“Have you also learned that secret from the river; that there is no such thing as time? That the river is everywhere at the same time, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the current, in the ocean and in the mountains, everywhere and that the present only exists for it, not the shadow of the past nor the shadow of the future.”
― Hermann Hesse
I am fifteen and playing fast pitch softball on the varsity team in rural Oklahoma. My coach thrusts a white paper cup in my hand while lecturing us on the body’s need for water after heavy physical activity. “You girls keep drinking more soda and Gatorade instead of water during practice and you’re gonna end up at the hospital. Water’s what you need and I’m gonna check that you’re all drinking enough, so you better get used to it.” I stare at the brown, room-temperature liquid making the cup mushy in my hand and make eye contact with our shortstop (who snarls) and then the catcher. She shakes her head and drinks a bit. No one argues, but I think about it. I take a deep breath and then drink the entire cup in one gulp, making a face at the aftertaste. Brown-tinted water cannot be any better than something that comes in a plastic bottle. Coach nods when he sees my empty cup and turns away to talk to the pitcher. I twist the top off my bottle of soda and take a short swig just to cover up the dirt flavor still on my teeth.
A decade later, I live in the New Mexico desert. My red water bottle becomes an appendage, and I graciously support every restaurant in the city that offers a refill of ice water. By then, most families and businesses can afford water filtration systems, even here in the border region. None of the water I drink smells or tastes like sulfur, not even the stuff from public water fountains. The only time the water is cloudy is when someone has added limón to the water pitcher or my glass. Flavored or not, I drink the water. I cannot get enough. The aridness of the region paired with the altitude gives many people severe dehydration. College students from other places find themselves ill and hooked up to an IV for days. I calculate how much water I must imbibe if I want to spend the night at a bar and not get sick the next day. Both alcohol and carbonation speed the dehydration process, and I am fond of Long Island Iced Teas. I drink two glasses of water for each cocktail, one for each cheap beer. The nearest Indian Health Clinic is more than an hour away from my apartment and my car will not make that mountainous trip east. Even the student health services on campus charge for aiding those with dehydration. There are far too many cases for them not to charge. For a while, I stop drinking soda and alcohol completely. I drink more water. I cannot afford to get sick. The nagging headaches I had felt since the first week of desert living subsided. When friends are at my apartment, I start passing out glasses of water to everyone who doesn’t travel with a water bottle. I drink water every time I hear of someone becoming severely dehydrated, whether I am thirsty or not.
“I cannot believe you drank that nasty water,” says the shivering brunette standing next to me. I am almost thirty and stand in the back of a large hunger awareness event in DC talking with other activists. One of the elements of the event is a lottery dinner ticket that gives you one of three dinner options based on the given social status for that ticket. The majority of tickets belonged in the poverty level dinner category—which involve a small portion of rice with a cup of “polluted” water (a pitcher of filtered water with a bit of coffee grounds added to make the water appear brown). Everyone who has those tickets leaves their water behind, choosing instead to be parched for a bit or to beg for clear water from the other banquet tables. I have been lucky with my ticket, giving me better food options and a variety of unpolluted drinks. I quietly take a cup of the polluted water instead, thinking no one is paying attention. A fellow organizer takes my picture while I’m picking up the glass, watches me drink, and waits for the discussion portion of the event to ask me about it in front of everyone. Apparently, I am the only one ever to drink the polluted water at one of these events. I am asked why I chose to do this—especially since I had a variety of healthy options available with my ticket. I look down into a familiar fifteen-year-old mushy paper cup full of brown water and then scan the room full of strangers.
I talk of growing up with rust-colored water in the times before Brita filters and inexpensive bottled spring water. I mention never buying clothes that were white if there were darker choices, how boiling before drinking became an ingrained habit whether a boil water advisory was in effect or not. I remember covering up the smell of sulfur from the shower with baby powder, spray deodorant, or cologne. Water—fresh and clear or smelly and dirty—was still necessary every day. Everyone becomes thirsty. Everyone has to wash. I feel alone, the only Okie in a crowded room of primarily affluent activists. It seemed I was the only one who knew firsthand there was water that came out from pipes unclear. This was before viral fracking water videos started making the internet rounds, the news reports on the Flint water supply, before the Keystone pipeline project, or any coverage of the Navajo Nation water contamination. I ask why wouldn’t I drink this water, knowing that the water was filtered, knowing that we are the ones that polluted the clear water in this way to make some sort of point. I grow quiet and stare into the cup again. I feel old, like an elder telling elementary age kids about the days before cell phones and computers. I think of the amount of waste this event has accrued—an event meant to bring discussion about unequal resources. I end by saying that brown water reminds me of home, how far I have travelled, and the work that is still ahead.
I am thirty-six now and living in Northern New Mexico. I wake up to news of a 5.8 earthquake in my home state (a record breaker) and grim reports from the DAPL protests in Standing Rock, North Dakota. Earthquakes have grown to a daily occurrence back home. There are so many, in fact, that a website counts each one and keeps track of the magnitude. It’s 7 a.m. right now and there’s already been twelve quakes today. Sixty earthquakes in the past seven days. One hundred ninety three earthquakes in the past month. Almost two thousand five hundred earthquakes in the past year. All just in Oklahoma. No doubt this information will be completely outdated when you read this. Check now. Check again later. The state commission calls for a shut down of several disposal wells located close to the fault line of the largest quake in our state’s history. Less than half of the ones identified as dangerous are actually halted by the time I finished this draft.
In North Dakota, pipeline workers deliberately target tribal gravesites and sacred spaces with their construction equipment. Security guards attack tribal members who try to stop the workers with pepper spray and vicious dogs. The dogs and their handlers attack unarmed children, men, and women without discretion—leaving many in need of medical care and sending some to the hospital. Not one of the victims were trying to damage equipment. No one was threatening harm to the security agent. The tribal members were just trying to stop the desecration of their dead. Even the presence of news reporters and video cameras did not deter the hired guards from acting violently. A couple hours later and the only associated press article in circulation is an item focusing on the minor injury incurred by one of the dogs. No mention of the hospitalized humans. No mention of the purposeful gravesite demolition. More news sites are picking up the story, but many are inaccurate and include quotes from authorities who were not at the event. Not a single guard has been arrested for harming peaceful people.
I try not to cry. My eyes open on a dark day full of the signs of (constant) battle. I spend the day with depression, tired of receiving such bad news. The only good from both situations is there were no fatalities. Yet. It is hard to leave the house, hard to check the news again. I continue to boil my water and get more filters. It is hard to face how little the world cares about tribal people, about our water, about the country’s safety, about the future. Oil and gas prices seem to be the main concern. Sometimes it’s hard to find reasons to wake up. If my eyes are open, there are new pictures of an oil spill, rig failure, water contamination, state of emergency, petroleum-covered wildlife, water rights lawsuit. If my eyes are closed, I dream of anaconda-sized black snakes sluggishly covering riverbeds and rolling about lake shores. The oil industry is in a timeless loop of destruction that I do not know how to break. I only know I cannot afford to be sick. I drink more water.