The Great River: An Appalachian Contemplation of Fear and Hope for the Ohio River
By Sebrena Williamson
I lived on the Ohio River my entire life, yet could never touch it. I like to think that it is one of my life’s greatest ironies. It has shaped me in profound ways, in soft ways, and my desire to rectify it is embedded in my life’s objective.
From the time I was 4, I was inextricably tied to the water. I could swim in the deep end of the pool by 5, and began white water rafting at 8. I even grew a love for fishing, mostly out of desire to be near water. I would say it was a fascination with water, but it felt much more divine than that. In the most simplest terms, my love for water was both physiological and a spiritual — a need and drive engrained into my cellular make-up. But, as life would have it, my love for the water created a lot of trouble in my childhood. One specific instance stands out in my mind. When I was 5 years old, I snuck off to a nearby creek with my best friend at my brother’s baseball game— even though I was told not to. My mother was righteously furious, and I did not understand why; I had swam in deeper water than the creek many times before and survived. She wasn’t afraid of me drowning.
She was afraid of the very water itself.
Looking back on that day, I can very clearly recall my mother yelling “You don’t know what’s in that water!” It was one of the first times I was afraid of water, but not one of the last. My grandmother and father continued to make me anxious about the Ohio River — the river we could see from our house, the river my elementary school sat beside, the river that was central to our community. From the time I was a little girl, my father warned me about the chemical waste in the water. If I tried to put my feet in the water while fishing, my father would become uncharacteristically unrelenting and stern. Well, he was right; In 2015, the EPA stated that the Ohio River is one of the most polluted rivers in the U.S., and some have placed its pollution levels worse than the Mississippi. Because the Ohio flows through several industrial hubs, factory upon factory is positioned on it. From the Rust Belt in the Midwest to Chemical Valley in Appalachia, the Ohio River serves as a dumping ground for several types of chemical waste. As a result, the communities who live near or on her banks cannot eat the fish from the river, trust the tap water, or even dip their feet in the water for fear of contamination.
After becoming heavily invested in environmental studies of the Appalachian region, I have realized that fear of water is a shared trauma. Nearly every community in West Virginia has been impacted by some sort of industrial disaster or pollution. In our region, we have experienced chemical spills, coal slurry floods, incremental mining pollution, and a general lack of maintenance. If it’s a chemical spill, 300,000 people might lose drinking water. If it’s not a chemical spill, it might be a coal slurry flood in which 80% of the population is left homeless in the aftermath; and the other 20% who have their homes might be forced to live with highly contaminated water and air for several years to come. If it’s not a chemical spill or a coal slurry flood, it might be a lack of tap water within your area from lack of maintenance. If it’s not any of those, it might just be plain incremental pollution.
For many, it is the air from mountaintop mining clogging our system with disease, or chemical waste making its way from tap water to our veins. In an interview from EHN, many discuss the effects of mountain top mining on the Ohio River. BarbiAnn Maynard, a resident of Kentucky, states:
“That one — dementia. This one — dementia. That one over there — dementia. My dad — dementia. You can’t tell me that’s not because of the water.”
Maynard’s instincts were unfortunately right. A study from 2019 found that West Virginians who live in Mountaintop mining areas are more likely to develop Dementia and Alzheimer’s. In mountaintop mining, atmospheric particulate matter (APM) is released into to air and water — meaning little, microscopic pieces of mountain find their way into our water, air, and ultimately our body. APM has not only been tied to dementia, but overall cognitive decline. Aside from dementia, studies have found that mountain-top mining is also linked to increased birth defects, respiratory diseases, and cardiovascular diseases within in the region. Because of this, West Virginia and Kentucky lead the country in cancer cases.
While I could write a book on the dangers of Appalachia’s water (and maybe one day I might just do that), it’s the love of water starkly contrasted with a rightful distrust of water that strikes deep. West Virginia has world class white water rafting, extraordinary rivers, and unique fishing traditions. Yet, all of these treasures are interrupted by a deep, intergenerational anxiety of water. I have always looked at the Ohio and seen it’s beauty, even while knowing exactly what its depths hold. Holding its beauty while knowing its state is one of the strangest pains I have ever experienced, and it is a pain so odd and deep that it transcends language.
While my relationship with water has always felt internal it personal, it extends beyond me. Perhaps the irony is not all mine to keep, and the thought gives me some solace and some anguish. As a whole, Appalachians are very spiritually tied to the land, yet are often not allowed to touch it, love it, or protect it. For a region that is so wild and wonderful, we are often restrained to fulfill our greatest desire. Outside of our region, I know there are others that face this bitter dilemma. Our phenomenon is a crisis well known by Midwest communities like Flint, those who experienced wildfires on the West-coast, and most importantly, the multitude of Indigenous cultures who have suffered so much in this exact way and that continue to suffer in this way. While there is anguish in me that so many face the same and worse in other areas, the solace is that we are together. As Appalachians continue to deem corporate behaviors and routines unacceptable, we become a better region and a better ally. There is no need to accept a terrible irony — in the Appalachian region, or elsewhere.
