019). To trim the military carbon footprint, authorities are advised to reduce their reliance on fossil fuels (Dellinger 2019). However, environmental researchers caution against “tinkering around the

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edges” of this issue and conclude, “The money spent procuring and distributing fuel across the US empire could instead be . . . helping to fund a Green New Deal” (Nelmark, Belcher, and Bigger 2019). Further, as ecological disasters increase in incidence and severity, militaries are positioning themselves as first responders. Critics of this “disaster militarism” argue that militaries are not the most appropriate institution for disaster relief, and advocate for funding and training of international teams and local emergency personnel to respond to crises (Fukushima et al. 2014). Moreover, military operations drain budgets for humanitarian assistance, rehabilitation, and reconstruction, money urgently needed for disaster relief. LIFELINES Although this situation is bleak, I see several lifelines here. The first is what plants, fungi, mycelium, and bacteria can do—through repeated cycles of bio-digestion, decay, rot, and rebirth—as these organisms digest various forms of contamination and generate conditions for a multitude of species to thrive. A second lifeline is how trees and plants support animal and human life. With every breath, people inhale oxygen that plants and trees breathe out, as they absorb the carbon dioxide we exhale. Further, unlike animals, green plants can feed on sunlight and, in turn, feed us. Indigenous ecologist Robin Wall Kimmerer (2013) argues that it is not just the land that is broken but people’s relationship to it. She asks, “How in our modern world can we find our way to understand the earth as a gift again, to make our relationship with the world sacred again?” (31). Remaking—or safeguarding—people’s relationships to the land based on reciprocity and responsibility constitutes another lifeline. The many activists who work on this issue, often for their entire lives, provide a fourth lifeline. This includes the survivors and advocates mentioned in this chapter who share their experiences and knowledge of environmental destruction, and who link victims, allies, and supporters across lines of difference, and distant places such as Windscale; Hanford; Hiroshima and Nagasaki; Okinawa; Guam; Hawaii; Shoshone country; the Marshall Islands; rural Cambodia; Midland, Michigan; and many more. People who have been displaced from their land or forced to flee from wars; mothers worrying about what to feed their babies; those who live with the effects of radiation, learn to take out landmines, or re-consecrate former bomb sites all know about ecological security. Much needs repairing: ecological devastation, class inequalities, misogyny and discrimination based on gender, brutalities perpetrated by white-supremacist nations, and prevailing cultural and economic systems that treat land, human beings, and other species as resources to be exploited and plundered. Such

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transformation requires changes in consciousness, together with political and economic systems that center the wellbeing of the planet. It means going beyond repair to stopping harmful actions in the first place. Crucial short-term steps include the adoption of the precautionary principle in all decisions about land use; strengthening environmental law and oversight; and prohibiting military exemptions to it. Cleanup of former military sites, returning land to civilian use, and continuing to remove landmines and explosive remnants of war would be priorities, as well as treatment and compensation for victims of military contamination. This will require political changes as short-term political cycles dominated by expediency and a focus on “wins” cannot address such long-term issues. A fundamental contradiction of militarized security is that states deplete their financial, technical, and ecological resources to prepare for war, often to the detriment of their own citizens, especially low-income communities who live with the insecurity of poverty, inadequate medical care, state-sanctioned racial violence, and climate disaster—none of which militarism can solve. The activists and projects mentioned in this chapter invite connections across movements for environmental justice, climate justice, racial justice, and gender justice as part of redefining security for all people and the planet. REFERENCES Adamson, Joni, Mei Mei Evans, and Rachel Stein, eds. 2002. The Environmental Justice Reader: Politics, Poetics and Pedagogy. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Bloom, Saul, John Miller, James Warner, and Philippa Winkler, eds. 1994. Hidden Casualties: Environmental, Health and Political Consequences of the Persian Gulf War. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books. Borger, Julian. 2020. “Trump to Reportedly Allow Use of Landmines, Reversing Obama-era Policy.” Guardian, January 30, 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/jan/30/ trump-policy-change-landmines-obama. Bullard, Robert, ed. 2005. The Quest for Environmental Justice: Human Rights and the Politics of Pollution. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Cambodia Mine Action Authority. 2019. Mine /ERW Victim Assistance in Cambodia: Turning Intention to Action for Survivors. https://mineaction.org/sites/default/files/ambassador_prum_sophakmonkol.pdf. Churchill, Ward. 1993. Struggle for the Land: Indigenous Resistance to Genocide, Ecocide and Expropriation in Contemporary North America. Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press. Council on Hemispheric Affairs. 2011. “Clearing Out Without Cleaning Up: The U.S. and Vieques Island.” May 19, 2011. https://www.coha.org/clearing-out-without-cleaning-upthe-u-s-and-vieques-island/. Crawford, Neta C. 2019. Pentagon Fuel Use, Climate Change, and the Costs of War. Watson Institute/Brown University Costs of War Project, Nov. 2019. https://watson.brown.edu/costsofwar/files/cow/imce/papers/Pentagon%20Fuel%20Use%2C%20Climate%20Change %20and%20the%20Costs%20of%20War%20Revised%20November%202019%20 Crawford.pdf. Dellinger, A. J. 2019. “Climate Change Could Cause U.S. Military Collapse, New Report Warns.” Mic.Com, Oct. 24, 2019. https://www.mic.com/p/climate-change-could-cause-usmilitary-collapse-new-report-warns-19266239.

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Dibblin, Jane. 1990. Day of Two Suns: U.S. Nuclear Testing and the Pacific Islanders. New York: New Amsterdam. Eichstaedt, Peter H. 1994. If You Poison Us: Uranium and Native Americans. Santa Fe, NM: Red Crane Books. Flenniken, Kathleen. 2012. Plume. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Fukushima, Annie, Ayano Ginoza, Michiko Hase, Gwyn Kirk, Debbie Lee, Taeva Shefler, 2014. “Disaster Militarism: Rethinking U.S. Relief in the Asia-Pacific.” Foreign Policy In Focus. March 11, 2014. https://fpif.org/disater-militarism-rethinking-u-s-relief-asia-pacific. Hughes, C. 2008. “Cambodia in 2007: Development and Dispossession.” Asian Survey 48, no. 1 January/February: 69–74. Hussain, Murtaza. 2019. “War on the World: Industrialized Militaries Are a Bigger Part of the Climate Emergency Than You Know.” The Intercept, Sept. 15, 2019. https://theintercept.com/2019/09/15/climate-change-us-military-war/. Iaconangelo, David. 2017. “WIPP Seal Of Radioactive Waste for 10,000 Years. Should It Be a Model for Storage?” Christian Science Monitor, April 18, 2017. https:// www.csmonitor.com/Environment/2017/0418/WIPP-seals-off-nuclear-waste-for-10-000years.-Should-it-be-a-model-for-storage. ICBL-CMC. 2019. Landmine and Cluster Munition Monitor, Country Profile: Cambodia. http://the-monitor.org/en-gb/reports/2019/cambodia/casualties.aspx. Johnson, Giff. 2013. Don’t Ever Whisper: Darlene Keju—Pacific Health Pioneer, Champion for Nuclear Survivors. CreateSpace Independent Publishing. Jose, Coleen, Kim Wall, and Jan Hendrik Hinzel. 2015. “This Dome in the Pacific Houses Tons of Radioactive Waste—and It’s Leaking. Guardian, July 3, 2015. https:// www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/03/runit-dome-pacific-radioactive-waste. Kettel, Bonnie. 1996. “Women, Health and the Environment.” Social Science Medicine 42, no. 10: 1367–1379. Kimmerer, Robin Wall. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Press. Kirk, Gwyn. 2008. “Environmental Effects of U.S. Military Security: Gendered Experiences from the Philippines, South Korea, and Japan.” In Gender and Globalization in Asia and the Pacific: Method, Practice, Theory, edited by Kathy E. Ferguson and Monique Mironesco, 294–317. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Kirk, Gwyn, and Carolyn Bowen Francis. 2000. “Redefining Security: Women Challenge U.S. Military Policy and Practice in East Asia.” Berkeley Women’s Law Journal, 15: 229–271. LaDuke, Winona. 1999. All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life. Cambridge, MA: South End Press. Larson, Lance N. 2020. “Nuclear Waste Storage Sites in the United States.” Congressional Research Service, April 13, 2020. https://fas.org/sgp/crs/nuke/IF11201.pdf. Lerner, Steve. 2010. “San Antonio, Texas: Contamination from Kelly Air Force Base Suspected of Causing Sickness and Death in Adjacent Latino Community.” In Sacrifice Zones: The Front Lines of Toxic Chemical Exposure in the United States, 177–193. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Lindsay-Poland, John. 2003. Emperors in the Jungle: The Hidden History of the U.S. in Panama. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lutz, Catherine, ed. 2009. The Bases of Empire: The Global Struggle against U.S. Military Posts. New York: New York University Press. Makhijani, Arjun. 2010. Carbon-Free and Nuclear-Free: A Roadmap for U.S. Energy Policy. Nuclear Policy Research Institute and Institute for Energy and Environmental Research, 3rd edition. https://ieer.org/resource/reports/carbon-free-and-nuclear-free/. McCaffrey, Katherine. 2008. “Because Vieques Is Our Home: Defend it! Women Resisting Militarization in Vieques, Puerto Rico.” In Security Disarmed: Critical Perspectives on Gender, Race, and Militarization, edited by Barbara Sutton, Sandra Morgen, and Julie Novkov, 157-176. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. ———. 2009. “Fish, Wildlife, and Bombs: The Struggle to Clean Up Vieques.” NACLA, Sept. 1. 2009. https://nacla.org/article/fish-wildlife-and-bombs-struggle-clean-vieques.

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———. 2018. “Environmental Remediation and Its Discontents: The Contested Cleanup of Vieques, Puerto Rico.” Journal of Political Ecology, 25: 80–103. https://cswab.org/wpcontent/uploads/2019/01/Vieques-Contested-Cleanup-Journal-of-Political-Ecology2018.pdf. McGregor, Davianna Pómaika’i. 2019. “Kanaloa Kaho’olawe: He Wahi Akua/A Sacred Place.” In Detours: A Decolonial Guide to Hawai’i, edited by Hōkūlani K. Aikau and Vernadette Vicuña Gonzalez, 261–270. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Natividad, LisaLinda, and Gwyn Kirk. 2010. “Fortress Guam: Resistance to US Military Megabuildup.” Foreign Policy in Focus, May 12, 2010. https://fpif.org/fortress_guam. Natividad, LisaLinda, and Victoria-Lola Leon Guerrero. 2010. “The Explosive Growth of U.S. Military Power on Guam Confronts People Power: Experience of an Island People under Spanish, Japanese, and American Colonial Rule.” Asia Pacific Journal 8, no. 49 (3) Dec. 6. https://apjjf.org/-Victoria-Lola-Leon-Guerrero--LisaLinda-Natividad/3454/article.pdf. Nelmark, Benjamin, Oliver Belcher, and Patrick Bigger. 2019. “US Military is a Bigger Polluter than as Many as 140 Countries.” The Conversation, June 25, 2019. https://phys.org/news/ 2019-06-military-bigger-polluter-countries.html. Okinawa Women Act Against Military Violence. 1998. Chronology of Environmental Destruction Caused by U.S. Military Bases. Naha, Okinawa: OWAAMV. Olib, O’lola Ann Z, ed. 2000. Inheritors of the Earth: The Human Face of the U.S. Military Contamination at Clark Air Base, Pampanga, Philippines. Quezon City, Philippines: People’s Task Force for Bases Cleanup. Pacific News Center. 2020. “International Submission Filed on Behalf of Prutehi Litekyan: Save Ritidian.” Aug. 6. 2020. https://www.pncguam.com/international-submission-filed-onbehalf-of-prutehi-litekyan-save-ritidian/. People’s Task Force for Bases Cleanup. 1997. U.S. Military Bases and the Environment: A Time for Responsibility. Proceedings of the 1996 International Forum on US Military Toxics and Bases Clean-up. Quezon City, Philippines: PTFBC. Poston, Ted M., Robert W. Hanf, Roger L. Dirkes, and Launa F. Morasch, eds. 2006. Hanford Site Environmental Report for Calendar Year 2005. https://www.pnnl.gov/main/publications/external/technical_reports/PNNL-15892.pdf. Rachel’s Environment and Health Weekly 1998, The Precautionary Principle, February 19: 1. Roberts, Chris. 2018. “Almost Half of Toxic Cleanup at Hunters Point Shipyard Is Questionable or Faked, According to Initial Review.” Curbed San Francisco, Jan. 26, 2018. https:// sf.curbed.com/2018/1/26/16916742/hunters-point-shipyard-toxic-cleanup. Royal Government of Cambodia. 2017. National Mine Action Strategy 2018–2025. http:// www.cmaa.gov.kh/en/strategy/national-mine-action-strategy-2018-2025. Rust, Susanne. 2019. “U.S. Won’t Clean Up Marshall Islands Nuclear Waste Dome but Wants it Free of Anti-U.S. Graffiti.” Los Angeles Times, Nov. 14, 2019. https://www.latimes.com/ environment/story/2019-11-14/marshall-islands-runit-nuclear-waste-dome-site-graffiti. San Francisco Planning Department n.d. Hunters Point Shipyard Area Plan. https://generalplan.sfplanning.org/Hunters_Point_Shipyard.html. Seager, Joni. 1992. “Operation Desert Disaster: Environmental Costs of the War.” In Collateral Damage: The ‘New World Order’ at Home and Abroad, edited by Cynthia Peters, 197–216. Boston: South End Press. Shenon, Philip. 2000. “Air Force links Agent Orange to Diabetes,” New York Times, March 29, 2000, A 23. Shin Soooyun. 2020. “U.S. Army Base and Resident’s Life: Problems and Solutions.” DMZ 2020 Conference, Sept. 18, 2020. Comments by Policy Director of Green Korea United. http://www.dmzforum.or.kr/2020/p44.php?s=24&sn=4. Steingraber, Sandra. 2003. Having Faith: An Ecologist’s Journey to Motherhood. New York: Berkley Books. Swerdlow, Amy. 1993. Women Strike for Peace: Traditional Motherhood and Radical Politics in the 1960s. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sze, Julie. 2006. Noxious New York: The Racial Politics of Urban Health and Environmental Justice. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

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Teaiwa, Theresa. 2010. “Bikinis and Other S/pacific N/oceans.” In Militarized Currents: Toward a Decolonized Future in Asia and the Pacific, edited by Setsu Shigematsu and Keith L. Camacho, 15–32. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Tickner, J. Ann. 2001. Gendering World Politics: Issues and Approaches in the Post-Cold War Era. New York: Columbia University Press. US Army War College. 2019. Implications of Climate Change for the U.S. Army. https:// climateandsecurity.files.wordpress.com/2019/07/implications-of-climate-change-for-usarmy_army-war-college_2019.pdf. Vine, David. 2015. Base Nation: How U.S. Military Bases Abroad Harm America and the World. New York: Metropolitan Books. Women Working for a Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific. 1987. Pacific Women Speak, Why Haven’t You Known? Oxford, UK: Green Line. Wong, Alia. 2017. “About that ‘Island in the Pacific.’” The Atlantic, April 21, 2017. https:// www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2017/04/about-that-island-in-the-pacific/523851/. World Bank. n.d. The World Bank in Cambodia. http://www.worldbank.org/en/country/cambodia/overview.

NOTES 1. Later Windscale was renamed Sellafield. http://www.nuclear-risks.org/en/hibakushaworldwide/windscalesellafield.html. 2. Acknowledgment: Many thanks to Ruth Bottomley and Susan Cundiff for contributing to this chapter; to K. Melchor Quick Hall, Martha Matsuoka, and Margo Okazawa-Rey for close reading and helpful feedback; and members of the International Women’s Network Against Militarism for sharing experiences and perspectives. 3. A publication of the International Campaign to Ban Landmines and Cluster Munition Coalition. 4. See https://www.oregonwand.org/. 5. https://peacehouse.net/oregon-becomes-second-state-in-nation-to-support-nuclear-bantreaty/. 6. Flenniken, Kathleen. Plume: Poems © 2012. Reprinted with permission of the University of Washington Press. 7. See https://www.facebook.com/saveritidian/ and Pacific News Center (2020). 8. For information on a carbon-free nuclear-free energy policy for the United States see Makhijani (2010).

Chapter Twelve

Intimate Pedagogy, Melancholic Things Linh U. Hua

This article was written in the summer of 2011, a time then not too far removed from 2006, when the largest urban garden in the United States, located in downtown Los Angeles, was bulldozed in an act of spite. Some of the websites that were live at the original time of writing are now dead, posing an interesting problem for an article on memory and ecological trauma. Unsure of the best way to reconcile the 10-year gap between writing and this publication, I ultimately decided to leave the article untouched except for some minor editorial changes. I have retained the web links that were live but are now dead, because they point to a crack in ecological memory even on the world-wide-web, where things supposedly go to gain permanence. I have also retained the original cadence of my sentence structures, because they are themselves a type of memory. NATURAL THINGS In summer 2011, I had the opportunity to attend a daylong teaching seminar at a western state university to discuss teaching strategies for engaged learning. A colleague in attendance shared with some wonder that within the local community, she had encountered students who did not know that the Pacific Ocean was just a stone’s throw away. The ensuing conversation with this colleague touched upon the nature of elementary, secondary, and higher education, and on the function of the imagination in the lives of our students. Though the anecdote tells little on its own, its meaning for me is framed by questions that have emerged in concert with teaching within the framework of environmental justice to entering cohorts of first-year science majors at the University of California, Irvine. The students whom I teach in the science167

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oriented humanities course most likely share race, class, and ethnic similarities with the students referred to in the colleague’s anecdote. She noted, additionally, that they had few opportunities to leave their immediate neighborhood, marking an already implied contrast between the pockets of Black and ethnic urban-suburban neighborhoods and the beach communities along Pacific Coast Highway. Given the expediency of media and communication among today’s youth, the seeming disinterest of some in the grandeur and proximity of the Pacific Ocean means that the natural environment does not inspire shared affinity among us as a rule. Instead, what emerges in the place of presumed connectedness is a set of questions that reflect on the long histories that shape our imagination and our relation to the world. How do we imagine a subject for whom the natural world of mainstream environmentalism (oceans, hillsides, gorges) evokes a qualitatively different affective resonance or plays a functionally different purpose? How do we make sense of her? COLONIAL THINGS The following pages engage these questions with an interest in developing a critical pedagogy for teaching environmental justice. I foreground a Black and Third World feminist methodology that emphasizes connections between social and material reality, histories of ownership and loss, and the distinct experiences of environmental melancholia and nostalgia. Specifically, the rhetoric of nostalgia in popular environmental discourse as forced memory, a form of cultural instruction that parallels the colonial imposition of gendered and racial hierarchies. The nostalgia that such rhetoric invokes is underwritten by legacies of ownership, a historically inflected position of class, power, and environmental privilege. This nostalgia is exemplified by the framing recollection featured in Davis Guggenheim’s documentary, An Inconvenient Truth (2006), a documentary inspired by the environmental work of former vice president Al Gore. The recollection, offered by Gore, is of innocence and childish delight, of a rustling brook that ran gently through his family’s property. As a teacher who periodically uses Guggenheim’s documentary in the classroom, I would be remiss if I expected every student to extract the science from the documentary without some form of deep melancholic response. How many of my students owned sprawling wilderness let alone a rustling brook? Such melancholia differs from Gore’s nostalgia; it marks instead the effect of ownership and property, and therefore race and class, that undergirds Gore’s particular intimacy with nature. Gore’s nostalgia has a strategic function: to pull the audience into his environmental narrative via heuristic identification, a strategy that presumes universal affinity for the natural environment and thus a need to preserve it.

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This moment of compulsory identification is an experience of deep, unmitigated alienation for many individuals—a forced memory of something one has not known, does not know, by way of an extended denial of one’s lived historical self. The structure of this internal conflict is varyingly captured in African American, Third World feminist, and postcolonial theorizations of the violent contradictions of assimilation and difference. W. E. B. Du Bois (1903) developed the contradictions as double-consciousness; Homi Bhabha (1994) as mimicry; Gayatri Spivak (1985, 2000) as the subaltern; Darlene Clark Hine (1989) as dissemblance; Kimberlé Crenshaw (1991) as intersectionality; Chandra Ford (1990) as non-hetero sexuality; and David Eng (2001) and Anne Anlin Cheng (2001), separately, as racial melancholia, just to name a few. Individuals from disenfranchised groups find themselves caught between desire for that awesome right to ownership and the recognition that, as history tells it, ownership is not theirs to be had—two contrary positions produced and effected by the rhetoric of popular environmentalism. How ought the disenfranchised person insert herself in relation to this inconvenient truth? How can this point of difference lead us to expand how we engage conversations about environmental responsibility to foreground responsibilities to each other? In other words, what is the most meaningful way to teach environmental justice so that we facilitate social justice and place at its center the concerns of women, children, and the disenfranchised? If drawing parallels between student ambivalence for the ocean and grand theories of difference and subjectivity seems disproportionate for reflecting on teaching environmental justice and feminist political ecology, I suggest that the things before us—namely our students—are far more grand than even they know. They are condensations of long histories, learned practice, as well as a source of imagination, and as such they occupy a unique position from which an ethical politics may develop. HERE’S THE OCEAN To engage the alienation of the disenfranchised, I turn to three scenes of environmental melancholia: the floods of New Orleans, the Arizona desert and the “urban prairie” of downtown Los Angeles, and the Vietnamese refugee camps of Pulau Bidong. The 2005 floods of New Orleans allow for what Charles Lemert (2012) argues is sociology: “the work of bringing back to life social worlds lost from an earlier time” (53). This necessary turn to history suggests what Katherine McKittrick and Clyde Woods (2007) have observed: that the gutter/floodwaters of New Orleans invoked an unknowable depth of trauma buried deep in the Atlantic Ocean. The voyage of the Middle Passage is a pivotal trope in the historical imagination of Black communities, a trope long developed in the literature and scholarship of African American

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letters as a passage into unimaginable violence. Kinship ties were broken by force, individuals were kidnapped, bound, and turned into flesh for sale, as Hortense Spillers (1987) describes in her essay on the loss of subjectivity experienced by enslaved persons. The world responsible for enacting this cycle of horrors became “social.” In England, coffee shops emerged as popular gathering places. Sugar consumption became synonymous for leisure, making its way into grand literary descriptions of banquets and teas at countryside estates. A literature of decadence emerged from European centers and the individual citizen became defined by the legal crystallization of property rights—the ownership of brooks and oceans, land and bodies. In the United States, land entitlement and ownership grew from a workman’s sense of agricultural labor. Early American colonial fiction featured the trope of the American farmer as distinct from the royal decadence of the British. Americans were frontier men who had braved an ocean crossing and were now taming the wilderness, sustaining themselves in partnership with the land. The rugged outdoor identity of American masculinity grew in articulation from farmer to lone cowboy and contrasted sharply with the intellectual philosophies of the sublime by Edmund Burke. While both traditions ultimately underscored an intense—if distinct—definition of white male masculinity in relation to the natural world, hundreds of ships were built in Liverpool, England, to sustain the trade of the Middle Passage and cultivate the land for tobacco, sugar, and cotton in the American South and the West Indies. The nostalgic undercurrent in Guggenheim’s An Inconvenient Truth contrasts distinctly with the tale of old grief in Spike Lee’s When the Levees Broke. Katherine McKittrick and Clyde Woods (2007) provide this pointed formulation: “The geography of the region, prior to, during, and after the hurricane devastation, provides a clear picture of how the underside is, for some, not an underside at all, but is, rather, the everyday” (2007, 3). In their critical reading of the flood waters of New Orleans, McKittrick and Woods contribute to African American cultural work that renders visible the trauma and legacy inherent in Black geography. In “Nobody Knows the Mysteries at the Bottom of the Ocean,” the introduction to their edited collection, McKittrick and Woods suggest the Atlantic Ocean as a geographic region that can also represent the political histories of the disappeared; the materiality of a body of water prompts a geographic narrative that may not be readily visible on maps or nautical charts. This tension, between the mapped and the unknown, reconfigures knowledge, suggesting that places, experiences, histories, and people that “no one knows” do exist, within our present geographic order. (McKittrick and Woods 2007, 4; original emphasis)

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The deep connotations of oceanic trauma for the Black community only became visible when the gutters of New Orleans literally overflowed to reveal themselves. For McKittrick and Woods, this is the natural environment of the daily lives of disenfranchised Black persons making its historical claim on the public imagination. The hauntings that are absorbed and retold in these moments of natural disasters are not the only stories of race and the environment. The natural environment for these communities also had utilitarian function. Swamps were areas of escape where maroon communities of escaped slaves forged permanent shelter under cover. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 changed the landscape for runaway slaves, closing off the northern states as sites of freedom. Slaves now were forced to travel to Canada to escape re-capture by bounty hunters who made a business of the new law, catching freed slaves and runaway slaves alike for reward and resale. With little hope for survival above ground, some fugitive slaves took cover deep in the swamplands where they formed hidden communities and lived off wild vegetation. Lest we only see rebellion in the act of running away, Black feminist theorists like Angela Davis (1972) and Alice Walker (1972) caution that we should not forget the imaginative role of Black women in making art, love, and life possible by keeping garden spaces in which food crops, medicinal herbs, and an array of flowers could be grown. In her monograph, Rooted in the Earth: Reclaiming the African American Environmental Heritage, Dianne D. Glave (2010) reminds us that African American women manipulated and controlled their yards for multiple functions. Free-range areas, or pens, in which livestock could roam; extended kitchens from their houses; spaces for cleaning and leisure; swept areas; pathways to the fields, woods, and slaveholders’ houses; and fenced flower and vegetable gardens created overlapping spaces in their yards. (Glave 2010, 118)

The natural world for African Americans presented areas of danger and secrecy, sustenance and beauty. In addition, though African Americans rarely owned land or could be entitled to it, they established ancestral connections to burial sites that were always on white-owned land. “[T]hat land remained a link to their ancestors, making the soil sacred to a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a wife, or a husband,” writes Glave. “Such forms of identification and connectedness with the environment have been largely ignored by whites because they do not fit the white paradigm of land ownership or even their conceptualization of wilderness” (Glave 2010, 9). If Al Gore had presented the rustling brook as the site of a burial ground (if it were a burial ground), he would be invoking a less pristine narrative of land ownership as a framework for discussing environmental futures. The conversations such a framework makes possible would open up a different set of

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floodgates: the floodgates of oral histories that carry stories of our mothers and children, the difficult histories of the natural environment. THERE’S THE DESERT In Root Shock, social psychologist Dr. Mindy Fullilove argues that displacement is the primary dilemma of the twenty-first century (Fullilove 2004, 5). Her work treats the psychological repercussions of displacement and its detrimental effects on the wellbeing of individuals and communities. “Root shock,” she states, “is the traumatic stress reaction to the destruction of all or part of one’s emotional ecosystem. It has important parallels to the physiological shock experienced by a person who, as a result of injury, suddenly loses massive amounts of fluids” (Fullilove 2004, 11). Physiological trauma, like a broken leg, remains local and individual. Whereas the effects of bodily trauma can be reversed, or the body rehabilitated, their corresponding psychological and emotional impacts remain. Dr. Fullilove warns that, “[i]n fact, the injury from root shock may be even more enduring than a burn, as it can affect generations” (Fullilove 2004, 12). Even more, root shock has a spatial and geographic dimension. It “rips emotional connections in one part of the globe, and sets in motion small changes . . . that spread out across the world, shifting the direction of all interpersonal connections” (Fullilove 2004, 17). Social impact on this scale lingers generationally and haunts communities by way of economic instability, undeveloped safety nets, communal despondency—and a deep sense of homelessness. Dr. Fullilove argues without ambiguity that “the current situation of Black Americans cannot be understood without a full and complete accounting of the social, economic, cultural, political, and emotional losses that followed the bulldozing of 1,600 neighborhoods under the guise of urban renewal” (Fullilove 2004, 20). Women in the community absorb the physical, spatial, and geographic disturbance exponentially because they take on the burden of caregiving and caretaking. Fullilove’s term “urban prairie” captures the desolation of the inbetween state that comes after the demolition of homes but before new development and investment (Fullilove 2004, 145, 157). Often these plots of emptied land, sometimes fields of it, become a permanent part of the current urban landscape, a visible melancholia for lost community and place that is qualitatively different from the ownership that buttresses Gore’s nostalgic environmentalism. When I volunteered at the Los Angeles Food Bank just south of the city’s downtown business district, I regularly faced an untended fenced-in field that just years earlier had been the site of a fully functional neighborhood urban garden for 350 local families. Dubbed the country’s largest urban garden, the 14-acre site served the needs of families for two decades before it was eventually bulldozed in 2006. The events leading up to

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the garden’s demolition caught the attention of local and national media as a story of political and commercial greed. Neighbors and celebrities publicly protested. Supporters raised non-profit funds to meet the $16.5 million asking price, but property owner Ralph Horowitz ultimately refused to sell the plot of land to the community. In the documentary film The Garden (Kennedy 2008), which tells the story of the South Central Farmers, Horowitz remarks dismissively that he saw no evidence of edible vegetation, only “some stuff that looked like cactus.” The bulldozing of the South Central Farm brought a community to its knees. Families who had tended the land witnessed their food, their art, and their playground being destroyed in a show of irreverent disregard— bulldozed despite the emotional ties and the environmental model that had been nurtured there, the $16.5 million asking price refused on bitter principle and pride. Such uprooting hurts to the bone and tears at old losses and traumas shared by the large Mexican migrant and Chicano communities that have settled in the greater Los Angeles area. The significance of the uprooting is magnified by the fact that many families resettled in Los Angeles after great sacrifice and incredible odds. According to Judith Hellman, many undocumented migrants risk dehydration, heatstroke, and death by entering into the United States through the Arizona desert, a journey of at least one week. Many who attempt to make the crossing fail and die in the desert unclaimed. Dehydration is the most serious risk in the hot desert as it can cause delirium, hallucination, and directional confusion. In response to the high number of deaths that occur in the desert, a local group called No More Deaths attempts to provide provisions of water, fresh socks, granola, apple sauce, sports drinks, etc. in strategic locations throughout the desert (Hellman 2007, 100). Because communication is not possible between these good Samaritans and the crossing migrants, great risk is taken in strategizing where to place water provisions. The group looks for signs of human presence (trash, clothing, food) and tries to identify heavily used trails. However, the group has encountered opposition. Water jugs have been found slashed through to prevent what some consider “encouragement” of illegal crossings. The 1994 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) changed the landscape of Mexico, weakening its agricultural economy and leaving it vulnerable to cheaply imported US produce. In negotiations leading up to the signing of the free-trade agreement, the US demanded that Mexico amend Article 27 of its 1910 Constitution (established at the conclusion of the Mexican Revolution). Article 27 allotted small plots of land to peasant families with the provision that the land could not be sold for profit. It could only be tended for food or farmed for market crops. It was to remain in the family as inheritance. Article 27 insured that families would have at least land to sustain themselves. In the 1990s, negotiations between Mexico and the US made this small farming impossible to sustain. To prepare Mexican markets

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for US produce, the US required Mexico to end the practice of granting agricultural subsidies to its citizens. Without subsidies and other forms of government support, farmers found that it was more expensive to grow their own food than it was to buy produce imported from the US. Without crops to stabilize the soil, Mexican farmland grew more arid and unusable; families relinquished their land for minimal compensation (something they could not do before changes to Article 27 were made), and moved northward to find work in the newly built maquiladoras. Towns were slowly abandoned. Employment opportunities in Mexico dropped and millions turned to undocumented migration. Adding to the great risks of crossing the desert, migrants are often forced to leave wives and children behind in Mexico because of the high stakes of the journey. If the migrant survives the desert, it could mean years, sometimes decades, apart for husband and wife. Women who remain with children and in-laws in Mexico are currently facing pressure from the state to be more “productive,” a rhetoric that betrays the invisibility of women’s work as caretakers. The emotional strain on these women is often lost in discussions of migrant conditions. With the great difficulty of crossing the desert, the men who survive often settle into a labor routine, form cohorts for shared housing, and ultimately begin a second life in the US with other women as partners while maintaining financial responsibility and emotional ties to their wife and children in Mexico. In Mexico, wives endure close policing of their movements by neighbors and in-laws, adding to the emotional turmoil of separation and loss. In contrast to the new freedoms gained by the husband, the wife in Mexico sees her mobility severely restricted. Not only does she suffer the loneliness of separation, she must endure interrogations concerning her loyalty if she ventures outside the home alone. The desert, then, is a bittersweet trial of human perseverance. Individuals lost to the desert are difficult to reclaim—bodies lack authentic identification and families fear disciplinary action from the US and the Mexican governments. What happens when an individual successfully crosses the desert is also difficult. New patterns emerge, new intimacies are forged, but the root shock of separation and resettlement hardly heals. The senseless demolition of the South Central Farm forced the Mexican migrant, Chicano/a, and Latino/a communities to encounter another desert trauma. What is left of their verdant garden is a fenced plot of overgrown weeds. Ironically, the empty plot faces the Los Angeles Food Bank, exposing its underused capacity for nourishment, community, and sustainability. In contrast to the unforgettable demolition of the deep roots of an already uprooted community, the No More Deaths campaign is commendable for its thoughtful application of a comprehensive ethical human rights philosophy. The group not only provides provisions to help support human life, it also works to protect the environment. In their patrols of the desert for marked

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trails, they come across trash and waste as the signs of human crossing and work to clear the refuse from the desert. “[I]t’s not just human life that is endangered by the border policy,” says Maryada, a member of No More Deaths. “Forcing migrants into the desert has compromised the entire desert environment” (Hellman 2007, 100). THAT’S THE SAND I have written in previous sections of nostalgia that undergirds popular environmental rhetoric. This presumed nostalgia sometimes functions as forced memory, a compulsory remembering of an emotion or experience that one can only identify with through analogy. But, what of lost remembrance? What of a memory I cannot recall but can authentically claim as lived experience? When I was three or four, my grandmother buried me in sand. We had just reached the island shores of Pulau Bidong, Malaysia. Our vessel was the common fishing boat, unadorned, inconspicuous, and lacking in all the basic amenities one would hope for. There was no water basin, food storage, fresh air, room to stretch, or a blanket for cover. Instead, the boat journey involved robbery, beatings, kidnappings, murder, and rape perpetrated by pirates. Bouts of seasickness, intense dehydration, dysentery, starvation, and drowning also regularly occurred. By the time our boat reached the islands of Malaysia in 1979, asylum refugee camps were severely overburdened by the exodus of individuals trying to escape the political, religious, and economic fallout of the war in Vietnam. Officials acting as gatekeepers of the camps responded to the overcrowding by forcing refugees back into the waters that they had just survived. They employed aggressive verbal tactics, physical force, weaponry, and psychological games. To counter this rejection, my grandmother turned to the natural environment and buried my siblings and me in sand. I don’t know how it worked, but I know it must have worked. Refugees who opted to flee Vietnam on foot by crossing over into Thailand fared far worse—many were forced at gunpoint to turn back to Vietnam over minefields and most died instantly. These two articulations of the refugee body highlight its status as excess to constituted place. Their difference— annihilation and burial—in fact, reflects the distinct conditions of the soil of Vietnam and that of Pulau Bidong. Prior to 1975, when the first refugees began to arrive at Pulau Bidong, the island was untouched and uninhabited (Freeman and Nguyen 2003). The mass exodus of over half a million Vietnamese refugees to first asylum countries like Malaysia and Thailand caused turmoil and deep imbalance in the receiving environment’s ecosystems. Despite the stress to local ecology, the closing of Bidong as a refugee camp in 1990 allowed the island’s ecosystem to rehabilitate. Reflecting Pulau Bidong’s recuperated natural state, the

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Universiti Malaysia Terengganu (UMT) announced plans in July 2009 to establish on the island a center for maritime study. At the same time, the island’s near-unspoiled habitat makes it vulnerable to tourism and nature enthusiasts. Most recently, Pulau Bidong is being touted on tourism websites as the more pristine alternative to its overrun counterpart, Pulau Redong, a popular tourist stop fitted with resort amenities. This commercial encouragement of short-stay tourism on Bidong Island parallels state-sanctioned attempts to limit the burdens of tourism on Redong by upgrading resort amenities to attract only high-end tourism. Low-end entertainment would be directed to Bidong Island from now on. No mention was made of how tourism will interfere with or bring awareness to the maritime institute on the island or to the uncelebrated remnants of the refugee encampment. The land of Vietnam is not global in the way that information is now global. The materiality of the land and its toxicity remain the burden of its inhabitants. Over a period of 10 years between 1961 and 1971, 11 million gallons of Agent Orange, a defoliant cocktail that contained TCDD, the most virulent form of dioxin, was liberally sprayed over Vietnam. Research documenting the destructive effects of TCDD was first recorded in 1963, but these findings were suppressed until their accidental exposure to the public in 1969, forcing the discontinuation of its use in chemical warfare (Cohn 2009). Between the years of the findings and their exposure, 1963–1969, Duong (who is only identified by his first name) worked as a military doctor in Quant Tri. In a study published in 2001, Duong recalls that “during the spraying, all vegetation was completely burnt, and he and his friends had to dig hide-outs under the bamboo trees and cover their faces with damp cloths to avoid inhaling the terrible smoke” (Le and Johansson 2001, 160). According to flight records recently re-interpreted, 3,000 hamlets were direct targets of Agent Orange missions that affected 2–4 million people in just the first-round sprays (Butler 2003, 649). The American Red Cross estimates that a total of 17 million South Vietnamese and 1 million North Vietnamese individuals were directly exposed to the poison during the war (in Le and Johansson 2001, 1). Scientists at the World Health Organization (WHO) have found that only 1–4 parts per trillion (PPT) of dioxin in breast milk is necessary to be detrimental to life. In tested breast milk of affected Vietnamese women, levels of up to 1450 PPT have been found (Cohn 2009). That number is nearly 1500 times higher than the level at which severe birth defects and fetal death are likely. Duong and his wife Lan carry this melancholic burden: Their first child was born in 1965 and died at birth. The second son, Lam, seemed normal at birth but gradually it became evident that something was wrong. At 31, the boy weighs 35 kilos [77lbs.], he cannot control his movements, eat by himself or utter a meaningful word. . . . Longing for a normal

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child, Lan gave birth again in 1971. The daughter seemed healthy at birth, but sadly, her neck was too soft and she died when she was three months old. The same thing happened to a baby boy, born two years later: “How painful it was, the baby had curved arms and was very weak. He also left us forever at three months. What a tearful time it was for me, there was nothing left. . . . As a wife and mother, I always feel tormented and lost.” (Le and Johansson 2001, 60)

Be, another Vietnamese “Agent Orange Mother” (also identified by her first name only), confessed that she did not know the cause of her reproductive troubles. These families are often ashamed or embarrassed by what they perceive as their personal failures, and their lost children are hidden from the public eye, preventing a critical discourse of the legacies of Agent Orange from developing. Le and Johansson note from their interviews of 30 families that “many of the women had reached the limit of physical and mental exhaustion where there was little space for agency beyond mere survival” (Le and Johansson 2001, 62). In May 2009, the International Peoples’ Tribunal of Conscience in Support of the Vietnamese Victims of Agent Orange sponsored by the International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL) convened in Paris to hear the testimony of witnesses and experts. Doctors reported large numbers of malformed births, including missing legs and arms, missing heads and faces, missing brain chambers, missing human bodily form, and missing the capacity for human voice. In 2003, Dr. Jeanne Stellman and her team published resynthesized drop scenarios using flight records and project numbers to show that the original estimate of Agent Orange reportedly used in Vietnam was only a small fraction of the actual amount used. Specifically, Stellman “reestimated the volume and type of herbicides sprayed between 1961 and 1971 to have . . . 9,440,028 more liters [approximately 2,493,792 more gallons] than NAS-1974’s ‘corrected’ inventory,” an inventory which Congress commissioned the Department of Defense to collect with the help of the National Academy of Sciences (Stellman et al. 2003, 182). At the 2009 International Tribunal of Conscience in Paris, Mai Giang Vu reported that his exposure to Agent Orange as a soldier in the Army of South Vietnam resulted in the early deaths of his sons, both of whom, at ages 23 and 25, were forced to revert back to crawling as they gradually lost use of their limbs (Cohn 2009). The dangers of TCDD in the soil, moreover, are exacerbated by the presence of 6 million live bombs still scattered all over Vietnam. If detonated, the bombs would re-ignite the poison capacity of the “dormant” Agent Orange. Even in its dormant stage, the chemicals have infiltrated local vegetation, wildlife, rivers, and wells, essentially reducing the bodies of Vietnamese citizens to the equivalent state of diseased and defoliated nature. I arrived with my family on Pulau Bidong Island a landless refugee, and unexpectedly experienced what in retrospect is too easily sentimentalized as

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a landed “rebirth.” Though I hardly see it in such symbolic or ceremonial ways, the over-reading is fruitful here because it contrasts so disturbingly with the very different ways in which the inhabitants of Vietnam have been de-human-ed and turned into wasting organisms, their bodies facing the same fate as the jungles, the rivers, and the land from exposure to Agent Orange. ENVIRONMENTAL THINGS To bridge the stuff of science with humanities learning, my teaching partner and I ask students in the environmental justice course to think about global climate change and to posit an ethical position on the natural environment and human needs. Most of the students who take this course are first-generation college students. Many, if not all, are from working-class backgrounds, and none come from rural locations. All are from California. Most of our course readings focus on the global warming debate— some offer the science behind it, underscoring the unpredictability of moulins (pockets of melted ice that absorb heat and contribute to a nonlinear, exponentially quickened chain of events) and the insufficient sense of urgency established by a 2007 Report issued by the IPCC, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (see Clark and Bellamy Foster 2007). Brett Clark and John Bellamy Foster were the first to point to the politics that stunted the IPCC from more rigorous analysis—namely, that “the IPCC report had to be unanimously approved by 154 governments, including the United States and other major oil-producing countries” (Clark and Bellamy Foster 2007). Other readings draw difficult oppositions between a healthy earth and human consumption (see Farley 2010, Newman 2006). Still others use humor to berate unabashedly our long-held disbelief, then our procrastination, noting that we have reached an environmental moment of truth (see McKibben 2005). Importantly, some simply present the bare-bone facts and statistics (Pew Center 2011). My teaching partner and I use several different documentaries at the beginning of the course session to introduce the topic of global climate change and environmental justice. We use Spike Lee’s film When the Levees Broke (2006) on the condition of the levees as a contributing factor to the chaos and destruction following Hurricane Katrina and more mainstream documentaries like the PBS documentary Heat (2008) and Davis Guggenheim’s An Inconvenient Truth (2006). This coming summer, I hope to use Taking Root, the film documenting the work of African environmentalist and feminist activist Wangari Maathai, who began a grassroots movement in Kenya that became the widely acclaimed Green Belt Movement (Merton and Dater 2011). On Maathai’s insistence, the movement was led by local female leadership, which employed female labor and local agricultural knowledge to

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plant trees as a source of wood for fuel, fruit and edible greens for sustenance, shade for rest, and roots for the prevention of soil erosion. ECO-HISTORICAL-SYNTHESIS AND INTIMATE PEDAGOGIES Marilyn Doerr’s work on Currere and the Environmental Autobiography (2004) argues for a responsible pedagogy that places critical reflection squarely at the top of engagement strategies. Calling on the pedagogical philosophies of Paulo Freire, bell hooks, Henry Giroux, and William Pinar, her approach to teaching environmentalism involves making science personal. “I don’t believe the AP Environmental Science course produces ecologists,” she writes. “It produces students who have memorized a body of knowledge, spat it back for the test, and moved on. An ecologist has to take ecological principles into his life; studying ecology has to be lifealtering” (Doerr 2004, 127). Doerr writes specifically about the politics of secondary education, but her insight on curriculum and student development engages larger questions about the classroom and its responsibilities. Applying the philosophy of currere, which aims to nurture the growth of the whole student through a process of contemplative engagement, Doerr teaches environmental ecology by guiding students to reflect on how they exist in their environments and how their past, present, and future environments impact who they are. The principle of interconnectedness between the organism and her environment is instructive for understanding who we imagine when we image a subject for whom the sun, the earth, and the sea serve very different purposes. These different purposes foreground social, political, and economic inequities that are absent from the forced memory that mainstream environmentalism relies upon, making the rhetoric of shared nostalgia a rather heartbreaking recognition of very different kinds of loss and lack. Extending the definition of the environment from the nature/preservation framework to include lived spaces, urban spaces, and spaces of alternative play, continues to be of urgent concern. While the increasing work of environmental justice groups has been linked to the consciousness-raising efforts of labor and civil rights activism of the 1960s, the concerns of both movements existed well before, in the daily affairs of those who are disenfranchised, poor, female, and racialized. What I have been concerned to argue in this article is that in teaching the value of these urban and disenfranchised environments, it is important, too, to understand how the individuals who live in them know or experience the “natural” world as historical trauma, lived escape, or as melancholic loss—a yearning for the (re)possession of a past not ours. Much oral history work can be done along these lines to broaden our understanding of how environmental attachments and traumas resonant differently among in-

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dividuals and communities. The collected knowledge would help us understand to what extent these hauntings inform communal priorities and community attachments to a particular aspect of a natural environment. It would ultimately give us a richer framework through which to address issues of feminist ecopolitics, environmental justice, and conservation. Finally, it would bring us closer to developing ethical coalitions among communities so that the work of a Black and Third World feminist ecopolitics can continue forward. REFERENCES Bhabha, Homi. 1994. The Location of Culture. London and New York: Routledge. Butler, Declan. 2003. “Flight Records Reveal Full Extent of Agent Orange Contamination.” Nature 422, no. 17 (April): 649. https://doi.org/10.1038/422649a. Cheng, Anne Anlin. 2001. The Melancholy of Race: Psychoanalysis, Assimilation, and Hidden Grief. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Clark, Brett, and John Bellamy Foster. 2007. “Is the New UN Global Warming Report Too Conservative?” Monthly Review, Feb 17, 2007. https://mronline.org/2007/02/17/is-the-newun-global-warming-report-too-conservative/. Clark Hine, Darlene. 1989. “Rape and the Inner Lives of Black Women in the Middle West.” Signs 14, no. 4 (Summer): 912–920. https://www.jstor.org/stable/3174692. Cohn, Margorie. 2009. “Agent Orange Continues to Poison Vietnam.” Global Research June 14, 2009. http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=13974. Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1991. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review 43, no.6 (July): 1241–1299. Davis, Angela. 1972. “Reflections on the Black Woman’s Role in the Community of Slaves.” The Massachusetts Review 13, nos. 1 and 2 (Winter-Spring): 81–100. Doerr, Marilyn. 2004. Currere and the Environmental Autobiography: A Phenomenological Approach to the Teaching of Ecology. New York and Berlin: Peter Lang. Du Bois, W. E. B. 1994 (1903). The Souls of Black Folk. New York: Dover. Farley, John W. 2010. “Our Last Chance to Save Humanity?” Monthly Review 62, no. 4 (September). https://monthlyreview.org/2010/09/01/our-last-chance-to-save-humanity/. Ford, Chandra. 1990. “Standing on This Bridge.” In This Bridge We Call Home, edited by Gloria Anzaldúa and Analouise Keating, 304–313. New York: Routledge. Eng, David. 2001. Racial Castration: Managing Masculinity in Asian America. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Freeman, James M., and Dinh Huu Nguyen. 2003. Voices from the Camps: Vietnamese Children Seeking Asylum. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Fullilove, Mindy. 2004. Root Shock: How Tearing Up City Neighborhoods Hurts America and What We Can Do About It. New York: Ballantine. Kennedy, Scott Hamilton, dir. 2008. The Garden. Oscilloscope Laboratories. Glave, Dianne D. 2010. Rooted in the Earth: Reclaiming the African American Environmental Heritage. Chicago: Lawrence Hill. Guggenheim, Davis, dir. 2006. An Inconvenient Truth. Paramount. Hellman, Judith Adler. 2007. The World of Mexican Migrants. New York: New Press. Le, Thi Nham Tuyet, and Annika Johansson. 2001. “Impact of Chemical Warfare with Agent Orange on Women’s Reproductive Lives in Vietnam: A Pilot Study.” Reproductive Health Matters 9, no.18 (November): 156–164. Lee, Spike, dir. 2006. When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts. HBO. Lemert, Charles. 2012. Social Things: An Introduction to the Sociological Life. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.

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McKibben, Bill. 2005. “The Debate is Over.” http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/ 8730992/the_debate_is_over. McKittrick, Katherine. 2006. Demonic Grounds: Black Women and the Cartographies of Struggle. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Merton, Lisa and Alan Dater, dirs. 2008. Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai. Marlboro. Newman, Robert. 2006. “It’s Capitalism or It’s a Habitable Planet. You Can’t Have Both.” The Guardian. Feb. 2, 2006. http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2006/feb/02/energy.comment/ print. PEW Center. 2011. Climate Change 101: Science and Impacts. http://www.c2es.org/climatechange-101/science-impacts. Spillers, Hortense. 1987. “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book.” In Black, White, and In Color: Essays on American Literature and Culture, 203–229. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. 1985. “Can the Subaltern Speak? Speculations on Widow-Sacrifice.” Wedge 7 and 8 (Winter/Spring): 120–130. ———. 2000. “The New Subaltern: A Silent Interview.” In Mapping Subaltern Studies and the Postcolonial, edited by Vinayak Chaturvedi, 324–340. London: Verso. Stellman, Jeanne Mager, Steven D. Stellman, Richard Christian, Tracy Weber, and Carrie Tomasallo. 2003. “The Extent and Patterns of Usage of Agent Orange and other Herbicides in Vietnam.” Nature 422, April 17: 681–687. https://www.nature.com/articles/nature01537.pdf. Walker, Alice. 1994 (1972). “In Search of My Mother’s Garden, I Found My Own.” In Within the Circle: An Anthology of African American Literary Criticism from the Harlem Renaissance to the Present, edited by Angelyn Mitchell, 401–409. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Chapter Thirteen

Teaching and Learning Gendered Ecologies across the Curriculum Yvonne A. Braun, K. Melchor Quick Hall, Christina Holmes, and Gwyn Kirk

In this collaborative chapter, four feminist scholars based in the United States consider the commonalities and distinctiveness of our respective approaches to teaching and learning. We work in different contexts, in traditional classrooms and beyond, using canonical texts and engaging activists. There are many approaches to teaching gendered ecologies in courses designed to focus on ecofeminism and ecowomanism, as well as throughout the curriculum. In this chapter, we want to share some of our reasons for teaching about gendered ecologies, our practices, and our challenges. While there are commonalities, there are also distinctions, some of which are rooted in our locations. Three of us are working as full-time professionals in the US academy. Holmes is an associate professor and Braun a full professor, ranked positions that mark their promotion in the tenure process. Hall is in the rare circumstance of being at a university that does not have a tenure system. Kirk teaches on an adjunct basis at different colleges and universities. Although we are all connected to the US academy, our connections are different in ways that shape how we have engaged the following questions, initially posed by Kirk: 1. What are your main reasons for teaching (or wanting to teach) a course on ecofeminism or ecowomanism? 2. If you already teach this kind of course, what is its title? Where does it fit in the curriculum of your program or department? 3. What approaches and topics do you include? 183

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4. What challenges do you have in teaching this course, and how do you address them? 5. What are students’ reactions and contributions? In the discussion below, we share our responses, highlighting some commonalities as well as differences. 1. WHAT ARE YOUR MAIN REASONS FOR TEACHING (OR WANTING TO TEACH) A COURSE ON ECOFEMINISM OR ECOWOMANISM? We each responded to these questions in different ways—some with notes, others in narrative form; some maintained the numbering of the questions so each response can be easily extracted, while others wrote paragraphs that gave an integrated understanding of the issues raised. Neither Braun nor Hall responded to this first question explicitly, although they hint at their motivations in responses to later questions. Both Holmes and Kirk addressed it. They may be considered ecofeminists, in the sense that they each have a focused research agenda that has engaged ecofeminist literature, in addition to other work they do. This is what they shared about their reasons for teaching ecofeminism and ecowomanism. Holmes: Climate change, air pollution, food insecurity and food-related illnesses, feelings of disconnection or alienation (from self, from place, from community, from a spiritual source)—these are eco-social issues that pose immediate material and existential threats to students. These issues are gendered, raced, classed, sexed, and tied to nation and citizenship status, and dis/ability. If students already have some awareness of problems that are typically labeled “environmental,” then I hope to show them the linkages among environmental and social issues through an intersectional lens. For students in the women’s, gender, and sexuality studies program in which I teach, I hope to add to their understanding of why they should look to expand their intersectional analysis to enfold species and place as a lens through which to make sense of the world. Kirk: Given the serious nature of ecological crises that confront humankind, I believe that women’s and gender studies programs should provide more spaces for students to think about how gender, racial, and environmental justice intersect, and to imagine (or reimagine) a world of sustainability and genuine security. Environmental issues have a material basis in places, bodies, and biological and neurological processes that provide the physical grounding of life. Skin is a definable edge between bodies and the external world, but the environment does not start at the skin. Exchanges between the body and its matrix of existence include everything taken in (food, air, water,

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pesticides, dust, toxins, radiation, etc.) and passed out (sweat, pee, poop, blood, gas, tears, vaginal fluid, etc.). “Inside” and “outside” overlap and interpenetrate deep inside our cells, in our throats, lungs, guts, and brains. I have wanted to teach courses that focus on ecological issues, and have sought opportunities to do so, to provide spaces to address student concerns about ecological crises. Indeed, some students may believe there is no meaningful future given this current—and likely worsening—situation and also the apocalyptic discourse on climate change. People’s varying geographic, social and economic locations means that we experience ecological issues differently. For many, environmental crisis manifesting as hunger, poverty, landlessness, and disasters due to extreme weather is a stark reality. Since everyone is increasingly affected, such issues have the potential to bring people together across lines of race, class, gender, and nation to tackle the growing ecological catastrophe as well as to envision and create a more just, secure, and sustainable future. 2. IF YOU ALREADY TEACH THIS KIND OF COURSE, WHAT IS ITS TITLE? WHERE DOES IT FIT IN THE CURRICULUM OF YOUR PROGRAM OR DEPARTMENT? Most of the responses to this question included course titles one might expect based on the themes of gender and environment. However, Hall’s response stood out as an example of inclusion of these themes in courses that are not explicitly about gender. Thus, we start with her response concerning a course about social and ecological justice. Hall: At my university, I teach a Social and Ecological Justice course. In this course, I have students explore a set of case studies that represent the overlap of social and ecological issues. These studies have included Wangari Maathai’s Greenbelt Movement (Maathai 2006) and Afro-Brazilian women’s fight against land grabs (Perry 2013). In the course, I distinguish between environmental studies that focus on nature apart from humanity or in utilitarian terms and ecological studies that explore the relationships between plant and animal species. My doctoral education is in international relations, which informs my perspective in teaching and learning about social and ecological justice. In particular, attention to borders and boundaries is a point that I emphasize in my teaching and scholarship. In my recent book (Hall 2020), I list “attention to borders and boundaries” as one of five guiding principles of a transnational Black feminist framework. In describing the overlap of social and ecological issues, I have employed Gloria Anzaldúa’s concept of Borderlands that exist “wherever two or more cultures edge each other, where people of different races occupy the same territory, where under, lower, middle and upper classes touch, where the

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space between two individuals shrinks with intimacy” (Anzaldúa 1987, preface). Anzaldúa wrote, “Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its residents” (Anzaldúa 1987, 3). I push students to consider what it means to live within a Borderlands. What happens when your social relations are inextricably bound with specific geographies? Recently, I had the opportunity to facilitate a (virtual) workshop focused explicitly on questions of Borderlands. Everyone in the workshop found that they are engaging some form of borderland. Two examples included the space between “abled” and differently abled, and of belonging and being foreign. In the small workshop, people were willing to share the boundaries of their privileges or disadvantages and ways that they could identify the borderlands where they encountered an interaction with “others.” The (predominantly white) group of graduate students, when asked, were all able to identify the Borderlands that surround them. Braun: Over the years I have taught a few courses that engage ecofeminism and feminist environmentalism in a variety of ways. One course was titled Feminist Perspectives on Environment and Development, which I developed and taught for a few years. When we went through a curriculum restructuring, the course was renamed Gender, Environment, and Development. The department and college leadership at the time thought this change in framing—away from the seemingly political “feminist perspectives” to a depoliticized, broad concept of “gender”—would be more appealing to a wider array of undergraduates, in particular. I actually taught the course in a similar way. In both iterations the course was for a blended classroom of advanced undergraduates and graduate students. At the time, it was the only dedicated course to center the environment and environmental approaches, as well as issues of economic and social development in a global world, in the Department of Women’s and Gender Studies (later, Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies). Kirk: I have taught upper-level undergraduate courses as electives in women’s and gender studies programs at various academic institutions over the years. My first courses were entitled Ecofeminism (Colorado College 1991) and Feminism and Ecology (Mills College 1991; Antioch College 1992). I reworked the course with a clearer focus on intersectionality and changed the title to Gender, Race, Class, and Environmental Movements (Antioch College 1993, cross-listed with Environmental Studies), Environmental Issues: Gender, Race, and Class Dimensions (Hamilton College 2000, cross-listed with Environmental Studies); Living in Place: Analysis and Strategies for Ecological Citizenship (Hamilton College 2001, cross-listed

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with Environmental Studies) and Gender, Race, Class and Environmental Issues (University of Oregon 2010, 2011). These various iterations reflect the development of my thinking as well as curriculum transformation work in the field of women’s and gender studies (Kirk 1997a, 1997b, 1998). Holmes: The upper-level course is called Feminist Approaches to Environmentalism and it serves as an elective in the Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Program (WGSS) and for the interdisciplinary Environmental Fellows Program. Students may also take the class to fulfill a general education requirement for “Power, Privilege, and Diversity.” The name of the class is sufficiently broad to avoid conceptually narrow (and often inaccurate) assumptions about what ecofeminism is; it’s a large enough umbrella title to account for a multitude of frameworks, including ecofeminism, ecowomanism, environmental justice, queer ecologies, borderlands environmentalism, and eco-ability. In foregrounding “feminism” I point to the feminist ethics and methodologies that thread across the course, such as intersectional and micro, meso, and macro level examinations of oppression and resistance. I’ve heard colleagues at other universities struggle with course naming for the reasons Braun raises, that is, to de-emphasize the focus on feminisms and emphasize gender. We have a number of courses that have “feminist” in the title (our research methods course is titled Feminist Inquiry, for example), so there is institutional support for this work and we generally have a lot of good will from colleagues when attempting to pass a new course through the curriculum committee before it is voted on by the faculty. However, I am about to begin teaching a new mid-level writing course on “Gender and Climate Justice” that may prove to be a bigger draw to a certain group of students who are less politically engaged. One of the struggles I had with naming that class is trying to ensure that students understood that we wouldn’t only be centering “gender” in the analysis of climate change and movements for climate justice. 3. WHAT APPROACHES AND TOPICS DO YOU INCLUDE? Although the responses of the contributors focus on what happens in the classroom, the issues engaged (and often the teaching and learning involved) extend beyond it. In addition to gender and environment, each collaborator shares a topic (or approach) that others do not mention. Holmes engages ecowomanism, queer ecologies, consumption, and spirituality. Braun focuses on an approach that emphasizes power, social location, culture, and situated knowledges; her approach is informed by her experience as a white woman teaching on a primarily white campus. Kirk starts by thinking about the body as the first environment and ends by considering what is needed—materially, politically, and spiritually—for a sustainable future. In her Global Systems

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syllabus, Hall roots in “land as pedagogy,” informed by her immersive farming experiences. Holmes: We spend the first five weeks of the semester reading across different conceptual frameworks for making sense of eco-social phenomena. Typically, these include ecofeminism and environmental justice, ecowomanism and/or borderlands environmentalism, eco-ability, and queer ecologies. We compare the ways writers working in those traditions theorize subjectivity, place and/or environment, oppression and resistance; and we look at the disciplinary traditions and epistemic commitments in which scholar-activists work. This reflects both my own interest in and commitment to theory, but as a 300-level course, it also offers another opportunity for our majors to see the development and differentiation of feminist theories and how they inform practice. I hope to enable students to become theory-builders in their own right through reflection assignments given throughout the semester. In the second two-thirds of the semester, we turn to case studies. Recent examples have included environmental economics and sustainable development, the politics of consumption (food, trash), and spirituality for healing self, community, and environment. Although spirituality has been one of the elements of ecofeminism that feminist scholars seemed to resist the most during that wave of backlash (see Holmes 2016, “Sacred Genealogies”), this is something students have really gravitated towards. Whether they are reading Helena Maria Viramontes’ Under the Feet of Jesus (1995), chapters from Sistah Vegan (Harper 2010), Xiuhtezcatl Martinez’s We Rise: The Earth Guardians Guide to Building a Movement (2017), or even Starhawk (2002), students are drawn to the messages of connection that they get from the course materials (connection to self, to human, and more-than-human communities comprised of flora, fauna, and spirits). Martinez, especially, emphasizes the dangers of cooptation and appropriation of spiritual traditions so we think carefully about how to do this work responsibly. One of the most well-received guest speakers I had was an alum who had taken the class with me and wanted to share their work with current students. This alum, who worked in decolonial and food justice movements in his native Hawaii, began his talk by convening a circle and asking all of us to think about and name an ancestor whose energy we brought with us or we wanted to call on in class that day. It really meant a lot to students that someone wanted to hear a small part of their story and connect their past to their present (sitting in the classroom) and future (trying to heal our relationships with each other and the environments we inhabit). The exercise also asked them to bring their bodies into the classroom in ways that, like Kirk mentioned, reminded them that we are part of the material world. Braun: From syllabus creation to pedagogical practices, I approached the course from a decolonial, anti-racist, and social justice perspective, with the specific goal of trying to decenter Western perspectives in intersecting dis-

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cussions of feminism, environmentalism, development, and inequality. As a white woman teaching on a primarily white campus, I feel an imperative to have my course materials reflect and constitute a diverse representation of voices, knowledges, and experiences that embody these fields and the conversations within them. I aim to have students question their preconceived notions about feminism and environmentalism, and to challenge their understanding of inequality and development by engaging perspectives and experiences that may be different than their own. I press them to consider how power, social locations, culture, and situated knowledges shape perspectives, including their own, in ways that may be both empowering and limiting. I encourage them to further consider how powerful actors and institutions, at any scale, may then assert dominance and commit acts of erasure through the universalizing of one perspective as the perspective. These acts of power have real consequences in the world, and, similar to Holmes and Kirk, we explore these connections through sociological discussions about social systems, privilege, and inequalities. I’ve found Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s work in this area to be very profound and accessible for students, and they particularly love her TED talk on “The Danger of a Single Story” (2009). I like to introduce her scholarship early in the term, as her theoretical insights become lenses by which the students consider future discussions and grapple with both the partiality of knowledge and the power of knowledge production in more complex and nuanced ways. Like Hall and Holmes, I use a variety of case studies to explore the social and ecological connections within lived struggles in different places in the world, and I often bring a focus on environmental (in)justice to our discussions. Three of my favorite books to explore as cases include: Wangari Maathai’s The Greenbelt Movement: Sharing the Approach and Experience (2006), also mentioned by Hall; Light Carruyo’s Producing Knowledge, Protecting Forests: Rural Encounters with Gender, Ecotourism, and International Aid in the Dominican Republic (2007); and Lisa Sun-Hee Park and David Naguib Pellow’s The Slums of Aspen: Immigrants vs. the Environment in America’s Eden (2011). In my experience, this process of discovery, reflection, and engagement leads students towards seeing more clearly the value and necessity of understanding the limits of their own experience, particularly if their experience is of a privileged position, whether this be race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, class, or legal status, or through processes of settler-colonialism or global position. To do this work, I support students as they create substantial group projects beginning in the middle of the term, which allows us to build on the foundation of the first few weeks. I have students form groups related to a specific issue or theme, such as environmental racism or gendered effects of climate change, and they collaborate on a research-based project that they then present to the class at the end of the term. Each group researches their

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issue in place, examining how the issue is understood or contested locally by different groups, and how activists from the affected areas are framing and organizing their struggle for certain kinds of outcomes (policy change, reparations, justice, etc.). These projects decenter me as instructor, and allow the students peer teaching opportunities as they share their collaborative group work with the larger class, adding to their engagement with contemporary feminist environmental praxis and activism, and with intersectionality. Together we consider the prescriptive solutions and visions proposed by feminist theorists and environmentalists as we explore relevant scholarship, policy, and activism in this diverse, emerging, and urgently relevant field. Kirk: Topics include the body as the first environment, differential impacts of environmental degradation related to gender, race, class, and nation, and social reproduction as an ecological issue. I focus on clean water, air, and wholesome food as cornerstones of human health, as well as connections between discourses on reproductive justice and population growth. I also discuss the fact that the most industrialized, militarized nations use most of the world’s resources and are responsible for most of the world’s pollution and waste. The class explores the strengths and weaknesses of various theoretical and activist efforts to explain and confront ecological destruction. Also, similarly to others here, I’ve included a research project where students pursue questions related to the course and share their findings with the class. I want students to be able to link course materials to their own lives so that they are part of their own systems of knowledge. In one assignment students write a personal environmental history—about places where they have lived and that have nurtured them—using the theoretical lenses outlined in the course to analyze and reflect on their experiences. They are asked to find out about the Indigenous people who live or have lived where they live now. Students are also asked to find out about sustainability efforts on their campus or in their community. Some prompts might include: “What does the environment mean to you? Who grew and prepared the food you eat, and under what circumstances? How far are you from farming, both in geographical distance and in generations of your family? What is your relationship to animals and plants? To water? What do you want to leave to your children? Your grandchildren? Your great grandchildren?” I have usually invited guest speakers to class or organized visits to local projects. As an instructor on short-term contracts I have had to make connections with local organizers rather quickly. I acknowledge the generosity and willingness of various activists and organizers to talk to students. This has included environmental activists (Colorado Springs, Colorado), workers at Tierra Wools (Los Ojos, New Mexico), staff of the Willamette Farm and Food Coalition (Eugene, Oregon), and members of the Oneida Nation (Oneida, New York). In these sessions I was as much a learner as the students.

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Hall: In addition to considerations of social justice issues implicated in specific geographies, I push students to go beyond what we can learn about land. What can we learn from the land? Nishnaabeg author Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (2017) wrote about “coming into wisdom within a Michi Nishnaabeg epistemology” in a chapter entitled “Land as Pedagogy,” which is included as part of my Global Systems syllabus. Simpson described the process of coming into a wisdom that understands land as pedagogy as follows: It takes in the context of family, community, and relation. It lacks overt coercion and authority, values so normalized within mainstream, Western pedagogy that they are rarely ever critiqued. The land, Aki, is both context and process. The process of coming to know is learner led and profoundly spiritual in nature. Coming to know is the pursuit of whole-body intelligence practiced in the context of freedom, and when realized collectively, it generates generations of loving, creative, innovative, self-determining, interdependent, and self-regulating community-minded individuals. It creates communities of individuals with the capacity to uphold and move forward our political practices and systems of governance. (Simpson 2017, 151)

I have tried to facilitate this kind of community-based and collective learning, with(in) nature, by offering a short course at Soul Fire Farm, “a peopleof-color-led community farm committed to ending racism and injustice in the food system” (Penniman 2018, 50). Unfortunately, the course was underenrolled and had to be cancelled. When I have the opportunity to make such connections for students and am unsuccessful, I question whether I am at the right university to engage my values. This rare access to Soul Fire Farm would have been over-enrolled in a public offering, but my university’s predominantly white, class-privileged, non-traditional students did not take advantage of the opportunity. More than anything that I’ve read, my experiences in farmer and builder immersion programs at Soul Fire Farm (in upstate New York) have shaped how I am thinking about my/our (racialized and gendered) relationship to Earth. I know that my reality as a descendant of enslaved Africans who were forced to work the land in this country impacts how I relate to Earth and her inhabitants. So much of this history is unresolved in current structures of forced (i.e., incarcerated) labor. I try to remain open to learning from Earth and her inhabitants in myriad ways. Although my courses are full of scholarly texts, I believe those texts need to be complemented with reflection about one’s direct relationship with Earth. Certainly, it is an important part of how I think about my connection to my ancestors through this stolen land. I am thankful to Soul Fire Farm for facilitating such healing work for me and many other Black, brown, and Indigenous peoples. On the farm, I am a student and the group of beings assembled are teachers, as is the Earth.

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4. WHAT CHALLENGES DO YOU HAVE IN TEACHING THIS COURSE, AND HOW DO YOU ADDRESS THEM? Our responses to this question had a lot in common. The challenges came from students in understanding the experience of “others.” In Hall’s response, this “other” is defined in terms of race. For Kirk, it is differences between those who understand their challenges and privileges in (inter)personal terms and those who see the structures that shape their opportunities and barriers. Braun discusses the divide between the United States and the world beyond, especially as experienced in the Global South. Holmes identified the tension and learning opportunities between environmentalists and feminists in her classroom. She also highlights a thread that runs through our intentions, which is to facilitate students’ understanding that other worlds exist. Hall: Most of my students are adult learners, and their challenges are those that are predominant in the larger society. Often they do not want to reckon with the ugly history of land and labor in this country. My white adult students cringe when I say that this country was built with stolen labor on stolen land. My Black adult students don’t want to talk about that history of stolen labor with white students, although they are often aware of stories of land that was swindled from relatives. Certainly, my family has had land taken away from us. Rarely do I have any Indigenous students in my classes. Often, students with recent immigration stories are overwhelmed by the tense discussions about these histories that they may not have studied before my class. Kirk: My overall experience in teaching women’s and gender studies courses is that teachers are often the bearers of “bad news” for students whose life experiences have not led them to question the status quo too deeply. Some students have a hard time understanding structural issues and the need for systemic rather than personal solutions to ecological issues, among others. White students have been reluctant to talk about systemic racism, for example, though I find that this is changing. Also, when faced with ecological harms imposed on countries of the Global South, many US students—and not only white students—have tended to pity people in those societies and expressed relief that they live here. I may assign a reading about systemic inequality (e.g., Johnson 1997) or take a class period for the simulation game Star Power (e.g., Mukhopadhyay 2014). I also include case studies that I hope will help students imagine alternative economies and ways of organizing society to allow people to remake our broken relationships to the land and to each other. Many US students know few alternative models and have little faith in US policy makers or corporate leaders to institute structural changes. Braun: One challenge is that many of my students are more comfortable with deconstructing and contextualizing the production of knowledge and

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power from an intersectional perspective in regards to the range of experiences within US social and cultural dynamics. In general, students are less familiar, and less critical, of how their own positionality within the US shapes their understanding of global inequality and difference, and particularly how they view gender inequality and environmental issues in the diverse cultures and societies of the Global South. I encourage them to reflect on this process, and to consider how static ideas about other cultures and communities may distort our interpretations of, or responses to, gender inequality and environmental issues in other places in ways that may do harm. It can also limit real opportunities for solidarity with feminist and/ or environmentalist movements around the world. To explore these issues, I have used a number of case studies including my own research on the socio-environmental consequences of large-dam building in Lesotho, Southern Africa, where we examine how an intersectional approach to environmental justice can render visible how gendered, raced, classed, and global inequities in regards to land and resources are both reflected and constituted within processes of global and national development (Braun 2015). I also love to watch Kum-Kum Bhavnani’s film, The Shape of Water (2006), with my students, as it foregrounds a variety of women-led struggles around the world. These struggles demonstrate a range of issues that women are fighting for in their communities—from stopping female genital cutting to protection of forests to anti-occupation protests to women’s economic empowerment—but shows them from a place of greater complexity than students typically see. The examples in the film set up useful contrasts for students, highlighting the importance of understanding the contexts in which struggles take place and setting up good discussion possibilities regarding respectful entry points for supporters and allies to express solidarity. These questions about solidarity and justice connect well with our class discussions about the “border distortions” that occur among international and local activism in the context of large-dam building (Braun and Dreiling 2014), and with a book we read together, Light Carruyo’s Producing Knowledge, Protecting Forests (2007) mentioned above, and specifically Carruyo’s notion of a “politics of respect” in her work on the gendered and classed dynamics of eco-tourism and international aid in the Dominican Republic. Reading and discussing across these cases allows students to grapple with the complexity and the possibility of solidarity with movements for gender, racial, class, and environmental justice. Holmes: Often students come to the class with either strong prior experience with environmental studies or activism OR feminist studies or activism so we need to build community and shared knowledge across those two groups of students who typically don’t cross paths very often. Many of the students who become majors, minors or who would otherwise take a 300-

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level course in women’s, gender, and sexuality studies have taken more of their coursework in the social sciences and humanities while many students in the environmental fellows and sustainability leadership programs major in geoscience, environmental sciences, biology and other scientific disciplines. We have some bridge work to do! I emphasize that the course is modeled on the idea of a learning community and use an ecosystem metaphor in which we all have different background knowledges and experiences to speak from that may help us grow and mutually flourish over the course of the semester. In the first week of classes, we do a vocabulary dump exercise where we teach each other key words or ideas that have come up in other classes; here, feminist students often teach the others ideas like intersectionality, the matrix of domination, privilege, structural oppression, hegemony, and heteronormativity. Environmental studies students have shared ideas such as sustainability, biodiversity, the Anthropocene, and tipping point. Another significant division is that a majority of our environmental studies students are white-identifying and, at a predominantly white institution like DePauw, WGSS courses that are explicitly focused on racism, sexism, heternormativity and other intersecting oppressions draw more students of color and LGBTQIA+ students than do other majors. Layered onto the disciplinary divide among the WGSS and environmental students is a racial, class (first generation college student), and sexuality divide that makes discussions of our positionality and strategies for organizing that much more important since the environmental students are confronting critiques about white supremacy of the environmental movement both in the texts and from hearing their WGSS peers talk about personal experiences of oppression. I think the WGSS students get more from the class because they arrive better prepared to understand the kinds of structural analyses Hall, Kirk, and Braun mention, but even if this is the first and possibly only confrontation with intersectional and decolonial analysis that other students get, they benefit from being introduced to perspectives that challenge their comfort and a progress narrative about American environmentalism that they may have internalized. A second challenge, and one I have not been able to adequately address yet, is the challenge to help students think creatively and courageously to imagine a different kind of world. In particular, students often get stuck in an economically deterministic mindset where they can’t imagine an economy different than the one many of them have experienced. An economy that prioritizes wellbeing and biological and cultural diversity instead of profits and endless growth is hard to imagine for many. The exception is when international students who have participated in more localized economies share their experiences. I find US students are hungry to hear from their international student peers. For example, a student from Ghana spoke of

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growing up in a community of women farmers who shared their labor and fruits, and how that background gave her a critical eye on American food pricing and policies. She explained that if she’s going to spend some of her limited money on fruit at our rural grocery store, she at least tries to pick the “ugly” or misshapen pieces that most other shoppers would otherwise let go to waste. With a few impromptu comments about her childhood she put a familiar food system under a new light. 5. WHAT ARE STUDENTS’ REACTIONS AND CONTRIBUTIONS? In Braun’s response to this question, she emphasized partnerships between students and professors, researchers and activists, and among communities. Kirk noted that even though some students may have negative associations with environmentalism, they appreciate an intersectional approach and create compelling class projects. Hall shared an intense discomfort among students when discussing racialized and gendered land struggles, and writes about being punished for foregrounding such tensions. Highlighting the importance of emotion, body, and spirituality in her teaching, Holmes writes about how students are transformed during a half-term “eco-experiment.” Braun: My goal is to partner with students to simultaneously explore the exciting intersections of feminist theorizing on the environment and on development, and to apply this knowledge to their own research about issues being taken up by local activists and scholars. This latter part is really important. I want students to understand the importance of looking at gender and environmental issues in communities from the perspectives of those most affected, and how issues are being contested within local spaces in interesting and important ways. Students are often surprised to learn about the work of local scholars and activists who are challenging all kinds of issues around the world, giving them a much richer and nuanced view of people, communities, cultures, and issues in place. But, as Hall, Holmes, and Kirk note, I also aim to support my students learning to think intersectionally and critically about white supremacy, settler colonialism, and patriarchy as systems, and how these have shaped and continue to shape relations to the land and Earth, as Hall details, and dynamics within environmental movements, as Holmes notes. I find students sometimes have difficulty understanding intersectionality and thinking systemically, which can really limit their sense of how to create systemic change, particularly in a culture that heavily emphasizes individualism and personal solutions. I hope the conversations and the course help students create the space to seed their imaginations about what kinds of futures might be possible (Bhavnani, Foran, Kurian and Munshi 2016), and what it would take, systemically, to get there, particularly in light of climate

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change. For me, I know I have much to learn and I often face my own limits of imagination and practice. The transformative conversations I have with students as we engage the rich scholarship in the context of their experiences and knowledges gives me hope and opens my mind and heart to imagine and enact a more just world for all of us. Kirk: Students who have negative associations with the term environmentalist (“saving the whales” or a concern with flora and fauna) appreciate the intersectional approach of this course, even though they often find it has an overwhelming amount of information! In the end, they have completed compelling class projects that encapsulate their learning on many levels. White students often view the outdoor environment in positive terms. Some students of color do not; for them it is dirty, full of bugs, itchy grass, pollen, and a humid atmosphere that makes them feel sweaty and uncomfortable. A student whose grandfather ekes out a bare existence in rural Ethiopia was outraged to be stopped on campus by white students collecting signatures to save monkeys in Africa. His furious reaction was a strong teaching moment for me and for the class. Female students often note that the outdoors—in cities as well as suburban or rural areas—is dominated by men and the site of street hassles or unwanted attention (“Are you girls alone?”). This may be compounded for LGBTQIA+ and gender nonconforming people, and people of color in predominantly white neighborhoods. For a vacation they may prefer to visit a city with a substantial number of people of color rather than a national park, which is perceived as white space. These days I am older than my students’ grandmas. I feel honored to have opportunities for structured conversations with undergrads, to listen and learn about the issues they care about, their despair about the state of the world, and their hopes—sometimes very fragile—for a genuinely secure and sustainable future. Hall: My experience is one of being punished for students’ discomfort at a confrontation with the complicated history of racialized and gendered peoples, as it relates to social and ecological justice, green movements, land struggles, Borderlands, global systems, land as pedagogy, and farming. White assessors of my syllabi and curriculum are looking for Rachel Carson (1962) and other white sources, and have trouble making sense of the color of my teaching. I am not an environmental studies instructor teaching the canon. Instead, I am an international relations scholar, challenging capitalist ideas about how land “ownership” is taught and rationalized. Because institutions tire quickly of such confrontations, I have to use my time well (i.e., efficiently) in order to share anything of the alternative ways of understanding how First Nations, enslaved Africans (and their descendants), and others tell a different story about land and their relationships to it. Unfortunately, I am often in “unnatural” environments where the experiences of people of color are underestimated and undervalued. Even with that

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information, I fight for the right to tell another story about, with, and on (Indigenous) land. My African American community’s relationship to land in the United States is shaped by the government’s active participation in the theft of Black people’s land. Although I am working to grow new relationships in community with others who have been disenfranchised by a white supremacist and patriarchal system, I have a long way to go and a lot to learn from this land and its Native inhabitants. Part of that work is happening through my participation in the Northeast Farmers of Color network, which is working for land-based justice and reparations. Holmes: Since at least one-third of the course focuses on conceptual frameworks that can lead to more cerebral and abstract discussions, I try hard to bring emotions, the body, spirituality, and sense of place into the course with in-class activities and assessments. The biggest project is an “eco-experiment” that students choose themselves and they carry it out for over half the semester. Students have chosen projects like moving to reusable menstrual products, going plastic free, sitting mindfully outside and taking notes on the plants and animals that share their space, or learning to think like a house plant while trying to keep it alive. While students undertake a personal transformation over the course of a semester and learn to try to live differently in line with their environmental and feminist principles, they tie this work to structural analysis in their final research papers (e.g., what is the environmental cost of disposable menstrual products? How could your individual actions be expanded to create a movement of many different actors? Which feminist approach to environmentalism/conceptual framework best helps you make sense of the topic you selected?). In tying action, reflection, and research together in a project chosen by the students, they typically take a lot of responsibility for and pleasure in their learning. But, students who are still learning to think intersectionally find it difficult to see the connections between their topic and the ways it is inflected with race, class, gender, and other modes of social differentiation. For example, in thinking through disposable menstrual products, one might research who lives in neighborhoods more likely to have trash incinerators, or one might research marketing around more sustainable options like the Diva Cup to analyze gendered imagery and trans-inclusiveness around the product. CONCLUDING REFLECTIONS After responding to the questions posed by Kirk, all contributors were asked to give some concluding reflections about teaching and learning gendered ecologies. Did you want to see something in others’ practice that was not there? Are you hoping to impact the practice of others in a particular way? Has your practice been changed by what you read?

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Hall: I have been writing with a feminist of color scholar and friend Linh Hua about counter-canonical practices (forthcoming). As I was reading through the responses of other contributors, I wondered about texts written by scholars of color, who are not feminists or environmentalists in the way that is defined by academic canons. I thought of Indigenous land protectors and Black farmers, and I wondered whether a course that highlighted these knowledges, not as an activist extension, but as the central scholarship, might have a place in the US academy. Also, I really appreciated Holmes “eco-experiment” and wondered about the limitations of the virtual classroom. Sometimes, I feel that I am harming students’ health by engaging them online. What kind of energy consumption am I promoting? What kind of labor goes into retrieving the raw materials for the devices we are using to connect? Of course, an eco-experiment could be an opportunity to aggregate environmental data from multiple locations. However, my experience has been that many students have come online in an attempt to remove themselves from their more immediate environments. They often do not want to reveal those details. Might there be an antienvironmental selection bias among students in online learning environments? I am continuing to work through ideas about how to root virtual learning experiences. Kirk: I don’t think of what I do as being defined by “the canon” but Hall’s question makes me ponder this. In my courses I have presented diverse writers as scholars (e.g., Anthony 1990, Armstrong 2006, Bagby 1990, Glave 2010, hooks 1999, LaDuke 1999, Lee Boggs 2011, Levins 2005, Maathai 2006, Peña 1999, Ruppel 2008, Sze 2009, Trask 1992, Walker 2003, Wildcat 2009). These writers identify as feminists/womanists or write about ecological concerns. Yes, people generate epistemologies from their specific locations and worldviews, and it is crucial that students understand this, as others have said here. Reading over the comments in this chapter I wish I could take my colleagues’ courses! I’m full of admiration for their creativity and thoughtfulness, their insistence on de-centering white and settler-colonial perspectives, and commitment to communication with students. Also, working on this chapter has prompted me to reflect on the development of feminist scholarship over the years, as shown by the range of work referenced here. As Braun mentions, there has been a stronger emphasis on the analytical rather than the visionary, which is also an essential part of creating change. Holmes: After reading Hall’s account of being punished for students’ discomfort, I’ve been thinking more about what makes some of my classes work more than others. From the outset, it matters that I’m white and I’m not taking on students’ conscious or unconscious bias and racism. I do experience more resistance, and sexist and ageist resistance in particular, from students who are not WGSS majors and minors; most of the

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students demonstrating discomfort are white and middle-class Americans. Some students have dismissed me out of hand for raising feminist critiques of science and neoliberal economics or for introducing mini-lectures on the limits of positivist research. So if I revisit the earlier question of naming the course, there may be a certain level of filtering that happens by using the term “ecofeminist” or feminism in the course title and explicitly referring to environmental racism, settler colonialism, and heteronormativity in the course description, which students have access to before signing up. When I teach in the environmental fellows program on campus, my experience is markedly different than when I’m teaching in the WGSS program (and don’t get me started on the time I co-taught an environmental studies class with a white, older male physicist and was torn apart in the evaluations while he was deemed to be “brilliant” . . .). The classes seem to work best (or, maybe I should say “feel the easiest”) when students arrive with more critical preparation with prior sociology or WGSS coursework or personal experience analyzing structural oppression through an intersectional lens. I am still trying to find ways to move the environmental studies and other non-WGSS students to let go of their resistance, but it energizes me when students who come from minoritized backgrounds find value in the courses and add “eco” components to their praxis. One former student, an organizer for queer women of color and Latinx people on campus, noted how she raised the issue of community self-care with her network after reading critiques of the impacts of agricultural production and the marketing of sugary foods on Black and Latinx folx. Sistah Vegan (2010) convinced her to replace weekly ice-cream night at community meetings with something more sustaining and that didn’t contribute to the oppression of laborers in Dominican sugar plantations. Opening up the canon and decentering white and settler colonial perspectives, as Hall suggests, is essential. Ideally, that scholarship would be incorporated in spaces all across the academy and not just the usual suspects like WGSS and ethnic studies programs. I’m heartened to see that, as we write this and are witnessing the mass mobilizations against recent police murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and others, white students in our environmental fellows program are self-organizing to start reading groups on white privilege, white fragility, and the history of white supremacy in the United States (hopefully, looking to see how the establishment of national parks, and other environmental policies have upheld and extended white supremacy). Faculty and staff leadership in the environmental fellows program have been working to access their syllabi, the leaders we invite to campus, and other co-curricular programming to decenter whiteness. One of the things I’m working on in my new book project is to develop an intersectional ecofeminist pedagogy that, maybe too optimistically, I’m trying to

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pitch to all faculty no matter their subject area. The idea is to introduce the kind of expanded intersectional analysis you’ll see in my chapter contribution in this volume and to pair it with course design, mentorship, and other tips to help instructors create more inclusive classrooms, and bring more awareness of the urgency of climate change and need for climate justice in their teaching. This is a move away from talking to a feminist scholarly audience toward a more general audience in the world of faculty development and I’m not sure how this experiment will end! My own syllabus and teaching have gone through transformations in the ten years I’ve been teaching Feminist Approaches to Environmentalism so I know this work starts somewhere and doesn’t end. Not to sound trite, but it has been really helpful for me to read the expanding literature on feminist antiracist and decolonial pedagogy and I’m glad to be in conversation with and learning from collaborators for this chapter and from the other contributors in the book! Braun: As I contemplate our collective conversation, I am struck by two things: first, I am very much still on a lifelong journey of learning about the richness and depth of gendered ecologies, and I’m grateful to be learning from my collaborators in this process; and second, I see a thread through our conversation about the importance of imagination and the challenges and power of reimagining different social relations, processes, and worlds. Whether these are relations of production, acknowledging or recovering relationships to land, or building new economic systems, the existing structures of power and dominant models can too often limit our imagination if we don’t have a deep understanding of histories and alternative ways of being. These critical or alternative approaches may have always existed, but may have been silenced, marginalized, or criminalized, and they can be essential elements to help us remake connections that center more just and nonviolent relationships and systems. From my perspective, part of this work involves making visible the violence of systems and dominant approaches, and engaging our imaginations—which may entail fighting against the limits we are encouraged to put on our imaginations—to challenge the epistemological and material violence of social and environmental justices in our world. One way I like to do this is by elevating the notion of public goods and collective resources in our discussions, to consider how we shift away from systems that privilege the private or class-based accumulation of wealth and resources amidst great poverty and environmental harms, and instead pursue visions, practices, and relationships that center the long-term wellbeing of communities and environments in more just ways.

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REFERENCES Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. 2009. “The Danger of a Single Story.” TEDGlobal Talk, July. https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_ngozi_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story. Anthony, Carl. 1990. “Why African Americans Should Be Environmentalists,” Race, Poverty and the Environment 1, no. 1: 5–6. Anzaldúa, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books. Armstrong, Jeannette, 2006. “Community: Sharing One Skin.” In Paradigm Wars: Indigenous People’s Resistance to Globalization, edited by Jerry Mander and Victoria Tauli-Corpuz, 35–40. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Bagby, Rachel L. 1990. “Daughters of Growing Things.” In Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism, edited by Irene Diamond and Gloria Feman Orenstein, 231–248. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Bhavnani, Kum-Kum. 2006. The Shape of Water. Film. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0887779/. Bhavnani, Kum-Kum, John Foran, Priya A. Kurian, and Debashish Munshi. 2016. Feminist Futures: Re-Imagining Women, Culture and Development (Second Edition). London: Zed Books. Braun, Yvonne A. 2015. “Interrogating Large-Scale Development and Inequality: Bridging Feminist Political Ecology, Intersectionality and Environmental Justice Frameworks.” In A Political Ecology of Women, Water and Global Environmental Change, edited by Stephanie Buechler and Anne Marie S. Hanson, 19–37. New York: Routledge. Braun, Yvonne A. and Michael C. Dreiling. 2014. “Frames, Boomerangs, and Global Assemblages: Border Distortions in the Global Resistance to Dam Building in Lesotho.” In Border Politics: Social Movements, Collective Identities, and Globalization edited by Nancy A. Naples and Jennifer Bickham Mendez, 261–292. New York: New York University Press. Carruyo, Light. 2007. Producing Knowledge, Protecting Forests: Rural Encounters with Gender, Ecotourism, and International Aid in the Dominican Republic. University Park, PA: Penn State Press. Carson, Rachel. 1962. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. Glave, Dianne. 2010. Rooted in the Earth: Reclaiming the African American Environmental Heritage. Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books/Chicago Review Press. Hall, K. Melchor Quick. 2020. Naming a Transnational Black Feminist Framework: Writing in Darkness. London: Routledge. Harper, A. Breeze, ed. 2010. Sistah Vegan: Black Female Vegans Speak on Food, Identity, Health, and Society. New York: Lantern Books. Holmes, Christina. 2016. Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. hooks, bell. 1999. “Touch the Earth.” In At Home on the Earth: Becoming Native to Our Place, edited by David Landis Barnhill, 51–56. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hua, Linh U. and K. Melchor Quick Hall. Forthcoming. “Radical Feminist Transgressions in Teaching/Learning.” In Feminist Collaborations: Intersectional and Transnational Teaching & Learning, edited by Barbara Shaw and Isis Nusair. Johnson, Allan G. 1997. “Patriarchy, the System: An It, Not a He, a Them, or an Us.” In The Gender Knot: Unraveling Our Patriarchal Legacy, 26–47. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Kirk, Gwyn. 1998. “Ecofeminism and the Chicano Environmental Movement: Bridges across Gender and Race.” In Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics: Subversive Kin, edited by Devon G. Peña, 177–200. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. ———. 1997a. “Ecofeminism and Environmental Justice: Bridges across Gender, Race, and Class.” Frontiers: A Journal of Women’s Studies XVIII, no. 2: 2–20. ———. 1997b. “Standing on Solid Ground: Towards a Materialist Ecological Feminism.” In Materialist Feminism: A Reader in Class, Difference, and Women’s Lives, edited by Rosemary Hennessy and Chrys Ingraham, 345–363. New York: Routledge, LaDuke, Winona. 1999. All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life. Cambridge, MA: South End Press.

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Lee Boggs, Grace. 2011. “Detroit, Place and Space to Begin Anew” In The Next American Revolution: Sustainable Activism for the Twenty-First Century,105–134. Berkeley: University of California Press. Levins, Richard. 2005. “How Cuba Is Going Ecological,” Capital Nature Socialism 16, no. 3: 7–25. Levins Morales, Aurora. 2019. “Nadie la Tiene: Land, Ecology and Nationalism” In Medicine Stories: Essays for Radicals, 179–191. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Revised edition. Maathai, Wangari. 2006. The Greenbelt Movement: Sharing the Approach and Experience. New York: Lantern Books. Martinez, Xiuhtezcatl, and Justin Spizman. 2017. We Rise: The Earth Guardians Guide to Building a Movement That Restores the Planet. Emmaus, Pennsylvania: Rodale. Mukhopadhyay, Carol C. 2014. Starpower: Experiencing a Stratified Society. http:// www.sjsu.edu/people/carol.mukhopadhyay/race/Starpower-Activity-2014.pdf. Park, Lisa Sun-Hee, and David Naguib Pellow. 2011. The Slums of Aspen: Immigrants vs. the Environment in America’s Eden. New York: New York University Press. Peña, Devon, ed. 1999. Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics: Subversive Kin. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Penniman, Leah. 2018. Farming While Black: Soul Fire Farm’s Practical Guide to Liberation on the Land. White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green Publishing. Perry, Keisha-Khan Y. 2013. Black Women Against the Land Grab: The Fight for Racial Justice in Brazil. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ruppel, Kristin T. 2008. Unearthing Indian Land: Living with the Legacies of Allotment. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Shiva, Vandana. 2005. Earth Democracy: Justice, Sustainability, and Peace. London: South End Press. Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake. 2017. As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Starhawk. 2002. Webs of Power: Notes from the Global Uprising. Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Press. Sze, Julie. 2009. “Gender, Asthma Politics, and Urban Environmental Justice Activism.” In New Perspectives on Environmental Justice: Gender, Sexuality, and Activism, edited by Rachel Stein, 177–190. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Trask, Mililani. 1992. “Native Hawaiian Historical and Cultural Perspectives on Environmental Justice.” Race, Poverty and the Environment 3, no. 1: 3–6. Viramontes, Helena María. 1995. Under the Feet of Jesus. New York: Dutton. Walker, Alice. 2003. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose, 231–243. New York: Harvest/Harcourt. Wildcat, Daniel. 2009. Red Alert! Saving the Planet with Indigenous Knowledge. Golden: Fulcrum Publishing.

Chapter Fourteen

A Word about Womanist Ecology An Autoethnography of Understanding the Restorative Value of Community Gardens for Africana Indigenous People in America Ravá Shelyn Chapman

Community gardens are a great site for understanding ecological relationships among people, human culture, and non-human nature. Members of community gardens are afforded the opportunity to examine themselves as stewards of the land. Community gardens are powerful spaces that challenge the human ego. They inspire collective work for the purpose of a collective experience and a shared harvest. The community garden has been a driving force behind the conversation about sustainable food sources. Community gardens are rooted in the practice of provisional gardens existing among slave quarters and are at the center of hidden maroon communities (Twitty 2017, 266). Community gardens are survival strategies developed by Africana Indigenous people who resisted and survived in spite of colonization, enslavement, and genocide as a result of the quest for global white domination. They are a key feature of African agrarian culture and a longstanding spiritual tool. Community gardens require individuals to engage with the land and other people within a specific landscape. For Africana Indigenous people, they represent a return to a basic and natural wave of existence linking oneself and one’s culture. This wave of existence speaks to the interaction among spirit, land, and humans, which is the foundation of our existence. This allows members to maintain healthy, balanced, harmonious relationships among the self, other people, land, plants, the entire landscape, and the Great Spirit. The point of a community garden is to make these various dimensions of community both balanced and 203

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harmonious. Community gardens can be productive, resilient, and sustainable in relation to life and wellbeing. In this chapter, I share my experiences at a community garden in the southwestern neighborhood of Atlanta, Georgia, known as Bush Mountain. My confidence in sharing my spiritual experiences and understanding while functioning as garden manager of Bush Mountain Community Garden is rooted in the legacy of great womanist writers such as Anna Julia Cooper (2000), Zora Neale Hurston (2006), Toni Morrison (2008), Alice Walker (2004), and Sonia Sanchez (1984). These women have made it possible for me to embrace my seership. This work utilizes a womanist logic that merges the narrative and ecological, connecting my human experience to that of the natural world (Maparyan 2012, 41). In that the women of the previous generation have sought their mothers’ gardens, we seek Sankofa and manifest her, our grandmother, our garden. 1 I honor them, as this work is possible only through their efforts of bravery and authenticity. I was conducting course work for a doctorate in Humanities and Africana women’s studies, while volunteering as a community garden manager at Bush Mountain, a historic and powerful landscape. In this chapter, I use the term “Africana Indigenous” women and people to refer to individuals of African descent as the ethnic group commonly referred to as Black American or African American, or historically as Negro or Colored. This chapter is written from the perspective of that Black American experience and culture (including those whose families migrated from the South during the Great Migration between 1916–1970s). Our collective experience includes colonization, enslavement, reconstruction, mass incarceration, Jim and Jane Crow policies, biological terrorism such as the crack epidemic, and environmental racism such as the Flint water crises. Also, this is the same group of people who created and continue to create Negro Spirituals, Blues, Rock and Roll, Jazz, Rhythm and Blues, Soul, Funk Music, and Hip Hop. Also, I approach, explore, and engage with ecology from the perspective of the collective experiences of those within my bloodline. Community gardens have a historical and culturally significant meaning for people of African descent with roots in the southern United States. Our belief systems and practices originate from the mosaic of cultures of African and American Indigenous tribes. Community gardens are an Africana technology used during antiquity in agrarian farming communities, plantation agriculture and provisioning gardens, as well as sustenance gardens among the vast number of maroon communities. In this conversation about ecology, I frame womanism as a product of Afrocentric paradigms, drawing on the contributions of Africana women’s studies scholars (e.g., Hudson-Weems 2019) and women’s studies scholars (e.g., Maparyan 2012). I am also greatly

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influenced by the work of Na’im Akbar (1984, 395–414) and his exploration of Africana consciousness. I have come to believe that the landscape is a site that unites physical and spiritual dimensions. I see landscapes as spiritual texts. Community gardens allow groups of people to assist in the co-authoring of landscape through productive manual labor. The argument I wish to make here is something I came to realize while working at Bush Mountain: the land is an ever-changing, yet consistent spiritual text. It attracts and develops individual spirits for the greatest good of the planet through radical healing. Radical healing includes thoughts, behaviors, and practices rooted in the ontological depth of one’s culture of origin, that are traditional and adaptive and conducted for the purpose of restoring harmony and balance. One could develop the ability to read the landscape as a spiritual text by decoding the landscape and the relationship among people, plants, animals and Great Spirit. What plant species are growing, how are they growing, where they are growing and for how long are significant to the ways that humans, animals, and other spiritual entities engage with the landscape. Here the landscape is a collective story, a book of past, present, and possible future life expressions. There are spirits that are of the landscape and others that occupy the landscape. Within my womanist ecological understanding, community gardening includes non-human nature, including plants, animals, spirits, and the Great Spirit as part of the land, as well as the relationships among all human members of a community. Community is not just about people; it is about the Great Spirit orchestrating people, plants, animals, and spirits entities. A community is a network of relationships. COMMUNITY RELATIONSHIPS: COMMONWEAL AS A SURVIVAL TOOL Relationships enhance our survival. Practicing and promoting healthy relationships are the foundation of community, its commonweal. According to Maparyan (2012, 10) commonweal is both a value and an objective. Commonweal is a focus on community wellbeing. Wellbeing relates to the whole and its individual parts. Community is an intrinsic part of the Black experience in America. Community is key to Black folk’s resilience and sustainability. There is power in the collective that increases the chances for individual survival. My introduction to the Africana perspective of community was through my childhood church, Park Hill Christian Church in Denver, Colorado, which was part of the collective institution known as the Black Church, where community merged with the family, landscapes, and Spirit (Lincoln and Mamiya 1990). All of the adults were considered my aunts and uncles and all of the children were my cousins. The children and elders ate first at

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our dinners and gatherings. The women would fix plates for their husbands and then feed themselves. Often the men would cook the meats and fish, and the women would cook everything else. This is often what I think of as community. Yet, I have come to understand that this is only a part of what community is within Africana cosmology. Community includes humans, nature (including all living beings), and the spirit world (including sentient and insentient beings). An extended notion of community is highlighted in both African-centered thought and within womanism. Community is denoted in the womanist triad of concern that includes human-human relationships, human-nature relationships, and human-spirit relationships (Maparyan 2012, 36–37). From this perspective, the restoration garden incorporates and cultivates all these relationships. In order to discuss the therapeutic, restorative value of gardening, it is important to identify guiding values. The value system used to assess the transformative and therapeutic value of restorative gardening can be found in Maparyan’s womanist axiological perspective and offers an understanding of values significant to womanist consciousness and cultural practices. These values include “at a personal level self-actualization wellness, and self-care; at a communal level amity, harmony, and commonweal; at an environmental level reverence, balance and nurturance; at a spiritual level reverence, inspiration, consciousness, memory, and love” (Maparyan 2012, 43). One of the guiding theories of horticultural, or nature-based, therapy is restoration. In many ways social restoration comes with responsibilities, inadequacies, limitations, and dehumanization, rooted in interlocking systems of oppression. In the natural ecology and with an active connection with the spirit, one can experience a level of renewal and restoration. One can experience affirmation for oneself, one’s community, and the planet. At Bush Mountain, there were ritual activities that helped to facilitate restoration. These ritual activities were African-centered and sought to engage the mind, body, and spirit in various horticultural activities. THE SPIRIT OF THE LANDSCAPE: A BACKGROUND OF BUSH MOUNTAIN The spirit of the landscape at Bush Mountain is remarkably powerful. Bush Mountain is a highly intelligent landscape. The land is blessed; the land is cursed. It was both haunted and sacred. The women who worked the land used to say that Bush Mountain was a Black woman who wanted to remain wild. It inspires a degree of neglect among people who come and go, and sometimes return. A demand for respect and a quest for love generated defensiveness. She offered wisdom, knowledge, and strength to me during the gardening process. The lush green land had within its perimeter certain guar-

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dians; plants and animals witnessed the people come and go. At the center of the garden there lived a beautiful fig tree. It was round like the earth; its leaves shaped like a uterus and its fruits as testes. It was the heart of the garden. In the area surrounding the tree individuals reported feeling tingling on their skin, ringing in their ears, and hair-raising experiences. Children used to come and eat the fruit of the tree. We would fertilize the tree with fish blood and river water. Just to the right of the fig tree, we found our first baseball that dated back to the era when the Atlanta Black Cracker Negro Baseball League team practiced and played on the field below the garden. Here we constructed an ancestral rose garden laced with a Sankofa heartshaped strawberry bed to honor the ones who have come before us and transformed the collective understanding of land, people, and liberation. We planned the design for the ancestor rose garden just after clearing the energy and engaging in a ritual to determine the best place to break ground on the garden. Months after my departure, there had been heavy rain in Atlanta, followed by freezing temperatures. The fig tree split in half and was not properly tended the following spring. As a result of nature and neglect, the fig tree died. It is common to find points within the landscape that are hyperactive. These spaces hold spirits that communicate on behalf of the landscape. It was here at Bush Mountain that I received a profound lesson of the intelligence of a landscape as an independent spiritual actor with agency. My bloodline includes those who existed on this land prior to me. Their spirits walk with us and their spirits are stationary. The spirits are protective, informative, and loving. Loving spirits are invested in the collective survival of the community. Ideas would be communicated to me in ways profoundly otherworldly. According to folklore, Bush Mountain was a spiritual mound. Located at the dead-end street of the Bush Mountain community, the garden sat on top of the mountain where a school existed and was later burned down. I was told that it was the result of a hate crime during which children were hurt and killed. Below that is a 7-acre field where the Atlanta Black Crackers (ABC) practiced and played. Then below that is a 21-acre forest. The entire area of Bush Mountain and Oakland city was, and still is, significant to the Muskogee Creek. According to local folklore, the forest and the mountain were part of the waterway system associated with the Underground Railroad. The past and the present influence the character of the landscape. The character of the landscape includes the collective experiences of humans, non-humans, material, non-material, and spiritual entities co-existing on the land. Many of those who visited the land, worked the land, or lived near the land understood it to be a spiritual portal in which the ecosystem influenced and directed behavior. The spirit of this land was, and still is, extremely communicative. It

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is feminine and sometime masculine. There were various spirits that protected the land and ensured my safety and the safety of others. I had the honor to develop ecological awareness and connection through the land while serving as volunteer community garden manager at Oakland City/Bush Mountain Community Garden. The garden was considered city property under the stewardship of West Atlanta Watershed Alliance (WAWA). Personally, the land had a consuming effect on me. I began my journey at Bush Mountain during a time when two sister-friends and a good brother of mine were managing the space. I began my engagement with the land by assisting my good friend, which helped me manage my anxiety. We would often say Bush Mountain was a Black woman, untamable and free. For that reason, I refer to the land as “she.” The garden has had a long history of development and a series of managers who had a positive impact on the community. There has been variation and inconsistency in the very naming of the space. Prior to my arrival, the garden space was named Harnett Community. At the time of my arrival, the space was named Oakland City Community garden. While I was there, community members decided that the name of the space should reflect the name of the neighborhood and called it Bush Mountain Community Garden. Since then, the space has returned to the name Harnett Community Garden. When I arrived, the garden was developed and blooming with colorful flowers, corn, squash, lemon balm and a large, beautiful fig tree, mentioned above, at the heart of the garden. The good people of WAWA were the governing organization, working alongside the Oakland City Community Association. The organization Helping Africa by Establishing Schools Here and Abroad, or HABESHA, Inc., 2 had conducted an Extreme Green Project as a part of their HABESHA Works program. On the other side, “Grow Where You Are” 3 had done considerable development. I began my work as a volunteer in 2013; from 2014 to spring 2017, I functioned as garden manager. However, at the end of 2013, both nonprofit organizations experienced a reduction in capacity and were no longer able to aid in the garden development as in previous years. During 2014, city workers mowed down the garden twice, destroying the crops. The experience was beyond disheartening. It was also during this time that the Oakland City Community Association decided to discontinue their relationship with the community garden and focus energy on other community projects. Several key members, such as Mrs. Gates and her son, had transitioned into ancestors the previous year. Both were strong advocates of the community garden and recognized the importance of the space for commonweal and the education and development of children. The mission that was given to me was to establish the community garden space as a restoration garden. A restoration garden incorporates and cultivates people-to-plant engagement in a natural landscape. It requires balanced

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and harmonious relationships between people and the land. There was anecdotal evidence of the therapeutic value of restorative gardening, and The Just Breathe Experience and Fathers in the Garden programs were meaningful interventions. The prayer is that those who participated would be transformed by the experiences, even though the experiences were short-lived and under-resourced. The Just Breathe Experience: A Therapeutic Garden Program The Just Breath Experience was a radical healing program that focused on the therapeutic and restorative elements of Africana ecological engagement in a garden space. A womanist lens was used in the development of The Just Breathe Experience program. It was a series of workdays that took place in June 2016 at Bush Mountain Community Garden. Music as sound therapy was a component of the event. A lot of funk, soul, hip hop and gospel music was played. The Just Breathe Experience featured horticultural activities along with herbal medicine as a means of restoring balance and harmony within the mind, body, and soul, of humans and the earth. The program was developed during the weeks surrounding Black Lives Matter (BLM) protests. Several of the frontline activists against the mass killing and incarceration of Black people came to the Bush Mountain Community garden. During this time, several sisters engaged in a conversation about sexism and the distribution of labor within BLM activities. The tone was reminiscent of women’s marginalization in earlier Black Liberation movements. After engaging in several horticultural activities and consuming herbal teas and plant-based food, participants reported an increased sense of calm and (mental and spiritual) clarity. This program was developed in June 2016 as a response to traumatizing displays of state-sanctioned killing of Black people and the realities of human trafficking in Atlanta. The Just Breathe Experience was a volunteer workday in which participants were able to work on the land. In many ways, it aided in the cultivation of personal, communal, environmental, and spiritual wellbeing. The program had therapeutic value. Fathers in the Garden: Organic Program Development The more popular program developed was the Fathers in the Garden program. Two important characteristics of womanism should be considered here: family centeredness and agentic behaviors and practices. These must be in concert in liberation efforts. I had no intention of developing a program centered around men; it was a purely organic program that developed through conversations with garden members. Most of the consistent volunteers were men and their children. What developed was a shift in the spiritual

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work and development of the garden programming. As men would come to volunteer, they would ask if they could bring their children. The garden experience became a time during which men would connect with other fathers and engage with their children, instilling information and values that participants found significant. Some of the themes addressed included good character, strong work ethic, and following directives. When programs develop from a community level, a leader should allow them to manifest and support their success. My role in the program was simply to maintain the sign-in sheets and liability release forms. I gave some instruction to the children; however, it was really a time when fathers worked alongside their children. I will treasure forever the images of richly melanated men laughing with their children and affirming their efforts and hard work. One program participant was thankful for the program because his little boy had a great time and exhausted himself at the garden. He did not have to spend money for this experience. The garden was a way he could build a better relationship and it was much better than just playing video games or watching movies. It developed into a male-centered program where I was only minimally involved, out of respect for the experiences of volunteer participants. It was a brotherhood where men would discuss issues and experiences associated with fatherhood. While it might seem strange that a womanist garden would have a male-centered program, the fact of the matter is that a womanist is concerned with the wellness of the entire family. Womanist ideas are concerned with balanced and harmonious relationships (Maparyan 2012). TEARS AND SOIL: DEAD HEADING AND DEPRESSION I believe there has been an ocean worth of tears metabolized by southern soil. In the garden, grief is metabolized. One of my favorite activities in dealing with grief was to dead head flowers, removing the dead or past bloomed flowers. One of the saddest women I worked with was a young lady who had experienced a miscarriage. It was late summer, just about the turn of autumn. She prayed to God and cried Hail Mary a million times to save her baby, to keep her baby inside of her. She delivered only blood, soft bones, and lifeless tissue. With nobody else at home, she was initiated into the blood mother tribe. We cried together and prepared the ground for winter. We removed from the land, and she removed from us, everything that was lifeless. Together within a sisterhood of elder and younger, I saw myself in her as I searched for answers to the hardships of life. It became clear that deep sadness—the type of sadness that could consume a soul—must be given to the earth.

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Working with the earth, engaging with the plants and animals, restores a broken soul. It became clear to me that our mothers’ and grandmothers’ gardens were made for healing deep-rooted grief. I am convinced that it was Africana Indigenous women/people’s ecological engagement that aided in the metabolism of grief from the Middle Passage, enslavement, manumission, emancipation, Jim/Jane Crow, and horrors experienced as a result of white global domination. What was done to land was also done to many Indigenous people, including Africana Indigenous people who have experienced enslavement and colonialism. Therefore, Alice Walker (2004) encouraged Africana Indigenous women to examine the usefulness of their grandmothers’ gardening practices to keep them from collapsing under oppression and unfortunate events. They cried into the soil and Mama Earth consumed their sadness and restored them with faith. WOMANIST ECOLOGY: NO CULTURE WITHOUT AGRICULTURE A motto of HABESHA, Inc. is “There is no culture without agriculture.” 4 Both culture and agriculture are found in our mothers’ gardens and are passed down from grandmother to granddaughter, through language and practice. The cultivation of the land, and sustainably securing good quality food, are foundational to societal and cultural development. A people cannot develop without a food system. Women are responsible for food production with their body in breastfeeding, through traditional roles as food gatherers of wild edible plants, and in the development of smallscale farms. Africana Indigenous women in the southern United States were heavily involved in the production of food through the engagement of their bodies (breast feeding), cooking food for their families as well as European American families, and cultivating kitchen gardens. Scholars have noted that women were reservoirs of botanical knowledge regarding plant cultivation and use (Voeks 2007, 7–20). Womanism is concerned about the collective ecological community, connected to these women. When I consider this concept of community, it must take into consideration the totality and diversity of natural ecology, the impact of human culture, and the power of the Great Spirit. The late Chief Amachi Apetor Buaru, founder of the International Indigenous Knowledge & Development Society (IIKDS) 5 and the University of Traditional Sciences, was a master herbalist and chief priest from the royal family of Dagbon (Dagomba). He discussed the importance of Africana Indigenous women and people connecting to nature. He notes three important points significant to this conversation pertaining to Africana Indigenous women/people: 1) there are parts of the individual self that originally exist in nature, 2) there

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are gods of our ancestors that exist within nature, and 3) we become more spiritually powerful while in nature. 6 This theory suggests that nature could stimulate us in ways that are mentally, spiritually, and physically transformative. This transformation could aid in the cultivation of spiritual power and inner strength. For Africana Indigenous people, community gardens are more than just places to extract food to eat or for sale. Based on my experience at Bush Mountain community garden, the garden is a site for healing the mind, body, and spirit of an individual; this is experienced prior to the harvesting of any crop. This is a result of obtaining a balanced and harmonious relationship within oneself, among others, with the environment, and with one’s source of creation. Gardening is, in part, the ability to observe and manage relationships for the purpose of growth. The ability to read, comprehend and solve problems is a form of ecological literacy. Ecological literacy is a womanist behavior. It is the cultivation of self, community, and plants for the survival of all. Ecological literacy is rooted in a deep-seated respect for the living and the non-living. Among the women and men involved with Bush Mountain, many of the growers understood reverence for the land through our grandmothers’ kitchen gardens. Kitchen gardening, provisional gardens, sustenance farming, and commercial farming are rooted in the botanical legacy of Africana Indigenous people. This relationship increases one’s ecological literacy, one’s ability to read the landscape. Ecological literacy is what Africana Indigenous people have used to build and survive the United States of America. This literacy is mediated by culture and ancestral connectivity, yet it is based on one’s ability to perceive beyond the obvious. It is an opportunity to listen and read a landscape in its fullest expression. My landscape literacy first developed through my observations as a child. I grew up admiring my maternal grandmother’s garden in Aurora, Colorado. She was a copper colored woman who grew up on a cattle ranch in Texas. She forced us outside during the summertime because we made too much noise indoors. She ushered in my early exposure to natural ecology and womanism. Some of my first memories are of my grandmother’s garden and eating lunch on blankets in the yard. She grew flowers, herbs, and tomatoes. We were not allowed in her garden without her. It was her private space, and we had no business in there. The garden had an extremely high fence around it, the kind of fence one would see used to cage pit bulls. I would get in trouble for picking flowers from my neighbors’ yards for pretend weddings. I recall going camping in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado as a participant in our church retreats and for family vacations. We would go on night hikes during which we were told to have faith and find a friend in all things. I learned to fish on these retreats. My childhood hiding place was in our east Denver home kitchen

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garden and yard. There, I was in nature among our snowball bushes; I could be found making mud stew, reading, or daydreaming. That is where I came to understand the balance and harmony a cultivated landscape could provide. TENDING TO RELATIONSHIPS: COMMUNITY AND COMMONWEAL Commonweal is the focus on community wellbeing. Community is central to Black southern culture. Commonweal has roots in the extended family networks of plantation and maroon collective living structures. Community is at the essence of the Black church folk’s sustainability and resilience. It speaks to the power in a collective that increases an individual’s chances of survival and the capacity to thrive. As mentioned earlier, my introduction to community was through the Park Hill Christian Church. There, community merged with family. Traditionally, the Black Church community consisted exclusively of Africana Indigenous people. As such, cultural practices developed without the need to accommodate whiteness. Park Hill Christian Church was an unapologetic Africana spiritual space that honored the humanity and authenticity of Africana Indigenous people. Community includes humans, nature (i.e., all living beings), and the spirit world; it includes sentient and nonsentient beings. The extended notion of community is highlighted in both African-centered thought and womanist ideas. RESISTANCE AND ECOLOGICAL TERRORISM For Africana Indigenous people who have been rooted in the United States for several generations and who have experienced chattel slavery in southern United States, our culture is built on agriculture and engagement with the natural ecology of landscapes. However, scholars have outlined the complicated relationship Africana folks have with the land given the horrific terroristic, genocidal, crimes against humanity, including rape, lynching and other forms of assault that took place throughout the United States of America (Glave 2010). For this reason, there exists an aversion to natural ecology; this deeply rooted fear must be properly recognized, processed, and healed. Fear within nature is real. There are times when I feel unfounded fear in nature. A level of resistance I have felt from community members in some ways reflect ancestral trauma at the site of the natural ecology. This is particularly true for the Bush Mountain/Oakland City Community, as the garden was built on the remains of the school burned to the ground as a result of a hate crime. I was told that smoke and flames killed children there.

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Getting folks to the garden was challenging. A considerable amount of energy went into building trusting relationships and comforting community people. Based on conversations I have had with people there is a perception that community gardens are wonderful, even glamorous spaces where resources are readily available, and the surrounding residents are naturally invested. Resources and people’s investment takes time and energy to build. Yet, many people reported not having the time or energy to invest in Bush Mountain garden. Many of the community members had gardens in their own yards, lacked an interest in horticulture, or avoided garden spaces altogether. However, the garden space was extremely active with informal activities. Bush Mountain Garden was a haven for many community members. It was nearly impossible to keep the garden neatly manicured. The rate at which plants grew there was astounding. It was a large space to manage. There were several places for children to play hide-and-seek. Many of the youth would run away to have sex with boyfriends or girlfriends; some would come there in need of a night away from home. A wide range of people could be found sleeping in the garden for various reasons. Some bright early mornings I was greeted by a teenager, or a homeless/transient man or woman, waking up and departing from the onsite shed. The shed was the only standing structure at the garden. It housed a homeless family during the winter of 2014–2015. I would walk through the garden singing to announce myself as the sun rose. This would give people the awareness of my presence and inform them that a workday was about to begin. Most of these people had a longstanding connection to the land. Perhaps, they grew up in the area, but were now working for a corporation downtown and would come to the garden in the early morning to smoke and drink coffee. Sometimes they would offer to help me water plants. It was in those moments that I learned to trust that the land would protect me. There were some I felt instructed to not engage. I would pretend to give directions to what I described as a large group of people on my cell phone. Though I encountered a few unsavory personalities, I only felt in danger once. While managing Bush Mountain Garden, I learned to read the landscape. I could tell when I was being watched; I could tell if the witness was human, animal, or non-human spiritual entities. I learned to understand the needs of certain plants. I learned which plants were willing to assist with bee stings and ant bites. Certain colors within the landscape would grab one’s attention. I sensed from the wind when it was no longer appropriate for me to remain in the garden. Sometimes I felt the urgency to leave immediately. Once, I felt this sensation while in the garden and after leaving later got word that a shooting took place near the garden. I had many teachers while I was a Bush Mountain. Ancestral beings who could not share their secrets of plants or horticultural techniques directly disclosed them to me.

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Holding leadership within a community garden is challenging, yet transformative and self-expansive. It requires the womanist methodological tool of harmonizing and coordinating to yield desired outcomes (Maparyan 2012, 56). This work was an act of tremendous love. And so, I was deeply disappointed that no assistance or resources were offered for basic garden repairs such as developing a water system, soil amendments, or other necessary material. Funding for the garden was nonexistent. We had money for a few tools and a wheelbarrow. We, the governing organizations, did not have enough human capital to locate the type of funding that was needed. My engagement with this land was motivated in part by a force deep within me, connected to a force deep within the landscape. I invested a considerable amount of time, money, and physical energy into this garden project, which by many measures proved to be an unsuccessful venture. Proving myself and building relationships with community members was both a heartwarming and painful experience; it was both exhausting and energizing. All my socialization and training had been rooted in the Black Church woman’s tradition of piety and commonweal. All of this came into question during my short tenure as garden manager. There were moments when I felt that relationships were exploitative, dishonest and unhealthy. I questioned reliance on volunteerism, as a manipulative system within the non-profit industrial complex. The exploitative use of volunteer labor shifted my approach to community relations and development, as well as my sense of the boundaries of community organizing. Community organizing is an art mastered through good character and integrity, along with consistent practical efforts. Mastery is achieved through the development of one’s sense of need and limitations. An individual’s needs require support and limited resources must be optimized. Community organizing can be understood as orchestration. From a womanist perspective this must honor both human and non-human elements. Our definition of community includes all beings within the natural ecology, including the Great Spirit. Constructing policies, procedures, and practices that honor the entire community is key to any community supported agricultural work. Many people told me that Bush Mountain was a distraction from my academic study by delaying its completion, or it was an investment of time, energy, and other resources without a tangible return. Yet, time at Bush Mountain was like golden honey. I wish I could share the images of Black shining skin, the sunset, or the fireflies at night. Laughter mixed with sweat marked exhaustion and a sense of accomplishment from our work for the day. Bush Mountain Garden is wild, free, protective, giving, and corrective. She selects her children and then, at the appropriate time, transitions her children to the next stage. I am glad I was chosen.

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REFERENCES Akbar, Na’im. 1984. “Afrocentric Social Sciences for Human Liberation.” Journal of Black Studies 14, no. 4: 395–414. Cooper, Anna J. 2000. The Voice of Anna Julia Cooper: Including a Voice from the South and other Important Essays, Papers, and Letters. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Glave, Dianne D. 2010. Rooted in the Earth: Reclaiming the African American Environmental Heritage. Chicago: Chicago Review Press. Hudson-Weems, Clenora. 2019. Africana Womanism: Reclaiming Ourselves. New York: Routledge. 5th Edition. Hurston, Zora Neale. 2006. Dust Tracks on a Road: Autobiography. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics. Lincoln, C. Eric, and Lawrence H. Mamiya. 1990. The Black Church in the African American Experience. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Maparyan, Layli. 2012. The Womanist Idea. New York: Routledge. Morrison, Toni. 2008. What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi. Sanchez, Sonia. 1984. Homegirls and Handgrenades. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press. Twitty, Michael W. 2017. The Cooking Gene: A Journey Through African American Culinary History in the Old South. New York: HarperCollins. Voeks, Robert A. 2007. “Are Women Reservoirs of Traditional Plant Knowledge? Gender, Ethnobotany and Globalization in Northeast Brazil.” Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 28, no. 1: 7–20. Walker, Alice. 2004. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

NOTES 1. Sankofa is an Akan term and symbol to communicate the idea to “go back and get it.” 2. https://habeshainc.org/. 3. https://www.growwhereyouare.farm/. 4. Cashawn Myers, “Sankofa Farming Practices: Bridging the Past with the Presence.” Sisters of the Soil (SOS) Symposium, Spelman College: Atlanta, GA. April 27, 2019. 5. https://www.facebook.com/iikds. 6. Chief Amachi (IIKDS), “The Message Nature Has for You.” September 5, 2017. Video, 10:09. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RR6Ny9O0Bo.

Chapter Fifteen

A Conversation with Nuria Costa Leonardo Feminist Visionary, Builder, Farmer, Teacher Nuria Costa Leonardo and Margo Okazawa-Rey

Margo Okazawa-Rey: Nuria Costa Leonardo is a force to be reckoned with and someone who loves life. We were first introduced when she was chosen as one of 1,000 women nominated collectively for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2005. 1 We had the chance to get to know each other better at the First SouthSouth Forum on Sustainability in Hong Kong in 2011, which we both attended for nearly a week. 2 Then I spent a memorable time with Nuria at Bosque de Agua (Forest of Water), her magical place in Morelos, Mexico. I saw her way of leading first-hand, her way of gathering women and men from various life circumstances to share stories, imagine possibilities, and address their common problems. She’d invited me to speak at the Women’s Peace Table (WPT), an ongoing project of PeaceWomen Across the Globe. For the past several years, this project has brought together diverse groups of women and supporters of peace, women’s rights, and women’s issues in various parts of the world, for example, in Egypt, Sudan, and South Korea. My visit extended far beyond the WPT at Bosque. I met residents of a rural area severely affected by the 2017 earthquake in Mexico, 3 and toured a home constructed mostly from recycled products such as tires, old toilets, and used bottles, to show others what’s possible. I visited a cheese-production site that used the land wisely and employed local women. Bosque de Agua was home for those five inspiring days. When I left, part of me stayed there. I wanted to interview Nuria to deepen my understanding of the values, philosophy, politics, and purpose that are the foundation of Bosque de Agua and her life and work, and to share this with a wider community. Our conver217

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sation brought back memories of that visit. As Nuria did when she guided our tour and accompanied our learning in Mexico, I guided and accompanied her through this interview. 4 Margo Okazawa-Rey: Today, I’m in conversation with my good friend and comrade, sister feminist from Bosque de Agua in Mexico. Nuria, you’ve been doing this work on sustainability, alternative economies, and so forth for a very long time. So, it’s my honor today to hear more about your work and about you in relation to that work. Nuria Costa Leonardo: It’s my honor. Thank you, Margo. I often think my work is not so important but I appreciate your opinion and your vision. It makes me happy and proud to share it and to value it. Thank you very much. Margo: Thank you! And we’re here with Gwyn and Melchor who are coediting the book where this interview will be published. And of course, we can’t do this without our interpreter, Stephanie Hooper. Thank you all. So, Nuria, you remember the time I came to visit you in Mexico. It was right after the big South Mexico earthquake in September 2017. What was amazing to me was your organization—I’ll put that in quotes—since it is also your home, your retreat center, and a place for women and men to gather to imagine another world and get ideas and support for the work they’re doing to create it—Bosque de Agua. I was inspired by what I saw. Your work and your connections to rural communities make me wonder about your vision of a sustainable future, especially for rural communities in Mexico. Please tell us about this. Nuria: Okay. The first thing is consciousness—about the value and importance of rural areas in Mexico and in the world. From the beginning of my work that was very clear for me. I was 18 years old. I moved to live with Indigenous communities in the jungle, attracted by their cultural richness. And I tried to find the origins of that community that are our roots. I was also very conscious of all the unfair things in the world: social inequality, the incomprehensible concentration of poverty, and violence against those in rural communities and Indigenous communities. So I had a consciousness of injustice. It’s a big paradox, how in some areas the people concentrate the cultural values of the whole rural society. They concentrate biodiversity and cultural wealth, as well as wealth in natural resources: where the water comes from, food sources, clean air, beauty, production, identity, and roots. When I started there was not as much destruction as there is now. There has been a lot of violence because corporate interests enabled by the government have wanted to take over the land from Indigenous communities. They’re poor people who are disrespected, considered dirty. In Mexico during the 1930s and 1940s, the government vision of development was what we now call “neoliberal” because the priority was to develop an industrial economy based on the destruction, misuse, and dispossession of

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the natural resources in rural areas. My vision, my flag, my life project has been to revalue rural societies and to study why this violence and displacement was happening. My vision for a sustainable future aligns with the consciousness of people in rural societies, their importance and value. This is completely different from the state’s vision, which is to extract resources for the industrialization of the country and not for the benefit of rural communities. It’s a shame. In Mexico, there are more than 190,000 rural communities, each with less than 2,500 inhabitants. This has been part of the state’s justification historically for not providing public services for them—no roads, no schools, no medical services, no intervention for the empowerment of these communities. It’s a world turned upside down! These communities are very destroyed these days. We want them to be valued, with public services of all kinds, with respect for people’s voices, empowering them with alternative employment, and a better quality of life. This is not only about money but about living well—buen vivir—with respect for ecosystems and the consciousness that people are a small part of the ecosystem. This includes respect, harmony, social relationships for common wealth, love for life, and everything that life represents—a consciousness of love and harmony. I believe that creates happiness and gratitude for life. Life is everything. All of that in rural areas and in relationship to people in urban areas who respect them. Well, that’s my answer to the first question. Margo: What you’re saying is so profound. When I was there I saw your values in action, how you related to the people who worked there, how you facilitated the gathering with rural people from various areas. What was also profound in that moment was the location, the beauty of the place, Bosque de Agua. It was just after the earthquake and people were suffering, yet the energy they brought created an amazing, beautiful space for all of us that reflected the values you just described. And so I saw firsthand, even with contradictions such as class and some cultural differences, that you and your comrades are really practicing your values and principles. I want to cry because I’m so moved, but I won’t waste time! Nuria: Thank you. There are two words that are so important to me: aesthetics and ethics. It looks like people often forget about that in social struggles. They say, “We need to be strong! We need to be tough!” I believe that valuing aesthetics and ethics is really important. For kids especially, growing up in beauty, participating in cultural activities, and also the culture from home of how to live. Yes! Margo: So one of the theoretical ideas embedded in what you’ve said is that people create change through our deep connections to the ecosystem and to each other. That’s an important theory. I was also thinking that your work

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on “Blue Economy” challenges the prevailing paradigm of neoliberal capitalism, right? Nuria: Yes, I’ll explain more about it. A fundamental idea in the Blue Economy is that a working economic system learns from nature and its ecosystems. It utilizes existing resources wisely and invests in and relies on the local economy. This focus on the local reduces the costs and pollution generated by the transport of resources to and from distant geographical areas. The Blue Economy already has identified many innovative initiatives and companies. These should inspire the development of many jobs, and in different ways than the current economic systems that generally seek profit above all. In the Blue Economy concept, we do our best to ensure they are companies that respect the environment, with Blue Economy approaches. Waste ceases to be unusable waste (“garbage”) and becomes a valuable resource that can be reused. You can see some examples at the websites I added here. 5 For this reason, Bosque de Agua is a place where we: • • • • • •

collect and filter rain water; use solar energy to heat water for showers; operate small-scale waste-water treatment to irrigate gardens; build with locally sourced, left-over, and recycled materials; use green roofs, composting toilets, terra preta (“black earth”); separate left-over food to use for composting, vermiculite composting, and feeding chickens; • produce our own eggs, fruit, vegetables, herbs—we sell salt and herbs to generate revenue; • practice economical ways of living; and • share projects with neighbors like Ruta Bosque de Agua (Water Forest Route) and more. 6 As neighbors, we seek to create a solidarity economy, working at the local level with a glocal vision, based on the following values: • Be joyful, full of enthusiasm to be better human beings, with courage and encouragement to work to create the best region. • Always work in solidarity and for the common good. • Produce our own food and energy with local resources. • Be truly sustainable. So, we promote a strong and sustainable community through these initiatives and our common dream. Margo: Great! I know you’re working on several different projects. Please tell us more about any one of them, maybe one or two examples.

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Nuria: Yes, but before I do that I’d like to say that I learned those principles and values from my father. My father was an exile from the war in Spain. Actually, he was exiled twice. He came to Mexico from Cataluyna (Spain) and then he was invited to create an editorial group for educational publications in Guatemala. That’s where he met my mom and where I was born. Then came the military coup in 1954. He was exiled again with my mother and me, and again Mexico received him. So he felt ever grateful to Mexico and wanted to work and serve Mexico. All that was really important for us. We arrived in Mexico with absolutely nothing. For me, the concept of poverty is very important. It’s a negative word and I don’t like how it’s used. It’s used a lot as a political term and to manipulate people. In rural communities that has been very strong. Those people define themselves as victims when they say, “I’m poor.” Certainly there is inequality but it is not poverty. We need to fight against that concept. Okay, about projects. I’ll talk about the work we’re doing right now. You know, I’ve been working for almost fifty years! In 2003, after a lot of history I started a National Network of Rural Women—50,000 women. But for me it became an experience of top-down power. There were many mistakes; I’m writing about that in a book. Finally, I decided to start Bosque de Agua, an eco-village. I decided that we shouldn’t talk too much—or that I shouldn’t talk too much. I already had ideas about gender and I was advising this rural community. I realized that I had to apply those principles myself and live what I was teaching. So I came to live in this place that Margo visited. I founded a center, a house, a gathering place for women from rural communities. This place, Bosque de Agua, is fairly close to Mexico City but it’s in the forest, it’s not a traditional town. People have come to live here, like in the suburbs, colonizing the area. There are about 6,000 inhabitants and many agricultural problems. It’s a story of agrarian struggle in Mexico. The revolution in Mexico started because of agrarian struggles. Here, Morelos is the land of Zapata. Zapata was born here. Later, some kind of mafia was involved in taking the land and property from the people who lived here. It’s a complex history. I lived for nine years in Indigenous communities, from 1970 to 1979. At the beginning when I was younger, I worked with other partners to create an informal school for the land struggle, a political formation for Indigenous people, to defend the land. This was called Comuneros to honor the original owners of the land before the arrival of the Spanish conquerors. Those comuneros were stripped of the land over the years and that forced them to organize and fight for their rights. When I came to live in Morelos, it was because I wanted a big space, a more rural place, not an urban place. I had created the National Network of Rural Women and we rented a house in Mexico City but it was too small for

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us. I wanted to create a place to train women and rural people about empowerment and sustainability. I saw there were many problems with landownership, for example. So, I decided to get people together to help resist being displaced from our property. We made local associations called barrios with a committee in each neighborhood, and a collective committee. One section was concerned with the distribution of water, another was for security, and a third was to look after the land. That was the first thing. Next was to see what other neighbors were doing. We made a network of neighbors with projects. We called it Ruta Bosque de Agua—Forest Water Route, as I mentioned before. This form of organization is different from traditional organizations. It is based more on solidarity and free exchange, only with formal associations for water, land, and security. Margo: How did you convince people, in the beginning, to join, to become involved? Nuria: Well, there was a common issue: to identify the problems that everybody was facing. Also the problem of security was really intense as a result of what I said earlier. When the government abandoned rural areas, these forested places and isolated communities provided seedbeds for drug cartels and people who want to steal. Margo: So did you start by knocking on people’s doors, did you invite people to come together somewhere? Specifically, how did you bring people together? Nuria: I don’t really know! It’s very interesting. I founded this house to get rural women together. It was in ruins when I bought it. A passion of mine is architecture—barefoot architecture you could call it—practical architecture. I love construction, building, learning step by step. When I bought this place, I started to work on it, to make it beautiful. I have a book of those stories. I collected rainwater, built bathrooms, and rooms for women. It was a place for gathering the whole community. There was an old swimming pool that I made into a rainwater collector. There are spaces for teaching and I made an industrial kitchen so that women can add value to their products and create a collective brand for rural women, their handcrafts etc. Margo: I’m very interested in this women’s angle, as you know. Earlier you mentioned the land’s natural resources. And you’re discussing the development of Bosque de Agua. Women also had tremendous resources. Please talk about what resources the women brought to make this a possibility, a reality. Nuria: Well, before I get to that question I want to mention getting the soil ready to grow food, using waste products. Then people started paying attention and they came to me, asking for the living room to get together, because there was this problem with safety. Also, there were other women leaders here and they found me. It called our attention to women’s networks.

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And that strengthened my conviction that it was best just to do things, and then people would come. This was a better way of leadership. That’s how it started. I proposed that we find out what everybody was doing and how to help each other. When they got together here they saw a little bit of what we were doing with the neighborhood committees. It wasn’t as beautiful as it is right now but they liked it and appreciated my kind of leadership. Good. So to go back to your question, Margo. The women were just here in the area. For example, one neighbor, Carmen, is a specialist in bioconstruction. I invited her to build a small house here made of earth, with a green roof, and using recycled materials like plastic bottles. It’s a very beautiful project. We made it small here. But when people come we invite them to go to see her big project. Another woman, Regina, has a farm with goats. She produces 21 different kinds of cheese. She’s won four international prizes. So that’s another way of linking people. When we started with this network, this eco-village, each partner talked about their projects and showed their products. Before that, each person had her own project but no one knew about it. Now, there are theater projects with kids. Other neighbors, Yola and Salvador Sanchez, started one. They are actors; he is famous! They founded an ecological theater with kids. And that inspired other neighbors from different areas. There’s a cultural project with kids every month in the forest now. There’s theater, music, and little by little we’re growing. Then, other neighbors created another cultural space in the forest. Margo: You know, I can see the results inspired by Bosque de Agua, and you’ve described the process of how you work together. What were some of the main challenges and obstacles you faced, and how did you overcome them? Nuria: Oh, there were many challenges! The first was unity. Even though there were projects, not everyone participated with the same consciousness. Some people can be selfish or individualistic. You can join a group to solve a problem and then wait for other people to solve it for you. But we’re progressing little by little. Another challenge is the authorities, the government. They could help us solve the problem of land ownership. It’s very easy, but at the same time it’s complex. Now with the new president and the relationships that I have, we’re starting to form committees as part of the Movimiento de Renovación Nacional (National Renewal Movement—MORENA). This is not a conventional political party; it’s a political movement that supported the new president, López Obrador. It’s very different from earlier political history. So, we’re trying to link our problems concerning land and our local organization with other committees associated with MORENA. We’re joining our forces to win political office, for example to elect the next municipal president, someone who helped us.

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Margo: Yes! From what you’ve said we can see that it’s a political movement and also a movement that’s deeply connected to building consciousness, deep relationships, to making people’s hearts stronger, making their culture stronger. So, it’s not just about actions and tasks, but a deep commitment to becoming different kinds of human beings, to remember what’s important from the past, cultural traditions, Indigenous traditions. Is that accurate? Nuria: Yes! Also, among these challenges there’s something else— beyond my personal process working in those areas with visions of sustainability. We need new tools for what’s happening in the country with the new president. This has to be a social movement that can defend him. So we need to learn how to do things in a very different way. And the forces opposing us are really strong. The main challenge is to support the new government in fighting corruption because the neoliberal groups are using fake news to discredit him and this effort. The conservative people are moving in a fascist direction. That’s the main challenge. Margo: Yes, I can imagine how strong that challenge is. Something you just said made me think of another question. During this time, Nuria, what have you learned about yourself? How have you been transformed in this process of doing this work with so much heart, so much spirit, so much energy and time? Nuria: The first thing is my vision of how to be a leader, what kind of leadership. I never wanted to be a leader and that’s why I thought about the National Network of Rural Women. But our actions generated a top-down reality. The first change was to break with that. To say “No more!” So I gave up as president of the National Network. I decided to be more anonymous. I didn’t care about being in Facebook. I wanted a low profile. Also, I asked myself many things. What can I do to encourage more participation? How to touch people’s consciousness? I used to say, we need to join in a political and social vision, and a spiritual vision too. And that’s not easy. Also to learn how to be a woman of the land—in reality—not just ideas. Even though I’ve lived in rural communities for 20 years, I was missing going deeper. Another question was how to relate to people horizontally, without insisting on formal roles. And now with more years of learning, wanting to be more playful, making women’s circles, as grandmothers, just to exchange stories. So this is changing the kinds of places we’re creating rather than thinking about a party organization. My dream is a network of eco-villages, visiting, supporting, and exchanging with each other. Margo: So the next steps are having more exchanges and creating more eco-villages. What do you want people in other parts of Mexico and also people like us who are outside Mexico to learn from your experience? I don’t mean you, Nuria, but the whole project, the whole movement. What do you want us to learn from what you have helped to create? Let’s start

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with people in Mexico. And then please speak to people outside of Mexico, internationally. Nuria: First, we need to create some spaces for construction. I want to spread my love for rural spaces, and share a sense of how important the rural is. This pandemic can teach us. I know when you’re in a city not everybody can be outside, but there are many initiatives going on, making communities, even in urban societies. The other thing is to lose fear around money. Many people don’t do things because they think first you need money. I think it’s the other way round. We need to do the work then money and resources come. In summary, we can do things with what we already have. That’s it! Maybe with the compromise of doing what you love, being stubborn; this makes you happy. I love to share the idea of buen vivir—good living— creating beautiful places, with conservationist ways, recycling. You can make beautiful places with anything that’s available. Margo: Yes, when I visited you I saw the things you’ve just talked about. I saw the beauty of using old bottles to make parts of the house, and the animals and the cheese right next to each other. I think one part of what we have to do is to redefine beauty because capitalism tells us that certain things are beautiful and others are not. Recycled things, by capitalist definition, aren’t necessarily beautiful unless a big corporation says it. So, an important part of the work you’ve been doing is also changing people’s basic ideas— and maybe not changing them but going back to older ways of thinking about beauty. Is that accurate? Nuria: Yes! And I’m also doing this because I like it. I want to live with beauty. I’m a Libra so aesthetics is really important to me. Beauty can be with plants, flowers, small things. Maybe I’m a little bit obsessive about it! When I founded this place, I wanted to teach women that. Maybe we can continue teaching that. Also it was beautiful to see how some of the women were changing. That part is not only physical. It can help to structure ideas, order their thinking. And what I really appreciated, I noticed that they were winning freedom. I’m not a psychologist but I often wonder about a kid who grows up in an environment of love and respect. If they have that opportunity, even without much money, with freedom, a person can act in a different way. It gives them the strength to change many things. It’s really important learning if you don’t have that internal security and confidence. Those changes are not going to happen with protests or declarations, statements, or with a lot of study, degrees, or college. Being smart emotionally, artistically, and practically is something we have to develop more. This can be helpful for others too. If we analyze it we can see a disconnection between academics and real life problems. I had to leave university because I went to live with rural communities. This was after the student movement of 1968. There was a strike; there was no college. I became a hippy! I had the position of working in communities. I always

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looked like a first class student—not because I studied a lot but because of common sense. I was on the school honor roll. I loved college. I love reading. But my classmates preferred the academic path. They spent some months in the jungle and then they came back to master’s and doctor’s degrees. That was their mission in life. I didn’t like that. I used to get mad a lot. I had a different mission. I was a bit radical—I still am! Margo: Very much! Nuria: The other interesting issue is how to link the university with community life. Margo: Yes! The three of us, Gwyn, Melchor, and I are very much committed to that principle, thinking about how to link the university and community—and we all put the emphasis on the community rather than the university. I’m just watching the four of us on zoom here, with our interpreter, and thinking what an amazing time this is to have this conversation with you, Nuria, because we’re thinking about these same questions in our own places. So, as we begin to wrap up, is there anything else you want to say, any last comments? Nuria: Two things. One is a reminder about the Blue Economy, which I described before. The other is that I’m proposing to do a book of my life experiences. But I didn’t know how to share it all. I need the academic part to make a systematic account of my learning over these 50 years, but that’s missing. I have a companero concerned with the Blue Economy who works in systematic design. He’s doing this book with me. It’s going to be interesting to share that knowledge even though it’s not easy, academically. I think there’s a search to continue participating in this time of changes. We need new tools. We need to know how to share information and consciousness in other ways. Let’s see what comes from this book for young people. The other part is that I’m letting go of things. I’ve built many houses— my passion! I have a book about that, which has given me some financial independence. Now I’m selling Bosque de Agua and I’m starting a project in the jungle. We’re making a college for sustainability. Let’s see what happens! We want to invite you to that project. Even though I’m still here right now, I think it will continue to be the place to get together as a network, to get strength, sheltering there. That’s my conviction, linking this network of places, communities, and projects with specific proposals that can inspire people and that can be multiplied. That’s my homework now. Margo: Well, I’ll speak for myself. I’ll follow you to the deepest part of the jungle and work with you. That’s a promise! Gwyn and Melchor, any other last comments before we finish? Melchor Hall: I have a question. How do racism and anti-Blackness show up in Mexico? Nuria: Good question. Yes, in Mexico there is discrimination. That was the first thing I explained to others when I went to work with Indigenous

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communities—that they are not valued. In Mexico, there is discrimination against Indigenous people and peasants. Looking at statistics on poverty, this can be seen clearly. Those who are not Indigenous don’t appreciate the rural communities. They believe that Indigenous people are dirty, ignorant, and that they don’t want to change. The Mexican state started this violence against them. Maybe I didn’t use the concept of racism in talking about Indigenous people but they are described as poor and dirty. But also Indigenous people have served politically. To vote, for example. So MORENA wants to articulate the concept of giving this power to poor people. There’s discrimination against Black people who are 1.2 percent of people in Mexico. So this is the time to value Afro-Mexican people. I also want to make another point. It’s linked to what Melchor is asking and it’s about working with women. It is about the horrible, inhumane discrimination and violence against Indigenous women. I really started to see their condition but at first I didn’t understand that it was gendered. When I started as the coordinator of the national feminist movement and the largest union in Mexico, Nacional Confederacion Campesina (the National Farmers Confederation), I was the leader but without understanding the meaning and importance of gender. I started learning. I felt really bad that Indigenous women have been like servants in their homes. Women collapsed in the streets or were asking for money with their kids in the streets. There was terrible violence. Rural women are the last ones to eat in the house, they work more hours, and are the ones who suffer. So I didn’t learn about gender and feminism in theory; I learned it by seeing the reality of their lives. I began working with rural women using common sense and intuition. I started trying to be a friend to all women when I noticed they seemed to be jealous if I worked with their men. In some ways the problems between men and women are different in the rural areas than in urban areas. This may be because in rural areas the family works like an economic unit, in production, on their own land. The family unit is very important, so change cannot be about confrontations against men. In rural areas women are marginal within the marginalized, the poorest of the poor. In urban areas, the Mexican feminist movement began with factory workers, paid labor outside the home. I’ve created manuals about gender but always with the vision of men and women working together for a better world. Margo: Thank you! We could listen to you for hours but this is enough for now. Something I’m taking from what you’re saying, Nuria, is that we’re always learning. We have opportunities to learn things we don’t know, to realize what we don’t know, and then learn more. And as you said before, not just to learn, but to put what we learn into practice, to improve people’s lives, save lives, including our own. Yes! Thank you so much. Nuria: Thank you to each one of you, for your initiative, for the work you do.

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NOTES 1. See PeaceWomen Across the Globe, http://www.1000peacewomen.org. “In 2005, the initiative 1000 Women for the Nobel Peace Prize nominated women working for peace at the local, national or international level collectively for the Nobel Prize. The women’s profiles show that they are active in an extremely wide range of fields: they campaign for political rights, the promotion of peace, health, education, the environment, children’s rights and nonviolence, and they fight against organized crime and human trafficking.” The point was to demonstrate that making peace is a collective effort and women at all levels of a society and in all walks of life and work are needed to move toward peace and wellbeing of communities worldwide. 2. See Global University for Sustainability, https://our-global-u.org/oguorg/en/globaluniversity-for-sustainability//. 3. The 7.1 magnitude earthquake caused 370 deaths, more than 7,000 injuries, and much destruction of buildings in Mexico City and the states of Puebla and Morelos. 4. Thank you to Stephanie Hooper for interpreting this interview, recorded on August 1, 2020, to K. Melchor Quick Hall for technical support, and Gwyn Kirk for transcription. 5. See Las Gaviotas, https://medium.com/@adam_sulkowski/colombia-at-a-crossroadsclimate-solutions-poised-for-spreada7aa2aef5bb6; Centro Songhai, http://www.songhai.org/index. php/en/home-en; El Hierro, https://english.elpais.com/elpais/2018/03/28/inenglish/1522239815_ 193089.html; and Sobre Rumpan, https://larsling.org/2018/08/1/100-eco-cycle-village-rumpan/. 6. See http://bosquedeagua.mx/.

Index

able-bodiedness, 67, 88, 186. See also bodies; difference, construction of abundance, 53, 133, 137, 225 academia: activism and, 5, 7, 51; and community, linking of, 226; corporatization of, 42, 120; deconstructing frameworks of, 6–7, 20, 30; ecofeminism and, 107–108; ecological sustainability and, 2; ecomemories and, 139; ecowomanism and, 125; intersectionality and, 72; knowing vs. understanding and, 8. See also pedagogy; pedagogy, ecofeminist accountability: climate justice and, 129, 141; ecofeminism and, 81, 84; performativity and, 70; self-care and, 114; toxic geographies and, 150, 153 activism and resistance: academia and, 5, 7, 51; artwork and, 116–117, 118; assemblage theory and, 71; BIWOC and, 136–137, 178–179; borders and, 193; climate justice and, 13, 179; community and, 205; COVID-19 and, 129; ecofeminism and, 82, 82–84, 107, 109, 119; ethics of care and, 125; farming and, 20, 21, 23, 115; femininity and, 118; gardening and, 51, 93–94, 95, 203, 209; healing and, 135; and home, concepts of, 80, 90; human-animal relations and, 27; human-nature connection and, 219; intersectionality

and, 65, 66; land stewardship and, 13, 97, 100; pedagogy and, 13, 73, 120, 121; rematriation and, 90–91, 91–92; as satisfying way of life, 87; self-care and, 113–114, 125, 215; shared experience and, 185; toxic geographies and, 13–14, 156–158, 161; transnational, 41–42, 78, 81 Adams, Carol, 65 Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi, 189 aesthetics, 219, 225 Afghanistan, 150 Africana Indigenous people, 203, 204, 205–206, 211–212, 213. See also Black, Indigenous, and People of Color African socialism, 36 Afrocentrism, 66, 204 Afroecology, 126, 145n10 Afrofuturism, 28, 127 agency: animals and, 70; assemblage theory and, 70, 71, 73, 74; intersectionality and, 63, 68, 69; of natural world, 71, 114, 207; womanism and, 209 Agent Orange, 96n2, 150, 157, 176–178. See also toxic geographies agriculture. See farming and agriculture agroecology, 91 Ahmed, Sara, 114 air conditioning, 126

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Index

air pollution, 127, 129, 150, 153, 158, 184. See also toxic geographies Akbar, Na’im, 204 “‘All Misfortune Comes from the Cut Tree’” (Paravisini-Gebert), 82 Alta (Gerrey), 88 American democracy, 110, 111 American Red Cross, 176 Anacaona, 13, 89–90, 90, 94, 95 ancestors: burial sites and, 171; climate justice and, 129, 141; community gardens and, 211; ecological literacy and, 212; ecowomanism and, 99–100, 130; engaged learning and, 188; food production and, 21; gardening and, 94, 204, 207; nature and, 211; reparations and, 103 Angelou, Maya, 88 animal advocacy, 65. See also humananimal relations; veganism and vegetarianism animality and animalization, 25, 25–26, 28. See also racism Another Gulf is Possible, 137, 140, 141, 146n31 Anthropocenes, Black, 28, 29 anthropocentrism, 69, 108, 117 anthropomorphism, 67 antimilitarism and: in Cambodia, 154–155; ecofeminism and, 39; transnational organizing and, 41–42, 156–158; WAND and, 151–154; women’s organizing against, 13–14, 37–38, 148. See also activism and resistance Anti-Oppression Resource and Training Alliance (AORTA), 105 Anti-personnel Mine Ban Treaty, 154 Anzaldúa, Gloria, 20, 66, 72, 185–186 apartheid, food, 23, 25. See also food justice and security apocalypse, ongoing, 126, 130, 145n11, 185. See also imagination and possible futures architecture, practical, 222 Arizona desert, 169, 173, 174–175 Artists as Community Interlocutors, 116 artwork: ecofeminism and, 116–117, 118; ecowomanism and, 66, 134; food sovereignty and, 94; human-nature

relationship and, 5, 6, 10; pedagogy and, 13; social justice and, 88–89 assemblage theory, 69, 70, 71–72, 73 assimilation, 169. See also difference, construction of Atamba, Judith: on farming, 55, 56–57; on food traditions, 55; on future generations, 58; gardening project of, 57; Hall, collaboration with, 9, 12, 49–50, 59; on labor, gender disparities of, 54–55, 55; life and opportunities of, 51; on Luhya tribe land traditions, 54; religion and spirituality of, 53; visions for future, 58 Atchison, Gabrie’l, 2 Atlanta Black Crackers (ABC), 207 Atlantic Ocean, 17, 18–20, 169–171, 170. See also water attention to borders and boundaries, 185. See also borders and borderlands Australia, 157 authenticity, 43, 110, 114, 204, 213 autoethnography, 125, 131, 132, 204 automobile industry, 39–40, 40 bacteria, 161 Baker, Twyla, 145n24 Bakhmetyeva, Tatyana, 5, 7, 11, 13 Bambara, Toni Cade, 88 Baptist, Karen Wilson, 11, 113, 115, 116 Barad, Karen, 69, 70 barrios, 222 baseball, 207 Bayer, 90 Be (Vietnamese mother), 177 beauty, 225 beauty to burden paradox, 131, 145n23 bedrooms, 79 Behechio, 89 being and becoming, 69, 70. See also subjectivity Belcher, Oliver, 161 Bell, Anne, 116 Bellamy Foster, John, 178 belonging, 43, 78, 84, 186. See also difference, construction of Beyoncé, 13, 112 Bhabha, Homi, 169 Bhavnani, Kum-Kum, 193

Index Bialka’s Braids (Malik), 117 Big Freedia the Queen Diva, 126, 144n4 Bigger, Patrick, 161 biological terrorism, 204. See also toxic geographies birth abnormalities, 148, 152, 176–177 birth control, 96n2 Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC): beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; climate justice and, 13, 112, 127–130; collective experiences of, 204; commonweal and, 205–206, 213; community gardens and, 203, 204, 211–212; COVID-19 and, 135, 139; ecofeminist resistance and, 84; ecowomanism and, 66, 134; and families, dominant logic of, 63; farming and, 20–22, 23; food geographies and, 22, 22–23; gendered ecologies and, 18; geographies and, 29–30, 30, 170–171; and home, concepts of, 12, 77, 78, 80, 81, 83, 84; human-animal relations and, 17, 23–24, 24–27, 64; land and nature and, 20–21, 23, 28, 105, 111, 213; oceans and, 17, 18–20, 169–171; reparations and, 102–103; sky and, 27–28, 30; translation fatigue and, 145n24; urban renewal and, 172. See also Indigenous peoples Black, Indigenous, and Women of Color (BIWOC): climate justice and, 125, 128–129, 130, 136–137, 139, 141; ecofeminism and, 2, 11; Greenham Common and, 37; intersectionality and, 61, 68; and nature, relationship to, 111, 114, 196. See also gender Black Anthropocenes, 28, 29 Black Church, 205, 213, 215 Black Faces, White Spaces (Finney), 112 Black feminism, 168–169, 171. See also transnational Black feminism Black Food Geographies (Reese), 22 Black geographies, 22, 23, 29–30, 30, 170–171 Black girl reliability, 141, 146n32 Black Lives Matter (BLM), 129, 133, 209 Black Panther Party, 43 Black veganism, 24. See also veganism and vegetarianism

231

Blenskinsop, Sean, 73 Blue Economy, 220, 226 Blum, Elizabeth, 112 bodies: assemblage theory and, 69–70, 71; eco-ability theory and, 72; and environment, relation to, 184–185, 187, 190; and home, concepts of, 78–79, 81; pedagogy and, 195, 197; performativity and, 70–71; public space and, 117, 118; queer and crip theory and, 67, 70 Boggs, Grace Lee, 40–41 Boggs, James (Jimmy), 40 borders and borderlands: activism across, 193; definitions, 20, 185–186; ecofeminism and, 81, 84; environmentalism of, 66, 187, 188; and home, concepts of, 12, 78–79, 80, 81; knowledge sharing across, 50; patria and, 89; TBF framework and, 51, 51–52, 185 Borikén, 88, 89–92, 95, 96n1–96n4, 151, 159 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 150 Bosque de Agua: challenges for, 223, 224; community networks and, 223; historical background on, 221; overview, 14; political involvement of, 223–224; values and description, 217, 218, 219, 220; women’s resources and, 222 Bottomley, Ruth, 151, 154–156, 165n1 Bowens, Natasha, 21, 22 Braiding Sweetgrass (Kimmerer), 101 Braun, Yvonne: academic position of, 183; on ecofeminist curriculum, 14, 186, 187, 188–190; on imagination, importance of, 200; on student reactions and contributions, 195–196; on teaching ecofeminism, challenges of, 192, 192–193, 195 breastfeeding, 116, 118, 211 Brecht, Bertolt, 88 Brice, Dannie, 12 British Empire, 35. See also colonialism brown, adrienne maree, 105 Buaru, Amachi Apetor, 211 buen vivir, 219, 225 Bulbancha, 127, 145n17 Bulgaria, 150

232

Index

Burbank, Luther, 9 burial sites, 171. See also ancestors Burke, Edmund, 170 Burns, Bridget, 138 A Burst of Life (Lorde), 113–114 Bush Mountain Community Garden: Chapman’s experience at, 204, 214–215, 215; community engagement at, 213–214; ecological literacy and, 212; Fathers in the Garden program, 209–210; funding difficulties of, 215; history and organization of, 208; Just Breathe Experience, 208–207; nature and trauma and, 213; overview, 14; restoration practices at, 206, 208; spirit of landscape at, 205, 206–207, 215. See also gardens and gardening Butler, Judith, 70 Bvlbancha Collective, 133, 145n17 Cambodia, 150, 154–156 Cambodia Campaign to Ban Landmines and Cluster Munitions, 154 Cambodian Mine Action Authority (CMAA), 154 Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC), 154 Canada, 171 cancer, 152, 159 Cancer Alley, 127, 133, 134, 145n13. See also toxic geographies canon and counter-canon, 198, 199. See also pedagogy capitalism: academia and, 7, 120; and beauty, concept of, 225; climate justice and, 130; ecofeminism and, 109; environmental impacts of, 63; food systems and, 115; housing and, 43; militarism and, 148; pros and cons of, 126–127 care, ethics of, 84, 116, 125, 129. See also self-care Carruyo, Light, 189, 193 cars, 39–40, 40 Carson, Rachel, 112, 196 case studies, 188, 189, 192 cash crops, 90, 96n3 Catholicism, 67

centric thinking, 62–63, 72. See also intersectionality Chapman, Ravá Shelyn, 14 Chauvet, Marie Vieux, 12, 78, 82–83, 84 chemical warfare, 176–177. See also toxic geographies Cheng, Anne Anlin, 169 Chernobyl, 160 Cherokee Seminole Union, 102 Chicano environmentalism, 39 chickens, 25, 55. See also human-animal relations Chief Amachi, 211 childbearing, 134, 146n25, 148, 176–177 childcare, 63 children, 148, 209–210 China, 150, 156 Chocolate City (Washington, D.C.), 17, 18 Christianity, 66–67 citations, 72. See also knowledge Citizens Clearinghouse for Hazardous Wastes, 39 citizenship, 51, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83. See also borders and borderlands civil rights movement, 20, 21, 23, 62. See also activism and resistance Clark, Brett, 178 Clark Hine, Darlene, 169 class: consciousness of, 34, 189, 197; ecofeminism and, 2, 38–39, 82, 83, 109; ecological destruction and, 170, 190; ecowomanism and, 58; empire and, 35; environmentalism and, 66; environmental justice and, 112, 193; and families, dominant logic of, 63; and home, concept of, 80; imagination and challenges to, 200; intersectionality and, 24, 132; language and boundaries of, 52; positionality and, 52; rhetorical nostalgia and, 168; speciesism and, 64; toxic geographies and, 148 classrooms. See pedagogy Clay, Elonda, 127, 134 climate and environmental justice: BIWOC and, 128–129, 136–137; community activism and, 136; community and, 139; COVID-19 and, 129; and difference, theories of, 169; ecofeminism and, 3, 109, 112;

Index ecowomanism and, 13, 53, 66, 131, 132–131, 140; expansion of, need for, 200; Feminist Green New Deal and, 137–139; feminist partial perspectives and, 142; future generations and, 58; and home, concept of, 81; human rights and, 7; intersectionality and, 138–139; meanings of, 129–130, 130, 140; migration and, 12; oral histories and, 179–180; organizations involved in, 137; overview, 125; pedagogy of, 134, 168, 169, 178, 179; personal approaches to, 126–127; RobertsGregory’s work in, 127–128, 130; toxic geographies and, 149; veganism and, 24 climate change: apocalyptic discourse and, 185; BIWOC and, 136; COVID-19 and, 2; ecowomanism and, 53; heat increase, 126; LGBTQ+ community, impact on, 67; location and, 185; meat consumption and, 24, 26; militarism and, 160–161; pedagogy and, 107, 178. See also toxic geographies Climate Justice Alliance, 137 closets, trope of, 79 cluster munitions. See landmines coffee, 92 Cold War, 150 Colectivo Feminista en Formación, 96n4 collective resources, 200. See also economies Collins, Patricia Hill, 62, 63, 65 Colombia, 150 colonialism: Africana Indigenous people and, 204; architectural remnants of, 18; community gardens and healing from, 211; and disease, spread of, 95; education and, 36; environmental impacts of, 63, 89; gender and, 66–67; Haitian ecofeminism and, 82–83; and home, concepts of, 77, 80, 81; and labor, tropes of, 170; maps and, 35, 43; and nature, constructions of, 110–111; nuclear weapons and, 38; parenting and, 79–80; in Puerto Rico, 89, 90, 95; rationality and, 131; rhetorical nostalgia and, 168–169; and women, targeting of, 99 Columbus, Christopher, 89

233

comfort foods, 73, 199 coming out, 79 commonweal, 205–206, 208, 213, 215. See also community A Communion of the Spirits (Freeman), 10 communism, 87 community: academia and, 7, 226; Africana Indigenous people and, 205–206; BIPOC and, 102; Black farming and, 20, 21, 22; climate justice and, 136, 185; collective existence and, 211; commonweal and, 213; deindustrialization and, 40; editing and, 1–2, 3, 4, 5; friendship and, 126–127; gardening and, 9, 15, 94, 115; Haitian ecofeminism and, 84; herbal medicine and, 95; and home, concept of, 78, 81; inclusion and, 49; knowledge sharing and, 44; land as pedagogy and, 191; land stewardship and, 100, 103–104, 105; matria and, 89; as network of relationships, 205; organizing and, 41–42, 215; pedagogy and, 195; rematriation and, 92; resilience and just recovery and, 139; self-care and, 114; urban demolition and loss of, 172–173. See also gardens and gardening community-based learning, 113, 115–116, 190, 191. See also pedagogy community gardens: Africana Indigenous people and, 211–212; culture and, 211–212; ecological literacy and, 212, 214–215; family and, 209–210; healing and, 14, 205, 210–211, 212; importance of, overview, 203–204; land as spiritual text and, 205; leadership and, 215; restoration and, 206; significance of, historical and cultural, 204. See also gardens and gardening composting, 116, 220 Comuneros, 221 concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs), 64 Conference of the Parties, 25th (COP25), 133, 137–139 constellations, 27, 30 Constitution of Mexico (1910), 173 consultation, Indigenous, 102–103

234

Index

consumerism: academia and, 7, 120; healthy earth vs., 178; meat and, 23, 24; online learning and, 198; pipelines and, 99; politics of, 188 contamination. See toxic geographies Convention on Cluster Munitions, 154 Cooper, Anna Julia, 204 Cornerstone of Peace, 41–42 coronavirus. See COVID-19 corruption, 82, 89, 91, 127, 137, 145n16, 224 Costa Leonardo, Nuria: on academia and community, 226; on aesthetics and ethics, 219; on architecture, 222; on beauty and freedom, 225; on Blue Economy, 220, 226; on Bosque de Agua, 14, 220, 221; challenges faced by, 223, 224; on community building, 222, 223; on family and poverty, 221; on gender discrimination and feminism, 227; on Indigenous communities in Mexico, 218; introduction to, 217–218; on knowledges, experiential, 225–226; on leadership, 222–223, 224; lessons and dreams of, 224–225; life and work of, 218, 219, 226; on neoliberalism, 218; projects of, 221, 221–222, 226; on racism in Mexico, 226–227; selflearning of, 224 cotton industry, 35, 96n3, 170 COVID-19: BIPOC and, 129; climate justice and, 125, 129; ecowomanism and, 133; and education, impact on, 7, 92; environmental impacts of, 2, 8; food insecurity and, 9; gardening and, 12, 50, 56; and health disparities, racialized, 135; long-term impacts of, 141; in Puerto Rico, 95; and travel restrictions, impact of, 52 Crenshaw, Kimberlé, 61, 68, 72, 169 crip theory, 70 Cronon, William, 111 culture, 211–212 Cundiff, Susan, 151, 151–154, 157, 165n1 Currere and the Environmental Autobiography (Doerr), 179 Dagbon (Dagomba), 211 Daly, Mary, 104

dam building, 192, 193 “The Danger of a Single Story” (Adichie), 189 Davis, Angela, 171 Day, Aiden, 59 dead heading, 210 Death Alley, 127 D’Eaubonne, Franç oise, 82 debt, manufactured, 90, 96n1. See also economic inequality Deckha, Maneesha, 64–65 decolonization: climate justice and, 129, 141; ecofeminism and, 39, 119; in ecofeminist curriculums, 188, 194, 200; ecowomanism and, 125; ethnographic refusal and, 146n26; human vs. inhuman and, 27; land trusts and, 100; solidarity and, 41 Defense Nuclear Facilities Safety Board, 153 deforestation, 82, 90, 93, 150 dehydration, 173 Deleuze, Gilles, 68–69 demilitarization. See antimilitarism deminers, 155. See also landmines democracy, American, 110, 111 Democracy Now, 138 Department of Defense (DoD), 149–150, 177 Department of Energy, 150, 152 deportation, 80. See also migration depression, 210–211. See also health and healing Detroit, 39–40 development: academic assessment and, 73; concepts of, 189; cultural, 211; ecofeminism and, 195; global inequality and, 186, 192; and home, concepts of, 77; neoliberal, 218–219; racism and, 23; sustainable, 39, 137, 188; urban, 37, 128, 156, 172; volunteerism and, 215 Dhamoon, Rita Kaur, 65, 68 diasporic perspectives, 27, 29, 54, 102, 134. See also location and positionality Dieldrin, 93. See also toxic geographies diet, 24, 64 difference, construction of: ablebodiedness and, 67, 186; ecofeminism

Index and, 83; home and, 81; intersectionality and, 62; pedagogy and, 192, 193–194; theories of, 169 Diggers, 37 dioxin, 150, 176–177, 177. See also toxic geographies Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities (Ray and Sibara), 67. See also difference, construction of disaster relief, 90, 161. See also militarism and militarization disasters. See climate change; COVID-19 disenfranchisement, 23, 169, 170, 171, 179, 196 displacement: BIPOC and, 128, 129; Black geographies and, 29, 30; climate change and, 160; Costa Leonardo on, 218–219, 222; ecofeminism and, 44; gentrification and, 15, 37, 43, 134, 159; and home, concept of, 81; home ownership and, 127; of Indigenous peoples, 110; land titles and, 156; mapping gendered ecologies and, 15; root shock and, 172–173 Dispossessing the Wilderness (Spencer), 112 dissemblance, 169 Diva Cups, 197 Dodson, Donna, 5, 9 Doerr, Marilyn, 8, 179 domination, logic of, 62–63, 67, 70, 108, 130 Dominican Republic, 73 donkeys, 71. See also human-animal relations double-consciousness, 169. See also intersectionality Dow Chemical, 150 Downwinders, 152, 153, 154, 157 dualism, 62, 73 Du Bois, W. E. B., 169 Duong (military doctor), 176–177 Durham (N.C.), 18 Dutta, Jayeesha, 141 Duvalier, Franç ois, 82 earth justice. See climate and environmental justice

235

earthquakes, 89, 92, 95, 217, 218, 219, 228n2 earth sciences, 28. See also academia eco-ability theory, 72, 187, 188. See also bodies eco-experiments, 195, 197, 198 ecofeminism: branches and focuses of, 38–39; climate justice and, 13, 125–142; coining of, 82; community gardens and, 14, 203–215; Costa Leonardo and, 14, 217–227; critiques of, 2–3, 11–12, 39, 44, 108–109; ecomemory and, 53; ecowomanism vs., 52–53; Hall and, 11–12, 17–30; and home, concepts of, 12, 77–84; intersectionality and, 2–3, 4, 12, 61–74; Kirk and, 12, 33–44; Morningstar and, 13, 97–106; pedagogy and, 13, 14, 107–121, 167–180, 183–200; rematriation and, 12–13, 87–95; toxic geographies and, 13–14, 147–162 Ecological Borderlands (Holmes), 66 ecological literacy and, 66, 212, 214 ecologies, gendered. See gendered ecologies, mapping ecology, 52, 78, 108, 126, 179. See also ecofeminism; ecowomanism ecomemory, 50, 53–54, 125, 132, 139, 212 economic inequality: BIWOC and, 128; Black farming and, 21, 23; in Cambodia, 156; collective resources and, 200; current state of, 4, 7; demilitarization and, 41; environmentalism and, 179; housing and, 43; meat consumption and, 24; in Mexico, 173, 218–219, 227; militarized security and, 162; in Puerto Rico, 90, 94, 96n1; root shock and, 172; sugar monocropping and, 73; urban planning and, 37 economies: alternative, 162, 192, 194–195, 218, 220; climate justice and, 129; ecofeminism and, 39, 44; empowerment and, 10; environmental, 44, 188; local, 40, 92, 220; reciprocity and, 103; zero-growth, 140, 146n30 ecotones, 20 eco-tourism, 193 eco-villages. See Bosque de Agua

236

Index

ecowomanism: climate justice and, 13, 130, 140; definitions, 52–53, 56, 66; family and, 53; gardening and, 12; healing of self and, 134–135; Holmes on, 187, 188; human-nature connection and, 53, 204; intersectionality and, 66; methodologies of, 58, 131; Morningstar on, 98; nonlinear time and, 131; overview, 50; pedagogy and, 112; spirituality and, 52–53, 125, 134; veganism and, 24 editing, 1–2, 4, 5 Edmundson, Jeff, 62 education, 90, 91, 92, 208. See also pedagogy; pedagogy, ecofeminist efficiency, 120 ego, 203 elections, 2, 141, 223 embodiment, 73, 79, 130, 132, 134, 142. See also bodies emergent strategy framework, 105, 128 emotional ecosystems, 172 empire, 35. See also colonialism Eng, David, 169 engaged learning, 167, 179, 189–190, 197. See also pedagogy Engineers Without Borders, 116 England, 147, 170 enslavement: Africana Indigenous people and, 204, 211; architectural remnants of, 18; beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; community gardens and, 203, 211; farming and, 21, 64; humananimal relations and, 17, 25, 25–26, 27; human-nature relationship and, 17, 171, 191, 213; in Liverpool, 35; reparations and, 103; scientific experimentation and, 67; water trauma and, 17, 18–19, 19, 169–170 Entergy, 126, 144n2 entrepreneurship, 92 Environmental and Climate Justice Initiative of NAACP, 137 environmentalism: of borderlands, 66, 187, 188; Chicano, 39; human-nature relationship and, 168, 169; intersectionality and, 63, 66–67; and nature, constructions of, 111; nostalgic, 168–169, 172, 175, 179; pedagogy and,

179, 186, 187, 189, 193–194, 195, 200 environmental justice. See climate and environmental justice environmental racism. See racism, environmental epistemologies, 7, 62–63, 68, 71, 129, 191, 198 Erickson, Bruce, 67 erotophobia, 67 Essence Festival, 126, 145n5 essentialism, 2, 39, 108–109, 118 essential workers, 129 ethics, 58, 219 ethics of care, 84, 116, 125, 129. See also self-care ethnographic refusal, 135, 146n26 ethnography. See autoethnography exceptionalism, 70. See also human-animal relations experiential learning, 113, 114–116, 120, 121, 134. See also pedagogy explosive remnants of war (ERW), 154–156, 157, 162, 177. See also toxic geographies extractivism: abundance vs., 137; BIWOC and, 128, 129–130; Black Anthropocenes and, 28; in Cambodia, 156; ecofeminism and, 44; geology and, 28–29; and home, concepts of, 81; human-animal relations and, 105; human-inhuman divide and, 27; Indigenous perspectives and, 101; in Mexico, 219; pipelines and, 99; in Puerto Rico, 90; rationality and, 131 Extreme Green Project, 208 faith vs. reason, 53 fake news, 224 family: commonweal and, 213; dominant logic of, 63; ecomemory and, 53; ecowomanism and, 53, 132; and home, concepts of, 77, 78, 79–80, 83, 84; Luhya tribe and, 54; in rural communities, 227; womanism and, 209, 210 farming and agriculture: American tropes of, 170; Black subjectivity and, 20–22, 23; chemicals and, 90, 91, 93, 96n3; culture and, 211; environmentalism

Index and, 39; intergenerational, 50; land degradation and, 53; landmines and, 155; in Mexico, 173–174, 221; rematriation movements and, 92; squatting and, 37; urban, 115–116, 126; women’s collaborative, 56–57. See also gardens and gardening Farming While Black (Penniman), 93 fast food, 64 fatherhood, 79, 209–210 Fathers in the Garden, 209–210 femininity, 66–67, 108–109, 117, 118 feminism, 2, 42, 52–53, 61, 125, 134, 168. See also ecofeminism Le Féminisme ou la Mort (D’Eaubonne), 82 Feminist, Queer, Crip (Kafer), 67 Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal, 133, 137, 139, 141 feminist standpoint theory, 68, 71 Fernald (OH), 150 fertilization, 53. See also toxic geographies festivals, 132 Fielding Graduate University (FGU), 49 Fiji, 157 Finney, Carolyn, 112 fishing, 64 Flenniken, Kathleen, 153–154 Flint water crises, 204 Floyd, George, 199 fluidity, 20, 70, 83 Fonds des Nègres (Chauvet), 82 food apartheid, 23, 25 food geographies, 22, 23, 29. See also geographies food justice and security: atomic fallout and, 13; Black farming and, 20–21, 97; COVID-19 and, 13, 95, 141; cultural development and, 211; in Detroit, 40; gardening and, 93–94, 203; healing and, 134; James and Grace Lee Boggs and, 40; pedagogy and, 115, 191; racial justice and, 23; rematriation movements and, 91; situated knowledge and, 195; solidarity and, 51. See also community gardens; gardens and gardening; human-animal relations food traditions, 55 Ford, Chandra, 169

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foreignness. See difference, construction of Forest of Water. See Bosque de Agua Forest Water Route, 220, 222 “Formation” (Beyoncé), 13, 112 Fossil Free Fest, 132 Foytlin, Cherri, 136 France, 150, 160 Francis, M., 116 Freeman, Roland, 10 Freire, Paulo, 179 frontiers, 110. See also colonialism frontline communities, 125, 128, 129, 134, 140, 141 Fugitive Slave Act (1850), 171. See also enslavement Fukushima, 160. See also toxic geographies Fullilove, Mindy, 172 Fundación Bucarabón, 92 fungi, 161 fungibility, 20 Gaard, Greta, 66–67, 111 García, Magha, 91, 95 The Garden (documentary), 173 gardens and gardening: Afroecology and, 126, 145n10; ancestors and, 15, 94, 204, 207, 211; artwork and, 6, 10; Black women and, 171; climate justice and, 133; collaborative project of, 12, 50, 57–58, 58; community and, 9, 94, 115; community healing and, 14, 95; COVID-19 and, 12, 50, 56; ecological literacy and, 212; human-nature relationship and, 191; imagined futures and, 94–95; Kirk on, 34, 42–43; pedagogy and, 11, 115–116, 116; rematriation movements and, 92; resistance and, 51, 93–94, 95, 203, 209; restoration and, 206, 208–209; soil health and, 93; spirituality and, 53; survival and, 55; urban, 115–116, 167, 172–173, 174; water access and, 57. See also community gardens Gardiner, Michael, 108 gas industry, 141 gender: community gardens and, 209–210; cultural development and, 211; discrimination and, 227; ecofeminism

238

Index

and, 2, 39, 77–78, 108, 117, 118; ecowomanism and, 66; food practices and, 55; geography and, 29, 29–30; and home, concepts of, 79, 84; humananimal relations and, 27; human-nature relationship and, 24, 30, 108–109, 196; Indigenous leadership and, 99; labor and, 54–55, 55; landmines and, 155, 155–156; migrant conditions and, 174; Morningstar’s study of, 98–99; nationstate and policing of, 79; and nature, constructions of, 110–111, 111–112; positionality and conceptions of, 192–193; poverty and wealth and, 128; queering the environment and, 66–67; root shock and, 172; subjectivity and, 69, 70; toxic geographies and, 148, 152 GenderCC, 137 gendered ecologies, mapping: artwork and expression of, 10; climate justice and, 13, 125–142; collaborative gardening and, 12, 49–59; community gardens and, 14, 203–215; Costa Leonardo and, 14, 217–227; geographical location and, 11; Hall and, 11–12, 17–30; and home, concepts of, 12, 77–84; intersectionality and, 12, 61–74; Kirk and, 12, 33–44; Morningstar and, 13, 97–106; pedagogy and, 13, 14, 107–121, 167–180, 183–200; rematriation and, 12–13, 87–95; toxic geographies and, 13–14, 147–162 Gendered Lives (Kirk and Okazawa-Rey), 4 generational trauma, 172, 179. See also enslavement; trauma Genesee River, 117, 119 genocide. See enslavement; toxic geographies gentrification, 15, 37, 43, 134, 159 genuine security, 41, 43, 184, 196. See also security geographies: Black, 29–30, 30, 170–171; of domination, 27; of food, 22, 23, 29; root shock and, 172; sexualization of, 67. See also toxic geographies geology, 27, 28–29 Germany, 150 Gibbs, Lois, 112

GirlTrek, 133, 137 Giroux, Henry, 179 Glave, Dianne D., 171 Global North, 128, 129, 136 Global South, 24, 128, 129, 192 good living (buen vivir), 219, 225 good trouble, 129 Gore, Al, 168–169, 171, 172 Graham, Franklin, 4 Grahn, Judy, 88 grandmothers, 14, 15, 94, 175, 211, 212, 224 grassroots organizing. See activism and resistance Great Migration, 43, 204 Greenbelt Movement, 178–179, 185, 189. See also climate and environmental justice Greenham Common, 13, 37–38, 148. See also antimilitarism Green Legacy Hiroshima, 158 Green New Deal, 133, 137, 139, 141, 161 grief, 210–211 Griffin, Susan, 88 Grosz, Elizabeth, 69 group projects, 189–190. See also pedagogy growth, post-traumatic, 125, 130, 131 Grow Where You Are, 208 Gruen, Lori, 65 Guam, 151, 158 Guatemala, 221 Guattari, Fé lix, 69 Guggenheim, Davis, 168, 170, 178 Guillén, Nicolás, 88 Gulf Coast Center for Law and Policy (GCCLP), 132, 137, 139 gynecological medicine, 67 Haiti, 77, 78–79, 80–81, 83, 84 Haitian literature and theory, 82, 84 Hall, K. Melchor Quick: Atamba, collaboration with, 12, 49–50, 59; autobiographical introduction of, 11–12; background and work of, 4–5, 183; on Black farming, 20–21; on editing, process of, 1–2, 3, 9, 15; family and upbringing of, 17–18; on gendered ecologies, approaches to, 191; on

Index human-animal relations, 23; on land as pedagogy, 188; location and Black identity of, 17–18; on nature, human connection to, 8–9; positionality of, 52; on social and ecological justice, course for, 185–186; on student reactions and contributions, 195; on teaching ecofeminism, challenges of, 192, 196; on teaching practices, 198; water trauma of, 19 HALO Trust, 154 Hamer, Fannie Lou, 93–94 Handicap International (Humanity and Inclusion), 154 Hanford (WA), 150, 151, 152 Hanford Downwinders, 152, 153, 154 Hanford Nuclear Reservation, 151, 152–154 Haraway, Donna, 69 Harnett Community Garden. See Bush Mountain Community Garden Harper, A. Breeze, 64, 199 Harris, Melanie: on beauty to burden paradox, 145n23; on ecomemory, 53; on ecowomanism, 52–53, 56, 58, 66, 125, 131–132 Hartman, Saidiya, 78, 84 Harvester, Laura, 73 Haudenosaunee people, 98, 99–100 Hawaii, 157, 159 Healey, Josh, 43 health and healing: climate justice and, 125, 129; commodification of, 73; community and, 205; ecowomanism and, 134–135; feminist activism and, 134; food justice and, 134; gardening and, 14, 95, 205, 210–211, 212; as revolution, 135; self-care and, 73, 113–114, 131, 199, 206 health disparity, 125, 128, 135. See also racism, environmental heart disease, 64 heat, 126. See also climate change Heat (documentary), 178 Hellman, Judith, 173, 175 Helping Africa by Establishing Schools Here and Abroad (HABESHA), 208, 211

239

herbalism and herbal medicine, 94, 95, 96n8, 102, 133, 171, 209 herbicides, 90, 93, 94, 95, 96n3, 150, 177. See also toxic geographies Hester, R. T., Jr., 116 heteronormativity, 66–67, 70, 80, 84, 100 hibakusha, 158 hiking and walking, 114–115 Hill, Dominique C., 141, 146n32 Hinzel, Jan Hendrik, 160 Hiroshima, 152, 158 historical memory, 63, 65. See also ecomemory Holmes, Christina: background, 183; on feminist environmentalism, 3, 44; on intersectionality, 12; on student reactions and contributions, 195, 197; on teaching gendered ecologies, 14, 184, 187, 187–188, 192, 193–195, 198–200 Holocaust, 8 home, concepts of, 77, 78–81, 81, 82–84, 90 homelessness. See displacement homophobia, 67. See also LGBTQ+ people hooks, bell, 62, 72, 104, 179 Hooper, Stephanie, 218, 228n4 Hoover, Patricia, 152–153 Horowitz, Ralph, 173 Hovorka, Alice, 70–71 Howell, Shea, 39, 40 Hua, Linh U., 8, 10, 14, 150 human-animal relations: Black subjectivity and, 17, 23, 24–26, 27; climate change and, 24; COVID-19 and, 2; disability studies and, 67; ecofeminism and, 108; intersectional approaches to, 63–65; performativity and, 70–71; subjectivity and, 70 humanism, 27, 69, 70, 108 Humanities Project (University of Rochester), 116, 117 Humanity and Inclusion (HI), 154 human-nature relationship: as agent of change, 28, 219; artwork and, 118; beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; BIPOC and, 28–29, 136, 196, 211; bodies and, 184–185; buen vivir and, 219; community and, 205–206;

240

Index

COVID-19 and, 2; ecofeminism and, 77, 82–83, 108–109, 121; ecomemory and, 53–54; ecowomanism and, 53, 128, 204; enslavement and, 17, 18–19, 21, 169–171, 191, 213; ethics of care and, 116; gardening and, 14, 191, 203, 205, 208–209, 212; grief and, 210–211; imagination and, 167–168; nostalgia vs. melancholia and, 168–169; oral histories and, 179–180; pedagogy and, 13, 114–115, 185; personhood and, 105; race and, 115; reciprocity and, 161; self-reflection and, 179; social construction of, 110–112; spirituality and, 53 humor, 178 Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, 159 hunting, 64 Hurricane Barry, 127 Hurricane Katrina, 134, 170, 178 Hurricane Maria, 89, 90 Hurston, Zora Neale, 204 identity. See subjectivity imaginary, resistant, 63, 65, 68, 71 imagination and possible futures: Bosque de Agua and, 218; ecofeminism and, 84; ecofeminist pedagogy and, 121, 192, 194–195, 195–196, 200; farming and, 94–95, 95; human-nature relationship and, 167–168; Magha García on, 91–92 immigration. See migrant individuals; migration incarceration, 80 Inclusive Woods and Us, 115 An Inconvenient Truth (Guggenheim), 168, 170, 178 India, 150 Indiera, 90, 92 Indigenous Environmental Network, 137 Indigenous peoples: in Cambodia, 156; chemical contamination and, 150, 152, 159; ecowomanism and, 125; food justice and, 97; land and, 43, 43–44, 196–197; in Mexico, 218, 221, 226–227; and nature, constructions of, 110; in New Orleans, 145n17; pipelines and, 99; spiritual activism and, 130. See

also Black, Indigenous, and People of Color individualism, 195 industrialization, 35, 39–40, 190 Industrial Tax Exemption Program (ITEP, Louisiana), 145n15 inequality. See economic inequality; racism, environmental inheritance, 54 interconnectedness, 179. See also intersectionality interfaith dialogue, 133 Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), 178 International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL), 177 International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons (ICAN), 157 International Campaign to Ban Landmines and Cluster Munition Coalition, 154 International Indigenous Knowledge & Development Society (IIKDS), 211 International Peoples’ Tribunal of Conscience in Support of the Vietnamese Victims of Agent Orange, 177 international relations, 51, 80, 148, 185 International Women’s Network Against Militarism, 41–42 “Interpreting the Natural” (Dodson), 5 intersectionality: antimilitarism and, 37–38; assemblage theory and, 71–72; climate justice and, 130, 137, 138–139; compulsory identification and, 169; definitions, 62; and difference, concept of, 192; ecofeminism and, 2–3, 4, 61, 65–68, 108, 109, 184; ecowomanism and, 132; food justice and, 97; history and overview, 61–62; and home, concept of, 81; human-animal relations and, 24, 63–64, 64–65, 108; methodologies of, 62–65; and opportunities, examination of, 51; pedagogy and, 12, 13, 72–74, 113, 190, 195–196, 197, 200; posthumanist critiques of, 68–72; subjectivity and, 68, 69–70; sustainability and, 39; TBF framework and, 51 Iraq, 150

Index irrigation systems, 39 Israel, 150 Jackson Turner, Frederick, 110, 111 James Boggs and Grace Lee Boggs Center to Nurture Community Leadership, 40 Japan, 150, 160 Jenkins, Germaine, 6 Jesuit Refugee Service, 154 Jewish identities, 88 Johansson, Annika, 177 Jones, Claudia, 87 Jones, Pattrice, 24 Jose, Coleen, 160 joy, 125, 134. See also self-care Juma, Loveness, 56, 58 Just Breathe Experience, 208–207. See also Bush Mountain Community Garden justice, definition, 51. See also climate and environmental justice; food justice and security just recovery, 137, 139 Kafer, Alison, 67 Kaho’olawe (HI), 157, 159 Keating, AnaLouise, 72 Kelly Air Force Base, 150 Kenya, 54, 178 Kettel, Bonnie, 148 khaim (residence), 81 Kimmerer, Robin Wall, 101, 161 kin, subversive, 44 King, Tiffany Lethabo, 19, 19–20, 20 King, Ynestra, 38 Kirk, Gwyn: antimilitarism and, 37–38, 41; autobiographical introduction of, 12, 33, 34; background and work of, 5, 183; on colonial maps, 35; ecofeminism and, 2–3, 38–39, 44; on editing, process of, 2, 3–4, 15; education of, 35–36, 36, 37; family and upbringing of, 34, 35; on land and belonging, 43–44; on relationships, cultivation of, 4; rooting and gardening of, 42–43; on student reactions and contributions, 195, 196; on teaching ecofeminism, 184–185, 186–187, 187, 190, 192, 198; on toxic geographies, 13–14; on transnational

241

organizing, 41–42; work and marriage of, 36 Kissinger, Henry, 151 knowledge: animal performativity and, 71; beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; centric thinking and, 62; climate justice and, 129; community and, 44; embodied, 132; expansion of, need for, 73–74; experiential learning and, 113; and home, concept of, 78, 84; Indigenous, past-tensification of, 102; nature and scientific, 108; oral histories and, 180; pedagogical challenges and, 192; production and valorization of, 6–7, 7, 72; self-reflection and, 115, 121, 190; sharing of, 226; as situated and embodied, 44, 142, 187, 189, 194, 198, 225–226; traditional ecological, 129; understanding vs., 8, 33, 34; unknown geography and, 170; women as carriers of, 211 Ko, Syl, 24, 25, 25–26, 27, 28 Kurashige, Scott, 40, 41 Kuria tribe, 55 Kuwait, 150 labor: agricultural, in Haiti, 83; American tropes of, 170; beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; community gardens and, 205; economic and political impact on, 128, 139; ecowomanism and, 56; food production and, 64; and home, concept of, 79; human-nature relationship and, 191; Luhya tribe and, 12, 54–55, 55; pedagogical challenges and, 192; volunteerism and exploitation of, 215; women’s rights and, 92 Lafayette Square, 126, 145n8 land: activism and, 13; beauty to burden paradox and, 145n23; Black subjectivity and, 20–21, 23, 77, 171, 211, 213; in Cambodia, 156; colonialism and settling of, 43; community and stewardship of, 100, 103–104, 105; ecological literacy and, 212; ecomemory and, 53–54; food justice and, 97; in Haiti, discourse of, 80, 82; and home, concepts of, 78–79;

242

Index

Indigenous stewardship of, 43–44; landmines and, 155, 156; Luhya tribe and, 12, 54; in Mexico, struggles for, 221; militarism and, 150, 158; NAFTA and, 173–174; nationalism and, 83; ownership and, 81, 170, 171, 196, 222, 223; pedagogy and, 188, 191, 192, 195; pipelines and, 99; precautionary principle for use of, 149, 162; religion and connection to, 53, 56; reparations and, 103; spirit and agency of, 205, 206–207; urban demolition and, 172; urban farming and, 115 land grabs, 130, 185. See also displacement Landmine and Cluster Munition Monitor, 151 landmines, 150, 154–156, 157, 162, 175, 177 land titles, 156 land trusts, 13, 43, 97, 100–101, 102–103 language, 42, 49, 52, 98 Lao People’s Democratic Republic, 154 Le, Thi Nham Tuyet, 177 leadership, 99, 215, 222–223, 224 Lee, Spike, 170, 178 Lemert, Charles, 169 Lesotho, 192 Letchworth State Park, 115 Levins Morales, Aurora: activist consciousness of, 88; family and background of, 87–88, 89, 92–93; on home, return to, 90, 90–91; on rematriation, 12–13; “Water Road,” 89; writing and organizing work of, 88–89 Lewis, John, 129, 145n20 LGBTQ+ people: climate change and, 67; climate justice and, 128, 136; ecofeminism and, 12, 83; Haudenosaunee people and, 99; herbalism and, 95; and home, concepts of, 79, 80, 81, 84; human-nature relationship and, 115, 196; intersectionality and, 69, 70; pipelines and, 99; police violence and, 61; in Puerto Rico, 91; self-care and, 114; solidarity and, 100–101; women’s studies and, 104 literacy, ecological, 212, 214–215

Liverpool, 35, 170 Liverpool Merchant (ship), 35 local economies, 40, 92, 220. See also economies location and positionality: Black perspectives and, 27, 28, 29; of Braun and Holmes, 183; ecofeminism and, 39, 184; ecological impact of, 148, 150, 185; environmentalism and, 66; food justice and, 51; of Hall, 7, 17–18, 183; of Kirk, 3, 33, 183; knowledge generation and, 44, 142, 198; pedagogy and, 111, 186, 187, 189, 190, 192, 194; of Roberts-Gregory, 131, 132, 142; of Soul Fire Farm, 103; TBF framework and, 51, 52; transnational organizing and, 41, 42 London, 37 Longsdon-Conradsen, Susan, 108 Lorde, Audre, 67, 113–114 Los Angeles, 167, 169, 172–173, 174 Los Ojos (New Mexico), 39, 190 lost remembrance, 175. See also memory Louis Armstrong Park, 126, 145n6 Louisiana, 127, 128, 129, 131, 132 Ludlow, Jeannie, 109 Luhya tribe, 12, 50, 54, 54–55, 55 Lupinacci, John, 62 Maathai, Wangari, 178–179, 185, 189 MacGregor, Sherilyn, 108 Madrid, 137 Mai Giang Vu, 177 maize, 55 Makotsi, Leah, 59 Malaysia, 175–176 Malik, Cecylia, 116–117, 118, 119–120 “Manhattan Project,” 152 Maparyan, Layli, 205, 206 maps and mapping: Black geographies and, 19–20, 29; colonialism and, 35, 43; constellations and, 27–28; and dominant narratives, disruption of, 30, 37–38, 43; editorial process and, 10, 10–11, 11, 15, 29; food geographies and, 22, 23; gendered ecologies and, 18; and home, concepts of, 78, 80; human-animal relations and, 26–27; oceans and, 170

Index marginalization. See economic inequality; racism, environmental maroon communities, 203, 204, 213 Marshall Islands, 151, 152, 159–160 Martinez, Xiuhtezcatl, 188 Martusewicz, Rebecca, 62 masculinity, 66–67, 111, 114, 170 maternalism, 108–109, 112 matria, 89 matriarchy, 13, 104 matrilineal cultures, 99 matrix thinking, 62, 64, 65, 70. See also intersectionality Matsuda, Mari, 72 Matsuoka, Martha, 165n1 May, Vivian, 62, 63, 65, 68, 71 McGregor, Davianna Pómaika’i, 159 McKittrick, Katherine, 27, 29–30, 30, 169, 170–171 meat consumption, 24, 26, 63–64. See also human-animal relations media, 224 MedicAid, 95 melancholia, environmental: displacement and, 172–175; and enslavement, legacy of, 169–172; environmental justice and, 179; Los Angeles urban prairie and, 172–175; overview, 168; Vietnamese refugees and, 175–178 melancholia, racial, 169 memory, 53, 167, 168–169, 175. See also ecomemory menstruation and menstrual products, 90, 197 mentorship, 135 Merchant, Carolyn, 111 Mexico: agrarian struggle in, 221; Costa Leonardo’s family in, 221; earthquake, 2017, 217, 228n3; gender and feminism in, 227; NAFTA and migration from, 173–174; neoliberalism in, 218; Okazawa-Rey in, 217, 218; political movements i, 223, 224; racism in, 226; rural communities in, 218–219; student movements in, 225 Michi Nishnaabeg epistemology, 191 Micronesia, 157 microorganisms, 69

243

Middle Passage, 169–170, 211. See also enslavement Midland (MI), 150 Mies, Maria, 111 migrant individuals: and home, concepts of, 12, 77, 78–79, 80, 81, 83, 84; property ownership and, 80–81; root shock and, 173–174, 175 migration: Black subjects and, 29; climate change and, 160; climate justice and, 12, 91, 92, 94; Levins Morales and, 88; pedagogy and, 14; settler positionality and, 43. See also rematriation militarism and militarization: Agent Orange and, 176–178; definitions, 148; disaster relief and, 161; environmental impacts of, 148, 149–150, 160–161, 177, 190; landmines and, 154–156; national security and, 148, 162; nuclear weapons and, 150–151, 152–154; pedagogy and, 147; resistance strategies and, 156–158; in US, 148, 154, 157, 158, 160; women’s organizing against, 13, 37–38, 41 milk, 13–14, 147, 176. See also toxic geographies mimicry, 169 Mine Ban Treaty (1999), 157 Mines Advisory Group (MAG), 154 miscarriages, 148, 152, 210. See also toxic geographies Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women’s movement, 99 Mississippi Rivera, 88 modernity, 68, 129 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, 42 money, 42, 225 monographic records, 102 Monsanto, 90, 95, 96n2, 96n3. See also toxic geographies moon cycles, 27–28, 30 Morelos (Mexico), 217, 221, 228n3 Morningstar, Stephanie: on Braiding Sweetgrass, 101; on consultation and reparations, 102–103; on future work, 104–105; gender, study of, 98–99; on herbalism, 102; introduction to, 97–98; on land and building relationships, 103–104; land-based movements and,

244

Index

13; on matrilineal culture, 99–100; on mothering and matriarchy, 104; on NEFOC, 100, 100–101, 103, 105; on people of color and past tense-ification, 102; on research and academic work, 106; on solidarity, 100–101, 105; on women’s studies, 104 Morrison, Toni, 18, 88, 104, 204 Mortimer-Sandilands, Catriona, 67, 111 mothering and motherhood: climate justice and, 136; colonial narratives of, 112; gardening and, 14, 15, 94, 211, 212; and home, concepts of, 79–80; meanings of, 104; public space and, 117, 118; toxic geographies and, 176–177 moulins, 178 Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (MST), 91 Movimiento de Renovación Nacional (MORENA), 223, 226 munitions. See landmines music, 204, 209 music festivals, 132 Muskogee Creek, 207 mycelium, 161 mythical norm, 67 Nacional Confederacion Campesina, 227 Nagasaki, 152. See also toxic geographies Naming a Transnational Black Feminist Framework (Hall), 50–51 National Academy of Sciences, 177 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), 137 nationalism, 82, 83 National Network of Rural Women, 221, 221–222, 222, 224 national parks, 196, 199. See also humannature relationship National Renewal Movement (MORENA), 223, 226 national security, 148, 149–150, 150, 162. See also militarism and militarization National Women’s Studies Association, 2, 3 nation-state: and home, concepts of, 77, 78, 79, 81, 83, 84; land deprivation and, 82; parenting and, 79–80

Native American peoples. See Indigenous peoples naturalization, 110 nature, concept of, 110–111, 121, 179–180. See also human-nature relationship; toxic geographies Nature’s Body (Schiebinger), 112 necropolitics, 129 Nelmark, Benjamin, 161 neoliberalism, 113, 129, 218–219, 220, 224 Neruda, Pablo, 88 Nevada, 150 New Orleans: climate justice and, 13; Entergy in, 144n2; environmental melancholia and, 169, 170, 171; environmental racism in, 112; Indigenous communities in, 145n17; summer heat in, 126 The New Orleans People’s Assembly, 126, 145n7 New Zealand, 157 Nicholson, Lucienne, 115 Nixon administration, 150 Nobel Peace Prize, 217, 228n1 “Nobody Knows the Mysteries at the Bottom of the Ocean” (McKittrick and Woods), 170 Nocella, Anthony, 67 No More Deaths, 173, 174–175 non-profit industrial complex, 215 norm, mythical, 67 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 173–174 Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC), 21, 97, 100, 103, 104, 105, 196 Northeast Organic Farming Association of Vermont (NOFA), 101 North Korea, 150 North Star, 27 Norwegian People’s Aid, 154 nostalgia, rhetorical, 168–169, 172, 175, 179 nuclear families, 63, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84 Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific, 157 The Nuclear Resister, 158 nuclear weapons and technology: clean-up efforts, 159–160; environmental impacts of, 147, 150, 152–154, 160;

Index future of, 160; resistance strategies to, 157–158; US testing of, 150–151, 152, 160; women’s organizing against, 13, 37–38, 148, 151–152. See also toxic geographies Nukewatch, 158 Nyerere, Julius, 36 Oakland City, 207 Oakland City Community Association, 208 Oak Ridge (TN), 150 objectivity, 139 Obrador, López, 223 oceans, 17, 18–20, 169–171. See also water Ohlone people, 43 oil and gas industry, 141 Okazawa-Rey, Margo, 4, 14, 165n1, 227 Okinawa Women Act Against Military Violence, 157 Oneida Nation, 190 online learning, 198 opías, 94 oral histories, 172, 179–180 Oregon, 152 Organización Boricuá, 91 organizing. See activism and resistance othermothering, 63, 65. See also mothering and motherhood ownership: housing and, 127; of land, 81, 170, 171, 196, 222, 223; migrant identities and, 80–81; rhetorical nostalgia and, 168; subjectivity and, 169 Pachamama Forest Garden, 91 Pacheco, Madeleine, 92 Pacific Ocean, 167–168. See also oceans Paine, Freddy, 40 Pakistan, 150 Panama, 150 pandemics. See COVID-19 Paravisini-Gebert, Lizabeth, 82 parenting, 79–80, 87–88, 89 Park, Lisa Sun-Hee, 189 Park Hill Christian Church, 205, 213 partial perspectives. See location and positionality passports, 79

245

past tense-ification, 102 patria, 89 patriarchy, 104, 130 patrilineal inheritance, 54 peace movements. See antimilitarism PeaceWomen Across the Globe, 217 Peace Zones, 40 pedagogy: challenges in, 192–195, 196, 198–199; climate justice and, 134; curriculum and gendered ecologies and, 14; ecofeminism and, 13, 83, 84, 184; ecowomanism and, 133; of environmental justice, 168, 169, 178; and gendered ecologies, approaches to, 14, 185–186, 186–187, 187–191, 198–200; group projects in, 189–190; imagination and, 167–168; intersectionality and, 12, 62, 72–74; intimate, 179; land as, 188, 191; life experience and, 14; militarism and, 147; responsible, need for, 8; student reactions and contributions to, 195–197 pedagogy, ecofeminist: activism and, 116–117, 120; concepts and objectives for, 109–111; course resources, 111–112; and environmental education, reimagining of, 107–108; environmental justice and, 109; ethics of care and, 116; experiential and community-based learning, 113, 190, 191; hiking and walking and, 114–115; intersectional potential of, 109; selfcare and, 113–114; as theory and practice, 107; urban farming and, 115–116; value of, 120–121 Pellot, Iris, 96n3 Pellow, David Naguib, 189 Peña, Devon, 39, 44 Penniman, Leah, 6, 21, 23, 93, 103, 191 Perez, Jacqueline, 92 performativity, 70–71, 71, 79, 117, 118, 119 Perry, Imani, 79–80 Persian Gulf War, 148 personhood, 105. See also subjectivity perspectives, partial. See location and positionality pesticides, 67, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96n3. See also toxic geographies

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Index

Philippines, 150, 151, 157 Phillips, Layli, 24 photographs and images, 59 Pierson, Laura, 108, 114 Pinar, William, 179 pipelines, 99 pirogue, 127, 140, 145n12 Places for the Spirit (Sills), 6 Plume (Flenniken), 153–154 Plumwood, Val, 39, 62, 108 plutonium, 152, 154, 160. See also toxic geographies police violence, 61, 112, 199 Polish Mother on Stumps (Malik), 116–117 Politics of Nature (course): artwork and activism in, 117; concepts and objectives of, 109–111, 117–118; experiential and community-based learning, 113; hiking and walking in, 114–115; readings and resources, 111–113; student testimonies, 118–120; urban farming in, 115–116 population growth, 190 positionality. See location and positionality positivism, 125, 129, 135, 199 possible futures. See imagination and possible futures postcolonialism, 169 posthumanism, 68–72, 73 poststructuralism, 68 poverty, use of term, 221. See also economic inequality “Power, Danger, and Control” (Blum), 112 prairie, urban, 169, 172 Pratt, Minnie Bruce, 33 precautionary principle, 149, 162. See also toxic geographies presidential elections, 2, 141, 223 privacy, 77, 79 privatization: disrupting systems of, 200; of household, 80; of land, 37, 80, 91, 92; of property, 80, 83; of public resources, 90, 96n1 privilege. See economic inequality; location and positionality Producing Knowledge, Protecting Forests (Carruyo), 189, 193 productivity, 120, 174

PROMESA Act, 89, 96n1 property: ecofeminism and, 83; environmental nostalgia and, 168; Haiti and discourse of, 80; and home, concepts of, 77, 78, 79; land prices and, 156; migrant individuals and, 80–81; and mother and father, concepts of, 79–80; patria and, 89; private, decentering of, 200; subjectivity and, 170 Protestantism, 34 Prutehi Litekyan: Save Ritidian (PLSR), 158 Puar, Jasbir, 68–69 public space, 117, 118. See also space and place Puerto Rico, 88, 89–92, 95, 96n1–96n4, 151, 159 Pulau Bidong (Malaysia), 169, 175–176, 177 queer ecologies, 66–67, 130, 145n22, 187, 188. See also LGBTQ+ people Queer Ecologies (Mortimer-Sandilands and Erikson), 67 quilts and quilting, 1, 10, 11, 15 race: consciousness of, 17–18, 33, 131, 189, 197; ecofeminism and, 2, 11, 38–39; ecowomanism and, 58; and nature, constructions of, 109, 110–111, 111–112, 168; otherness and, 192. See also Black, Indigenous, and People of Color Rachel’s Environment and Health Weekly, 149 racial justice, 2, 22–23, 41, 64, 138, 162. See also activism and resistance racial melancholia, 169. See also melancholia, environmental racism: antimilitarism and, 37; earth sciences and, 28; ecofeminism and, 113, 121; food geographies and, 22, 23; food systems and, 21, 97, 191; humananimal relations and, 24, 24–25, 25–26; human-inhuman divide and, 27; intersectionality and, 12, 39, 61, 64; in Mexico, 226–227; militarism and, 148, 162; pedagogical challenges and, 192,

Index 196, 198; poverty and wealth and, 128; scientific study and, 67; self-awareness of, 33; unpaid labor and, 139 racism, environmental: Africana Indigenous people and, 204; BIWOC and, 125, 128, 146n25; COVID-19 and, 135, 141, 145n13; human-nature engagement and, 28; hurricanes and, 89, 112, 171; nuclear contamination and, 148, 150–151, 159; pedagogy and, 189–190, 199; Roberts-Gregory’s work on, 128, 133, 134 radiation, 96n2, 147, 150, 152–153, 159, 159–160, 161 radical healing, 205, 209. See also health and healing radically transparent positionality, 52. See also location and positionality rationalism, 73, 131 Ray, Sarah Jaquette, 67 real-estate, 77. See also property reason vs. faith, 53 reciprocity, 94, 103, 125, 134, 141, 161 reconciliation, 130. See also climate and environmental justice reconstruction, 204. See also enslavement recovery, just, 137, 139. See also health and healing Red Cross, 176 Redong Island, 176 Reese, Ashanté M., 22, 23 refugee camps, 169, 175–176. See also migrant individuals refusal, ethnographic, 135, 146n26 religion, 52, 52–53. See also spirituality relocation. See displacement rematriation, 12–13, 90–91, 91–92 reparations, 43–44, 97, 102–103, 103, 130, 140, 196 reproduction, 39, 128, 130, 177, 190 research, 7, 106, 134, 145n24 resilience, 114, 129, 137, 139, 158, 205, 213 resistance. See activism and resistance resistant imaginary, 63, 65, 68, 71. See also activism and resistance; imagination and possible futures resources, collective, 200. See also economies

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respect, politics of, 193 rest, 125, 129. See also self-care restoration and restoration gardens, 206, 208–209. See also gardens and gardening reusing and recycling, 220, 225 rhetorical nostalgia, 168–169, 172, 175, 179 Rich, Adrienne, 88 rickets, 147 Riley, Shamara Shantu, 126, 128 Rivera, Diego, 39 rivers, 117, 119 Roberts, Chris, 159 Roberts-Gregory, Frances, 13, 127–128, 130, 132–131, 134, 136, 141 Rocky Flats (CO), 150 Rodriguez, Krys, 92 Romania, 150 Rooted in the Earth (Glave), 171 Roots (school), 17 root shock, 172–174 Root Shock (Fullilove), 172 Roselló, Ricky, 91, 96n4 Rosenberg, Alan, 8, 33, 34 Ruffin, Kimberly N., 145n23 Runit Island, 160 rural communities, 218, 219, 221, 222, 225, 226–227. See also economic inequality Russell, Constance, 116 Russia, 150 Ruta Bosque de Agua, 220, 222 Sacred Hunger (Unsworth), 35 sadness, 210–211 Saint Laurent (France), 160 Sanchez, Sonia, 204 sand, 175 Sandahl, Carrie, 70 San Francisco, 159 Sankofa, 129, 145n19, 204, 207, 216n1 San Luis (Colorado), 39 Savannah River (SC), 150 #SayHerName movement, 61 Schiebinger, Londa, 112 scholar-activism, 51, 125, 130–131, 142, 188. See also activism and resistance

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scientific episteme, 108. See also knowledge security: genuine, 41, 43, 184, 196; national, 148, 149–150, 150, 162; in rural communities, 222 self-care, 73, 113–114, 131, 199, 206. See also health and healing selfhood. See subjectivity self-reflection, 114–115, 121, 132, 142, 179, 189, 190 self-reliance, 22 sexism: BIPOC and, 128, 136; BIWOC and, 12, 29, 61, 89; ecofeminism and, 113, 121; human-animal relations and, 27; intersectional approaches to, 12, 64, 65, 72; militarism and, 41; pedagogy and, 194, 199; scientific study and, 67 sexuality. See LGBTQ+ people The Shape of Water (Bhavnani), 193 Shiva, Vandana, 111 shoals, Black, 19 Shoshone people, 150 shotgun home, 126, 144n3 Shrewsbury, Carolyn, 113, 115, 116, 121 Sibara, Jay, 67 Sills, Vaughn, 5, 6, 9 Silt (Levins Morales), 89 Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake, 191 Sistah Vegan (Harper), 64, 188, 199 Sisters Rivers (Malik), 116, 117 situated knowledge. See location and positionality skin, 184 slavery. See enslavement The Slums of Aspen (Park and Pellow), 189 Social Darwinism, 110 socialism, 36 social mobility, 127 social movements. See activism and resistance social reproduction, 190. See also reproduction Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, 106 sociology, 169 Sogorea Te’, 43–44 soil health, 6, 53, 93, 94. See also toxic geographies solar energy, 90, 91, 126, 220

solidarity: assemblage theory and, 71; Bosque de Agua and, 220; climate justice and, 136; ecofeminism and, 139; gardening and, 94; intersectionality and, 63, 65, 66, 67, 192–193; land rights and, 54; Morningstar on, 100–101, 102, 104, 105; resilience and just recovery and, 139; Ruta Bosque de Agua and, 222; in transnational organizing, 41, 42, 51 Soul Fire Farm, 6, 21, 22, 25, 97, 103, 191 South Central Farm, 172–173, 174 South Korea, 150, 156 sovereignty: climate justice and, 130, 137, 141; and home, concepts of, 77; land trusts and, 43–44; Morningstar’s work for, 99, 100, 103, 105, 106; rematriation and, 91, 91–92 space and place: belonging and, 43; Black Anthropocenes and, 29; Black geographies and, 19–20, 22, 29–30; borderlands and, 66, 186; coalitional, 65, 105; Haitian ecofeminism and, 83; and home, concepts of, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 84; moon cycles and, 27–28; motherhood and, 117, 118; nature and wilderness and, 110, 114–115, 121, 196; pedagogy and, 184, 188; privatization of, 80; refugees and, 175; sexualization of, 67; urban, 112, 179 Spain, 221 speciesism, 3, 24, 64–65, 184. See also human-animal relations Spencer, Mark David, 112 Spillers, Hortense, 170 spiral methodology. See ecowomanism spirits, 206–207, 213 spiritual activism, 125, 130, 136. See also activism and resistance spirituality: borderlands environmentalism and, 66; community and, 205–206, 213; community gardens and, 203; ecofeminism and, 3, 132, 187, 188; ecowomanism and, 52–53, 56, 134; landscape and, 205; nature and, 211; pedagogy and, 195, 197; restoration and, 206; veganism and, 24 Spivak, Gayatri, 169 squatting, 37. See also displacement

Index Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 104 Starhawk, 188 Star Power (simulation game), 192 Status of Forces Agreements (SOFAs), 149–150 Steingraber, Sandra, 149 Stellman, Jeanne, 177 sterilization, forced, 90 Stockbridge Munsee Mohican territory, 99, 103 storytelling, 102, 105 student movement (Mexico, 1968), 225 Sturgeon, Noël, 111 subaltern, 169 subjectivity: Africana consciousness and, 204; assemblage theory and, 71; autoethnography and, 131; Black girl reliability and, 146n32; borderlands and, 186; crip theory and, 70; cultural construction of, 64; displacement and, 172; eco-femme standpoint and, 77–78; ecological literacy and, 212; enslavement and loss of, 170; environment and, 179; feminist activism and, 134; and home, concepts of, 80, 81, 83; human-animal relations and, 17, 23, 24–26, 27, 70; imagination and, 168; of Indigenous women, 99; intersectionality and, 61, 63, 68, 69–70; land and, 20–21, 23, 77, 171, 211, 213; memory and, 175; nature and, 105, 110, 111, 111–112, 211; pedagogy and, 121, 169, 188; performativity and, 70–71; water and, 17, 18–20, 169–171 Sublime, philosophies of, 170 sugar, 73, 170, 199 sunflowers, 93 survivance, 142, 146n33. See also resilience sustainability: Bosque de Agua and, 14, 218, 220, 222, 224; community and, 205, 213; community gardens and, 203, 204, 211; ecofeminism and, 107; farming and, 91, 115; feminism and, 2; intersectionality and, 39, 185; pedagogy and, 5, 184, 187, 190, 194; private property and, 83; situated knowledge and, 129; spirituality and, 134

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swamps, 171. See also human-nature relationship Taíno people, 89–90, 94 Take ‘Em Down NOLA, 126, 145n7 Taking Root (documentary), 178 Tanzania, 36, 50 Taproot Collective, 116 Taylor, Breonna, 199 teaching. See pedagogy Telica (Nicaragua), 119 Terrell, Mary Church, 145n21 Tetradioxin (TCDD), 176, 177. See also toxic geographies Thailand, 154, 175 theory and practice, 6, 7–8, 14, 107, 221, 225–226 Three Mile Island power plant, 38, 160 Tickner, J. Ann, 148 Tierra Wools (Los Ojos, NM), 190 time, 19–20, 27–28, 84, 120, 129, 131 Timmerman, Nora, 108, 114 tobacco, 170 tokenization, 126 Tonga, 157 tourism, 176 toxic geographies: Agent Orange and, 176–178; BIWOC and, 134, 136, 146n25; clean-up efforts, examples of, 158–160; climate justice and, 140; COVID-19 and, 2, 129, 141; cultural panic and, 67; ecofeminism and, 107, 109; farming and, 53, 91, 93, 94, 95; food security and, 38; future of, 160–161; landmines and, 154–156; lifelines for, 161–162; militarism and, 13–14, 148, 149–150, 150, 190; nuclear weapons and, 150–151, 152–154; in Puerto Rico, 90, 96n3; resistance strategies and, 156–158, 220; safety standards and, 149, 153; in southern US, 127, 128, 131, 133, 134, 140, 145n13; and students, impact on, 184. See also climate change traditional ecological knowledges (TEK), 129. See also knowledge translational fatigue, 125, 134, 145n24 transnational Black feminism (TBF), 12, 50–51, 52, 185

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transparency, 52 trans women, 61, 99, 100, 104. See also LGBTQ+ people trauma: climate justice and, 125, 128, 130; of coming out, 79; community gardens and healing, 14, 210–211, 212; ecowomanism and, 131, 134; enslavement and water and, 17, 18–19, 19, 169–171; home and, 81; humananimal relations and, 23–26; humannature connection and, 21, 23, 82, 179–180, 213; root shock and, 172–173, 174 travel restrictions, 2, 52. See also COVID19 Treaty of Paris, 42 Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons, 152, 157. See also nuclear weapons and technology trouble, good, 129, 145n20 “The Trouble with Wilderness” (Cronon), 111 True Levellers, 37 Trump, Donald, 95 Trump administration, 157 Truth, Sojourner, 68 two spirit people, 99. See also LGBTQ+ people Ukraine, 160 Underground Railroad, 207 understanding vs. knowing, 8, 33, 34. See also knowledge Under the Feet of Jesus (Viramontes), 188 United Kingdom, 150 United Nations, 152, 157 United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), 137, 137–138 United States: food production in, 64; and home, concepts of, 77, 78–79; land ownership in, 170; Mexico, negotiations with, 173–174; militarism of, 148, 154, 157, 158, 160; nuclear technology and, 150–151, 151, 152, 152–154, 160; vegetarianism in, 63 Universiti Malaysia Terengganu (UMT), 176 University of Traditional Sciences, 211

unnatural disasters. See climate change; toxic geographies Unsworth, Barry, 35 uranium mining, 148, 150, 152, 157 urban farming and gardening, 115–116, 126, 167, 172–170, 174. See also gardens and gardening urban prairie, 169, 172 urban renewal, 172, 208. See also displacement; gentrification US Air Force, 148, 150 utilitarianism, 108, 113, 185 veganism and vegetarianism, 17, 24, 25, 63–64 Verdin, Monique, 141–142 veterans, 157, 158 Vieques (island), 159 Vietcong, 154 Vietnam, 150, 154, 156, 176 Vietnam Agent Orange Relief and Responsibility Campaign, 157 Vietnam War, 154, 157, 175, 176, 177 violence. See militarism and militarization Viramontes, Helena Maria, 188 virtual learning, 198. See also pedagogy viruses. See COVID-19 visas, 51, 52 visioning. See imagination and possible futures Vizenor, Gerald, 142, 146n33 Voltaire, 160 volunteerism, 215 Vu, Mai Giang, 177 Walker, Alice, 66, 88, 171, 204, 211 walking and hiking, 114–115 Wall, Kim, 160 Wall Street, 90, 95, 96n1 war. See militarism and militarization Warren, Karen, 62 Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), 160 water: Black subjectivity and, 17, 18–20, 169–171; community organizing and, 222; COVID-19 and, 2; gardening and access to, 57; Levins Morales on, 88, 89; meat consumption and, 24; militarism and, 150; protectors of, 102, 130, 136

Index “Water Road” (Levins Morales), 89 Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiment (Hartman), 84 wealth redistribution, 129. See also economic inequality weather. See climate change websites, 167 wellness. See health and healing Wells-Barnett, Ida B., 145n21 We Rise (Martinez), 188 West Atlanta Watershed Alliance (WAWA), 208 Western Shoshone people, 150 Wet’suwet’en people, 99 When the Levees Broke (Lee), 170, 178 White, Lynn, 108 White, Monica M., 20, 23, 115 white supremacy, 18, 23, 27–28, 33, 37–38, 84, 199 wilderness, 110–111, 112, 170, 171. See also human-nature relationship Willamette Farm and Food Coalition, 190 Windscale (UK), 147 Wolf, Naomi, 104 womanism: Afrocentrism and, 204; collective knowledge and, 211; community and, 206, 213, 215; community gardens and, 205, 209; ecological literacy and, 212; family and agency in, 209–210; human-nature

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connection and, 204; leadership and, 215; Maparyan on, 206. See also ecowomanism Women for Genuine Security, 41 Women’s Action for New Directions (WAND), 151–154, 157. See also antimilitarism women’s and gender studies, 104, 184, 186–187, 192, 194, 199 Women’s Earth and Climate Action Network (WECAN), 137 Women’s Environment and Development Organization (WEDO), 137 Women’s Peace Table (WPT), 217 Women’s Pentagon Action, 38 women’s rights, 54–55, 55, 61, 92 Women’s Studies Research Center (WSRC), 5 Woods, Clyde, 169, 170–171 World Health Organization (WHO), 176 World Social Forum, 142, 146n34 yards, 171. See also gardens and gardening Yusoff, Kathryn, 26–27, 28, 29 Yvaire, Çaca, 97, 101 Zapata, Emiliano, 221 zero-growth economies, 140, 146n30. See also economies

About the Editors

K. Melchor Quick Hall is the author of Naming a Transnational Black Feminist Framework: Writing in Darkness and host of the related online series, both available at www.writingindarkness.org. Her articles have been published in Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, Journal of Human Development and Capabilities, Meridians: Feminism, Race, Transnationalism, Journal of Ethnographic & Qualitative Research, and JENdA: A Journal of Culture and African Women Studies. She works with doctoral students as part of the Human and Organizational Development faculty at Fielding Graduate University’s School of Leadership Studies. Hall is a Visiting Scholar (2020–2021) at York University’s Centre for Feminist Research, a Resident Scholar at Brandeis University’s Women’s Studies Research Center, and an instructor for Boston University’s Prison Education Program. She is also a proud member of The Dark Room: Race and Visual Culture Faculty Seminar. Advocating for food justice and land-based reparations, Hall is part of the Soul Fire Farm Speakers Collective and the Northeast Farmers of Color (NEFOC) network. At Pendle Hill Quaker Retreat Center, Hall facilitates writing workshops for Black women and reparations workshops for white, US-based inheritors of wealth. Gwyn Kirk has taught women’s and gender studies at various US academic institutions. She is a founder member of the International Women’s Network Against Militarism and also Women for Genuine Security, the US-based partner in this Network. Published work includes Gendered Lives: Intersectional Perspectives (2020) with Margo Okazawa-Rey; “Unsettling Debates: Women and Peace Making,” a special issue of Social Justice co-edited with Suzy Kim and M. Brinton Lykes (2020); “Demilitarization for Social Justice,” Feminist Formations (2018); Greenham Women Everywhere (1983) 253

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About the Editors

with Alice Cook; and the independent documentary Living Along the Fenceline (2012) with Lina Hoshino and Deborah Lee. Her articles on ecofeminism, militarism, and transnational feminist peace organizing have appeared in many edited collections and journals, including Asia-Pacific Journal, Berkeley Women’s Law Journal, Feminist Formations, Foreign Policy in Focus, Frontiers, and Peace Review. She writes for popular audiences through activist publications and has written scripts and designed outfits for Fashioning Resistance to Militarism, a popular education project. She holds a PhD in sociology from the London School of Economics. She also works in fabric, makes small art books, and cultivates a garden.

About the Contributors

Judith Atamba is from Buyemi village, Kakamega county, in the western part of Kenya. She was born in 1973, the third in a family of seven. Her family were farmers, especially her mother. She liked farming because she saw her mother and other women in her society doing it. Atamba attended Imbale High School, finishing in 1992. She didn’t get to university due to lack of fees though she got good marks. Instead, she attended a teacher’s college to qualify for her teaching certificate. She started teaching in private schools in Kenya and also resumed farm work to support her family with food and other basic needs. She got married in 1997 and moved to her husband’s home in Tanzania. Since 2000, she has been teaching in Tanzania, currently at Joseph and Mary Schools (Mwanza). Atamba attended agricultural courses or “Farming in God’s Way” in Kijabe (Kenya) in 2010, and also permaculture seminars at Mainsprings, Kitongo (Tanzania). She looks forward to emphasizing better farming methods without harming the land and natural environment. Tatyana Bakhmetyeva, PhD, is Associate Professor of history and of gender, sexuality, and women’s studies and Associate Academic Director of Susan B. Anthony Institute for Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies at the University of Rochester. Her book, Mother of the Church: Sofia Svechina, the Salon, and the Politics of Catholicism in Nineteenth-Century Russia and France (Northern Illinois University Press, 2016) won the Harry C. Koenig Award from the American Catholic Historical Association. Bakhmetyeva’s current research interests include masculinity, environment, and national identity; ecofeminist theory; and gender and climate change. She is working on a book on the history of hunting and masculinity in Russia and is also a part of an interdisciplinary research team studying community resil255

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About the Contributors

ience and adaptation to climate change and environmental disaster in Ladakh, India. Ruth Bottomley has twenty-five years of experience in international development and humanitarian mine action and has worked for international mine action and development organizations, national mine action centers, and with civil society organizations and communities. She has worked extensively in Southeast Asia, particularly Cambodia, and in other parts of Asia and Africa. She is currently based in the UK working as an independent consultant and researcher. She has been working as a researcher for the Landmine and Cluster Munitions Monitor since 2019. Yvonne A. Braun, PhD, is an Associate Vice Provost for Academic Affairs and a Professor in the Department of Global Studies at the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon. Her research focuses on the politics of water and international development, specializing in gender, intersectionality, environment and environmental justice, globalization, social movements, social inequality, health, and human rights. Most of her courses are cross listed with Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, African Studies, or Environmental Studies at her university. Her recent scholarship has appeared in Gender & Society, Social Problems, Journal of Global Ethics, International Feminist Journal of Politics, Journal of Environmental Management, Journal of Political Ecology, Journal of International Women’s Studies, and Cambridge Journal of Regions, Economy, and Society. She has received the Ersted Distinguished Teaching Award (2011), the Rippey Innovative Teaching Award (2013–2020), and Teaching Excellence Fellowship (2016–2017), and is a member of the Provost’s Teaching Academy. Dannie Brice is a scholar and writer. They are a native of Haiti. They recently earned their Bachelor of Arts in African American Studies, History, and Gender and Sexuality Studies at Brandeis University. They are currently a doctoral student specializing in Latin American and Afro-Caribbean History and Literature at Duke University, with a particular focus on humanist language, Caribbean plantation systems, global economy, and citizenship. Ravá Shelyn Chapman is a native of Denver, Colorado, whose mission is to create and maintain healing spaces. She was raised in a family of socially aware and spiritually informed activists and church leaders, and is a lover, artist, scholar, gardener, and a child of the Earth. Chapman holds a Bachelor’s of Science in Psychology and African American Studies from Alabama State University (ASU) and a Master’s of Public Administration from University of Colorado, Denver, and is a member of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. Chapman has worked with Oakland

About the Contributors

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City Community Organization (Atlanta, Georgia) and the West Atlanta Watershed Alliance as a volunteer community garden manager. She is a doctoral candidate in Humanities with a concentration in Africana Women’s Studies at Clark Atlanta University. As an Africana womanist scholar, her research interests include Africana cultural identity, horticulture therapy, Africana women’s botanical agency, and the use of plant material for dietary, medicinal, and spiritual purposes. Currently, she is working to complete her dissertation, “In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: The Africana Botanical Legacy Among Black Women Gardeners.” Nuria Costa Leonardo has been engaged in organization, training, and revaluation of rural communities and local sustainable development with a gender perspective for 48 years. Nuria has lived in Indigenous communities in southern Mexico for 9 years and in peasant communities in the north and center of the country for 20 years. She has worked in the design of public policies for rural women in the Ministry of Agriculture as well as in the Agrarian Ministry. She created the National Network of Rural Women, which she directed from 2003 to 2010. Since 2010 she has focused on systemic design and respect for ecosystems to combat poverty, based on the vision of the Blue Economy movement. In 2005 she was selected as one of 1,000 women worldwide who were nominated collectively for the Nobel Peace Prize. She is currently the Director of the Mexican Network of Women in Civil Society and has published books and articles related to Mexican rural women. Susan Cundiff lives in Eugene, Oregon, and holds a BA in English from Michigan State University and an MA in Counseling from Western Michigan University. She worked in public education for 34 years: four years teaching English and 30 as a middle school counselor. Cundiff’s experience with the interpersonal conflicts of middle school students gave her firsthand knowledge in the value of diplomacy, signed treaties, and threat reduction. For 16 years she served on the national board of Women’s Action for New Directions (WAND) with its roots in nuclear disarmament. In 2013, she joined the Interfaith Peace Walk for a Nuclear Free Future, walking 147 miles and blogging about the experience. She is a member of a local group, Planet vs. Pentagon, whose mission is to educate and mobilize the public to the Pentagon’s destructive impact on the climate as the world’s single largest emitter of greenhouse gases. As chapter leader for Oregon WAND, she enjoys finding innovative ways to combine her skills as an activist, counselor, and seamstress to depict the distorted priorities of the federal budget. Darrell Ann Gane-McCalla is an artist committed to radical social change. She promotes visual art as a vital element in the struggle for human rights,

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About the Contributors

and in the creation of new ways of living. Her own practice is primarily sculpture, illustration, and mixed media. Her community collaborations are mainly murals, mosaics, and workshops. She has directed murals across Boston and assisted with Philadelphia’s Mural Arts Program and New York City’s El Puente Academy for Peace and Justice, and Groundswell Community Mural Project. Gane-McCalla has exhibited widely, including at The Piano Factory, Bunker Hill Community College, Boston Center for the Arts, and Riverside Gallery. She has received grants from the Chahara Foundation, Puffin Foundation, Massachusetts Cultural Council, and Boston Arts Commission. Her artwork has been published on the covers of When the Prisoners Ran Walpole: A True Story in the Movement for Prison Abolition and Home Girls Make Some Noise! A Hip Hop Feminist Anthology. She holds a liberal arts degree from Sarah Lawrence College and a Master of Art in Teaching from Massachusetts College of Art and Design. Christina Holmes is an Associate Professor and Director of the Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Program and the Latin American and Caribbean Studies Program at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. She is also an affiliate in the Environmental Fellows Honors Program and regularly contributes courses to the university’s environmental studies curriculum. Her first book, Ecological Borderlands: Body, Nature, and Spirit in Chicana Feminism, examined how environmental themes and ecological consciousness emerge in the activism as well as visual and narrative cultural production of Mexican American and Chicana feminists. Her current research focuses on intersectional ecopedagogies and ecofeminist analysis of environmental movements in higher education. Linh U. Hua, PhD, fled Vietnam on a fishing boat at an early age with her parents, siblings, and grandmother. She spent time in a Malaysian refugee camp before settling in Southern California, where she attended primary school. She earned her PhD in English at the University of California, Irvine, specializing in nineteenth- and twentieth-century African American and Asian American literary and cultural history, critical theory, and feminist theory. In 2012, she received the Joe Weixlmann Prize for her writing on Black feminist sentimentality in African American Review. She has work appearing on The Feminist Wire (2013), in Teaching and Emotion (JosseyBass 2018), and in Conditions of the Present (Duke University Press 2018). Her recent work on citation and sentimentality will appear in Feminist Collaborations. Dr. Hua teaches Rhetorical Arts at Loyola Marymount University, where she heads the Citation Initiative, now in its third year, for which she has been awarded a 2020–2021 LMU Inclusive Excellence Grant.

About the Contributors

259

Aurora Levins Morales was born in 1954 to a Harlem Puerto Rican mother and a Brooklyn Ashkenazi Jewish father and raised in a house full of books in the rainforested mountains of western Puerto Rico. Her father was a pioneering Marxist ecologist, her mother was a wildly curious feminist artist and intellectual, both of them deeply engaged in the work of social justice. Levins Morales began writing as a young child and read voraciously. She grew up at the confluences of art and science, nature, and politics. When she was 13 the family moved to Chicago, where writing helped her survive ecological and cultural shock. She was fortunate to arrive just as the women’s movement was erupting and became the youngest member of the Chicago Women’s Liberation Union. Levins Morales contributed to the groundbreaking anthology This Bridge Called My Back (1981), and she co-authored Getting Home Alive (1986) with her mother. Her writing has always arisen out of the collective claiming of voice; it embraces complexity, straddles genres, and spans the intimately personal and the global. Levins Morales’ most recent books are Medicine Stories: Essays for Radicals and Silt: Prose Poems. She blogs at www.patreon.com/auroralevinsmorales. Stephanie Morningstar, of the Oneida Nation, is an herbalist, soil and seed steward, scholar, student, and Earth Worker dedicated to decolonizing and liberating minds, hearts, and land—one plant, person, ecosystem, and nonhuman being at a time. Morningstar is the Executive Director and Resources, Relationships, and Reciprocity Co-Director of the Northeast Farmers of Color Land Trust, which is dedicated to advancing land sovereignty in the northeast region through permanent and secure land tenure for Indigenous, Black, Latinx, and Asian farmers and land stewards. Morningstar grows medicines and food for her community at Sky World Apothecary & Farm and teaches QTBIPOC about the wonders of plant medicine at Seed, Soil + Spirit School. She has over a decade of community-driven systems change work in the healthcare, legal, and academic research spaces where she cut her teeth on speaking Truth to Power. Her work advancing sovereignty in these systems with and for Indigenous communities has resulted in mandating Indigenous Cultural Safety trainings to service providers, Indigenous Dispute Transformation frameworks, and meaningful and ethical Indigenous-driven research in climate change. Margo Okazawa-Rey, Professor Emerita San Francisco State University, is an activist and educator working on issues of militarism, armed conflict, and violence against women examined intersectionally. She has long-standing activist commitments in South Korea and Palestine, working closely with Du Re Bang/My Sisters Place and Women’s Centre for Legal Aid and Counseling, respectively. She is a founding member of the Combahee River Collective. Most recently, she was the Barbara Lee Distinguished Chair in Wom-

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About the Contributors

en’s Leadership and Visiting Professor of Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies and Public Policy at Mills College. She serves on the International Advisory Board of Du Re Bang (Uijongbu, South Korea), the International Board of PeaceWomen Across the Globe (Bern, Switzerland), and Board of Directors of AWID. Recent publications include “‘Nation-izing’ Coalition and Solidarity Politics for US Anti-militarist Feminists,” Social Justice (2020); Gendered Lives: Intersectional Perspectives (2020); “No Freedom without Connections: Envisioning Sustainable Feminist Solidarities” in Feminist Freedom Warriors, edited by Chandra Talpade Mohanty and Linda Carty (2018); and Between a Rock and Hard Place: Southeast Asian Women Confront Extractivism, Militarism, and Religious Fundamentalisms (2018). Frances Roberts-Gregory is a Black feminist political ecologist and ecowomanist ethnographer in Society & Environment at the University of California, Berkeley. Her research explores how Gulf Coast women of color navigate contradictory relationships with energy and petrochemical industries, resist environmental racism, and advocate for environmental and climate justice. She formerly taught courses on environmental racism, climate justice, gender, and digital media at Tulane University and Bard Early College New Orleans. She is also the former project manager for the Gulf Equity Water Corps Project for the Deep South Center for Environmental Justice and resource developer for the C40 and City of New Orleans Women4Climate Mentorship Program. Frances recently started a Future Faculty Fellowship at Northeastern University and will soon join the steering committee for the Feminist Agenda for a Green New Deal Coalition. In the fall of 2021, she will start a tenure track position as Assistant Professor of Anthropology and co-director of the Spelman College Food Studies Program. In her free time, Frances enjoys gardening, vegan cooking, salsa dancing, roller skating, and cuddling with her cat Raymond Grapes.