Bill Odle, 70, stands on his property, less than 400 feet from the Arizona-Mexico border. Photo by Rachel Morgan

Conchise County, Ariz — Bill Odle lives 385 feet from the border wall that separates Arizona and Mexico — so close he can see it from his straw-bale house.

And he’s seen firsthand the environmental degradation the 670-mile fence has inflicted on the surrounding area.

The $3.7 billion fence was intended to serve as a solid barrier between Arizona and Mexico to prevent illegal immigrants and drugs from passing over the border. What it has done instead is fragment an already stretched environment and prevent animals from accessing large portions of their habitats, which is pushing some toward extinction. It has even caused flooding in border areas.

“It’s just so enraging to have this put up, and it’s only harmful,” Odle said.

Odle’s 50-acre plot is located along the border in Cochise County, Ariz. He moved to the area in 2000, so he’s seen the area before, during and after construction of the wall, which went up in his area about two and a half years ago.

“When this first went up, I’d drive along and deer would be ahead of you; and they’d go a ways and try and go south, and they couldn’t cross,” he said. “I followed them a mile or so, and they eventually just went north.”

While Odle is not a rancher, he is very much an outdoors man — his eco-friendly straw-bale house and solar energy use can attest to that. A former Marine and Vietnam veteran, he wears a denim shirt, khaki shorts and a stained white hat. He drives a massive white truck with a National Rifle Association sticker affixed to the back window. Odle also cares deeply about the local wildlife.

“We’d see rabbits — rabbits can’t get through. Or roadrunners,” he said. “Well, who cares about rabbits and roadrunners? Well, I do. And it really pisses me off that this thing affects those critters the way it does. It’s really tragic.”

Bill Odle, who lives next to the border wall, says he's seen first-hand its negative environmental impact. Photo by Rachel Morgan

About a mile from Odle’s property, the wall abruptly ends over the San Padro River. There, the only barriers are sparse, steel beams low to the ground. If they can fly under the radar of the Border Patrol, who regularly patrols this area, it seems almost effortless for humans to cross here.

Animals don’t have it so easy.

They don’t have critical thinking and reasoning skills like people do, Odle said. “The animals aren’t like, ‘The word’s out; we can cross here.’ It doesn’t work like that.”

Odle isn’t the only one who sees the wall as a serious environmental hazard.

Environmentalists warn of habitat fragmentation, habitat destruction and hydrological issues.

“We’re talking about a solid barrier that’s chopping ecosystems in two,” said Dan Millis of the Sierra Club’s Rincon Group. “Migration corridors are being blocked, and that can have a huge impact, not only to (animals’) access to food and water, but to their genetic variability and basically the strength of the whole species.”

Randy Serraglio of the Center for Biological Diversity points out that habitat destruction is more extensive than most people realize.

“There’s a lot of other land that’s disturbed along with the border wall than this tiny little strip of land that everyone thinks is so innocuous,” he said. “(The Border Patrol) still has to drive will-nilly all over the desert to apprehend these people. … The operation support activities do more damage than the wall itself.”

In 2005, The REAL ID Act allowed for the waiver of 36 environmental laws  so the wall could be built, laws that conserved migration patterns, maintained clean air and water, and protected endangered species.

Now, species such as the mountain lion and the endangered ocelots and jaguarundi are feeling the effects of the fence, Millis said. Other environmentalists name the jaguar, the long-nosed bat, the masked bobwhite quail and the Sonoran pronghorn as species that have suffered.

Serraglio warns some species will go extinct if the problem is not remedied.

“Any further construction of the wall, and we can pretty much say goodbye to jaguars in the United States,” he said.

Flooding is another issue. Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, in the Sonoran Desert area, and the cities of Nogales, Ariz., and Nogales, Mexico, experienced flooding that some environmentalists attribute to the wall.

“You had six feet of water on the Mexican side of the wall, and only a foot or two on the U.S. side, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the wall is playing a part in the hydrological disaster,” Millis said.

The flooding in Nogales caused the death of two people in 2008. Today, in Nogales, Mexico, the ironic words, ‘Walls are scars on the earth,’ are scrawled across the metal wall in white spray paint.

It’s easy to see how the wall can cause flooding. Near Odle’s land, debris of grass, vegetation, clothing, shoes and discarded water bottles form somewhat of a dam on the Mexican side of the fence.

Debris can easily accumulate against the border wall, as it does near Bill Odle's home. Photo by Rachel Morgan

“The fact (is) that it affects the wildlife, the environment,” Odle said. “You can see the flooding that occurs down here — that’s another aspect of it. But it doesn’t stop people.”

The Department of Homeland Security sees it differently.

“I think there’s a misconception that the border fence is supposed to be a solution to any and all border problems,” said Colleen Agle, public information officer for the Tucson Sector of DHS. “It’s not the solution by itself. We see that as part of a solution that consists of our infrastructure, agents and technology.”

Opponents have referred to the fence as a multibillion-dollar “speed bump” that doesn’t really keep illegal immigrants from crossing; they said it only slows them down.

“That’s not my terminology, but that might be fair to say,” Agle said. “It allows our agents time to respond to an area so we can make the proper law enforcement response to whatever type of border incursion it is.”

Agle maintains that the border fence does, in fact, deter potential illegal immigrants.

“When our agents go in to make an apprehension, a lot of people realize they are going to be apprehended, and (they) run back across (the border),” she said. “If they’re going to have a challenge to get into the United States, our agents can respond. Also, if they’re going to have a challenge getting back into Mexico, there’s basically a certainty of arrest. If an individual knows there’s going to be a certainty of arrest, there’s a deterrent.”

DHS wouldn’t comment on the environmental effects of the wall.

Despite the Border Patrol’s arguments, local residents and environmentalists are not convinced the wall really does anything to deter illegal immigration and drug traffic.

“The nature of this wall is a knee-jerk political reaction to this anti-immigration hysteria that has swept the country since Sept. 11 and has intensified more recently,” Millis said. “What it is not is a solution to any of the problems it claims to address.”

Odle agrees.

“It doesn’t stop people,” he said. “So why was it put up? Well, it was put up because some lard butt up in Dubuque, Iowa, was sitting on his overstuffed chair, eating his supersaturated fats, watching his wide-screen TV and says, ‘Oh yeah, that’ll stop them.’ It would stop his fat ass, but it doesn’t stop some 20-year-old who wants to come up here, wants to work and is hungry.”

Even Odle’s dog Jake has wandered onto the Mexican side at various times. Once, he was gone for three months until a woman in Mexico called him and let him know. So Odle had to get his dog’s registration papers, then go get him and bring him back.

Millis points out the hefty price tag of the wall in relation to its overall effectiveness.

“Now (DHS is) saying what it really is is a speed bump,” Millis said. “It slows people down for five minutes or so, and then we have more time to respond. And that’s just ridiculous. How many billions of dollars do we have to spend on a five-minute speed bump?”

The wall, which isn’t finished and spans only 670 miles across the nearly 2,000-mile border between the U.S. and Mexico, already has a price tag of $3.7 billion.

As far as a solution to the rash of environmental issues that have arisen, some say baseline data research and funds allocated to mitigate existing damage could be the answer.

An ongoing protocol developed by researchers from the University of Arizona and U.S. Geological Survey will monitor the environmental effects of the wall. The protocol will study its environmental effects, including effects on wildlife and vegetation, hydrology, erosion, species migration and movement, and the isolation of species on both sides of the border.

“The problem is, we don’t have the baseline data on a lot of these species and how they use the border region,” Serraglio said. “So it’s really hard to tell scientifically what exactly the border wall is doing to them.”

Ideally, protocol would remedy this issue, deciding what areas along the border fence should receive funds to counteract the environmental effects of the wall. It is currently under review by DHS, said Laura-Lopez Hoffman, one of the UA researchers working on the project.

Money allotted to mitigate the environmental degradation is another point of contention. Currently the DHS and the Department of the Interior are embroiled in a bitter struggle over $90 million appropriated to repair environmental damage inflicted by the wall.

“It’s a little complex, with Homeland Security refusing to hand the money over to Department of the Interior, because they are worried about an obscure provision of the 1930 Economy Act,” Millis said. “There was supposed to be about $50 million per year dedicated to this effort, but it has been held up for two years now, and the wall continues to be an unmitigated environmental disaster.”

The post The Border Project: Border wall harms environment, some say appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

In Nogales, Mexico, the border wall is decorated with art and spray painted messages. This says, 'Walls are scars on the earth.' Photo by Rachel Morgan

Nogales, Mexico — Jose Estrada* was deported to Mexico five days ago. In three days, he plans to cross the border again.

“When they pick(ed) me up, they asked me, ‘Why you keep trying to cross?’ ” he said of the Border Patrol agents who caught him. “And I tell them, ‘I’m hungry; I’m hungry.’ ”

But Estrada hasn’t always been hungry. Prior to his deportation, he lived in the United States for nearly 20 years.

Although he wasn’t a legal citizen, Estrada had a house, a truck and several jobs. He worked in Kansas on a cattle farm, and most recently in Phoenix, where he made $12.50 an hour working in the fields, laying concrete and landscaping.

Six months ago, Estrada was driving his truck in Phoenix when he was stopped by a police officer.

“This is the problem that (every) Mexican has,” he said. “I don’t know why they stop Mexicans for the brown skin. Why? I don’t understand.”

Estrada is a small man. He wears jeans, a T-shirt, and carries a jacket and plastic bag. On his head sits a baseball cap with one word: “Arizona.” Estrada wears it proudly, like a badge of honor.

He has a playful demeanor and often laughs, flashing his silver-capped teeth.

After they are picked up at the border trying to illegally cross into the United States, many immigrants are brought back to Nogales, Mexico, where they take buses home or attempt to cross again. Photo by Rachel Morgan

Now, he sits in a bus terminal in Mexico. About 50 others, mostly young men, sit on a large, shaded slab of concrete in old rows of upholstered seats that were ripped from buses. They all carry jackets — practical garb for those who attempt to navigate the harsh desert and cross the border under the cover of night.

None of these men have been successful in their journeys. They have all been deported and are awaiting buses that will take them back to their hometowns in Mexico.

Aid workers say they often see the same people again and again at the bus terminal after failed attempts to cross the border.

“I always say, ‘It’s nice to know you’re safe, but not under these circumstances,’ ” said Hannah Hafter, a volunteer for No More Deaths, an aid organization for illegal immigrants.

Many deported immigrants will return to their hometowns via this terminal. Estrada, however, doesn’t plan to go back. He needs to get back into the U.S. to support his family.

Estrada is separated from his wife and has five children — four daughters and a son. Along with his parents, they live in Sinaloa, Mexico, in the northwest part of the country.

“I need to make money because (my children) are in school, and I need to make money to pay for their computers,” he said. “I need to make money for my kids, my mother, father — to pay for birthday parties, Christmas, piñatas.”

Estrada’s strategy for crossing the border is rather unique: He rides a bicycle in the pitch black desert night, darting off the side of the road when he sees headlights.

“It’s so dark, and I wear dark clothes so they no see me,” he said. He declines to name which roads he frequents, so the Border Patrol doesn’t “look out” for him.

He said he’s tried to get papers to cross back into the country legally.

“I need papers, but they won’t give me papers,” he said.

But with his track record of being caught crossing the border illegally, obtaining legal papers may be difficult.

While Estrada is unsure of a solution for his problem, he does have a backup plan.

“I need to find an American girl to marry me on the other side,” he said with a mischievous grin.

*Names have been changed.

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Grissom has played cello at private parties, nursing homes and hospitals, and for Mayor Michael Bloomberg. He was even an opening act for David Bowie.
But he prefers the audience at Pennsylvania Station.

“The thing about playing in the subway is you have to figure out how to connect with your audience,” said Grissom, 48, a full-time musician who lives on the Upper West Side. “I love the fact that I get to create the stage. The potential is there; I just have to find it.”

While subway musicians view themselves as playing outside the box, they have a hierarchy all their own. Musicians such as Grissom, who are members of Music Under New York, an organized group of subway musicians formed in 1985, represent the top of the pile — both literally and figuratively — as they play on the coveted mezzanine, high above the tracks and trains. Other musicians who are not registered with MUNY represent the middle of the group, playing on the platform and competing with the roar of passing trains and hoping a passerby will stop and listen for a few seconds before boarding a train. And those who represent the bottom of the totem pole are the musicians who play on the trains as they travel from station to station, keeping an eye out for police officers and hoping they escape a ticket should they get caught.

Up on the mezzanine, Grissom plays the Cajun cello, a new twist on an old classic. The Cajun cello has a bit of Southern twang with a Cajun influence, a mixture of his Texas and Louisiana roots, he said. It sounds similar to fiddle tunes on the violin.

“I learned how to play fiddle tunes on a cello in Texas,” he said. An upside down navy blue Yankee cap laid on the station floor as he played, an assortment of bills and coins placed inside.

Grissom declines to say just how much he makes in one day of playing in the subway, but he does say he supports his wife Fran, a stay-at-home mom, and his daughter Jane, an undergraduate student at New York University, solely with his music — playing at private gigs, parties and in the subway.

“In many ways, the money is decent, but it’s not why you do it,” he said. “But the money, it makes a difference. I have a family to support.”

The payoffs often come in other ways, making connections and playing private parties or events, selling CDs or simply getting his name out there, Grissom said.

But subway musician isn’t his only identity. He teaches a rock string music course at Beacon Heights one day a week, instructs improvisation seminars to classical musicians and teaches seminars for teachers on how to make classical music more accessible to students.

To some, it may seem odd that a man who received his master’s degree from Hunter College and studied at Juilliard and the Pratt Institute plays music underground.

“People perceive street performers as a low-level profession,” he said. “People will say, ‘Why aren’t you in an orchestra?’ They equate success with being in an orchestra. And I say, ‘Do I look like an orchestra guy?’ ”

He admits he’s a bit of a free spirit. He wears his curly blonde hair in a long ponytail, wears round wire-rimmed glasses and a gold hoop in his left earlobe. He doesn’t have a cell phone or e-mail account and is hesitant to use the Internet.

When Grissom plays, he dresses the part in a multicolored polka dot shirt, blue-and-white Oxford-style shoes and a silver bow tie. A stack of rubber bracelets circles his left wrist. Even his homemade cello is dressed for the occasion, a miniature Santa hat sitting jauntily at the top of its neck.

While some may not associate being a subway musician to being successful, to Grissom it is just that.

“Success is doing what I want to do when I want to do it,” he said. “Playing in the subway is great because when you want to try out something new, you get immediate feedback from the audience. You can’t do that in an orchestra.”

But he still jokes about performing in a bottom-of-the-totem-pole venue.

“It’s like Reagan’s trickle down theory. I’m not even gutter trash,” he said, pointing upward to the street level. “I’m lower than gutter trash.”

But Grissom doesn’t just play in the subway, hoping for donations. He has nine CDs on sale for $15 each when he performs. He keeps a trove of business cards on hand in hopes of landing freelance gigs, and he averages about 250 performances annually, he said.

Grissom started performing in subway stations in 1983 and is one of the charter members of MUNY. Currently, MUNY has about 100 musicians who perform in 25 locations throughout the subway system.

“The goal of the program is to encourage the use of our transit system and improve the mass-transit environment,” said Lydia Bradshaw, manager of the Arts for Transit Project and Music Under New York. “If you’re traveling through a station on your daily commute and come across a musical performer, it can be uplifting, can be a cultural experience. It can uplift your day, your mood, can be something new to you — a new kind of musical experience.”

But Grissom admits capturing the attention of an audience of commuters isn’t always easy.

“Basically, you’re dealing with a non-captive audience,” he said. “They’re not here for me. They’re here to get from Point A to Point B. I have maybe 20 to 25 seconds to catch their attention.”

MUNY subway musicians such as Grissom are identifiable by the Music Under New York banners displayed nearby when they are performing. To become a member of the group, musicians must audition for a panel of judges comprising MTA officials, professional musicians and other MUNY members. The program also organizes annual scheduled music performances and has a registry of musicians on its Web site.

“When the public sees a performer and weren’t able to jot down their number, they can call us and we can hook them up in case they want to hire them,” Bradshaw said.

While being registered with MUNY has its benefits, not all subway musicians buy into the idea, including Gio Andollo, 25, who calls himself a devout Christian and works as a music instructor at I.S. 230 in Queens.

“There’s something in my spirit that is really opposed to it,” said Andollo, who plays on the platform of the Delaney and Essex station on the Lower East Side. “I don’t feel like I should have to ask permission to express myself and enrich the lives of other people around me. It just seems like a way to marginalize people who maybe aren’t doing things the conventional way.”

A soft-spoken man with a slight build, Andollo plays an eclectic mix of folk music and punk on the platform. He plays the acoustic guitar and harmonica, and provides vocals for each song.

Andollo moved to New York City from Orlando, Fla., three months ago to join a flagship branch of the Orlando-based church Trinity Grace.

“People tend to have an understanding that religion (plays) a fundamental sort of role to you,” he said. “That’s not my lifestyle. In terms of rituals, I think of lot of those in Christianity are valuable, but a lot of them aren’t.”

Before he found himself playing music under the city streets, Andollo worked for AmeriCorps, a non-profit volunteer based agency, tutoring at a Florida high school. It was during this time he decided he wanted to become a street performer.

He cites his musical influences as Bob Dylan, punk group Against Me! and The Beatles. While The Beatles’ song “All You Need is Love” is his motto for life, Andollo’s folksy style is more reminiscent of Dylan.

“(Performing) makes me want to create a spirit of peace in our city,” Andollo said. “So I go out and sing about love and peace.”

As a new subway musician, the most he’s made is $7 over several hours. He’s having trouble making rent and paying bills at his Harlem apartment, he said.

“I am having a very difficult time surviving,” he said. “I can’t pay my rent with what I make here.” Andollo often finds himself competing with other musicians and street evangelists. He’s even had some negative reactions from passersby.

“I don’t know why,” he said. “I think they probably see it as an intrusion on what they’re doing, which I guess is just walking by.”

But in true street performer fashion, he keeps playing.

For Angel Cruz, 32, playing in the subway is simply a stop on the train to a better life. While Cruz, of Buskwick, Brooklyn, represents the bottom of the hierarchy of subway musicians, he actually prefers to play on the trains because it’s a more captive audience, he said.

Cruz is the father of seven and has another child on the way. He plays the harmonica on the trains across the city, performing lively Christmas carols and holding a white Styrofoam cup for donations.

“I like playing on the train, cheering people up and playing my harmonica,” Cruz said.

He hopes to one day earn his GED and get an associate’s degree from ASA College in Brooklyn.

“I was thinking of channeling my (energy), getting my degree, focusing on something else,” he said.

Ten years ago, Cruz saw a $7 harmonica for sale in a convenience store and bought it on a whim.

“It’s a portable instrument,” he said. “When I came across it, it was sparkling like a diamond in the sky, so I picked it up.” Cruz then taught himself to play with no lessons or previous musical experience.

“I’ve been told that I’m talented and play really well,” he said. His profits agree — he said he’s made up to $350 in just a few hours.

Performing and soliciting music on the train is actually illegal, according to MUNY standards. But that doesn’t stop Cruz, who isn’t a member of the organization.

“I’ve never gotten ticketed or anything,” he said of his interaction with the New York Police Department. “I have been stopped. (The police) weren’t rude or abusive or anything. They just said it’s not legal to (play on the train), and I could get a ticket. They checked my ID to see if I had any warrants, patted me down.”

The NYPD deputy commissioner of public information declined to comment on their policy when dealing with subway musicians.

Despite police intervention, Cruz continues playing on the trains, weaving in and out of passengers, his fingers moving like lighting across the harmonica, his cheeks puffing in and out rhythmically.

Cruz has always been an entrepreneur. Not only does he support his entire family through subway performing, but he also bought a shaved ice truck and sells shaved ice to kids in Brooklyn.

“I’ve always been trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents,” he said, pressing the harmonica to his lips as he resumed playing.

The post Subway musicians embrace unconventional performance appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

But Leonard had no way of knowing that these rocks would poison his family.

Leonard Nez

“I never knew the risk I put myself in by working for the uranium,” he said in his native Navajo language, as translated by his daughter Seraphina. “I know I returned home to my family contaminated with the uranium dust. I know I brought it home to my children. There were times I brought home rocks that were uranium, and I would put it on my windowsill for my kids to see the work I was doing. But I was unaware of the risk.“

Since then, Leonard and his wife Helen have lost seven of their 11 children — all before they reached the age of 36.

Six died from Navajo Neuropathy, a rare disease caused by exposure to radiation that primarily affects Navajo children. The disease attacks the peripheral nervous system. Symptoms include the shriveling of hands and feet, muscular weakness, stunted growth, infection and corneal ulcers. Forty percent of children affected die before they reach their 20s. The seventh child died from a miscarriage.

Many Navajo children were afflicted with the disease as a result of exposure to high levels of uranium in the air and water in and around their own homes.

From the 1940s to the 1980s, nearly 4 million tons of uranium ore was mined from Navajo land as part of the United States’ effort to develop a nuclear bomb during the Cold War.

When the miners left, uranium tailings and contaminated water and air were left behind on tribal land. Like the Nezes, many Navajos were unaware of the health risks caused by exposure.

Helen, 71, and Leonard, 74, lost their first child in 1968.

“(Dorenta) never walked; she had unusual puffiness in her face, her cheeks,” Helen said through her daughter Seraphina. “And she was very thin in her extremities. Her abdominal area — her stomach — had enlarged.”

Dorenta was just 3 years old when she died.

John was born in 1967 and died in 1970; Claudia was born in 1970 and died 1972; Euphemia was born in 1975 and died in 1978.

Years later, Cedar died at the age of 36, followed by Theresa, who died at the age of 26 in 1996.

All died of Navajo Neuropathy.

“All of the symptoms were identical,” Helen said. “Today, I still agonize and think about the past. To have six children die of the same symptoms and not know what it is. … One doctor in Albuquerque said, ‘Well, if you live in some sort of contaminated area, that might be the cause.’ ”

The Nezes’ home still sits half a mile from the mouth of the abandoned uranium mine.

And the Navajo government officials say the issue is not theirs to resolve.

“This is a federal government issue,” said Patrick Sandoval, chief of staff at the office of the Navajo president and vice president. “People can always do more in every effort. The federal government should have left uranium alone. It shouldn’t have been bothered. The Navajo people didn’t know what was happening when (the miners) came in. For our part, a bigger effort could be done, but we are doing the best we can with what we have.”

Gary Garrison, public officer at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, said the BIA is not responsible either.

“The Bureau of Indian Affairs is not involved with providing outreach to the communities on this particular issue, funds for cleanup, or health care to residents of the Navajo Nation,” he said. “Those areas are being handled by other tribal and federal agencies responsible for carrying out those actions.”

As for federal government efforts, programs to clean up the contaminated areas are in place.

The Environmental Protection Agency began working to solve the problem of contaminated homes in Navajo Nation in 1994 with the Superfund program, which has provided $13 million to assess contaminated areas and develop a plan of action. In 2007, the Superfund Program finished a comprehensive atlas of each contaminated site and the level of contamination.

Since then, four yards and one home in Church Rock have been cleaned up at a cost of $2 million, paid for by the U.S. government.

In 2007, the EPA initiated the Five-Year Plan in conjunction with the BIA, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, Indian Health Services and the Department of Energy. These groups also worked closely with the Navajo EPA.

The Five-Year Plan lays out a procedure to assess the severity of the contamination and a plan of action to address it. It was the first coordinated effort of federal and local groups to deal with the problem. One of the first initiatives was to require the owner of the Church Rock mine to conduct a cleanup.

Regardless, these programs came too late for the Nezes.

Helen remembers the uranium mining all too well.

“I do recall the blasting,” she said. “I recall the dust filling my dishes. We didn’t have laundry close by. Sometimes I washed my children’s clothes with (my husband’s) contaminated clothes.”

When their children first became sick, Helen and Leonard visited doctor after doctor, searching for answers.

Instead, they were faced with accusations from local doctors.

“The indication was, ‘Is there incest?’ ” Helen said. “ ‘Is your husband related to you? Is he your brother, your uncle? Is that the reason your children have these symptoms?’ They never apologize, only the speculation of incest.”

Further complicating matters, Leonard’s involvement with the mine was off the books. Miners were paid in goods and food for their families. They never received either paychecks or cash for their work. Now, there is no record whatsoever of Leonard’s time in the uranium mines.

“Working for the uranium, I was only given a piece of white slip, a piece of paper, to take to the local store to purchase food and other things,” Leonard said.

With no record of his work history, there is little hope for the Nezes to gain compensation for the loss of their children.

“My heart is broken and I blame the government,” Leonard said. “I think back now, if I didn’t expose my children to the uranium, I could have had a big family. Now I am surviving only four children. This is my biggest regret, to work for the uranium.”

Chris Nez, 44, is one of Leonard’s surviving children.

He is angered at the way the Navajo Nation is treated by the federal government.

“This has been going on for quite some time,” he said. “One thing that really bothers me is we say ‘our land,’ but technically it’s not our land, this so-called Navajo Reservation. We do not own anything on it at all. Not even the land. All we got is probably three inches of topsoil. If there’s any oil, if there’s any kind of water, it belongs to the government. And yet, they contaminated the whole area. And now they’re just playing hush-hush.”

The legacy of Navajo Neuropathy spans generations in the Nez family. Helen’s great-grandson died in June of the same disease that claimed six of his aunts and uncles.

Even 17-year-old Floyd James Baldwin, Helen and Leonard’s grandson, sees what uranium has done to his family and to Navajo tribal lands.

“Well, growing up, I saw some pretty weird things,” he said. “When I was a child … getting my diaper changed next to my uncle — my own uncle, who’s a full-grown man. And I was just a little kid. I didn’t know it was wrong or anything. But as I grew up, I noticed that’s not normal. That doesn’t happen.” Loss of kidney function is another side effect of Navajo Neuropathy.

Floyd worries about the same thing happening to him. Still, he can’t imagine leaving the reservation.

“I think about (the effects of uranium on me) every time I drink anything,” he said. “(But) this is where my family’s at, and we’ve always been here. I can’t just leave this place.”

The post The Forgotten Navajo: A family’s pain appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Teddy Nez's home was near a uranium mine.

CHURCH ROCK, New Mexico — Teddy Nez’s home sits 500 feet from the mouth of abandoned uranium mine.

Since 1982, Nez and his family have been breathing in uranium particles and drinking uranium-contaminated water. They didn’t know the land that surrounded their home in Church Rock, N.M. – located on the 27,000 square-mile Navajo Reservation – was slowly killing them.

“We just assumed this was the way people lived,” Nez, 65, said. “But we came to find out the human risk factor.”

Nez has colon cancer, which he believes was caused by uranium contamination. From roughly the 1940s to the 1980s, the federal government contracted private mining companies to blast uranium ore out of the rocky terrain of Navajo Nation for the development of nuclear weapons during the Cold War as part of the top-secret Manhattan Project.

During that time, nearly 4 million tons of the radioactive ore were mined from the area.

Decades later, the deadly health risks of uranium mining are starting to materialize. Workers who mined the rock are being diagnosed with cancer, respiratory problems, liver disease and more.

Perhaps most troubling is the effect on young children, who are prone to developing Navajo Neuropathy, a rare degenerative disease of the peripheral nervous system caused by breathing in uranium particles in the air and drinking water contaminated by the deadly metal. Symptoms include the shriveling of hands and feet, muscular weakness, corneal ulcers, delayed walking, infections and stunted growth.

The disease is primarily diagnosed in children in their first year of life – and 40 percent of these children die before they reach their 20s. There is no cure.

Nez said his symptoms began with an itchy rash in 1995. The rash turned into open sores that wouldn’t go away.

“I went to the doctor; he said it was just a rash and gave me ointment,” he said. “I use the ointment, but when it’s gone, the rash is still there.”

Nez soon realized he wasn’t the only one suffering from this rash. His neighbors had similar symptoms.

“We ask (the doctors), how do we treat it? And there’s no answer,” he said.

Nez was diagnosed with diabetes, then colon cancer in 2002. Both are said to be caused by exposure to high levels of radiation.

“At the beginning, I was afraid, scared,” Nez said of his cancer diagnosis. Today, he says a Navajo healing ceremony cured his colon cancer.

“I feel I am 100 percent cured,” he said. “Doctors tell me I still have cancer because I have not been treated by Western medicine.”

The L.A. Times reported in 2006 that cancer rates among the Navajos, once thought to be immune to cancer, doubled from the late 1970s to the early 1990s.

According to the EPA, there are four primary ways the public can be exposed to the dangers of these radioactive materials: using uranium-contaminated rock as construction material, drinking uranium-contaminated water, breathing in uranium particles and being in the vicinity of the gamma radiation found in uranium.

Uranium mill tailings, leftover material from mining, are a radioactive, sand-like material that pose a variety of risks to anyone working or living in the vicinity of the mines, the EPA said.

Although Nez never worked as a uranium miner, years of living so close to the mines put him at serious risk of exposure and contamination.

The mine in Church Rock near Nez’s home is the biggest of the nearly 500 mines in Navajo Nation, said Lillie Lane, senior public information officer for the Navajo EPA.

The area around the Nez home was tested for radiation — and it was found to have 120 times the national amount of acceptable radiation.

“We lived with it since 1982,” Nez said. “I thought it was just a regular way of living.”

Teddy Nez's home.

Nez said his children and grandchildren played in the land around his home, land that is teeming with deadly radiation.

While medical experts guess that approximately half the Navajo population has suffered some sort of health problem as a result of uranium exposure, specific percentages of those who are sick and what ails them are not easily determined. Most Navajos do not have access to health care, and even those who do rarely seek treatment.

In 2007, as part of the government’s five-year plan to clean up uranium-contaminated homes, Nez and his family were relocated to an apartment in nearby Gallup, N.M., so that the Church Rock mining site could be cleaned up.

Today at the site, bulldozers haul loads of uranium-contaminated dirt, and a single worker washes the area with water from a fire hose.

Nez and his family plan to move back into their home Dec. 23.

Nez has since joined the uranium activist movement and is now the president of the Red Water Pond Road Community, working to educate his fellow Navajos about the dangers of uranium contamination.

And he is angry.

“Some of my brothers say that the Indians are expendable,” Nez said. “(The government) can just use us as guinea pigs for anything they come up with. We need to be listened to.”

Anna Rondon, a local uranium activist, wants medical treatment and uncontaminated living quarters for the Navajo people.

According to Rondon, Southwest Research was monitoring the uranium problem in Navajo Country as early at 1971. At the time, Indian Health Services said the radon levels were too low to pose a health risk, she said.

“I just didn’t believe it,” Rondon said. “This is why I sought out other experts who had experience working with radiation.”

According to Lane, the issue gained national attention with the Waxman Congressional Hearings in 2007, led by Rep. Henry Waxman (D-Calif., 30th District). The hearings, which examined the negative health and environmental effects of uranium mining on the reservation, shed light on the plight of the Navajo people for the first time.

Now, the Navajo EPA, the national EPA, the Abandoned Mines Land Program and the United States Army Corps are collaborating to tackle the enormous task of cleaning up the radioactive waste, Lane said.

In the 1980s, the group mapped out the areas with the highest contamination. They are working on cleaning up those areas first, Lane said. Over the years, various governmental agencies have worked to tear down and rebuild homes built with radioactive rock. However, these efforts have never been a centralized effort – a reoccurring problem in the cleanup process.

Lane said that mapping and data collection are a necessary part of the process, which takes time.

“We got a handle on what’s out there,” Lane said. “It takes a lot of money to clean up water, and it’s going to take a lot of money to clean up the old mines.”

It’s only in the last two years that any serious cleanup has gotten underway.

“The problem with uranium mines and mining is that it involves a lot of communities,” Lane said. The wide scope of the problem has slowed down the process, she said.

But 40 years is a long time to wait.

“They knew (the danger),” Nez said of the federal government. “All they were interested in was money. It’s like what’s been happening to the native people since 1492. We have just been pushed aside.”

While Rondon agrees that some progress is being made, she says it has stalled over the years.

“(Rebuilding) is going on,” Rondon said. “But not as much as it should. They’re always making the excuse that they don’t have the funds. But it’s been almost 40 years of waiting.”

But Lane said the Navajo EPA is doing what it can with the resources available.

“I think the (Navajo) EPA is doing as much as they can given the funding they’re given,” she said. “I think the government does not realize how big the problem is … because we’re so remote and our nation is so big.”

Rondon adds that “institutionalized racism” is a major barrier to the cleanup and relocation of Navajos away from contaminated land.

“Public policies either work in your favor or work against you, depending on the color of your skin,” she said.

Perhaps the most concrete example of “institutionalized racism” was in 1979 when there was a massive uranium spill in Church Rock, Ariz., on Navajo land – the largest peacetime release of radiation in history. A dam holding back thousands of gallons of uranium-contaminated water burst, and 94 million gallons of radioactive water was released into the Rio Puerco. This massive spill occurred the same year as the Three Mile Island accident in Pennsylvania, which was cleaned up almost immediately. But 40 years later, the Navajos are still waiting.

The Navajos’ spiritual connection to the land, which is as sacred to them as Jerusalem is to the Jews, Christians and Muslims, compounds the problem of cleanup.

“We must do (cleanup) in a sacred manner,” Rondon said. “This industry has stepped on us so much. All we really have is our spirituality.”

Most Navajos won’t leave the reservation, even if it’s slowly killing them.

“We’ve been here for seven generations,” Nez said. “We’re not leaving. We’re connected to Mother Nature. That’s how it always was, and that’s how it’s always going to be.”

As a uranium activist, Rondon understands the danger of uranium; as a Navajo, she recognizes her people’s unbreakable ties to the land.

“It’s not that easy for us,” Rondon said. “We’re really connected to it. We can’t just get up and leave. We have such a deep connection to the land, the earth. It’s like, (if) we go somewhere else, (we) die.”

The post The Forgotten Navajo: Uranium contamination appeared first on Pavement Pieces.

Freelance makeup artist Christy Frustaci applies eyeshadow to Shahana Mahajan at the L’Oreal ovarian cancer research fundraiser at Walgreens on Sept. 17. Photo by Rachel Morgan.

Eye shadow, blush and powder are used to educated women about the disease.

For celebrity makeup artist Collier Strong and his team, the battle against ovarian cancer is personal.

“I have a dear friend in hospice with ovarian cancer as we speak,” said Strong, who has been the makeup artist for Eva Longoria Parker, Kerry Washington and Diane Keaton. “I also have three sisters that are healthy. It’s the least I can do to lend my expertise and talent to something that will raise funds for ovarian cancer.”

He and a team of freelance makeup artists hosted a day of free makeovers at Walgreens at 42nd Street and Broadway yesterday in honor of Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month.

From 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., customers got free mini makeovers and consultations from trained professionals.

They could also share their own stories of how ovarian cancer had touched their lives.

Shahana Mahajan, of Jersey City, knows how important early detection is when, it comes to cancer survival rates.

“My husband’s sister died a couple years ago from ovarian cancer,” she said as a makeup artist applied shimmery, gray eye shadow to her lids. “If she would have known earlier, things may have turned out differently. This is an important cause for me.”

Mahajan, a professor at Hunter College of the City University of New York, also works at the New York University Langone Medical Center as a research scientist.

“The thing with cancer is, if you detect it early, a lot of times it is curable,” she said. “If not, there’s really not much you can do about it.”

According to the American Cancer Society, if ovarian cancer is detected and treated before it has spread outside of the ovary, there is a 93 percent survival rate.

But the ACS said that less than 20 percent of ovarian cancer cases are found at this stage.

That’s why L’Oréal Paris, Strong and a team of trained makeup artists have teamed up to raise awareness of the disease that often slips into the shadows of more publicized types of the disease, such as breast cancer.

“I think it’s great to bring awareness,” said Christy Frustaci, a freelance makeup artist contracted by L’Oréal Paris for the event. “If you’re a woman, then it’s something you should think about. I think it’s great that L’Oreal does this.”

In addition to hosting events such as Friday’s mini makeover sessions, L’Oréal Paris has launched the Color of Hope Makeup Collection to raise money for ovarian cancer research. With the purchase of every Color of Hope item, the company will donate $1 to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.

In 2009, the ACS estimates that 21,550 new cases of ovarian cancer will be diagnosed. Of those cases, 14,600 will result in death.

Danisha Beltre, coordinator for public relations and strategic philanthropy for L’Oréal Paris, echoes Mahakam — awareness, which leads to early detection, is key.

“The key word here is awareness,” Beltre said. “Especially with a disease like ovarian cancer. The symptoms are relatively everyday symptoms. We, as women, need to be in tune with our bodies. A lot of times we are so busy taking care of everyone else — our children, husbands, families — that we forget to take care of ourselves.”

This is especially important for a cancer that currently does not have an early detection screening method — symptoms are the only indicators. Symptoms of ovarian cancer include abdominal pain, difficulty eating, feeling prematurely full, frequent urges to urinate and bloating.

Beltre has seen what happens when these symptoms are overlooked.

“My grandmother died two years ago from ovarian cancer,” she said. “The symptoms were unclear. They were everyday symptoms that women often have. By the time (it was detected), it was incurable.”

The post Makeup artists raise awareness appeared first on Pavement Pieces.