suzanneelstonanactivistsstoryehomemakers - helping people help themselves

8/7/2019 SuzanneElstonAnActivistsStoryeHomemakers - Helping People Help Themselves

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ENVIRONMENT & SOCIO-ECONOMIC ISSUES: FeatureArticles

An Activist's Story

A dozen years ago, I was a newmother living in a strange new worldcalled the country. When I had firstmarried my husband, two yearsearlier, I had left the security of mytrendy beaches apartment for hisfamily's homestead some 60kilometres east of Toronto. Like me,Brian had been an urban dwelleruntil his mother told him that shecould no longer manage herdeceased mother's home . Ratherthan sell it to a stranger, he boughtthe property and began the processof making it inhabitable by modernstandards. By the time we weremarried, our 1827 farmhouse hadbecome a warm little haven that only

required the addition of smallchildren to make it complete.Once our first son was born, Ibegan the process of baby-proofing our home . My initialconcern was for his indoorenvironment. But as his ability tomove around expanded, so did mygaze. I learned what plants on ourproperty were a potential dangerto our curious young son andexactly how long it would takehim to reach the end of our 100

metre driveway.The next logical step was to lookat the safety and security of myown community. For me, thatmeant examining the potentialimpact of the Darlington NuclearGenerating Station, located justfive kilometres from our home .The more questions I raised aboutnuclear issues, the less secure Ifelt, but I kept my concerns tomyself until the summer of 1986.

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It was to be, I discovered later, apivotal time for many people whowould eventually becomecommunity leaders in theenvironmental movement. It mayhave been the explosion atChernobyl, only months before,that sent a resounding wake-upcall to the souls of so many. Or itmay have simply been an ideawhose time had finally come. Forme it started with a simplyrequest.

A family in our congregation askedif we would visit their farm afterchurch. When we arrived, wewere taken for a tour of abeautiful century home that hadbeen lovingly restored. Thesurrounding barns andoutbuildings were immaculate.Their fields, heavy with thebounty of the season, swayedgently in the late summer sun.

Their neighbor's farm was equallybeautiful. A pristine white barnstood between the rolling hills andthe herd of gleaming black andwhite Holsteins that grazedpeacefully in the lush green field.God was in his heaven, and allwas at peace with the world.

My pure joy was interrupted by asimple statement: "This farm hasbeen expropriated for a nuclearwaste dump".

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. The invitation to visit bothfarms had been a desperateattempt to make others see whattheir owners already knew. Thisplace, these farms, were far tooprecious to be destroyed foreverby the scourge of a nuclear waste

facility.A few weeks later, I found myself standing in the pouring rain withseveral hundred others outsidethe gates of the low-levelradioactive waste dump at PortGranby. After decades of promises, the federal governmenthad finally agreed to clean up thesite. The solution was to move thewaste to another, safer facility.The farms that we had visited in

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Tyrone were only a few of thesites that had been selected as apotential location.

As we arrived at the dump, eachone of us donned a black armbandmade of crepe paper. When thespeeches ended, we were askedto tie our soggy bands of protestto the chain-link fence that

surrounded the facility. As therain turned the paper into mush,the color ran down the fence intiny rivers of dark, blood red.

Something stirred deep inside me.Our second child had only begunto grow inside my body weeksbefore, and yet now it seemed hewould share my very being withanother life force. I had alwayshad a strong sense of socialjustice, but this was beyond myreasoning. A voice that hadremained silent for far too longspoke to my spirit, demandingaction.

I carried home with me a leafletthat had been distributed by afledging anti-nuclear group.Despite my inner urgings, it tookseveral days to work up thecourage to call. When I finally did,I discovered that the group,known as Durham NuclearAwareness (DNA), had only justbegun to get organized. One of itsfounding members, Jeff Brackett,came to our home and talkedpassionately about the need forcommunity involvement. Hisconcern, like mine, had grown outof his concern for his family. Whatwas so remarkable about Jeff washis incredibly shy, quiet manner.If this man could become anactivist and put his personalprivacy on the line, then I could,

too.From the very start, it felt like wewere doing something dangerous.Here we were, a group of housewives and pacifists, takingon an issue that no one was eventalking about - let alonechallenging. It was exciting. Thetruth was that I was getting alittle bored with the stay-at- homeroutine, and longed for a littleexcitement. Taking on Ontario

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Hydro and the nuclearestablishment was just the kind of David and Goliath battle I waslooking for, and I could do it fromthe safety of my own living room.

I made phone calls, read all theinformation I could get my handson and attended local meetings.Our first task was to draw

attention to Ontario Hydro's planto transport tritiated heavy waterfrom the Pickering and Brucenuclear stations along Highway401 to a new Tritium RemovalFacility that was being built atDarlington. We lobbied localgovernments to ban the transportthrough their communities.Although our efforts wereunsuccessful, we gained a great of knowledge about how to organize,write media releases and get

press coverage.As a kid my mother always saidthat I never had a shy bone in mybody. Later on, as a youngwoman, I had spent several yearsas the lead singer in a bar band.Although the experience seemedrather meaningless at the time, asI assumed my new role asactivist/mother, I realized that myability to deal with bright lightsand rowdy crowds would come in

very handy.When the first opportunity cameto do an on-camera interview, Iwas ready. I was about sixmonths pregnant, but the cameraangle made it look like I wasabout to give birth at any second.Unaware of exactly how much of me would be included in thepicture, I had tucked my handsup under my heavy belly forsupport. The result was quite

compelling. Here was this sweetlooking young mother, obviouslyheavy with child and concern,pleading for the safety of hercommunity.

The day before our second sonwas born, I attended a meetingabout emergency planning. I wasexperiencing one of those burst of energy that women get shortlybefore giving birth. I'd been housebound for about three weeks, and































desperately needed to get out. Mybelly was so big that when I triedto parallel park the car, I gotstuck. I can still remember onewoman who was heading into themeeting standing on the sidewalkyelling at me. She asked me if Iwas pregnant or just plain stupid.When I finally waddled out of thecar, her angry scowl quickly

turned into a belly laugh.When I finally got into themeeting I met Irene Kock,another of the founding membersof DNA. She had been busyworking in Toronto at the office of Nuclear Awareness Project (DNA),the parent group that hadspawned DNA. It becameapparent that Durham was wherethe action was, so together withher partner in life and concern,

Dave Martin, the NAP office wascombined with DNA and moved toa small office in Oshawa .

I think Irene is one of the reasonsI have continued my commitmentto DNA over the years. She iseverything that I have everaspired to be: bright, focused,hard working, incredibly wellorganized and independent. Herfriendship has often fired my owncommitment when I felt I had

little left to give.Little would I know back then thatmy involvement with DNA wouldnot only change my life and how Iview the world, but it would alsohave a profound affect on myfamily. From nuclear wastedumps, my concern grew toinclude all aspects of environmental protection includingwaste management, recycling,incineration and public health.

Along the way I was threatened,ridiculed and ignored. Butthousands of hours of unpaidwork have resulted in small,gratifying changes that haveconvinced me that one individualcan make a difference.

Two years after my second sonwas born I had becomeoverwhelmed with the demandson my time. Our phone rangconstantly with questions about





everything from how we couldexpand the blue box program inour community to evacuationplans in the event of a nuclearaccident. Late night meetings,letter writing and organizing hadpushed me to the end of myphysical limits. I ended up withpneumonia and a little time onmy hands to re-assess exactly

what I was trying to accomplish.It was my husband who firstreasoned that if so many peoplewere desperate for informationabout the environment, there hadto be a more effective way tomake it available. It was his ideafor me to approach our localnewspapers about writing anenvironmental 'Dear Abby' columnwhere people could send in theirquestions.

I had always wanted to become awriter, so with a lot more nervethan talent, I painstakinglydrafted two sample columns andsubmitted them to my localnewspaper. When the editor calledto tell me I had a job, I wasecstatic until reality set in. Thefirst shock came when Idiscovered that I would be paidthe grand sum of $ 25 percolumn. The second was when I

realized that I didn't have a cluewhat I was going to write abouteach week.

Self-doubt can be an amazingmotivator. I wrote great volumeseach week that were lovingly andsurgically edited by my husband.There were times when my writingwas so bad he'd have no ideawhat I was trying to say. I'd getangry and start yelling that hewas stupid if he didn't get it. I

start explaining to him whatexactly it was I had written andhe'd quietly say, "Great, nowwrite that down!"

The idea snowballed. Within a fewshort months I was writing aweekly environment column,appropriately titled 'Your Earth',for a half dozen southern Ontariopapers. In addition, I wasfrequently being used by myeditors as an environmental





consultant and helped to expandmy column to a full page of environmental coverage eachweek. Papers have come andgone over the years, thanksmostly to the volatile nature of the business, but I continue towrite for several newspapers. Thebad news is that columnists rarelyget paid well for their work.

Financially, my new foundprofession did little more thancover my direct costs like longdistance, printing and postage.

It was shortly after my columnhad become established that Iwas approached by the OntarioAdvisory Council on Women'sIssues to write a book for their'Action on Issues' series. Onceagain I felt like I had bitten off more than I could chew. A weekly

column was one thing, but writingan entire book was beyond mycapabilities. I sweated; I sworeand fought with my husbandwhen my writing was unclear orunfocused.

When I finally submitted the finaldraft, I became a victim of myown success. I originally had beenasked to submit a 100-pagedocument. Unfortunately, a bookof this size would have to be

bound, which would push printingcosts up. If I could cut it down toa 60-page booklet, they coulddouble their print run. Afterpouring my soul into carefullycrafting each sentence, I wasfaced with the job of slashing40% of my work. Although Idreaded it, the editing job wasperhaps one of the best learningexperiences that I have ever had.I learned that no words aresacred, and no matter how good

you think something is, it canalways be improved.

The booklet, when it was finallypublished in the Fall of 1990, wasentitled 'Women & theEnvironment, and was quickly soldout. (Unfortunately, thanks togovernment cutbacks, money wasnever made available for areprint.)

Years passed. DNA emerged in





the community as a driving forcefor community health and nuclearresponsibility. When we firstbegan it was virtually impossibleto get a story in the localnewspapers. Shortly before TheOshawa Times was shutdown, wejokingly suggested that it be re-named the Nuclear Free Pressbecause of the number of stories

that ran about nuclear issues.Today the group is a well-respected voice in the community.Hardly a week goes by when IreneKock or Dave Martin are not beinginterviewed by national and localmedia about one issue or another.Remarkably, the hard workingcore of DNA has remainedconstant at about six individuals.In light of recent successes, ourmotto has become, "Just think

what we could do with a dozenpeople."

The price was high. Volunteerismtakes it toll in many ways,particularly when you are dealingwith such a depressing issue.What is rarely taken intoconsideration is the unevenplaying field that volunteers playon. The polluters we fight havemoney for salaries, traveling,printing and communications. For

a stay-at- home mom, the cost of baby-sitting, long distancescharges and gas expenses wereoften prohibitive.

On a personal level, my healthsuffered. Over the years I havestruggled frequently with bouts of pneumonia and depression,sometimes simultaneously. Myhusband and I have argued overthe cost the rest of our family haspaid for my involvement. Friends

and family have often encouragedme to quit, explaining that it wastime for someone else to pick upthe slack, but there have neverbeen any offers.

I think that part of me is relieved.I sometimes feel like some battledscarred veteran who has earnedthe right to march in theRemembrance Day parade. WhenI started over a dozen years ago,I was young, inexperienced and





naive. Along the way I hadlearned skills that I didn't thinkthat I could ever master. Moreimportantly, I can now list amongmy friends some of the greatspirits of this age - people thattime will remember long after Iam gone. In some ways it feelslike I've tied myself to theimmortality of their deeds.

It hasn't all been struggle. Therehave been wonderful experiencesalong the way. In 1992 I attendedthe Earth Summit in Rio deJaneiro and had my entireparadigm shattered. For the mostpart, the official part of theconference was dull andpredictable. What wasrevolutionary was the 30,000souls that attended The GlobalForum, a parallel conference that

was held for non-governmentalorganizations. Once again, I wasinvited to play with giants. Greatsouls who looked upon me as alike-minded individual. Thatexperience fed my tired soul likesome magical elixir.

The spirit at that conference waspalpable. The air practicallysparkled with the energy andcommitment of the participants.Networks were forged, ideas were

exchanged, and everyone presentgot a very real sense of what'Think globally, Act locally' couldactually mean.

Given my background as an anti-nuclear activist, it was a bit of ashock when I realized that Canadais considered one of the world's'bad guys' when it comes tonuclear proliferation. In thiscountry, and indeed in most of the free world, we are granted

certain rights and freedoms thatallow us to express our concernabout nuclear power and toactively lobby against it. Sadly,this is not so in most of the thirdworld where nuclear stations areconsidered part of the military.Protesting against nuclear powerand/or weapons can be consideredan act of treason, which ispunishable by loss of employment, harassment,





imprisonment or even death.

I returned from Rio with arenewed sense of purpose and amuch broader mandate. Myactivism had begun years agowhen I realized that in order toensure my children's safety I hadto ensure that the big backyard of my community must also be made

safe. I now realized that in orderfor one child to be safe andsecure, all children must begranted the right to a safeenvironment. The world hadbecome too small, and theproblems too complex to ignorethe needs of a single child.

I continued my work withrevitalized passion for anotheryear until I discovered, to mysurprise and delight, that I waspregnant. Carrying a child in myfortieth year was the hardest workthat I have ever done. My unborndaughter seemed to sense this,and to my body's relief, decidedto arrive a little earlier thananticipated. Although five weekspremature, Sarah weighed almostseven pounds and appeared to bein good health. Immature lungdevelopment can be a majorproblem for preemies, but aftertwo days in an incubator, Sarah

seemed fine.The trouble began when shedeveloped a cold a few monthslater. The virus left Sarah with apersistent cough that would notgo away. After weeks of shuttlingher back and forth to our familydoctor, she finally saw a specialistwho immediately admitted herinto the intensive care ward at ourlocal hospital.

The diagnosis was asthma and forthe next two months our worldbecame a nightmare struggle tosave Sarah's life. Continuing tobreast feed her seemed like theone thing that I could do to helpmy baby. I slept in hospitalcorridors and wrote my column onthe back of the nurses' clipboards.In the face of her illness,continuing to write each week wasthe one thing that helped keepmy life sane and predictable. It





forced me to think rationally andin doing so, gave order to theworld that seemed to be fallingapart around me.

Her illness was so bad that forthe first week she was onlyallowed to leave the oxygen tentthat had become her home to benursed. As we watched her

struggle to breathe, we becameparental experts on the diseasethat was threatening her life.Childhood asthma is on adramatic increase in this country,particularly in the Montreal toWindsor corridor. It is notsurprising that this area also hoststhe most badly polluted air inCanada. I was angry. After all thesacrifices, after all the hard work,it was my baby that was strickenwith an illness that could be

directly related to air pollution. Itjust didn't seem fair.

I stayed by Sarah's side night andday while my husband cared forour sons and labored to create asafe haven for her for when shewas able to return home . Thefirst things to go were our oldfurnace and wood stove, followedsadly by our two beloved cats.

By the time her asthma wasunder control a month later,Sarah was on a hefty dose of prednisone. When we tried totake her off the drug, her bodyrebounded, and her tiny brainalmost exploded. One momentshe was lying peacefully in myarms, and the next we wererushing to emergency to save herlife. A series of spinal taps andtwo weeks at the Hospital for SickChildren in Toronto, and we werefinally able to bring our daughter

home .Two months had passed and wewere physical, emotionally andfinancially exhausted. My husbandI were already at the end of ourropes when the contractors wehad hired to replace our oilfurnace neglected to empty the oiltank before they tried to removeit. As they moved it off its base,the weight of the five hundredlitres of fuel oil it still contained





spilt the tank. Despite their bestefforts to clean the mess up, theresidual smell was sooverpowering that our home wasdeemed unfit to live in. WhileSarah and I resided at Sick Kids,my husband and sons moved intothe local Holiday Inn while clean-up crews had to renovate ourhome to make it livable again.

When I look back, it's hard tobelieve that we survived it all inone piece. There were times thatmy husband and I could barelytalk to each other and our twosons understandably becameunsettled and unhappy. But in theend, we came through it all.

The circle was complete. I hadstepped outside my own gardento ensure the safety of mychildren. Now my daughter'sbiggest enemy was our ownhome environment. After twoyears of living with a compressorfour times a day, Sarah wastransferred to inhalers shortlybefore her second birthday.Today, with careful monitoringand constant vigilance, she is ahealthy, thriving little girl.

It was Margaret Mead who oncesaid, "Never doubt that a smallgroup of concerned citizens canchange the world. Indeed, it isthe only thing that ever has." Thegreatest gift of my involvementhas been having the opportunityto count among my friends someof this era's great spirits.Unknown to most, history willrecord their valiant efforts andremember them as the ones whomade the difference. What is soremarkable about theseindividuals is they are, as one

activist said, "Simply ordinarypeople, doing extraordinarythings."

I never had a chance to ask theowners of the farm in Tyrone whythey selected my husband and Ito visit their farm that day. Wewere simply a hard workingcouple, wanting to raise ouryoung family in peace. Butperhaps this is the greatestexample of how one tiny action





can change things. Their simpleinvitation was the catalyst that ledto over a decade of involvementfor me.

It wasn't always easy. When Ibegan, my life was like a babblingbrook, skipping along the riverbedof life, sparkling and bubbling withjoy. In a dozen years, that brook

has deepened and widened into ariver - slow and purposeful. Thespontaneous joy is gone, but ithas been replaced by somethingmuch stronger.

When I've had an opportunityover the years to talk to groupsabout the work I've done, Ialways conclude by saying, "If yousee something that needs to bedone, and find yourself saying,'somebody should do somethingabout that', then chances are,that someone is you." It has beenexciting, frustrating andinspirational work that is neverending. No matter what happens,there is always a reason to getout of bed in the morning.

It is truly within every one of usto make a difference - to protectthis world for future generations.The motive, ultimately, is selfish.For we don't secure the world forour children and our children'schildren. Indeed it is they whosecure ours. For without childrenthere can be no future. Andwithout a future it is all simplydust in the wind.

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