Thirst: In Depth
- Justice at the Tap
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Justice at the Tap
For Jackson, Flint, and the Navajo Nation, clean water shouldn’t be a pipe dream.
It’s a Thursday afternoon, and Tranita Davis is carting cases of water to the curb outside the M.W. Stringer Grand Lodge near Jackson State University’s sprawling campus.
Davis, who spends her days teaching at , is still dressed in the T-shirt and sweatpants that comprise her after-school soccer practice uniform. Before long, cars begin pulling into the lodge’s parking lot, located in the heart of West Jackson, Mississippi, one of the city’s . No matter; Davis greets each person with her usual effervescent smile while she loads water into their trunks and back seats.
Davis, a Grand Officer in Mississippi’s Maurice F. Lucas Sr. Prince Hall Order of the Eastern Star, had been leading the chapter’s water distribution efforts for more than a month. She says the Eastern Stars and its male counterpart, the Masons, distributed thousands of cases of water from the Grand Lodge’s Lynch Street parking lot between July and August 2022. Six months later, the lodge is still housing cases of unused water, just waiting for the next crisis. “It will happen again,” Davis says. “It’s not a matter of if, but a matter of when.” Davis’ assertion is more fact than opinion.
In February 2021, a winter storm brought below-freezing temperatures and around 2 inches of sleet to Mississippi. As a result, the —w , O.B. Curtis, —was filled with frozen slush. This led the and throughout the city. Residents .
This trend continued in August 2022 when torrential rains flooded the Pearl River and . These cascading events triggered a crisis that led Jackson residents to be for weeks at a time between July and September 2022.
Before Jackson’s water woes became national news, its residents endured and , , and . Jackson Mayor Chokwe Antar Lumumba and Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves have for the water crisis, but those with knowledge of the city’s history note that the root cause of this problem is much deeper than electoral politics. “When the water crisis hit, it really became very clear that … the narrative in some circles that was being told was one of the failures within the city or the failure of city leadership to over time,” says , associate professor of history at Jackson State University. “As a historian, that narrative was just wrong.”
To understand Jackson’s water crisis, Luckett, who has extensively , says it’s critical to examine the historical relationship between Jackson, , and the broader state’s conservative power structure. “It is a history, I would argue, that is, in fact, rooted in the civil rights movement,” Luckett explains. “And for me, we have to go at least 50 years back to kind of examine the roots of what has been an increasingly hostile relationship.”
He notes three events that brought Jackson to this crossroads: In 1969, the Supreme Court ruled in that 30 of the 33 school districts operating in Mississippi could “no longer operate as a unitary school system within which no person is to be effectively excluded from any school because of race or color” after Feb. 1, 1970. As a result, for either the newly opened or the predominantly white suburbs in Clinton, Madison, and Rankin Counties.
“The parents of those children in 1970 represented the white power structure in the state,” Luckett says. “They represented the political, economic, social, and religious white leadership in the state of Mississippi. When they withdrew their children from the public schools, they withdrew their support for education at Jackson and desegregation, and they also began immediately withdrawing their support for the city itself.” This withdrawal continued through the 1980s, when the city changed its form of government to .
Before Henry J. Kirksey and 16 other Black residents of Jackson sued the city to transform its government from a three-member commission to a city council, Jackson’s growing Black population had no governing representation. After the 1981 ruling, the city council welcomed its , which prompted and increased the antagonistic relationship between the state and the city. Between 1980 and 1990, the white population in Jackson dropped from 52% to 43%, according to the Jackson Free Press.
That trend continued between 1990 and 2000, when another 35,000 white residents left the city. Coincidentally, in 1997, Jackson also elected its . That decade-long exodus also took much of the city’s tax base. Now, and . As the city became poorer, it began lacking the financial resources needed to improve the now 100-year-old water system. As the conservative state delegation now pushes to , Mayor Lumumba has faced several obstacles to securing funding. Members of the city’s legislative delegation attempted to get the city in 2021, but failed when the bill containing the appropriation .
“What you have seen is intentional efforts to prevent the city of Jackson from being able to support its water system,” Luckett says. “There has been money appropriated by the federal government in the past to support the city of Jackson’s water structure [and] water system, money that has been deferred and has been manipulated about the state and never reached the city. There’s been a complete failure of the state to invest in the capital city, and it’s to the benefit of the people who have the political power.”
Abandoning Flint
Flint, Michigan, where live below the poverty level, has been for nearly a decade. On the morning of our interview, , operations manager at , a coalition of grassroots organizations fighting to secure clean water and other resources for Flint residents, texts that she is running behind. She later explains that she had to do a plumbing fix before taking what she describes as a chemical shower. “Every morning, you shower, which turns the chemicals into steam that gives you rashes, burns your eyes, and gives you a bloody nose—oh, and cancer,” she says. “It’s that kind of fight every morning, besides what’s that smell, which this morning was an interesting mix of fried chicken mixed with chlorine.”
Mays has lived in Flint since 2002. There, the water crisis, which captured the attention of the nation nine years ago, remains unresolved. Much like the city of Jackson’s issues, Flint’s water crisis can be linked to , racial zoning, segregation, and redlining. At one time, the city boasted in the state, thanks to a booming auto industry. In fact, the Modern Housing Corporation, a subsidiary of General Motors, to accommodate the influx of General Motors workers. However, Black Flint residents were excluded from these housing opportunities: forbade anyone who was not white to occupy the homes in the new Civic Park neighborhood and relegated Black residents to the Floral Park and St. John Street areas.
The city leveled a portion of the St. John Street neighborhood and nearly all of the Floral Park neighborhood in the 1960s and ’70s to , which led racial minorities to be sequestered in communities with . Then came the financial crisis: The tanked tax revenue. Laid-off workers left the city, . Properties were when homeowners rushed to leave without waiting to sell. This decline affected Flint’s —property tax, state revenue sharing, and income tax. The city, unable to overcome its $25 million financial burden, was .
Flint’s financial situation gave cover for Gov. Rick Snyder to enact , which grants Michigan’s governor power to appoint emergency managers to run cities, towns, and school districts deemed to be in financial distress. In April 2014, Flint’s Emergency Director the city’s main water system from the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department to the Flint River under the guise of saving the city money. Within weeks, foul-smelling brown water began to pour from faucets.
“In the summer of 2014, just a couple months after the switch, we started getting rashes,” Mays recalls. “I got one, and my kids got them on their backs and shoulders. [At first,] I thought maybe it was dry skin. I even ended up getting this patch on my face. I worked in promotions and marketing, so I used to have to make a joke about ‘Oh, it’s not leprosy. I promise I just have Flint water.’ We’d all laugh because the excuse was that river water was just harder.” It was much more serious than that. Across the city, residents began reporting rashes, hair loss, muscle and body aches, and other seemingly random symptoms.
By June 2014, the first case of , a potentially fatal disease contracted by inhaling water droplets contaminated with bacteria, was diagnosed. “All of a sudden in September 2014, my youngest got pneumonia, which was very weird,” Mays says. “Now we know that it most likely was Legionnaires’ disease, a form of deadly bacterial pneumonia, but nobody was telling doctors to test for it.” Flint switched back to the Detroit water system in October 2015, but the damage was already done. , where plaintiffs argued that Public Act 436 is unconstitutional because it disproportionately targets impoverished Black communities. These legal challenges were largely unsuccessful.
The true impact of Flint’s water crisis will likely not be seen for generations. have found that the proportion of children living in Flint with elevated water-lead levels doubled after the city changed its water source. Tens of thousands of residents have also been exposed to and suffered horrific side effects, including , , and lead poisoning. At least a dozen deaths from Legionnaires’ disease have now been attributed to the contaminated water.
Mays was recently treated for cancer. Her doctors found it while treating lung and heart scarring they attributed to COVID-19. “I started having swelling and pain. My abdomen was super swollen, and my uterus was going to rupture,” she says. “I had endometrial cells, which you could not see on an ultrasound. All said, it was a six-hour surgery, and it was pretty bad. They had to bring in a second surgeon.” She’s not the only person to be diagnosed with cancer in .
Finding New Ways to Discriminate
When she was a child, , director of , a community-managed utility service that brings clean running water to Navajo Nation homes, often visited her grandparents in Cameron, Arizona, a rural section of the Navajo Nation. Her grandparents didn’t have running water. Instead, the family of sheepherders hauled water from the desert wells surrounding their home. Those water sources were filled with toxic metals, including , which she believes caused her grandmother’s cancer and subsequent death. “When I was 14, my grandmother passed away from stomach cancer that was related to uranium,” Robbins says. “Obviously, knowing that my story was not unique but that that [was happening] across the rez was something that I was not blind to.”
The Navajo Nation once had . However, in a , former Tribal President Jonathan Nez stated that cancer was the leading cause of death for Navajos between the ages of 60 and 79, and the second leading cause of death for Navajos 80 and older. In addition to cancer, lack of clean water has created other significant health problems for those on the reservation. , cancer, and —all linked to uranium—are plaguing the nation. “It’s not just the lack of running water that’s concerning,” Robbins says. “It’s the water sources that are available that oftentimes don’t have signage if they’re contaminated or not.”
The , encompassing , with portions in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. . According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), the U.S. federal government from 1944 to 1986, with the government being the sole purchaser of that uranium until 1966. During that time, were extracted. Once the federal government’s lease expired, however, , allowing the metals to leach into the soil, the groundwater, and the surface water.
“Obviously, if you dig it up, it’s out there, and radon is exposed. That’s when people can get really sick,” Robbins explains. “It’s across the rez, but there are areas where there’s more concentration. On the eastern side, there was , which is one of the biggest spills in terms of problems.” On July 16, 1979, the United Nuclear Corporation’s tailings disposal pond breached its dam at the Church Rock Mine in Church Rock, New Mexico. The breach and 94 million gallons of radioactive water into the Puerco River, which many Navajos use for drinking, irrigation, and livestock.
Though the spill is considered the in U.S. history, the site a federal disaster area. Not only did that limit the amount of aid given to affected areas, it also prevented the community from learning about the dangers of the spill for days. The incident is reflective of a larger pattern of the government’s blatant disregard for Indigenous communities. Ƶ than 150 years ago, the Navajo and other tribes signed with the federal government that promised funding for housing, infrastructure, and health care in exchange for portions of their land. For decades, that simply hasn’t happened.
Much like Flint and Jackson, the Navajo Nation has experienced systemic racism, insufficient funding, and , which resulted in failing infrastructure. Robbins says bureaucratic hurdles and lack of funding have also hampered efforts. While the Navajo Nation is located almost entirely within —w , including major cities, such as Los Angeles, Denver, San Diego, Salt Lake City, and Albuquerque, New Mexico—
to the main stem of the river. Because of this, many rely on contaminated rivers and wells as their main water sources.
In the Navajo Nation, in their homes. They are 67 times more likely than other Americans to or a toilet. Without piped water, residents haul water either from regulated watering points miles away or from unregulated water sources, such as wells and springs. Robbins sees a pattern among these water crises. “I’m in a different region [than Flint or Jackson], but we still have the same struggle going on,” Robbins says. “Obviously, it’s affecting Brown and Black communities way more than other communities, and that’s a really big problem.”
Congress originally passed the in 1974 to guarantee all Americans access to clean, drinkable water. It authorizes the EPA to set national health-based standards for drinking water to protect against both naturally occurring and human-made contaminants. Through the SDWA, the EPA has the ability to take action that will stop “imminent and substantial endangerment to human health.” Yet a found that compliance monitoring and punitive sanctions are less likely to occur in facilities located in poor or Black and Brown communities.
The Natural Resources Defense Council’s “” report also found that communities of color as well as low-income communities have higher rates of drinking water violations than other communities. Additionally, cities with predominantly Black and Brown populations tend to spend more time out of compliance, and even when such problems are identified, they remain uncorrected for a longer period of time. However, grassroots organizers and community members are stepping up to fill the gaps left by state and federal authorities.
Organizations like Flint Rising and DigDeep collected and donated cases of bottled water. Mays and other volunteers have gone door to door to ensure residents are informed and have access to clean drinking water. The Indigenous-led Navajo Water Project installs cistern-based home water systems in homes without access to running water or sewer lines. These systems provide 1,200 gallons of water to homes, while the Project also develops new local sources from which water is pumped before it’s treated, stored, and then delivered directly to families. “We’ve seen things like hydro panels,” Robbins says. “Those are great intentions, but they’re not the best solution for a desert. You can pull moisture from the air, but if it’s not there, then what are you pulling?”
Additionally, the Project creates jobs for members of the Navajo Nation. in Kirtland, New Mexico, to begin a plumbing program that trains residents to care for the community system. DigDeep also assists with bill pay and works with property owners to help upgrade existing water systems. “A huge part of what we do is making sure that we’re building relationships with the community,” Robbins says. “I think so many people on reservations, or so many Natives, are so weary. We’ve been made so many promises, starting at the treaty level [and leading to] people saying, ‘We’re gonna come in and do these projects.’”
, a retired Army Ranger, redesigned an atmospheric water generator (AWG) machine in 2015 to provide safe drinking water to people across the United States. The AWG works by . It cools humid air until the water transforms from a gas to condensation. It then filters the condensation. The final product is clean, drinkable water. Each machine , depending on its size. It can produce water from the atmosphere in regions with humidity as low as 20%.
West created the to bring sustainable clean water solutions around the world. The nonprofit collects financial donations to help build and supply AWGs to populations affected by water crises. He has used his AWG machine in both Flint and Jackson, and he was also part of relief efforts following Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico, where he supplied . “He was helping a lot of people,” Mays says. “We have had really awesome people like Moses come and actually listen to people saying what we need, and [then respond by saying,] ‘We have this that can possibly help.’”
However, the AWG is a short-term solution. Ultimately, fixing the water crises in Flint, Jackson, the Navajo Nation, and other places will require systemic investment at every level. Home filtration systems provide an alternative solution for residents in Flint and Jackson. Still, it is a costly undertaking to ensure each home keeps a working system and replacement filters. In both cities, the permanent solution—digging up and replacing all the city’s pipes—will take time and money. In much the same way, building a permanent water system on the cavernous Navajo land will require a huge federal expenditure. Another potential solution is to dig and create private water wells. In 2021, the EPA estimated that . The addition of sustainable, eco-friendly water wells could provide clean, drinkable water to urban neighborhoods.
In the meantime, though, Robbins says anyone can help. The work isn’t easy, but it’s rewarding. “We’re not like unicorns,” she says. “There’s so many people out there who are serving their communities. And I think that’s so important, because it’s like, people are stepping up. It’s very hard. Not only the politics or the structure of things, but [the work] is difficult. So I always just want to shout out other people who are doing this work.”
Nearly a year after the Jackson water crisis began, Davis is still housing cases of unused water at the lodge. The Order of the Eastern Star accepted donations from several other states for weeks—even after water was restored for local residents. The annex where the initial donations were housed sits empty now, but she has a stockpile in an office next door. Other officers have discussed dispensing it, but Davis decided to hold for the next crisis. “When it happens the next time, we will be ready.”