A typical summer day in Los Angeles, we imagine perpetually sunny skies and palm trees swaying in the breeze. This is certainly the experience you’d have if you visited Silver Lake, a wealthy suburb where the median household income is more than $98,000 a year and the community is predominantly white. You’d be able to enjoy the summer heat, because the hilly streets are adorned with mature trees that offer cooling shade. 

One mile away in East Hollywood, this experience would be entirely different. On a day when surface temperatures in Silver Lake averaged 96.4 degrees, they averaged 102.7 degrees in East Hollywood. In the predominantly Latino and Asian area, the median household income is less than $27,000 a year. Unlike Silver Lake, East Hollywood is characterized by older, multi-story apartment buildings and has less than one-third of the tree cover found in Silver Lake. 

Climate change is turning the heat up during California summers with an increase in the occurrence and intensity of heat waves. The impacts are far from uniform. While there has been growing scholarship on vulnerability to extreme heat, a recent study done by C.J. Cabbe of Santa Clara University and Gregory Pierce of the University of California, Los Angeles looked specifically at residents of subsidized housing. Their research reveals a disturbing reality: low-income households living in subsidized housing are most vulnerable to extreme heat. This is especially relevant because heat is currently the leading cause of weather-related deaths in the United States. 

What does it mean to be vulnerable to climate change?

Climate change affects everyone’s lives, especially our health. However, the severity with which individuals experience negative health impacts from climate change largely depends on their ability to acclimate to the stressors imposed by climate change. More vulnerable people may lack infrastructure, healthcare access, and economic stability to cope with or adapt. Often those living in subsidized housing have preexisting conditions, such as age, gender, or disability, that make them more vulnerable to climate change.

What is subsidized housing? And who lives in subsidized housing?

Subsidized housing provides low-income families with affordable places to live. Through various programs like Section 8 vouchers and the Low-Income Housing Tax Credit (LIHTC), the government assists these families by covering a portion of the rent. In addition to low-income families, subsidized housing often serves elderly and disabled individuals living on fixed incomes, homeless individuals and families, as well as veterans. 

What does the research show?

The research reveals a harsh reality: a disproportionate share of Californians with low incomes living in subsidized housing reside in neighborhoods that are hotter, have more heat-sensitive populations, and have a harder time adapting to changes in the climate. Part of the reason these predominantly Black, Asian, and Latino neighborhoods are more likely to live in hotter areas is deeply intertwined with historical injustices, such as racism that saddled their neighborhoods with industrial facilities and freeways instead of parks and green spaces. 

The research points out three key built-environment factors that affect a resident’s ability to adapt to extreme heat: 

1). County-level percentage of households with air conditioning.

2). Extent of tree canopy coverage. 

3). Area of impervious surfaces, such as pavements that are covered by materials like asphalt, concrete, brick, stone—and rooftops.

The availability of central AC is directly associated with better health outcomes, however, it is also often too expensive to operate or is inaccessible to low-income residents. During heat waves, when indoor temperatures exceed outdoor temperatures and persist into the night because of the heat the buildings absorb, those living in older, less insulated homes without access to air conditioning are at  high risk.

In “urban heat islands,” which refer to cities that have dense concentrations of pavement, buildings, and other surfaces that absorb and retain heat, there are strategies to lessen the threat.  Urban greening, using lighter-colored paving and roofs, and planting more trees for canopy coverage all help. However, communities of color and subsidized housing neighborhoods disproportionately suffer from extensive pavement and a lack of greenery and shade. Remember Silver Lake and East Hollywood? They exemplify what researchers have coined “thermal inequity.” 

Cities have options to address these thermal inequities.  Urban forestry initiatives in subsidized housing neighborhoods can be prioritized by local governments. Cities can encourage solar-reflective roofs and pavement, and increase permeable paving. Additionally, state and federal programs can retrofit existing housing and mitigate extreme heat in new subsidized developments. 

Enhancing housing quality and expanding green spaces are not just solutions to climate change. They are life-saving measures that pave the way for a more equitable and sustainable future for all Californians. By addressing the disparities in climate vulnerability and building resilience in marginalized communities, California can take a significant step towards ensuring that the Golden State remains a land of dreams for everyone, regardless of their socioeconomic background.

Last year, a lot of my friends thought about doing a senior thesis project. I contemplated doing one myself, thinking about ways that I could combine themes from my majors in Anthropology and Environmental Studies at  Wellesley College. 

I remembered discussing the work of Anthropologist Heather Paxson in one of my anthropology classes. Her book The Life of Cheese focused on Paxson’s visits to specialty cheese makers and the way they used different bacteria cultures to make their cheeses. 

Paxson’s book is an example of multispecies ethnography. That is to say, a work that discusses culture with respect to more than human influences. In the case of Paxson’s book, the focus was on the relationships between the cheesemakers and the bacteria used to make the cheese.

Multispecies ethnography opened my eyes to other types of ethnographies, narratives written about different cultures. To me, this was a way I could merge my fields of interest. Multispecies ethnography would allow me to focus on culture in a broader sense, a culture that involves more than the human as an actor.

There was one thing missing.

What other species would be in my multispecies ethnography? 

The question of my Professor echoing, what’s at stake? 

What would be the purpose of me doing this research?

And how might I pull off such a project in the midst of an ongoing pandemic?

All semester long I wracked my brain, trying to answer these questions. Eventually I decided to stop trying so hard all by myself, and look to others to see if I could find some answers. 

I ended up doing an interview with a graduating senior. We spent three hours walking around campus talking about their perceptions of the concept of nature, their relationship to food, and their relationship to places on campus.

Fast forward a few months later and I was a summer intern with the Paulson Ecology of Place Initiative at Wellesley College, an on-campus program that supports students in developing a sense of place and connection to nature. 

The first day of the internship, we started off by getting to know a tree in the Botanic Gardens. Blindfolded, another intern led me to hug a tree: I felt the texture of the bark, the directions of its branches, the shape of its leaves. I then used these sensory details to search out my tree, once I had returned to the starting point and my blindfold removed. After some debrief about our tree meetings, we went inside to discuss safety concerns for the summer.

The interns were tasked with researching things we should watch out for, like poison ivy which could be a potential danger to us when outside. When we started discussing how to identify ticks, one of the interns pointed to something moving on the table.

In the blink of a minute, our facilitator stuck the moving thing between some scotch tape, which  we passed around. It was a deer tick! It hitched a ride on one of the other interns during their tree meeting.

We continued discussing how to safely remove ticks. Each of the interns received a tick key that would help remove these little beings from our bodies. We talked about the importance of tick checks throughout the summer, and how if there was a tick on us for more than 24 hours, we could be at risk for Lyme Disease.

Lyme Disease has symptoms like headaches, fever, and skin rash. If left untreated, it can infect joints, the heart, and the nervous system. Pretty scary. 

I remember coming back to the tree I met later in the summer, laying a blanket on the grass to sit on, and then picking up the blanket to find over 10 ticks on the other side. My own fear of these insects definitely was instilled with knowledge of their impact, but I think all they would want from me would be to feed on my blood. 

These summer moments were when I realized how interspecies relationships could have such a significant impact on humans. There are such intense health impacts from crossing paths with these tiny bacteria-spreading bugs that we call ticks. 

Well, at least now I know what’s at stake.

As the New England air grows colder, the tension and stress on my college campus is palpable. Our semester is drawing to a close, bringing me and my fellow seniors that much closer to the looming, unknown future. 

Despite my fear of the daunting task of being an adult, I find that speaking to people in the workforce is surprisingly comforting. They know the struggles of the job search, and many started out in wildly different places than they are now. My conversation with Lauren Owens Lambert revealed that she is no exception. A freelance visual journalist with a focus on the environment, Lauren and I discussed how she got to where she is now and the importance of visual imagery in storytelling. 

Masterful at multiple mediums, Lauren makes videos or pieces together photographs to create visual essays; illuminating intimate details typically unseen by the average person. Though she holds the camera, Lauren’s visual work provides space for her subject to share their own story, in their own voice. Featuring crowds of fish traveling through murky waters or fishermen sitting at the water’s edge, each voice helps to reveal environmental controversies previously unknown to many.

Enthralled by nature at a young age, Lauren knew she wanted to pursue a career in the environmental field. In college, drawn to find a creative outlet for her interest, she found herself working for the publication Planet. There, it “wasn’t about composition or wasn’t about technical photography, it was about visual storytelling”

With a keen eye, Lauren captures stories about conservation and human action in the age of the anthropocene. She has partnered with groups such as the Audubon Society and many more to educate and raise awareness about the importance of the environment and how we humans treat it. Communicating these intangible and distant struggles to a broader audience allows the viewer to recognize their own role within the environment and contextualize their personal experiences.

Through Lauren’s unbiased lens, viewers are exposed to a variety of issues and causes. Documenting the daily life of otherwise invisible Americans, she helps share their story with a broader audience. Photographs of turtle rescuers or Boston Harbor’s workforce reveal the day to day life of people combating environmental changes and degradation. 

People, Lauren asserts, inherently have an impact on those around us and the broader world. The human aspect of stories is what draws us in. We want to learn more and understand how other people exist in the world. Learning about the personal stories of a fisherman humanizes the otherwise intangible impacts of global warming and sea level rise. Lauren identifies her role as a visual journalist as particularly well positioned to expose issues of climate change. Afterall, “we’re very visual creatures”. 

Though primarily motivated by her own excitement, Lauren’s audience still plays a

significant role when developing her projects. Assuming that the audience “know[s] nothing… helps you clarify the project”. This mindset pushes her to establish a well rounded foundation of information to ensure the viewer understands the story that is being

 communicated. She offers: “they might not even know the salt marsh sparrow exists!”

I, for one, did not know the salt marsh sparrow existed!

As technology and visual media become more and more prevalent in our daily life, we are exposed to a broader range of information. Though it is easier to disseminate this content, it becomes more difficult to galvanize action against climate change. Despite this, Lauren hopes to use her platform and visual imagery to help the public move in a more sustainable direction. 

Lauren’s advancements in the professional visual world are inspiring. Her passion for her craft and her desire to share stories about the environment is evident throughout her public work and she is still so excited to learn more and show more. I hope that I, like Lauren, can chase what excites me while creating an impact through visual storytelling.

Photo: U.S. EPA

When does a town cease to be a town? Is it when the last resident passes away or moves out, or when public services like water and power stop running? Some towns die when industry leaves. Picher, Oklahoma started to die as soon as industry arrived.

Tar Creek is the 2009 documentary that tells the story of Picher and Cardin, modern-day ghost towns within the 1,188 square mile Tar Creek Superfund site. The 73-minute film features compelling interviews with residents who lived through the lead poisoning by mining companies that led to the towns’ demise and the cleanup attempts by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) that couldn’t save them.

The documentary was narrated, written, and directed by Matt Myers, who first experienced life in Picher in 1998 as part of a summer surveying job. Myers began development on the film in 2006, still gripped by the stories he heard from residents years ago.

Why care about this movie from twelve years ago? The Tar Creek Superfund site is still there. In the decades since people realized that this place was dangerous, the danger hasn’t been addressed. This documentary isn’t just a history lesson. It’s about the present and a possible future that we need to avoid for every town that extractive industry touches, not just for Picher.

Displacement is a theme throughout Tar Creek. It begins with the displacement of the Quapaw Tribe, who occupied land across much of southern Oklahoma and Arkansas before a colonial smallpox epidemic left only 135 survivors out of an estimated 35,000 tribal members.

These survivors were forced off of their homelands and into the corner of Oklahoma that is home to Tar Creek. The reservation allotted to the Quapaw was viewed by the government as worthless land.

That changed at the start of the twentieth century, when white settlers found lead deposits. The Quapaw were forced into lease agreements with mining companies.  If individuals didn’t comply, they were declared incompetent by the Department of the Interior, and their land turned over to the Department for management. When this hostile takeover happened, it was almost always to Quapaw with deep ties to the tribal community and with valuable mineral deposits in their land.

In the 1960’s, once mining companies devoured the metals found under Picher, they left. The damage they left behind is visible everywhere.  Mountains of lead-rich waste rock (what the locals call chat piles) tower over the town. The creek, full of residual metals, looks like “orange blood.” Abandoned mineshafts are so unstable and so close to the surface that Picher is on the verge of sinking into the earth at any moment.

In 1983, Tar Creek was declared a Superfund site by the EPA, one of the first to earn the designation. The Superfund is a pool of money administered by the EPA to support cleanup of environmental hazards when no other party can be held responsible. Because the mining companies that doomed Picher had since gone bankrupt, they couldn’t be brought back to clean up their mess. Some residents point to Superfund designation as the last nail in Picher’s coffin. “You just don’t bounce back from it,” said John Sparkman, former executive director of the Picher Housing Authority.

The EPA’s efforts were divided between remediating surface water and surface soil. Whole yards were excavated, with lead-heavy soils replaced with clay. While the clay didn’t contain lead, it created new problems for Picher residents. Clay was a nightmare for drainage and caused homes to flood.

In addition to creating more problems, The EPA’s costly attempts at remediation also didn’t resolve the real sources of danger in Tar Creek. The chat piles still combined with strong prairie winds to blow lead across the community, including on top recently excavated yards. Even after the EPA left, mineshafts caved in and swallowed homes whole.

Sparkman bitterly recalls taking EPA officials for a drive up to one of the largest chat piles, asking if they honestly thought the problem could be solved quickly. One official’s confident reply: “I’ll be able to retire here.”

After decades of failed attempts to make Picher a safe place to live, residents were bought out, and homes were demolished. James Graves, who had lived in Picher all his life, sledded down toxic chat piles as a child, and worked in the mines for years, called his hometown a “horrible, horrible place” while looking up toward the summit of a chat pile.

In the 12 years since Tar Creek’s release, some of what Myers predicted for Picher’s future has come to pass. The rusty water of Tar Creek is on the move downstream toward Grand Lake, a drinking water reservoir. Myers suggested that as those with influence and money saw their summer homes’ property values threatened on the shores of Grand Lake, they might finally take appropriate action to remediate Tar Creek.

Whether remediation at Tar Creek and other Superfund sites is finally successful will depend on the EPA’s priorities and funding, which ultimately depend on political will. As the Biden administration proposes a 21.3% boost to the EPA’s budget next year, there may be hope. Picher may no longer be home for its former residents, but with the right investment of resources, it could cease to be a hazard for homes downstream.

More broadly, Tar Creek is what we get when we prioritize metal extraction over our environment and our neighbors. In a world where we use metals in everything from construction to consumer goods, what has happened in Tar Creek is a tragic but unsurprising warning to us all.

Tar Creek is available to stream for free on Culture Unplugged. If you have an hour, Tar Creek stands as a worthy memorial for a community.