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When a Region Tells Its Own Stories, That’s ‘New Territory’

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“Get out of Missouri,” was the professional advice Tina Casagrand received as a young journalist fresh out of college. Instead, she hunkered down in a small city and started a print magazine for people who love the Lower Midwest just as much as she does.

Places matter to Tina Casagrand. So do journalism and culture. So do anthropology and science. So do readers, writers, books and magazines. And the Ozark mountains and the river basins of central Missouri. And other parts of the lower Midwest, too — places like Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas.  

Casagrand is the founder and publisher of The New Territory, a reader-supported print magazine she created in 2015. In that role, she brings literary, anthropological, and ecological voices to a region that has challenges but ample optimism.  

Tina Casagrand
Tina Casagrand

Casagrand launched the magazine about two years after graduating from the University of Missouri. With the talents of a small team of volunteers, the magazine puts its mission into practice, “to connect the land, people and possibilities of the Lower Midwest.”  (The magazine has no digital version, but it does publish a blog, which occasionally includes a free sample article.) 

Like many people living a creative, purpose–driven life, Casagrand didn’t start out knowing she wanted to be what she is now, although there were some early hints. She was raised by her great-grandparents in Dixon, Missouri, a town of about 1,500 southeast of the Lake of the Ozarks. She’d always loved to read, particularly magazines. In high school Casagrand didn’t realize that “magazine publisher” was a career path, but she worked on student publications and did other activities that suggested she might have a future involving the written word. She developed a strong interest in world culture and international travel. That led her to major in both journalism and anthropology. She minored in art, and then added another minor, biology.  

Casagrand started freelancing in college, focusing on environmental writing. She was hungry to experience new cultures and places, to tell stories she discovered along the way. She “hit a high point early” in her freelance writing career when a story she wrote was published on the National Geographic website. It dealt with the epidemic of emerald ash borers killing trees and what could be done about it. 

“That was cool and awesome, but along with the byline was the realization that I didn’t want to be doing that kind of work for very long,” Casagrand says. The problem was that so much context needed to be provided for a national story that there wasn’t much room for depth.  

“I was in 1,200-word count hell,” she recalls. That’s when she came to terms with the fact that the outlet for what she wanted to do didn’t exist.   

Instead of giving up, Casagrand saw an opportunity to both serve readers and improve the “writer ecosystem.” She wanted journalists to have a publication where they could pitch long, thoughtfully crafted stories with love for place at the forefront. She developed a prospectus for The New Territory and ran it past her peers in the Society for Environmental Journalists. They gave her encouragement and suggestions. Then she was ready to put out a “bat signal” that there was a location for in-depth narrative that would treat stories with care.  

Casagrand now publishes The New Territory from her office in Jefferson City, Missouri’s capital. The editors, designers and others work remotely, scattered around the country. The magazine is distributed almost entirely through subscription and contains no advertising but does include a sponsorship section. This allows the bills to be paid, and the contributors, too. But the staff is all volunteer, including herself. 

The New Territory just released its seventh issue, titled “Sanctuaries.” It includes stories about a Primitive Baptist Church in Arkansas that has seen years of declining membership; a farm family in the Ozarks that has expanded its activities to make ends meet; Native Americans and non-natives coming together to save a Kansas wetlands from highway construction; a photo essay on how Oklahomans are finding new ways to protect public lands as state park budgets erode; plus art, poetry and fiction.  

Having lots of hands helping on the magazine allowed Casagrand to step away from daily editing duties. As publisher, she can focus on finding continued financial support. She sees convincing people to pay for quality journalism as a challenge that needs a solution. An added challenge is her location in the middle of Missouri, which is foreign ground to financial supporters that mostly cluster in the big cities. That’s why much of her effort is going into what she describes as “strengthening the friendships and partnerships we’ve made so far and telling more potential subscribers about the magazine.”   

Casagrand is determined to stick to her focus creating an “autobiography of the lower Midwest,” even if not everyone is on board yet. She had numerous mentors in the journalism world who encouraged her to apply for opportunities around the country. One individual she barely knew told her that she’d never really be successful as a freelancer until she got out of Missouri. 

“It was humiliating to be told this by an older person, but I couldn’t corroborate it. I didn’t think of myself as not being on track.” In what she calls a moment of clarity, Casagrand realized that versions of success are different, a viewpoint she conveyed to that person later the day.  

It’s expected that people who are invested in her success might be a bit confused by her choices. In their experience, they see the best opportunities in bigger places. But Casagrand says she would “rather be rooted in a place” instead of having a “fragile existence” in a place she didn’t particularly wish to be. 

Growing up she appreciated the natural beauty of the Missouri Ozarks but also took it for granted. When she went to college, she experienced different landscapes through travel and came to new ways to “process ideas about culture,” she says. 

“If you’d told me at start of college I’d live in and love Missouri after graduation, I would have laughed you out the door. But it is beautiful and unique, and there aren’t a lot of journalists writing about the environment in Missouri. There is so much to cover you could make it a whole career, as a beat, and not touch everything.” 

Still, it isn’t for everyone. 

“There is high attrition of talented people leaving here, and I was on track to be one of them.” But she knew she had important and personally meaningful work to do. She paraphrases Senegalese forestry engineer Baba Dioum about caring for places and protecting them to make a healthy community. “You have to love it, but you can only love it by understanding it, and you can only understand it if you learn about it.”  

She pictures readers of The New Territory as people who already love the Lower Midwest, care for it in their own way, and support regional journalism in myriad ways. “That’s who we sit down at our computers and make this magazine for,” Casagrand says. She and the team envision The New Territory being shared with people informally, and even formally in the classroom as teaching material guiding readers to understand the region better. “That why we imbue each issue with so much love.” 

As Casagrand puts it, it’s true love, not just boosterism. “People see that it’s not fluffy content. An intelligent reader knows when they’re being sold something, and that’s one of the fastest ways to erode trust.” 

Casagrand tells the life story of this state that is bounded by the Mississippi River on the east and partly bordered and bisected by the Missouri River. The rolling farmland of the north, the rugged and forested south, the flood plains of the southeast and the Great Plains to the west offer plenty to learn about and love.  

Even the boundary between rural and urban spaces speaks to Casagrand. She carries a tangible emblem that reminds her of each, in the form of body art. On her left bicep is a tattoo of a whippoorwill, and on the right bicep is a blue jay. She calls the whippoorwill the “soundtrack of evenings sitting on the porch” in Dixon. The bird is sensitive to environmental conditions, such as habitat loss. “Even now when I hear one there’s an emotional homecoming sensation because it represents rural life for me.” On the other side is the blue jay, the adaptable and assertive bird whose constant energy and voice are an emblem of the comparatively urban life she’s leading now in Jefferson City. “The tattoos represent the balance I’ve found between contemplative focus and assertive action. In my ‘ideal’ world, nothing’s at the expense of the other.” 

One of the things she’s realized is that being in an area some consider too remote to matter means Midwestern voices are left out of important national conversations. “What I wanted to do with The New Territory is have the freedom to talk to other Midwesterners about what’s important to us without having to filter our message for a national, largely urban and coastal audience and defend the mere right to be thought of as important.”  

Magazine feature content has already been scheduled for two future issues, relying on local and regional voices who know the stories and how to tell them. They’re still open to accepting literature, photography, reviews, interviews and personal essays for the “Here” section. 

One goal for 2019 is get into communities more, by designing events and workshops for the public to attend. The focus would be on writing and art, which could have the twin outcomes of increasing readership and building a larger freelance contributor pool. She’s also cooking up ideas about a traveling photography gallery that would be hung in different places in the region. Another project taking shape is a reading group series. 

These ideas are enmeshed with other things she does, such as working with the group Missouri River Relief and serving on the Missouri Invasive Plant Task Force. Recently, she started as community manager at Campus Coworking Space, a new community-driven office space for people who would otherwise work from home. 

“Most of this other work is centered around helping people find their place in the place that I know and care for,” she explained. 

In an effort to encourage young Missourians, Casagrand teaches a three-week stint each June for the Missouri Scholars Academy, a program for gifted students. She teaches a nature writing class and a class called “Print Isn’t Dead.” Casagrand herself participated in this program as a high schooler. “That’s when I started to chill out about Missouri, and see how awesome it was to be surrounded by other smart people in the state and to broaden my horizons.”  

Things do change. Casagrand’s great-grandfather passed away in 2016. But not before he caught sight of the bird tats. She’d tried hiding them because she guessed what his reaction would be, and it wouldn’t be good. But one hot Missouri day in the smoking area of the parking lot outside of the VA hospital where she waited with him, she couldn’t hide them under long sleeves any longer. “I took off my outer shirt and his mouth flew open, and he asked ‘Are those real?’” 

Casagrand is working to keep them real both on the literal habitat level and the deeper emotional level. As she explains simply, “It would be a huge loss to the ecosystem if either was gone.” 

Julianne Couch is a writer in Bellevue, Iowa. Her feature story on private property hunting as a form of rural economic development in Kansas will appear in The New Territory later this year.

This article was originally published by the Daily Yonder.

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Wrestling with Rural Stereotypes (Instead of Pigs) on Television Could Bridge Our Political Divides

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"Perfect Harmony." Photo: Screenshot/Courtesy NBC Universal

You never really forget a hog killing once you see it. 

The smell of woodsmoke mingling with the smell of burning flesh as the men pour boiling water over the body to loosen the hair that would then be shaved off with a sharpened garden hoe in quick raking motions down the length of the animal. The hog is hung by its back legs so that its front legs are lifted just enough to not be touching the ground beneath. A long cut is sliced through the hog longways along its middle as it hangs, and the butchering soon follows. 

I was younger than 6 when I saw my last hog killing live and in person. My dad’s family used to slaughter one every fall when the weather started getting cold. His Uncle Bug, on his mother’s side, was the best at shaving the hair, and to this day, he says there’s scarce better than a fresh pork loin taken straight from the butchering to the kitchen. 

My cousins and I would play hide and seek in the smokehouse where the meat from the hog was stored through winter. I’d slip inside while the count-down happened and crouch low beneath the hanging shanks and hams. I knew where they’d come from.And yet, I was fascinated to see them hanging there, waiting to be made into a meal for Sunday dinner or an upcoming holiday. 

My family raised hogs to eat them and sustain them going through winters that used to be colder and more sparse in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. And though I can’t know with absolute certainty, I have never known of any stories from those living or long-since passed that involved wrestling those hogs they raised for the hell of it.

Yet, in the most recent portrayal of my home, Appalachia, on network television, “Perfect Harmony,” the main character finds himself wrestling a pig in a mud pit at the town festival to prove he’s one of the locals. The NBC show follows the story of Arthur Cochran, a former Princeton University music professor, as he attempts to lead the choir of the First Second Church of the Cumberlands to glory in a local choral competition. 

Imagine my surprise when I flipped over to ABC to watch another 30-minute tale of city-slicker-turned-rural-resident, “Bless This Mess,” set in Nebraska’s farmland, to see that one of the ways the city couple, Mike and Rio, were told they could attempt assimilation in their new rural home was to wrestle a greased pig before the Nebraska University football season opener.

The fact that TV writers think one of the things rural people regularly do for fun is wrestle farm animals is not entirely surprising given the often reductionist ways rural places are portrayed in movies and on television. But the fact that this trope was included in two different shows about two very different rural places says a lot about how little the writers, and indeed the nation, truly understand about rural America. 

And therein lies the rub, because in a post-Trump, “fake news” era in which national reporters and commentators are attempting to explain why our country is so divided in a seemingly incurable way, we need portrayals of entire swaths of the country and entire groups of our neighbors to be three dimensional and complicated so we can see the commonalities within rather than be presented with reasons to keep separating ourselves from one another. 

On the surface, “Perfect Harmony” and “Bless This Mess” might seem innocuous. They are shows about the purity of rural people and a way of life that is slower and perhaps more connected than the hustle and bustle of big-city life that the shows’ main characters are trying to escape in their own ways. 

Arthur Cochran has come to rural Kentucky– a town ostensibly based on Corbin, about an hour and a half south of Lexington– to bury his wife, who was from the small town. He wanted to leave almost as soon as he got there, but after he tells off the choir in the first moments of the pilot episode, he learns they are competing in a choral competition against the choir of the mega-church off of I-75 whose pastor wouldn’t let him bury his wife in their cemetery. He agrees to stay and help them win. Spoiler alert: They don’t win, but he sticks around anyway– the locals have won him over.

Mike and Rio are a young, married couple from New York City in “Bless This Mess” who return to Mike’s Nebraska roots to take over the family farm. Living in the city has become too much for them. They know nothing about farming, and less about living in a rural place, but in typical white-privileged fashion, they decide to give it a go anyway. 

The locals in both shows are skeptical of the newcomers, but because they are nice people with big hearts, and a fair bit of small-town wisdom, they give the city slickers a chance. Even though Arthur, Mike and Rio muck things up every episode because they don’t understand or fully embrace the cultural mores of the small towns in which they now find themselves (e.g. Arthur must go on a campaign of reconciliation after honking his horn at someone; Mike and Rio dress in formal wear instead of Nebraska football gear to a town party where the host of the annual home-game season opener is announced), the townspeople embrace them and welcome them in, and we’re presented with resolutions each episode that are supposed to make us believe the rural-urban chasm has grown just a bit smaller. 

But the truth is always more complicated than a sanitized version of it on TV. Those of us who live and work in, or are from, rural regions know that TV portrayals of our places far underestimate the true beauty, tragedy and complexity of the places many of us feel connected to in our bones. They also ignore the reasons why those simple portrayals are the most popular and proliferated, even when we know the stories of rural places are far more complex. 

My home region of Appalachia, for instance, is a complicated place whose present is shaped entirely by the near-unrestrained resource extraction of the past. When the coal industry came into the region riding the Trojan horse of the broad-form deed (which basically gave them rights to get at coal under the surface by any means necessary), the mostly absentee coal company owners understood that in order to have unfettered access to mine as much coal – and make as much money– as possible, they had to control the narrative about the people who lived atop the black gold they coveted. 

“One of the most effective means of controlling a people is controlling their image,” writes Appalachian scholar Meredith McCarroll in her latest book, “Unwhite: Appalachia, Race, and Film.” In the book, McCarroll explores the connection between Appalachian portrayals in movies and the power and privilege that made those images possible, and that allows them to continue being used against the region today. 

It was in the best interest of the industry to propagate and allow to flourish images of backward, slovenly hillbillies who needed the strong hand of industry to set them right and make them productive for the country’s benefit. If Appalachians in coal-mining towns could be painted as lesser than the dominant American culture, then it would make it a lot easier for coal companies to get away with taking everything from them, including their autonomy in telling their own stories. 

This presents perhaps the most troubling aspect of the proliferation of these stories. As long as they are spread like a virus in our media, the people of Appalachia might just start to believe them, and therefore, believe they aren’t worth much more than mining coal and living in service of far-away urban centers. There are few counter-narratives to this story, so there is little to stop Appalachians from convincing themselves that once the coal is entirely gone, and once there is nothing left for the cities to take from their homeplace, they’ll be even more forgotten than they are now. 

“Appalachia is shown– still– as the strange and peculiar place that is easy to forget,” McCarroll writes. “So mountains are blown up. Schools are underfunded. Counties like McDowell [in West Virginia, and among the poorest counties in the nation] continue to die. And, most important, people of Appalachia begin to believe what is said about them.”

In the 1950s and ’60s, America “discovered” the region as it never had before, thanks in large part to President Lyndon Johnson’s declaration of a War on Poverty and a trip to take pictures with Tom Fletcher on his porch in Martin County, Kentucky. After that, news cameras came in waves, and just like the ocean tides, took a little more of the region with them each time through the images they captured. 

Since, narrative television has had a poor history of portraying Appalachian people as anything more than a stereotype. It’s important to remember that “Perfect Harmony” and “Bless This Mess” are only the latest in a long line of shows of the rural genre that started in the 1960s. Shows like “Petticoat Junction,” “Mister Ed,” “Lassie” and “The Andy Griffith Show” enjoyed high ratings and loyal fanbases until most were cancelled in the early 1970s under the assumption that audiences weren’t as interested in rural stories anymore. Perhaps one of the most well-remembered shows of that era– also focused on what happens when city folks move out into the country to become farmers– was “Green Acres.” 

But the end-all, be-all of rural stereotypes employed by a popular TV show of that era was “The Beverly Hillbillies.” The Clampett family moves from the mountains of Arkansas to the mountains of California after they strike it rich from oil they discovered on their land. We see the family in the opening credits heading west-ward in their beat-up jalopy with Granny sitting in her rocking chair on the back in one of the most famous and enduring images of the entire series. 

This portrayal relies on the same stereotypes for its jokes, but adds in the extra flavor of hillbilly tropes. The salt-of-the-earth patriarch hillbilly in Jed; the over-sexualized hillbilly woman in Elly May; the gun-toting, spit-fire elder hillbilly in Granny; the goofy but lovable hillbilly in Jethro. These hillbilly images go much further back than the 1960s. Appalachian scholars have found their use in the literature produced during the local color writing movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries– a genre of fiction and poetry writing that emerged during the Civil War focused on the characters, dialects, customs and culture of a specific region. 

And the stereotypes decades of television shows have relied on for laughs have solidified themselves in popular culture as something close to fact, So much so that when it comes time to explain a national problem in which we all share culpability,  reporters flock to Appalachia for easy answers, because there is at least 150 years worth of false narratives from which they can draw those easy conclusions. Therefore, the portrayals that end up making it in front of audiences are never enough to explain hundreds of years worth of exploitation, culture building and lived experience. 

Those portrayals are simple for a reason, and that reason has everything to do with who controls the narrative and decides which stories get told. Most often, those people are wealthy, white and male, and they hold power for reasons that they’d rather we not question. They have a vested interest in the rest of us staying divided so they can maintain their level of power and privilege. 

But if more nuanced and complicated stories about rural places were to be the norm, it’s entirely possible that we’d begin to realize their great conceit, which is that they see rural America as one big monolithic place, where one region is as easily expendable as the next, as long as there are resources of any kind in those places to be extracted or harvested and sent to urban centers to enrich a select few. 

We’ve been forced into this false understanding of one another over many generations of misleading narratives being told about any and all who are not of the dominant white culture. And as a result of the false dichotomy of rural versus urban, we’ve kept ourselves at arm’s length from one another. Rural people were told that to feel like an equal with city folk was to admit that our rural way of life was less than. And city people have been told to fear rural people because they are backward and uneducated and could never change. 

Sure, the images projected in today’s “Perfect Harmony” look a bit different than those in 1960s “The Beverly Hillbillies,” but they are rooted in the same simplistic understanding of rural people as being old fashioned, ignorant in the ways of the dominant and more preferred culture and forgetful of the very real and present challenges the region faces. The portrayal of Nebraskans in “Bless This Mess” is no more complex and leaves us watching characters that are more caricature than real life. 

And it’s no coincidence that shows like “Perfect Harmony” and “Bless This Mess” have come onto the scene during one of the most divided times in the history of the country. The last time communities were split down the middle because of political and social issues was perhaps during the 1960s and ’70s, when “Green Acres” and “The Beverly Hillbillies” enjoyed success. Just like their predecessors, “Bless This Mess” and “Perfect Harmony” are two shows that are attempting to examine those divides. The only problem is, their examinations rely on simplicity and fiction when we’re in a moment that calls for nuance and facts.

But despite the one dimensional, oversimplified nature of rural people depicted on these contemporary shows, rural people still watch. Appalachians and Nebraskans still tune in to these shows filmed on L.A. sound stages and California pastures and, generally, they like them. Why? Because in both, rural people win. Despite their backward culture, they value their communities, their friends and their families, and, perhaps most of all, their traditions, even when they go out of style. 

This draws rural people in because they get to escape their reality. And in reality, most rural places are not winning. They feel forgotten and left behind. They know what urban places are taking from them, and they aren’t happy about giving of their bounty while seemingly not getting anything in return.  

Eastern Kentucky is home to several of the poorest counties in the country and has some of the highest rates of cancer deaths and lowest educational attainment rates. The infrastructure is crumbling, if it exists at all. Broadband is all but non-existent, water lines are failing, but even if they weren’t, people still couldn’t drink the water because it’s full of toxic heavy metals. Schools can’t afford textbooks for all of their students, and people long for work that isn’t there. 

All the while, people see the state government take 50 percent off the top of the coal severance money that’s supposed to go back into the region to maintain infrastructure. They’ve watched for generations as the coal they mined and the children they raised left for Lexington and Louisville– Kentucky’s two largest cities– and hardly ever came back. They’ve had to listen to Louisvillians blame them and the rest of rural Kentucky for “voting against their interests” when the same city uses tax money eastern Kentucky coal mining produced to maintain their water lines and make sure their roads are always passable. 

Eastern Kentuckians need a win and watching a former Ivy League professor– the symbol of all things elitist and urban– be snookered into a mud fight with a pig to prove his worth sure does feel good to see, even if it’s not something that would ever actually happen. 

The trouble comes when we grow complacent and allow these images to go unchallenged. We must not accept these white-washed versions of rural places that lack depth and complexity, and instead, advocate for those portrayals that put on full display the beauty, tragedy, challenge and joy of living in and loving rural places. Without countering those simple stories, we leave the fate of our communities in the hands of the powerful few who control the narratives about rural places and along with them, the wealth generated off their backs. 

People and experiences that really matter are erased from rural places– just as much as they are from urban places– when the only stories we see about each other are mass-produced on a TV assembly line using all the same parts to describe incredibly different and diverse places. We have to demand more from our entertainment because representation matters, diversity of details matters, making sure people who don’t look like us or think like us or live in the same place as us are humanized and made real matters. 

People might think the only thing rural people do with pigs is wrestle them in mud pits if that’s all they ever see from network TV. But my family, and countless others across rural America, raised animals for slaughter as an act of survival, to feed them through long winters when snow used to fall in feet, and they couldn’t have made it to town to buy groceries if they’d wanted to. It was an act of patience and respect for the animal that kept them alive. And once you know that, it’s pretty hard to make a joke about it. 

Ivy Brashear is the Appalachian Transition Director at the Mountain Association for Community Economic Development in Berea, Kentucky. She is also a freelance journalist whose work has appeared in Yes! Magazine, Scalawag and Next City.

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Commentary: As The Coal Industry Shrinks, Miners Deserve a Just Transition – Here’s What It Should Include

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Coal miners return on a buggy after working a shift underground at the Perkins Branch Coal Mine in Cumberland, Oct. 15, 2014. Photo: AP Photo/David Goldman

Murray Energy, one of the biggest private U.S. coal companies, has become the fifth coal company to file for bankruptcy in 2019. Union leaders and many elected officials worry that in addition to the 7,000 miners on Murray’s payroll, this step could threaten the solvency of the United Mine Workers of America pension fund, which supports over 100,000 retired miners and fully vested workers.

Whether people support or oppose the Trump administration’s efforts to prop up the coal industry, one point of agreement is that shifting from coal to cleaner fuels threatens struggling coal-dependent communities. Murray Energy’s bankruptcy is the latest reminder that it is past time to discuss a just transition for coal miners.

My legal scholarship examines environmental decision-making processes, with a focus on law and the urban-rural divide. In my recent research, I’ve dug into the origin and meaning of the idea of a just transition for workers.

My findings suggest that there is a strong ethical case for pursuing just transitions through policy. The challenge is to ensure that these policies nurture programs and institutions with lasting effects, rather than merely offering short-term band-aids.

More than half of the U.S. coal mines operating in 2008 have closed. EIA

What is a just transition?

There is no single definition of a just transition, but in the coal context, it generally means finding alternative ways to support struggling communities that are losing their traditional livelihoods.

The concept was popularized in the 1970s by progressive labor activist Tony Mazzocchi, who worked in the auto, steel and construction industries before becoming an organizer. He believed that workers who had contributed to the public welfare through hazardous work deserved help in transitioning away from their difficult jobs. He first called for “full income and benefits for life” for such workers, but eventually changed his demand to four years of income and education benefits. Even then, his efforts met substantial opposition.

Mazzochi had ties to labor and the environmental movements, and his activism blended these concerns. Today scholars are embracing the idea that government should consider the economic impacts of transitions such as the shift to low-carbon fuels, especially when workers are displaced by public initiatives.

In my view, it’s unfortunate that it has taken so long for mainstream attention to focus on the fate of coal workers. For communities dependent on fossil fuels, particularly in regions like Appalachia with few other major industries, today’s job losses are just the latest phase of a long decline.

No simple formula

There is no road map for transitioning communities away from coal, but there are lessons from history. For example, American workers faced losses from international competition when the U.S. joined liberalized trade agreements in the second half of the 20th century.

In response, Congress passed legislation in 1974 that established the Trade Adjustment Assistance Program, which still operates today. It provides aid primarily to factory workers who can show that they have lost jobs or wages because of increased international competition. Eligible workers petition the U.S. Department of Labor for benefits administered through state agencies, including cash payments, retraining and assistance with relocation and job searches.

However, research shows that even with this support, affected workers were substantially worse off than they had been before the shift in trade policy. Scholars have criticized trade adjustment programs as an ineffective band-aid. In 2008 one of the program’s directors called it “too little assistance too late to those in need.”

Funding for environmental cleanup and business development can help Appalachian communities diversify away from coal.

Another example, the Clinton administration’s 1994 Northwest Forest Plan, was developed in connection with the decision to provide federal protection for the Northern spotted owl. Officials recognized that restrictions on logging would hurt the Pacific Northwest timber industry, which was already declining.

The plan provided direct federal subsidies to traditional timber counties to offset logging reductions on public lands. However, these payments have been declining since 2006, contributing to a fiscal crunch in rural Oregon. Local opposition to tax increases, which could support local government services and community planning, hasn’t helped.

Another initiative, the Tobacco Transition Payment Program, achieved more mixed results. In 1998 the four largest U.S. tobacco companies executed a major legal settlement with states suing them to recover tobacco-related health costs. The agreement required tobacco companies to provide billions of dollars in economic assistance to farmers to ease their transition away from growing tobacco.

Each participating farmer received an average of US$17,000 through the program, which ran from 2005 to 2014. The top 10 percent of recipients received 75 percent of the payments. Some assessments concluded that these cash injections boosted struggling rural communities. But farmers arguably have more autonomy than many other kinds of workers, since they can opt to grow different crops, so this example may have limited relevance for coal miners.

County economic status in Appalachia, fiscal year 2020. Appalachian Regional Commission, CC BY-ND

Recent transition aid for coal communities

The most defined federal effort so far to help coal communities economically is the POWER Plan, launched by the Obama administration. This program directs funds into Appalachian communities to assist displaced workers, build regional institutions’ capacity and fund economic development programs.

From 2015 through 2019 the Appalachian Regional Commission, an economic development agency supported by federal, state and local governments, has invested over $190 million in 239 projects across Appalachia. Although President Trump often calls himself a friend to coal miners, his first budget request proposed terminating the commission. Congressional supporters restored its funding.

It is popular for commentators to propose initiatives such as retraining coal workers for solar or natural gas jobs. In my view, this approach is simplistic: A just transition should focus on sustainably rebuilding regional economies, and should be informed by input from people who are affected.

Subsidies to local governments and benefits for individuals are a start but should be better funded and implemented than trade adjustment assistance. They should build local institutions, such as schools and planning agencies, that can contribute to sustainable economic diversification – something the Northwest Forest Plan failed to do. And they should distribute benefits more equitably than the compensation program for tobacco farmers.

Along with job retraining programs, POWER is funding infrastructure development, public services and new educational institutions. But a just transition will require substantial resources and effort. It remains to be seen whether federal efforts will rise to the challenge.

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Ann Eisenberg, Assistant Professor of Law, University of South Carolina

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Climate Activism Could Be Swaying Public Opinion In The US

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The March for Science on April 22, 2017 combined calls for scientific integrity and climate action. Photo: Kevin Wolf/AP

Climate activists walked out of classrooms and workplaces in more than 150 countries on Friday, Sept. 20 to demand stronger action on climate change. Mass mobilizations like this have become increasingly common in recent years.

I’m a scholar of environmental communication who examines how people become engaged with solving dilemmas such as climate change, and how activism motivates others to take action. A new study I worked on suggests that large rallies, such as this youth-led Climate Strike, could be influencing public opinion.

Conflicting signs

For anyone in the U.S. who has been following climate change news for years, it could be easy to conclude that these protests don’t have an impact. After all, no major environmental legislation has been signed into law in this country in decades.

Further, in 2016 a near-majority of U.S. voters elected a president who rejects the scientific evidence on climate change.

On the other hand, concern about climate change is rising. So is media coverage about global warming, notably including CNN’s seven-hour town hall on the topic with 10 Democratic presidential candidates.

To see whether rallies, such as the Global Climate Strike are contributing to this change in public opinion in a measurable way, I partnered with Pennsylvania State University psychologist Janet K. Swim and Michael L. Lengieza, a graduate student. We collected public opinion data before and after major protests.

Seeing activists in a less negative light

We conducted surveys to assess public opinion before and after the March for Science – which had a wide-ranging agenda that included climate change – and the 2017 People’s Climate March, which took place on back-to-back Saturdays in April 2017. Hundreds of thousands of people took part in the main protests in Washington, as affiliated marches occurred in other cities in the U.S. and around the world.

Nearly 600 people around the country, including some who had heard very little or even nothing at all about the mobilizations, answered our series of detailed questions. We tried to gauge their perceptions of climate activists and faith in humanity’s ability to come together on issues like climate change.

Half of the survey-takers completed their survey right before the first protest and the other half did it after the second one. Both groups represented broad ranges in age, education level and political beliefs.

The responses suggested that many Americans may have changed their opinion about the climate change movement around that time – in the spring of 2017.

For instance, the percentage who viewed climate activists as “aggressive” fell by 10 percentage points, from 74 percent to 64 percent. Similarly, survey respondents viewed activists as less “arrogant” and “dictatorial” after the protests occurred.

We consider this finding important because other research has suggested that people who view climate activists in this negative manner are more motivated to speak out against policies aimed at slowing the pace of global warming, such as the two carbon tax initiatives that voters have rejected in Washington state despite its Democratic majority.

Feeling less pessimistic about the future

Although most survey-takers said they had heard about the protests, few actually knew someone who had participated in one. Wondering whether the way that media covered these events might influence how people reacted, we looked into whether Americans who prefer liberal-leaning media outlets, such as MSNBC, reacted differently than those who rely on conservative-leaning media, such as Fox News.

We detected some interesting and unexpected patterns.

Before we looked at the data, we thought that differences in the media coverage might further the political polarization of climate change. We were surprised when we saw that the marches appeared to have the opposite effect.

In particular, the protests may have made consumers of conservative-leaning news more hopeful. Before them, consumers of conservative-leaning news were more likely to say they doubted the ability of humanity to work together on big problems like climate change.

After the marches, fewer people of all kinds expressed pessimism. In particular, consumers of conservative media became less likely to agree to statements like this one: “People are too selfish to cooperate and to fix big problems.” Before the protests, 60 percent of them agreed with that statement. Afterward, only 45 percent did.

The limits to this influence

Even so, the mobilizations did not seem to sway public opinion in every way that the organizers might have hoped. In particular, despite the large numbers participating, the two waves of protests did not appear to have any measurable impact on convincing Americans that taking community action on climate change was a normal or common thing for people to do.

Specifically, there was no change in the perceived number of people in their community or in the entire country that survey-takers believed engaged in collective action, such as environmental activism or voting for politicians that support environmental issues.

We suspect the people we surveyed did not consider the marchers to be similar to average people – like themselves.

Over the next few years, it will be interesting to see whether these shifts in public perceptions translate into shifts in consumer purchasing habits and public policy.

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Nathaniel Geiger, Assistant Professor of Communication Science, Indiana University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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