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Flint Fights Back
Urban and Industrial Environments
Series editor: Robert Gottlieb, Henry R. Luce
Professor of Urban and Environmental Policy, Occidental College
For a complete list of books published in this series, please see the back of the book.
Flint Fights Back
Environmental Justice and Democracy in the Flint Water Crisis
Benjamin J. Pauli
The MIT Press
Cambridge, Massachusetts
London, England
© 2019 Massachusetts Institute of Technology
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information
storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book was set in Stone Serif by Westchester Publishing Services. Printed and
bound in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Pauli, Benjamin J., author.
Title: Flint fights back : environmental justice and democracy in the Flint
water crisis / Benjamin J. Pauli.
Description: Cambridge, MA : The MIT Press, 2019. | Series: Urban and
industrial environments | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018037773 | ISBN 9780262039857 (hardcover : alk. paper) |
ISBN 9780262536868 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Environmental justice—Michigan—Flint. | Political
participation—Michigan—Flint. | Water quality management—
Michigan—Flint. | Water quality—Michigan—Flint River. |
Drinking water—Lead content—Michigan—Flint. | Flint (Mich.)—
Environmental conditions. | Flint (Mich.)—Social conditions.
Classification: LCC GE235.M53 P38 2019 | DDC 363.6/10977437—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018037773
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
To Julian,
Flynn,
the children of Flint,
and
everyone touched by the crisis.
Contents
Preface and Acknowledgments
List of Figures and Tables xix
Timeline xxi
Introduction
ix
1
1
Flint First: The Injustice of the Flint Water Crisis
2
How Did It Happen? Two Tales of the Origins
of the Crisis
29
49
3
Poisoned by Policy: The Political Narrative of the Crisis
4
The Pro-Democracy Struggle in Michigan and
the Prehistory of the Water Movement in Flint
5
The Rise of the Water Warriors: Transforming Personal
Troubles into Political Action
6
149
The Water Is (Not) Safe: Expertise, Citizen Science,
and the Science Wars
8
127
Demanding the Impossible: Deliberation and Activism
in the Battle over the River
7
101
179
From Poisoned People to People Power:
Fighting for Justice, Expanding Democracy
Conclusion
255
Notes 259
Selected Bibliography
Index 379
335
223
71
Preface and Acknowledgments
We’re just not the type of people that’s used to being walked on.
—Claire McClinton, “A Democracy Problem”
Long before its water crisis turned it into an international symbol of environmental injustice, Flint, Michigan, was a battered and bruised city. Once
a proud General Motors company town whose residents enjoyed the highest standard of living in the United States, by the turn of the twenty-first
century, Flint had lost tens of thousands of jobs and half of its population
to deindustrialization and white flight. Its rate of violent crime consistently
placed it at or near the top of the list of the most dangerous cities in the
country. A higher proportion of its houses stood vacant than in any other
American city.1 More than 40 percent of its residents lived below the poverty line. Its underperforming public schools struggled to retain students,
an astonishing 68 percent of whom left the district between 2006 and
2015.2 And with an ever-shrinking tax base, it teetered perpetually on the
brink of fiscal crisis, barely able to sustain basic city services.
When I moved with my wife and three-year-old son to Flint in the summer of 2015, I was well aware of the wounds the city had suffered and the
uncertainty that lay in its future. But I saw another side to Flint as well. There
were the thriving cultural institutions, propped up by the philanthropy of
foundations started by former GM executives—an art museum, a performing
arts center, a planetarium, a symphony orchestra. There was the reviving
downtown, boasting a growing array of food, music, and entertainment
offerings as well as one of the best farmers’ markets in the state. There were
the young families moving into my neighborhood—indeed, onto my street—
who lived in Flint not by necessity but by choice, and who had every
x
Preface and Acknowledgments
reason to invest in the city’s future. Although I gradually evolved a more
nuanced perspective on these features of the city, coming to realize that
they inspired mixed or even hostile feelings in residents who felt left out
of Flint’s development, they certainly helped make it possible to imagine
calling Flint home.
What’s more, Flint was a city with character. While many other Rust Belt
cities have experienced similar rises and falls, Flint is not interchangeable
with any of them: its place in American history is distinctive. Flint was the
home of the sit-down strike of 1936 to 1937, which compelled GM to recognize the United Automobile Workers and helped to launch the organized
labor movement in the United States.3 For forty-four days and nights, thousands of auto workers holed up in three of GM’s Flint factories in protest
of arduous and dangerous working conditions, bringing production to a
halt and forcing the company into negotiations.4 In one famous episode,
Chevrolet Avenue—the street I drive down to get to my office—became a
battleground, as workers occupying the Fisher Body 2 plant hurled metal
hinges and milk bottles from the rooftop at city policemen attempting to
drive them from the building.
Flint was forward-looking on race and civil rights, too. It was one of the
first major American cities to have a black mayor: World War II veteran
and former Buick employee Floyd McCree. Elected by the City Commission in 1966, McCree temporarily resigned in protest the following year
when the mostly white commissioners refused to support a proposed ordinance banning racial discrimination in housing. Other black officials also
threatened to resign, and the city’s black church community led a monthslong mobilization in support of the law that included sleep-ins on the lawn
of City Hall.5 After the commission was pressured into passing a revised
version of the bill, the John Birch Society and Ku Klux Klan led an effort to
overturn it by popular referendum. The defeat of that effort by the narrow
margin of thirty votes was historic: it was the first time in the country’s history that an open housing ordinance was affirmed by a vote of the people.6
Flint was also the site of two of the more notable environmental justice
struggles of the 1990s. In the first instance, a small group of residents fought
the construction of an incinerator, the Genesee Power Station, that threatened to contaminate the air around a predominantly black neighborhood
with lead particles generated by the burning of painted wood. Although
the effort was unsuccessful—the facility was built and continues to operate
Preface and Acknowledgments
xi
to this day—it was groundbreaking in its use of federal civil rights law to
argue that the siting of the station constituted an unlawful act of racial discrimination. A similar complaint filed by the same group in 1998 against
a permit for a steel recycling mill on the same side of town (the so-called
Select Steel plant) is widely credited with exposing the thinness of the Environmental Protection Agency’s commitment to environmental justice.7
For all its hard knocks, then, Flint was not the kind of city where people rolled over or gave up. It was progressive, pugnacious, and—as would be
remarked again and again during the water crisis—resilient. It had a fighting
spirit.
When I arrived in Flint I was only dimly aware that some of its residents
were in the middle of yet another fight, one that would rival anything in
the city’s past. I’d heard that there had been some issues with the city’s
drinking water and been warned to expect fluctuations in the water’s taste
as the utility fine-tuned its treatment methods. But I was given no reason
to believe that the water was a safety hazard. Within my social circle, as an
assistant professor at a private university and a resident of a predominantly
white and (by relative standards) affluent neighborhood, no one seemed particularly alarmed. When I turned on the bathtub faucet one evening to fill
the bath for my son and brown, grainy water gushed out, I wrote it off as an
anomaly, having been told that periodic fire hydrant flushing could dislodge
sediment and cause temporary discoloration. The resident voices pleading
that the water was not safe were, from my perspective at the time, faint,
drowned out by the reassurances of neighbors and government authorities
who said the water was fine and presumably knew what they were talking
about.
Over the next few months, those voices were amplified and vindicated
in dramatic fashion. In July, EPA drinking water expert Miguel del Toral
leaked an internal memo he had written to his superiors outlining his suspicion that Flint’s water supply was experiencing system-wide lead contamination. In August and September, a collaborative water sampling effort by Flint
activists and Virginia Tech engineers confirmed that there were high levels
of lead at the tap in homes across the city. Toward the end of September, a
team of researchers led by Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha of Flint’s Hurley Hospital
showed through a statistical analysis of blood lead levels that the lead in
the water was finding its way into the bodies of the city’s children, putting
them at risk of a host of developmental deficits. Residents rushed to get their
xii
Preface and Acknowledgments
water and their children’s blood tested. Politicians declared states of emergency at the city, county, state, and federal levels. The national news media
began to pay attention to what was happening in Flint. By early 2016, the
“Flint water crisis” had become the subject of widespread public outrage
and, in the heat of presidential primary season, a political cause célèbre.8
For Flint residents like myself, however, the water crisis was first and
foremost a deeply personal affair. Our water test results came back at 6 parts
per billion (ppb) lead and 70 ppb copper—both below the EPA’s action
levels of 15 ppb and 1,300 ppb, respectively, but hardly reassuring with a
young child in the home. I found myself asking questions I had never fully
confronted before: Did the fact that our levels were below federal thresholds mean our water was “safe”? Should the levels that trigger administrative action be the same ones that spur me as a parent to take steps to protect
my family? Why had no one ever encouraged me to ponder that distinction
or to be proactive about testing my water? It was disconcerting to think that
neurotoxic heavy metals were entering my son’s body in any quantity, and
disillusioning to learn that regulatory agencies recognized and tolerated it.
Furthermore, how much could one grab sample actually tell us about the
quality of our water day by day?
Hoping to avoid bottled water, I purchased a lead-certified filter (in the
days before they were widely available for free), only to conclude after two
infuriating weeks of repeated trips to the hardware store and many torrents of
profanity that it could not be made to fit my kitchen faucet. The whole faucet
had to be replaced: an expenditure of time, effort, and resources that many
Flint residents confronted by the same problem could ill afford. Then there
was my son’s blood test. Our family physician informed me that his level of
blood lead was normal—“normal” defined as around two micrograms of lead
per deciliter of blood (2 µg/dL). The catch was that we had delayed getting
the test done until two months after switching to filtered water, a lag caused
by our doctor’s initial counsel that such a test was not necessary. Because lead
leaves the bloodstream in roughly a month’s time to roost in the bones, we
will never know if, during our use of unfiltered tap water in the months
prior, our son was lead poisoned. This is not just our predicament, but that
of many, many other Flint parents for whom a “normal” test result did little
to assuage their feelings of guilt and anxiety.
Personally, I felt guilty for another reason, too. As someone with a history
of activism and an interest in political dissent and social movements, I was
Preface and Acknowledgments
xiii
ashamed at having written off the voices in the wilderness that had helped
to expose the water crisis for what it was. I started paying close attention to
the water activists, an easier task now that their activities were getting more
coverage. I began to realize that the explosion of the lead issue into a national
scandal owed much more to a groundswell of popular agitation than I had previously appreciated—in fact, to something that could legitimately be termed a
water movement. In January 2016, as Flint activists shifted their focus from convincing the world of the harm being done by the water to fighting for accountability, remediation, and reparations, I decided I could no longer watch from
the sidelines. Doing my best to silence the voice in my head reminding me of
my already-existing research project and my many responsibilities as a newly
minted assistant professor, I threw myself into the water struggle, attending every community meeting, rally, and march I could, collaborating with
the water activists on a variety of actions, events, and initiatives, mobilizing
students and faculty around door-to-door water canvassing, and—knowing
I would have to publish something on the crisis to justify the expenditure of
time and effort to my institution—conducting interviews whenever possible
along the way. When, in April 2016, I was invited to join a multiuniversity,
interdisciplinary team conducting a major new study of Flint’s water quality, I agreed, spending much of the next two years grappling with how
to communicate the science of the water to the public and build bridges
between residents, activists, local officials, and the scientific community.
For many reasons, I am glad I silenced that cautionary voice. By joining up with both the water activists and the scientists on the front lines in
Flint, I not only had an opportunity to contribute—in admittedly modest
ways—to the fight for water justice and the production of scientific knowledge about the water, I gained what I believe to be a unique vantage point
on the crisis, conducive to capturing its complex and multifaceted character.
I was an activist but also a researcher; a comrade in struggle but also a newcomer to the community and the movement; a resident but also a member of
a privileged demographic, whose perspective did not always align—for better
or worse—with that of other residents and activists. Although I did not get
involved in the crisis response with the intention of writing a book, it didn’t
take long to realize that I would have more than enough material for one.
It goes without saying that there is no Archimedean point that would
allow one to capture the essence or totality of the water crisis (or if there is,
I haven’t found it). There are already multiple accounts of what happened
xiv
Preface and Acknowledgments
in Flint, from different perspectives, and, undoubtedly, there are more to
come.9 I can only hope to offer one particular refraction, borne of extensive
participant observation, hundreds of semistructured and informal conversations with the people involved, and a scholarly effort to relate the crisis
and the community’s response to it to broader conversations about environmental justice and democracy. I present it here as Flint Fights Back.
It would be impossible to tally all the debts I incurred in the course of writing
this book. Nevertheless, I had no trouble deciding where to start in expressing
my thanks. To my colleague and friend Laura Sullivan, Professor of Mechanical Engineering at Kettering University and tireless water warrior, I wish to
convey my deepest gratitude. I am similarly grateful for the support of another
leader in the struggle for justice in Flint, Dr. Lawrence Reynolds—a true moral
exemplar and a fearless fighter for the well-being of Flint residents.
I also wish to thank a number of Kettering colleagues who, directly or
indirectly, contributed to the success of this project: particularly, Laura
Mebert, Karen Wilkinson, Laura Miller-Purrenhage, Michael Callahan, Jim
Cohen, Veronica Moorman, and Eric Bumbalough. Thanks also to Pardeep
Toor, Jack Stock, Don Rockwell, and especially Robert McMahan and Laura
Vosejpka. Outside my own institution, I was fortunate to have the support
of other Flint-based academic friends—among them, Jason Kosnoski, Jacob
Lederman, Rick Sadler, and Jan Worth-Nelson, to whom I am grateful for
many neighborly kindnesses and useful introductions. I was also pleased
that this project allowed me to connect with Kyle Powys White, David Pellow,
Wendy Jepson, and Paul Mohai, from whom I took insights and heartening words of encouragement. From within the Rutgers family, I must give
special thanks to Mark Bray and Joseph Dwyer for much-needed support
as I was trying to get the project off the ground, and to Lincoln Addison,
Christina Doonan, and Benjie Peters for their enduring friendship. Thank
you also to Andy Murphy, Steve Bronner, and Michael Forman for helping
me think through my publishing options, and to Temma Kaplan for her
methodological reflections. Thanks to Kristy King, David Watkins, and the
political theory workshoppers at the University of Michigan for feedback
on draft chapters. Finally, thank you to David Meyer for helping to steer me
toward the right publisher, and to the eight reviewers who provided valuable feedback on my book proposal.
Preface and Acknowledgments
xv
This project brought me into conversation with a number of other academics, writers, and filmmakers doing work on Flint and water issues in
southeastern Michigan. I owe a big thank you, first and foremost, to Andrew
Highsmith for his generosity as a scholar and person. I am thankful as well
for exchanges with Janice Beecher, Jevgeniy Bluwstein, Sherrema Bower,
Jennifer Carrera, Anna Clark, Nadia Gaber, Stephen Gasteyer, Michael Mascarenhas, Mindy Myers, Ashley Nickels, Curtis Pomilia, Rebecca Rutt, Elena
Sobrino, Jeanne Woods, and Cheng Zhang. Thanks also to Jason Stanley, to
Liz Miller for sending me a copy of her excellent documentary The Water
Front, and to Eve Mitchell for helping me to make connections within the
Detroit activist scene.
Important parts of this book are informed by my work with the Flint
Area Community Health and Environment Partnership (FACHEP). Thank
you to Shawn McElmurry for bringing me onto the team and for his mostly
unknown and unsung but truly inspiring efforts on behalf of Flint residents.
While I cannot thank everyone on our large team here, in addition to Shawn
I wish to single out Nancy Love, Susan Masten, Mark Zervos, Audrey Zarb, Jessica Robbins, and Tam Perry for their support. In a special category is Quincy
Murphy: not only a FACHEP colleague but also a devoted community activist, a partner on projects in Dewey Park, and a good friend.
My involvement in water issues in Flint resulted in multiple spin-off collaborations related to environmental justice that helped, in turn, to shape
my thinking about my research. For their assistance in these collaborations,
I would like to thank Alan Walts, Michael Burns, and Michael Wenstrom
of the EPA’s College/Underserved Community Partnership Program, Vincent
Slocum of Habitat for Humanity, City of Flint Chief Public Health Advisor
Pamela Pugh, Sarah Wilkins of the American Geophysical Union, Maryum
Rasool of the Sylvester Broome Empowerment Village, and Mona MunroeYounis of the Environmental Transformation Movement of Flint. I also
came to see another community initiative I was involved in—an effort (successful, I’m happy to say) to found a Montessori program within the Flint
Community Schools—as falling within the orbit of my environmental justice
work in the community. In that connection, I wish to thank Elizabeth Jordan, in particular, for her assiduous labors and Kathryn Dohrmann for her
help in enumerating the advantages of Montessori education for children
affected by lead poisoning.
xvi
Preface and Acknowledgments
While I was working on this book, I developed and taught a course at
Kettering titled, simply, “The Flint Water Crisis.” The experience was enormously helpful in forcing me to gather, organize, and communicate my
thoughts about the crisis, not least because of the excellent contributions
of Kettering students. I thank them for their intelligent questions, their passion for the subject matter, and their original research into various aspects
of the crisis, which was often highly illuminating. I thank them also for
demonstrating their concern for the residents of Flint by coming out for
water canvassing and, in some cases, rallies, protests, and City Council
meetings. I am also grateful to the students who invited me to speak about
the water crisis to the Kettering chapter of the National Society of Black
Engineers, the Green Engineering Organization and on WKUF-LP 94.3 FM.
My thinking on the theme of research justice was honed through valuable
exchanges with Max Liboiron, Randy Stoecker, and especially Yanna Lambrinidou, who I cannot thank enough for her moral support, keen insights,
and passionate commitment to justice in Flint and beyond. In talking with
Yanna and with Paul Schwartz of the Campaign for Lead Free Water, I came
to appreciate just how critical an understanding of the 2001 to 2004 Washington, D.C., water crisis is to an understanding of Flint. While D.C. does
appear in what follows, I was not able to do anything like full justice to the
struggle there. Suffice to say (though it does not suffice, and I hope more will
be written on the subject), Flint was not the first example of residents and
activists leading the fight against lead-in-water contamination.
I conducted around seventy semistructured interviews for the sake of
this book, but had there been more hours in the day, I would gladly have
conducted many more. Given my own limitations as a single interviewer,
I benefited greatly from interviews conducted by others—including those
featured on GMO-Free News, the Tom Sumner Program, Hashtag Flint, 1470
WFNT, the Morning Gazette Radio Show, and a variety of other local radio programs. I also referred regularly to coverage of the crisis by The Flint Journal and
MLive, Michigan Radio, the Detroit Free Press, The Detroit News, Bridge Magazine,
East Village Magazine, The Young Turks, and Truth Against the Machine. There
were many times I would have been lost without the videos made available by
Paul Herring through Spectacle TV. Also, the Virginia Tech team’s Flintwaterstudy.org was at times a useful source of information.
In reflecting on my debts to members of the activist community, I wondered whether I should try to name everyone I interviewed, worked with, or
Preface and Acknowledgments
xvii
received assistance from during the two-and-a-half years it took me to research
and write this book. I eventually concluded that any attempt to provide a
comprehensive list would be doomed to failure, and I worried that the people
I inevitably forgot to mention would feel slighted. I was also concerned to
respect the privacy of people who did not sit down for an official interview
and might not have wanted to be named. Rather than striving for completeness, then, I will limit my “thank yous” to a few people who went out of
their way to offer me material they thought would be useful to my work: Paul
Jordan, Florlisa Fowler, Nayyirah Shariff, Sue Whalen, and Bob and Melodee
Mabbit (for their wonderful present of a neatly bound stack of back issues of
Broadside). I also can’t resist offering a special thank you to Claire McClinton
for her support during some of the rockiest patches on this journey.
This is, perhaps, as good a place as any to offer an apology I feel compelled
to make. Not nearly all of the “water warriors” who left their individual marks
on the water crisis get named or (directly) credited in this book. No doubt,
some of them will feel they should have been characters in the story. I can
only plead that everyone is, in some sense, a part of this story, even when not
mentioned by name. I have put a great deal of effort into carefully considering the variety of perspectives on the crisis within the community and, to the
best of my ability, all of the diverse contributions residents and activists made
to the crisis response. Unfortunately, I have had to leave out many worthy
people and noble acts, for simple reasons of space and composition. I can
only hope that those not named explicitly see something of themselves in
the book.
This book would not have been possible without a publisher taking a
chance on it, and for that (and for their guidance throughout the writing
and revision process), I am grateful to Beth Clevenger of the MIT Press, and
Bob Gottlieb, editor of the Urban and Industrial Environments series and
an inspiration for his scholarship on water and environmentalism. I also
received critical assistance from Max Smith, who helped me compile the
references for the book, and Jake May, who helped with image permissions.
I am more indebted to my family than I can adequately express. Thank
you to my parents (both sets) for their support, and particularly to my mom
Elizabeth for help sorting through the lawsuits spawned by the crisis, for
introducing me to the operation of local government, and for her careful reading of the manuscript. Thank you to the practitioners at the Dong
Shan Institute of Buddhism and the Society of Ksitigarbha Studies—some
xviii
Preface and Acknowledgments
of the best listeners and most thoughtful people I have ever met, who have
never failed to provide valuable guidance when I explain my work to them.
Thank you to Mike Galligan for reading parts of the book and offering feedback. Thank you to Pat and Bill Jones for making us feel so welcome in
Michigan (and rest in peace, Grandpa Bill). Thank you to my father-in-law,
Michael Kao, for all his help with childcare and housework while this book
was being written, in what, sadly, turned out to be the last years of his
life. Thank you to my older son, Julian, for all the times he shot hoops by
himself while he waited for Dad to get to a “stopping point.” Thank you to
my younger son, Flynn, for his reminder that life goes on, and is renewed,
even in the wake of tragedy. Thank you, finally, to my wife Vivian Kao—for
her saintly patience with me as I got sucked further and further into this
project, for her invaluable help as an editor and interlocutor, for her commitment to Flint, and for her love and support in everything I do.
List of Figures and Tables
Figure 0.1 The Flint River
2
Figure 2.1 Water infrastructure from main to tap
58
Figure 2.2 The causal chain of the Flint water crisis
Table 3.1 Flint’s EFMs and EMs
65
76
Figure 3.1 Structure of Flint city government as specified
in city charter and under emergency management
Figure 3.2 The Karegnondi water pipeline
78
84
Figure 4.1 Members of the FDDL protest changes
by EM Darnell Earley to public comment rules
121
Figure 5.1 LeeAnne Walters presents her tap water
to EM Jerry Ambrose
145
Figure 6.1 Town hall meeting at the “Dome” on January 21, 2015
155
Figure 6.2 Flyer for February 2015 water meetings hosted
by the FDDL
161
Figure 6.3 Valentine’s Day march
164
Figure 6.4 Coalition for Clean Water files suit seeking return to Detroit
water. Delivery of petitions to Mayor Dayne Walling
Figure 6.5 Water You Fighting For map
170
Figure 7.1 Banner outside a Flint home
194
167
Figure 8.1 Stories of residents featured on the Flint Rising website
240
Figure 8.2 America’s Heartbreakers action at the Flint Water
Treatment Plant (May 16, 2016)
243
Figure 8.3 You Owe Me bottles delivered by Flint Rising activists to State
Capitol
247
Timeline
Water
Democracy
1893: First Flint Water Works opens,
drawing water from Flint River.
1965: Flint commits to a thirty-five-year
contract with the Detroit Department
of Water Supply, later renamed the
Detroit Water and Sewerage Department
(DWSD).
1967: Flint begins receiving water from
DWSD, drawn first from the Detroit
River and then, after 1974, from Lake
Huron. Flint sells water wholesale to the
rest of Genesee County—first directly to
surrounding townships, then from 1973
onward through the Genesee County
Drain Commission.
1988: Public Act (PA) 101 takes effect,
allowing the State of Michigan to
declare financial emergencies in
municipalities and assign control of
local finances to emergency financial
managers (EFMs). The City of Hamtramck is the first to be assigned an
EFM under the new law.
1990: PA 72 takes effect, expanding PA
101’s stipulations to school districts.
2000: Flint’s contract with DWSD
expires, first of a series of one-year
extensions signed.
2002–2004: Flint under state-appointed
EFM Edward Kurtz.
(continued)
xxii
Timeline
(continued )
Water
Democracy
Aug. 2003: Four waterless days during
a massive power outage raise questions
about the reliability of the Detroit water
system.
2009: Detroit Public Schools placed
under emergency financial management.
2010: City of Flint, City of Lapeer, and
Genesee, Sanilac, and Lapeer Counties
form the Karegnondi Water Authority
(KWA) to explore the possibility of constructing a new Lake Huron pipeline.
2010: Cities of Benton Harbor and
Pontiac placed under emergency financial management.
Mar. 16, 2011: PA 4 takes effect, expanding the powers of EFMs (now referred to
as “emergency managers,” or EMs).
Sep. 30, 2011: Governor Rick Snyder
appoints an eight-member Financial
Review Team to evaluate whether a
financial emergency exists in Flint.
Oct. 2011: Occupy Flint sets up encampment at King Street and 2nd Avenue.
Nov. 7, 2011: Flint Financial Review
Team concludes that a financial
emergency exists and recommends the
appointment of an EM.
Nov. 10, 2011: Mayor Dayne Walling
reelected. State of Michigan announces
that Flint will be appointed an EM.
Dec. 1, 2011: EM Michael Brown takes
office.
Feb. 29, 2012: Stand Up For Democracy
coalition turns in 226,637 signatures
to put PA 4 referendum on November
ballot.
Jun. 2012: Last remnants of Occupy
Flint encampment dismantled.
Aug. 8, 2012: PA 4 suspended after certification of referendum. State enforces
PA 72 in the meantime. Ed Kurtz
appointed EFM in Flint under PA 72.
Nov. 6, 2012: Michigan voters repeal
PA 4.
Dec. 26, 2012: PA 436 signed into law,
restoring most of the powers granted
by PA 4.
Timeline
Water
xxiii
Democracy
Mar. 14, 2013: Detroit placed under
emergency management.
Mar. 25, 2013: Flint City Council votes
to support city joining KWA pipeline,
under assumption that Flint will remain
a customer of DWSD until pipeline is
completed.
Mar. 28, 2013: PA 436 takes effect.
Apr. 16, 2013: Flint EM Ed Kurtz signs
agreement with KWA and informs
state treasurer of city’s intent to join
pipeline.
Apr. 17, 2013: DWSD sends letter to EM
Kurtz announcing termination of water
contract in one year’s time.
Jun. 26, 2013: EM Kurtz adopts resolution to prepare Flint Water Treatment
Plant to treat Flint River water.
Jul. 8, 2013: Michael Brown begins
second term as EM.
Jul. 18, 2013: Led by EM Kevyn Orr,
Detroit files for bankruptcy—the
largest municipal bankruptcy in US
history.
Sep. 11, 2013: EM Michael Brown
resigns and is replaced by Darnell Earley.
Apr. 25, 2014: City of Flint switches
water supply to Flint River.
Spring–Fall 2014: Massive wave of water
shutoffs in Detroit attracts international
attention.
Jul. 1, 2014: EM Earley gives Mayor
Dayne Walling control of Departments
of Planning and Development, Public
Works.
Aug.–Sep. 2014: Three separate boil
advisories issued after coliform bacteria
detected in water on Flint’s west side.
Aug. 21, 2014: Flint Democracy
Defense League opens emergency water
relief site at Mission of Hope.
(continued)
xxiv
Timeline
(continued )
Water
Democracy
Oct. 10, 2014: Great Lakes Water
Authority (GLWA) forms, establishing
a regional water partnership to manage
Detroit-owned water infrastructure
outside the city of Detroit.
Oct. 13, 2014: General Motors
announces it will no longer use Flint
River water at its engine plant, citing
corrosion of engine parts.
Nov. 4, 2014: Flint voters approve
proposal to begin a city charter review
process.
Dec. 10, 2014: Detroit emerges from
bankruptcy; EM Kevyn Orr resigns.
Jan. 2, 2015: Notice sent to residents
informing them that Flint is in violation of the Safe Drinking Water Act due
to high levels of total trihalomethanes.
Jan. 12, 2015: DWSD Director Sue
McCormick offers to resume selling
water to Flint on an emergency basis.
Jan. 13, 2015: Jerry Ambrose appointed
EM in Flint.
Jan. 2015: First community meetings on
water quality sponsored by city officials.
Feb. 14, 2015: Flint water activist
groups unite for Valentine’s Day march.
Feb. 23, 2015: Natasha Henderson
begins position as Flint city administrator on a five-year contract.
Feb. 17, 2015: City of Flint announces
formation of technical advisory committee and citizens’ advisory committee
on water issues.
Mar. 23, 2015: Flint City Council votes
7 to 1 to “do all things necessary”1 to
reconnect to Detroit water.
Apr. 2015: EM Jerry Ambrose declares
Flint’s financial emergency over and
steps down. State of Michigan appoints
Receivership Transition Advisory Board
to review decisions by local officials.
May 19, 2015: First meeting of Flint
Charter Review Commission.
Timeline
Water
xxv
Democracy
Jun. 5, 2015: Coalition for Clean Water
files lawsuit alleging that the city “recklessly endangered”2 the health and
safety of residents by switching to the
Flint River and demanding a return to
Detroit water.
Jul. 3–10, 2015: Detroit-to-Flint Water
Justice Journey.
Jul. 9, 2015: ACLU reporter Curt
Guyette reports on leaked memo by EPA
employee Miguel del Toral about lead
contamination at the home of LeeAnne
Walters and other Flint residents and
the city’s lack of corrosion control.
Jul. 9, 2015: Mayor Dayne Walling
drinks tap water on the local news to
reassure residents of its safety.
Aug. 2015: Activists begin water
sampling effort in collaboration with
Virginia Tech engineers.
Aug. 4, 2015: Incumbent Dayne Walling
and challenger Karen Weaver place first
and second, respectively, in mayoral
primaries.
Aug. 17, 2015: Circuit Court judge
issues injunction halting water shutoffs
and ordering the City of Flint to lower
water and sewer rates by 35 percent.
Sep. 2015: Virginia Tech team announces
findings from activist-led sampling
effort, warns residents that Flint has a
serious lead-in-water problem.
Sep. 24, 2015: In a press conference at
Hurley hospital, Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha
announces findings of study showing
doubling of blood lead levels in young
children since switch to Flint River.
Oct. 1, 2015: Genesee County Health
Department declares public health
emergency in Flint.
Oct. 2, 2015: State announces Flint
water action plan, including money for
filters, water testing, and better corrosion control.
Oct. 8, 2015: Governor Snyder
announces $12 million plan to switch
Flint’s water supply back to Detroit
water system.
(continued)
xxvi
Timeline
(continued )
Water
Democracy
Nov. 3, 2015: Karen Weaver elected
mayor of Flint.
Nov. 2015: City of Flint begins mailing
water shutoff notices to 1,800 delinquent households.
Dec. 14, 2015: Mayor Karen Weaver
declares state of emergency and calls
for Genesee Board of Commissioners to
approve declaration.
Jan. 1, 2016: GLWA begins operations
under CEO Sue McCormick.
Jan. 4, 2016: Genesee County Board of
Commissioners approves Mayor Weaver’s emergency declaration, opening
up possibility of more state and federal
assistance.
Jan. 5, 2016: Governor Snyder declares
a state emergency, requests federal
assistance.
Jan. 12, 2016: Governor Snyder activates National Guard to assist with
water and filter distribution in Flint.
Jan. 15, 2016: Michigan Attorney
General Bill Schuette launches criminal
investigation into the Flint water crisis.
Jan. 16, 2016: Governor Snyder and
officials from the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services
(MDHHS) announce that a major outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease has been
ongoing since June 2014, with eightyseven cases reported and ten (later
increased to twelve) deaths, possibly
linked to the switch to the Flint River.
Jan. 16, 2016: President Obama declares
a federal state of emergency authorizing
the Federal Emergency Management
Agency (FEMA) to coordinate relief
efforts in Flint and making $5 million
in federal aid available for ninety days.
Obama rejects Governor Snyder’s
request for a major disaster declaration and $96 million in aid because the
water crisis is a manmade disaster.
Timeline
Water
xxvii
Democracy
Jan. 22, 2016: Power to hire and fire
city department directors restored to
Mayor Weaver.
Jan. 29, 2016: Scott Smith of Water
Defense begins sampling in city and
sounds alarm about contaminants other
than lead that may make bathing and
showering unsafe.
Feb. 3, 2016: House Oversight and Government Reform Committee holds first
hearing on Flint water crisis.
Feb. 12, 2016: City Administrator
Natasha Henderson relieved of her
responsibilities by Mayor Weaver.
Feb. 26, 2016: Michigan Legislature
passes bill allocating $30 million to
cover 65 percent of Flint residents’
water bills going back to Apr. 30, 2014.
Mar. 4, 2016: Fast Start program begins
replacement of lead service lines.
Mar. 6, 2016: Democratic presidential
debate held in Flint.
Mar. 15 and 17, 2016: House Oversight
and Government Reform Committee
holds second and third hearings on
Flint water crisis.
Mar. 21, 2016: Governor-appointed
Flint Water Task Force issues its final
report, concluding that the crisis is a
case of environmental injustice and
that primary responsibility rests with
the state.
Apr. 20, 2016: First criminal charges
brought by AG Schuette, against
Michael Prysby and Stephen Busch of
the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ) and Michael
Glasgow of the Flint Water Treatment
Plant.
May 4, 2016: President Obama visits
Flint, reassures residents that filtered
water is safe to drink.
May 26, 2016: Flint City Council’s
powers restored on a provisional basis.
(continued)
xxviii
Timeline
(continued )
Water
Democracy
Jun. 8, 2016: Michigan Legislature
passes supplemental spending bill with
$114.3 million in immediate aid for
Flint, including $25 million for replacement of lead service lines and another
$12.8 million for water bill credits.
Jun. 22, 2016: Civil charges announced
against private contractors Veolia and
Lockwood, Andrews, and Newnam, Inc.
Jul. 19, 2016: Donald Trump wins
Republican nomination.
Jul. 26, 2016: Hillary Clinton wins
Democratic nomination, Mayor Weaver
delivers pro-Clinton speech at Democratic National Convention.
Jul. 29, 2016: Criminal charges
announced against six employees of
MDEQ and MDHHS.
Aug. 14, 2016: Federal declaration of
emergency ends.
Sep. 2016: Flint Area Community
Health and Environment Partnership
launches new study of Legionella contamination in water system.
Oct. 19, 2016: Joint Committee on the
Flint Water Public Health Emergency
releases final report.
Nov. 8, 2016: Donald Trump elected
President of the United States, promises renewed federal emphasis on
infrastructure.
Nov. 10, 2016: Federal judge issues
preliminary injunction sought by the
Concerned Pastors for Social Action,
the Natural Resources Defense Council,
the Michigan ACLU, and Flint resident Melissa Mays, ordering State of
Michigan to deliver bottled water door
to door.
Dec. 20, 2016: Criminal charges
announced against EMs Darnell
Earley and Jerry Ambrose and two city
employees.
Feb. 2017: City of Flint officials
threaten new round of water shutoffs.
Timeline
Water
xxix
Democracy
Feb. 17, 2017: Michigan Civil Rights
Commission releases final report on
Flint water crisis, finding that structural
racism played a role in causing the crisis.
Feb. 24, 2017: Petition language filed
for recall of Mayor Weaver.
Mar. 1, 2017: State of Michigan ends
65 percent reimbursement of Flint
water bills.
Mar. 28, 2017: State of Michigan settles
civil lawsuit brought by Concerned
Pastors, et al. Settlement requires state
to pay the City of Flint $87 million to
identify and replace at least eighteen
thousand unsafe service lines by 2020
and places conditions on the closing of
state-funded water resource sites, but
excuses state from door-to-door water
delivery.
Apr. 2017: City of Flint sends warning
letters threatening to place liens on
over eight thousand homes with delinquent water accounts.
Apr. 18, 2017: Mayor Weaver
announces recommendation that Flint
remain with GLWA as its long-term
water supplier, rather than switching as
planned to the KWA pipeline.
Apr. 20, 2017: Six activists arrested at
town hall on water source decision.
May 17, 2017: Flint City Council passes
resolution calling for one-year moratorium on water liens. A month later, resolution is overturned by the Receivership
Transition Advisory Board (RTAB).
Jun. 14, 2017: Five officials including
MDHHS Director Nick Lyon and EM
Darnell Earley charged with involuntary manslaughter for failure to address
threat of Legionnaires’ Disease. Criminal charges also announced against
Chief Medical Executive Eden Wells.
Jun. 26, 2017: Flint City Council votes
to support short-term extension of
contract with GLWA but postpones
decision on long-term contract.
(continued)
xxx
Timeline
(continued )
Water
Democracy
Jun. 28, 2017: MDEQ files complaint
in US District Court alleging that council’s refusal to back long-term GLWA
contract violates March settlement
agreement, EPA emergency order, and
the Safe Drinking Water Act. In August,
federal judge orders state and city into
mediation.
Aug. 8, 2017: Flint voters decisively
approve revised city charter, including
changes meant to stop misuse of water
and sewer funds.
Aug. 11, 2017: State begins to close
water resource sites, citing improved
lead levels. Four sites remain open
indefinitely.
Oct. 2, 2017: US Supreme Court
declines to rule on EM law’s
constitutionality.
Nov. 7, 2017: Mayor Weaver survives
recall election; new pro-Weaver city
council elected.
Nov. 21, 2017: City Council votes
to approve thirty-year contract with
GLWA, with amendments.
Nov. 29, 2017: Petition filed with InterAmerican Commission on Human
Rights requesting investigation into
violation of the right to democracy in
Flint.
Dec. 1, 2017: Lawsuit filed alleging PA
436 is racially discriminatory, violates
Equal Protection Clause.
Jan. 10, 2018: RTAB votes to return
day-to-day financial decision making to
City of Flint.
Jan. 12, 2018: MDEQ announces that last
eighteen months of sampling data show
Flint’s water quality is restored.
Apr. 4, 2018: Governor Snyder officially
ends state receivership in Flint.
Apr. 6, 2018: State of Michigan
announces end of free bottled water.
Timeline
Water
xxxi
Democracy
Apr. 12, 2018: Judge approves $4.1
million settlement in suit brought by
ACLU and Education Law Center, committing State of Michigan to screening
of Flint children for lead-related health
deficits.
Apr. 23, 2018: Flint resident LeeAnne
Walters wins Goldman Environmental
Prize.
Apr. 26, 2018: Virginia Tech team
receives $1.9 million EPA grant to
conduct nationwide study of lead in
drinking water.
May 10, 2018: Nestlé agrees to donate
1.6 million bottles of water to Flint residents through Labor Day. The company
later extends donations through the
rest of the year.
May 10, 2018: FlintComplaints
letter sent to variety of scientific and
engineering organizations asking for
investigation into behavior of Dr. Marc
Edwards of Virginia Tech.
May 17, 2018: Doctors at Hurley hospital argue that Flint children were “leadexposed” rather than “lead-poisoned,”
touching off debate over terminology
and severity of the water crisis.
Jun. 23, 2018: Highland Park school
district released from state receivership, marking the first time since the
year 2000 that no local government in
Michigan is under state control.
Jul. 9, 2018: Marc Edwards files
$3 million defamation suit against
three water activists from Flint and
Washington, D.C.
Jul. 19, 2018: Academics from universities in the United States and abroad
sign letter in support of signatories to
FlintComplaints letter.
Aug. 20, 2018: MDHHS Director Nick
Lyon bound over to trial on four
counts, including involuntary manslaughter and misconduct in office.
Introduction
On April 25, 2014, a group of prominent Flint politicians and administrators,
along with representatives of state government and local media, gathered at
the city’s water treatment plant on the northeast side of town to commemorate the switch of Flint’s municipal water source. For over forty years, residents
of Flint had been drinking Lake Huron water treated by the Detroit Water and
Sewerage Department (DWSD) and distributed through a Detroit-owned network of pipes servicing much of southeast Michigan. While “Detroit” water
(to use local shorthand) was by all accounts a stable, high-quality supply, Flint
was purchasing it at a premium. Over the previous five years, DWSD had
raised wholesale water rates over 200 percent, and with the City of Flint’s retail
markup factored in residents were paying water bills more than two-and-a-half
times the national average.1 To stabilize runaway rates and give the city at least
partial ownership of the system that delivered its water, in March 2013 Flint’s
elected officials declared their support for a plan to construct a new, regionally controlled Lake Huron pipeline under the aegis of the Karegnondi Water
Authority (KWA).2 The next month, DWSD expressed its displeasure with the
decision by issuing a termination-of-service notice, effective in a year’s time.
With the completion of the new pipeline slated for 2016, Flint was faced with
the need to secure an interim water supply.
When it was announced that water diverted from the Flint River and
treated at the city’s own treatment plant would provide the necessary stopgap, many residents were incredulous, sure that it must be a “joke.”3 Not
only had the river served as a dumping ground for decades’ worth of industrial pollutants, it was popularly known as a repository for shopping carts,
old cars, and the occasional corpse. Despite the instinctive aversion that
the river elicited in many residents, however, by the summer of 2013 plans
2
Introduction
MT. MORRIS TWP.
GENESEE
CHARTER TWP.
Mott Lake
Flint
River
Saginaw
Bay
75
Midland
Saginaw
Bay City
FLINT
Lake
Huron
75
University
of Michigan
Flint
DurantTuuri-Mott
Elementary
School
North
Branch
Holloway
Reservoir
69
OAKLAND
COUNTY
Detroit
Lansing
475
Kearsley
Reservoir
FLINT
FLINT TWP.
N
SOURCE: Google Maps
Flint Cultural
Center
Mott
Community
College
Kettering
University
Genesee Valley
Center
Bishop
International
Airport
25 miles
Flint Water
Plant
69
Flint
Golf
Club
475
BURTON
N
General
Motors
Flint Engine
Operations
2 miles
MARTHA THIERRY
/DETROIT FREE PRESS
Figure 0.1
The Flint River. Drawing its headwaters from tributaries in the center of Michigan’s
“thumb,” the Flint River travels in an elongated “U” shape, curving southward and
bisecting the city of Flint through the heart of downtown before bending north
toward its terminus in the Saginaw River and, ultimately, Saginaw Bay. It is no exaggeration to say that without the Flint River there would be no Flint. Early fur trappers
and other settlers were drawn to the area because of its convenient concentration of
fords (the “Grand Traverse”) that allowed for easy crossing, and they named the fledgling city after the flinty rocks borne by the river. Over the years, the banks of the river
proved an attractive locale for sawmills, carriage factories, and the automobile plants
that would make Flint famous. © Detroit Free Press /ZUMA Press.
were underway to get the Flint Water Treatment Plant into full working
order in anticipation of the switch.4
Proponents of the switch argued that using the river was not as counterintuitive as it seemed. From 1917 to 1967, after all, the river had served as the
primary source of Flint’s drinking water, and even after the city entered into its
long-term relationship with Detroit it served as Flint’s state-mandated backup
source. Furthermore, the main considerations that led Flint to opt for Detroit
water in the first place had more to do with capacity than quality. Although
the river had easily accommodated the city’s needs through the first half of the
twentieth century, by the end of the 1950s industrial expansion and residential
Introduction
3
growth had increased demand beyond what the river could comfortably sustain. Now, after decades of economic disinvestment had stripped Flint of its
thirsty factories and half of its population, it was more plausible to argue that
its water requirements could be met by the river.
Turning to the river during Flint’s time of need, then, could be billed by
advocates as a reinstatement of past practice rather than a radical innovation. This was not lost on those present at the switchover ceremony. From
a podium in the foyer of the water treatment plant, flanked by basins of
treated river water making its last stop before flowing out to residents, Flint
Mayor Dayne Walling called the switch “a historic moment for the city of
Flint to return to its roots and use our own river as our drinking water supply.”5 Although the use of the river would be temporary, it would have the
effect—or so Walling and others claimed—of empowering Flint to take longterm charge of its water. Under the pending arrangement with the KWA,
Flint would receive raw lake water rather than the pre-treated water it was
used to, and would be solely responsible for treatment. Practicing on Flint
River water would give the city an opportunity to bring its water treatment
plant up to speed and fine-tune its treatment methods before assuming
this responsibility. The cost savings Flint would realize by keeping its water
source close to home and avoiding Detroit’s increasing rates would help
finance the necessary capital improvements at the plant.
Of course, these rationales counted for little if the people of Flint
could not be convinced to drink the water. In the lead-up to the switch,
authorities at the state and local levels sought to assuage popular fears by
repeatedly reassuring residents that the treated river water met all federal
guidelines and was comparable to Detroit water in quality. Representatives
of the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ) told residents that they “shouldn’t notice any difference”6 beyond an increase in
the “hardness”7 of the water that might make it more difficult to produce a
lather while showering and bathing. City officials painted a similarly heartening picture. During the inauguration of the new water supply, Mayor
Walling acknowledged that there had been “a lot of questions from our
customers,” but insisted that “the water quality speaks for itself.”8 Addressing the public in the days after the switch, City Spokesperson Jason Lorenz
reinforced the message that the water was “of great quality.”9 These were
the first in what would become a long line of assurances over the next year
and a half that the water was not only safe but eminently drinkable.
4
Introduction
On several key occasions, such claims would be driven home by highprofile authorities performatively consuming the water on camera. The first
such instance formed the climactic moment of the switchover ceremony.
After being accorded the honor of pressing the button that shut off the feed
from Detroit—prompting cheers and applause from those assembled—Mayor
Walling proposed a celebratory toast. With the exclamation “Here’s to Flint!,”
he and the other participants raised glasses full of freshly treated river water
and, with no apparent hesitation, drank them down. Viewers watching the
evening news that day witnessed an event designed to suggest confidence and
consensus, pitched as a triumphant moment in the city’s history.
What would not become clear until much later was that even some of
those who took part in the photo-op harbored gnawing doubts about the
city’s readiness to assume the role of treating river water. One was Mike
Glasgow, the treatment plant’s laboratory and water quality supervisor,
who a mere eight days before had protested in an email to the MDEQ that
“if water is distributed from this plant in the next couple weeks, it will
be against my direction,”10 cautioning that more training and staff would
be necessary before the city was properly equipped for the task. Glasgow’s
warning was even more prescient than he could have known at the time.
Over the next year and a half, he and his colleagues would find themselves
on the front lines of a struggle against a variety of contaminants in Flint’s
water supply. In August and September 2014, they discovered total coliform
bacteria in water on the city’s west side, indicating a risk of E. coli contamination and hinting at dangerous weak spots in the city’s water infrastructure.
Attempts to eliminate pathogens in the water system with extra chlorine
generated hazardous levels of trihalomethanes—carcinogenic byproducts
of interactions between chlorine and organic matter referred to popularly as
TTHMs—and brought the city into violation of the Safe Drinking Water Act.
The worst was yet to come, however. In summer 2015, activists revealed that
the city had a serious problem with lead in its water, a consequence of the
MDEQ’s failure to mandate the corrosion control needed to prevent the river
water from damaging lead-bearing plumbing. Some deemed the populationwide exposure that resulted the worst environmental disaster in the United
States since Hurricane Katrina.11
As the media began placing the people and events surrounding the water
crisis under the microscope in the fall of 2015, it became clear that there
was plenty of blame to go around. MDEQ employees not only misadvised
Introduction
5
local utility workers about water treatment but conspired with them to
obscure the city’s lead problem. Employees at the Michigan Department
of Health and Human Services made misleading claims about blood lead
levels in an effort to dampen growing alarm. US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) officials failed to act with urgency when indications of
lead contamination began to appear. Local politicians treated residents’
concerns about the water dismissively and reiterated that the water was
safe when there was reason to believe otherwise. Private contractors hired
to assess the viability of the river water as a municipal supply, upgrade the
water treatment plant, and recommend solutions to water quality problems
failed to prevent the crisis and did little to end it.12 All of these individuals
and entities own some of the responsibility for what happened.
But it is equally true that they all acted within a context shaped by other,
arguably more important, actors. Many of the key decisions made about
Flint’s water during the period in question were made not by utility workers or regulators, not by local politicians or contractors, but by Flint’s stateappointed emergency managers (EMs). In fact, since December 2011, when
the State of Michigan took over the city’s government in order to rescue it
(said state officials) from financial collapse, unelected EMs had been making
unilateral decisions about virtually the full spectrum of city affairs. In total,
four EMs with mandates to cut costs and increase the efficiency of public services governed Flint between 2011 and 2015. All four added their fingerprints
to the string of decisions that led up to and exacerbated the water crisis. It was
EM Michael Brown who set Flint on a path to join the KWA pipeline project
a year before the City Council’s vote on the matter. It was EM Ed Kurtz who
made the de facto decision to use the Flint River as a temporary water supply
while the pipeline was completed. It was EM Darnell Earley, the first to shout
“Hear, hear!” in response to the mayor’s toast at the water treatment plant,
who called the river “the best choice for the city of Flint going forward” and
oversaw the implementation of the switch.13 It was EM Jerry Ambrose who
ignored the City Council’s symbolic vote to return to Detroit water in March
2015, calling it “incomprehensible.”14 Residents would continue to drink Flint
River water for another seven months.
Except for those who didn’t: those who shunned it from the beginning,
or were repulsed by changes in its color, taste, or smell, or suspected it of
making them sick, or who were warned off it by friends and neighbors or
by early reports of bacterial contamination and TTHMs. Not all of these
6
Introduction
residents joined what I will refer to in this book as the water “movement”
in Flint—the loose collection of people and groups that vocally protested
the condition of the water, demanded that the city cease using the river,
helped reveal the existence of systemic contamination, and fought to ensure
that residents got what they were owed after the crisis was officially recognized.15 But those who did join the movement came to realize that fixing
their city’s water crisis—and preventing similar crises in the future—would
require more than just better treatment methods and new pipes. It would
require confronting a deeper crisis of democracy.
At first glance, the Flint water crisis has all the hallmarks of a classic environmental justice scenario: A population vulnerable for reasons of race and
class. Contamination through human activity of a natural resource essential to life. Residents with little or no background in activism catalyzed into
action by their personal experiences with the contamination. Mendacity
and feet dragging by “experts” and officials in response to demands for
remediation. A popular effort to uncover threats obscured or overlooked by
these same experts and officials. All of these aspects of the crisis will receive
attention in what follows.
What first stood out to me about the struggle for environmental justice
in Flint, however, was what made it distinctive: everyone, it seemed, was
talking not just about water, but about democracy. Students of the environmental justice tradition may protest that democracy has long been a central
concern of environmental justice activists. I concede the point, and will return
to it in chapter 1. But still, there was something unique about the salience of
the theme in Flint. Democracy was constantly on the lips of even those who
were new to activism, who felt compelled to join the water movement not
for ideological reasons but out of burning concern for their own well-being
and that of their families. Activists saw the denial of democracy—as personified in Flint’s EMs—as the most fundamental cause of the crisis and a major
reason for its extent and severity. Likewise, they saw the restoration of democracy as an objective that was complementary to, or even a precondition of,
a full recovery from the crisis. At times I caught glimpses, also, of a more
radical democratic vision, one that sought to deepen democracy by building
off the popular energies liberated by the crisis, the grassroots associations
formed in response to it, and the new political consciousness sparked by
it. Given my academic background in the study of political thought and
Introduction
7
social movements, what I encountered in Flint was an unusually intriguing
confluence of ideas and action.
In the remainder of this introduction, I will explain the methodological
reasons for positioning this book at the intersection of environmental justice and democracy. As will become clear, my emphasis on these concepts is
part of my attempt to capture empirically the activists’ distinctive perspective on the water crisis in language that was meaningful and evocative to the
people on the ground in Flint. I hope to demonstrate that this perspective—
aside from being inherently worthy of documentation as part of our collective memory of the crisis—offers a valuable analytical asset to scholars who
wish to understand the crisis better. I also use the central concepts of the
book as portals into the scholarly literature, through which I pull in other
useful concepts further afield from the everyday language of activism, and
offer up lessons from Flint I believe to be of more general significance.
Methodology
The core elements of this book are derived from ethnographic immersion
in the response to the water crisis in Flint, particularly the activities of water
activists and of scientists studying the city’s water quality and embroiled in
controversies involving activists. I personally became a resident of Flint in
June 2015, when the city was still drawing its water from the Flint River, and
I am one of many residents whose young child was exposed to the water, but
my lived experience of the crisis is not what I am calling the “ethnography” at
the heart of this book. My main objective is to understand the crisis from the
perspective of the water activists who were especially involved in the response
to it. My own residence in Flint of course enriched my understanding of what
life was like on the ground in the city from mid-2015 on, and it factored into
my positionality as an activist-scholar in important ways. Simply living in
Flint was not, however, nearly enough to provide my ethnographic material:
I had to make a special effort to enter into the activist community, gradually
building relationships and trust and evolving from a fly on the wall into a
full-fledged participant observer.16
I am not, I must admit, an experienced ethnographer, but I knew enough
about ethnography—and, by the time of my initial foray into water activism in January 2016, enough about Flint—to know that this process would
be gradual and delicate. For one thing, I was a latecomer, getting involved at
8
Introduction
a time when the crisis was attracting significant national attention, thereby
opening myself up to suspicions of opportunism or at least the “Johnnycome-lately” epithet sometimes applied to people and groups who weren’t in
the fight from the “beginning” (however defined). Furthermore, I appeared
on the activist scene as a white middle-class man at a time when activists
were taking advantage of the national spotlight to elevate the stories of poor
people of color—especially women, who they argued had suffered special
harms from the water and whose agency as leaders of the water movement
they made a point of celebrating. While I thought of myself (somewhat arrogantly, I suppose) as someone with special skills and resources to contribute
to the movement, the activists were far more interested in the symbolic capital offered by residents with the right kind of look, background, and story.
It was all I could do early on to demonstrate that I, too, could be useful,
and it was frustrating (though illuminating) when some of my early offers
of assistance were met with indifference.
Another complication was that my institutional position at Kettering
University was at least as much a liability as an asset. The activists’ feelings about Kettering ranged from mixed to openly hostile. Some accused
the school (the largest private landowner in the city) of perpetrating an
ongoing “land grab” around the fringes of campus, gulping up dilapidated
properties for its own purposes, including the formerly public Atwood Stadium (given to Kettering in exchange for repair work by EM Mike Brown in
2013). More generally, I found that activists saw Kettering as being mostly
unconcerned with residents beyond its immediate neighbors and complicit
in plans by local elites to turn the city into a “college town.” Many believed
that the school had downplayed the severity of the water crisis for fear of
losing enrollment.17 Thus, even as I worked in a variety of ways to build
bridges between the university, activists, and Flint residents, my credibility
hinged on showing that I was not “controlled” (an accusation leveled at me
by an activist convinced at one point that I was part of a “CYA” effort) and
that I had some critical distance from my own institution.18
To overcome suspicions about my character and intentions, I very consciously avoided giving any impression that I had a personal or official
agenda or was more entitled to speak authoritatively about the crisis on
account of my credentials, training, or position. I drew inspiration from
what the sociologist Alice Goffman calls “social shrinkage”—a technique
Introduction
9
aimed at minimizing the impact of one’s difference within an unfamiliar
social setting.19 One can justify such minimization methodologically as
being conducive to purer observations, but in my case it grew out of the
realization that it was the necessary starting point on what would be a longer journey toward acceptance and participation. In truth, I didn’t have to
be very proactive about “shrinking” myself. I sat through numerous conversations about politics at activist meetings where no one thought to ask
the PhD political scientist for his opinion. One activist described the activist culture in Flint to me as “anti-intellectual.”20 At the very least, what I
encountered repeatedly was an indifference to credentials that reflected the
deeply egalitarian sensibility typical of Flint activism. It was a sensibility I
found inspiring on a moral level, but sometimes problematic on an organizing level for its tendency to undervalue academic knowledge and the
strategic advantages of status, access, and power. Whereas water activists in
Detroit have forged productive relationships with local academics, leading
to impressive collaborative work on water shutoffs, foreclosures, and emergency management,21 nothing comparable exists in Flint, and Flint activists
gave no indication that they felt this to be a limitation.
Perhaps it was a twinge of vanity that made me expect a slightly more
enthusiastic welcome into the activist ranks, but the reality was that I was
already starting to doubt the value of my own supposed expertise in the
face of the water crisis’s confounding complexity. In some ways, this doubt
was a continuation of an earlier humbling experience. In the fall of 2015,
a few months after moving to Flint, I joined the Flint Charter Review Advisory Committee, a body of residents that met regularly with elected charter
commissioners to contribute to the first review and revision of the city’s
governing document since the 1970s. At first, I was encouraged by my ability to draw upon my political theory background for guidance. Following
the second meeting of the group, I helped rewrite the charter preamble to
incorporate more explicit rights language—including, for the first time in the
city’s history, a declaration of Flint residents’ right to water. As the meetings
progressed, however, and as the conversations began to delve into the minutiae of city government and the history of Flint politics, I felt awash in local
knowledge and, very often, like the dumbest person in the room. When the
time came to take a position on such key questions as what form of government the city ought to have, I found myself grasping at straws. It was an
10
Introduction
awakening, for me, to the irreducible intricacies of place, and it led me to
the conclusion that my prior training would be of little use in Flint without
an extended period of listening and learning.
This attitude of epistemic humility is, in my view, fundamental to the ethnographic enterprise. Writing of her arrival in Bhopal, India, in the years following the catastrophic gas leak there, the anthropologist Kim Fortun describes
her sense of entering a “whirlwind,” a “maelstrom” that made it difficult to
treat Bhopal as “a bounded unit of analysis.”22 I felt much the same way about
the water crisis, like I had to ride the breeze for some time, let the complexity
of the situation wash over me, before it was possible to start analytically dissecting what was going on, or even to formulate clear research questions. Part
of the difficulty was that by early 2016 the crisis was being held up by commentators as exemplary in so many different ways—notably:
•
As a wakeup call about the persistence of lead in the urban environment,
and especially the threat of lead in water
•
As an illustration of the dilapidation and underfunding of America’s infrastructure (and, later, as a virtually unprecedented effort to replace infrastructure at the local level)
•
As a revelation of the inadequacy of environmental regulatory frameworks, particularly the federal Lead and Copper Rule, and an indictment of the bureaucratic cultures that work against effective regulatory
intervention
•
As a dramatization of nationwide controversies about the treatment of
poor people of color
•
As a landmark environmental justice struggle demonstrating the power
of grassroots activists to make change
•
As a “gold standard” of “citizen science” illustrating the potential of
resident-driven scientific research to aid marginalized communities
•
As an example of the dangers of aggressive state intervention into local
affairs and the suspension of local democracy
It was clear to me that any treatment of the crisis that did justice to the “whirl”
and avoided reductionism would have to touch upon all of these aspects of
the crisis’s significance. But it was equally clear that I would have to train
my focus on the theme or themes that would best allow me to elaborate the
perspective on the crisis I was intent upon capturing. The main question that
Introduction
11
came to guide my research was simple: how did the activists understand the
crisis, and how did that understanding affect the way they responded to it?
When I met them, Flint activists were already steering a course through
the storm with the kind of performative confidence already familiar to me
from encounters with other activist cultures. I decided the most promising
approach was to step into the stream of grassroots activism and follow it
where it led. In January 2016, I began attending community meetings, rallies,
protests, and marches organized by the Flint Democracy Defense League, Flint
Rising, and the groups comprising the Two Years (later, Three Years, and then
Four Years) Too Long Coalition (also known as the Flint H2O Justice Coalition). At first, I was largely a passive spectator, but gradually I took on a
more active role in the development of strategy, the promulgation of public
statements, and the organization of events and actions. I also took part in
door-to-door canvassing and community organizer trainings arranged by
Flint Rising.
The geography of activism shaped the contours of my field site, which
was not coterminous with city limits but centered on particular spaces like
St. Michael’s and Woodside churches (where activists had regular meetings), the front lawn of City Hall (the site of innumerable rallies and a staging ground for marches), and council chambers, and which occasionally
extended outside the city, too.23 Like the activists, I also made a point of
attending official meetings about water: town halls, panels, hearings, and the
so-called Community Partners meetings at City Hall, which brought together
representatives of agencies and groups on the governmental and nonprofit
side of the crisis response. Because of my close working relationship with my
colleague at Kettering University, Laura Sullivan—an appointee to the state’s
official crisis response committee, the city’s Technical Advisory Committee,
and the KWA board—I also enjoyed vicarious access to many closed-door
meetings and behind-the-scenes interactions between top officials. In addition to physical spaces of various kinds, I immersed myself to the point of
saturation in water-related Facebook and Twitter chatter, which was often
just as, if not more, consequential than offline interactions between activists.24 When I could not be physically present at meetings and events, I
benefited enormously from live streams by activists through Facebook Live,
the video-streaming feature debuted by the social media site in April 2016.
Allying myself with the activists as closely as I did gave my research
the character of what Jeffrey S. Juris has called “militant ethnography”
12
Introduction
(although “militant” seems a trifle grandiose as a description of any of the
activism I actually engaged in). Juris describes militant ethnography as “a
politically engaged and collaborative form of participant observation carried
out from within rather than outside grassroots movements” that “seeks to
overcome the divide between research and practice.” The militant ethnographer is not merely a “circumstantial activist” (or, I would add, an “advocate”).
Rather, she “has to build long-term relationships of mutual commitment and
trust, become entangled with complex relations of power, and live the emotions associated with direct action organizing and activist networking.” Juris
argues, as would I, that “such politically engaged ethnographic practice not
only allows researchers to remain active political subjects, it also generates
better interpretations and analyses.”25
Of course, no ethnography would be worthy of the name without preserving a certain degree of insider-outsider tension, and some scholars may
worry that adopting a militant orientation, in Juris’s sense of the term,
eliminates this tension. What I experienced was quite the opposite. In practice, working in such close proximity to the activists generated tensions
that would not otherwise have existed—tensions which, while sometimes
unpleasant, were extremely productive of insights.
The activist perspective on the water crisis was not, however, the only one
I had the opportunity to enter into, nor were the activists the only people
involved to whom I felt a certain allegiance. Joining the Flint Area Community Health and Environment Partnership (FACHEP) in April 2016 added
another layer to my direct involvement in the crisis response. An interdisciplinary collaboration between researchers from, among other institutions,
Wayne State University, the University of Michigan, Michigan State University, and the Henry Ford Health System, the FACHEP team congealed around
several grants awarded in early 2016 by the National Institutes of Health, the
National Science Foundation, and the State of Michigan to fund research
into Flint’s water quality and the point-of-use filters the state had begun
distributing to residents. My primary role was to oversee community engagement around the most substantial of the team’s projects, a $3.35 million study
of the prevalence of Legionella bacteria in Flint’s water supply. In this capacity, I worked in collaboration with Laura Sullivan to promulgate sampling
results and safety-related recommendations through social networks, facilitate direct communication between residents and members of the team, and
build trust in the team’s work among the activists. To compensate for short
Introduction
13
staffing, I occasionally performed tasks outside my official job description as well, including scheduling water sampling appointments, building
sampling kits, and accompanying sampling teams from house to house to
administer a public health survey. I also endeavored to play a diplomatic
role when relations soured between the different teams studying Flint’s
water and the activists allied with them, a story related in chapter 7. As
I explain in that chapter, my involvement with FACHEP complicated my
ethnographic work in a number of ways: it gave me the aura of someone
with inside information and opened doors to certain spaces the activists
could not enter directly, but it was also—at least early on—another source
of suspicion about my motives and true allegiances.
As a supplement to participant observation, I conducted around seventy
semi-structured interviews with people involved in various aspects of the
water crisis response.26 About thirty-five of these were with people I would
describe as “activists”—mainly Flint-based activists, but also several who
were associated with statewide or national organizations, or with activism
in other cities. I also interviewed a number of people who might be better
described as activist “allies”—advocates from the worlds of public health,
journalism, and public interest law. I talked with elected representatives
from city and state government, employees of the EPA, and numerous people involved in the production of scientific knowledge about the water,
including some of my own FACHEP colleagues and members of the Virginia
Tech team. In only a handful of cases did I fail to connect with a solicited
interviewee, usually because I never got a response to my invitation.
One advantage of combining interviews with extended ethnography is
that I did not have to rely overly upon the “snowball” method of identifying
interviewees, which can introduce bias into a research project by hewing too
closely to preestablished social networks. By sinking more deeply into my
field of study than the average interviewer, I was able to identify for myself
who the main actors were and interview more selectively and efficiently.
Furthermore, because many of the people I interviewed I had already gotten
to know personally or had even worked with, I was able to craft detailed,
tailor-made questions to complement my generic interview template. Sometimes putting on an “interviewer” cap with friends and acquaintances was
awkward, for it cast me conspicuously in the role of the researcher rather
than that of comrade. Also, I found it difficult to talk neutrally with certain
activists and officials as I became tangled up in some of the divisions within
14
Introduction
the activist and scientific community. But on the whole, I believe my personal involvement in the same issues consuming my interviewees allowed
for much subtler and more candid conversations than would otherwise
have been possible. Interviews proved to be critical not only for mapping
in more detail various perspectives on the crisis, but also (supplemented by
news coverage27 and archived social media content) reconstructing what
went on from 2011 to 2015 before my personal involvement.28
Themes of the Book
It was through a combination of close observation in group settings and
probing questions in one-on-one settings, then, that I arrived at the themes
that animate this book.29 Firstly, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the activists
understood themselves to be fighting for “justice.” Justice is, of course, a
capacious concept; its utility, from an activist standpoint, is in part its ability
to accommodate a wide range of demands. For Flint activists, “water justice”
encompassed everything from securing safe, affordable water, to replacing
damaged infrastructure, to declaring water a human right, to community
revitalization.30 The broader idea of “environmental justice,” too, was very
much in the air. Whether or not activists employed the term explicitly from
the start, they came to see their struggle as part of a longer tradition of
everyday people battling pollution and official obstruction, and the connections they forged within the environmental justice community were some
of the most significant to come out of the crisis. The concept only became
more salient when multiple investigative bodies determined that the crisis
was an example of environmental injustice, and when the city organized an
environmental justice summit in 2017 at which a number of water activists
were honored.
What made the activists’ discourse around justice distinctive, however,
is what I have already alluded to: their conviction that the injustice of the
water crisis was the product of a prior crisis of “democracy.” Democracy is,
arguably, at least as capacious a concept as justice, and also tends to be used
at the popular level without adjectival qualifiers. Nevertheless, it is possible
to differentiate analytically between distinct conceptions of democracy
implicit in activist thought. When activists argued that the usurpation of
local democracy in Flint caused the crisis, they had something like “representative” democracy in mind: what was lost when emergency management
Introduction
15
was imposed by the state was the right of residents’ elected representatives
at the local level to have any say over decisions about Flint’s water (among
other things). As a consequence, when residents began to raise issues about
water rates and water quality they found that the mechanisms of redress
associated with representative democracy—chiefly, electoral turnover and
petitioning of elected officials—were, if not entirely unavailable, mostly
ineffective. For this reason, the restoration of representative democracy was
intertwined in activists’ minds with the restoration of their water.
The story activists told about their response to the crisis, however, invoked
more radical democratic ideas. It was a story about ordinary people who
operated—by necessity—outside the channels of representative democracy,
people who distrusted the water forums sponsored by officials and opted for
a more contentious political response situated in the “streets.” The activists
preferred to create alternative deliberative spaces of their own, “free” spaces
where they could make their own assumptions about what was politically
possible, where decision making was direct, where previously apolitical people could learn to exercise political agency. They also sought to democratize
the epistemological realm, fighting to establish the legitimacy of popular
knowledge and for a vision of “citizen science” that insisted on residents setting the scientific agenda within their own community. Some of the activists
consciously sought to build off of these popular energies to advance a more
participatory democratic ideal by channeling activism into long-term community capacity building.
It is no accident that I describe the activists’ account of the crisis as a story,
for if there was any concept coequal to justice and democracy in their thinking it was the concept of “narrative.” As they saw it, establishing that the
water crisis was caused by a denial of democracy required dispelling the “false
narrative” promulgated by state agencies and the Snyder administration,
which downplayed state culpability and hinted that Flint was to blame for its
own problems. It also required establishing the preferability of the activists’
“political narrative” (as I will call it) of the crisis’s origins to other possible
narratives of the crisis that were not “false” per se, but whose emphases (as
shown in chapter 2) were not wholly congruous with activist objectives.
Activists also targeted “false” narratives of the response to the crisis, narratives they felt obscured the collective action of ordinary residents in favor of
a media-friendly saga of heroism focused inordinately on the interventions of
expert allies. The feeling that their story of popular self-liberation was being
16
Introduction
hijacked—in some cases, by the experts themselves—generated a kind of dialectical backlash, pushing the activists in an even more populist direction.
Their rhetoric sometimes implied that they didn’t need anyone, that they were
entirely capable of fighting their own fight. This message resonated in Flint
more than it might have elsewhere, given that Flintstones (as locals sometimes
call themselves) were already inclined to mythologize popular resistance, with
the 1936 to 1937 sit-down strike—in which a small contingent of hardscrabble workers beat GM against all odds—serving as their Genesis. I got the sense
that some activists wanted the water movement in Flint to be remembered as
a similar beacon of resistance, comprising another homegrown chapter in the
universal history of the fight for justice and democracy.
In some ways, this book is in the service of that ambition. As both a contribution to the movement and a work of scholarship, however, the book
consciously resists romanticizing grassroots activism—a trap I believe I have
been able to avoid precisely because I grew close enough to the activists to
know them as full-bodied people and to observe some of the movement’s
internal controversies and limitations firsthand. In a few instances, activists
expressed to me the hope that my work would expose the shortcomings of
other activists and activist organizations, or at least offer a more balanced
account of Flint’s water activism than the celebratory depictions that emerged
after the crisis became a national story. While I in no way wish to exacerbate
tensions and divisions within the grassroots, the book would be incomplete
if I did not give voice to these dissenting perspectives. I also, in chapter 8,
offer my own assessment of the ways in which activists’ staunch insistence
on self-determination created, at times, a problematic gap between rhetoric and reality. For reasons I have already mentioned, exercising this interpretive power is a delicate matter in Flint, but I do so in the hope that it
will contribute to what Julie Sze and Jonathan London describe as “a more
critical and reflective mode of community organizing,”31 in ways that prove
constructive at the local level as well as instructive on a scholarly level.
The Significance of Flint
It is notoriously difficult to extract insights of general scholarly interest from
research as locally rooted as that which went into this book. When I first
conceived of the project, it was as a descriptive case study of an unusually
significant event in the nation’s history, written from an engaged vantage
Introduction
17
point and without the intention of advancing any particular theoretical
framework. I took inspiration from Henry Kraus’s classic firsthand account
of the sit-down strike The Many and the Few, as well as from the many
notable case studies of environmental disasters and the popular responses
they have provoked, beginning with Kai Erikson’s Everything in Its Path and
including some of the books in this series.32 A richly descriptive case study
distinguishes itself, in part, precisely by resisting generalization, incorporating idiosyncrasies and deviations that complicate whatever core themes
may be present.33 These should build up like pebbles in the shoe, reminding
the reader of the artificiality and incompleteness of even the most robust
conceptual framework. Given that much of the water crisis’s complexity was
missed by the media entirely, or erased as waning news coverage wore representations down to their bare outlines, painting a fuller picture of what went
on in Flint is, I maintain, an important contribution of this book.
There are political reasons, as well, to be cautious about generalization,
for the basis of many of the activists’ demands was the singularity of the
water crisis. Moving Flint to the front of the queue for state and federal assistance, they believed, depended on the crisis being seen as unique, and often
their leading antagonists were those who argued that what was going on in
Flint was happening in other cities, too. The predicament of the militant ethnographer, then, is that framing the crisis in generalizable terms for scholarly
purposes risks coming off as politically counterproductive, or at least politically tone-deaf. In his account of interactions with Oxford activists, David
Harvey usefully articulates this dilemma as a tension between the “tangible
solidarities” embedded in community life and the scholar’s search for more
“abstract” conceptions that have “universal purchase.” From a community’s
perspective, Harvey points out, the shift to the latter “conceptual world …
can threaten that sense of value and common purpose that grounds the militant particularism achieved in particular places.”34 Attempts to convey the
significance of particular struggles in the language of scholarly abstractions
may be seen by community members as diluting those struggles or implying
that they are important only as instantiations of more general phenomena.35
On the other hand, there was political utility in the idea that the water
crisis contained lessons for the world beyond Flint. The national conversation the crisis generated around lead contamination, moribund infrastructures, and spotty regulations created a platform for activists to take their
story around the country. And ultimately, no matter how focused that story
18
Introduction
was on the exceptional nature of Flint’s plight, it did have a larger moral,
a message about the integral relationship of justice and democracy. Earlier,
I suggested that these concepts could be used as portals to scholarly literatures and discourses that stand to be illuminated by the crisis even as they
help to illuminate it. Here, I attempt to make good on this claim in ways
that set up later discussions in the book.
Environmental Justice and Its Critics
There is, of course, an extensive literature on environmental justice and
good reason to situate the Flint water crisis within it.36 It is worth noting, however, that environmental justice frameworks have been criticized
by scholars on a number of grounds. One common complaint, voiced by
urban political ecologists and others influenced by the Marxist tradition,
is that these frameworks are theoretically shallow, centered on moralistic
condemnations of environmental inequities that rely uncritically on liberal
notions of “justice” and “rights.” This kind of normative language, some
have argued, has proven to be highly co-optable into the postpolitical “consensus” of neoliberalism, with favorite activist ideas like the “human right
to water” operationalized by elites in ways compatible with privatization
and other neoliberal agendas.37 What those who rely on such concepts often
miss, contend Eric Swyngedouw and Nikolas Heynen, is that the processes
by which nature is “metabolized” for human use under capitalism not
only tolerate, but actually depend upon disparities of various kinds. Consequently, it is naïve to call for the elimination of environmental inequities
without working for more fundamental economic and political change.38
The alleged naïveté of environmental justice activists is reflected in their
tendency to get absorbed in what Swyngedouw and Maria Kaika call “the allocation dynamics of environmental externalities,” like battles over the siting of
polluting facilities.39 When such activists call for structural reforms at all, their
demands are often limited to thinly procedural changes that would do little
more than give communities modestly more influence over the distribution
of environmental goods and harms. A more radical orientation, suggest Swyngedouw and Kaika, would keep the focus on the deeper dynamics of capitalist
urbanization, the “decision-making processes that organize socio-ecological
transformation and choreograph the management of the commons.”40
In a similar, albeit more sympathetic, vein, David Pellow argues that
environmental justice frames are often empirically simplistic, reducing the
Introduction
19
complex social interactions that generate environmental injustices to dichotomous “perpetrator-victim” narratives.41 When seen in the proper historical
perspective, Pellow argues, environmental injustices are products of competition for resources by diverse (and unequal) stakeholders who usually have
no intention of wronging others. Implying that environmental harms are
straightforwardly foisted upon innocent communities by evildoers not only
filters out a good deal of social complexity, it overlooks the ways in which
members of affected communities may themselves be complicit in injustice.
If my main priorities in this book were theoretical sophistication and
empirical comprehensiveness, I would have approached the subject of water
activism in Flint differently. I would likely have proceeded from the outside
in, beginning either with an analytic framework derived from a prior scholarly agenda (and only tangentially concerned with the ideas of the activists
themselves), or with a wide angle that immediately put the activists’ admittedly partial view of reality into perspective. Instead, I have written the book
from the inside out, concerning myself first and foremost with capturing
ethnographically the perspective of Flint activists, and using their conceptual
language as a springboard to construct a thematized account of the crisis and
glean scholarly insights of broader relevance.42 On a conceptual level, I am
most interested in exploring not the polished diamonds of the professional
theorist but the roughhewn coal of the layperson—a little jagged, often, but
generative of fire and motion. In short, I am interested in ideas that move
people, and for this reason I have found myself drawing from those strains of
social movement theory that emphasize cultural spurs to action: identities,
frames, and narratives that shape how people think about what needs to be
done and how they go about doing it. Considerations of “resources” and
“opportunities” are important, too, as part of the context in which collective
action transpires or fails to transpire,43 but ultimately my concern in this
book is with the relationship between ideas and action.
I do not deny that the often black-and-white conceptual world of activism, shaped as it is by utilitarian and rhetorical considerations, may sometimes obscure more than it reveals. Certainly, the activists’ way of framing
the water crisis, like any other attempt to construct a politically serviceable
account of a complex social reality, included embellishments and blind
spots. The case of Flint water activism, however, offers a compelling example of how rich and productive the view from the grassroots can be. It is no
exaggeration to say that Flint activists are, in some sense, coauthors of this
20
Introduction
book, for it is their analytic of the crisis that animates it. Their perspectives
are not so much empirical data points I gather together and look at from
a more enlightened vantage point as they are lenses I have learned much
from looking through. As I consolidate and burnish these perspectives into a
particular narrative of the crisis in the first few chapters of the book, I invite
the reader to adopt a similar vantage point. In the process, I contest the
tendency to see activist ideas as superficial by showing how the emphasis
on democracy in Flint encouraged deeper thinking about the origins and
implications of environmental injustice.
Another concern scholars have raised about environmental justice frameworks is that they lack breadth as well as depth, being “narrowly focused” on
“specific geographic locales.”44 For David Harvey, the challenge for environmental justice activists is to “transcend particularisms” by using local issues
to expose and confront more systemic injustices.45 One of the transcendent
lessons of the Flint water crisis, however, is precisely the importance of the
local, a lesson that will manifest itself in a variety of ways in the chapters that
follow. Most important for our purposes here is the activists’ association of
democracy with what they sometimes called “local control.”46 They believed
that the interests of the city of Flint were separate from (and arguably superior to) those of the state of Michigan, and that decisions made about matters of local concern should flow out of local knowledge and politics rather
than being handed over to expert administrators beholden to outside agendas. The principle of local control implied not only that people had a right
to political autonomy but that they were best off when they looked after
themselves. In Flint activist Claire McClinton’s words, “If we control our
water, it’s not gonna get poisoned.”47
Water Governance and Infrastructure
The relationship McClinton and other activists posited between local democracy and the integrity of water raises larger questions of water governance. It
is a truism within the environmental justice movement that water “thrives”
under some structures of governance and not others,48 with democratic processes productive of better outcomes. Even within mainstream water management, there has been a shift in recent years away from state-based, technocratic
“command-and-control” approaches to more inclusive governance structures
that provide for the participation of local “stakeholders.”49 Clearly, subsuming decisions about water under unilateral EM structures is contrary to this
Introduction
21
general trend, and in this sense the Flint water crisis lends support to the idea
that democratic governance is preferable to the alternative. As we will see,
however, even under emergency management Flint residents had opportunities to participate in deliberations about their water, under the pretense that
these deliberations would actually influence official decision making. The
limitations of these deliberative forums (detailed in chapter 6) lend credence
to skeptics who maintain that public participation can easily become a mere
formality, or even a technique for sublimating disruptive political energies
into deliberative consensus building.50 With these skeptics, I maintain that the
existence of deliberative forums does not negate the importance of contentious popular mobilizations that eschew deliberative frameworks.51 Furthermore, as various examples in this book demonstrate, opening up channels
of public participation by no means guarantees that water issues will cease
to be seen as fundamentally technical in nature and thus best adjudicated by
experts.52 Flint activists understood that the more the technical side of the
water question was emphasized, the less their opinions would matter, regardless of how many opportunities they had to express them. This made it all the
more imperative that they advance a “political” narrative to counteract what
I will call the “technical” narrative of the crisis.
It must also be remembered that the prospects of democratizing water
governance are integrally related to the physical arrangement of infrastructures, which may foreclose or constrain certain political possibilities. From
the late 1960s onward, the fact that Flint’s water pipes were tied into the
Detroit system meant that every drink residents took depended on decisions
made outside the city and pipes that extended far beyond it—an awkward
arrangement for a city that prided itself on self-determination. Flint was far
from alone in this predicament, for much of southeast Michigan was similarly
reliant upon Detroit’s vast regional water network. For the wealthy white suburbs of Detroit, the solution was the Great Lakes Water Authority (founded
in 2014), a regional governance structure that shifted predominant influence
over the water system outside of the city. For Flint, the solution proposed by
some elites was to withdraw from the politics of water in southeast Michigan entirely and enter into another regional arrangement—the KWA—over
which the city would have more control. Flint activists, however, regarded
regionalization of any kind as ominous. Not only was regional governance
insufficiently empowering at the local level,53 removing infrastructures from
municipal control was a stepping stone, they feared, to what they considered
22
Introduction
the worst of all worlds: privatization. The ultimate question, though—never
answered (at least not to my satisfaction)—was what the alternative was, what
water democracy would look like if using the water source closest at hand (i.e.,
the Flint River) was not an option. That unanswered question haunts this
book in ways that highlight some of the thorniest conundrums of modernday water management.
The fact that Flint’s water pipes are not only conduits for precious
resources, but also vehicles for political aspirations reflects the fact that
infrastructure is far more than the sum of its material parts: it is infused
with political, social, and cultural meaning.54 To be sure, infrastructure is
not always marked with such rich significance, for it often sinks—when functioning smoothly—into the social unconscious, out of mind if not entirely
out of sight.55 Usually it is when infrastructures break down that they suddenly become visible, their inner workings exposed to people who once paid
them little mind. Stephen Graham has suggested that these moments are
pregnant with opportunities for critical social analysis, offering the chance
to “excavate the usually hidden politics of flow and connection, of mobility
and immobility, within contemporary societies.”56 What is more significant
from the perspective adopted in this book is the de-reifying effect of infrastructural disruption on those who come to see a usually hidden part of their
environment as an imperfect product of human agency. Crucially, what Flint
residents gained from this experience was not only new knowledge of water
systems, but also knowledge of what is not known—and in some cases cannot be known—about them: knowledge of the gaps in our recordkeeping on
the pipes under our feet and of the unruliness and unpredictability of those
pipes as components of a “large technical system” that strives for but never
achieves closure.57 In contrast to the commonsensical view of infrastructure
as the sturdy skeleton upon which our life in common hangs, it was precisely
infrastructure’s lack of stability that became a key assumption of Flint activists, a point of emphasis whenever anyone presumed to make authoritative
pronouncements about the water system’s recovery. For this reason, whenever residents were enlisted by officials to alter their water usage (usually by
increasing water consumption) to help stabilize the system, the choice to
participate took on a political as well as a personal character.
As this example implies, infrastructure is not just part of the context in
which political agency plays out: agency is also exercised on and through
infrastructure.58 This generally takes place at the extremities of infrastructural
Introduction
23
networks, where “mediating technologies” allow users some control over how
systems operate.59 In Flint, the most significant mediating technologies were
the “point-of-use” filters distributed by the State of Michigan, which residents
were encouraged to use as short-term solutions to lead contamination. Normalizing filter use within an everyday context—or at least showing that filters
had been provided to all residents of the city—became the state’s main strategy for ending its provision of free bottled water. While some have touted the
democratic potential of household-level filtration technologies, Flint activists viewed filters not as technologies of empowerment but as projections of
the state’s power and interests. They feared that embracing the filters meant
dampening calls for infrastructure replacement, distracting from structural
issues with the water system, modifying everyday behavior in unwanted
ways, and exposing residents to bacterial contamination that the filters could
not eliminate or even exacerbated. To win public acceptance for the filters, the
state strategically produced ignorance about them, neglecting to educate residents about their limitations and discouraging academic research into their
efficacy. Refusing the filters—and, as a corollary, demanding that the state
continue to provide free bottled water—became an archetypal expression of
political resistance in Flint.
Knowledge, “Citizen Science,” and Expertise
The battle over filters was, like so many of the crisis’s other subplots, in
part a battle over knowledge. Should the filters provided by the state just
be accepted graciously and operated unthinkingly or did residents have the
right to problematize them, to make them objects of inquiry, to expect that
concerns about their functioning would be properly investigated? Who was
entitled to speak with authority about the filters, to appeal to scientific
evidence either to encourage or discourage popular trust in them? Did residents have the right to know everything they wanted to know about the
filters, or were officials and experts warranted in withholding information
that might cause anxiety and alarm? We can rephrase these questions in
more general terms as: Who decides what deserves to be known?, Who gets to
speak authoritatively about what is known?, and Who decides who gets to know
what is known? To view these kinds of questions as purely epistemological
would be a mistake. In Flint, as elsewhere, such questions were matters of
power and justice as well as matters of knowledge, and the answers rendered to them were full of political implications.
24
Introduction
To these questions we must add a fourth: who produces the knowledge that
is known? The Flint water crisis appeared at a moment of surging interest in
“citizen science,” a term used to capture various forms of lay involvement
in the production of scientific knowledge.60 In fact, it could not have been
a more formative time for the citizen science community, with the recently
founded Citizen Science Association holding its inaugural conference in February 2015 and leading practitioners working to develop consensus around
the theoretical and practical contours of the field. As the partnership between
water activists and the Virginia Tech team led by environmental engineer
Marc Edwards began to attract national attention, citizen science boosters
seized upon it as a “gold standard”61 for the genre that fused the idea of citizens acting as data-gathering helpers to trained scientists with the prioritization of community-driven needs and objectives. In an agenda-setting edited
volume, Caren Cooper and Bruce Lewenstein held up the collaboration as a
paradigmatic example of what they called “democratized and contributory”
citizen science.62
The irony was that by the time accounts like Cooper and Lewenstein’s
began to appear in 2016, the relationship between Edwards and the activists was well on its way to degenerating completely. By the time I finished
the fieldwork for this book in summer 2018, it was hard to find an activist
with a good word to say about him. Both sides had their explanations for the
breakup. The activists often claimed that Edwards had “sold out,” changing
his tune about the safety of the water once he started working with the State
of Michigan and accepting money from the very agencies he had come to
town criticizing. For his part, Edwards—who, like the activists, fancied himself a storyteller63—began to narrate the story of Virginia Tech’s intervention
as a “dream” turned into a nightmare by “a few reporters, academics, actors,
activists, and pseudoscientists [who] came to Flint, exploiting the tragedy to
promote their own agendas and creating yet another human tragedy in the
process.”64 It was these serpents slithering into the garden, he implied, that
caused the activists to turn against him, sundering the conduct of good science in Flint (as exemplified by Virginia Tech’s work) from local water activism. Forced to choose a side, Edwards chose “science,” casting himself as a
martyr to the cause who would speak scientific truths and defend the scientific method to the end, no matter how unpopular it made him.
One problem with this paradise-lost narrative is its erasure of fundamental
disjunctures of outlook between the activists and Edwards that existed from
Introduction
25
the inception of their collaborative sampling effort in 2015.65 The activists did
not, for example, share Edwards’s views on the nature or the origins of the
water crisis, nor his conviction in the superiority of scientific ways of knowing
or interest in reestablishing public trust in the scientific establishment. Eventually, they discovered (much to their chagrin) that they also did not share his
measures of recovery from the crisis. But by then it was too late: Edwards had
become the go-to authority on all things Flint water, the state’s favorite expert
as well as the media’s. The activists paid a price, then, for the narrowly focused
relationship of convenience they struck up with Virginia Tech in 2015: long
after they hoped Edwards would disappear, he continued to act as an advisor
to the state and to influence perceptions of the crisis in ways that ran directly
counter to their objectives, using his website and speaking appearances to
ridicule and attack his critics and the ever-growing list of people he accused
of doing fake or shoddy science in Flint and/or exploiting the crisis for their
own gain.
Contained in the saga of Edwards and the activists—related mainly in
chapter 7 but set up in earlier chapters—are a variety of cautionary lessons
about the relationship between citizen science and democracy and the role
that citizen science can play in obtaining justice for marginalized communities. Advocates of citizen science who underscore its qualities of popular empowerment have stressed the need for laypeople to have influence
over every step in the scientific process, an arrangement sometimes called
“extreme citizen science.” This principle was never implemented in Flint,
where activists took the lead in data gathering but were at the mercy of
Edwards and his team when it came time to interpret and communicate the
data. This power differential did not present itself as much of a problem at
first, when the activists saw Edwards as speaking on their behalf about the
science. But as he strayed off message, the activists realized that Edwards saw
it the other way around: he was not speaking for them, but rather speaking
for the science (at least purportedly), and would do so however he saw fit,
whether they wanted him to or not. The distinction was crucial, for it meant
that ultimately Edwards’s sense of entitlement to speak about Flint’s water
stemmed not from democratic delegation by the activists as part of a common struggle but from his own independent status as a scientific expert.
These different ways of thinking about the basis of a scientist’s discursive
authority (not to mention the ultimate objectives of scientific inquiry) illustrate the difference between approaching citizen science from the scientific
26
Introduction
end, as Edwards did, and approaching it from the social movement end, as
I do in this book. Explaining the logic of “social movement-based citizen science,” Gwen Ottinger points out that “activist groups design studies not only
to improve knowledge but to foster collective action and political change,”66
and that there are sometimes “tradeoffs between scientific legitimacy and
political efficacy.”67 In such cases, one would hardly expect activists to prioritize scientific legitimacy for its own sake. When activism “mobilizes” science,
writes Marta Conde, scientific knowledge is valued principally as a “political
tool” that activists can use to “express and exercise power.”68 When the science on offer fails to perform that function, activists often seek to redirect
attention to other ways of knowing (a subject of chapters 5 and 8) or to competing forms of scientific knowledge produced by counter-experts.
None of this should lead us to conclude that activists are inevitably less
scientific than experts. Certainly, Flint activists felt strongly that some of
their own claims were more scientifically defensible than those made by
Edwards. Philosophers of science like Sandra Harding have argued that
politically motivated science can actually “produce less partial and distorted
results of research than those supposedly guided by the goal of valueneutrality.”69 One reason is that science borne of political struggle fosters
what Harding calls “strong objectivity” by turning our attention to the
credibility of knowledge producers themselves and alerting us to the ways
in which power and perspective shape truth claims.70 But we should be
careful about measuring the scientific worth of activist-driven knowledge
production by its conformity to traditional scientific standards (like “objectivity”) or the extent to which activists behave like “scientists.” It may be
that under conditions of high risk and uncertainty the assumptions and
methods of “normal” science are inadequate, that in these circumstances
nonscientific ways of knowing have value equal to or greater than their scientific counterparts, and that unorthodox approaches are called for (or at
least a plurality of scientific voices).71 There is no straightforward answer to
what constitutes “good” science in a context as complex and indeterminate
as that created by the water crisis, and whenever Edwards made black-andwhite distinctions between good scientists and bad scientists, real scientists
and fake scientists, it provoked backlash by the activists, who could see that
there was more to the story.
Environmental justice activists who appeal to the “technical rationality” of experts for support often experience, in David Pellow’s words, “a
Introduction
27
complex mix of loss and triumph, empowerment and disempowerment.”72
While the collaboration with Virginia Tech had an empowering effect early
on, contributing to the water movement’s signature victory (getting Flint
off the river), its long-term effects on the community were dubious, as the
controversy around Edwards shattered personal relationships, prevented
collaboration (scientific and otherwise), and ultimately left activists even
more vulnerable to the state. At the same time, the Edwards experience
made the activists more determined than ever to prove that the fight for
justice and democracy in Flint was not about the exertions of hero figures but, rather, the collective action of ordinary residents. The water crisis
became an opportunity to show the world just how capable Flint residents
were: they could know for themselves, speak for themselves, and act for
themselves, with their own organizations taking the lead as the main agents
of justice in Flint. They could prove to the world that their political voices
should never have been taken away in the first place. In the last chapter of
the book, chapter 8, I trace these attitudes, along with some of their prickly
contradictions, through the activism and community organizing efforts
that postdated the return to Detroit water in October 2015.
Chapter Summary
To summarize: in chapters 1 through 3, I distinguish the political narrative
of the water crisis from other possible narratives and show how the activists’
emphasis on democracy allowed them to overcome some of the limitations
of standard environmental justice frameworks and fostered deeper political
thinking about the causes of the crisis. In chapter 4, I trace the origins of the
activists’ ideas about democracy back into the struggle against emergency
management, where activists first made the connection between democracy and water. In chapter 5, I examine the development of political agency
among residents newly mobilized by personal water troubles and the convergence of those residents with pro-democracy activists, resulting in the particularly uncompromising form of activism discussed in chapter 6. Chapter
7 details controversies over science and expertise, while chapter 8 finds the
activists trying to channel water activism into sustainable “people power,”
weaving the most democratic impulses within the water movement into a
more radical political vision for the future of Flint.
1
Flint First: The Injustice of the Flint Water Crisis
In a ballroom at the University of Michigan-Flint, a short walk away from
the Flint River, Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha sat facing a panel of state legislators. It was March 29, 2016, six months after her announcement that
lead leaching from water pipes was finding its way into the bloodstreams
of Flint’s children.1 State officials had disputed the claim at first, calling
Hanna-Attisha’s research “unfortunate” and suggesting that it was politically motivated.2 Within a matter of days, however, their resistance broke
as the state’s own epidemiologists replicated her findings. From that point
forward, the contamination of Flint’s water would forever be known to the
world as the “Flint water crisis.”
It had taken Hanna-Attisha two weeks of intensive research to deliver
what was received as smoking-gun evidence of a public health emergency
in Flint. But her intervention—as she acknowledged during the September 2015 press conference at which she released her findings—had been
a long time coming. Many in the medical community had been slow to
accept that the water in Flint posed a threat to human health. By contrast,
she pointed out, Flint’s “grassroots organizers” had been fighting to keep
the city’s water problems “in the public view” for months.3 These activists
were the first to describe the situation as a “crisis” and the first to argue that
system-wide contamination was causing demonstrable harm to residents—
and they had been amassing the evidence since 2014. Again and again, they
were ignored, dismissed, and derided by politicians, administrators, and socalled experts. In confirming the activists’ longstanding claim that Flint’s
water was unsafe, Hanna-Attisha’s data led directly to the realization of
their demand that the city disconnect from the Flint River. Now, as she
testified before one of the three state bodies tasked with investigating the
crisis, many of those activists sat attentively in the audience behind her.
30
Chapter 1
Hanna-Attisha noted that during the year and a half that Flint drew its
drinking water from the river, the number of children age zero to five testing
positive for elevated blood lead levels rose from 2.1 percent to 4 percent. But
she cautioned the committee against concluding that this figure captured the
full extent of the damage done. In fact, it was almost certainly a significant
underestimate. Because lead leaves the blood and enters the bones within a
month’s time, blood tests were of limited value in capturing past exposure. A
“normal” result (2 µg/dL or below), then, could not be taken as a sign that no
harm had occurred. Everyone in Flint had to be “assumed as being potentially
exposed,” irrespective of what tests showed about their blood lead levels.4 Furthermore, Hanna-Attisha explained, her analysis depended on data derived
from routine, Medicaid-mandated lead screening at the ages of one and two
years. But lead in water poses a special danger to infants reliant upon formula,
who are unlikely to be tested during their period of highest exposure.
Hanna-Attisha also stressed that even low levels of lead exposure can cause
harm. Warning that there is “no safe level of lead,” she pointed in particular to
lead’s effects on cognition and behavior. Lead exposure in childhood, she said,
is known to result in lower IQs, attention deficits, hyperactivity, and impulse
control disorders. Infants in Flint who consumed tainted water through formula were at the most “developmentally vulnerable” age, and because lead
“crosses in utero,” they may have been exposed before even being born. Furthermore, the epigenetic effects of lead exposure can alter DNA in ways that
make impairments inheritable across two generations, meaning that the community would see “decades-long consequences” from the exposure.
It would never be possible to say with certainty that any one deficit in
any one child was directly caused by lead. But because lead exposure in
Flint was population wide, the working assumption had to be that all Flint
children needed, and deserved, the maximum possible attention and care:
as Hanna-Attisha put it, “There is no way to predict which child is going
to have which problem and that is why we need to do everything for all
children.” Wraparound support—nutritious food, health care, education—
she argued, should be made available not just to the six thousand-plus Flint
children under the age of six but to every Flint child. In addition, because
lead is harmful to people of all ages, the same support should be extended
to every Flint adult, and to anyone who regularly spent time in Flint during the years of 2014 and 2015. In total, upward of 150,000 people, by her
estimation, were entitled to all “the necessary interventions to mitigate the
Flint First
31
impact of this disaster”—in addition, of course, to the replacement of lead
infrastructure to prevent further exposure.
No doubt aware of the high esteem in which Hanna-Attisha was held
by those in the room, the committee treated her with respect and, for the
most part, deference. During the question-and-answer session, however,
State Representative Ed Canfield, a Republican from Michigan’s 84th District and a physician himself, pushed back against her assessment of the
extent of the harm done to Flint children. With the insistence that he was
attempting not to “diminish” the crisis but rather to give worried parents
“a better understanding” of its severity, Canfield sought to introduce some
historical perspective. He pointed out that as recently as 1998, over 44 percent of Michigan children had blood lead levels above the cutoff now used
to diagnose lead poisoning (5 µg/dL). In 2015, Flint’s second year on the
river, which encompassed both the peak of the lead contamination and a
surge in voluntary blood lead tests, 3.3 percent of the city’s children had
been confirmed to have elevated blood lead levels.
Furthermore, Canfield continued, even in the present this figure could be
compared favorably against rates of lead poisoning in many other parts of
Michigan. Citing 2012 data, he pointed to Branch County, where 10.1 percent
of children had elevated blood lead levels, to Jackson County, where the number was 8 percent, to Kent County, where it was 6.2 percent, and to Huron
County, where it was 5.4 percent. Even if one conceded Hanna-Attisha’s point
about the underdiagnosis of infant lead poisoning, Canfield implied, surely
the harms caused by Flint’s lead problem were not substantially worse than,
or even as severe as, those found elsewhere. Why, then, should Flint be given
special consideration? Invoking his responsibility as a state representative to
consider the needs of all Michigan citizens, Canfield argued that “this is a
statewide problem and we have to help everybody in the state.”
Canfield’s argument was no mere academic exercise. The State of Michigan was being asked to provide Flint with an “unprecedented” amount of
resources (in Governor Rick Snyder’s estimation) to remediate the effects of
the crisis.5 By March 2016, three supplemental appropriations bills had already
been approved by the state legislature, amounting to $67.4 million—money
for reconnecting Flint to the Detroit water system, for bottled water and filter distribution, for health care and education, for lead service line replacement. Another $126.7 million of state aid for Flint was under consideration.6
Looking even further ahead to the 2016–2017 fiscal year, tens of millions,
32
Chapter 1
perhaps hundreds of millions, more would be needed for infrastructure and
the wraparound care championed by Hanna-Attisha. If, as some residents
demanded, all of the city’s pipes were to be replaced, rather than just the
lead service lines thought to be the main source of the lead problem, the bill
could come to $1.5 billion for infrastructure alone. Given the available data
on lead exposure, were the residents of Flint, much less all of the 150,000
people invoked by Hanna-Attisha, really entitled to the “so much” that she
was calling for? More so, anyway, than fellow Michiganders who had similar, if not more serious, needs of their own?7
As Canfield pursued this line of reasoning, the atmosphere in the room
grew palpably tense. People shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The activists in attendance, never shy about speaking out when they disagreed with
something, were unusually quiet. Finally, in the middle of Canfield’s disquisition, Hanna-Attisha broke in impatiently. The difference in Flint’s
case, she asserted, was that Flint had been “poisoned by policy.”8
With these words, the audience erupted in a cathartic, prolonged cheer.
As a flustered Canfield continued to plead the case of other lead-plagued
cities, activists shouted “Flint! Flint first!”
Hanna-Attisha’s riposte to Canfield—that Flint had not just been poisoned,
but poisoned by policy—offers an instructive articulation of the view of the
water crisis I will elaborate in the first part of this book: what made the crisis
distinctive, what made it especially egregious, was not just how badly residents were harmed, but how they were harmed. The enthusiastic response
her words elicited from the crowd attests to the popularity of this interpretation of the crisis in Flint itself. In fact, the argument was not, really,
Hanna-Attisha’s at all, though she made a point of elevating it in her public
appearances: it was the argument the activists had been making about the
crisis all along.
This is not to say that Flint activists were prepared to concede Canfield’s
point about the quantity of harm inflicted by the water. Using the same logic
as Hanna-Attisha, they argued that the damage caused by lead was far worse
than what was reflected in official lead poisoning statistics. They also pointed
to health symptoms that went beyond anything that could be chalked up to
the effects of lead alone, suggesting the presence of other contaminants in the
water that were wreaking havoc on residents’ bodies. Adding up all of the
various harms popularly attributed to the water led many in Flint to the conclusion that they were victims of an injustice of historic proportions.
Flint First
33
But as the exchange between Hanna-Attisha and Canfield illustrates, the
argument that Flint had suffered an unfair share of harm relative to other
communities (i.e., suffered a distributive injustice) was not always enough.
The problem was not only that some harms could be downplayed by putting them into historical or comparative perspective. There was also the
larger problem of demonstrating that causal links between contamination
and health ailments existed at all. Those unsympathetic to worst-casescenario analyses could always argue that there was an essential difference
between potential harms and confirmed ones, or that existing data were not
robust or reliable enough to support the full gamut of claims made about
the water’s effects. What advocates for Flint needed was a way of talking
about harm qualitatively as well as quantitatively, in terms of origins as well
as outcomes. Framing the crisis as a product of policy brought attention not
just to what happened but to how it happened, to the context in which critical decisions about Flint’s water supply, water treatment, and water infrastructure were made, and, ultimately, to the question of democracy.
Dilemmas of Distributive Justice
The discovery of lead in water and blood turned the Flint water crisis into
a national news story in the fall of 2015. Flint became the centerpiece of a
reinvigorated national discussion about aging infrastructure and served as a
wake-up call about the lingering presence of lead in the urban environment.
According to an oft-used metaphor, Flint was the canary in the national coal
mine, a foreboding of crises to come if water systems were not upgraded and
regulatory standards tightened. Many Flint residents took pride in the role
the city played in raising this kind of awareness and potentially preventing
future crises. “Because of Flint,” Pastor Alfred Harris of Saints of God Church
told me, “municipalities all over the country and the world began to take a
look at their water and their infrastructure.” For Harris, it was a sign of the
Apostle Paul’s assurance that “all things work together for good.”9
But along with this pride came the burgeoning realization that Flint’s
lead woes were far from unique. Although the percentage of lead-poisoned
children in Flint was higher than the nationwide average (estimated by
the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention [CDC] to be 2.5 percent), it
was considerably lower than percentages found in thousands of other cities
and neighborhoods across the country. As a flurry of articles began to appear
comparing Flint to other municipalities, its blood lead levels became the
34
Chapter 1
standard by which other cities measured the severity of their own lead problems. Reuters, which carried out the most extensive analysis, concluded not
only that Flint was “no aberration” but that it “doesn’t even rank among
the most dangerous lead hotspots in America.” Looking at blood test results
in census tracts and zip codes in twenty-one states, Reuters found nearly
three thousand areas with lead poisoning rates “at least double” those in
Flint during the peak of the water crisis. More than eleven hundred of these
had rates “at least four times higher.” In Flint’s most affected ward, Ward
5, the percentage of children age 0 to 5 with elevated blood lead levels got
as high as 16 percent—one of the points made by Dr. Hanna-Attisha as a
rejoinder to Rep. Canfield. But in some parts of the country—in forty-nine
census tracts in Pennsylvania alone, for example—upward of 40 percent of
children have similarly high levels.10
Some also compared Flint favorably to what was arguably its closest parallel in the recent history of water contamination events: the Washington,
D.C., lead-in-water crisis of the early 2000s. In D.C., a well-intentioned
change in the city’s water treatment process from chlorine disinfectant to
chloramine turned out to have a corrosive effect on lead pipes, causing
lead levels to spike starting around spring 2001. Virginia Tech professor
Marc Edwards, whose intimate involvement in the D.C. crisis presaged his
intervention in Flint, estimated that the resulting harms to human health
were twenty to thirty times worse than those suffered by Flint residents.
As the local water utility, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), and
the CDC resisted acknowledging the problem and taking action, D.C. residents were, he said, exposed to “astronomical” levels of lead for 3.5 years.11
Hundreds of young children between the ages of one and six were lead
poisoned, and lead exposure may have contributed to as many as two thousand miscarriages and two hundred fetal deaths.12
Despite the severity of the D.C. crisis, the facts took much longer to come
to light there than in Flint, a process stalled by obfuscation on the part of
government agencies but also by debates over whether lead in water was
much of a health threat at all.13 In the meantime, the harms were ambiguous
enough that in April 2004, the Washington Times could deride the “ongoing
hysteria” about lead in the water, calling it “much ado about nothing.”14
In Flint, similar sentiments denying outright the existence of a crisis were
expressed, in a few notable instances, even after the basic facts about lead
exposure were known. Conservative political analyst and part-time Flint
Flint First
35
resident Bill Ballenger argued in January 2016 that the crisis was “nowhere
near as bad” as the media was making it out to be, going so far as to question
whether the whole thing wasn’t some kind of politically motivated “hoax.”15
Later that year, Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ)
Chief Deputy Director Jim Sygo remarked that the crisis had been “overplayed” and was “more created than anything else,” citing comparable lead
problems as nearby as Grand Rapids and Kalamazoo. Like Ballenger, he suggested that there were “ulterior motives at play,” and accused Dr. Lawrence
Reynolds, a well-known advocate for residents on the Governor’s Flint Water
Task Force and Flint Water Interagency Coordinating Committee, of a calculated ploy to brand the situation an ongoing “crisis” so as to secure resources
for the city.16
Ballenger and Sygo were roundly condemned for their comments,17 but
they had spoken at least a partial truth: the people fighting for Flint were
invested in creating and maintaining a sense of crisis around the water situation. The struggle for clean water began, after all, as a struggle to convince
officials as well as the general public that a crisis existed at all.18 Early evidence of water quality problems brought forward by residents was dismissed
as anecdotal, falsified, or irrelevant to considerations of public health. Confirmed problems at particular homes were brushed off as anomalies. Flint’s
water activists knew that getting Flint off the river meant making the case
that the water posed serious, pressing, and systemic threats to residents.
They began speaking of a water “crisis” when the local media would only
put the term in scare quotes, and many months before confirmation of
system-wide lead contamination.19
The battle over terminology did not end there. After the existence of a “crisis” was generally acknowledged, a debate emerged over whether that descriptor would trigger the necessary state and federal assistance. During the mayoral
race of 2015, incumbent Dayne Walling and challenger Karen Weaver, who
had won the support of many activists as a fellow “water warrior,” clashed
over whether the city should declare an “emergency” in the hopes of prompting similar declarations at the state and federal levels. Upon winning the
election, Weaver fulfilled her campaign promise to make such a declaration,
triggering the hoped-for chain reaction and prompting the deployment of the
National Guard and $5 million in emergency federal funds.
Activists were not satisfied with the “emergency” declaration, however.
They had taken to describing the situation as a “disaster,” a term embodying
36
Chapter 1
their demand that Flint be declared a federal disaster area, thereby opening up
the possibility of more federal assistance. In this matter they were, atypically,
on the same side as Governor Snyder, who petitioned the Obama administration for a disaster declaration in January 2016.20 In Snyder’s case, the request
was almost certainly a matter of political optics, made in the knowledge that
Stafford Act stipulations limit federal disaster aid to “natural” disasters. The
activists, however, took the demand quite seriously, insisting that some sort
of exception could be made,21 and over the next two years they persisted in
using the term “disaster” as a means of keeping this demand alive.
The declaration, however, never came, and even the federal “emergency”
expired in August 14, 2016. As officials, citing dropping lead levels, began
to claim that Flint water was as safe as water anywhere else in the country,
the debate over whether the city was in “crisis” at all resurfaced. Activists
feared a declaration of mission accomplished would mean that Flint would
fade from the national spotlight, that the State of Michigan would discontinue emergency water relief, that the damaged pipes would remain in the
ground, and that residents with lingering concerns would find themselves
marginalized all over again. What began as a struggle to create a sense of crisis
evolved, then, into a struggle to ensure that the crisis was not pronounced
over prematurely.
To suggest that there was strategy behind the semantic interventions made
by activists is not to imply that they were made in bad faith. I found no evidence that the people insisting that Flint was experiencing a “crisis,” “emergency,” or “disaster” did not genuinely believe it to be true. Granted, their
assessments did not always rest on a robust comparative perspective: some
were content with the knowledge that Flint’s problems were bad enough,
in an absolute sense, to require immediate and decisive action, and viewed
comparisons to other cities as a “distraction.”22 But the idea that the harm
done to Flint was unusually or even uniquely bad repeatedly cropped up as a
justification for giving the city special priority in the distribution of state and
federal resources. Some of the activists took to describing what was going on
in Flint as “the largest public health disaster in the history of this country.”23
Claiming that Flint had it worse than other cities brought the water crisis under the umbrella of distributive justice.24 Within an environmental
justice framework, distributive justice refers to the distribution of benefit
and harm that people derive from their environments, under the assumption that no one is inherently entitled to more benefit, or less harm, than
Flint First
37
others. A distributive injustice exists either when one group benefits disproportionately from environmental goods or when there is “inequity in
the distribution of environmental risks,” and/or confirmed harms.25 Diagnosing a distributive injustice in this latter sense is dependent on being
able to quantify in some measure the risks faced and harms incurred. This
quantification is especially critical when it is used to determine the amount
of resources needed to rectify an injustice.26
Quantification of harm cannot take place in the abstract, for harms do
not exist in a vacuum; they are visited upon flesh-and-blood people likely
to be impacted in different ways, and to different degrees, by the same harm
depending upon their circumstances. A child in good health, with a strong
social support network and many opportunities, will be less impacted by
lead poisoning than a child inhaling polluted air, attending an underfunded
school, and focused on day-to-day survival rather than self-realization. A
holistic view of the life chances of Flint children suggests that any leadinduced deficit they experience will, on average, be more consequential
than a similar deficit in a city like Grand Rapids or Kalamazoo. Residents
had an intuitive sense of this: I observed much distress over the thought
that an entire generation of children already fighting the odds would be set
back further, even if only by a notch.
Any application of the principle of distributive justice, then, must be cognizant of the relativity of harm, factoring in the context in which harms
occur, the characteristics of the people to whom they occur, and the cumulative impact of multiple harms. But, of course, one must also show that the
harms exist in the first place. The difficulty posed by environmental contamination is that concrete linkages between exposure and public health outcomes can be hard to trace.27 Often it is difficult to establish even a simple
correlation between increases in exposure to contaminants and increases in
symptoms, due to a lack of the data necessary to make firm before-and-after
comparisons. Hard evidence of causal relationships can be even more elusive.
The resulting ambiguity sets the stage for disputes among experts about the
extent of the harm, as well as conflicts between experts and laypeople. When
quantifiable scientific evidence of harm is underwhelming, it often clashes
with the public’s sense that much greater harms must have occurred.
Sometimes uncertainty can actually be a boon to those who wish to
argue that an environmental crisis is worse than officially acknowledged.
As detailed earlier, uncertainty around lead exposure was the basis of Mona
38
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Hanna-Attisha’s exhortation to err on the side of caution by offering maximal assistance to everyone conceivably exposed. It also allowed residents
to attribute a wide array of health and behavioral problems to lead, the
power of their stories often overshadowing caveats about medical plausibility. Despite admonitions from doctors (including Hanna-Attisha) that
the effects of lead poisoning are typically “invisible,” or visible only over
the long term, many parents in Flint believed they could already detect
changes in their children: increased aggressiveness, impulsiveness, fatigue,
forgetfulness. Reports started to appear of an epidemic of misbehavior in
the schools, with some teachers saying they had never seen anything like it
in all their years in the classroom. Speaking of her own family, Flint mother
Tammy Loren captured a common sentiment, echoed in much of the media
coverage of the crisis: “They’re not the same kids.”28
The same uncertainty that underpinned expansive attributions of harm
could also, however, lend itself to far narrower interpretations of the damage done by the water that clung more tightly to strict probabilities and
hard data. One number kicked around by skeptics like Rep. Canfield was
“43,” the number of residents (twenty-three of them young children) found
to have lead poisoning during the surge of testing from October to December 2015—less than 2 percent of those tested.29 It was a gross underestimate
of past exposure to be sure, but still a vanishingly small figure when considered against Hanna-Attisha’s plea on behalf of 150,000. Two years after
Canfield and Hanna-Attisha’s exchange, a paper published in the Journal of
Pediatrics went even further, claiming that there was no statistically significant increase in blood lead levels in Flint in 2014 to 2015 at all, and that
whatever lead exposure took place had never risen to “the level of an environmental emergency.”30 In response, Hanna-Attisha doubled down on her
claim that the baby-formula factor meant that all existing data on blood lead
levels massively underestimated exposure.31As the debate over the severity
of the harm done by lead ramped up, spilling into the pages of the New York
Times,32 Flint activists grew increasingly concerned that an effort was underway to erase the crisis entirely. Appearing at a board of managers meeting
at Hurley Medical Center in May 2018, they denounced a proposal by local
doctors to describe Flint children as lead-exposed rather than lead-poisoned,
calling it “preposterous.”33
If activists were concerned to ensure that the effects of lead were not minimized, however, they were even more concerned to make another point:
Flint First
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there was much more to be worried about in Flint than lead alone. In fact, it
is no exaggeration to say that for the activists, as for many other members of
the community, the Flint water crisis was never a lead-in-water crisis—at least
not only that, not nearly. The “crisis” was the sum total of everything that
residents had suffered since the switch to the river in 2014, and were likely
to suffer in the future as a result of compromised health and degraded infrastructure. It included, of course, whatever harms lead was responsible for
and the costs associated with removing lead from the water system. But it
included much more, too: a plethora of physical ailments residents blamed
on other contaminants, the profound psychological burden caused by the
crisis, and damage to personal property and to parts of the water system not
directly associated with lead. Whenever the tendency to frame the water crisis as a lead crisis obscured its other consequences, or inspired declarations
that the crisis was over, it became, as we will see, a target of the activists.
If looking at the crisis in its totality offered a richer portrait of harm, however, it did not necessarily eliminate ambiguity around the causes and quantities of particular harms. Surrounding each aspect of the crisis mentioned
above was a similar tug-of-war between worst- and best-case interpretations
of what the water had wrought. When residents were alerted to the presence
of high levels of carcinogenic chlorine byproducts (total trihalomethanes) in
the water in January 2015, for example, it became common to blame them
for a host of skin and lung problems, as well as miscarriages and cancers of
various kinds. But officials countered by pointing out that levels had only
been above the federal maximum of 80 parts per billion (ppb) for about six
months (the highest reading coming in at 99 ppb) and that for most people
exposure to the chemicals was only risky if it took place over many years.
Similarly, the popular belief that Flint was in the grip of an epidemic of rashes
and other skin problems—even after the reconnection to Detroit water—was
challenged by a CDC study that could not confirm that rashes were more
prevalent in Flint than elsewhere (at least by 2016) or establish with any certainty that what rashes did exist were caused by the water.34
It was harder for officials to brush aside the news that broke in January 2016: during the eighteen months when Flint was on the river, Flint
and Genesee County had experienced one of the worst outbreaks of Legionnaires’ Disease (a severe form of pneumonia caused by the waterborne bacterium Legionella pneumophila) in U.S. history, resulting in at least twelve
deaths. The failure to alert the public to the outbreak when it was still ongoing
40
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became the basis of involuntary manslaughter charges filed against several
state officials. But here, too, there was plenty to argue about. The state maintained that the cause of the outbreak was not the water source switch but
rather a maintenance lapse at McLaren Hospital, one of Flint’s two major
healthcare facilities. A retrospective analysis led by Sammy Zahran and Shawn
McElmurry, however, suggested otherwise, demonstrating that 80 percent of
Legionnaires’ cases in 2014 to 2015 could be explained by the switch and
revealing a strong correlation between contraction of the disease and low
household chlorine residuals.35 In response, the state dismissed the conclusions, accusing the research (despite having funded it) of having “numerous
flaws.”36
Even if one accepted that the source switch was the cause of the outbreak
(the activists’ feeling on the subject was something like “duh”), there was still
a debate to be had over how many people were sickened and killed. Legionnaires’ is a notoriously underdiagnosed disease, often mistaken within clinical settings for generic pneumonia, and some research in Flint suggested
that the serogroup of legionella most prevalent there was especially liable
to be missed in urine antigen tests.37 It was entirely possible, then, that
at least some of the 177 people in the area who died from “pneumonia”
between spring 2014 and fall 2015 were in fact Legionnaires’ victims.38 The
worst-case interpretation of the data favored by activists (who were suspicious that misdiagnoses were part of a “cover-up”), held that many of these
people had died from Legionnaires’, and that many more who had been
diagnosed with pneumonia and survived had probably had the disease too.
At the other end of the spectrum, however, the state contested even the two
cases chosen as the basis of the involuntary manslaughter charges, arguing
that these residents had actually died of other health conditions.39
The psychological harms suffered by Flint residents sparked another kind
of debate.40 Although even harder to quantify with any exactness,41 these
harms were everywhere in evidence, and there was little doubt they were
severe. Residents faced feelings of guilt for having unwittingly exposed their
loved ones to injury, and anxiety for their children’s futures. They faced feelings of uncertainty and constant vulnerability, never sure what would emerge
from their taps and uneasy within their own homes. They faced the loneliness of avoidance by friends and family wary of visiting. They faced feelings of anger, grief, depression, despair. They faced the fatigue of having
to trek daily to water distribution sites and open their doors repeatedly to
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41
aid workers and researchers. Then there was the catastrophic breakdown in
trust—trust in political and scientific authorities, trust between members
of the community, trust in the future. There was the humiliation of having
paid for one’s own poisoning. There were the children who learned to think
of themselves as irreversibly damaged, less capable than their peers. There
was the triggering of historical traumas within the African American community in particular, as residents found in their present-day travails echoes
of past abuses like the Tuskegee Experiment, pogroms, and Jim Crow. There
was the general feeling that the people of Flint didn’t matter.42
Although these effects of the crisis were not in dispute, there was some
controversy over who was to blame for them. The “kicking and screaming” that was necessary to get officials to take action, wrote Kevin Drum of
Mother Jones, led to vast overstatements of the physical trauma residents,
and especially children, had experienced. The claim that “irreversible brain
damage” had been “inflicted on every single child in Flint” (to quote filmmaker Michael Moore) was “panicking children into thinking they’ve been
turned into idiots.”43 Marc Edwards, similarly, lamented that turning the crisis into a political battleground had made Flint children into victims twice
over, casting them as the tragic figures in a “victim narrative” premised on
the assumption that “their lives will be less fulfilling, less productive.”44 He
also suggested repeatedly that the activists themselves were stoking fear,
uncertainty, and mistrust in Flint by promulgating scientifically dubious
claims about contaminants in the water beyond lead and unfairly impugning the motives of the scientific authorities and political officials who were
trying to help (a subject taken up at greater length in chapter 7).
Moving beyond bodies and minds, the damage done by the water to
Flint’s infrastructure was perhaps the most tangible of all, but even here
there was room for disagreement. Edwards estimated that during the city’s
eighteen months on Flint River water, its pipes—many already overdue for
replacement—aged the equivalent of at least ten years.45 No one argued
with that assessment, but gauging its implications meant deciding what all
needed to come out of the ground. If the pipes could be “healed,” as Edwards
maintained, there was little reason to spend tens of millions of dollars to
replace them, at least not urgently. On the other hand, if the activists were
right to demand, as they sometimes did, that the whole water system be
replaced, the bill could run as high as $4 billion—the estimated cost of excavating and replacing every pipe in the city plus rebuilding aboveground.46
42
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Then there was the matter of damage inside homes. As one would expect,
the corrosive water took a toll on interior plumbing, fixtures, and appliances like hot water heaters and washing machines—damage estimated at
$310 million.47 But how was an individual homeowner to prove that any
particular component of their household infrastructure was destroyed by
the water? Did my ten-year-old hot water heater burst in 2016 because of
corrosion caused by eighteen months of river water, or would it have happened anyway? There was even doubt about the effects of the water crisis
on overall home values, which everyone expected would plummet below
even their abysmally low starting point. Residents frequently asserted that,
because of the crisis, their homes were worth little to nothing, and at least
one analysis found that “Zip Codes in Flint witnessed a 24 percent reduction in the number of homes sold, a 13 percent reduction in inventories (or
homes listed for sale), and a 14 percent reduction in the average price of
transacted homes” following the city’s declaration of emergency.48 Confusingly, however, it was reported on multiple occasions that values actually
went up rather than down during the crisis years.49
Even if one consistently adopts a best-case perspective, sizing up the
totality of harm attributable to Flint’s contaminated water can be a bewildering task, and it is hard not to conclude, with the activists, that from April
2014 onward Flint residents underwent an ordeal unlike anything most
Americans have ever experienced. For all of the reasons mentioned, however,
rooting activist demands in distributive claims was not always sufficient.
Skeptics could argue that the water was not, in fact, the source of most of
the ills attributed to it, that some harms (particularly psychological ones)
were the fault of the activists themselves, and that Flint’s bid for priority in
the distribution of scarce resources was unpersuasive given the existence of
equivalent needs, or worse, in other cities. The naysayers surfaced only occasionally in public discourse and were usually drowned out by the overarching
consensus that Flint was a national embarrassment that called for quick and
decisive remedial action. But the general feeling among activists was that
behind the scenes, particularly at the state level, the belief that the crisis
was overblown was very much an influence on the thinking of officials.
This is why it was so critical that when pressed as to why Flint should
come “first,” Flint’s water warriors always had an answer in reserve, an
answer that could trump any attempt to play up the ambiguities and uncertainties of the crisis and play down its harms. The reason why the Flint water
Flint First
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crisis was different from other crises, why it was especially heinous, why
it deserved to be a state and national priority, was that Flint was not just
poisoned, but poisoned by policy. It was poisoned because residents were
stripped of their self-determination and rendered vulnerable to the criminal
neglect of the state. Looking beyond the outcomes of the crisis to its origins
led to the conclusion that the distributive injustices inflicted—however one
cared to rank them with respect to their severity—were the products of prior
injustices related to the denial of democracy.
Justice and Democracy: Beyond Distribution
Flint activists knew that without establishing clear lines of responsibility
for the water crisis, no amount of demonstrable harm would result in the
help the city needed. They knew, in other words, that their calls for justice had to have a “retributive” aspect, pointing not just to wrongs but to
wrongdoers who could be held accountable for rectifying those wrongs. At
the most general level, the activists demanded that those responsible “fix”
what they “broke,” but also, on occasion, that they be arrested and imprisoned. In some cases this was phrased as a blanket demand that “people
should go to jail for what’s happened”50 or even that “they should all go to
jail.”51 In others, it was phrased as a focused demand that singled out specific
actors, particularly Governor Snyder.52
Just as activists’ claims about harms caused by contamination were locked
in a dialectic with official proclamations about the safety of the water, their
attributions of blame for the crisis were made within a context shaped by
officials’ attempts to deny or minimize their own culpability. In the early
days of the crisis especially, there was much passing of the buck back and
forth between officials at various levels of government. By the beginning of
2016, the State of Michigan had officially accepted primary responsibility
and Snyder had personally apologized for the crisis. But as explored in the
next chapter, his insistence on framing the crisis as the result of a technical
blunder caused by a few “career bureaucrats” had the effect of narrowing
the scope of the state’s responsibility as much as possible.53
When Michigan Attorney General Bill Schuette launched a criminal
investigation into the crisis on January 15, it initially appeared that his
focus would be equally narrow.54 He first brought charges against some of the
very “bureaucrats” referenced by Snyder—relatively low-level employees at
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the MDEQ and Michigan Department of Health and Human Services, as
well as some of their collaborators at the city level. The charges were serious
enough—they included misconduct in office, tampering with evidence, and
conspiracy—and few denied that they were well deserved. But Schuette’s
choice of targets could also be seen as sacrificial scapegoating intended
to draw attention away from the real power players. In an interview on
MSNBC, activist Melissa Mays praised the charges but expressed her hope
that Flint’s emergency managers and Snyder would be next, because “at the
end of the day, they’re the ones that made the decisions.”55
Few actually believed that Schuette would make the leap from prosecuting bureaucrats to prosecuting high-profile political appointees of the
Governor, much less the Governor himself. But Mays’s wish was at least partially fulfilled when, in December 2016, Schuette announced felony charges
against two of Flint’s four emergency managers, Darnell Earley and Jerry
Ambrose. The charges focused on their involvement in financial finagling
that set the City of Flint on a course to join the Karegnondi water pipeline
project and created pressure to use the Flint River as a cost-saving water
source in the interim (a story told in Chapter 3). But in the charges some saw
glimmers of a broader critique of the emergency manager system as a whole:
Schuette chastised Earley and Ambrose for having “put balance sheets ahead
of Flint residents,” taking what appeared to be a shot at the philosophy of
fiscal austerity at the heart of the emergency manager law. Flint Mayor Karen
Weaver depicted the charges as a welcome repudiation of the system that had
“taken the voice of the people and taken our democracy,”56 and Congressman Dan Kildee called them “an indictment not only of [the emergency
managers’] decisions, but an indictment against the administration’s failed
emergency manager law that contributed to this crisis.”57 Statements like
these implied that the crimes allegedly committed by Earley and Ambrose
were not just misdeeds by bad actors, but products of the political context
created by emergency management. This claim—the claim that emergency
management, by eliminating democracy, enabled or even encouraged decision makers to act abusively and recklessly—was central to what I will later
call the “political” narrative of the crisis.
There is a long history of tracing the roots of environmental injustices
back to questions of popular influence over and involvement in decisionmaking processes. Although much of the focus of the early environmental
justice movement was on distributive injustices—particularly the disparate
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45
health burdens borne by poor, majority-minority communities living near
polluting facilities58—concerns about popular exclusion from decision making were also prominent. They reflected the belief, in Iris Marion Young’s
words, that democratic decision-making procedures are both “an element and
condition of” social justice more broadly.59 As an “element” of justice, democracy entered into some of the Principles of Environmental Justice developed
at the First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Conference
in 1991, including the right of all peoples to “political, economic, cultural,
and environmental self-determination” and the right to “participate as equal
partners at every level of decision making.”60 Since then, the emphasis on
“procedural” justice (or conceptual cousins like “participatory” justice) within
the environmental justice literature has only grown stronger.61
One major reason for this turn toward procedural justice is precisely
the fact that distributive justice frameworks are often plagued by ambiguities that limit their power when applied to environmental contamination
events. As we have seen, efforts to quantify exposure to contamination can
be hamstrung by inadequate data and efforts to quantify harm can bog down
in complex questions of causation, making it difficult or impossible to demonstrate disparate impacts. Furthermore, when outcomes are shaped by a
diverse set of actors operating more or less independently, as well as by underlying sociological factors like race and poverty, it can be hard to pin down
who, exactly, is to blame for them. For these reasons, legal claims dependent
on proving disparate distributional impacts have had difficulty getting much
traction within the American legal system, which usually demands hard evidence of cause and effect, and, in cases of alleged discrimination, identifiable culprits acting out of ill intent.62
The benefits of being able to appeal to procedural justice when evidence
of distributive injustice is insufficient is perhaps nowhere better illustrated
than in the second-most important environmental justice story ever to come
out of Flint: the case of the Genesee Power Station. In the early 1990s, the
predecessor of the MDEQ, the Michigan Department of Natural Resources
(MDNR), received a permit application for a wood-burning incinerator, to
be sited in Genesee Township just over the border from Flint. Whereas Genesee Township itself was overwhelmingly white, the closest neighborhood
to the proposed site was predominantly African American and already surrounded by several other polluting facilities. The community’s biggest concern about the incinerator was that it would contaminate the air with lead
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as it burned wood coated in lead-based paint from demolished homes—in
an area, moreover, where blood lead levels were above average to begin
with.63
In response to the proposal, a group led by Father Phil Schmitter and
Sister Joanne Chiaverini of Flint’s St. Francis Prayer Center took the innovative step of filing a Title VI claim with the EPA alleging that the siting
of the plant constituted environmental racism and violated residents’ civil
rights. The first part of their claim focused on the distributive injustice of the
plant siting, given its proximity to an already-vulnerable and disadvantaged
population and the likelihood that it would cause disproportionate harm.
The second part of their claim, however, focused on the process by which
the permit had been approved. Permit hearings had been poorly publicized
and held as far away as Lansing, causing logistical headaches for residents
of limited means who wanted to attend them. At one key hearing, residents
were given insufficient time to review proposed changes to the permit before
the public comment period, and when the meeting ran long, several white
speakers were allowed to give their testimony out of order to accommodate schedule conflicts while black speakers were not accorded the same
courtesy. When the MDNR finally got around to holding a more accessible
meeting near the incinerator site, it employed uniformed and armed officers
to watch over the proceedings—a decision, the complaint alleged, that contradicted the department’s usual practice and was tinged with racial bias. And
although the crowd was by all accounts civil, officials ended the meeting
abruptly in the middle of testimony by an African American resident.
The activists responsible for the discrimination claim would have to wait
two-and-a-half decades for a decision by the EPA, a delay that was widely
seen as a sign of the agency’s shameful disregard of civil rights. In fact, the
EPA had not entirely ignored the complaint, making a concerted effort to
evaluate the activists’ claims of disparate impact. But given the incinerator’s
proximity to other toxic facilities, among other confounding variables, it had
found the matter to be too complex to settle conclusively. It was unwilling, in
other words, to say that the siting of the incinerator—which ultimately went
forward despite community opposition—constituted a distributive injustice.
What the EPA did find, in an unexpected and virtually unprecedented
ruling announced in January 2017, was that racial discrimination had
occurred during the permitting process. African Americans, it concluded,
had been “treated differently and less favorably than Whites.”64 The agency
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concurred with the activists’ criticisms of the public hearings, but found
that the problem was not just with a few poorly run meetings. Rather, on
a structural level, the MDNR lacked the “procedural safeguards” required
by nondiscrimination regulations,65 as well as a defined plan for public
participation.66
The ruling also suggested that when the MDNR became the MDEQ, it
passed on these procedural shortcomings. In 2014, just before the water
crisis rose to public attention, the EPA finally began to apply informal pressure to the MDEQ to address these longstanding issues. After its efforts were
largely rebuffed, and after the department’s oversights in Flint became a
national scandal, the agency issued its long-awaited ruling, implying that
the MDEQ’s decades-long failure to take procedural justice seriously had
contributed to the water crisis. In fact, as pointed out by the authors of the
ruling, the crisis had spawned a new civil rights complaint that harkened
back to the Genesee Power Station affair, raising “similar issues regarding
public participation.”67 In response, the EPA promised to redouble its efforts
to evaluate MDEQ’s “procedures for public notification and involvement.”68
In addition to inspiring heightened scrutiny of decision-making processes at the MDEQ, the water crisis also helped to revive a related effort to
establish a statewide environmental justice plan that would create new inlets
for popular influence at the state level.69 An earlier effort in 2008 and 2009
to produce such a plan, which derailed after opposition from business and
industry, included a proposal for an Interdepartmental Working Group at the
state that would receive petitions about environmental matters directly from
aggrieved residents and investigate the concerns they raised. According to
environmental law expert Sara Gosman—one of the drafters of the plan—had
the state implemented this recommendation the water crisis would have been
“much less likely.” The petition process, she maintains, “would have allowed
Flint residents to elevate their concerns” and increased their chances of being
taken seriously by state departments like the MDEQ.70
As illustrated by the above examples, one reason for invoking the principle of procedural justice is to bring attention to flaws in already-existing
decision-making processes—a lack of nondiscrimination protections, for
example, or a concrete participation plan, or a petition process. The EPA
ruling in January 2017 and the formation of a new state-sponsored Environmental Justice Work Group the next month helped to spark discussion
about how these kinds of flaws could be addressed in light of the water
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crisis, focusing on mechanisms for enhancing public influence over state
government.71
From the perspective of Flint activists, however, concerns about flimsy
procedural safeguards within state departments were trivial next to the real
matter at hand: the state’s complete suspension of democracy in Flint and
the deeply unpopular decisions about water (and a great many other things)
it enabled. The problem was not, then, just with surface-level “procedures”
and the distributional inequities they produced, but with the structurally
disempowered position the city found itself in and the political-economic
philosophy that had shaped it. The activists’ emphasis on democracy, in
other words, took them beyond the kinds of concerns that environmental
justice activists are sometimes accused of getting hung up on, fostering
a wider-ranging analysis of the origins of the crisis. Because the political
architecture that activists blamed for Flint’s poisoned water was a creation
of Governor Snyder and other state politicians, this analysis added extra
weight to the claim that the state should put Flint “first.” But just as important, it meant the fight for justice in Flint could not stop at reparations, or
criminal convictions, or modest reforms to state permitting processes. The
fight would not be over until democracy was a reality: not just in the negative sense of freedom from emergency management, but in the positive
sense of a community of people empowered to take charge of their water,
their infrastructure, their health, their city, and their future.
2
How Did It Happen? Two Tales
of the Origins of the Crisis
As the eyes of the nation began to turn toward Flint in the fall of 2015,
expressions of outrage were accompanied by a logical enough question:
how, in the United States of America, in the twenty-first century, had it
come to pass that citizens were being poisoned by their own tap water? The
query provoked a proliferation of water crisis timelines over the ensuing
months, as journalists endeavored to offer their readers some context, tracing the crisis back to its origins and giving it a narrative arc. In the vernacular of journalism, sculpting a chronology of the crisis was part of a broader
obligation to get to the “truth” of what happened. Assembling “as complete
a picture of the Flint water disaster as can reasonably be provided,” wrote
Bridge Magazine’s “Truth Squad” in introducing its own timeline, would
enable readers to sort “fact from fiction and spin from credible analysis.” A
“complete” picture of the water crisis would offer not just the truth, but the
whole truth, capturing the “full weight, detail, and step-by-step context” of
the crisis “all in one place and in one narrative.”1
The idea that there was a “whole truth” of the Flint water crisis waiting to be uncovered through determined fact-finding was a common—and
perhaps predictable—component of journalistic accounts of the crisis. Epistemologically, it suggested the possibility of a neutral, omniscient vantage
point from which every component of the crisis could be surveyed comprehensively and objectively. It also, however, played a powerful rhetorical role
in demands for political accountability. The progressive media group Progress Michigan, for example, appealed to Flint residents’ right to know the
“whole truth” when it sent a Freedom of Information Act request to Governor Snyder in January 2016 demanding that he release his emails from
2013 forward.2 In a similar vein, at the first Congressional hearing on the
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water crisis the next month, Representative Elijah Cummings thundered
at the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ) interim
head Keith Creagh that he wanted “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth,” accusing Creagh of helping Snyder to dodge blame for the
crisis. When Snyder initially declined to offer his own Congressional testimony, Representative Dan Kildee called the decision “deeply disappointing,” insisting that Snyder make himself available for questioning “so that
the whole truth can be found.”3
One possible way of depicting the struggle over the “truth” of the water
crisis would be to frame it as a quest by crusading truth seekers—journalists
after the “facts,” residents, activists, and their allies in search of “answers”—to
wrest it from mendacious elites or expose truths overlooked by others. There
is certainly something to be said for this characterization. There were, after all,
numerous instances of obfuscation and spin on the part of officials, several of
whom found themselves facing felony charges for what was widely reported
as a “cover-up.”4 There were also critical moments when activists, with the
support of members of the medical and scientific communities, fundamentally altered the discourse around the water by bringing new information to
light and fighting back against those who sought to discredit it.
But, ultimately, any simplistic dichotomy that pits agents of truth against
purveyors of falsehood breaks down. Although the concept of “whole” and
impartial truth was espoused as a journalistic ideal and used to ground certain
demands for political accountability, in reality those who sought to contest
official narratives of the crisis answered back not with an exhaustive compendium of “facts,” but with counter-narratives. The reason the world came to
know of the water crisis, maintained Flint activist Nayyirah Shariff, was that
the “grassroots resistance” had countered proclamations about the safety of
the water with a narrative of its “own.”5 When Shariff used the term “narrative” in this sense, she did so more broadly than I do here. To capture
Shariff’s meaning, I prefer to speak of a “discourse” around the water, within
which officials framed Flint’s water quality as a nonissue (at least prior to
October 2015 and again after lead levels returned to “normal”) and activists
framed it as a public health crisis (or, more commonly, “disaster”). However,
within that discursive struggle, the narrative of the water crisis—understood
more narrowly as an account of how it unfolded—was a central point of
contention. Shariff often spoke of the importance of promoting a grassroots
“narrative” of the crisis in this narrower sense as well, one that reinforced
How Did It Happen?
51
activist demands by assigning blame to the proper people and policies and
that featured residents and activists as the main protagonists.
The relevant point here, though, is that counternarratives are narratives,
too. Although fighting to get them accepted may involve bringing suppressed
“truths” out into the open, it is not the same thing as impartially pursuing the
“whole” truth. Narratives are, by necessity—by definition, in fact—selective,
notwithstanding Bridge Magazine’s pretentions to an all-encompassing narrative of the crisis.6 Of course, there are important differences between narrators
who strive to be inclusive and honest and those who are deliberately partial
and duplicitous. And the narratives narrators relate may be more or less “true”
when measured against external criteria of truth—we do, after all, dismiss
some narratives as “false.” But even narratives that are, by relative standards,
“true” are constructed through omissions as well as inclusions, through
arrangement and emphasis, through decisions about where the story begins
and where it ends. The shape narratives take is influenced, furthermore,
not only by the objectives of the narrator, but also by the narrator’s perception of the expectations and aptitudes of her audience. And even the most
scrupulous narrators are limited by imperfect information and unconscious
biases. For all of these reasons, any narrative of the water crisis is an act of
interpretation rather than neutral reportage, even when narrators strive to
speak of what “really happened.”7
Naturally, if our objective is to construct an accurate account of what happened in Flint, weighing the relative veracity of different narratives of the
crisis matters. When one approaches narratives from the vantage point of
social and political struggle, however, asking how true they are is often less
meaningful than asking how useful they are to specific actors. And the utility
of a particular narrative is sometimes inversely related to its accuracy and
objectivity. This is clear enough when we consider official narratives spun
to deflect responsibility and manage popular perceptions. But counterhegemonic narratives, too, incorporate strategic elisions and calculated points of
emphasis. We would be foolish to expect those engaged in a struggle for
their lives and livelihoods to make impartiality an absolute value.
This does not mean we should expect to find activists embracing outright deceit. What is more common is the idea that “we” who struggle
have “our” truth—a truth rooted in our experiences, a truth that may serve
as an antidote to the falsehoods perpetrated by others, but a truth with a
small “t,” tacitly tailored to our needs and objectives. By extension, the tale
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activists tell of how things came to be as they are, and why action is imperative, is not an attempt to relay the “whole” story but, rather, to construct
a representation of social reality that justifies and buttresses a particular
struggle.8
The fight for clean water in Flint began as a fight over perceptions of social
reality—with officials, on one hand, proclaiming that there was no cause for
alarm, and activists, on the other, insisting that the city was in the midst of
a “crisis.”9 Once the existence of a crisis was generally acknowledged, the
narrative of how it happened became a critical site of struggle. In chapter 1,
I argued that directing attention to the “how” of the crisis was a useful way
of getting around the ambiguities of a distributive justice framework and
raising questions of procedure, participation, and democracy. In this chapter,
I argue that answering the “how” question the “right” (or at least most useful) way was an essential means of creating a discursive framework in which
the claims and demands made by activists took on meaning and power—not
least because a robust account of how the crisis happened implied answers to
subsidiary questions like when the crisis began, who was chiefly responsible,
and what should be done to solve it and prevent future crises.
Advocating for the narrative favored by Flint’s water activists—what I will
call the “political” narrative of the crisis—would not have been a struggle
without its coming up against competing narratives that offered different
answers to the same questions. In what follows, I focus on two in particular.
The first is what I will call the “technical” narrative. Briefly, the technical
narrative framed the crisis narrowly as a product of faulty water treatment
caused by technical incompetence. It placed the start of the crisis at the
first infusion of improperly treated water into Flint’s pipes, identified those
directly overseeing the water system as the principal culprits, and proposed
short-term solutions to the crisis focused on adjustments to water treatment
processes. For longer-term solutions, the narrative recommended repair or
replacement of damaged infrastructure and more consistent enforcement
and/or tightening of water regulations. The second narrative, which I will
call the “historical” narrative, was considerably broader in scope. It pushed
the origins of the crisis back into Flint’s early history, attributing the contemporary vulnerability of the city to a wide range of racial, economic,
and political dynamics operating over many decades, and arguing that the
response to the crisis had to address these deeper structural factors.
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To say that these narratives are in “competition” with the political narrative of the crisis risks giving the wrong impression, because I do not mean
to suggest that they are logically incompatible with it. In fact, in many
ways all three narratives are symbiotic, and separating them out is, to some
extent, artificial. Furthermore, preferring one need not mean dismissing
the others. It is entirely possible to stress the political causes of the crisis
while acknowledging the technical and historical aspects of the crisis.
But the logical compatibility of different narratives is, like their truth
value, not always what matters most in practice. In practice, placing emphasis
on one or another account of the crisis’s origins had important consequences.
The narrative one chose to foreground committed one to either an expansive
or a narrow view of the scope of the crisis and the proper response to it. It
created a backdrop for the indictment or exoneration of specific individuals
whose actions or inactions arguably contributed to the crisis. And it established the parameters within which one could claim either that the crisis was
approaching an end or that more work remained to be done.10
The Technical Narrative of the Crisis
One can find a consensual core of technical details in almost every account
of the water crisis. All are agreed that the water drawn from the Flint River
between April 2014 and October 2015 and treated at the Flint Water Treatment Plant was more corrosive than the Lake Huron water Flint was used
to receiving, corrosive enough to destroy the protective mineral crust, or
“passivation layer,” that normally prevents water from coming into direct
contact with the pipes that carry it. This allowed the water to begin eroding the pipes themselves, producing the dramatic oranges and browns of
iron corrosion, opening up pinhole leaks in galvanized pipes, and releasing
lead in both soluble and particulate form from the city’s thousands of lead
service lines, as well as from lead solder and brass fixtures.11 The disruption
of the system also broke up the “biofilm” that forms on the inner surface
of pipes, liberating the bacteria that grow there. Combined with the smorgasbord of iron, which serves as food for microbes, the potential for contaminants to enter the system through holes, and difficulties maintaining
consistent chlorine residuals throughout the city, this created an environment in which bacterial growth was difficult to keep under control.12
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These basic facts are, for all intents and purposes, beyond dispute. What
I am calling the “technical” narrative of the crisis, however, begins much
more controversially. It begins with the claim that Flint River water, for all
the damage it did to the city’s infrastructure, could have been rendered harmless with the right kind of treatment. This claim clashed, of course, with the
commonsensical view residents had of the river as broken beyond repair.
Initially even some experts had doubts. When researchers from Virginia Tech
first traveled to Flint in August 2015, they took samples of the river and
questioned whether its corrosivity could ever have been adequately neutralized.13 The conclusion they ultimately reached, however, was that there was
nothing in the river water “that proper treatment couldn’t render potable.”14
Other water experts agreed.15 According to the technical narrative, then, the
crisis had its origins not in a water source problem but in a water treatment
problem.
What, then, went wrong at the Flint Water Treatment Plant? The answer,
in its pithiest form, is that rather than counteracting the natural corrosivity of the water, the treatment process employed while Flint was on the
river actually exacerbated it. Delving into the details, however, reveals a
rather more complicated story, one that is hard to piece together because
of spotty data on day-to-day operations at the plant. In the most authoritative account yet assembled, Susan Masten, Simon Davies, and Shawn
McElmurry reveal that ferric chloride added to help settle out organic contaminants increased the water’s already high level of chloride by 28 percent
to 100 percent. Other aspects of the treatment process, they show, had the
effect of lowering the pH of the water and making it more acidic, another
factor in its overall corrosivity.
In his own assessment of the water distributed by the treatment plant in
2014 and 2015, Virginia Tech’s Marc Edwards concluded that “any competent person should have seen this water will eat up iron and eat up lead.”16
The picture that emerges from Masten, Davies, and McElmurry’s account,
however, is one in which the requisite skills, experience, and preparation
were in short supply at the plant. Utility operators used to receiving stable,
treated lake water were all of the sudden asked to oversee the treatment of
water that was not only more corrosive, but also highly variable and unpredictable. Lacking a clear treatment plan, they were forced to resort to ad hoc
improvisation. Masten and her coauthors found that there were no “treatability studies on which to determine chemical dosages until late August
How Did It Happen?
55
2015,” and that “plant personnel were left to attempt to address the plethora of complex water quality issues and complaints by trial and error. Significant changes were made to chemical dosages, and the reasons for these
changes were often not apparent.”17 Thanks in part to this inconsistency,
the switch to the river introduced chaos into the water system.
Despite the higher degree of complexity involved in treating river water,
however, the technical narrative holds that the change in water source
would have been deemed a “success” (as Marc Edwards put it18) if some
simple changes had been made to the treatment process. Above all, what
was missing was what water engineers call “optimized” corrosion control.
The water that Flint had received previously came pretreated by the Detroit
Water and Sewerage Department with orthophosphates, which bind to metal
and coat pipes as they travel through the water system, reinforcing the passivation layer. An adequate dose of these chemicals should, in theory, shield
pipes from any ill effect from corrosive source water. However, the water
sent out to Flint residents from the treatment plant had no orthophosphates or any other corrosion inhibitor.19
Why the MDEQ, which was advising the plant on its treatment process,
did not mandate the use of corrosion control is a question that has never
been answered satisfactorily. As the MDEQ saw it, after a system switched
to new source water, the federal Lead and Copper Rule (LCR) allowed for
two six-month periods of monitoring before determining that a corrosion
inhibitor was necessary. This monitoring was, at least in the short term, the
extent of the MDEQ’s plan to comply with the LCR. Later, after the MDEQ
came under fire for its role in the crisis, it protested that the addition of
lime to the water—part of the water softening process—amounted to a kind
of corrosion control. Marc Edwards, however, scoffed at this explanation
and proceeded to show through an analysis of pH that the water had in fact
grown increasingly corrosive as lime was added.20
As puzzling as it was to many experts, the MDEQ’s failure to ensure
that proper corrosion control was in place was often framed as a “mistake”
caused by genuine misinterpretation of the LCR—a mistake from which
a series of “unintended consequences” followed.21 Edwards concluded
that the whole affair “started relatively innocently.”22 Where wrongdoing began to creep into the actions of MDEQ employees (and the city
employees taking their direction) was in their water monitoring practices,
which exploited loopholes in the LCR that allowed for sampling procedures
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known to underrepresent the prevalence of lead. One such procedure was
“preflushing”—a method of clearing accumulated particulate lead from
water lines the night before taking a grab sample. The MDEQ also distributed small-neck sampling bottles that residents were prone to fill cautiously,
with a weak stream of water unlikely to dislodge particulates from their
service line and premise plumbing.
These practices followed the letter of the LCR but violated its spirit.
Other practices flouted it more directly. During a critical round of LCRmandated sampling in summer 2015, in the midst of growing popular fears
about lead contamination, MDEQ and city employees failed to seek out
(as required) high-risk homes known to have lead service lines, relying
instead upon a convenience sample in which more than half of the homes
had copper lines.23 Even more brazen was the conscious exclusion of two
high-lead samples that would have put the city’s ninetieth percentile for
lead over the Environmental Protection Agency’s (EPA) “action level” of 15
parts per billion (ppb).24 The MDEQ maintained that there was good reason to disqualify the samples because of idiosyncrasies within the homes
tested. Part of its rationale for dropping the data points, however, seems to
have been a desire to avoid taking cumbersome remedial action, including notifying residents of the results, as would have been mandatory had
the city exceeded the 15 ppb action level.25 Decisions like this were indications, Susan Masten suggested to me, that the incentive for the MDEQ
and other such agencies to remain in “compliance” with the law—by any
means necessary—was stronger than their commitment to public health.26
In instances where MDEQ and City of Flint employees manipulated data
and delayed bringing public attention to potential health threats, their
actions were sufficiently out of step with state and federal law that they
resulted in felony charges for tampering with evidence and misconduct in
office. As Marc Edwards stressed, however, much of their behavior was perfectly ordinary, part of an epidemic of cheating on federally mandated lead
testing made possible by lack of specificity within the LCR.27 It so happened
that the Flint crisis materialized when the EPA was already in the process
of revising the LCR, and the law’s failures in Flint inspired much discussion about how it could be strengthened.28 As part of his effort to demonstrate leadership during the crisis, Governor Snyder inserted himself into
the debate, calling the existing version of the LCR “dumb and dangerous”
and pledging to institute a stricter action level of 10 ppb at the state level.29
How Did It Happen?
57
Aside from highlighting the ways in which problems caused by faulty
water treatment were compounded by lax monitoring and regulation, advocates of the technical narrative like Edwards pointed to “chronic underinvestment in infrastructure” as another contributing factor to the crisis.30
That underinvestment was evident, firstly, at the Flint Water Treatment Plant
itself, a facility opened in 1954 and used only lightly during the nearly fifty
years that Flint purchased treated water from the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department. As the city prepared the plant to operate full time in late
2013 and early 2014, it spent a paltry $4 million on upgrades—far short of
recommendations made by private contractors hired to evaluate the plant’s
needs.31 The city also hired some new personnel, but not nearly enough to
compensate for budget-slashing layoffs in previous years. On the eve of the
switch, the plant had twenty-six employees—down from around forty a
decade earlier when it was a backup facility—with only four employees on
duty at any given time and no fully licensed F1 operator on site.32
After the corrosive water left Flint’s underequipped and understaffed
water treatment plant, it traveled through pipes that were well past their
prime. Most of Flint’s water infrastructure was built in the early twentieth
century, when its population grew exponentially along with its booming
auto industry, and its water mains were over eighty years old on average
when the switch was made.33 Even before the switch, the city was plagued
by water main breaks, and the problem only got worse during the Flint River
period (there were 296 breaks in 2014 alone). Every day, millions of gallons
of water were lost.34 From the mains, the water entered service lines about
which little was known due to poor record keeping, but which often dated
back to the era when lead was widely used. Like dozens of other cities around
the country, Flint once had an ordinance on the books, passed in 1897, that
required homes and business to connect to the water grid through lead service lines.35 Although some of these lines were replaced over the years, tens of
thousands remained. Furthermore, the material often used as an alternative
to lead, galvanized iron, proved in some ways to be an even bigger liability
during the crisis: not only did it corrode much faster, corrosion caused its
surface area to grow and sorb passing dissolved lead, a complicating factor
in the recovery effort.36
Just as the crisis exposed weak spots in water quality regulations and
monitoring that inspired reevaluations of federal law, the pitiable condition
of Flint’s water system offered an opportunity to talk about infrastructure
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Figure 2.1
Water infrastructure from main to tap. Audrey Zarb.
on a national scale. As many commentators pointed out, Flint’s aging and
oversized pipe network was in many ways emblematic of a national infrastructure crisis. Marc Edwards warned that the United States was destroying
the “very fabric of … civilization” by cutting corners on its infrastructure.37
The data on national infrastructure needs supported this grim assessment:
in successive “report cards” in 2013 and 2017, the American Society of Civil
Engineers gave the nation’s drinking water infrastructure a “D” and estimated that it needed at least $1 trillion worth of investment over the next
twenty-five years.38 By some estimates, over a quarter of that total would
be required just to replace the nation’s estimated 6.1 million lead service
lines.39 And only a fraction of the cost could be covered through municipal water bills without raising rates significantly, even in cities like Flint
where rates were already far above the national average. To get around the
problem of steep rates, advocacy groups closely involved in Flint like the
Natural Resources Defense Council and Food and Water Watch called for
the reinvigoration of federal financing for infrastructure projects.40
How Did It Happen?
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The technical narrative’s theme of crumbling infrastructure in need of
investment, like its theme of defective federal regulations, proved amenable to the Snyder administration, which made infrastructure initiatives
an official part of its response to the water crisis. In January 2016, Snyder
announced the formation of a “commission on twenty-first-century infrastructure,” which ultimately found that the state would need to spend around
$4 billion simply to address existing infrastructural needs.41 A related initiative was inspired by the complications caused by Flint’s incomplete data
on its pipes, which came to light when engineers trying to track down the
city’s lead service lines in fall 2015 found that its records on pipe composition were stored on tens of thousands of index cards and physical maps.
University of Michigan–Flint professor Marty Kaufman and a team of students put in a Herculean effort to digitize the information over the next few
months, but having a digital database did not change the fact that much of
the data was flat wrong (when Kaufman looked up my house on his map,
for example, it wrongly indicated a galvanized rather than a copper and
lead service line). Even after University of Michigan–Ann Arbor professors
Eric Schwartz and Jacob Abernethy began applying a sophisticated statistical
model to pinpoint the likely location of lead lines, the crews digging them
up still found pipes made of other materials 22 percent of the time.42 With
these challenges in mind, Snyder began to push a plan to create an accurate
and comprehensive digital map of the state’s infrastructure.43
Although the technical narrative spawned broader discussions about lax
regulations and antiquated infrastructure, these themes were in some sense
tangential to its account of how the water crisis actually came about. As
flawed as the LCR was, it was not flawed enough to explain the MDEQ’s
strange interpretation of it. As old as Flint’s pipes were, they were not so old
that they would have crumbled in the presence of properly treated water.
In the final analysis, the crux of the technical narrative was a singular decision: the decision not to use optimized corrosion control during the water
treatment process. The crisis would never have happened, in other words,
if a select few people in charge of water treatment had simply done their
jobs.44 From an accountability standpoint, the implication was clear: those
in search of the origins of the crisis needed look no further than the MDEQ.
In its final report, the Governor’s Flint Water Advisory Task Force was blunt:
“MDEQ caused this crisis to happen.”45
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The Snyder administration did not have to stretch much to make this
conclusion politically and ideologically serviceable. The idea that “career
bureaucrats” were chiefly liable for causing and perpetuating the crisis kept
the focus on relatively low-level state employees without direct political ties
to the administration.46 It also offered an opportunity to impugn the culture
of bureaucracy, which Snyder argued had produced (so-called) public servants
who were “ineffective, inefficient, and unaccountable.” Snyder’s bureaucracygone-wrong account of the crisis was also useful because it could be used to
spread blame beyond the state level to the EPA, whose callous and out-of-touch
employees, said Snyder, “allowed this disaster to continue unnecessarily.”47
Technical explanations for the crisis also encouraged a focus on technical solutions within the recovery effort. If the crisis was primarily a consequence of botched water treatment, the most urgent need was to fix the
treatment process. Marc Edwards became the most prominent advocate of
the idea that the immediate health risks Flint residents faced from the water
could be mitigated through the introduction of corrosion control, combined
with the deployment of point-of-use faucet filters. Although by October 2015
Flint was no longer using river water, orthophosphates, he said, were still
necessary to “heal” damaged pipes by reestablishing a passivation layer and
preventing further leaching of lead. Activists, however, worried that “healing” the pipes would help the state shirk responsibility for taking them out
of the ground, and that selling residents on filtered water would detract
from their demand for safe unfiltered water.
The technical narrative of the crisis lent itself, then, to a narrow, water
treatment–centric explanation for the crisis’s origins that came to be associated in activists’ minds with an equally narrow response to its effects. If missteps around corrosion control and regulatory failures were at fault, the state
could get away with sacrificing some of its low-ranking bureaucrats to popular demands for accountability and placing the rest of the blame on the EPA.
And because the pipes could be “healed” through orthophosphate treatment
(a notion that became the object of much scorn and ridicule on the ground
in Flint), the state could argue that replacing them gradually—or even not at
all—would not compromise public health. Even if an emphasis on the technical implications of the crisis did not lead inevitably to such conclusions,
its compatibility with a constrained and apolitical approach to remediation
made it more than a little suspect in the eyes of activists.
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The Historical Narrative of the Crisis
At the opposite end of the spectrum from the technical narrative in breadth
is what I will call the “historical” narrative of the water crisis. The fortuitous appearance of historian Andrew Highsmith’s Demolition Means Progress: Flint, Michigan and the Fate of the American Metropolis in July 2015, right
on the cusp of the revelations about lead, provided anyone seeking a historical backdrop for Flint’s present-day water woes with a towering point
of reference. Based on a seven-hundred-page dissertation written while at
the University of Michigan—a dissertation that some residents, convinced
of its explanatory power, had trekked through before the appearance of
the book version—Demolition Means Progress was the most comprehensive
scholarly history of Flint ever published. It became the obvious touchstone
for conversations about the prehistory of the crisis.
In interviews,48 a scholarly article, and an op-ed in the Los Angeles Times,
Highsmith encouraged those who would understand the crisis to put it into
historical context, arguing that “Flint’s toxic water crisis was fifty years in
the making.”49 He explicitly juxtaposed this claim to what I have called the
technical narrative—the idea that the crisis could be boiled down to “the
simple failure to use proper anticorrosive agents” and subsequent “government mismanagement.” The crisis, he insisted, was “also the product of a
variety of larger structural problems that are much more difficult to untangle and remedy.”50
One advantage a historical perspective offered, Highsmith argued, was a
deeper understanding of the infrastructural challenges afflicting the city. The
problem with Flint’s water system was not just that it was composed of toxic
materials and poorly maintained, but that it was designed for a different kind
of city than the one Flint had become. As already mentioned, most of Flint’s
pipes were laid during its period of rapid growth in the early twentieth century, as General Motors (GM)—which evolved out of the Durant-Dort Carriage Company on the north bank of the Flint River—grew into the largest
automobile company in the world and attracted job seekers from all over the
country. Workers originally lived in shantytowns in the immediate vicinity
of the city’s car factories, an embarrassing eyesore and potential source of
unrest GM sought to alleviate by constructing residential neighborhoods. To
accommodate these new housing developments, Flint’s water infrastructure
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crept gradually outward from the water treatment plant on the northeast
side of town.
Up through the 1950s, the city laid its pipes on the assumption that it
would continue to grow, well past what in retrospect was its peak population of around two hundred thousand people. As the population plateaued
and then began to shrink over the next several decades, the pipes stayed
in place, and the city was left with an oversized infrastructure it could not
afford to maintain. Underuse of the system by residents now far too small
in number to need its full capacity created dead spots of stagnant water
throughout the city, making all the challenges of water treatment and distribution even thornier.
The expansion of infrastructure was also a key driver of suburbanization,
which transformed the geographic, racial, and economic character of the
city. In the early twentieth century, suburban development was limited by
the absence of amenities like paved roads and water and sewer lines, which
made the suburbs ineligible for federal mortgage insurance. To address this
problem, suburban developers convinced residents to agree to the higher
taxes necessary to fund infrastructure projects. The city of Flint itself also
helped facilitate the growth of infrastructure beyond its borders. In the 1940s
and 1950s, in search of more space and cheaper land, GM began building
factories outside the city, successfully lobbying city officials to extend city
infrastructure to service them. This policy reflected an economic philosophy Highsmith calls “metropolitan capitalism” that “rejected distinctions
between the city and its suburbs” and held that “growth anywhere in a
metropolitan region was a boon to everyone in that region.”51 What made
this kind of development distinctive in Flint’s case, however, was the hope
that Flint and its suburbs would eventually be incorporated into one overarching tax- and resource-sharing metropolitan government—a supermunicipality that planners deemed the “New Flint.”52
Suburban developers and residents had different ideas. Through the
middle decades of the twentieth century, they became increasingly convinced that the economic growth of suburban areas was best served by preserving their political independence. Suburbanites also began to develop
distinctive cultural identities that were in some ways explicitly antiurban,
reinforcing their desire to keep their political affairs separate from Flint’s.
Because of Michigan’s generous home rule provisions—which allow for easy
incorporation and even charter townships with some of the self-governance
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privileges of villages and cities—it was possible for suburbs to protect themselves from the absorption prescribed by the New Flint plan. As they grew
from primitive encampments into politically autonomous cities and townships, they formed a hard ring around the “old” Flint that constrained the
latter’s ability to expand geographically and annex development outside its
borders. By the early 1960s, the dream of metropolitan consolidation was
dead, forcing Flint to resort to small-scale strip annexation to expand its
tax base.
The dynamics driving suburbanization came from inside as well as outside the city, as the breakdown of Flint’s rigid pattern of racial segregation
sparked white flight to the overwhelmingly Caucasian, and increasingly
affluent, surrounding areas. When African Americans first began arriving
in Flint in large numbers in the 1940s, they were funneled into the city’s
two black neighborhoods—Floral Park, just southeast of downtown, and
St. John’s, on the fringe of GM’s Buick City complex. Until the US Supreme
Court’s Shelley v. Kraemer decision of 1948, the racial homogeneity of other
neighborhoods in the city was assured through racially restrictive housing
covenants forbidding home sales to anyone but members of the Caucasian
race. Even after these covenants were ruled unconstitutional, racist real estate
practices and popular pressures made it difficult for black families to move
into traditionally white areas. The city’s groundbreaking open housing ordinance of 1967 was a victory for racial justice, but it only accelerated the exodus of Flint’s white residents. Altogether, Highsmith writes, “between 1950
and 2010, the number of whites living in Flint dropped precipitously, from
149,100 to 38,328, while the city’s African American population increased
from 13,906 to 57,939.”53
Some whites were inherently uncomfortable with racial integration.
Others feared the decline in property values associated with it—fears stoked
by blockbusting real estate agents who sought to profit off whites looking to
sell their homes after blacks started moving into the neighborhood. Whatever their reasons for leaving, white residents took with them a substantial
part of Flint’s tax base, creating stresses on the city’s ability to provide basic
services and maintain its infrastructure. These stresses only further intensified as GM began to withdraw its manufacturing operations from the city
in the 1980s and 1990s, eliminating tens of thousands of jobs and raising
Flint’s unemployment rate to one of the highest in the nation.54 Among
the city’s increasingly desperate, and ultimately futile, attempts to convince
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GM to stay was a highway project that obliterated the historically black
Floral Park neighborhood in order to build the I-475/I-69 freeway interchange. During the same period, GM also successfully challenged the city’s
property tax appraisals, resulting in a $34 million rebate and a tax cut of 30
percent that further depleted the city’s coffers.55
Meanwhile, the center of the city began to hollow out as businesses fled
downtown for more hospitable suburban locations. Rates of poverty and
crime skyrocketed, discouraging new economic investment. Hundreds of city
employees were laid off and city services like trash collection, police, and fire
were scaled back. With help from Michael Moore’s unflattering 1989 documentary Roger & Me, Flint also became the poster child for misguided attempts
at urban renewal: most notably, the infamous Autoworld, a short-lived Six Flags
theme park at the center of the city’s quixotic campaign to reinvent itself as a
tourist destination. Thanks to Moore’s film, the highest-grossing documentary
in history up to that point, Flint developed a reputation for being cartoonishly
inept in addition to dilapidated and dangerous—a city with a rich past but
hard to take seriously in the present, and best avoided for safety’s sake. When
an EPA employee sent an internal email at a critical juncture in the water
crisis suggesting to colleagues that Flint was not “the community we want
to go out on a limb for,” it is hard to believe these stigmas did not enter into
her assessment.56
Pulling all of these various threads together—industrialization and deindustrialization, suburbanization, segregation, the decline of government services, ill-fated urban renewal—into a schematic of the prehistory of the water
crisis yields a complex causal chain that extends all the way back to the early
twentieth century and implicates a wide range of actors. As a scholarly aid
to tracing the historical processes by which environmental inequalities and
injustices are produced,57 such a wide-ranging account of the crisis’s origins
is invaluable. It also offered a potential resource to the activists who championed the political narrative of the crisis described in the next chapter. The
political narrative rested upon the argument that aside from being an affront
to democracy, emergency management was a failure on its own terms, incapable of solving managerially problems that were in essence structural and
cumulative. Deficits could be eliminated temporarily through the reduction of operating costs, but without addressing the structural inequalities
underpinning them—inequalities of race, class, and geography built up
over time—they would inevitably reappear, and cities like Flint would be
Figure 2.2
The causal chain of the Flint water crisis (from Sadler and Highsmith, “Rethinking Tiebout”).
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perennially tempted to make reckless decisions that subordinated public
health to cost considerations. Ultimately, the only way to prevent another
water crisis, Highsmith argued, was to solve the urban crisis from the roots
up. And, contrary to the philosophy of austerity enacted by emergency
managers, he maintained, “You can’t cut your way out of urban crisis.”58
From a political perspective as well as a scholarly one, then, the historical
narrative had its advantages. But it also had limitations. The political accountability the activists were after depended on being able to pinpoint specific
actors, actions, and policies as direct or proximate causes of the crisis. While
putting the crisis into historical perspective was not inherently incompatible
with this objective, sometimes taking a bird’s-eye view had the effect of diffusing responsibility and distracting from more immediate political objectives.
The clearest example emerged from the proceedings of the Michigan
Civil Rights Commission (MCRC), a state body charged with investigating acts of discrimination, which held three hearings on the water crisis
in 2016. After state-sponsored investigations into the crisis by two other
bodies failed to convince activists that the state was taking the crisis seriously, the MCRC was seen by some as the city’s “last hope” of redress from
a state agency,59 and many of Flint’s water warriors turned out to offer their
testimony during public comment periods at each of the three hearings.
Because the commission’s stated objective was to investigate possible civil
rights violations associated with the crisis, some activists hoped it would
recommend that legal action be taken against specific guilty parties.
When the MCRC released its final report in February 2017, however, the
report’s effect was anticlimactic at best. The commission announced that
it had been unable to uncover evidence of justiciable discriminatory intent
behind any of the most immediate decisions that caused or perpetuated
the water crisis. Consequently, it focused its discussion of civil rights on
Flint’s past, turning the bulk of the report into a history lesson on the roots
of “structural and institutional discrimination and racism” in the city.60
Arguing that the causes of the crisis were “much broader” and “more complex” than could be captured through narratives of water source changes
and engineering decisions,61 the report summarized the history of the various forms of discrimination chronicled in Highsmith’s work, concluding
that “past racism played an important role in creating the conditions that
allowed the water contamination crisis to occur.” To the disappointment of
activists, however, as well as some of the experts invited by the commission
How Did It Happen?
67
to testify, the report had little to say about the responsibility of anyone
directly involved. When the commission did address the state’s response
to the crisis, it gave it high marks: though “imperfect,” the response had
demonstrated the state’s “goodwill and moral acceptance of responsibility”
as well as its “resolve” to make things right.62
Some of the commission’s recommendations suggested that it had had
difficulty deriving concrete and timely prescriptions from its broad historical
analysis. Several called simply for better “listening,”63 deeper “understanding,”64 and more “acknowledge[ment]” of the role of race in “our history.”65
Where the recommendations got more specific, they used Highsmith’s
work as the basis for demands that ran directly counter to what activists
were calling for. Impressed by Highsmith’s account of the interweaving of
Flint’s fate with that of its metropolitan neighbors, the report suggested creating and implementing “a form of regional government (or at least regional
cooperation)”66—a suggestion that grated on the ears of activists suspicious
that the state was scheming to abolish Flint as a political entity and absorb
it into the county. (On numerous occasions, I heard activists say that the
water crisis would be used as an excuse to do just that.) Furthermore, when
the commissioners got around to considering the role of emergency management in the crisis, they disappointed activists again by calling for the
replacement or restructuring of the emergency manager (EM) law rather than
its repeal, while floating the idea of actually expanding the power of EMs by
giving them regional authority—another suggestion borne of the regional
emphasis of Highsmith’s work but greeted with incredulity by members of
the community.67
Toward a Political Narrative of the Crisis
In some respects both the technical and the historical narratives offered
ammunition to Flint activists. Even the narrowest version of the technical narrative placed the lion’s share of the blame for the crisis on actors at
the state level, feeding into activists’ demand that the state “fix” what it
“broke.” On occasion, activists also took up the idea that the crisis was a
product of people not doing their “jobs,” implying that it could have been
prevented if decision makers had followed laws already on the books and
lived up to their professional obligations. When the Coalition for Clean
Water—an alliance focused on ending the city’s use of the river, whose story
68
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is told in chapter 6—released a series of demands in the summer of 2015, it
ended with an ultimatum directed at the MDEQ: “DO YOUR JOB THE WAY
THE EPA INTENDS FOR YOU TO DO IT.”68
But the technical narrative could also be used to depoliticize the crisis,
steering attention away from political actors and political policies. Marc
Edwards, for example, said he could empathize with residents’ opposition to emergency management (calling the EM law “un-American”), but
maintained that decisions about corrosion control were made from “a science and engineering perspective,” by civil servants with specialized skills,
not by EMs or any other political figure.69 Former EM Darnell Earley, in
written Congressional testimony, concurred, arguing that “this was not a
leadership issue—this is purely a water treatment issue.”70 Similarly, Snyder’s description of the crisis as a “massive error of bureaucracy” centered
responsibility on technocrats charged with ensuring the smooth operation
of government and directed attention away from the political context he
was instrumental in creating.71 From this perspective, preventing future crises was principally a matter of replacing a few personnel, tightening up
some regulations, and, perhaps, making a general commitment to reinvest
in infrastructure. The technical narrative required some admission of guilt
on the part of the state—Snyder made a point of saying he was “sorry” and
would “fix it”72—but it also allowed the state to limit accountability to a
handful of bad actors and avoid addressing the structural political and economic issues raised by activists.
The historical narrative, too, was useful to activists in some ways but
not others. It could be used to show that the bulk of Flint’s infrastructural
and financial woes were caused not by poor management but by deep-seated
structural dynamics stretching back decades. It supported the idea that the
injustice of the water crisis was amplified by the cumulative effect of a long
history of past injustices. As evidenced by the disappointment that followed
the MCRC report, however, the historical narrative could also be employed in
ways that were at odds with the message, strategy, and objectives of the water
movement—diffusing responsibility across time rather than concentrating
it in contemporary political actors, and contradicting the demands of the
moment with poorly timed, if well-meaning, proposals aimed at addressing
longstanding structural inequality.
The activists’ preferred narrative of the crisis was more expansive than
the technical narrative but more focused than the historical narrative. It
How Did It Happen?
69
homed in on the political context within which key decisions were made
about Flint’s water. It held that the ultimate problem was not with low-level
bureaucrats who didn’t do their jobs, but with powerful political appointees
who did. It framed the crisis as evidence of the terrible consequences of the
usurpation of representative government, and the struggle for clean water as
part of a larger struggle for democracy. And it situated the beginning of the
crisis not in April 2014 or in the mists of history, but in 2011, when emergency management came to Flint.
3
Poisoned by Policy: The Political Narrative of the Crisis
Democracy is what makes Flint work. The dismantling of Democracy in Flint is
poisonous.
—Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint under Emergency
Management”
On the afternoon of Election Day, November 8, 2011, with voters still filing
in to the polls, Flint Mayor Dayne Walling received a phone call from State
Treasurer Andy Dillon. Walling was already well on his way to winning a
decisive victory in his reelection bid against challenger Darryl Buchanan,
and he was gearing up to deliver a victory speech later that evening at the
White Horse Tavern, a popular local haunt. But Dillon bore unwelcome
news: a state review panel had decided that Flint was in the midst of a financial emergency. Under the provisions of Michigan’s Public Act (PA) 4, signed
into law by Governor Snyder in March of that year, Flint would receive a
state-appointed emergency manager (EM) who would assume both the
executive and legislative functions of city government. At 5 p.m., still three
hours before the polls closed, the story broke, and Flint voters learned
that the person they were in the process of electing would be, institutionally speaking, powerless.
With the announcement, Flint became the first Michigan city to enter
state receivership under the new law. It joined the Detroit Public Schools
and the cities of Pontiac and Benton Harbor, which had already been taken
over by the state under PA 4’s predecessor, PA 72. PA 72, passed in 1990
during the administration of Democratic Governor James Blanchard, had
provided for the appointment of emergency financial managers (EFMs) to
units of local government like cities, counties, and school districts the State
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of Michigan deemed to be in financial distress and nearing bankruptcy.1
The law empowered EFMs to make fiscal reforms aimed at eliminating deficits and returning local governments to solvency. When the state turned
control of Flint’s finances over to EFM Ed Kurtz in 2002, for example, the
city was facing a $30 million deficit. Kurtz slashed the pay and eliminated
the medical benefits of city officials and employees and pressured unions to
negotiate cuts or face layoffs. He temporarily closed the city’s recreation centers and the ombudsman’s office. He forced the city Retirement Board, under
the threat of layoffs and removal of board members, to reduce what the city
paid into its retirement system. He raised water rates. By 2004, Flint was back
in the black, and Kurtz stepped down.2
As significant as Kurtz’s actions were, his powers as an EFM were relatively
limited compared to those enumerated by PA 4. Under PA 4, whose official
title was the “Local Government and School District Fiscal Accountability
Act,” emergency financial managers came to be called, simply, “emergency
managers.” The dropping of the adjective hinted at the fact that EMs had
control over far more than just finances. PA 4 enabled EMs to strip locally
elected officials of all their powers, alter or abolish union contracts unilaterally, and even disincorporate units of local government altogether.
PA 4’s advocates insisted that the state would appoint EMs only as a
last resort. The early warning system embedded in the law, they said, was
designed to detect burgeoning fiscal crises so they could be remedied before
an emergency situation arose.3 PA 4 increased the number of “triggers” that
would prompt a preliminary state review of local finances and included
provisions for “consent agreements” enhancing the powers of local officials, potentially enabling them to take more decisive remedial action in the
event of financial difficulty and avoid further state intervention.4 If local
efforts to avert emergency were unsuccessful, however, the law allowed the
state to take more sweeping action than had been possible under PA 72.
The alternative to the law, warned its advocates, was to put the fates of
insolvent cities in the hands of federal bankruptcy judges—an outcome
that was not only disempowering, but that would also imperil the pensions
of retirees and ruin local credit ratings.
Arguments for PA 4 often invoked the concept of “fiscal responsibility.”5
Proponents liked to point out that occasional financial challenges were not
uncommon at the local level but that most local governments were able
to pull through them with a little belt tightening. More often than not,
Poisoned by Policy
73
then, when financial trouble grew intractable it was because of careless mismanagement of taxpayer dollars by local officials too incompetent, spineless, or corrupt to change their behavior even when disaster loomed. State
Representative Al Pscholka, one of PA 4’s sponsors, touted the ability of
EMs to put such officials in the “timeout chair.”6 Although EMs could not
remove elected officials from office outright (at least not without approval
from the Governor), they could cut or eliminate their salaries, prevent them
from holding meetings, and require them to take courses in municipal government. Pscholka assumed that state-appointed EMs would be more able7
and willing than local elected officials to make the tough choices necessary
to end a financial emergency. Because they were not beholden to special
interests at the local level and could operate without fear of electoral reprisal,
EMs enjoyed the freedom to make decisions that would destroy the political
careers of duly-elected officials. They could also act expeditiously, without the
inconvenience of citizen oversight or consensus building.
The pro-emergency management position depicted EMs as swooping in
to salvage basic services rendered unsustainable by the ineptitude of local
officials, thereby preempting much unnecessary suffering on the part of
residents. This characterization made emergency management out to be
in the best interests of ordinary people living under failed local regimes,
people who deserved better than what they were getting from their paid
public servants. However, critics of PA 4 disputed the claim that the law was
designed to put the interests of residents first. Flint activist Claire McClinton
noted that one of the few restrictions the law placed on EMs was to forbid
them from missing debt service payments to the holders of city bonds.8 Her
gloss on this proscription was that “bondholders are sacred. They cannot be
touched. People are not sacred.”9 McClinton and other activists argued that
the prioritization of private over public interests under emergency management was visible in other ways, too. Rather than trying to salvage struggling cities, they maintained, the state’s real intention was to pick them
clean of their remaining assets, handing city services, facilities, and infrastructure over to private entities under the pretense of taking them off the
city’s books. By shrinking the public sphere and purging cities of potential
sources of revenue just because they had become unprofitable or difficult to
keep up in the short term, EMs were not preparing cities like Flint to stand
on their own two feet but rather reducing them to unsustainable shells of
their former selves.
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When the bill that would become PA 4 was making its way through the
Michigan State Legislature, there was much speculation about which cities
might receive EMs under the law. Having slipped back into insolvency since
exiting emergency financial management in 2004, Flint was recognized
to be a potential “test case.”10 Aside from underlying structural issues like
population loss and economic disinvestment that were already making it
difficult for the city to function, the housing crisis and recession of 2007 to
2009 dealt a heavy blow to Flint’s revenue stream. The total taxable value of
property in the city fell by $500 million, with the median sales price of Flint
homes plummeting from $57,000 in 2005 to $15,000 in 2010. Per capita
personal income plunged, too, costing the city 39 percent of its income
tax revenue between 2006 and 2012. At the nadir of the recession, unemployment got as high as 25 percent. And although Flint’s mayors desperately tried to cut back on spending, eliminating over four hundred city jobs
between 2008 and 2010, overall expenditures remained stubbornly steady
due largely to the fixed legacy costs of retiree pensions and health care.11
To make matters worse, cuts by the State of Michigan to statutory revenue sharing—a mechanism for redistributing state sales tax revenue to
cities in need—deprived Flint of around $55 million from 2002 to 2014.12
The cuts were part of a larger effort by the state to balance its budget as it
compensated for the economic downturn and reductions in business taxes.
Through its Economic Vitality Incentive Program, announced in 2011, the
Snyder administration made what revenue sharing remained conditional on
the implementation of austerity policies at the local level, incentivizing local
governments to operate more “efficiently” by consolidating departments
and reducing labor costs.13 The overall effect of the cuts, however, was to
further erode the foundations of municipal financial health and, in University of Michigan-Flint sociologist Jacob Lederman’s words, “[open] the door
to claims that cities like Flint and Detroit were living beyond their means.”14
When activists characterized Flint’s financial crisis as “manufactured,”15 they
meant that the state, not city administration, was really to blame for taking
the city from a surplus into a deficit. By abjuring its traditional role of propping up structurally disadvantaged cities through financial assistance, they
argued, the state was helping to create the very “crisis” it then purported to
solve through emergency management.16
Not long after PA 4 took effect, the state started to take a closer look at what
was going on in Flint. A state-appointed financial review team conducted
Poisoned by Policy
75
a preliminary assessment of Flint’s finances in late August to early September 2011 and found the city to be in dire fiscal straits. It was running an
estimated deficit of around $25 million. Its pension system was “less than
60 percent funded,” with the unfunded portion amounting to $39 million
annually and increasing each year—over $860 million in aggregate.17 Simply to stay afloat, the city was poaching $5.3 million from its water and
sewer fund annually to pay for general fund operations. It was borrowing
from other specialized funds as well, despite rules prohibiting the practice.
This interfund borrowing, the review team found, “was not booked as such
in the City’s records.”18 If Flint stayed the course, its deficit would not be
eliminated until the year 2030, and even that outcome was dependent on
incurring another $12 million of debt.
The review team’s report portrayed Flint as a city in denial. Local leaders were in the habit of adopting “budgets that knowingly overestimated
revenues, knowingly underestimated expenditures, or both,” and they were
slow to modify these budgets even in the face of obvious shortfalls.19 Furthermore, the city had repeatedly failed to live up to the deficit elimination
plans it submitted to the state treasurer. Attempts to reduce labor costs had
led to locked horns with unions, and local officials were understandably
wary of making even deeper cuts to police and fire services after layoffs
of public safety personnel coincided with a dramatic surge in homicides
and arsons. The review team concluded that “no satisfactory plan” existed
to resolve the emergency, citing “a lack of political will among a succession of City officials to confront reality and render difficult, but necessary,
financial decisions.” For this reason, it rejected the option of enhancing the
powers of local officials, who could not be trusted to act with the requisite
“urgency and vigor.”20 The only plausible way of turning Flint’s fortunes
around, the team concluded, was through the appointment of an EM.
The decision had its supporters at the local level. The Flint Journal opined
at one point that Flint needed “the emergency manager’s sweeping powers
and political immunity to make the drastic changes and tough decisions
to secure the future of the community.”21 Unlike in 2002, when the City
Council spent three months and over $200,000 fighting the state’s appointment of EFM Kurtz, the council voted 7 to 2 against an appeal. Councilmen
Josh Freeman, Scott Kincaid, and Dale Weighill, frustrated by the lack of
progress on the deficit, had actually lobbied for the review by the state,
knowing it might culminate in emergency management.22 Others, like
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Chapter 3
Councilwoman Jackie Poplar, concurred that the city needed “help” and
promised to look at the EM as a “partner.”23 Newly reelected Mayor Walling
went along somewhat more begrudgingly (the determination that he was
not a good candidate for expanded powers was something of a slight), but
similarly declined to fight the decision or even request a hearing on the
review team’s findings, calling the appointment of an EM “the Governor’s
decision to make.”24 Believing that the fastest way to extricate Flint from
receivership was to cooperate with the state rather than fight it, Walling
adopted a conciliatory disposition toward the city’s EMs. Many activists
came to view him as a collaborator who was sympathetic to key aspects
of the state’s agenda in Flint or at the very least was “going along to get
along,” a perception that would heavily damage his political reputation
during the water crisis.25
Not everyone was prepared to concede. As described in the next chapter,
the imposition of EMs on Flint and several other communities in Michigan
under PA 4 inspired staunch resistance from activists and unions, leading to
the repeal of the law through referendum in November 2012. A month later,
however, state legislators passed a new EM law, PA 436. Unlike its predecessor, PA 436 gave local officials the opportunity to choose from four options
in the event of a state-declared financial emergency: a consent agreement,
bankruptcy, mediation, or the appointment of an EM.26 Because the law also
stipulated that EMs appointed under older laws were retained under the new
law, however, Flint officials were given no such choice. Consequently, when
PA 436 took effect in March 2013, it allowed emergency management to
continue more or less as before in the city. Bracketing a six-month period
between the suspension of PA 4 and PA 436’s taking effect (during which
Table 3.1
Flint’s EFMs and EMs.
July 2002–June 2004
Dec. 2011–Aug. 2012
Aug. 2012–Mar. 2013
Mar. 2013–July 2013
July 2013–Sept. 2013
Sept. 2013–Jan. 2015
Jan. 2015–Apr. 2015
Emergency (financial) manager
EM law in effect
Ed Kurtz (EFM)
Michael Brown
Ed Kurtz (EFM)
Ed Kurtz
Michael Brown
Darnell Earley
Jerry Ambrose
PA 72
PA 4
PA 72
PA 436
PA 436
PA 436
PA 436
Poisoned by Policy
77
time PA 72 was revived and Ed Kurtz served, once again, as the city’s EFM),
Flint remained under emergency management from December 2011 to April
2015. A total of four EMs governed the city during this period (see table 3.1).
The effects of emergency management on Flint were multifaceted, and
in the next chapter, I consider a range of actions taken by Flint’s EMs and
the resistance they inspired on the part of activists.27 The focus of this chapter
is narrower. Here, I wish to trace the logic of the argument that the suspension of representative government at the local level in Flint was principally
to blame for the water crisis (i.e., that the city was “poisoned by policy”28).
This political narrative of the crisis implicated the state in ways that went
beyond the missteps of bureaucrats and administrators responsible for
water treatment and public health. It found fault in the EM law itself and
the politicians who crafted, sponsored, and defended it, all the way up to
Governor Snyder. It also raised bigger questions about democracy: questions about the merging of political power and private interests, the implications of austerity for the integrity of the public sphere, the competence
of the demos to oversee its own affairs at the local level, and the viability of
democratic principles during times of “emergency.”
Flint activists were not the only ones who espoused the political narrative of the crisis, but they were its primary authors and leading champions.
In their signs and slogans, they fused the themes of poisoned democracy and
poisoned water and called for the prosecution of Flint’s EMs and their overseers in Lansing. Although they were critical of the full range of officials—city,
county, state, and federal—who they felt had let the people of Flint down,
they rejected Governor Snyder’s characterization of the water crisis as a “failure of government at all levels,”29 pointing out that during the period in question there was no meaningful distinction between “levels” of government
in Flint. Organizationally, all lines of responsibility led back to the stateappointed EM (see figure 3.1).
Elected officials who enjoyed any authority under emergency
management—like Mayor Walling, who was given responsibility for public
works shortly after the switch to the Flint River—did so because it was voluntarily delegated by EMs. Administrators technically on the city’s payroll
were often brought in by EMs, like Director of Public Works Howard Croft,
who was responsible for the day-to-day operation of the water system.30
And lower-level decision makers operated, naturally, within an environment shaped by the higher-order decisions made by EMs. As the Flint Water
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Figure 3.1
Structure of Flint city government as specified in city charter (top) and under emergency management (bottom).
Source: City of Flint.
Poisoned by Policy
79
Advisory Task Force put it, emergency management created the “framework” within which decisions about Flint’s water—and all other city affairs,
for that matter—were made.31
In his analysis of the key decisions that precipitated and prolonged the
water crisis, Wayne State University law professor and water activist ally Peter
Hammer argues that Flint “serves as a morality play illustrating all that is
wrong with Emergency Management.”32 In what follows, I borrow Hammer’s
metaphor in dividing the series of official decisions about Flint’s water into
three “acts.” The first act deals with the decision to end Flint’s decades-long
water partnership with Detroit and commit to joining a regional pipeline
project overseen by the Karegnondi Water Authority (KWA). This decision
created the need for an interim water source, and the second act looks at why
the Flint River was chosen as that interim source in preference to a shortterm contract with the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department (DWSD).
The third act examines why it took officials eighteen months to agree to
switch the city back to Detroit water despite significant public outcry. In
each act of the drama, state actors within the EM system in Flint and Lansing
are central players, putting the city on an ever-more settled trajectory toward
using the river, overseeing the source change, and insisting upon staying the
course once the switch is made. The political narrative casts these actors as
its principal villains, depicting the crisis as a story of state abuse and local
victimhood.33
One might expect the governance structure imposed by emergency management to lend itself to precisely this kind of dichotomous perpetratorvictim narrative: if all roads lead back to the EM organizationally, it should
be straightforward to assign responsibility to the state for the decisions that
poisoned Flint’s water and kept residents drinking it for longer than necessary. Careful consideration of the political narrative’s main plot points,
however, reveals some surprising murkiness around who was responsible for
what, including the all-important switch to the Flint River. Counterintuitively, some of this murkiness stems from the structure of emergency management itself. Although EMs are imposed by the state, for example, there is
at least some ambiguity around whether they are properly considered state
or local actors.34 Furthermore, even if one accepts that EMs act on the state’s
behalf, it does not necessarily mean that the “state”—complex and multifaceted entity that it is—acts with one unified will. Spreading state power across
multiple scales creates new potential for conflict among actors within the
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state system, as when EMs in Flint disagreed at key moments, seemingly, with
officials in Lansing about water-related decisions. Finally, state power is not
deployed into a vacuum: although EMs sometimes try to wipe the slate clean
before they set to work—eliminating salaries, offices, public meetings, and
so on—they are nevertheless forced to coexist with an array of local actors,
institutions, and interests that retain some influence. Even under emergency
management, there were times when it appeared that locals were influencing
or even driving decision making. In some instances, Flint’s EMs intentionally comingled their own powers with elements of the local power structure
through the selective delegation of authority (e.g., over public works) and
offered local elected officials opportunities to express their will. The gray area
created by these structural ambiguities was further exacerbated, of course, by
the complex tangle of finger-pointing that accompanied attempts by both
state and local actors to deflect responsibility during the water crisis.
Activists dealt with these complexities in various ways. They rejected
categorically the claim that EMs were in any sense local rather than state
actors. They boiled away the apparent differences of opinion among state
officials, portraying the full array of state actors from Flint’s EMs on up as
being in cahoots, working together to advance a consistent agenda shaped
by bondholders and other private interests with ties to the Snyder administration. Most important, they argued that the appearance of local complicity in decision making was being deliberately, and duplicitously, cultivated
by the state. Whenever it seemed that locals had played a meaningful part
in a key decision about water, activists cautioned that the “real story” was
“between the lines.”35 Complementing the repressive and direct power exercised by EMs and other state actors within the EM system, they believed,
was a kind of creative and surreptitious power, operating through discreet
manipulation rather than open command.36 The idea that the state was, in
many ways, deliberately masking its influence in Flint, and that activists
had a special responsibility to root out and expose that influence, colored
activist strategy and tactics throughout the crisis and crisis recovery effort.
The counterpoint Flint activists posited to the power of the state was what
we might call, following legal scholar Richard Schragger, “city power,” or
what activists themselves sometimes called “local control.” Within the context created by emergency management, when activists demanded “democracy” it was understood to mean local democracy—defined, at the very least,
by the full functioning of representative government at the municipal level
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and all the benefits of home rule. Although activists knew that local politics, like state politics, was susceptible to domination by private interests, for
the most part they strongly associated local control with public things and
public purposes. And although they had many complaints about local officials, they nevertheless felt a sense of ownership of city government that was
completely lacking in their sentiments about government at higher levels.
Consequently, they experienced the state takeover as a personal violation
that struck at the heart of their municipal identity as Flintstones, aside from
stripping them of a fundamental human right to self-determination.37
The focal point of the political narrative, however, was not the intrinsic injustice of denying Flint residents democracy, but the ways in which
this denial spawned the injustice of the water crisis. Its moral was that
democratic procedures and local control of resources cannot be sacrificed—
“emergency” or no emergency—without also sacrificing public health.
Lurking in each act of the story, then, is the same counterfactual question:
what if Flint’s democracy had been in place all along?
Act I: The Karegnondi Water Pipeline
In his 2016 State of the State address, delivered while activists outside Michigan’s capitol building called for his resignation and arrest, Governor Snyder
dated the origins of the water crisis to an act of the Flint City Council.38 The
crisis began, he asserted, when the council voted 7 to 1 in March 2013 to commit Flint to participating in the KWA pipeline project. This vote, he implied,
was the catalyst for the string of events that resulted in the short-term use of
the Flint River and all the terrible consequences that followed. Snyder may
not have said it outright, but the subtext of his comments was clear: Flint was
complicit in its own water crisis, and its complicity began with the KWA decision. None other than PA 4 champion Al Pscholka—who also happened to
be Michigan House Appropriations Chairperson—invoked this notion as an
excuse to hold up state aid to the city.39 Activists’ first task in combating the
“false” narrative of the crisis promulgated by the state, then, was to show that
the KWA project had never had genuine local support and that EMs had been
instrumental in pushing it forward.
The backstory to Snyder’s claim that the KWA decision was locally
driven was Flint’s decades-old desire for water independence. Since it had
first begun receiving water from Detroit in 1967, Flint had been at the
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mercy of the administrators of the Detroit water utility (known from 1975
on as DWSD).40 DWSD oversaw a water system that stretched far beyond
the boundaries of the city of Detroit into the surrounding counties and
ultimately to Flint, but being a division of city government, it had a strong
incentive—and indeed was designed institutionally—to run it in a manner
that put Detroit’s interests first. It favored Detroit-based companies when
doling out contracts and only hired workers who lived within city limits
(at least until residency requirements were outlawed in 1999). The mayor of
Detroit appointed all the members of its Board of Water Commissioners, with
four out of seven mandated to be Detroit residents. To demonstrate a commitment to regional cooperation, Detroit’s mayors settled on the practice of
appointing representatives of Wayne, Oakland, and Macomb Counties to
the three remaining positions. But despite being DWSD’s largest customer
(accounting for about 5 percent of overall water purchases), Flint was not
accorded a seat on the board.
Where Flint’s lack of influence within DWSD mattered most, arguably,
was with respect to the setting of water rates. Given that DWSD charged more
depending on the distance and elevation over which its water was transported,
Flint’s location at the system’s northwestern extremity put it at an inherent
disadvantage within the department’s pricing scheme. And while the counties with representatives on the DWSD board could exert some influence over
their rates, there was little Flint could do to resist increases. By paying higher
rates than it might have been able to negotiate with more institutional pull,
Flint—and by extension Genesee County, which purchased Detroit water
through Flint—was effectively subsidizing the cheaper rates paid in other
areas serviced by the Detroit system. As long as DWSD’s rates stayed relatively
low overall, Flint and Genesee County tolerated this structural inequity. But
in the 2000s, rates began to climb steeply, with annual increases averaging
about 11 percent. Genesee County Drain Commissioner Jeff Wright, who as
CEO of the KWA became the leading proponent of the city and county breaking free from Detroit, contended that by setting “unsustainable” rates DWSD
was pricing Flint and Genesee County “out of its system.”41
The deeper problem with DWSD, Wright argued, was that it operated in an
“authoritarian manner,” with little concern for Flint’s and Genesee County’s
well-being.42 Aside from the persistent rate issue, it had long resisted building a backup pipeline to service the area in case of emergency, the consequences of which were driven home when a massive power outage in 2003
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83
left residents without water for several days. It was also, Wright claimed,
rife with corruption—most glaringly, in the form of contract-rigging, which
over the years had led to the criminal convictions of two DWSD directors and
Detroit mayor Kwame Kilpatrick. Although the water DWSD provided was of
good quality, its mismanagement of the system, Wright maintained, made
water provision “very unreliable.” The “only reasonable solution,” he argued,
was for Flint and Genesee County to break up with Detroit and tap into Lake
Huron via their own pipeline.43
The idea had been around since at least the 1940s, when Flint was still
drawing its drinking water from the Flint River and its needs as a growing city
were beginning to exceed the river’s capacity. After a plan to build a pipeline
northward to Saginaw Bay was abandoned as too costly, an alternate plan for
a pipeline extending eastward to Port Huron began to take shape, and in the
early 1960s, the city began buying up land along the proposed route in preparation. But so did a prominent Flint businessman—in collusion with the
city manager—whose intention was to sell the land to the city at a profit. The
resulting scandal led to public corruption charges which, although eventually dismissed, destroyed a good deal of support for the project.44 While this
was going on, Detroit was preparing to build a Lake Huron pipeline of its own
to reduce the dependence of its water system on the Detroit River. In April
1964, Flint’s commissioners voted to abandon the idea of a Flint-owned-andoperated pipeline and enter into a long-term agreement with Detroit.
The contract signed by the two cities in December 1965 committed
Flint to the partnership for at least thirty-five years. Beginning in the early
2000s, Flint began to renew the agreement annually. But its newfound
freedom from a long-term contractual obligation, combined with growing
tensions with Detroit, revived the impetus to build an independent pipeline.
Exploratory work by Jeff Wright and other Genesee County officials over the
next decade ultimately led to the formation of the KWA in 2010. The vision
developed by its board was of a regionally owned and operated water system,
a partnership between Flint, the City of Lapeer, and Genesee, Sanilac, and
Lapeer Counties. According to Wright, the KWA, unlike the DWSD, was
designed to give all members “a fair representative voice.”45 Each stakeholder had one position on the original board, with Flint’s seat occupied
by Mayor Dayne Walling, a vocal supporter of the project. When the board
expanded to fifteen members in 2013, Flint’s share comprised four seats,
with Walling serving as chairman.
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Figure 3.2
The Karegnondi water pipeline. The Detroit News.
Hooking up to the KWA pipeline would also offer Flint the opportunity
to make fuller use of one of its most significant assets: its water treatment
plant.46 Detroit water was treated shortly after being withdrawn from Lake
Huron, and required little attention upon arriving in Flint. KWA water, by
contrast, would arrive raw, and Flint would be solely responsible for treating its portion of it. Between 1998 and 2006 the city had invested $50
million into its plant so that it could treat Flint River water as a backup
supply. Although it would need further upgrades to prepare for long-term
treatment of raw lake water, Operations Supervisor Brent Wright described
it as already “pretty much state of the art.”47
The prospect of giving Flint more control over the governance and operation of its water system was attractive from the standpoint of the city’s selfdetermination, but supporters also pitched the KWA project as a financial
boon. Wright promised that the KWA would establish cost parity throughout the region served by the pipeline, with each community paying “the
same rate for its water.”48 He also claimed that this rate would be lower than
what Flint paid to DWSD, saving the city $600 million over thirty years,
even with a $7-million-per-year bond payment.49 Wright’s thirty-year rate
projection made the KWA option out to be a major savings over another
long-term contract with Detroit, which DWSD began to solicit from Flint
as plans for the KWA pipeline gathered steam in late 2012 to early 2013.50
Wright accused DWSD of trying to torpedo the project by luring Flint
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85
away from it, thereby preserving Detroit’s water monopoly in the region.
He insisted, however, that the department’s machinations were futile: the
pipeline would move forward with or without Flint’s participation.
This is not to say that Wright was disinterested in Flint’s participation—
on the contrary, he repeatedly stressed that the KWA was eager to have the
city on board as a long-term partner. But he insisted that the choice between
DWSD and the KWA was “Flint’s decision, and Flint’s decision alone to
make.”51 The problem was that when the time came to make a firm commitment to financing the new pipeline in early 2013, determining where “Flint”
ended and the state began was more complicated than ever. The situation,
in brief, was this: in August 2012, PA 4 was suspended, pending a November
referendum on the law, and EM Mike Brown was forced to step down. Claiming that PA 72 had gone back into effect, Governor Snyder tapped Ed Kurtz to
reprise his role from the early 2000s as EFM, while Brown took the position
of city administrator. The City Council sensed an opportunity to reassert its
authority, resuming regular meetings, filing a lawsuit to oust Kurtz, and
threatening to launch an investigation into the torrent of resolutions (sixty
in total) that Brown discharged before leaving office.52
Even under the revived PA 72, however, the state still had considerable
say over any major decision pertaining to Flint’s water. The city’s choice of
source water clearly had financial implications, bringing it under the jurisdiction of EFM Kurtz, and because it entailed a transaction exceeding $50,000,
it also required the approval of State Treasurer Dillon. Dillon only became
aware of the KWA project in late 2012, but he quickly came under pressure
from the project’s backers to make a speedy decision about whether he
would support Flint’s participation, which would help to determine aspects
of the engineering like the number of pumping stations and the diameter of
the pipe. To assess the project’s cost, he commissioned a study from the private engineering firm Tucker, Young, Jackson, Tull, Inc. (hereafter “Tucker
Young”), which determined that the KWA would be at least $100 million
more expensive than predicted and recommended that the city stick with
DWSD water, perhaps blending in some water from the Flint River.53 Seizing on Tucker Young’s estimates, DWSD began to float long-term contract
offers it claimed were substantially cheaper than the KWA.
Jeff Wright excoriated the Tucker Young study, accusing it of wildly overinflating the cost of the KWA pipeline and pointing out that the firm had
a clear conflict of interest as one of DWSD’s contractors. Dayne Walling
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dismissed the study’s findings as “propaganda” and a “scare tactic” aimed
at making a new DWSD contract look more attractive than it really was.54
Concurring with this position was EFM Kurtz, who since taking office had
conducted a thorough study of Flint’s water options. Kurtz provided the
pro-KWA forces with ammunition when he commissioned a competing
study by KWA contractor Rowe Engineering, which purported to rebut
Tucker Young and DWSD’s assertions.55 According to Wright, Kurtz had
concluded by early 2013 that the KWA was “the best permanent source of
potable water for the City of Flint” and “was entirely comfortable” making
this recommendation to Treasurer Dillon.56
Despite the fact that Kurtz, the state’s man in Flint, was leaning toward
the KWA, it was widely believed that Tucker Young’s critique of the project was what the higher-ups in Lansing wanted to hear. In early 2013 the
Snyder administration was, after all, preparing to place Detroit under emergency management using PA 436, a near reincarnation of the repealed PA
4 scheduled to take effect on March 27. Allowing Flint to run off with the
KWA, taking a substantial piece of DWSD’s revenue with it, would hardly
be conducive to improving Detroit’s fiscal standing. Wright warned that if
Lansing were to have the final say about Flint’s water, it would force the city
into the thirty-year contract being offered by DWSD. He urged city officials
to make their position on KWA known before the state regained full control
of Flint under the impending PA 436.57
What ensued was one of the most unusual events of the EM years.
Although he was under no obligation to do so, EFM Kurtz invited the City
Council to vote on whether Flint should commit to the KWA. Technically, of
course, the decision was not the council’s to make. However, Wright insisted
that it was “not an idle exercise,” assuring the council that “if it voted ‘no,’
KWA would not sell water to Flint” (though the pipeline would be built
anyway).58 Under the assumption that Wright was a man of his word, this
gave the council genuine power in the event it decided against joining the
pipeline, for no one—not Kurtz, not Snyder—could force the KWA to accept
Flint as a customer. Wright would later claim that the council vote “was one
of the few moments of true democracy Flint had during the EM reign.”59
Happily for him, it produced the outcome that he, Kurtz, and Mayor Walling wanted: the council came down in favor of the KWA, 7 to 1.
In his critique of Wright’s account of the KWA decision, Peter Hammer
disputes the authenticity of the council’s vote that day, calling it a “sham.”60
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In Hammer’s telling, what Wright depicted as an exercise of “true democracy” was little more than a symbolic rubber stamp on what was already a
“done deal,”61 with “the city and its residents … manipulated as means to
the predetermined ends of others.”62 Documents released during the water
crisis revealed that Flint’s first EM, EM Mike Brown, had been working with
Wright since at least February 2012 to build the assumption that Flint would
be buying KWA water into the authority’s planning process, suggesting that
there was considerable, perhaps irresistible, momentum behind the KWA
partnership by the time the council vote was taken. Hammer alleges that
during the council’s deliberations, Wright encouraged it to adopt a “myopic
focus” on the relatively lower wholesale rates that Flint would pay under
the KWA, without full consideration of “the costs of operating Flint’s water
treatment plant and maintaining the city’s water infrastructure system.”63
He also maintains that council members were not given all of the relevant
information (including, notably, the Tucker Young report) before casting their
votes; Third Ward Councilman Bryant Nolden, who lodged the lone dissenting vote, complained that “we get the information at the last minute and are
asked to make decisions.”64 Hammer’s theory is that Kurtz offered the council
a vote not to genuinely solicit its input but to give the KWA decision a firmer
legal standing in the event the EM law was ever successfully challenged in the
courts, which some believed could retrospectively invalidate EM resolutions.65
Public proclamations that the vote was an expression of “democracy,” then,
masked this private intent to use the council’s apparent endorsement of the
project as an “insurance policy” against legal challenge.66
One final detail of the ostensibly democratic vote made the limits of the
council’s power apparent. Wright asked the council to agree to purchase
eighteen million gallons of water per day (mgd) from the KWA, despite the
fact that Flint’s average daily water use was several million gallons less than
that, with its population continuing to shrink by the year. The council settled on sixteen mgd as a compromise, with the potential for blending in
water from the Flint River if needed.67 Following the vote, however, Kurtz
unilaterally signed off on the excess capacity rejected by the council, at
an estimated cost of an extra $1 million a year.68 While the surplus water
was arguably unnecessary from Flint’s perspective, it would justify a largerdiameter pipeline that would increase the amount of water the KWA could
carry to the region—allowing for, in Wright’s words, “future expansion.”69
For Hammer, as well as for Flint activists, Kurtz’s flagrant disregard for the
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council’s will illustrated the “meaninglessness of the council vote.”70 The
Flint Democracy Defense League lamented that the water purchase agreement drafted by the council itself “was utterly ignored by the emergency
manager,” who proceeded to pass on to the Governor “his own version,”
created “without any democratic input.”71
Even with Kurtz advocating for the KWA, however, it was still necessary
to get backing from Treasurer Dillon. Faced with competing assessments of
the KWA’s cost by Tucker Young and Rowe, Dillon turned to an agency he
believed could be a neutral arbiter: the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ). Officials at the MDEQ, he said later, were “firm”
that the KWA was better72 and did not seem to have “any agenda” in saying
so.73 With the MDEQ’s endorsement of the KWA, Dillon was sold. Negotiations, however, were not quite over yet: at the eleventh hour, Governor
Snyder personally intervened, calling a meeting of all the major players in
the hopes that Flint and DWSD could strike a deal—an apparent sign that
the state actors involved were still not entirely aligned.74 By the time DWSD
extended its final final offer in late April, however, Kurtz—knowing he had
the backing of Dillon—felt empowered to reject it summarily. Jeff Wright
publicly declared that the decision was a “done deal,” saying there would
be “no looking back.”75
Now that Dillon’s initial hesitation had turned into approval, the treasury
began to work with the other state actors involved to make Flint’s participation
financially possible. Flint’s commitment to the project obligated it to cover
about one-third of the project’s bond debt, amounting to $85 million total.
The logistical problem to be confronted was how a city struggling just to break
even, and prohibited by state law from issuing bonds except in cases of “fire,
flood, or calamity,” could take on such an obligation.76 The matter became
pressing toward the end of 2013 and into early 2014, during the tenure of EM
Darnell Earley, when the KWA was preparing for a $220 million bond issue
that would allow it to begin the next phase of pipeline construction.
At first, Earley had trouble obtaining the treasury’s authorization to borrow the money needed to finance Flint’s share. KWA’s bond attorneys, however, came up with a creative solution that ultimately won the treasury’s
approval.77 The idea was to ask the MDEQ for an administrative consent
order (ACO), a device typically used by the department to force a local government to fix an environmental violation. An ACO allowed a municipality
to issue bonds related to environmental remediation that did not count
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toward its debt limit. What made this ACO different was that it was, in the
bureaucratic lingo of the MDEQ, a “sweetheart” bond, a rare instance in
which an ACO was being sought voluntarily.78
The official reason given for the ACO was to enable the cleanup of lime
sludge, a byproduct of the water treatment process, that was actively leaking
into the Flint River from a dumping site upstream of the treatment plant’s
intake pipe. Jeff Wright claimed that the lime sludge issue was preventing
the plant from operating legally, as was necessary under the KWA plan,
and that this was the real reason the city needed the ACO.79 As Hammer
points out, however, the language of the ACO was broad enough to facilitate financing of much more than just the lime sludge remediation. It was
“drafted with the express intent of being broad enough to permit financing
of Flint’s participation in KWA pipeline construction,” making Flint’s use
of the treatment plant contingent upon an “improvement project” vague
enough to encompass the building of the pipeline.80
The dubious ACO proved to be the piece of the water crisis puzzle that
opened Flint’s EMs up to legal accountability. Arguing that the real motivations for the ACO were strategically hidden, the attorney general’s office
described it as “a sham transaction designed under false pretenses to obtain
money for the KWA” and hit EM Earley and then–Finance Director (later
EM) Jerry Ambrose with false pretenses charges.81 Hammer, however, stresses
that the treasury was equally to blame: within the “draconian regime” created by emergency management, it was “the ultimate decision maker.”82
The EM-requested and treasurer-approved ACO helped put Flint in
a position to issue KWA bonds but it did not, of course, guarantee they
would be repaid. For obvious reasons, purchasing bonds from a financially
shaky city like Flint was a risky prospect from an investment perspective.
To ensure that the KWA’s $220 million bond issue got a high rating—and
thereby a favorable interest rate—Genesee County pledged to secure Flint’s
portion of the debt,83 an assurance strong enough to help win the bond
issue The Bond Buyer magazine’s Midwest Region Deal of the Year award.
The catch was that, in the event Flint defaulted, the county could siphon
off 25 percent of its constitutional revenue-sharing money, force Flint to
levy a tax to reimburse the KWA, and seize Flint’s water assets. Genesee
County Board of Commissioners Chairman Jamie Curtis warned that Flint
would “lose everything” if it withdrew from the KWA because of how heavily its debt was secured.84
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As momentous as the KWA decision was, popular awareness of its implications, and even of the project’s very existence, was minimal among Flint
residents even after the water crisis revived the debate over Flint’s longterm water supply. As late as June 2016, state water crisis liaison Harvey
Hollins estimated, based on focus group data, that 80 percent of residents
had “no idea what KWA is.”85 But within Flint’s activist community, the
KWA project had raised red flags as early as 2013, when activists led a campaign (discussed in the next chapter) to put Flint’s participation to a public
vote. In the context of the water crisis, deep suspicions grew up around the
project even among activists who had not contributed to—or even been
aware of—that earlier effort. They depicted Drain Commissioner Wright as
a shady and untrustworthy character (one nicknamed him, simply, “The
Scum Bag”) and occasionally speculated that Mayor Walling stood to profit
personally from the deal in a manner that mirrored the public corruption
scandal of the 1960s. But they also believed that the state had conspired
to impose the KWA on the city, even suggesting, in some instances, that
Flint was placed under emergency management in order to accomplish that
objective.86
Activists posited a variety of ways the pipeline would advance the state’s
agenda. It was no secret that the project was not only about drinking water,
but also economic development, an effort to open up the region to the
“blue economy” by offering large quantities of fresh raw water well suited
for agriculture and industry.87 Aside from this officially acknowledged economic rationale, however, activists speculated that the water requirements
of fracking interests with ties to Governor Snyder were being factored into
inflated water quantity requests like the one signed off on by Ed Kurtz. Some
even suggested that by (indirectly) contaminating private wells with fracking waste and forcing out-county residents onto its grid, the KWA would
expand its customer base.88
Activists also suspected the project of being part of the Snyder administration’s agenda of privatization. Sometimes they described the KWA pipeline
itself as “privatized” despite its not being privately owned or managed; at
other times, they said the project “open[ed] the door to privatization,” in the
belief that the international water giant Veolia (or some other such private
interest) was waiting in the wings to buy up the infrastructure.89 Activists
also argued that the KWA was designed to ruin DWSD and lay the foundation for the regionalization of Detroit’s water infrastructure, tearing control
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of southeast Michigan’s water away from the majority–African American city
and placing it in the hands of the neighboring, predominantly white, counties, which had always resented being subject to Detroit politics and administration.90 Finally, activists saw the possibility of Flint’s forfeiting its assets
to the county as a sign that the KWA could be used as a roundabout way of
regionalizing the city out of existence, popularly believed to be the state’s
ultimate vision for Flint.
Convinced the KWA was a “scam,” or at the very least a bad deal for the
city, activists started turning up at KWA board meetings and speaking out
against the project. But the intensity of the emotions on display at these
meetings—the denunciations, for example, of Jeff Wright and other members
of the board as “murderers” at a particularly contentious meeting I attended
in May 2016—is hard to explain without reference to another belief: the belief
that it was the KWA plan that triggered the switch to the Flint River.
Act II: The Break with Detroit and Switch to the River
State officials made the same claim about the decision to use the Flint River
as an interim source as they did about the KWA: that it was locally driven,
with state officials merely following the lead of local officials in executing
the switch. Once again, the implication was that the city had brought the
crisis upon itself—in this case, even more directly.
In fact, the city had at one point seriously considered returning to the river
for its drinking water—not just temporarily, but permanently. In the late
2000s, as patience wore thin with DWSD’s rate hikes, city officials began
to explore “all available options for Flint’s long-term water,”91 including
whether using the Flint River would be cheaper than staying with Detroit.92
Some made an effort to change public perceptions of the river, stressing that
it was “quality water” and suggesting that its low credibility with residents
was “more of a psychological issue.”93 Engineering reports by Wade Trim
in 2009 and Lockwood, Andrews, and Newnam (LAN) in 2011 lent some
credence to this position, finding that although the river would be trickier
to treat than lake water, it could be brought up to regulatory standards.94
Long-term, full-time treatment of river water would require more extensive
upgrades to the water treatment plant than what the KWA proposal called
for, but given local interest in putting the plant to good use, some saw this as
a worthy investment.95
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According to Dayne Walling, the extra “costs and complications” of
using the river effectively dropped that possibility to the bottom of the
list of Flint’s long-term water options by mid-2011.96 This did not end all
consideration of using the river in some capacity, however.97 As already
mentioned, the council voted to blend Flint River water with KWA water
as a cost savings in March 2013. The possibility of similar blending with
DWSD water had also been widely discussed, although it required convincing DWSD to allow the practice.98
But demonstrating the willingness of some local officials to consider
using the river is one thing, and demonstrating that they actually decided
to do so another. As part of his effort to exonerate himself, ex-EM Darnell
Earley portrayed the City Council’s vote for the KWA as having included a
vote to use the river while the pipeline was built. However, Earley’s suggestion that the KWA decision and the Flint River decision were one and the
same was, as Dayne Walling put it, “blatantly false.” In fact, the council
opted to purchase water from the KWA upon completion of the pipeline on
the assumption that Flint would remain with DWSD in the meantime. No
council vote on the river ever took place.99
It was still possible to argue, however, that the KWA vote spawned the
switch to the river indirectly. After EM Kurtz finalized the KWA decision in
April 2013, DWSD promptly announced that it would be dropping Flint as
a customer in a year’s time. In a press release, it accused the supporters
of the KWA of launching “the greatest water war in Michigan’s history” and
of having “a ‘political’ objective that has nothing to do with the delivery—or
the price—of water.”100 Losing out to the KWA, Kurtz said later, made DWSD
“mad, angry, vindictive.”101 Some believed the department would actually
follow through on its threat to cease water delivery even in the event that
Flint failed to arrange an alternative interim supply.102 With the KWA pipeline still an estimated three years from completion and relations with Detroit
worse than ever, Flint was supposedly forced into the temporary fix of fulltime use of the Flint River.
But the activists were firmly of the opinion that, in Peter Hammer’s
words, the DWSD termination notice “plays no legitimate role in the story”
of the switch to the river.103 In March 2014, as the threatened shutoff date
approached, DWSD Director Sue McCormick wrote to EM Darnell Earley of
her willingness to negotiate a new contract. Earley informed her tersely that
Flint no longer had need of Detroit water, even in the short term, because it
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had “actively pursued using the Flint River as a temporary water source.”104 As
Earley was turning DWSD down one last time, Genesee County was actively
making preparations to remain with the department as a customer until the
KWA was ready, ultimately purchasing a nine-mile section of pipeline from
Flint for $3.9 million to make this possible. The county’s interim arrangement
with DWSD provides a glimpse of what might have been had Flint pursued a
similar path: for the next few years, it resentfully paid a higher rate for Detroit
water (20 percent higher, in fact105), but it also enjoyed clean, safe water.
Just who, in Earley’s words, “actively pursued” interim use of the river
between the KWA vote in March 2013 and the source switch in April 2014
is perhaps the most perplexingly opaque question in the entire water crisis
saga. The crisis timeline released by the state stated that in June 2013, the
“City of Flint decide[d] to use the Flint River as a water source” (emphasis
added).106 What, exactly, was meant by the “City of Flint” was not explained.
By June, Flint’s elected officials wielded even less power than they had a few
months earlier, for EFM Kurtz had become EM Kurtz under the now-active
PA 436. The documentary record shows Kurtz preparing the city to use the
river. On June 26, he signed a resolution authorizing LAN to begin evaluating what upgrades the water treatment plant would need to process river
water full time. Retrospectively, the issuing of this resolution was widely
depicted—by everyone from Wright,107 to Walling, to the Flint Water Advisory Task Force108—as the moment when the die was cast, when the decision
to use the river was made definitively. Bewilderingly, however, Kurtz later
denied that he was responsible for the switch. Preparing the water treatment
plant to operate was not the same, he insisted, as finalizing the source switch.
In summer 2013, he maintained, the city was still in an exploratory stage,
with a variety of officials discussing the feasibility of using the river. Asked
who made the final decision about the river, Kurtz said he didn’t know.109
Exploratory or not, Kurtz’s actions with respect to the water treatment
plant set the tone for a string of cost-conscious decisions later cited as evidence that the use of the river was driven by “economics.”110 The need to
prepare the plant to treat KWA water in the long term and Flint River water
in the short term put Kurtz in a bind: treating the river water properly
would require more of an investment in the plant than would be needed
later on to treat lake water. Convinced that the city could ride out any
complications arising from using the river given that the arrangement was
only temporary, Kurtz gambled on Flint being able to get away with the
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bare minimum required by the MDEQ. Representatives of LAN later said
that when company employees raised concerns about this attitude, recommending a test period to evaluate the corrosivity of the river water, Kurtz
declined because the MDEQ did not deem it necessary.111 While the MDEQ
was of course responsible for its own bad advice, Kurtz’s bare-minimum
mentality made him seemingly quick to accept any recommendation that
entailed less cost and hassle with the treatment plant.
Kurtz hoped that the money the city would save while on the river (about
$5 million over two years relative to what a temporary deal with DWSD
would have cost) would cover whatever new equipment was needed.112 As
Finance Director Ambrose explained, the switch “was made because it …
offered an immediate cost-savings opportunity which translated into the
ability to upgrade the Water Treatment Plant without having to seek financing.”113 The MDEQ’s position on corrosion control (i.e., that it could be
withheld until proven necessary over an extended trial period) was welcome news—not, as some news outlets breathlessly reported in their coverage of the water crisis, because it would save the city a measly $100 per day
for the chemicals, but because it would obviate the installation of costly
equipment that would be useless after the KWA pipeline came online.
Still, estimates of the size of investment the plant needed were disconcertingly high. Recommendations made by Rowe in December 2013 called for
around $25 million worth of work.114 It appears that considerably less was
spent prior to the switch—enough to squeak past the MDEQ’s regulatory
goalpost, but no more (see chapter 2).
The cost-averse logic on display in EM decisions about Flint’s water gave
rise to the accusation that public health had been sacrificed on the altar
of austerity, recklessly entrusted to glorified accountants whose powers
were broad but whose expertise was thin or nonexistent on subjects central to residents’ well-being.115 Of course, EMs could always claim that they
shouldn’t have had to be public health experts, that they should have been
able to rely on the direction of those who were. A defensive Ed Kurtz argued
in November 2016 that his job as EM was “strictly finance” and “did not
include ensuring safe drinking water.”116 It was the duty, not of EMs, he
said, but of the MDEQ and the Environmental Protection Agency to oversee
water quality and prevent lead poisoning—he had simply accepted their
advice. Darnell Earley, for his part, protested that during his time as EM he
had never received “any information that would even remotely indicate
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that the use of the Flint River was unsafe in any way.”117 However, the Flint
Water Advisory Task Force found that MDEQ employees had “deferred to
state emergency manager decisions to proceed” even when they knew that
“use of Flint River water would be problematic.”118 It also concluded that the
breadth of the powers bestowed by the EM law made EMs responsible even
for the nominally “technical” decisions made on their watch.
Given that the EM system was undemocratic by design, it is hardly surprising that deeply unpopular decisions emerged from it, but within the
political narrative of the water crisis, the pièce de résistance was the switch
to the Flint River. The choice of the almost universally maligned river for
Flint’s water supply was the ultimate example of the ability of EMs to disregard public opinion and act in ways unthinkable to elected officials.119 One
could debate whether letting popular inclinations prevail would have kept
Flint off the river for the right reasons—the capabilities of modern water
treatment methods, for example, may have weighed less heavily in the balance than ingrained prejudices about the river being a who-knows-what
toxic stew. However, it is harder to argue with the activists’ central contention: if the people of Flint—or at least their representatives—had been the
ones deciding on the city’s water future, there would never have been an
opportunity to bungle the treatment of the river water, for the river, in all
likelihood, would never have been a character in the story at all.
Act III: Prolonging the Crisis
When activists began to pool their energies and demand a return to Detroit
water in early 2015, they sometimes implied that reconnecting would be as
easy as flipping a switch or, more accurately, pressing a button. The defining image of the original source change, after all, was of Dayne Walling
doing just that to shut off the feed from Detroit. Sensing an opportunity
to reinsert itself into the conversation about Flint’s water source, DWSD
began to encourage the impression that getting Detroit water flowing again
was straightforward and could be done more or less immediately, a notion
that began to spread through the activist community via Councilman Eric
Mays, a key ally of the water activists.120 On January 12, DWSD Director
Sue McCormick wrote a letter to Flint officials indicating that Detroit was
“ready, willing, and able” to resume selling water to Flint. On January 26,
she testified to the Flint City Council that DWSD was willing to reopen the
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pipeline for “emergency services” and that doing so was “not contingent”
on conversations about a long-term contract.121
But EMs Darnell Earley (in office September 2013 to January 2015) and
Jerry Ambrose (January to April 2015) both insisted that switching back to
Detroit water would not be so easy.122 For one thing, Earley had, as said earlier,
sold to the county the nine miles of pipe Flint once used to connect to the
Detroit system under the assumption that the city would never again need it
(a decision activists “begged” him not to make123). For another, the ACO that
Earley and Ambrose helped to finagle for KWA financing purposes in early
2014 required that Flint use the river as its interim drinking water source.124
These constraints stemmed from decisions made before the possibility
of an urgent return to Detroit water was seriously considered. But Ambrose
erected three additional barriers to such a return in the spring of 2015, several months after systemic problems with water quality appeared. Firstly, as
he prepared to return Flint to partial local control, he obtained a loan from
the state’s Local Emergency Financial Assistance Loan Board to cover the
nearly $8 million deficit still on the books. The loan included the stipulation
that the city could not return to Detroit water without the approval of the
state treasurer.125 Secondly, before stepping down he signed an order that
prohibited city officials from overturning any EM decisions for a year. Even
though no single EM was willing to take responsibility for the switch to the
river, that decision was presumably covered by the order. Finally, Ambrose
broadened the powers of City Administrator and Earley-appointee Natasha
Henderson to give her substantial influence over city affairs.126 As support
for a return to Detroit began to build among Flint’s elected officials, Henderson actively resisted the proposition because tying the city’s pipes back into
the Detroit system would complicate the eventual transition to the KWA.127
Aside from the matter of structural impediments to switching back
to Detroit, Flint’s EMs argued that it would be cost prohibitive. Ambrose
warned that Flint would pay $12 million more per year on an interim
DWSD deal and that rates would have to rise by 30 percent or more to compensate.128 Earley and Ambrose clung staunchly to this logic even as members of the administration in Lansing began to voice doubts. After GM got
special permission to leave Flint’s water system in October 2014 in an effort
to stop corrosion of its engine parts, Valerie Brader, deputy legal counsel
and senior policy advisor to Governor Snyder, questioned whether using
the river still made financial sense and advised a return to DWSD, calling
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the water situation in Flint “an urgent matter to fix.”129 In February 2015,
after the state provided its employees working in Flint with bottled water to
enable them to avoid the tap, Chief of Staff Dennis Muchmore wrote in an
internal email that it would “look pretty stupid hiding behind some financial statement” if the water posed a true threat to public health.130 Earley
and Ambrose, however, were “unequivocal” in their insistence that switching off the river would be “difficult and expensive” and that the quality
problems were not serious enough to merit it.131
In the same email that found him questioning the optics of pleading
finances to residents while arranging for state employees to get safe water,
Muchmore argued that since the state was “in charge” in Flint, it could
“hardly ignore the people of Flint.”132 The structure of emergency management, however, allowed Flint’s EMs to steer a deeply unpopular course
through the city’s water troubles. In March 2015, the City Council joined a
growing chorus of activists in calling on Ambrose to discontinue use of the
river. On March 23, it voted 7 to 1 to do “all things necessary” to return to
Detroit water. Ambrose called the vote “incomprehensible” and disregarded
it.133 It was yet another sign that while EMs occasionally solicited the council’s endorsement of decisions, and while the council could lodge symbolic
protests of various kinds, under emergency management it was unable to
generate any institutional friction when opposed to EM dictates.
Emergency management also dampened the impression that popular
discontent about the water might otherwise have made on decision makers.
Because the EM system was designed precisely to force through unpopular
policies, it took for granted a moderate amount of grumbling on the part
of residents. Its combination of unchecked power and single-minded focus
on finances fostered a governing style that was both arrogant and willfully
disinterested in the range of considerations (beyond technical and financial ones) that enter into popular preferences and demands. And because it
intentionally insulated EMs from popular accountability, it deprived residents of institutional mechanisms of redress.134
Some officials later protested that every time problems had been confirmed with the water, they had been addressed: discoloration with a
concerted flushing campaign, bacterial contamination with increased chlorination, total trihalomethanes with the installation of new carbon filters at
the treatment plant, lead contamination with reconnection to the Detroit
system, orthophosphates, and pipe removal. From a popular perspective,
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however, every one of these responses was either inadequate or too slow in
coming. The state’s initial strategy, hypothesizes Peter Hammer, was to “run
out the clock” on environmental enforcement until the KWA pipeline was
ready, hopeful that some minor tweaks would prevent the problems with
the water from reaching a critical mass.135 But for residents and activists, the
switch back to Detroit could not come soon enough. And when it did come,
it came only after months of butting up against a political edifice expressly
designed to shut them out.
Epilogue
Political theorists have long fretted about the fate of democracy during periods of so-called emergency. They have singled out the ability to declare an
emergency and use it to justify suspensions of laws and rights as one of the
most important powers wielded by the state—even as the quintessential
expression of state sovereignty.136 They have noted that under the exceptional circumstances defined and delineated (however vaguely) by the state
itself, state power tends to grow stronger and more centralized, and democratic deliberation tends to take a backseat to unitary expressions of will by
political leaders. Citizens are told that it is necessary to cease temporarily
the mechanisms of democratic decision making and eliminate inconvenient checks and balances.
PAs 4 and 436 went further in that direction than most state takeover
laws, enabling the State of Michigan to impose EMs without local consent,
push local charters and officials completely aside, and exercise near-absolute
control over every aspect of local government. Legal scholar Michelle Wilde
Anderson has described the effects of these laws, aptly, as “democratic dissolution.”137 As we have seen, however, Flint’s EMs did not operate within political conditions entirely of their own making or completely smother all local
initiative. The entanglement of their will with local actors and institutions
sometimes served to blur—at least on the surface—the distinction between
state and local responsibility for political outcomes like the KWA decision
and the switch to the Flint River. Nevertheless, Flint activists argued that
regardless of whatever complicity EMs were able to elicit from local elites, it
was the state—not the people of Flint or their elected representatives—that
supplied the main political motive force during the period when the critical
decisions were made about the city’s water. Telling the tale of the origins
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of the crisis was not just a matter of holding up transparent state abuses
for the world to see, but of rooting out and exposing subtler ones—part of
the activists’ larger project of unveiling the undemocratic exercise of state
power when it cloaked itself in the appearance of popular consent.
Distilling the essence of all that led to the water source switch and the
subsequent reluctance to reverse it, the political narrative can be summarized
succinctly: disregard for democracy in Flint led to disregard for public health.
Shortsighted and narrow-minded efforts to end one “emergency” created
another—an example of what Anderson calls the “severe collateral damage”
of democratic dissolution.138 Suspending democracy at the local level, even if
only temporarily, can have lasting effects on the health of the body politic,
too, undermining political legitimacy and participation by alienating citizens from their most intimate political environment. Certainly, in Flint, the
feeling that traditional forms of political engagement were pointless as long
as the city was in state receivership was strong, and it eroded trust in the
political system in ways that were every bit as poisonous as the water.
But as political theorist Bonnie Honig has argued, there are “opportunities, invitations, and solicitations to democratic orientation, action, and
renewal even in the context of emergency.”139 The abolition of democracy
at the institutional level need not preclude the preservation, or even the
stimulation, of democratic energies elsewhere. In Flint, this phenomenon
was evident in a variety of ways: in the fight against the EM law and EM
decrees, the formation of new groups within civil society, the development
of new forms of political agency, and the use of the water crisis/emergency/
disaster as an opportunity to advance more radical democratic visions. That
is the story of the rest of this book.
4
The Pro-Democracy Struggle in Michigan and the
Prehistory of the Water Movement in Flint
This water crisis is because we have a democracy crisis in Michigan.
—Nayyirah Shariff, quoted in Democracy Now!, “On World Water Day”
Michigan Public Act (PA) 4 took effect in March 2011—the eve, ironically,
of a democratic uprising of international proportions. The self-immolation
of Tunisian fruit vendor Mohamed Bouazizi in late 2010 touched off a cascade of political rebellions that swept through the Arab world and beyond
the next spring and summer. From Western Africa to the Arabian Peninsula,
a generation of young Libyans, Egyptians, Iranians, and others used the language of democracy to contest the abuses of authoritarian regimes and give
expression to political aspirations. Later that year, a throng of activists gathered in the heart of Manhattan’s financial district to encamp in Zuccotti Park
and broadcast the demands of the “99 percent.” Speaking for the millions of
Americans left behind by the government’s response to the economic recession, they condemned the growing influence of corporate elites over the
American political system and called for higher taxes on the wealthy and
stricter economic regulation. Occupy Wall Street, too, had a catalytic effect,
inspiring a chain reaction of similar occupations throughout the United
States and the world. While the issues addressed by Occupy activists varied
from country to country, the movement’s shared objective, according to
one prominent protest sign, was “real global democracy now.”
In the meantime, in Michigan’s next-door-neighbor Wisconsin, progressives and organized labor launched their first sally against the wave of farright Republican politicians elected by Rust Belt voters during the 2010
midterm elections. As the Wisconsin legislature considered a so-called budget repair bill being pushed by Tea Party darling Scott Walker, targeting the
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wages, benefits, and collective bargaining rights of public-sector employees,
protesters began to flood the lawn of the state capitol. Over the next several months, they staged some of the largest rallies in the state’s history,
buoyed by an influx of supporters from all over the country. For two weeks
in February, protestors physically occupied the capitol building, forming a
makeshift community that anticipated the Occupy movement’s commandeering of public space. Although the anti-union bill eventually passed, the
opposition continued, phasing into efforts to recall Governor Walker and
various state senators that stretched into the summer of 2012.
Each of these struggles was shaped by local priorities and local vernaculars of resistance. But the near-ubiquitous theme of “democracy” suggested
parallels between them. Activists fought to institute democracy where it had
never before existed, or defend democracy against threats posed by plutocratic elites, or make what was called democracy more “real.” Some activists
played up the similarities, sensing some sort of Zeitgeist that bridged the
various uprisings, and expressions of solidarity and mutual aid crisscrossed
back and forth between them. Zuccotti Park drew comparisons to Egypt’s
Tahrir Square and prominent Egyptian activists visited to share their wisdom with their American counterparts. Protestors in Wisconsin, too, were
the beneficiaries of help from afar: Flint activist Nayyirah Shariff remembers
when, outside of the Madison Capitol building, pizzas began to arrive, purchased in a gesture of camaraderie by sympathizers in Egypt and other parts
of the Middle East.1
Michigan saw its own pro-democracy movement emerge around the
same time. As in Wisconsin, it began as a backlash against a radical Republican agenda set into motion after 2010’s midterm electoral coup. Newlyminted Governor Rick Snyder may not have had the Tea Party credentials
of Scott Walker, but his administration quickly set to work enacting policies that shifted the state sharply to the right: corporate tax breaks, restrictions on collective bargaining, and school privatization, among others. If
there was one piece of this agenda that crystallized and focused the opposition like Walker’s anti-union bill had in Wisconsin, it was the legislation that would become PA 4. Despite not bringing the subject up during
the campaign, Snyder announced in his January 2011 State of the State
address that his administration would seek to revise Michigan’s existing
emergency manager law so as to establish greater “clarity” about “the powers of the financial managers.”2 Although Snyder hinted that the changes
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would involve “strengthened provisions,” few were prepared for just how
much strengthening he had in mind.
As Snyder’s intentions became clearer, what inspired the most concern at
first was the possibility that the new law would be used against organized
labor, as yet another weapon—and a powerful one at that—in a broader
war on collective bargaining. Granting state appointees the ability to render
null and void existing union contracts with police officers, fire fighters, 911
operators, teachers, and other public employees would amount to a state
veto over the bargaining process at the local level. As the emergency manager (EM) bill began to take shape in the state legislature, Michigan’s major
unions sprang into action. In February and March, they sponsored rallies
at the capitol that drew thousands of protestors, prompting the Lansing
State Journal to write that “Wisconsin fever” had “officially hit Michigan.”3
Apparently, the Snyder administration agreed: in a fact sheet about the proposed upgrades to the EM system, it warned that the protestors were “trying
to use this issue to provoke the kind of fighting seen in Wisconsin.”4
There was more at stake in opposing the law than collective bargaining,
however. As activists would come to frame it, the battle in Michigan was
not just between organized labor and union-busting politicians in the pockets of the corporate elite, but between “democracy” and “dictatorship.”
Given the near-absolute power EMs enjoyed over local government, this
was no mere hyperbole. PA 4’s advocates, after all, were so unabashed in
their disregard for local democracy that they described the statute unapologetically as a kind of “financial martial law.”5 Opponents of the law called
it “un-American,” “fascist,” “tyrannical,” and “autocratic.” Its dramatically
disproportionate impact on African Americans—at one point about half of
Michigan’s African American population lived under an EM—drew comparisons to historical forms of racial disenfranchisement like slavery and
Jim Crow.6 Activists also saw in the law shades of the authoritarian regimes
under challenge by fellow activists in other countries. The Reverend David
Bullock, a pastor in Highland Park, Michigan, who emerged as one of the
law’s most outspoken critics, vowed to “show the world that democracy is
at stake in Michigan just as it is in Libya or Egypt.”7
Those who turned out for rallies at the capitol in early 2011 held out
some hope, however farfetched, of impeding the EM bill’s progress through
the legislative process, or at least amending the bill. But with Republicans
in control of the state House and Senate (not to mention almost all other
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important state offices), there was little that protesting and lobbying could
do to delay, much less prevent, the inevitable. Asked if the demonstrations
at the capitol were having any effect, State Senator Phil Pavlov responded
that legislators “had to talk a little bit louder,” but because Republicans
were “pretty lock stepped” on the issue, demonstrating wouldn’t “sway any
votes either way.”8 With only one lone House Republican dissenting, the
state legislature passed PA 4 along otherwise strict party lines. Snyder signed
it into law on March 16 and it took effect immediately.
Effectively shut out of state government, opponents of the law had little
choice but to pursue other avenues of resistance. In Wisconsin, activists
were beginning to talk about recalling Governor Walker and his allies in the
legislature, but they were stalled, for the time being, by a state law limiting recalls to officials who had served at least a year in office. Unhindered
by such a restriction, Michigan activists began to employ the tactic almost
immediately. Through the spring and summer, they initiated recall efforts
against twelve state representatives who had won narrow victories in 2010.
Most of these efforts petered out—eleven of the twelve failed to get recall
language onto the ballot for lack of signatures. But in District 51, just to the
south of Flint, Flint activists helped to oust arch-conservative Paul Scott in
the first successful recall of a Michigan state legislator since 1983.
Contemporaneously with these district-level efforts, a group calling itself
the Committee to Recall Rick Snyder initiated a campaign to remove the
governor from office. In late April its petition language was approved, and
it began an ambitious push to collect 1.1 million signatures in ninety days.
Much to the chagrin of the recall’s backers, the Michigan Democratic Party
and most of the state’s major unions declined to offer their support, and the
campaign ran up against the limits of its leaders’ meager organizing experience. It fell well short of the signatures needed to put the recall on the ballot.9
Wisconsin activists commenced their own attempt at a gubernatorial
recall in late 2011. Over the ensuing months, they gathered over a million
signatures despite only needing half that many, setting the state on course
for a special election. Energized by this development, Michigan activists
decided to try again to get rid of Snyder. The Committee to Recall Rick
Snyder reorganized as the Super PAC Michigan Rising and began a new
petition drive in May 2012. This time around, the group had experience,
a clear strategy, and better fundraising prospects. But even with a more
fine-tuned operation, signature gathering proved to be slow going. When
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Walker handily won Wisconsin’s special election in June, it deflated the
hopes of Michigan activists looking for a success to imitate. Discouraged by
their prospects, they ended the campaign. In December of that year, Snyder
signed legislation erecting new barriers to getting a recall onto the ballot.
Not until the Flint water crisis heavily damaged his reputation would he be
subjected to another recall challenge.
In between the failed recalls of Governor Snyder, the pro-democracy
movement in Michigan got a fresh injection of energy from the reverberations of Occupy Wall Street. In early October 2011, Occupy events and
encampments started to spring up around the state in places like Grand
Rapids, Muskegon, Ann Arbor, and Kalamazoo. In Lansing, Occupy activists
convened their General Assembly on the steps of the Capitol. In Detroit,
they camped out for a month in Grand Circus Park, holding protests outside
nearby banks and carrying out direct actions. In Flint, they set up on private
property on the north side of downtown and endured through the winter as
other camps around the country voluntarily disbanded or were driven from
their territory by police. By the spring, Occupy Flint was the only camp still
standing in Michigan. Its longevity was significant not only because it was
a testament to the hardiness of Flint activists, but also because it provided
a local base of support for the activities of the pro-democracy movement
through the spring of 2012.
In January 2012, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, about a thousand activists from around the state turned out for an “Occupy for Democracy” march
that took the spirit of the Occupy movement straight to Governor Snyder.
After gathering in Ann Arbor, they proceeded to march a mile and a half to
the entrance of Snyder’s gated community in Superior Township.10 Although
the marchers “occupied” the area only temporarily—long enough to make
speeches and deliver a letter of complaint to one of Snyder’s representatives—
they attracted considerable attention for their controversial decision to bring
the struggle against emergency management to a residential neighborhood.
With some of Snyder’s more curious neighbors looking on from the other
side of the fence, Reverend Bullock proclaimed to the crowd that if democracy was good enough for Egypt, it was good enough for Michigan.
While large-scale protests helped to bring statewide attention to PA 4
and recall efforts challenged it indirectly by seeking to punish the Governor and Republican legislators for enacting it, three more direct routes of
contesting the law and its application emerged that gave further definition
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to the pro-democracy movement. The first was an effort in 2011 and 2012
to repeal PA 4 through referendum. The second was a legal challenge to the
constitutionality of the law, beginning in 2011 and continuing in different
forms into 2018. The third consisted of diverse forms of local resistance to
particular EMs and EM decrees within cities under emergency management.
Through their contributions to all three forms of pro-democracy activism, a
small but devoted contingent of Flint activists helped make Flint into one
of the hotspots of anti-EM resistance.
The understanding of democracy that would later animate the water
movement in Flint was heavily indebted to the ideas of the pro-democracy
movement. Pro-democracy activists like the members of Stand Up for
Democracy and the Flint Democracy Defense League believed democracy to
be under assault by private interests that were using the cover of “emergency”
to enact unpopular neoliberal policies by authoritarian means. This notion
percolated through activist circles nationwide thanks partly to the popularity of Naomi Klein’s 2011 book The Shock Doctrine and the idea of “disaster
capitalism,”11 but in Michigan it seemed especially relevant, for nowhere—in
the United States, at least—was the abrogation of democracy more literal or
glaring. PA 4’s affront to fundamental democratic values was so egregious,
activists believed, that it could be used to catalyze popular resistance across
lines of class, race, and geography. Mixed in with their populist clarion call to
rise to the defense of representative democracy, however, was a less obvious
but more radical current associated with the Occupy movement: a resolve
to think beyond traditional democratic institutions, to seize the moment to
deepen rather than merely defend democracy. The exigent circumstances created by the state takeover and the deterioration of Flint’s water were not
always conducive to the concerted pursuit of this ambition, but the water
crisis, especially, generated popular energies and political opportunities
that some activists tried to channel in such a direction (see chapter 8).
Flint activists came to see the assault on democracy theorized by Klein
as intersecting with a global assault on water that was also especially salient
in Michigan. Among the private interests who stood to benefit from emergency management, they believed, were those looking to privatize public
water systems. By contrast, the people suffering worst under EMs in cities
like Detroit and Flint were those struggling with rising water rates and water
shutoffs. The more that water issues came to disrupt everyday life, the more
they became a basis for the kind of broad-based organizing the activists
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107
aspired to, as well as a starting point for awakening residents to the larger
issues of privatization and democracy connected with them. As efforts to
contest the EM law directly ran into obstacles, pro-democracy activists in
Flint, taking inspiration from compatriots in Detroit, shifted their struggle
onto this new terrain. No one could have anticipated that the crisis of water
affordability and accessibility that first drew their attention would soon
be supplanted by a crisis of water quality. But thanks to the effusion of
political activity called forth by the attack on local democracy in Flint and
beyond, when that crisis hit the activists had already laid the groundwork
for a political analysis of it and a popular response to it. If, then, the Flint
water crisis really began with the passage of PA 4 in 2011, as these activists
believed, so too did the Flint water movement.
Repealing PA 4
Recall of elected officials was not the only mechanism of direct democracy
Michigan activists turned to in the absence of influence over the legislative process. As the passage of an augmented EM law began to look like an
inevitability in early 2011, they started to discuss the possibility of repealing the law through referendum. In March, the Traverse City–based group
Reject Emergency Managers began drumming up interest in a repeal effort
over social media. Spokesperson Betsy Coffia described the strategy as “a very
small version” of the spur to action provided by social media during the Arab
Spring.12 Shortly thereafter, Reject Emergency Managers teamed up with the
Detroit-based urban policy think tank Michigan Forward, which took the
lead in bringing together a coalition of groups throughout the state willing to
lend their support to the repeal. The result was the Stand Up for Democracy
(SUD) coalition.
Although organized labor decided to keep its distance, for the most part,
from the recall efforts that began to appear around the same time, it threw its
support behind the repeal. The first group to step up was Council 25 of the
American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees (AFSCME),
which became SUD’s chief financial benefactor, kicking in $185,000 over the
next year and a half. Support also came from the Michigan Education Association and the United Auto Workers. Because labor in general was “diametrically opposed” to the law, SUD spokesperson Greg Bowens remembers, even
relatively conservative unions endorsed the repeal effort.13
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Legal support came from groups like the Advancement Project, the Sugar
Law Center, and the ACLU. Groups like the Michigan NAACP, the Michigan
Welfare Rights Organization, and the Rainbow Push Coalition helped mobilize volunteers to collect petition signatures. And Flint activists who would
later take leading roles in the water movement contributed in significant ways.
Claire McClinton, a former GM electrical engineer, union organizer, and matriarch of sorts within the Flint activist scene (known affectionately as “Mama
Claire,” a nickname she disliked), and Nayyirah Shariff, a ubiquitous activist
and trained community organizer, served as community action team leaders.
Bishop Bernadel Jefferson, another GM retiree whose fight against emergency
management began in 2003 with a campaign to reopen community centers
closed by emergency financial manager (EFM) Ed Kurtz, represented AFSCME
and served as SUD’s Genesee County chair. As pastor of Flint’s Faith Deliverance Center, a member of the Concerned Pastors for Social Action, and former
president of the Greater Flint Council of Churches, Jefferson also offered the
coalition an important anchor within the faith community.14
The referendum’s path to the ballot was not as steep as the one that
twice thwarted efforts to recall Governor Snyder, requiring a considerably
more manageable tally of 161,304 signatures. Another advantage the repeal
effort had over the recall effort was that it could be framed as nonpartisan.
Organizers knew their success depended upon making the case for repeal
not only to the predominantly liberal residents of large, majority-minority,
economically depressed cities already under emergency management (or
next in line for it), but to conservatives living in parts of the state that
were predominantly rural, white, and, by relative standards, affluent. SUD
settled on two principal arguments it expected to resonate with the latter
demographic. The first of these was an argument from self-interest: while
postindustrial cities like Flint, Benton Harbor, and Pontiac may have been
the first to be saddled with emergency management, PA 4 made every city,
village, county, and school district in the state vulnerable to unwanted
takeover. After all, the lingering effects of the Great Recession, combined
with deep cuts to state revenue sharing, were being felt not just in Michigan’s most troubled cities, but all over the state. The ACLU of Michigan
warned that “over one hundred local governments are potentially in a state
of ‘fiscal watch’ and forty school districts or charter schools are in deficit
while another 150 are in danger of going into deficit.”15 Reports started
to appear of majority-white cities like Northville, Suttons Bay, and Taylor
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being threatened with emergency management.16 And municipalities and
school districts that were currently solvent could, conceivably, fall on hard
financial times at some point in the future. The takeaway, as SUD activists
put it, was that emergency management was “coming to a town near you.”
Their other argument was more ideological, framing PA 4 as a recipe
for a particularly nefarious form of big government at odds with conservative principles. The emergency manager system, activists contended, was
an implicit attack on the idea of self-determination, premised on the belief
that unelected, “expert” bureaucrats were better at governing people than
people were at governing themselves. Even Michiganders sympathetic to
Governor Snyder’s overall agenda had reason to see PA 4 as an overreach—as
anti-American, even. While the Tea Party movement spoke of being “Taxed
Enough Already,” proponents of the repeal often used a slogan that was,
ironically, a more direct reference to colonial resistance against British tyranny: “No Taxation without Representation.”17
Through 2011 and into 2012, SUD brought these arguments to venues
around the state as it worked toward its signature goal. Bishop Jefferson
described the repeal as a “genuine grassroots effort,” with organizers braving
the rain, snow, and sleet to collect signatures, setting up tables at every possible event regardless of what or where it was.18 By February, SUD had more than
enough signatures to qualify the referendum for the November ballot. On
February 29, 2012, busloads of activists from Detroit, Flint, and other Michigan cities converged on Lansing for a celebratory rally. The activists ended
by marching to the Secretary of State’s office to hand-deliver the petitions.
Two months later, the repeal ran into an unanticipated roadblock when
the Board of State Canvassers, splitting 2 to 2 along party lines, declined to
certify the petitions. The decision followed a challenge brought by the conservative group Citizens for Fiscal Responsibility arguing that the heading
printed on the petitions failed to conform to stipulations in state law about
font size. The issue was not, to be sure, one of readability—to the layperson’s
eye, the text was close enough to the required fourteen-point size that the
differences were microscopic. Expert witnesses including a graphic design
professor from Michigan State University and one of the state’s premier
printers confirmed that the font was correctly proportioned, but their testimony was disregarded by the Republican members of the board.19
For advocates of the repeal, it was hard not to see the challenge and the
board’s ruling on it as anything other than cynical attempts to deny the
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people of Michigan an opportunity to have their say about PA 4. The decision
not only threw the future of the repeal effort into doubt, it also ensured that
the law—which would be suspended upon certification of the referendum—
would remain in effect for as long as it took to litigate the matter in the
courts. Flint activist Bob Mabbitt remembered the “Fontgate” episode to me
as a moment when the members of the Flint SUD contingent gained new
insight into the extent to which the system was rigged against them.20
Nayyirah Shariff described it as a “wake-up call.”21
SUD lawyers immediately launched a legal challenge to the ruling, but it
took months to close the case. Finally, on August 3, the Michigan Supreme
Court ruled in a 4 to 3 decision that the font issue was too trivial to keep the
referendum off the ballot. The voters would have their say after all—and in
the meantime, PA 4 would go dormant.
The suspension of PA 4 did not, however, mean the suspension of emergency management altogether, despite arguments to that effect by SUD.
Instead, Attorney General Bill Schuette concluded that in PA 4’s absence, its
predecessor, PA 72, had gone back into effect, allowing the state to convert
EMs into EFMs for the time being. The decision was not just a disappointment in the moment, but a foreboding of things to come. It was clear that
even if voters repealed PA 4, the state would simply fall back on PA 72 as a
stopgap, keeping its appointees in place while it crafted a replacement law.
Still, Michigan voters would at least have an opportunity in November to
make their feelings on PA 4 known. When polled about the proposed repeal
in early 2012, respondents leaned toward upholding the law. As election day
approached, however, new polls showed that the tide had turned. Support
for the repeal was, as expected, much stronger in Michigan’s larger cities
than it was in the suburbs, and stronger with Democrats than Republicans.
Overall, however, the polls suggested that the repeal’s advocates had made
considerable headway with a wide range of Michiganders from all over the
state. The results on November 6 confirmed as much: voters rejected PA 4
resoundingly, with majorities in almost all of Michigan’s eighty-one counties voting against it. Some regarded the outcome as a “miracle.”22
One effect of SUD’s repeal campaign was to open up a discursive space for
a conversation about what a viable alternative to emergency management
might look like. For its part, SUD offered an eight-point plan centered on
municipal finance reforms meant to prevent cities from ending up in desperate fiscal situations to begin with. The plan proposed, among other things,
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restoring state revenue sharing and reforming the municipal bond system to
place cities in a stronger position relative to creditors. It also insisted upon
preserving local involvement in decision making even in “emergency” situations, suggesting that councils comprised of state and local officials could
be established to solve financial problems collaboratively rather than placing sweeping powers in the hands of individual appointees. After the repeal,
SUD activists had an opportunity to make their case directly to Chief of
Staff Dennis Muchmore and other members of Governor Snyder’s cabinet.
As impressive as the repeal itself was, however, the coalition was not in a
position to exert much influence: Republicans still had a firm majority in
both houses of the state legislature, meaning there was little to stop them
from pushing through a virtual duplicate of the law. This is, in fact, exactly
what happened when, on December 26, Snyder signed PA 436.
The governor claimed that the new law demonstrated that the administration had “clearly heard, recognized, and respected the will of the voters”
by incorporating new provisions for “local control.”23 Unlike PA 4, PA 436
allowed local officials the choice of four different options upon a state declaration of financial emergency: a consent agreement, mediation, an EM,
or Chapter 9 bankruptcy (although, crucially, the state retained veto power
over the choice). PA 436 also gave local officials the ability to suggest alternatives to specific proposals made by EMs as long as they yielded similar
cost savings, as well as the power to remove an EM after a year in office by
a two-thirds majority vote.
Snyder may have believed these to be substantive changes, but SUD saw
the new law—hastily passed during a lame-duck session and reviving the
broad powers that made PA 4 controversial—as an expression of the administration’s contempt for the popular will. It released an analysis of the many
similarities between PA 436 and PA 4 and questioned just how much the
law had actually changed. As Greg Bowens put it at the time, “We think
that the Governor’s view of what the will of the voters is is quite different
from what the actual voters did.”24 Republican legislators seemed to concede
this implicitly when they took steps to shield the new law from another referendum, attaching an appropriation to it and thereby rendering it immune
from repeal under Michigan law.25 SUD vowed to continue fighting, but there
would be no redux of the statewide petition drive that had been the reason
for the coalition’s existence. Resistance would have to proceed through other
channels.
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The Constitutional Challenge
Running parallel to the repeal effort through 2011 and 2012 was a complementary legal challenge to the constitutionality of PA 4, filed by the Sugar
Law Center for Economic and Social Justice and other legal partners on
behalf of twenty-eight Michigan residents from around the state.26 The decision to mount a legal challenge to PA 4 was far from automatic—the general attitude within the legal community in early 2011, John Philo of Sugar
Law recalled to me, was that not much could be done through the courts
to contest the law. But with the repeal petition drive underway, he and his
colleagues decided that the value of a lawsuit transcended its likelihood of
success. A lawsuit was not only another means of raising awareness about
PA 4, it was a means of bringing otherwise obscure details about the origins
and intent of the law to light through the discovery process. Philo hoped
this would provide fodder for those making the case for repeal and keep the
issue alive as the repeal effort proceeded. Beyond that, he and others were
convinced that the law was “undemocratic and wrong and can’t be legal.”27
The lawsuit was filed in state court on June 22, 2011, with the expectation that it would eventually find its way to the Michigan Supreme Court.28
Flint resident, teacher, and former school board member Paul Jordan agreed
to sign on as one of the plaintiffs. As part of a coordinated rollout of the
suit around the state, he held a press conference outside Flint City Hall at
which he announced the filing and denounced PA 4 as “a cynical attempt
to grab power in Michigan’s most vulnerable cities and schools.”29 In the
months that followed, Jordan became one of the most prominent critics
of PA 4 in Flint, working to spread the word about the law through op-eds,
panel appearances, and public protests, and acting as a link between the
legal challenge and other forms of resistance by local activists.
The lawsuit named Governor Snyder and State Treasurer Andy Dillon as
defendants and took aim at the facial language of PA 4, alleging that the
law violated the Michigan Constitution in several different ways. First,
the plaintiffs claimed, it violated provisions establishing municipal home
rule by empowering EMs to repeal local ordinances and disregard local
charters and contracts. Second, by depriving elected officials of their ability to govern, the law violated citizens’ right to vote and petition. Third,
it abolished the separation of powers, enabling appointees of the executive
branch to establish new legislation unilaterally. Finally, it allowed the state
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to impose unfunded mandates on local governments, forcing local taxpayers to cover the cost of EM (and EM staff) salaries.30
After surviving what John Philo called an “unbelievably unheard of”
attempt by the Snyder administration to quash the lawsuit quickly by skipping the discovery phase and moving it directly to the majority-Republican
State Supreme Court, it was rendered moot by the repeal of PA 4.31 The legal
wing of the pro-democracy movement took on renewed importance, however, after the passage of PA 436. The same group of attorneys who had challenged the constitutionality of PA 4 decided to file a new lawsuit against
PA 436—this time in federal court, in the belief that federal judges would
be more likely to understand the underlying issues of democracy at stake.32
The suit charged that PA 436, in usurping republican government, interfering with voting rights (and thereby freedom of speech), and discriminating
against African Americans and the poor, violated the US Constitution’s Due
Process Clause, Guarantee Clause, Equal Protection Clause, and First and Thirteenth Amendments, as well as the federal Voting Rights Act. This time, the
attorneys drew their plaintiffs exclusively from cities that had been directly
impacted by emergency management. In Flint, Bishop Jefferson from SUD
and City Council President Scott Kincaid joined Paul Jordan on the lawsuit.
In November 2014, the suit suffered a major setback when a district
court judge dismissed eight out of its nine charges. The judge found, firstly,
that the Fourteenth Amendment does not include the right to elect local
officials and that at the local level there is no right to republican government under the Guarantee Clause. With respect to claims of discrimination
against the poor, the judge found that there was a “rational basis” for differential treatment of municipalities based on finances, and that this did not
amount to discrimination under the Equal Protection Clause. Furthermore,
because the imposition of an EM did not involve the outright firing of local
officials, and because local elections proceeded as usual under emergency
management, PA 436 did not violate the Voting Rights Act. Nor did the
law infringe on First Amendment protections for freedom of speech. And
Thirteenth Amendment protections against slavery did not apply because,
even under emergency management, residents still had “every device in the
political arsenal” available to them.33
The one charge left standing was the charge that PA 436 violated the
US Constitution’s Equal Protection Clause on the basis of race. But pursuing this charge in isolation was risky. An equal protection argument would
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have to meet a heavy burden of proof, showing that PA 436 was not only
discriminatory in implementation, but also discriminatory in intent.34 This
required a “much deeper dive” during the discovery period, said John Philo,
which the state was determined to fight doggedly every step of the way.35
The attorneys opted to save the equal protection charge for a later date
and pursue an appeal of the whole suit, focusing their accusations of discrimination on wealth rather than race. The case proceeded into the Sixth Circuit
Court of Appeals, where, in September 2016, it was finally dismissed. In a
unanimous decision, the judges wrote that PA 436 was “rationally related”
to the “legitimate legislative purpose” of improving the financial situation of
distressed localities. They echoed the earlier district court determinations that
the law did not violate citizens’ freedom of expression,36 or constitutional
protections against slavery, or the Voting Rights Act, pointing out that citizens “are still provided a vote” and that the local officials they elect remain
in office. Also, the law was “facially entirely neutral with respect to race” and
had been “passed by state-elected bodies for which African Americans have a
constitutionally protected equal right to vote.”37 The court also rejected the
claim that selectively applying the law based on the financial situation of
local governments was tantamount to wealth discrimination, ruling that the
solvency of government and the wealth of residents were separate matters.
Having shot down these eight charges for the second time, the court
concluded that the “vast” powers possessed by EMs were appropriately tailored to the equally vast challenges faced by local governments in fiscal
distress. One of the attorneys for the plaintiffs, Herb Sanders, lambasted the
decision, saying that the court “took a fascist view toward the democratic
rights of the citizens.”38
The Sixth Circuit decision finding PA 436 constitutional left Sanders,
Philo, and the rest of the legal team with few options.39 But at the very
least, Philo maintains, the legal challenge helped to “flip” the “public perception” of the EM law.40 Consequently, even before the Flint water crisis
dealt the EM system its worst-ever black eye, EMs were growing warier of
exercising the full range of their powers.41 Ironically, then, the legal battles
against PA 4 and PA 436 may have had their most important effects outside
a legal context. By diminishing the standing of emergency management in
the court of public opinion, they arguably helped to generate de facto constraints on the exercise of state power—a precedent replicated in dramatic
fashion during the water crisis.
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Local Resistance to Emergency Management
The day Herb Sanders and his colleagues delivered oral arguments to the
Sixth Circuit in August 2016, several buses full of activists from Flint,
Detroit, and elsewhere made the journey to Cincinnati to be present for
the hearing. Addressing the activists on the steps of the courthouse after a
discouraging appearance before the skeptical and impatient circuit judges,
Sanders told them that “there’s only so much we can do as attorneys. This
issue is going to be determined not in the courtroom, but in the streets.”42
The sentiment met with vocal approval from the onlookers, many of
whom had, in fact, been fighting emergency management in the “streets”
since 2011. At times, they had taken the fight directly to the state politicians responsible for the EM law. An early opportunity to do so came in
May 2011, when Governor Snyder and PA 4 sponsor Al Pscholka were slated
to march in the Grand Floral Parade at the annual Benton Harbor Blossomtime Festival. Benton Harbor had entered state receivership under PA 72,
but in April now-EM Joe Harris had used the expanded powers available to
him under PA 4 to neutralize the local government. Citing mismanagement
of funds and infighting among elected officials, he kicked the latter out of
their offices and prohibited them from doing anything without his express
permission except calling a meeting to order, approving meeting minutes,
and adjourning a meeting.43 It was a vivid illustration of what an EM could
do that an EFM could not, and for critics of PA 4, Harris’s actions became
emblematic of the law’s anti-democratic implications. Progressive blogger
Chris Savage called Snyder and Pscholka’s scheduled parade appearance “an
audacious display of arrogance and chutzpah.” It smacked, he wrote, “of a
conqueror reviewing the lands recently vanquished.”44 After getting wind
that protests were in the works, Pscholka pulled out, scolding “professional
agitators” for trying to turn a “wholesome community event” into a “political sideshow.”45 Snyder, however, went ahead with the parade. As he made
his way along the route, protestors hounded him relentlessly, chanting,
waving signs, and turning their backs on him at strategic moments. For a
number of Flint activists, it was their first experience protesting the new EM
law. Claire McClinton remembers being heartened by the fact that union
members were joined by members of the “community,” suggesting that a
“broader social movement” was taking shape around what people correctly
recognized as a “community-wide” issue.46
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Pro-democracy activists saw Benton Harbor as an instructive example of
what kind of city the Snyder administration would choose for emergency
management. Its population was overwhelmingly African American. Its poverty rate was one of the highest in the state. Its economy was in shambles
from lost manufacturing. Its local government was in poor financial condition, as evidenced by dwindling cash reserves, an underfunded pension system, and faltering municipal services.47 Just as important, however, the city
had something to offer: a Lake Michigan shoreline ripe for development,
and a corporate partner (some would say master) in the Whirlpool Corporation, headquartered in Benton Harbor since 1911, that was eager to help
bankroll that development. The main thing preventing the recuperation of
the city’s economy, argued Al Pscholka, was the “play government” at City
Hall.48 A “stable” political environment, he said, would create a more favorable climate for investment, from which the city would reap desperately
needed revenue.
But activists suspected the state would use emergency management in
Benton Harbor to advance development projects that left poor residents
behind while transforming the city into a lakeside playground for the wealthy.
Their suspicions centered on the $500 million Harbor Shores development,
comprised of a Jack Nicklaus–designed golf course and associated luxury
housing. It wasn’t just that the payoff the average resident would see from
this development was indirect at best—it was that building it had required
taking a sizable bite out of a public park, Jean Klock Park, part of which was
leased out for the construction of three holes with scenic lake views. This
development scheme was already in an advanced stage by the time PA 4
expanded EM Harris’s powers, but activists liked to point to ways in which
he was using those powers to push it forward.49 The larger takeaway, from
the activists’ perspective, was this: the most attractive cities for state takeover
were those where private developers saw opportunity, cities where the state
could use financial distress as a pretext to advance private interests.
For all the above reasons, the debut of the EM law’s strengthened provisions in Benton Harbor had symbolic resonance that reverberated through
activist circles around the state. But Benton Harbor was exemplary in
another way, too: when emergency management came to town, local activists rose to the occasion and fought for their city. Sometimes they fought
side by side with allies in high-profile actions like the aforementioned
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Blossomtime protest and the later “occupation” of the Senior PGA Championship at the much-maligned golf course in May 2012.50 But most of
their resistance was more quotidian. Led by the firebrand Reverend Edward
Pinkney, they maintained a relentlessly contrarian presence, continuously
scrutinizing, publicizing, denouncing, and resisting the actions of EM Harris
and the local power elite. For Flint activists like Claire McClinton, a longtime supporter of Pinkney (who became the pro-democracy movement’s
signature prisoner after being convicted of election fraud, a conviction later
overturned),51 the tenacity with which Benton Harbor activists resisted
the takeover of their city was an inspiring retort to the creeping “culture of
fascism” and “atmosphere of dictatorship” that develops, she said, when
people start getting used to being overruled.52
When PA 4 claimed Flint in December 2011, Flint activists had a similar
chance to prove themselves. They were already involved in state-level challenges to PA 4 through recall, repeal, and legal action. Now it was imperative to open up a local front of resistance, too—all the more so because local
officials in both branches of city government had apparently rolled over, or
even laid out the welcome mat, for EM Mike Brown. Someone, the activists
felt, had to show that democracy would not die in Flint without a fight.53
Anti-EM initiative in Flint came from several different directions. There
were outspoken members of the church community like Pastor Reginald
Flynn, arrested during a provocative “one-man” protest of EM Brown’s budget inside City Hall. In his “A Letter from the Flint City Jail,” he denounced
the “climate of political suppression, economic exploitation, and racial
domination” created by the “implementation of Public Act 4.”54 There were
legal challenges by local attorneys Greg and Alec Gibbs to Brown’s attempts
to restructure retiree health care, leading to two precedent-setting victories
that won the attention of other cities under emergency management and the
respect of local activists (who held regular meetings in the Gibbs’s conference
room for a time).55 There was the Flint and Genesee County SUD group,
consisting of seven to ten people focused primarily on the repeal but who
had more time to devote to local issues after the end of signature gathering
in February 2012. And there was a new group formed out of Occupy Flint
in January 2012 that called itself the Emergency Manager Work Group. The
group lent its support to the repeal effort but also acted as a study group
aimed at better understanding the EM law and the actions being taken by
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Flint’s own EMs. On Fridays, the City of Flint would upload the text of
the EM’s latest resolutions and executive orders, and the group would meet
to pore over them. Sometimes group members would read them aloud in
public settings in order to publicize them.56
The activists placed particular stress on bringing the inner workings of
emergency management into the light because of their feeling that, in Flint,
PA 4 was manifesting itself as an insidious “bastardization” (Nayyirah Shariff’s term) of the democratic process rather than a bald-faced, hostile takeover. Some of the steps taken by Flint’s EMs seemed designed to create the
impression of business as usual. In other cities and districts under emergency
management, there was no doubt that EMs ran the show—in Pontiac, for
example, City Council meetings were canceled altogether, and in Detroit,
school board members met as the Detroit School Board in Exile to protest
their marginalization. In Flint, by contrast, the council (after a brief hiatus)
was allowed to meet once a month, and Mayor Walling was delegated a measure of responsibility. These local officials, Shariff told me, were “not honest,”
pretending to have power they did not actually possess or that what little
power they did have couldn’t be revoked at a moment’s notice on a whim.
Furthermore, the appointment of Flint native and former Interim Mayor Mike
Brown as the city’s first EM gave the impression that residents were merely
being placed into paternalistic hands of an old friend, or at least a familiar
and palatable figure, a benevolent dictator. Activists saw it as their task to
expose the fact that the people of Flint were no longer living under a democracy, to get them to see Brown as “the face of fascism.”57 When, during the
early months of his tenure, Brown made a point of holding a series of public
meetings to discuss his agenda, activists followed him from venue to venue,
heckling him and forcing him to defend the legitimacy of his regime.58
For the most part, however, the residents who came out to these meetings
were concerned not about abstract questions of democracy, but about how
Brown proposed to deal with issues like violence, vandalism, the closure of
senior centers, and new fees on city services—tangible issues that predated
emergency management. Much of the activists’ strategizing revolved around
finding ways to make the implications of emergency management itself
equally concrete. Residents, they believed, had to be able to see EMs reshaping their city and diminishing their quality of life before they would begin
to appreciate the size of the threat the EM law posed. The controversy in
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Benton Harbor over Jean Klock Park provided an important lesson: when
treasured public assets were at risk, people paid attention. Given that the
privatization of such assets was an integral part of the EM “playbook,”59
the activists warned that a fire sale was on the horizon in Flint. Working with local playwright Andrew Morton, they staged a political theater
event and demonstration on the lawn of City Hall conceived as a “mad
hatter tea party.”60 Participants donned costumes and acted out the roles
of Governor Snyder, EM Brown, Representative Pscholka, and the conservative Mackinac Center, a longtime advocate of a stronger EM law—all
engaged in a poker game in which they gambled away public assets listed
on “Garage Sale” signs.61
The activists’ warning proved prophetic. In June, Brown put the city’s
garbage trucks up on the auction block. In August, he sold Genesee
Towers—Flint’s tallest building and part of its downtown skyline since the
1960s—for one dollar to the Uptown Reinvestment Corporation, which
proceeded to demolish it and create an urban plaza. Activists staged a protest against the decision at the starting line of the annual Crim race in
downtown Flint (they had toyed with the idea of physically blocking the
runners) and hung a banner from the building prior to the demolition
pointing out that “nobody asked US.”62 On the same day as the Genesee
Towers resolution, Brown gave the Food Bank of Eastern Michigan permission to lease part of a public park next door so it could expand its
parking lot.63 A group of residents and activists circulated a petition to
stop the transaction, protesting that the community had its own plans for
the park.64 Brown also gave Atwood Stadium, a city-owned venue for high
school football games and other events that had fallen into disuse and
disrepair, to Kettering University, its humble “FLINT” lettering at midfield
eventually replaced by a Kettering bulldog logo. Even the Santa Claus and
reindeer that traditionally graced the roof of City Hall during the holiday
season were put up for sale. In response, activist Melodee Mabbitt organized a successful campaign to buy the decorations, carting them around
the city on a “democracy tour” and promising to return them to City Hall
if democracy was ever restored.65 For Mabbitt, the effort was only partially
tongue in cheek: standing up for “beloved” parts of Flint’s public sphere,
she told me, was a noncontroversial way of dramatizing the effects of
emergency management.66
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After the dissolution of Occupy Flint and Stand Up for Democracy, a core
group of activists who had gotten to know each other through the fight
against PA 4 concluded that Flint needed a designated pro-democracy group
focused primarily on local issues. Over the course of several months of formative discussions in 2013, the Flint Democracy Defense League (FDDL) was
born. The group’s founding document articulated its “vision of democracy”:
Democracy is your right to meaningfully participate in the decisions that affect
your life, including the planning and governance of the cities where you live and
work. Democracy is not for sale. Wealth does not determine your eligibility to
participate in democracy. You always have a voice. You always have a vote. Dictators are never allowed to take those rights from you.67
Despite its juxtaposition of democracy to dictatorship (i.e., emergency
management), the statement was crafted to reflect higher ambitions than
merely the restoration of representative democracy in Flint. Putting an end
to emergency management was the immediate priority, but the FDDL envisioned itself as a group that could serve a broader democratic purpose in
the city. In the same document, the group clarified that “FDDL doesn’t just
‘defend democracy.’ We exercise democratic rights, educate others about their
democratic rights, and strive to expand democratic rights within schools,
workplaces, and beyond.”
For the FDDL, every objectionable EM action was an opportunity to initiate a deeper conversation about democracy. When EM Darnell Earley put
new constraints on public comment at open meetings, for example, FDDL
members turned out to City Hall with their mouths taped shut to protest what
they described as an assault on the civil liberties fundamental to a democratic
society. When EMs sold off public assets, FDDL argued that emergency management was facilitating a kind of “vulture capitalism” that turned democracy
into a “rigged, lucrative game for oligarchs.”68 The issue that rose to the top
of the group’s priorities during mid-2013 to late 2014, however, was water.
It fit the bill perfectly: it was an issue of direct and dire significance to
residents, an issue that EM decisions (about matters like water infrastructure, rates, and supply) were shaping in lasting ways, and an issue that
allowed for broader discussions of subjects like human rights,69 privatization, and self-determination. Well before there was an officially recognized
Flint water crisis, in other words, the themes of water and democracy were
beginning to draw together in Flint.
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Figure 4.1
Members of the FDDL protest changes by EM Darnell Earley to public comment
rules. MLive, Flint Journal.
Water and Democracy
“One of the things that’s going to bring Michigan back,” EM Mike Brown
told Flint residents at the first of his public meetings in 2012, “is water.”70
The Karegnondi Water Authority (KWA) pipeline, he suggested, would be
one piece of that renaissance. More important, for Flint, it was the answer
to the city’s decades-old desire to control its own water system.
Brown’s endorsement was hardly a mark in the KWA’s favor from the
activists’ perspective, of course. But it was not until 2013, following the
City Council’s affirmative vote on the project, that they began closely scrutinizing the claims made by Brown and the pipeline’s other supporters.
Activists were sure they could smell a rat, that there was more to the project than met the eye and that some sort of corruption was at play. The
main issue they highlighted at the time, however, was the possibility that
taxpayer money would be spent to finance the pipeline’s construction.
Genesee County Drain Commissioner Jeff Wright dismissed the concern
as patently unfounded, but that did not stop the activists from insisting
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that residents have a direct say about the city’s participation in the project.
In October, a group calling itself the Water Pipeline Question Committee,
including the members of the FDDL, launched a petition drive to get the issue
onto the November ballot and inject at least a “sliver of democracy” (as Nayyirah Shariff put it) into the decision about Flint’s long-term water source.71 A
demonstrably annoyed Wright warned that the vote could slow down the
project and force the city into another thirty-year deal with the Detroit Water
and Sewerage Department (DWSD).72 According to some activists I spoke
to, he paid people to hang around the petition sites and try to convince
potential signers that the activists were telling lies about the project.73
Faced with the daunting task of collecting eight thousand signatures in
forty-five days, the activists fell well short of their goal, killing the referendum. Wright argued that the “lack of support for the petition drive shows
clearly that the vast majority of the citizens of Flint are behind this project.”74 The activists, of course, virulently disagreed with this interpretation;
Claire McClinton insisted to me that “there was no popular appetite for the
KWA.”75 But it was clear, at least, that the kinds of concerns activists were
raising about the future of Flint’s water supply and water infrastructure had
not yet captured the imagination of the average Flint resident.
What was a pressing matter in the minds of residents was the cost of
water. In 2011, Mayor Walling raised water and sewer rates twice—first, in
January, by 47 percent, and then, in September, by another 35 percent.76
The next spring, EM Brown raised them 25 percent, bringing the average
water bill of a Flint resident to over $100 a month.77 The threat of having
one’s water shut off entirely loomed over anyone behind on payments.78
Desperate for relief, residents inundated nonprofit agencies with requests
for help with water bills. They explored digging wells and disconnecting
entirely from the municipal system. Some turned to what city officials called
“water theft” (a term derided by activists, especially after the city spent precious resources on two special investigators hired to crack down on the practice), utilizing various more-or-less creative methods of accessing municipal
water without paying for it.79 In recognition of the affordability problem,
in December 2012 EM Ed Kurtz created an “indigent water fund,” a pool of
donated money that could be used to help struggling ratepayers on an asneeded basis. But he also continued to make water even more expensive, raising the water service deposit paid by new renters by three-and-a-half times
the next March.80
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With the switch to the Flint River cementing the break with Detroit in April
2014, many hoped and expected that the city would lower rates, but instead
they continued to climb, rising another 6.5 percent in 2014. Even on the river,
a water bill in Flint was $35 higher per month than in the next most expensive municipality in Genesee County and almost three times higher than in
the cheapest.81 The city was saving money by using the river, of course, but
officials insisted that it was better funneled into long-term infrastructural
improvements than into short-term respite for cost-weary residents.82
The city making headlines for its water troubles in 2014, however, was
not Flint but Detroit, another city under emergency management, and
another city, like Benton Harbor, to which Flint activists had strong connections through pro-democracy channels.83 In the spring and summer of
2014, EM Kevyn Orr signed off on a massive wave of water shutoffs targeting tens of thousands of residences. Activists suspected that the spate
of shutoffs was a prelude to the privatization of Detroit’s water system: if
DWSD could unburden itself of the “bad debt” of unpaid bills, it would
make the department more attractive to potential investors. Furthermore,
shutoffs, along with water liens (unpaid water bills transferred onto property taxes) would push unwanted residents out of the city as their houses
were condemned or taken over, clearing the ground for future development. The situation in Detroit was shaping up to be another example, from
the activists’ perspective, of EMs balancing a city’s budget on the backs of
its most disadvantaged residents while proffering public assets at bargainbasement prices to private buyers, cleansing the city of its undesirables in
the process and handing it over to the rich and powerful.
If the spate of shutoffs had one silver lining, it was that its timing—
shutoffs peaked in June to July 2014—proved to be fortuitous. From July 17
to 21, Netroots Nation, the nation’s largest annual conference for progressive political activists, was held at the Cobo Center in downtown Detroit. It
featured panels with activists from Flint and Detroit who had been fighting
for water and democracy in the “trenches,” including a keynote panel on
resistance to the shutoffs. The nurses’ union National Nurses United, which
had warned that the shutoffs were creating a public health crisis, called a
march through downtown Detroit on July 18 that was joined by many of
the conference attendees, including the actor Mark Ruffalo, whose organization Water Defense would later play a significant role in the response to
the Flint water crisis. On the same day, police arrested a group of activists
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for physically blocking the passage of trucks on their way to shut off water.
The principled militancy of the “Homrich 9,” as they came to be called
(after the demolition company contracted by DWSD to carry out the shutoffs), helped to create a spirit of civil disobedience within Michigan’s network of water and democracy activists that clearly made an impression on
the Flint activists I knew.
The Netroots Nation conference helped to launch the water crisis in
Detroit into the national and international spotlight. Maureen Taylor of the
Michigan Welfare Rights Organization called its impact “magnificent”—
people from around the world had “heard,” “learned,” and “understood,”
and were “changed.”84 On the heels of the conference, an international
convoy sponsored by the Council of Canadians delivered a large shipment
of water to the city. In October, there was another surge of international
press when UN Special Rapporteurs Catarina de Albuquerque and Leilani
Farha came to Detroit to investigate the impact of the shutoffs. They collected testimony throughout the city, visiting homes without water, speaking directly with affected residents, and concluding that the shutoffs
constituted a violation of basic human rights.
They also invited residents to speak about the struggles they were facing
with water at a town hall on October 19. One of those who testified was
Claire McClinton, who stressed the parallels between what was happening
in Detroit and what was happening in Flint. In Flint, too, she pointed out,
residents faced prohibitively high water rates and were being kicked off the
water grid. As examples of the latter, she referred to the Ambassador East
mobile home community, where residents had been living without water
for over a year and a half, and to shutoff notices just issued to an apartment
complex and a homeless drop-in shelter where people went to take showers
and wash clothes.
By the time McClinton brought Flint’s water troubles to the attention
of the UN in October 2014, Flint activists had already been working for
several months to bring the water wars raging in Detroit to Flint. In June,
July, and August, City Councilman Wantwaz Davis called several protests
and a march against high water rates, which members of the FDDL used to
recruit residents to their weekly meetings. The FDDL also presented itself
as a resource to residents who were having trouble accessing water, offering
to investigate cases like the ones McClinton highlighted for the UN. Taking inspiration from the Detroit Water Brigade, which had formed rapid
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response teams and water distribution sites in June as shutoffs began to
escalate in Detroit, on August 21 the FDDL organized an emergency water
relief site at Mission of Hope, a shelter in Flint’s north end. In an eerie anticipation of what would, in a year’s time, become a daily ritual for residents
throughout the city, the group invited anyone in need to pick up cases of
donated water between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., Monday through Friday.
The FDDL realized that popular discontent over water rates and shutoffs, much like discontent over the selling off of public assets, could be a
potent source of opposition to emergency management. Like their counterparts in Detroit, Flint activists consistently stressed the role played by EMs
in shaping policy around water. At the third of Councilman Davis’s protests,
in August 2014, Claire McClinton told the crowd assembled outside City
Hall that “in order for us to win our right to water, we got to fight the emergency manager.”85 People were being forced to live without water, she said,
because of “corporate greed and fascism.” Nayyirah Shariff spoke of the need
to get rid of the EM, Governor Snyder, and “anyone who is a puppet for
the corporate regime to privatize water.”86 Fellow pro-democracy activist and
councilman Eric Mays—whose own water had been off for seven months—
told the marchers that addressing the problem of water rates would require
them to “attack the emergency manager.”87 Under emergency management,
he pointed out, any vote by the City Council to lower rates would be purely
symbolic because the EM could simply raise them again. The only real way
for the city to retake control of its rates, he argued, was to remove the EM
from office.88
That this interweaving of the struggle for affordable water and the struggle against emergency management was catching on was evident in the
slogan featured on a ubiquitous protest sign that day: “Down with water
rates, up with democracy!” But already, there were indications that the affordability and accessibility of water would not be the only issue that turned
pro-democracy activists into water activists in Flint. Another, humbler,
handwritten sign at the same rally raised a portentous question: “Why does
the water have an odor and unusual color? Is it safe to drink?”
5
The Rise of the Water Warriors: Transforming Personal
Troubles into Political Action
At the end of the day, we are not just victims, we’re fighters.
—Melissa Mays, interview with author, February 17, 2016
In July 2014, three months after the switch to the Flint River, Melissa Mays
began to notice changes in her water. It would turn yellow sporadically, sending her three sons charging through the house “running and screaming” to
relay the news to their mother.1 Filling up the family’s porcelain bathtub
revealed a more consistent bluish tinge. The water also began to smell peculiar: depending on the day, it would reek of rotten eggs, dirt, or bleach.
Mays remembers thinking these developments were “weird,” but her initial impulse was to brush them off. The city, she recalled, had warned residents at the time of the switch that river water was different from lake water,
and that the water would take time to “level out.” Although Mays later came
to see official explanations like these as “excuses,” at the time they seemed
like logical and well-intentioned efforts on the part of knowledgeable authorities to inform and reassure residents. She assumed the government agencies
entrusted with public health had done their due diligence and would alert
the public if there was any cause for concern.2
What began as mild uneasiness about the water’s fluctuations developed
into real alarm, however, when Mays and her family were beset by a mysterious series of ailments. Upon contact with the water, she told me, their skin
would break out in rashes—“bumpy and lumpy” rashes that felt like a “chemical burn” and were unresponsive to eczema cream. The water seemed to be
affecting the family’s hair, too. Mays watched her sons’ naturally “silky” hair
become “rough and wiry.”3 Her own hair started falling out in the shower.
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Even the family cat’s fur, she said, would slough off whenever someone
would pet it.
In September, Mays instructed her family to stop drinking the water. But
this was not the end of their exposure (they continued to use the water for
cooking and showering) or the end of their perplexing health issues. The
boys started complaining of muscle and bone pain: eleven-year-old Cole told
his mom that his bones “burn from the inside out.” Soon thereafter, Mays
said, she started suffering from similar pains herself. When Cole fell off his
bicycle and thrust his hand out to absorb the impact, his wrist buckled in two
places, leading his doctor to surmise that his bones were unusually brittle.
Mays’s oldest son, seventeen-year-old Caleb, began to develop holes in the
smooth sides of his teeth, a sign that rather than decaying in the usual fashion they were crumbling from the inside out. Furthermore, all three boys
became lethargic, “tired all the time.” Their sluggishness was mental as well
as physical, manifesting itself in “brain fogs” that led to difficulties at school.4
Twelve-year-old Christian, a consistently straight-“A” student, got his first
“C,” and Caleb and Cole, who were forgetting skills already learned and
finding it hard to remember new information, had to be assigned tutors.
Unbeknownst to Mays at the time, her family’s ordeal was not unique.
Across town, LeeAnne Walters and her family, too, began breaking out in
rashes in the summer of 2014. Three-year-old Gavin would emerge from
the bath with a visible water line, below which he was so red and scaly that
when Walters tried to apply moisturizing ointment, “he would scream and
cry about how bad his skin burned.”5 Walters had to start giving him Benadryl before bath time as a preemptive measure.6
At first, the doctors said Gavin’s rashes were contact dermatitis caused
by an allergy of some kind. Then their diagnosis shifted to eczema and they
instructed Walters to apply cortisone to the affected area. When the rest of
the family began to develop rashes of their own, however, the diagnosis
changed yet again: this time Walters was told that everyone had scabies.
The treatment was another prescription cream, a pesticide meant to kill the
tiny mites thought to be the source of the problem.
In the meantime, further evidence emerged that the water, not mites,
was the real culprit. At a party celebrating eighteen-year-old Kaylie’s high
school graduation, a group of invited guests broke out in the same telltale
rash after swimming in the family pool.7 With this incident fresh in her
mind, Walters balked when doctors returned a third diagnosis of scabies the
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next time she took Gavin in, insisting on further testing by a dermatologist
outside city limits. A skin sample showed no evidence of any organism that
would have accounted for the rashes.
Like the Mays family, the Walters family also experienced hair problems.
Walters recounts rushing up the stairs in response to Kaylie’s screams to find
her “standing in the shower, staring at a clump of long brown hair that had
fallen from her head.”8 Kaylie was not the only one: the other members of
the family were losing hair, too. At one point, Walters lost all of her eyelashes.
Problems with skin and hair were bad enough, but once again they were
merely preludes to more serious conditions. In November, fourteen-yearold J. D. began to experience “terrible pains, dizziness, nausea.” He had “a
hard time walking up steps” and grew so ill that he missed an entire month
of school between Thanksgiving and Christmas. At one point during the
barrage of inconclusive tests that followed, doctors speculated that he had
some form of cancer.9
Just as J. D. was getting over his symptoms, the water in the Walters
household turned brown. Walters’s initial reaction was disbelief: all water
coming into the house was passing through the whole house filter she and
her husband had installed when they purchased and renovated the home
in 2011. Even after swapping out filter cartridges, though, the water continued to arrive at the kitchen sink the same disconcerting rusty shade. Deterioration of pipes within the house could be ruled out, given that they were
only a few years old. There could only be one conclusion: the water coming
in from the city was so contaminated that even a filter was no match for it.
In December 2014, the family began to use bottled water.
While the whole Walters family had suffered in one way or another
up to that point, Gavin, who was already immunocompromised and who
tested positive for elevated blood lead, was ultimately impacted worst of all.
Despite Walters’s efforts to prevent his coming into contact with the water,
his health continued to deteriorate. He developed anemia and speech
issues, having difficulty pronouncing words he had already mastered. Most
alarming of all, he stopped growing. As his fraternal twin Garrett continued
to gain height and weight, Gavin plateaued. Two years after the switch to
the river, more than two inches and almost thirty pounds separated them.
Before their lives were turned upside down by contaminated water, neither Melissa Mays nor LeeAnne Walters considered herself a political activist,
or even politically inclined—Mays had been to one political march in her
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life, Walters had dabbled in advocacy around stillbirth awareness. But out of
the conjuncture of foul water, poor health, and the responsibility they felt as
mothers to protect their families, they would develop into two of Flint’s most
prominent “water warriors.” In the process, they would come to understand
their personal experiences of contamination as products of larger sociopolitical dynamics that converged to cause the crisis, and their determination
to protect themselves and their families would evolve into a broader commitment to the people of Flint and a newfound sense of political agency.
Many of Flint’s water warriors followed a similar path to political action,
driven not by prior political commitments but by the personal impact of contaminated water.10 For these residents, the first manifestations of the water
crisis were often tangible harms to bodies, minds, and property: a stubborn
rash, a child afraid to take a bath, a water heater corroded before its time and
in need of replacement. These kinds of harms comprised the human face of
the crisis, and they generated much of the emotion, energy, and resolve that
fueled the burgeoning water movement in Flint. For personal troubles to be
translated into collective political action, however, residents had to develop
the belief that there were political remedies to their problems. They had to
learn to direct their anger toward specific people, institutions, and policies.
And they had to see their own struggles as intertwined with those of their
neighbors and demanding of a common solution.
Residents also had to develop a belief in themselves as political actors,
people who were capable of understanding what was going on with the
water, judging what needed to be done, and mobilizing to do it. The treatment they received at the hands of officials was not, prima facie, conducive
to fostering such self-confidence: with eye rolls and snide remarks, officials
implied that residents were overreacting to changes in the water, jumping to conclusions about the causality of health symptoms, and unable (or
unwilling) to assess the situation rationally. But far from causing residents
like Mays and Walters to doubt themselves and withdraw back into the
private realm, the experience of being dismissed caused them to grow even
more certain of their views and assertive in voicing them. It also got them
thinking about politics: the problem in Flint was not just that government
failed in its protective function—“they” didn’t keep us safe—but that it failed
in its representative function—“they” didn’t listen to us and act on our concerns. In light of these failures, residents vowed to take charge of their own
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health, carry out their own research on the water, and force unresponsive
decision makers to act.
Into this formative moment stepped the politically seasoned activists of
the Flint Democracy Defense League. They introduced into the discourse of
the water movement concepts and demands drawn from the pro-democracy
movement, infusing immediate concerns about water quality with a fartherreaching political consciousness and strategic agenda. Thanks in large part
to their influence, rusty water in the bathtub and blotches on the skin came
to symbolize more than just a water crisis: they were the stigmata of democracy denied. Even newly politicized residents came to embrace the idea that
the crisis would not be over, nor justice for Flint realized, until democracy
was restored.
What I will call the water “movement” in Flint consisted, then, of the
potent fusion of activists who came to water through democracy and
residents-turned-activists who came to democracy through water. I tell the
story of the collective action that fusion spawned in the next three chapters. Here, I examine its roots in residents’ everyday experiences of contamination and ill health, in the disrespect they suffered in their interactions
with political officials, and in their developing sense of being united in the
same predicament—and the same struggle.
The Phenomenology of the Water Crisis
To state the obvious: there was no one, universal experience of the water
crisis. For some residents, the crisis began with perceptible changes in the
quality of their water. For others, it began with the emergence of health symptoms they attributed to the water. For those without obvious water quality or
health problems, it began with warnings from neighbors, friends, and family to avoid the water, or with news coverage of water issues, or with official
notices about invisible contaminants in the water. Some residents realized
there was something wrong right away, others drank the water for almost
two years before they were alerted to the existence of a serious problem.
The crisis also caused varying degrees of hardship. For the minority of
residents whose water showed no signs of contamination, who trusted filters to remove invisible threats, and who had no adverse reactions to bathing or showering, life under the crisis could proceed largely as before. For
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others, the crisis had a devastating effect on their psychological and physical well-being and created considerable financial and logistical burdens.
Despite these variations, it is possible to sketch out a rough “phenomenology” of the water crisis, a set of generalizations about how the crisis
appeared on the scene of everyday life, how it affected bodies and minds,
and how people coped with it.11 Within this outline of residents’ experience of contamination are clues about why they responded to it the way
they did, seeds of the particular species of political agency that blossomed
in Flint. In the intellectual journey inaugurated by these experiences, one
can also trace the development of a “political etiology” of suffering that
traced the causes of specific harms back to the state’s structural violence
and neglect and warmed residents to the idea that the dissolution of democratic institutions was at the root of their troubles.12
For many residents, the first glimmers of a water quality problem appeared
in the form of discernable changes in the taste, smell, and color of the
water. Residents complained of the water tasting like chlorine and smelling
like “bleach,” or, alternately, like a “swamp,” “raw sewage,” “rotten eggs,”
or “fish.”13 It was rarer, at least at first, to experience discoloration, because
it took time for the corrosive river water to destroy the protective passivation layer and leach metal from the pipes. By late 2014 and early 2015,
however, as the water began to eat into cast iron mains and service lines
made of galvanized steel, some residents saw their water turn shades of yellow, brown, and red—sporadically in most cases, but consistently in some.
Sometimes the water contained visible sediment or was unusually cloudy,
milky white. Sometimes clothes would emerge from the washing machine
with stains from the water itself.
Before widespread water testing became the norm in Flint, empirical
changes to the water offered the most concrete available evidence of contamination. Residents were quick to equate such impurities with danger.
Some switched to other sources of water as soon as they sensed their tap
water had taken a turn for the worse. The phenomenon was widespread
enough by mid-June 2014—less than two months after the city began
using the river—that Mayor Walling went on record opining that people
were “wasting their precious money buying bottled water.”14 In the period
before any official acknowledgment of a problem, however, even residents
whose water didn’t seem right from time to time were, like Melissa Mays,
likely to dismiss hiccups in water quality as anomalies, trusting that the
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people paid to protect them wouldn’t allow a hazardous substance into
their homes.
Residents who developed health problems concurrently with observable
changes in their water had more reason to believe something was seriously
awry. The same was true of residents who saw symptoms emerge more or
less immediately after direct contact with water, as in cases where showering, bathing, and even hand washing produced ill effects ranging from dry
skin and rashes to burning eyes and hair loss. Residents also blamed the
inhalation of steam for a variety of respiratory problems.
Those whose water was clear, palatable, and easy on the skin and lungs
were slower to conclude that it was a threat to them. Activists derisively
related to me stories of residents glibly reporting that their water was just
fine and that all the fuss seemed overblown. Once news started to break
about invisible contaminants, however, even “normal”-looking water
began to take on an ominous appearance. First came the boil water advisories of late summer 2014 after the discovery of total coliform bacteria.
Even outside the select parts of the city deemed to be at risk, these seem to
have inspired avoidance of the water.15 More alarming still was the news in
October that chloride in the water was corroding engine parts at GM. It was
not until later that thoughts of corroded parts led to thoughts of corroded
pipes—instead, residents imagined that what was eating away at engines
must be eating away at their bodies.
By the end of 2014, skepticism of the water was running high, but officials
still had not admitted to any public health threat implicating the population
as a whole: the total coliform problem, they said, was limited in scope and
soon under control, and the chloride was not, counterintuitively, abrasive to
human flesh the way it was to metal. This changed with the city’s acknowledgement in January 2015 that residents all over Flint had been exposed to
high levels of total trihalomethanes (TTHMs), known carcinogens associated
with liver, kidney, and neural disorders. The caveat that exposure to TTHMs
had to take place over many years to be a concern to residents in good health
did little to dampen the impact of the news. The “good health” qualification
served mainly to conjure up thoughts of the many residents who fell into
higher-risk categories, like the elderly, the immunocompromised, and pregnant women, and the aura of unfamiliarity around TTHMs fostered wideranging speculation about the unexplained ailments for which they might
be responsible.
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Arguably, however, the main significance of the TTHM notice was the
damage it did to trust. When the flyer began to arrive in mailboxes in early
January, residents learned that the city had been aware of the TTHM problem for months before it informed the public (a delay technically allowed
by the Safe Drinking Water Act). The sense of betrayal residents felt not
only factored into their wariness of the water coming out of their taps—
which from that point forward bore the invisible mark of broken trust—it
altered the way they received all subsequent official communications about
water. Thereafter, many residents operated on the assumption that officials
were not being forthcoming, especially when the latter’s message was that
the water was safe.
Trust in the medical community began to erode around the same time.
As popular hypotheses of causal links between exposure to the water and
ill health began to proliferate, residents began to seek confirmation of them
from medical professionals. Physicians found themselves caught off-guard:
unsure of what “TTHMs” even were, they were ill prepared to render assessments of their likely health impact, and as for symptoms like rashes and
other skin problems, it was difficult or impossible within a clinical setting
to link them definitively to the water. Miffed by the noncommittal, cautious
responses they received to their inquiries, some residents concluded that
Flint-area physicians were complicit in a broader conspiracy to deny that the
water was causing harm. Those who had the means sometimes, like LeeAnne Walters, went off in search of second opinions outside Flint or even
outside Michigan.
For residents who chose to shun the water in whole or in part—a trend
that picked up steam with the TTHM notice and accelerated greatly after
the discovery of systemic lead contamination—once-routine activities
involving water, like cooking, brushing teeth, washing dishes, and preparing the baby’s bottle became sources of anxiety and inconvenience. Many
residents ultimately chose to use bottled water as much as feasible, phasing it into their lives selectively at first (when they had to pay for it out
of pocket), and more comprehensively from January 2016 forward, when
it became widely available for free at point of distribution sites (PODs) in
each of the city’s nine wards. New routines evolved around the acquisition
of bottled water, as visiting the PODs became a regular trek. The chore was
not only dreary but often difficult: a strain on time, resources (even a trip to
pick up free water required bus fare or gas money), and the body, especially
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as less physically able residents struggled to hoist the heavy cases out of the
car, up the stairs, and to their final destination. The stockpiling of water—a
practice driven in part by fears of losing the PODs—became so common that
the American Institute of Architects issued a warning that stacking cases of
water too high could cause the floor to collapse.
Once free bottled water became abundant, residents began to substitute
it for every conceivable activity involving water: they used it to prepare their
food, wet their toothbrushes, rinse their dishes. They gave it to their pets.
In some cases, they used it for bathing and showering, and even for filling
kiddie pools in the summer. In representations of the crisis to the outside
world, the ubiquity of bottled water and the extra hardship it imposed on
residents became the most vivid illustration of the crisis’s transformation
of everyday life. Posing for a CNN profile with the 151 bottles of water she
and her family used each day, resident-turned-activist Gina Luster invited
outsiders to imagine using bottled water, day in and day out, for everything
but flushing the toilet.16
Even with free water available at the PODs, however, using bottled water
for everything was difficult to sustain. For washing, many residents opted to
use shower filters instead, or simply took showers that were colder (because
TTHMs and bacteria could be inhaled through steam), shorter, and altogether less pleasant. Some preferred to shower outside the city at friends’ or
relatives’ houses. For cleaning children, baby wipes were popular, and hand
sanitizer often stood in as an alternative to soap and water.
The intimate character of the harms caused by contaminated water,
combined with these disruptions of everyday life (particularly the life of
the home), may help to explain the prominence of women and mothers,
especially, in the fight for clean water in Flint.17 Their contributions were
so important, especially early on, that sometimes the movement as a whole
was described as a movement of mothers—“No one would be doing anything now,” remarked Melissa Mays at one point, “if it wasn’t for a bunch
of moms getting mad.”18 Noting that women are often overrepresented in
environmental justice struggles,19 scholars have proposed a variety of reasons why this may be the case. Some have suggested that women have
distinctive “ways of knowing” more attuned to phenomena that are concrete, immediate, and associated with personal relationships, making them
especially sensitive to changes in their environment, as well as in their bodies and the bodies of those around them.20 Whether or not one accepts
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this epistemological premise, it remains true sociologically that women are
disproportionately tasked with the oversight of the household and the care
of children and are therefore often on the front lines when the signs and
symptoms of environmental contamination first appear.21 As Bishop Bernadel
Jefferson put it to me, “When the child has broke out who gonna see it first?
Mama. When you combin’ the baby’s hair and the hair comin’ out, who
gonna see it first? Mama.”22
For the same reason, women often have to shoulder a larger proportion
of the daily burdens created by contamination events. Most of the female
activists I spoke to heartily endorsed the idea that women and mothers had
been especially impacted by the crisis and that this was an influence on their
activism. Bishop Jefferson asked me rhetorically, “Why did the women step
up? Who cooks food? Who takes care of the children? Who gets them off
to school? … And so, when you talk about water, who do it affect first?”23
Mother-turned-activist Maegan Wilson expressed similar sentiments:
Women have to … prepare the meals and women have to … cart the water a
lot of times and women have to go get the water and make sure that they have
the water … and then the women have to take care of the kids, take them to the
doctor’s appointments, find out if they have lead problems or psychological problems or even mental health problems at this point because they can’t understand
why this would happen to them and will anybody ever really care. That’s a lot of
the women’s worries, and they deal with a lot of the behavior issues and things
like that. … [Men just] do their thing, they go work, they come home, but they
don’t realize all the stuff that the woman has to go through, like … the water
didn’t get the clothes as clean this week or … what if they smell now, or whatever,
and so it’s extra work.24
Mothers also spoke to me of having to rearrange their daily routines so they
could visit the city’s water distribution sites before work, and of the inconvenience and awkwardness of having to drive their children to relatives’
homes in the suburbs for bathing and showering purposes. Summing up the
cumulative effect of these everyday burdens, Flint mother and activist Laura
Gillespie MacIntyre put it pithily: mothers’ activism springs from “life.”25
The disruption of “life,” of the routines and spaces (like the home) that
structure everyday experience, acted as a springboard to activism for residents who came into the water crisis without prior political commitments.
As hard as life already was for many in Flint, the crisis created a pervasive
sense of a loss of normalcy, a sense that everyday existence had become riskier and less certain in addition to being more difficult.26 Residents no longer
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viewed their homes as places of safety and respite, they no longer associated
water with cleanliness and health, they no longer assumed that authorities
were trustworthy or were keeping them safe. They could no longer tend to
basic necessities by raising a lever or turning a knob. While there was no one
experience of the crisis, a sort of archetype emerged—invoked frequently by
activists—of what it was like to live in Flint from April 2014 forward: constant fear of what could emerge from the tap, the nursing of water-related
injuries, and the rearranging of one’s whole life around bottled water.
The Construction of Victimhood
The first step in converting the experience of injury into a proactive mindset in previously apolitical individuals is often the development of a sense
of victimhood. Victimhood is often contrasted with “agency,” with victims
depicted as helpless, cowering figures who are acted upon rather than acting themselves. But it is a mistake to think of victimhood as simply debilitating, leading to withdrawal and passivity. For one thing, to be a victim
implies the existence of a victimizer who is responsible for the harm one
has suffered and who can potentially be confronted.27 Flint residents’ belief
that the water crisis was an unambiguously “manmade” (rather than “natural”) disaster tended to foster a fighting rather than a fatalistic mentality,
fueled by righteous anger in search of specific targets.
Furthermore, in cases of environmental contamination where ambiguities exist around the severity and causes of harm, defining the boundary
between victim and nonvictim is often itself a struggle. Flint residents frequently complained that officials were operating with too narrow a definition
of victimhood, overly focused on the newborn to six-year-old demographic
at the expense of adults and seniors. Determining who counted as a victim
was not just a matter of semantics, for it directly implicated the recognition
and resources residents stood to receive from the state, especially with the
emergence of class-action lawsuits, which the State of Michigan fought all
the way up to the US Supreme Court. In tangible ways, ordinary residents
as well as activists found themselves locked in a battle over their status
as victims that laid a foundation for political consciousness and political
action.28
The particular construction of victimhood that would come to underpin
the water movement in Flint held that residents were both “victims” and
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“fighters,” with the implication that these identities were not only reconcilable, but in some sense symbiotic. Residents often drew attention to their
victimhood, and the victimhood of their children, as a tactical means of
stoking outrage and inspiring action, especially through the graphic display of their victimized bodies (some activists, for example, were known for
waving bags full of lost hair at rallies). Such displays came to express—and
indeed were instrumental in constructing—what Phil Brown and his colleagues call a “collective illness identity.”29 In Flint, this identity was not
built around a particular illness per se (as in, say, the AIDS community) so
much as the assortment of harms that residents traced back to the common
cause of exposure to the water.
Noting the role that shared identities play in fostering collective action,
Brown et al. argue that a collective illness identity can serve as “a unifying
and mobilizing force.”30 For such an identity to be unifying, however, it has
to be constructed in an inclusive way. This does not necessarily rule out
subcategories of victimhood—as already noted, the idea that women and
mothers had suffered in special ways was popular among the Flint residents
and activists I knew. But some distinctions between victims can be difficult
to draw without generating controversy and division.
Perhaps the most instructive example from Flint was the claim—made
repeatedly by commentators in academia, the press, and beyond—that the
crisis was an instance of “environmental racism.”31 It was often remarked
that what happened in Flint would not have happened, or at least would
have been quickly acknowledged and remediated, in a majority-white city.
The crisis became part of an ongoing national debate about racial injustice
spawned by incidents of violence against African Americans in places like
Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland,32 and one commentator even
suggested that, in the absence of the Black Lives Matter movement, the
crisis would not have been a national story.33
As intuitive as it was for outsiders looking in to depict the water crisis
as a racial affair, what I encountered on the ground in Flint were far more
complicated and mixed feelings about the racialization of residents’ victimhood. Certainly there were residents, especially within the city’s African
American community, who saw the crisis through the lens of Flint’s long
history of racial discrimination and disadvantage. Some believed the crisis
would displace residents in predominantly black parts of the city, thereby
advancing the city’s recently adopted master plan, seen by many as an effort
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to reinvent Flint as a “college town” geared toward affluent whites (on more
than one occasion, I heard it described as the “master’s” plan). One black
activist told me that “they” wanted “all African Americans up out of Flint,”34
implying that the crisis was a means to this end. The common lament that
officials viewed residents as “guinea pigs” also had a racial tinge to it, as
evidenced in comparisons of the switch to the Flint River and subsequent
tinkering with the water treatment process to the infamous Tuskegee syphilis experiment. There were also signs that fears of outright extermination
by white conspirators—fears with deep roots in black history35—were very
much alive. Some of the people I spoke to believed that the parts of the city
with the worst lead contamination were those with the highest percentage
of black residents, suggesting deliberate targeting of the black population.
A notable difference between these invocations of race and those made
by outsiders was their implication, sometimes made explicit, that Flint residents were the victims of conscious racial animus and that the water crisis
itself was orchestrated for racist reasons. The gap between this perspective
and more mainstream understandings of environmental racism—a concept
often invoked to capture patterns of racial disadvantage that are not intentional in origin—became especially clear upon the release of the final report
of the Michigan Civil Rights Commission (MCRC) on the crisis, which (as
discussed in chapter 2) treated racism as a historical, structural phenomenon whose influence on decision making in the present was “implicit” at
most.36 Those who believed that more insidious forms of racism were being
missed had reason to feel vindicated when, a few months later, an activist
journalist recorded a Genesee County Land Bank official saying the crisis
was caused by “niggers not paying their bills.”37 The remark became justification for reading dog-whistle racism into official comments that seemed
to undervalue the lives of residents, like the earlier-mentioned quip by an
Environmental Protection Agency employee that Flint was not “the community we want to go out on a limb for.”38
Although some of these sentiments inevitably found their way into the
water movement, where the theme of environmental racism surfaced from
time to time, what struck me was how many activists resisted, or even flatly
rejected, the idea that race had anything to do with the crisis’s impact or its
origins. One example was the common remark that lead “does not discriminate,” meant to emphasize that everyone who had come into contact with
the water, whatever their race, had been harmed. At the first public meeting
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of the MCRC in Flint, when residents were invited to speak to whether they
felt racially discriminated against, activist Tony Palladeno told the commission that “this is not a black and white thing because this is killing all of us.”39
Although he was in the minority at that particular meeting, it was a sentiment
I encountered repeatedly, in a variety of contexts.40 The way LeeAnne Walters
put it to me was that “there’s nothing racist about lead.” In early 2016, she
refused an award from filmmaker Michael Moore because he had described
the crisis as a “racial killing”—she had no use for his “racism stuff,” she said.41
It was perhaps understandable that white activists like Palladeno and Walters
would resist racial framings of the crisis that threatened to diminish their victimhood or at least treated the harms they suffered as collateral damage. But I
encountered similar sentiments coming from many black activists, too. In E.
Yvonne Lewis’s words, “The disaster is framed as a poor, black, African American issue, but everyone of every race has been affected.”42
Just as they rejected the idea that people of color were especially harmed
by the water, many activists resisted the claim that the crisis was a product
of racism. Of the possible demographic explanations for the crisis, a sizable
majority of the activists I spoke with preferred to emphasize class rather than
race. Typical was Gina Luster’s comment that, although race may have been
a factor, the crisis was “more about class than anything.”43 Claire McClinton, who balked whenever she was asked to speak on the racial dimensions
of the crisis, thought it a “travesty” that the MCRC had placed so much
stress on race instead of looking more concertedly at class.44 Melissa Mays
concurred when I asked her if a term like “environmental classism” would
be more accurate than environmental racism to describe the crisis. She told
me that the crisis was “all based on class” and that its effects on the black
population were “byproducts” of class-based injustices.45 A common belief
was that poor white people and black people were in more or less the same
category as far as oppression was concerned, and that there was little point
in differentiating them—in Abel Delgado’s words, “If you’re a poor white
person, you might as well be black.”46 One of the reasons Flint was able to
organize successfully around the water issue, Desiree Duell told me, was
because of the large number of poor whites in the city, with class providing
a bedrock of commonality between white and black activists.47
I also found that language that appeared racially charged—talk of
being “experimented” on, of being disposable, of being victimized by the
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“master’s” plan, of being the targets of extermination, and so forth—was
often stretched to encompass poor whites as well as blacks, and in the process purged of any specifically racial content. Activists often spoke of “genocide,” for example, as a class-based rather than a race-based phenomenon.
Gina Luster suggested that the crisis was part of a plot to “cleanse” the city
of its lower-class residents.48 Wantwaz Davis, an African American activist
and councilman who made headlines in early 2015 after calling the water
contamination “an obvious genocide” against residents,49 warned that the
water problems would have the effect of running “low/moderate income
people” out of the city.50 Like Luster, he suggested that this was the plan all
along.51 The notion that genocide could proceed along class lines allowed
white activists, too, to take up the term enthusiastically and use it freely,
without worrying about its traditionally racial connotations.
The way activists talked about race was not only an expression of their
convictions about the nature of the crisis but a matter of strategy, informed
by the imperatives of organizing a city that despite being mostly African
American was split fairly evenly between black and white. At first, Claire
McClinton remembered, water activism in Flint was mostly a “black” thing,
focused on concerns about affordability and led largely by members of the
black church community and black elected officials. When the deterioration of Flint’s water quality mobilized a new contingent of affronted white
residents more worried about contamination than cost, it became necessary
to foster cooperation across the racial divide. As McClinton put it, Flint was
so segregated along racial lines, with people “living in different worlds”—
each of which had a “skewed” perception of the other—that it was “a challenge to unite the two communities.”52
Activists’ usual assumption was that cross-racial solidarity was best
served by downplaying the significance of race. Occasionally, I heard activists claim that the powers-that-be were trying to use race to turn the grassroots against itself; one black activist called the MCRC’s foregrounding of
race in its final report a “trick” by the state to divide the movement.53 The
idea that the water struggle was an opportunity to put aside racial differences and model racial unity was reflected in the widely circulated motto
“No religion, no color, no violence,” and a popular Facebook image showing two intertwined hands, one black, one white. The universal qualities
of water itself came to stand for a kind of elemental human solidarity that
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paid little heed to racial categories. As Pastor Al Harris of the Concerned
Pastors for Social Action told Belt Magazine:
I think the beautiful thing is that we found out we’re really not separated. If it
really was an issue to bring the people together, this was it. Everybody needs water.
Black, white, rich, poor, educated, uneducated. Everybody needs and deserves
safe, clean water and so that caused people to come in from all different spheres,
all different levels of government. We all had this one common goal to bring
us together, so that’s the good part of it. I wish we didn’t have this situation, but
everybody understood we’ve got to work together.54
In Harris’s formulation, common dependence on water unites people of
every description—notably, across class as well as racial divides. The idea that
residents’ “human right” to water had been violated, that they had been victimized in their capacity as human beings—full stop—was certainly a pervasive sentiment in Flint. Part of its utility to activists was that it could be used
to situate the movement in Flint within a wider world of activist discourse
and praxis, making the city the latest front in a global struggle for water
and eliciting solidarity and support from water activists elsewhere. The point
was driven home at a September 2017 water summit in Flint headlined by
renowned international water activist Maude Barlow, who emphasized that
she and the many people from “outside the community” who had made the
journey were there “to offer solidarity in our struggle for water justice here in
Flint and around the world.”55
As important as affirmations of common humanity are in tying together
the struggles of geographically disparate people, however, they offer thin
gruel to activists whose objective is to forge a robust sense of shared identity at the local level. What proved to be most effective in uniting residents
across racial, and even class, lines in Flint was building off of the mixture
of victimization and pride that residents felt in being from Flint. The water
movement’s most prominent slogan, “Flint Lives Matter,” obviously invited
comparisons to Black Lives Matter, but its transcendence of racial categories
was not accidental: it embodied the feeling that the city as a whole had
been victimized, that all residents were in danger of being written off or
abandoned, and that therefore everyone within city limits was, in some
sense, in the same boat. This municipal identity formed the container that
was gradually filled out by residents’ sense of having experienced the same
harms from the water.
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The experience of emergency management greatly contributed to the
salience of this municipal identity and to the belief that the city itself, in
its corporate capacity, was a victim, too. Listening to the way that activists
would talk about Flint, I got the sense that they saw it almost as an organism barely clinging to life, dismembered by the sale of its assets, emaciated
through cutbacks into a fleshless skeleton (or “shell”), and now its innards
rotted by corrosive water. I repeatedly encountered the belief that the city
was “under attack” (as activists sometimes chanted, “What do we do when
our city is under attack? Stand up, fight back!”), its very existence as a political entity threatened by the power of EMs to extinguish it. Although I did
encounter fears that municipal dissolution would put blacks at a special
disadvantage by turning them into political minorities within mostly white
Genesee County, the specter of disincorporation lent itself to the feeling
that everyone who called Flint home was at risk of having that home not
only taken over, but taken away. Fighting for one’s own life, then, had
everything to do with fighting for the life of the city.
Epistemic Injustice and Recognition
The evolution of residents into activists was a function not only of the
personal impact of contamination and the indignation they felt at being
victimized, but also of the response they got from officials upon coming
forward with their concerns. Residents found their claims about the water
and their own bodies dismissed as hyperbolic, uninformed, paranoiac.
They repeatedly had their common-sense intuitions about the danger they
were in explained away by an “expert” in the authoritative register of scientific elocution. More than one person described this phenomenon to me
as “gaslighting”56: an attempt to convince residents that their worries were
fanciful, merely the products of their imagination.
Following the philosopher Miranda Fricker, we might describe such reactions as instances of “epistemic injustice,” defined as “a wrong done to
someone specifically in their capacity as a knower.” The dimension of epistemic injustice relevant here is what she calls “testimonial injustice,” which
“occurs when prejudice causes a hearer to give a deflated level of credibility to a speaker’s word.”57 The credibility, or epistemic trustworthiness, we
impute to a speaker is, Fricker argues, built on our perception of the speaker’s
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competence and sincerity. The question of competence frequently arises
when members of the general public attempt to understand and respond
to environmental contamination events. The issue of Flint’s water quality
involved highly technical matters of chemistry, microbiology, and infrastructure with which most residents had little prior experience. Grasping the
complexities would have been daunting for members of any community,
but, in Flint, residents faced the added hurdle of low educational levels: only
11 percent of the population over age twenty-five had a bachelor’s degree,
compared with a statewide average of 27 percent.58 For anyone inclined to
be skeptical of lay knowledge, these factors worked against the idea that
residents could form meaningful judgments about the water or make valid
recommendations about how to solve the quality problems.
The competence of residents was seen as suspect not only because they
were assumed to lack technical knowledge, however, but because they supposedly didn’t know how to think. Without a broader perspective on what
they were experiencing, they were at risk of reading far too much significance
into anecdotal experiences, placing too much stock in their knee-jerk reactions to sensory data (like brown water), and arriving at unshakable convictions and sweeping generalizations without adequate evidence. Regardless
of how much truth there may or may not have been in these characterizations, they inflicted the epistemic harm of impugning, not only residents’
knowledge, but their very ability to know. This helps to explain why the
refrain that residents were not “stupid” and deserved a priori respect when
putting forward claims about the water was woven into activist discourse.
If the occasional suggestion that residents were fooling themselves cut
deep, even more insulting was the accusation that they were consciously
trying to fool others. In an infamous encounter at a January 2015 public
meeting, LeeAnne Walters held up two bottles of brown water in front of
emergency manager Jerry Ambrose to illustrate what was coming out of
her tap. Ambrose’s response was to ask if she really expected him to believe
the samples were from her house. The grimace this provoked from Walters, captured in a widely circulated photograph that became one of the
enduring images of the water crisis, embodied the sting residents felt at the
implication that they were deliberately misrepresenting their struggles with
the water. To preempt the kind of skepticism voiced by Ambrose, residents
began collecting videos of discolored water coming straight out of their
faucets and sharing them over social media.
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Figure 5.1
LeeAnne Walters presents her tap water to EM Jerry Ambrose. © Detroit Free Press
/ZUMA Press.
Epistemic injustice, in Fricker’s formulation, is an outgrowth of prejudice,
understood as a prejudgment of a speaker’s reliability premised on assumptions about his or her social identity. Identity prejudice, according to Fricker,
“distorts the hearer’s perception of the speaker,” filtering perceptions of what is
spoken through the lens of who the speaker is—or is perceived to be.59 In
this sense, epistemic injustice is related to what theorists of social justice call
“recognition.”60 Political recognition hinges on a general social perception
of individuals and groups as having a legitimate perspective on social reality, as well as legitimate needs that should be factored into political decision
making. Theories of recognition pay particularly close attention to the way
in which prejudices around ascriptive characteristics and social categories—
like race and gender—can result in people and groups being written off,
ignored, or rendered “voiceless” or “invisible.”
Activists were keenly aware that their race and gender affected whether
their knowledge was recognized as legitimate. In the early stages of the water
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struggle, when they were being treated like alarmists and liars and were
desperate to gain some sort of foothold of credibility, whiteness served as an
epistemic resource. A number of activists told me that racial considerations
influenced who was put out front to represent the movement and that it
was not coincidental that the leading activist voices—among the political
newcomers, anyway—were, like Melissa Mays and LeeAnne Walters, white.
At the very least, the greater prominence of white activists in the media was
tolerated as a strategic necessity (though not without a certain amount of
resentment) because “America needed a particular face” if it was to take the
crisis seriously.61 The discomfort both Mays and Walters felt when others
highlighted their race as if it carried special epistemic privilege undoubtedly
fed into their desire to avoid the subject altogether.
But any epistemic advantage that activists like Mays and Walters enjoyed
on account of their whiteness was, to some extent, counteracted by assumptions about the epistemic limitations of women and mothers. Stereotypes
about the subjective, experiential, and relational character of women’s “ways
of knowing” can undermine women’s credibility in contexts, like environmental contamination events, where the (purported) objectivity, detachment, and
universality of scientific knowledge is accorded special authority. Added to
these stereotypes, often, are others about women’s supposed susceptibility to
affect, thought to have a distorting effect on their perception and judgments,
especially when imperiled children are involved. Mays, for example, remembers being called a “crazy mom,” as if suffering from a special kind of hysteria
fed by mother love.62 Less pejorative was the term “Mama Grizzly” (Walters
told me she was “100 percent comfortable” being described this way63), which
at least celebrated the protective ferocity of that love. The epistemological
connotations of describing mothers as enraged animals, however, were not
as flattering, suggestive of unapologetic partiality and blind devotion.
In many ways, the core of the struggle for clean water during the first
eight months of the water movement was a struggle by residents to be taken
seriously as knowers—by officials, by the media, even by fellow residents.
The city and state said the water was safe; a growing chorus of residents
said it wasn’t. The relative respect with which these competing perspectives
were treated was not just a matter of their truth value, it was a matter of
power and justice. And in a city whose residents had already had their competence and judgment called into question by the imposition of emergency
management, it was necessarily a matter of political recognition as well.
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From Troubles to Issues to Collective Action
A critical turning point in the genesis of a social movement is when individuals begin to see their personal “troubles” as outgrowths of a broader
“issue” that cannot be adequately addressed without collective action.64
Within weeks of the switch to the Flint River, water troubles began popping
up throughout the city, but because they did so within the private space of
the home, residents first needed a way of determining that they were not
isolated, singular events. Before there were any physical meetings about the
water, Facebook served as an essential medium for residents not previously
acquainted, in disparate parts of the city, to discover that they were living
through the same thing. The Flint River Water Support Group page began
accumulating testimony as early as May 2014, but it was principally the
Flint Water Class Action (FWCA) group, created by business student and
mother Florlisa Fowler in September, that activists would later look to as
one of the kernels of the water movement.
The FWCA page served as a clearinghouse for tales of water and health
woes and a vehicle for a kind of collective investigation of the city’s water
quality problems. It became a repository for a growing pile of visual evidence
that Flint’s water problems were systemic: when one resident would post a
photograph of cloudy or discolored water, or a nasty rash that appeared in
the shower, several more photographs of the same thing from other residents
would pour in. When residents who had connected online started mingling
in person at the first rallies and town halls about water quality in January
2015, they got further confirmation that their troubles with the water were
shared by people all over Flint. Melissa Mays remembers the revelatory
effect this realization had on her: “Different parts of the city, different ages,
different backgrounds—we were all having the same problems.”65
Fowler attempted to steer the discussion on the FWCA page toward
something like “popular epidemiology,” a term used to describe grassroots
efforts to assess the distribution of disease and its contributing factors.66 She
asked people posting with complaints to identify the parts of the city they
lived in so that a possible geographical pattern could be discerned, leading
to much speculation about which neighborhoods were most affected. As
this investigation proceeded, the group began to spawn other forms of collective action as well. Fowler began to encourage members to contact political representatives, media outlets, and environmental justice advocates like
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Erin Brockovich. Members began to talk of legal action, of in-person meetings, of protests.
And along the way, the pro-democracy activists became part of the conversation. They were already working to convince residents that the steep
price of water and the threat of shutoffs were products of the assault on
democracy in their city and their state. Now they began to convince residents that the decline of their water quality and the deterioration of their
health had the same origin.67 As Melissa Mays put it to me, activists like
Claire McClinton, Nayyirah Shariff, and Bishop Bernadel Jefferson helped
her and other residents to understand that “every single thing that’s going
to happen to us and has happened to us is politically backed and motivated.”68 That realization not only imparted a political hue to what residents were experiencing, it refined, elevated, and channeled the popular
energies that were bubbling up: the fear and the anger, the indignation and
the insult—and most importantly, the determination to band together and
fight until justice was done.
6
Demanding the Impossible: Deliberation
and Activism in the Battle over the River
If you got real democracy, why you gotta go to the street?
—Claire McClinton, interview with author
At a Flint City Council meeting on January 26, 2015, Gertrude “Tru” Saunders rose to speak during public comment. A grandmother and lifelong Flint
resident who was still getting used to being called an “activist,” Saunders
had unilaterally launched a daily protest regimen outside City Hall. For the
next two months, she would brave the bitter cold of an unusually severe
Michigan winter, holding homemade signs and warning passers-by against
using the water.
Addressing her fellow residents, Saunders said that the water was not only
“harming us,” but “killing our babies.” Those in a position to help “hear us,”
she lamented, “but they don’t care. They don’t care.” Calling for a picket every
day of the week, she urged residents “to chain yourself to the water company,
whatever it take to say ‘hell no, we ain’t takin’ this no more.’” Direct action,
she suggested, was all the more necessary because of the ever-looming presence of the emergency manager (EM). Under the circumstances, she warned,
the council “can’t do nothing for us. They can’t help us. It’s time for us to
help us.” Turning from the podium to face the audience, she said: “We have
to help us. We have to do this.”1
Contained in Saunders’s brief speech before the council is an encapsulation of the reasoning that led newly mobilized Flint residents away from
traditional avenues of political redress and into the realm of activism. It
went something like this: the imminent threat posed by the water made
urgent action imperative, but pushing for change through the usual channels of representative democracy was pointless as long as the city was under
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state control. Taking one’s concerns directly to the EMs (as LeeAnne Walters
did when she presented her tainted water to Jerry Ambrose) was also a dead
end, for the EMs were determined to ride out the water quality problems
until the Karegnondi Water Authority (KWA) pipeline came online and did
not care what it meant for residents in the interim. With local democracy
eviscerated and Flint’s state-appointed sovereigns indifferent to residents’
cries, activists would have to take the fight for clean water into the “street.”2
The end of emergency management in April 2015 did not fundamentally alter the situation, for, as Flint’s pro-democracy activists insisted at
every opportunity, the state still had its thumb firmly on the city. The City
Council’s powers remained suspended. EM-appointed City Administrator
Natasha Henderson exercised enhanced powers that would otherwise have
belonged to the mayor, thanks to a resolution by outgoing EM Ambrose.
And a governor-appointed Receivership Transition Advisory Board retained
veto power over any decision by local officials it deemed fiscally irresponsible. The members of the Flint Democracy Defense League (FDDL) continued
to describe the city as being under “dictatorship.” This political assessment
of Flint’s predicament colored activists’ view of the official response to the
water crisis from top to bottom.
For as common as it was to hear that officials had done “nothing” to
address the water issue, they did respond: they made numerous tweaks to the
treatment and distribution process, installed $1.6 million worth of granulated
carbon filters at the water treatment plant, and spent $40,000 on a private
assessment of the water system. They also sent out repeated notices about the
water, sponsored town hall meetings and informational sessions, and established two water advisory committees ostensibly aimed at creating channels
of communication between residents, technical experts, and decision makers.
But what they didn’t do—at least not without a drawn-out fight—what they
insisted was not possible and therefore not even worth discussing, was return
the city to Detroit water, the central demand of the water movement through
the summer of 2015. And all along their message was consistent: however it
looked, however it smelled, however it tasted, the water was safe.
In light of that suspiciously counterintuitive message, and of officials’
flat refusal to abandon the river, and of the general feeling that residents
were caught up in an authoritarian and duplicitous political system that did
not have their best interests at heart, the officially sponsored water forums
that began in January 2015 provoked profound skepticism and disdain.
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Residents and officials brought to these fleeting instances of face-to-face
interaction fundamentally different assessments of the gravity of the situation and what could be done to rectify it. What one side framed as unreasonable and impossible the other framed as commonsensical and purely a matter
of political will. Because both sides rejected the very terms of the discourse the
other tried to set, it was exceedingly difficult to make any progress through
dialogue. Just as crippling were mutual suspicions that the other side didn’t
really want to have a meaningful discussion to begin with. Officials saw activists as melodramatic and unnecessarily confrontational, more interested in
causing a scene than in collaborative problem solving. Activists, for their
part, saw officials as conceited and uncaring, their efforts at public outreach
phony and manipulative.
Clashing styles of communication had something to do with these
assessments, to be sure. For Flint activists, however, the more fundamental
problem was the underlying pretense that it was even possible to engage
in meaningful democratic deliberation when the city was under state control. The philosophy of emergency management was, as they saw it, inherently anti-deliberative in addition to being undemocratic, premised as it
was on unilateral, technocratic decision making that actively disregarded
public opinion.3 Residents had already been given the message, via the state
takeover, that they lacked the knowledge, competence, and will to properly manage their own affairs: would officials suddenly now start trusting
them to formulate independent judgments about as “technical” a matter
as water contamination? And in light of the vast power differential created
by the EM system, would it even matter what those judgments were? By
all appearances, officially sponsored water meetings lacked the two most
essential qualities of deliberative forums: they were neither authentic nor
consequential.4 They put activists in a fighting rather than a talking mood.
Although the first major battle the water movement fought had a narrow
objective—getting the city off the river—it brought activists up against the
broader epistemological and political framework that officials employed to
understand and decide water issues in Flint. When activists found themselves unable to operate adequately within that framework, as they often
did, they chose to operate outside it. They created their own spaces of deliberation, where “lay ways of knowing” were taken more seriously,5 and they
used a variety of tactics designed to pressure officials into action rather than
persuade them to do the right thing.6
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The feeling of being at odds with the whole system responsible for causing and perpetuating the crisis fostered a political subjectivity that embraced
what was defined by that system as illegitimate, unreasonable, and impossible.7 At the heart of the water movement was the spirit represented by Tru
Saunders: the grandmother-turned-activist who left the warmth of council chambers to protest in the cold, to demand what political realists said
was not going to happen, in a language barely intelligible to the technocrats governing her city. But if this was the movement’s spirit, its flesh was
somewhat more grounded in political “reality.” In practice, activists did,
at times, talk to officials they thought might listen. They forged alliances
with people whose strategy of social change was to work within the halls of
power as well as outside them. They sought to influence the 2015 mayoral
race even as they disparaged the way local politics had been corrupted by
emergency management. And they began to learn the language of the powerful, the language of science, so that they could command the respect of
those insufficiently impressed by their experiential knowledge. They even
produced new scientific knowledge that they believed—correctly, it turned
out—would finally pierce the fog of official obfuscation and wrest a remedy
to their plight from within the system itself.
The spirit and the flesh, as we know, do not always coexist harmoniously. To the extent that activists worked within the system, they became
enmeshed in epistemologies, in technical languages, in institutions and
relationships that complicated later efforts to parlay the battle over the
river into a farther-reaching struggle for justice and democracy. But through
October of 2015, when the impossible became reality, the pieces of the
movement held together remarkably well, and the activists, driven by a
potent combination of pathos and politics, authored one of the most triumphant chapters in Flint’s proud history of popular struggle.
The Dead End of Deliberation
By January 2015, workers at the water treatment plant had been wrangling
with Flint River water for eight months, trying to improve chlorine residuals, fiddling with pH, and working to reduce total trihalomethane (TTHM)
levels. During the same period of time, state officials fretted about the outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease in the summer of 2014 (speculating that it
might have been caused by the water source switch) and expressed concern
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about news of total coliform contamination in parts of Flint’s water system.
They even debated whether it might not be better for Flint to switch back to
Detroit water until the KWA pipeline was ready, or at least until the kinks in
the water treatment process were worked out.8 But all of this was unknown
to Flint residents, who were assured all the while that the water was safe.
The first official indication of a systemic problem was the January TTHM
notice (the Legionnaires’ news would not break for another year). Officials
now faced the unenviable task of explaining to residents why it had taken
so long to alert them to the presence of a carcinogenic contaminant in their
water. Technically, the timing of the notice was consistent with the letter
of the law, but residents interpreted its issuance many months after the
emergence of a problem as an egregious lack of transparency on the city’s
part. All of the statements about the water being safe during the preceding
eight months now looked like bald-faced lies. It was more than enough to
stoke conspiracy theories: as then-Mayor Dayne Walling put it to me, the
TTHM notice “became the proof for the community that the EM, and the
state and the Governor, were trying to destroy the city,” confirming what
many people had “felt … all along.”9
The feelings of broken trust and betrayal prompted by the notice colored the way residents received all subsequent communications about the
water. More often than not, the manner in which officials tried to engage
the public only made matters worse. The trend was set by a calamitous town
hall meeting at the “Dome”—a circular auditorium attached to City Hall—on
January 21. Hoping to overcome its credibility deficit by bringing in outside
authorities to speak to the water quality issue, the city assembled a panel of
experts from the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ),
the Genesee County Drain Commission, the contractor Lockwood, Andrews,
and Newnam, and Michigan State University, granting them primacy of
place onstage. The hierarchical and controlled atmosphere in the building
made some uncomfortable right away. Upon entering, residents were immediately greeted by the sight of city police officers, who maintained a watchful
eye over the meeting from the back of the room. Director of Public Works
Howard Croft led things off with a warning that anyone deemed disruptive
would be removed from the premises.
Croft expected residents to listen rather than speak, telling them the
meeting was for “information only” and would focus on what the “experts”
on the panel had to communicate.10 Those with questions would have to
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submit them in writing to a “public information officer” and wait until the
end of the meeting for responses. Residents, however, were determined to
have their say one way or another. As the meeting progressed, they became
increasingly agitated and demonstrative, waving signs and bottles of brown
water in the air and jeering the speakers.
While the panelists avoided sweeping statements about the safety of the
water, their takeaway points were designed to dispel the sense of alarm in
the room: firstly, TTHMs were commonly found in water systems and did
not pose a notable health risk, except perhaps to pregnant women in their
first trimester. Secondly, the quality problems that stuck out to residents—
problems of taste, smell, and color—had nothing to do with TTHMs, being
matters of aesthetics rather than public health, probably caused by the system adjusting to the new source water. Thirdly, the city had been “proactive” and had “responded very quickly” to the TTHM problem, alerting the
public and conducting an operational evaluation “well in advance of the
state and federal requirements.” Fourthly, whatever rockiness the city was
experiencing with the quality of its water would be temporary, because the
new pipeline would be ready in just over a year’s time. Michigan State University microbiologist Joan Rose told the audience that it was “just gonna
take time to correct the distribution system” and to “hang in there.”
Each successive speaker was interrupted more frequently and raucously
by the crowd. In the moment, residents were angered less by the reassurances about TTHMs than by the panelists’ seeming dismissal of the empirical evidence of bad water being proffered by members of the audience.
When Rose said there wasn’t yet “very much evidence” to tie discolored
water to health problems like rashes, residents responded indignantly—one
crying out, “The evidence is right in front of you!” Whenever there was any
hint of a suggestion that the water was safe, or that further testing and study
was required before it could be declared unsafe, activists Tony Palladeno
and Gladyes Williamson would hold up bottles and jugs of discolored water
and demand to know if it looked safe.
There were other exchanges that evening, too, that made it seem like the
experts just didn’t get it. When they advised residents to seek advice from
medical professionals about health concerns, the response they got was “Are
you gonna pay my doctor bill?” When they counseled patience until the KWA
pipeline was finished, residents were scandalized, demanding that the city
stop charging for water in the meantime, and firing back with the question,
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Figure 6.1
Town hall meeting at the “Dome” on January 21, 2015. Top: © Detroit Free Press /ZUMA
Press. Bottom: MLive, Flint Journal.
“Do you live in Flint?” Efforts by Councilmen Eric Mays and Wantwaz Davis to
calm tempers produced only fleeting effects. As the meeting progressed—or,
rather, degenerated—it became clear that not nearly everyone who submitted a written question would receive an answer. People began to storm out
of the room. With the proceedings spiraling into disorder, Howard Croft
declared the meeting over. Everyone agreed it had been a disaster.
A few weeks later, the city took another tack. On the advice of Veolia, the
transnational water contractor it had hired to evaluate its water system, it
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announced in February that it would create a technical advisory committee
(TAC) and a citizens’ advisory committee (CAC) to facilitate ongoing communication about the water and bring residents and stakeholders in the community into more intimate contact with officials.11 The TAC, which included
representatives from the city, county, MDEQ, and the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), as well as Flint’s universities and hospitals, would work
through the relevant scientific, infrastructural, and public health issues in
closed meetings, preparing the city to enter the CAC meetings, which were
open to the public, with a fleshed-out and consistent message.
Mayor Walling liked the idea and, with the support of EM Ambrose,
worked to make it happen. He saw it as an opportunity to create the kinds
of deliberative settings the city had employed from 2012 to 2013 in crafting
its first master plan in fifty years, Imagine Flint.12 During that process, the city
organized over two hundred public meetings, focus groups, community workshops, and input sessions, in addition to making “DIY” meeting kits available
to groups that wanted to host events of their own. It also set up seven advisory
groups and reached out to residents for input through social media and text
messages. Altogether, upward of five thousand residents from diverse backgrounds participated in some form, suggesting buy-in from a wide range of
constituencies, including the activist community. In fact, some of the water
activists had served on one or more of the advisory groups. Walling remembered the process as a model of inclusivity, constructive public discourse,
and collaborative decision making. That it had taken place while the city
was still under emergency management made it all the more significant: it
seemed to show that even in the absence of representative democracy, something like participatory deliberation was still possible.
The activists, however (some of whom did not share Walling’s fond memories of the master planning process13), saw little need for the committees.
From their perspective, the solution to Flint’s water woes was simple: push
the button and reopen the feed from Detroit. What was there for a committee
to discuss? In an article for the People’s Tribune, Claire McClinton wrote that
the dilly-dallying with committees gave “new meaning” to the phrase “Justice Delayed, Justice Denied.”14 As Councilman Eric Mays put it, “How much
advice do you need to know you got bad water and high rates?”15
Aside from the matter of their superfluity, there were other concerns
about the committees. The fact that they had their genesis in a suggestion
by Veolia, the bête noir of water activists the world over, did little to inspire
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confidence. The activists suspected the corporation was up to more than it
was letting on. At the very least, officials seemed inclined to accept its recommendations before even hearing residents out. Laura Sullivan, a professor of mechanical engineering at Kettering University and member of the
TAC who became a key ally of the activists, remembers the first meeting of
the committee as an attempt to “rubber stamp” Veolia’s proposed changes
to the water system so that they could be presented with more authority to
the public at the CAC meeting the next day.16
One problem with the premise of a deliberative citizens’ committee, then,
was that it was supposed to operate in a context where the most important, “technical” questions about the water had already been settled behind
closed doors. Another problem became clear when the city’s initial invitations went out: some of the main grassroots groups working on water had
been snubbed, while establishment groups that had never spoken out about
water were granted seats at the table. Although the oversight was quickly
remedied, it gave the impression that officials either lacked a commitment
to full inclusivity or were, at the very least, seriously out of touch with the
shape the popular response to the water issue was taking.
Nevertheless, activists turned out in full force to the committee’s first meeting on March 5.17 Things began civilly enough. Determined to avoid a repeat
of the disastrous town hall, the city had hired as emcees two professional
facilitators, who started by laying down “norms” of discussion, focused on
keeping interactions respectful and comments and questions succinct and in
turn. Because the CAC was supposed to be a body that would meet regularly,
they assured participants that all of their questions, if not addressed at the first
session, would be collected and answered eventually. The packets distributed
to committee members at the door included sticky notes for writing questions
and posting them to the wall under a variety of water-related categories.
Despite the thought put into the organization of the meeting, it failed, like
the town hall, in the most critical respect: residents once again felt like they
were being spoken to rather than spoken with, and that they had to break
the rules in order to express themselves adequately. Amid pleas by the facilitators for mutual respect and fidelity to the agenda, the meeting began to
deteriorate into accusatory shouting by activists and defensive retorts by the
officials arrayed at the front of the room. Tony Palladeno, an activist known
for passionate, autobiographical monologues that occasionally turned into
angry outbursts, was escorted out by the police after repeatedly shouting that
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the water was “killing” him, holding up a ball of his hair as evidence.18 In the
lobby, he explained to the media the reason for his frustration: “We’re havin’
the carpet pulled over our eyes. I don’t believe anything they’re sayin’ right
now.” Other activists tried to steer the conversation toward a possible reconnection to the Detroit system. Jerry Ambrose took the opportunity to blame
Detroit’s cancellation of service letter for the switch to the river, prompting
exclamations of “That’s a lie!” and “That’s not true!” Interim City Treasurer
Al Mooney responded by saying that a return to Detroit would be possible—if
money grew on trees: “We don’t have a money tree. And you guys would be
sorry. … So that’s the answer to that question.”19
The next CAC meeting, two weeks later, went the way of the first. Once
again, the proceedings turned confrontational and the facilitators had difficulty getting through the agenda. Once again, in lieu of giving residents
open mic time to speak, attendees were asked to write questions down.
Tensions came to a head when residents, frustrated by the mediation of the
facilitators, began to stand and chant at Mayor Walling, “Answer the question! Answer the question!”20
After the disintegration of the second CAC meeting, Walling told the
press that he was considering restructuring the format and trying again.21
But instead, the meetings ceased altogether. The TAC, too, went dormant—it
would not meet again until October, when Marc Edwards presented the
committee with the Virginia Tech team’s lead findings.22
Although Walling conceded that the format of the public meetings was
flawed, he blamed their failure on “a handful of people with a high level
of frustration” who took them over. What began as outspokenness, he told
me, became “disorderly conduct” as the meetings veered off course and
became unnecessarily hostile. “We would spend hours getting ready for a
community advisory meeting with the hopes of having constructive dialogue on two or three things,” he lamented, “and then we would go to
that meeting and there would be yelling and raised voices.” Consequently,
there was never “a constructive engagement with the issues.” He saw it as a
missed opportunity that had the effect of prolonging the crisis:
I would like to think that if we would have had more constructive public dialogue
we would have together figured out that there were more problems than what were
recognized at the time. … I would have gotten a lot more out of it than being part
of another protest spectacle. To the extent that I would have learned more or connected more dots sooner then I think we would’ve done more at the city.23
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The activists, on the other hand, lost little sleep over the collapse of the
CAC. The meetings had only reinforced their belief that officials were not
being open and honest about the water, were not really interested in what
residents had to say, and were therefore not worth engaging with politely.24
Many of the well-known limitations of deliberative democracy are apparent in these seemingly doomed interactions between officials, residents,
and activists. As the political theorist Iris Marion Young influentially argued,
officially sponsored deliberation tends to operate within an “already given
political trajectory” in which political possibilities are implicitly or explicitly
constrained before the conversation begins.25 These constraints determine
what kind of positions and arguments are considered to be “reasonable.”
Her point is well illustrated by the flippant remark about the nonexistent
“money tree”: the official view was that reconnecting to Detroit was simply
not an option, and that the matter needed to be put to rest so that the group
could have a real discussion.
Deliberation of this kind also typically calls for constrained ways of interacting. Participants are expected to persuade each other with reasoned argument while remaining open to alternative points of view. They must treat
each other with respect, as equals, and use language that others can understand and accept, working toward agreement. This ideal of the deliberative citizen conflicted sharply with the style in which many Flint activists (and other
residents, for that matter) felt compelled to express themselves. They came
to meetings filled with emotion and urgency, and were irked by the comparatively stoic demeanor of the officials they encountered there. The rigid
format of the meetings did not make space for them to vent their anger
and frustration, which then tended to erupt in disruptive ways. Residents
also came with a different understanding than officials and experts of what
constituted “evidence.” They expected to prove their case with graphic displays of ugly water, raw skin, and lost hair, and when this evidence did
not produce the desired effect, they chalked it up to willful blindness and
obstinacy if not calculated conspiracy. Every meeting was arranged so as
to imply that residents would have the water situation explained to them—
not be given the chance to explain it to someone else. Knowledge of what was
“really” going on was the province of a select few, and it was to be conveyed
unidirectionally.26
Most of all, the conversations officials tried to initiate about the water
required residents to treat with respect people they either believed were the
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authors of their misfortune or powerless to alleviate it. The “reality of the
EM,” Walling told me, was “a really big part” of why interactions with
activists were so unconstructive. One reason was that the EMs in office
from January 2015 onward, Earley and Ambrose, adopted a “very combative” posture on the water issue, to which the community was merely
“responding” with similar combativeness. But more fundamentally, “emergency managers poison the democratic process. It’s asking an awful lot
of the community to show up and suspend the reality of the emergency
manager and have a constructive dialogue with myself, Howard Croft, and
Natasha Henderson,” because “the reality was the emergency manager
was making those decisions.” The “complication” of emergency management “was just always front and center,” and it introduced “static” into the
deliberations about the water that could not be overcome.27
Beyond Deliberation: The Coalition for Clean Water
As officials made abortive attempts to engage the public about water between
January and March of 2015, new currents of activism were materializing,
comprised mainly of residents so frustrated with official inaction they
felt they had to take matters into their own hands. But it was an alreadyexisting group, the FDDL, that was first on the scene after the TTHM notice
went out on January 2. As described in chapter 4, water was by that time
already a priority for the FDDL. Like activists in Detroit, the group had chosen
to foreground issues of water affordability and accessibility through the
summer and fall of 2014, and the decline in water quality after the switch to
the river was at first mainly used to reiterate the absurdity of the high rates—
residents were now not only paying through the nose, but doing so for an
inferior product. As evidence started to pile up that the water was truly toxic,
the water quality issue began to take on its own independent importance,
and FDDL activists began to strategize around it. In fall 2014, they looked
into setting up an escrow account residents could pay into instead of paying bills for water they didn’t feel comfortable drinking. They also hatched
an idea that sputtered out initially but would be revived later: securing a
judge’s injunction to force the city back onto Detroit water.
On January 5, a group of about twenty activists led by core FDDL members held a press conference at City Hall to discuss what it called the “Flint
Demanding the Impossible
Figure 6.2
Flyer for February 2015 water meetings hosted by the FDDL.
Source: Flint Democracy Defense League.
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water crisis.” In language that mingled concerns about contamination and
cost, the activists denounced the city’s “plummeting water quality, soaring
water rates, [and] misappropriating resources toward alleged water theft.”28
They expressed their support for Councilman Eric Mays’s efforts to initiate investigative hearings by the City Council into the water. And they
announced that the group would be holding a series of four community
meetings on water through the month of February.
The stated objective of the “Flint Water State of Emergency” meetings
was to create a nonhierarchical “space” in which residents could come
together “to develop strategies for collective action.”29 The meetings
became, in effect, counterpoints to the town halls and committee meetings
devised by officials. As alternatives to those deliberative forums, they had
several advantages: they were purer in origin and therefore easier to trust,
they treated residents’ concerns and testimony as valid a priori, they did
not attempt to shut down or remove people for outbursts of emotion. And
they were not “information”-oriented but rather solution-oriented, with the
assumption being that answers to Flint’s water problems would come from
residents themselves. In the invitation it sent out through social media, the
FDDL declared that “this is the time for us to come together and create
action plans for our own liberation.”
As the FDDL geared up for its water meetings, activists began to apply
what Claire McClinton liked to call “street heat.” On January 15, outside
City Hall, a group of about twenty protestors waved signs bearing morbid
images of skeletons and nuclear waste. Again, the affordability and quality
issues were fused. One sign read: “Welcome to Flint / We pay the most for
poisoned water / Your experiment failed / Fix it now!” Another accused
Flint officials of trying to “kill” residents with “toxic water.” Other signs
said “Water is life” and “Clean water is a right, not a privilege” and questioned
whether it was safe to take a bubble bath.30
This rally and the next one, a week later, reflected the ad hoc nature of
some of the early activism around the water, being spearheaded by a concerned mom not connected to any particular group. By the time the second
rally was held on January 21, however, the various rivulets of grassroots
water activism were beginning to draw together. Members of Flint Water
Class Action, FDDL, and the newly formed Water You Fighting For? all participated, chanting “Don’t drink the water!” and “No more poison!” at the
cars driving down Saginaw Street.
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Over the next month, Water You Fighting For? (WYFF) emerged as the
group at the forefront of most of the water rallies and marches, its “Don’t
Drink the Water” message emblazoned on the distinctive T-shirts that
became a uniform of sorts for many of the activists. The group was started
by Melissa Mays and LeeAnne Walters after meeting at the disastrous Dome
town hall, along with a longtime Flint activist associated with the hacktivist group Anonymous.31 Mays took inspiration from environmental justice matriarch Lois Gibbs, famous for her role in publicizing the effects of
underground chemical waste in Love Canal, New York, in the late 1970s,
and founder of the Center for Health, Environment, and Justice (CHEJ),
an organization providing mentorship and resources to grassroots community groups working on environmental justice issues. In response to Mays’s
appeal for help, Gibbs sent her a CHEJ handbook with guidance for starting
an organization. Initially, the mission of WYFF was focused on consciousness raising about the water, its website serving as a digital bulletin board
for water-related information and a resource for other residents. The group,
however, quickly came to embrace other forms of activism as well.
Although there were water quality rallies as early as January, in the people’s history of the water struggle activists often dated the annunciation of
the water movement’s arrival to a march through downtown Flint on Valentine’s Day. A collaboration between several grassroots groups, the march
turned out over fifty people despite frigid temperatures hovering around
ten degrees. The activists remembered their trudge through the snow from
City Hall down Saginaw Street, over the Flint River and back again, as a feat
of determination that symbolized their seriousness and commitment.32
Over the next few months, the grassroots groups that had begun to collaborate on rallies and marches would cement their partnership by forming
the Coalition for Clean Water. The idea for the coalition originated with the
Concerned Pastors for Social Action (CPSA), an influential network of local
religious leaders, mostly from black churches, whose history of social activism went back to the civil rights struggles of the 1960s. The CPSA prided
itself on its efforts to combat institutional racism and bring attention to
the needs of the underserved, using its influence over a large segment of
the population—upward of fifty congregations—to command respect from
political candidates and elected officials.
The Concerned Pastors had political connections not only at the city
level, but also at the state level. Not long after they began hearing from
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Figure 6.3
Valentine’s Day march. MLive, Flint Journal.
Chapter 6
Demanding the Impossible
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members of their congregations about problems with water quality, they
initiated talks with officials in Lansing about the possibility of getting off
the river—talks that took on new significance after the TTHM notice. On
February 4, in a meeting with Governor Snyder’s Chief of Staff Dennis
Muchmore and Director of the Office of Urban Initiatives Harvey Hollins,
the pastors called for “immediate reconnection to the Detroit water system,” arguing that “lake water is 100 percent better than river water.”33
After two months without any movement, they held a press conference
calling out the state for its inaction and threatening a lawsuit.34
As dialogue with the state turned to deadlock, the pastors decided there
would be value in more coordinated pressure from below. They enlisted
Bishop Bernadel Jefferson, a member of both CPSA and the FDDL, to help
pull the city’s grassroots groups together into a coalition.35 Chaired by Reverend Allen Overton of CPSA, the coalition included the FDDL, FWCA,
WYFF, CAUTION (Bishop Jefferson’s group), and Woodside Church, a social
justice–oriented congregation deeply involved in water issues. Tru Saunders and Councilman Eric Mays signed on as individuals. The coalition’s
main focus became the strategy explored the previous fall by the FDDL and
threatened by the pastors in their April press conference: a legal injunction
forcing the city back onto Detroit water.
In the activists’ minds, the case for compelling a return to Detroit was
cut and dry, supported by a mountain of evidence of the water’s toxicity.
But legally speaking, it stood on shaky ground: the quality problems that
jumped out at residents were, according to experts, merely “aesthetic”—no
one had proved any connection between the water and health symptoms—
and the city’s latest round of sampling showed that TTHM levels had fallen
to well below maximum allowable levels. In fact, no site tested by the city
had been over the EPA limit of 80 parts per billion (ppb) for TTHM since
the beginning of the year, and once the city completed installation of new
carbon filters at the water treatment plant, levels were supposed to drop
even lower. As far as officials were concerned, they were following through
on their promises to solve the water problem, and it seemed more likely
than ever that it would be possible to make the river water work for the
time being. Incurring the costs associated with switching back to Detroit—
estimated at some $12 million just for the reconnection, plus another $1
million for water—would, they argued, be unnecessary and shortsighted.
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Activists countered that declaring the TTHM situation under control was
premature, warning that levels could rise again during the warmer months
of the year, that the water treatment plant was still not up to par, and
that more testing was necessary. As long as there was any threat whatsoever from TTHMs—which by the city’s own admission could be harmful
to some segments of the population—the state and the city, they argued,
had a responsibility to offer residents a safe alternative. Laura Sullivan, who
joined the coalition as a representative of Woodside Church, summed up
the logic for me: “If you’re going to use this source water and some people
are at risk, then you have to provide bottled water to them or change the
source water.” This, she said, was the “hook.”36
On June 5, the coalition filed a civil injunction against the City of Flint
and City Administrator Natasha Henderson, alleging that the city “recklessly
endangered” residents by switching to the river and calling for a return to
Detroit water “on an immediate and an emergency basis.”37 It would take
more than three months for the suit to reach a conclusion as it was bounced
from county to federal court and back.38 In the meantime, the activists found
other ways to keep the water struggle in the headlines. In July, they helped
organize the Detroit to Flint Water Justice Journey, a seven-day, seventy-mile
series of marches that wound through cities affected by emergency management and struggling with problems of water quality, cost, and privatization:
Detroit, Pontiac, Highland Park, and finally Flint, culminating in a march
from Woodside Church to City Hall for a rally organized by the coalition.
With the assistance of the advocacy group Food and Water Watch, the coalition also launched a petition drive to demonstrate the strength of public
demand for reconnection to the Detroit system. On August 31, Melissa Mays
and Reverend Overton along with a dozen other activists hand-delivered an
imposing stack of paper with 26,856 petition signatures collected from people all over the country to Mayor Walling at his office.39
By this time, activists had opened up another front in the war they were
fighting to get Flint off the river—the one that would finally break things
open. It began with a fateful shipment that arrived two weeks prior to the
delivery of the petitions—three hundred water testing kits, sent by a team
of engineers at Virginia Tech—and with the growing feeling that the contaminant that would finally force the hand of officials was not E. coli, or
chloride, or TTHMs, but lead.
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Figure 6.4
(Top) Coalition for Clean Water files suit seeking return to Detroit water.
(Bottom) Delivery of petitions to Mayor Dayne Walling. MLive, Flint Journal.
Lead in the Water
There had been rumblings of lead in the water as far back as February. That
was the month a water sample taken at LeeAnne Walters’s house came back
at 104 ppb, prompting a frantic call from Mike Glasgow at the water treatment plant telling her not to drink her water. Glasgow eventually determined that the house had an unusually long lead service line, which the city
offered to replace at no cost. There was a catch, however: Walters would have
to sign a form indemnifying the city against all liability for any injury caused
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by the lead. Presented with an opportunity to remove the immediate danger
to her family, Walters was torn: should she take the deal and let the city off
the hook? After talking it over with other activists, she decided not to sign.
She also began to look for help from someone outside of city and state
government. After reaching out to the EPA, she connected with Miguel del
Toral, regulations manager for the Ground Water and Drinking Water Branch
of the EPA’s Region 5. Del Toral, in turn, enlisted the assistance of Marc
Edwards, who began conducting independent tests on Walters’s water. His
results showed lead levels that were off the charts: one sample came back at
an astonishing 13,200 ppb of lead, more than twice the amount necessary
for the water to qualify as toxic waste by EPA standards. Edwards said he was
“shocked” by the results, musing that he had never in his “twenty-five-year
career seen such outrageously high levels going into another home in the
United States.”40
As bad as the condition of the water in the Walters household was, the
bigger story was what Walters uncovered when, in a search for answers,
she began digging into operational reports from the water treatment plant:
the city was not using corrosion control. When she informed del Toral
of this discovery, his initial reaction was disbelief. He reached out to the
MDEQ for clarification, sure that there must be some mistake, and was told
that the city had a “corrosion control program” in place. The semantic
subtlety of the phrase did not jump out at del Toral until later: a corrosion
control program was not the same thing as corrosion control.41
Walters’s sky-high lead levels and the revelation about the MDEQ’s
unorthodox approach to corrosion control caused del Toral to suspect more
widespread problems with lead in Flint’s water system. In July, he detailed
his concerns in a memorandum circulated internally at the EPA. He also,
however, sent the document to Walters herself, knowing it would become
public and fearing, correctly, that it would not be acted upon promptly by
his own agency. For this act, he came to be known as the main “whistleblower” of the water crisis.
Walters promptly forwarded the memo to Curt Guyette, an investigative
journalist well known to the activists who had been hired by the Michigan
ACLU to cover the effects of the state’s EM law. In a series of articles and documentary films produced with his collaborator Kate Levy, Guyette broke the
story of Walters’s plight and shed light on the larger issues of water quality in
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Flint.42 EPA officials reacted to Guyette’s reporting by trying to discredit del
Toral and minimize his findings. When Dayne Walling learned of the memo
and reached out to EPA Region 5 Director Susan Hedman with concerns, she
apologized for the alarm caused by the leak and assured him that the findings were only preliminary and undergoing review. MDEQ spokesperson Brad
Wurfel characterized del Toral as a “rogue employee” and said that “anyone
who is concerned about lead in the drinking water in Flint can relax.”43
Realizing that the presence of lead in the water would greatly bolster their
case for returning to the Detroit system, and fearing that the city’s next round
of sampling data would mask the problem,44 members of the coalition began
to encourage people to get their water tested and report the results back to
the activists. Melissa Mays picked up sampling kits from the water treatment
plant and distributed them to residents, taking them to festivals, churches,
and meetings. As lead results came in, she incorporated them into a map
of Flint on the WYFF website that showed the distribution of a variety of
water issues across the city. The goal was to illustrate that the lead problem,
like other problems, was not confined to Walters’s house or to any one area.
Although the sample size was limited, the numbers, Laura Sullivan recalls,
were “pretty high,” suggestive of a hitherto underappreciated threat.45
With these new numbers on their side, the coalition decided to try again
to pique concern in Lansing. In a meeting with Dennis Muchmore and
Harvey Hollins on July 22, the activists had the opportunity to present their
data, with Mays displaying a blown-up version of the WYFF map. Just as
significant, however, was their presentation of Laura Sullivan, introduced
for maximum dramatic effect as Dr. Sullivan, who Reverend Overton asked
to “tell them what lead does to people.”46 Muchmore looked on with concern as Sullivan did her best (mechanical engineer that she was) to explain
what lead does to the human body. The meeting ended with Muchmore
promising to look into the lead issue and get back to them. For a moment,
it seemed like an injunction might not be necessary: civil conversation,
enhanced by Sullivan’s credentials, was finally getting somewhere.
At the follow-up meeting on August 4, however, Muchmore had assembled a group of MDEQ employees who greeted the activists, Sullivan recalls,
with “smug” expressions. He said he had good news to relate: the MDEQ
had looked at the available data and determined that the ninetieth percentile for lead was below the EPA action level. Sullivan didn’t think it
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Figure 6.5
Water You Fighting For map (detail).
Source: Water You Fighting For?
was possible. How could the state’s numbers and the activists’ numbers
be so far off? She made the point that “there may be a problem when the
entity that collects the samples and the entity that analyzes the samples
are both benefitting when the samples are good.” But she was too “afraid”
and “inhibited” to say more. The looks on the state officials’ faces gave her
the impression that she and the activists were “fools” and had “no place in
the room.”47 Emails sent between Muchmore and Hollins the following day
offer some insight into their take on the meeting. Their disdain for those
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they label “activists,” who they imply came in with the wrong demeanor
and irrelevant political concerns, is apparent:
Muchmore: I didn’t think that meeting was as useful as others. If people
won’t accept the factual information, I’m not sure there is much we can do
about it. … We can’t do too many more of these. The three activists in the
room just want to be right; they don’t want answers. No matter what we say
they’ll always want something else to be the answer.48
Hollins: I agree. It’s hard to get to yes or satisfaction with certain types of community advocates because no matter what you do, they will always grind an
ax on something. … I think one more meeting with the pastors and maybe the
professor from Kettering (who I think is reasonable) to put closure on the outstanding questions is warranted. The other women who were there to argue for
the sake of arguing should not be apart [sic] of that meeting. Regarding more
state money to Flint or democracy discussions on the question of emergency
management isn’t something that I have too much of an appetite for.49
Once again, activists had come forward with what they felt to be compelling evidence of system-wide problems that more than justified switching off the river, and once again, officials had responded by overruling their
data and shutting down their concerns. It had a deflating effect, at first:
LeeAnne Walters, for one, began to slide into a “rabbit hole” of depression, calling Marc Edwards in a “hysterical” state of mind and looking for
direction.50 That direction came from an idea first proposed to Edwards by
Curt Guyette: what if the activists worked with Virginia Tech to collect a
larger sample, one that officials could not simply brush off as statistically
insignificant? Edwards said at least seventy-five samples would be necessary. Guyette offered to pay for one hundred tests,51 and began contacting
activists to stir up interest in the sampling campaign.52
From Walters’s perspective, it was a last-ditch effort, but one she threw
herself into with gusto. After receiving sampling kits and instructions in
the mail, she and the other members of the coalition organized a rigorous
sampling protocol. They began by recruiting participants, mainly through
pre-established personal networks, making a conscious effort to ensure
robust participation in all parts of the city. They also instituted strict procedural guidelines for quality control, convinced that the results would never
be believed unless everything was “perfect.”53 When residents came to pick
up their kits at Saints of God Church, the activists had them watch an
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explanatory video explaining how to collect the samples. When it was time
to pack samples for transport to Virginia Tech, the activists asked residents
to initial the sealed boxes to ensure there was no appearance of their being
tampered with. They also devised a system of documentation, keeping track
of everyone who picked up a kit and carefully recording the information in
an Excel spreadsheet.
Instead of the seventy-five-sample minimum mandated by Edwards, in
less than a month’s time the activists collected 269 usable samples—a 90
percent success rate. Moreover, they succeeded in distributing the samples
across a wide geographical area, with strong representation of every ward
in the city. The contrast to the city’s most recent sampling effort could not
have been starker: the utility had struggled to break even the one-hundredsample threshold, and the samples had been heavily concentrated in a few
convenient areas. Members of the Virginia Tech Flint Water Study team (as
they began to call themselves) marveled at the activists’ success: graduate
student Siddartha Roy said that “they did the job better than most scientists.”54 The team’s analysis showed that 10 percent of sampled homes
in Flint had lead levels of 27 ppb or higher, indicating that the city, as
announced in a blaring headline on the recently launched Flintwaterstudy.
org, had a “VERY SERIOUS LEAD IN WATER PROBLEM.”55
The findings could not have been timelier. On September 14, Circuit
Court Judge Archie Hayman threw out the coalition’s lawsuit, killing the
injunction. The very next day, coalition members, along with Marc Edwards,
Siddartha Roy, and Curt Guyette, held a press conference at City Hall. Speaking to the cameras, Melissa Mays said it was “a huge, huge, day for the
water fight in Flint,” calling the sampling data a “strong punch.” Edwards
explained that the same problem that was turning people’s water brown—
high corrosivity—was also “causing excessive lead to go into people’s water.”
Guyette asserted that the “reason everybody is here today is because the
emergency managers appointed by Governor Rick Snyder, in an effort to
save the city money, made the decision to switch from clean Detroit … water
to the Flint River.” Reverend Overton called yet again for the city to return
to Detroit water “immediately.” Other members of the coalition then took
turns articulating new demands: Nayyirah Shariff demanded that the MDEQ
distribute filters to every household in Flint, Laura Sullivan demanded
that the city replace “all lead-containing service lines” at no cost to residents, Melissa Mays demanded that the EPA step in and “take over Flint’s
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Figure 6.6
Press conference with activists and Flint Water Study team announcing sampling
results. MLive, Flint Journal.
treatment decisions and the MDEQ’s testing and oversight,” and LeeAnne
Walters demanded that there be an “audit” of MDEQ’s sampling and a
crackdown on its exploitation of loopholes in the Lead and Copper Rule.56
State officials could not dismiss Virginia Tech’s results as easily as they
did the first batch of lead data activists presented to them. Nevertheless,
the MDEQ claimed to be “perplexed” by the findings and by the team’s
warning to residents not to drink the water without filtering it or flushing their pipes first. “While the state appreciates academic participation
in this discussion,” said spokesperson Brad Wurfel, “offering broad, dire
public health advice based on some quick testing could be seen as fanning
political flames irresponsibly.”57
It took a reverberation from the Washington, D.C., lead-in-water crisis of the early 2000s to finally break the state’s resistance. It came from
water expert Elin Betanzo, who had worked for the EPA in D.C. during
that time and remembered how critically important it was to show that
lead in water was getting into the bloodstreams of children. After learning
of the lead data being analyzed by Virginia Tech, she encouraged her old
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friend Mona Hanna-Attisha to look into whether there was a correlation
between Virginia Tech’s lead results and blood lead levels. Hanna-Attisha’s
analysis (see chapter 1) showed, on average, a doubling of elevated blood
lead levels in children ages 0 to 6 as well as the hypothesized correlation
with lead levels in different parts of the city. The state made one final effort
to push back, with Michigan Department of Health and Human Services
(MDHHS) officials presenting a chart that attributed the increase in blood
lead to seasonal variation (a chart that would later lead to felony charges).
Upon closer examination of the data, however, both the MDHHS and the
MDEQ conceded their mistake: lead was a danger in Flint after all. It had
taken eighteen months of resident complaints and nine months of focused
activism around water quality, but for local, state, and federal officials, the
“Flint water crisis” had finally begun.
Realizing the Impossible
After Hanna-Attisha publically released her data, Mayor Walling indicated
at a press conference that all options were now on the table, including
reconnection to the Detroit system. But he warned that the final decision
about Flint’s water source was the governor’s to make.58 Three days later, the
coalition held a press conference of its own at which it threatened largescale protests in Flint and Lansing if the switch was not made immediately.59 Shortly thereafter, it filed a petition with the EPA asking the agency
to take control of the situation.60
But still the state seemed determined to avoid the source change. On
October 2 at Kettering University, the day after the Genesee County Health
Department declared a public health emergency in Flint, state officials
announced a “Flint water action plan” that included $1 million for pointof-use filters, water testing at schools and homes, blood lead testing, and
corrosion control—but no return to Detroit water. Outside, activists held a
protest featuring Nayyirah Shariff and Melodee Mabbitt in yellow hazmat
suits. When they heard that the state was not yet prepared to change Flint’s
water source, they were furious. Reacting to the news, Reverend Al Harris of
the Concerned Pastors said residents were “back to square one.”61
In fact, the activists were on the cusp of getting what they had been
fighting for. On October 8, after nine months of insisting that reverting to
Detroit water was “not going to happen,”62 the city and state announced
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that they had struck a deal to make it possible.63 Melissa Mays described
the decision as “a little unreal.”64 Dayne Walling was even more stunned:
he hadn’t thought there was that kind of money “sitting out there” for a
reconnection. “And then, in light of the lead crisis, bam—there it is.”65
It would be hard to overestimate the profundity of the validation the activists felt after the reversal. It was not just that their framing of the water situation (i.e., that it was a public health crisis) had gone mainstream, or that
officials had capitulated and adopted the activists’ position on what needed
to be done. It was that their whole approach to creating social change had
been affirmed. They had refused to accept officials’ definition of what was
reasonable, or the ceiling officials set on what was possible, or the standards
of “evidence” officials used to form their judgments about the water. They
had shown, at times, at least a minimal willingness to enter into conversation
with officials about the water; but even in these instances, they thumbed their
noses at the proprieties expected of them and clung firmly to their demands
rather than showing any signs of compromise. They had preferred disruption,
protest, and petition to the tightly controlled deliberative settings crafted by
the city—settings they saw as not only unwelcoming, but inauthentic. And
when the data on water quality produced by the city and state in summer
2015 conflicted with the activists’ message and objectives, they had gone out
and generated data of their own that confirmed the water’s dangers.
The reinforcement the activists got from their victory only made them
less inclined to limit their demands to what was considered “reasonable.”
As soon as the matter of the reconnection was settled, their attention shifted
to another controversy: whether the city should declare a state of emergency
in order to encourage similar declarations at the state and federal levels, or
even lobby for a stronger federal “disaster” declaration. In a series of mayoral debates (for in addition to all the other excitement, it was the middle
of election season), incumbent Walling came out against the idea, arguing
that the county’s declaration of emergency was enough to get Flint what
resources it could rightly expect, and pointing out that the crisis, being
manmade, did not fit federal criteria for disaster status.66
Unsurprisingly, the activists chose to align themselves with a candidate
who, like them, did not share Walling’s sense of political possibility. Despite
the fact that Flint had not yet wriggled entirely free from the state’s grip,
the activists—long frustrated by Walling’s civility toward the EMs, general “Boy Scout” demeanor, and proactive complicity in creating a “false
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narrative” around the water—sensed that the election of a fighter to the
mayor’s office during this moment of opportunity would have real consequences. They found their candidate in Karen Weaver, a Ph.D. clinical
psychologist relatively new to the political arena but strongly supported by
the Concerned Pastors and the Flint NAACP—two pillars of the city’s African American community. Weaver had earned herself the label of “water
warrior” by coming out to activist rallies and shown that she, too, was
willing to demand what others said was impossible. During her campaign,
she promised what Walling would not: a return to Detroit water (before
it became a reality), a city-level declaration of emergency, and a fight for
federal disaster status.
In fact, Weaver’s own candidacy was a longshot: a bid to become the
first African American woman mayor in the city’s history by unseating a
polished, pedigreed, white (always a factor within Flint’s highly racialized
political culture), male incumbent. Once again, however, expectations
were confounded. With decisive support from the pastors and the activists,
Weaver scored an upset victory on November 3 with a sizable twelve-point
margin.67 On December 14, as promised, she filed an emergency declaration.68
After initially waffling, the county signed off on it on January 4, opening up
the possibility of more state and federal assistance. The very next day, Governor Snyder declared an emergency at the state level and requested federal
help. Although the activists never got their desired “disaster” declaration,
on January 16 President Obama declared a federal state of emergency in
Flint. Reeling from his defeat and watching from the sidelines now, Walling
remembers being amazed by how quickly it all happened.69
The sequence of events from October 2015, when the city switched off
the river, through early January of the next year only further emboldened
the activists and reinforced the lessons they had taken away from the water
source fight. When I first encountered them personally, at a rally and march
on January 8, they were brimming with confidence and full of demands:
full replacement of the pipes, social services for those harmed by the water,
federal disaster relief (Stafford Act be damned), and the arrest of Governor Snyder. By that point, the rest of the country—the world, even—was
behind them, with solidarity and support from the broader activist community converging on Flint from all sides.
As a newcomer, I was impressed by the apparent unity, strength, and
purpose of the water activists. It was a somewhat distorted impression,
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influenced by the headiness of the moment, and by my own distance (at
that point) from the movement’s internal controversies. There was an aura
around the activists, however, that I found alluring on both a personal and
scholarly level. Over the next two and a half years, I witnessed firsthand
their fight for justice in Flint, and their efforts to turn crisis into opportunity by channeling the popular uprising sparked by poisoned water into a
longer-term political agenda.
I came to realize, however, that the storybook quality of the battle over
the river—good enough for a Lifetime movie70—belied some of the tensions
latent in the alliances struck up along the way. These tensions were exacerbated by the media’s elevation of some of the central players into “hero” figures, including people from outside the community whose perspectives on
the nature of the crisis and status of the recovery effort proved to be sharply
opposed, in some fundamental ways, to those of activists.71 As enamored as
many activists were with the storybook version of events, looking back on
2015 nostalgically as a time of unity and power, they soon came to realize
that advancing their struggle for justice and making good on the democratic
potential of the movement would require a reckoning with some of the
“heroes” of that chapter of their story. That reckoning began with another
battle over the reality of the crisis itself.
7
The Water Is (Not) Safe: Expertise,
Citizen Science, and the Science Wars
The water movement in Flint was multifaceted, a unity-in-diversity of longtime activist and political neophyte, preacher and protestor, councilman
and professor, but its message was simple: the water is not safe. The demand
attached to that message was equally simple: get us off the river now.
The medium used to transmit the message varied depending on the
audience. Sometimes activists embodied it—literally—in vivid displays of
corporal harm. Sometimes they expressed it in the form of personal testimony. Increasingly they pieced it together—on social media, on makeshift
maps—into mosaics of accumulating experiences from all over the city.
And gradually, they translated it into the language of science, first through
the exploratory research of enterprising individuals, later through the systematic collection of sampling data.
Not everyone believed this act of translation was worthwhile. Some
activists were convinced there was little point in turning to “research” (a
term sometimes employed sneeringly) for “proof” that the water was bad.
The water movement’s basic premise, after all, was that the water was selfevidently bad, and that the reason officials were stalling was not for want of
proof but out of indifference or malice. It was futile, then, to speak scientific truth to power: officials did not care what the truth was, as shown by
their disregard for the wealth of experiential evidence of contamination
and harm residents had been bringing forward since spring 2014. The only
way to fight their mendacity and delay, from this perspective, was through
militant activism in the streets.
The activists who did turn to science did not dispute that the badness
of the water was unmistakable, or that officials were disinterested and dishonest, or that militant action was necessary. Indeed, what attracted them
to science was precisely that it could be used as a weapon (a “punch,” as
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Melissa Mays put it1) in the service of popular struggle—not to convince
people who were beyond convincing, but to compel action from people
who were resisting doing the right and obvious thing. For activists to be scientifically literate, and even, in some sense, practitioners of science, altered
the balance of power, allowing them to push back more forcefully whenever officials used science to sugarcoat the pills residents were supposed
to swallow about the water. As for activists’ own claims about water quality, rendering them in scientific terms gave them weight that experiential
knowledge—no matter how extensive—lacked when viewed through the
technocratic lens of officialdom. It was not that the claims became truer, but
rather less arguable—even inarguable. As LeeAnne Walters liked to say: “You
can’t argue with science.”2
The problem was that there were arguments about science—lots of them.
Activists argued with the science put forward by officials and scientists they
mistrusted. Officials contested scientific claims made by activists and scientists alike. And scientists quarreled not only with activists and officials,
but also among themselves. Assertions about the inarguability of scientific
knowledge served mainly to make these clashes more violent, for they were
used to sharpen spears on multiple sides.
Within this knotty epistemic terrain, the scientific value of particular
claims was often less important than the perceived credibility of the people
making them. New fronts of struggle opened up around efforts to construct,
protect, and, at times, deconstruct credibility.3 As discussed in chapter 5, it
was a challenge for Flint activists to establish themselves as credible knowers
even when the subject of their knowledge was their own personal experience.
Staking a claim to scientific knowledge presented another layer of difficulty.
Activists had to navigate thickets of technical jargon, comply with exacting
standards of evidence,4 and yoke their assertions about the water to scientifically verifiable “facts” that captured only imperfectly their sense of its full
risks and harms. They also had to alter their demeanor at times, showing that
they could be calm and logical when speaking in a scientific register even as
they bristled with indignation at the smug condescension of officials.5
Brandishing science effectively in the service of the cause was difficult
to do without help. No matter how much activists built up their own lay
expertise, and no matter how dispassionately they presented their evidence,
it was always possible their claims would fail to make an impact without
the backing of established scientific authorities. Some allies with claims to
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varying degrees of scientific expertise were close at hand—people like Laura
Sullivan, to whom activists turned at various times for advice and assistance, as well as a few other residents with backgrounds in chemistry and
water. The expertise activists were able to muster from within their personal
networks only went so far, however, as captured in the anecdote of Sullivan
the mechanical engineer having to improvise an explanation of the health
effects of lead exposure (see chapter 6). Furthermore, the data activists
were able to compile on their own, while plenty compelling when viewed
through lay eyes, lacked the statistical bite to pierce the official narrative
about Flint’s water problems being localized and fleeting. The combination
of limited resources within the community and the hardened resolve of
officials to avoid taking action meant that activists could not “afford” but
to accept expert help from wherever it came.6
While assistance from the outside could enhance the strength of the movement, however, it could also make activists vulnerable. Whenever activists
partnered with an outsider, Claire McClinton told me, they had to ensure
they maintained their “independence.” Would-be allies had to recognize
that activists were already operating with their “own agenda,” and that “helping” meant figuring out how to support that agenda.7
Alliances with experts could be difficult to fit into this paradigm. They
involved inequalities of resources, access, and influence that could be disempowering if not carefully managed, as well as institutional and financial
entanglements on the expert side that could divide loyalties and bring unwelcome outside influences into the picture. Even experts who purported to play
a support role and let local activists take the lead were rarely free of their own
agendas or fully committed to the principle of local control. One reason was
that experts tended to derive their sense of entitlement to speak about matters of local concern from their own expertise, rather than from the wishes
of their local partners. In the event of disagreement, this meant they sometimes spoke for themselves rather than the movement, in ways that could
potentially undermine activist objectives as well as activists’ own representations of their struggle and social reality.
In their eagerness—and at times, desperation—for help, activists did
not linger on the potential downsides of expert alliances, or even perceive
them, necessarily. The relationships they entered into were informed by
the imperatives of the moment and extemporaneous assessments of their
benefactors’ motivations and personal character. At first, it seemed those
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assessments had been sound: between early 2015 and early 2016, they
brought several outside expert figures to Flint, all of whom appeared to have
the interests of residents at heart, and all of whom moved pieces of the
movement’s agenda forward.
As time went on, however, it became clear that power handed over to
expert allies under conditions of crisis could be just as unaccountable, and
just as vulnerable to abuse, as the emergency state power they had been fighting since 2011. In fact, these two species of power seemed to be drawing ever
more closely together, as the state neutralized the disruptive effect of outside
expertise by bringing it into the fold of the official response to the crisis. The
scientific idiom activists had used, with the assistance of their allies, to crack
the case of Flint’s contaminated water became the state’s preferred language
for bringing that case to a close—well before activists (and residents more
broadly) were prepared to do so.8
At the center of this dynamic was Marc Edwards, the ultimate example—
for many Flint activists, anyway—of the expert-scientist-ally turned enemy
collaborator. His devolution from “hero” to “zero” in their eyes (to borrow
Tony Palladeno’s always-colorful phrasing) was not only the most spectacular, it also sucked every other lay-expert alliance into its orbit in one way or
another, shaping, in the process, the activists’ attitudes toward science and
expertise more generally. Unsurprisingly, Edwards and the activists had two
completely different explanations for the decline of his reputation in Flint.
As activists saw it, Edwards “changed,” falling prey to the allure of power,
fame, and money—or simply his own egotism—and selling them out in the
process. As Edwards saw it, he was perhaps the most steadfast character of all,
maintaining a stoic commitment to the truth no matter how inconvenient, as
allegiances shifted all around him and he was shot full of arrows by dishonest,
unfair, and politically-motivated people. He began to describe the situation in
Flint as “science anarchy,” with the unifying and objective qualities of science
replaced by “tribal” loyalties and “subjective,” “unscientific,” “postmodern
social justice.”9
For Edwards, it was all a sign, apparently, that what he once called the
“netherworld” of activism was less penetrable by the luminous rays of scientific truth than he had originally hoped.10 The scientist who began by
defending his own “activism” to fellow members of his profession,11 and was
heralded as an apostle of a more democratic and inclusive science, ended up
suggesting that “as a scientist you can’t really engage with activism unless
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it’s a … public emergency.”12 Activists were just too prepared to part ways
with the truth when it didn’t suit them, and to crucify those who attempted
to steer them back onto the right path.
While activists were never as enamored with the idea of scientific truth as
Edwards—an important part of their struggle, always, was validating other
ways of knowing—by no means did they see any inherent conflict between
science and activism. As often as not, they framed their criticisms of him
in scientific terms, maintaining that his science was biased, faulty, or, more
often, simply incomplete. They strongly suspected that Edwards, along
with the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ) and the
EPA, was exaggerating the scientific consensus about the improvements to
Flint’s water quality for political reasons: the sooner the water was declared
“safe,” the sooner all involved could move on. More generally, having
learned to think of Flint’s water infrastructure as an unwieldy, complicated,
open system, they were suspicious that knowledge of that system could
ever really be “closed.” They had grown too used to surprises—lead appearing in unexpected places, new contaminants cropping up, main breaks and
leaks and all manner of things bubbling from the tap. Besides, there were
still questions residents had about the water and its effects on their health
that had not been answered to their satisfaction. There were political reasons, no doubt, for activists’ tendency to resist consensus and closure when
it came to the safety of the water, but there were also more sophisticated
epistemologies at play than activists were typically given credit for.
It made a difference that activists themselves had been involved in the
production of scientific knowledge. They operated with heightened awareness of how science gets made, freshly awake to the infrastructure of knowledge production just as they were to the infrastructure under their feet. When
they encountered a scientific claim, they saw not just the claim itself but
the personalities, the practices, the institutions, the money, and the interests
wrapped up with it. They had also come to perceive the artificiality of definitions of “science” and “scientist,” and it emboldened them to contest uses
of those terms they believed were overly narrow and self-serving. Activists
did not have to deny the truth in science to see that science also involved
power—that it mattered who got to define it, who got to decide how it was
used, and who got to declare scientific controversies “over.”
When activists began to witness erstwhile expert allies contributing
to politically convenient closures—by deploying their own credibility or
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attacking the credibility of others—without any kind of democratic process
behind them, they once again felt the lash of power that was unaccountable and unresponsive, and it stung all the more, in this case, because they
had helped to create it.
Bob Bowcock and the Appeal to Expertise
On January 20, 2015, a post appeared on Facebook that sent a shiver of excitement through the activist community. After receiving numerous pleas for
help from Flint activists, Erin Brockovich, the Erin Brockovich, was denouncing the city’s “dangerous, undrinkable drinking water.” Shortly thereafter,
she promised to send her longtime right-hand man, water consultant and
former water utility manager Bob Bowcock, to assess the situation firsthand.
Bowcock visited Flint for four days in mid-February. Parts of his visit had
an official flavor: he met with Mayor Walling, Public Works Director Howard
Croft, and Councilman Wantwaz Davis and was granted a personal tour of
the water treatment plant. He also, however, cemented a lasting reputation as
a friend of the activists, marching side by side with them through the freezing cold on Valentine’s Day in a scarf borrowed (in good Californian fashion)
from Laura Sullivan. Addressing the marchers with a bullhorn, he affirmed
the importance of activism: “Your attendance on this very, very cold day is
important. You’re demonstrating leadership to everyone in this community
that this water issue is a problem that can be solved with community action.”
After the march, Bowcock laid out his initial impressions of the water situation at a well-attended talk at Saints of God Church. In some ways, his message was sharply at odds with what the activists were saying at that point
about the water. Most significantly, he did not think it necessary to abandon
the river as a drinking water source. In the short term, he said, some “very,
very simple” changes to the water treatment process—like dialing down the
chlorine, discontinuing the lime-softening process, and introducing an activated carbon barrier—would improve matters considerably. (Notably, what
Dayne Walling took away from his conversation with Bowcock was that
the situation was “manageable.”13) Given how committed activists were to
returning to Lake Huron water, it was the first disconcerting example of an
expert ally unexpectedly undermining a nonnegotiable demand.
In other ways, though, Bowcock bolstered the activists’ position. He told
them that for anyone to say the water was safe was “just not honest,” that
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there could be a big difference between the quality of the water leaving the
treatment plant and the water coming out of the tap, and that water with
a noticeable color or smell was indeed a concern from a health standpoint
(contrary to what other “experts” had said at the disastrous town hall the
preceding month). He also warned that there could be contaminants in the
water the city was overlooking or not acknowledging. There were hundreds
of unregulated disinfection byproducts (DBPs), for example, that were just
as dangerous as the four trihalomethanes residents had been told about.
There were species of bacteria, like legionella, that weren’t being tested for.
And the fluoride added to the water at the treatment plant, while not officially considered a contaminant, could just as well be: Bowcock said it was
making the water more corrosive and was “a huge waste of money” besides.
He warned that household filters would “polish” the water aesthetically
but would not make it safe and advised residents to take warm baths rather
than hot showers to avoid steam inhalation.14
On February 17, Bowcock sent a letter to Walling and the City Council
with sixteen recommended changes to the city’s water treatment and distribution processes. They turned out to be very similar to the recommendations made the next month by Veolia, which received $40,000 of taxpayer
money for its trouble. It was a point of pride with the activists that the
person they brought in pro bono had effectively scooped the Veolia report,
and it taught them that they could marshal experts every bit as competent
as those put forward by officials—more competent, even. Bowcock, after all,
seemed to be tuned in to contaminants that weren’t being taken seriously
by other experts, particularly fluoride. Shortly after Veolia released its final
report (which nowhere mentioned the word “fluoride”15), and inspired by
what Bowcock had said about the chemical a few weeks earlier, Water You
Fighting For? organized a “take the poison out” press conference and rally
focused on fluoride’s corrosivity and purported health dangers.
Bowcock’s mixture of alarming intimations of neglected risks and straightforward advice to the water utility gained him an audience with both
activists and officials, but ultimately he made more of an impression on
the former than the latter. Although he stayed in touch with Howard Croft,
who for some time thereafter would call him looking for guidance, his recommendations mostly, in his estimation, “fell on deaf ears.”16 Ironically,
it was precisely the fact that he was not listened to that was useful to the
activists: it was yet another indication that the city was not committed to
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or capable of getting the chemistry of the river water right and needed to
switch sources entirely. It was also a source of commonality between activist and expert: Bowcock, too, had tried to get officials to change course but
was not taken seriously.
When Bowcock left Flint after his short visit, he did so with what would
prove to be enduring credibility with the activists. Although the fit between
his perspective and theirs was imperfect, he had come at their behest, without any professional or financial incentive for doing so, and helped to initiate them into a still-new world of technical discourse around water. He
had gone about his business in an unassuming way, without any sign of
an agenda or desire for the spotlight (“It can’t be mine and Erin’s issue,”
he told me. “It has to be the community’s issue.”17) He had celebrated the
activists precisely for their activism, and even joined in it (though he and
Brockovich later declined to get involved in the Coalition for Clean Water’s
legal injunction or endorse Karen Weaver for mayor).
Bowcock remained in regular touch with activists behind the scenes,
providing advice and support on a sometimes daily basis. His failure to get
much movement out of officials, however, while in some sense good for his
street credibility, did not solve the immediate problem: getting off the river.
It would take an alliance with another expert to do that.
Marc Edwards, “Citizen Science,” and the Limits of Lead
When Marc Edwards took up Flint’s cause in the summer of 2015, he was
already well known to the scientific community as a leading expert on lead
corrosion. During his involvement in the Washington, D.C., lead-in-water
crisis of the early 2000s, some mythologized him as a scientific superhero
who used the powers of science to assist communities in distress (a sketch
from a grateful D.C. resident, hung on his office wall, depicted him as “Corrosion Man”).18 Edwards received national recognition at the time for his
work. He was profiled in Time magazine (where he called the elimination of
lead in drinking water “a cause to die for”),19 awarded a MacArthur “Genius
Grant,” and dubbed, simply, “The Water Guy.”20
Edwards himself, however, remembered the D.C. experience as one of
impotence and failure. Not only were residents exposed to lead for years
before the story broke, it took even longer to prove that the city’s attempt at
a solution (partial service line replacement) was making the problem worse
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and that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) analysis of
D.C. children’s blood lead levels (showing no change despite huge exposures)
was wrong. Although there was ample evidence of official malfeasance, none
of the people harmed ever received reparations. In the origin story Edwards
gave his Flint intervention, D.C. was the prologue in which the hero watches
helplessly as those he has tried to save meet their doom—and vows never to
let it happen again.
Flint was a second chance: it was shaping up to be “another D.C.,” but
there was still time to spare residents a great deal of harm.21 Edwards was
determined, however, to go into Flint with the right “narrative,” one in which
the heroes and the villains were sharply delineated.22 The villains, as in D.C.,
were the dark forces of “institutional scientific misconduct”—an epidemic
(said Edwards) within the state and federal agencies charged with protecting
public health.23 These agencies were swarming with “weak, unethical cowards” because their “perverse” incentive structure put loyalty to the agency
over loyalty to the human race.24 Instead of treating science as a “public
good,” they used it “to fool people”25 whenever doing so meant saving face
or avoiding inconvenient remedial action. And they did not take kindly to
people exposing their way of operating—a lesson Edwards learned the hard
way in D.C. when the EPA canceled its subcontract with him for lead testing.26
The heroes, by contrast, were those who dispelled government obfuscation with fearless scientific inquiry and put science in the service of the
public, without consideration for professional or material gain. Edwards
liked to say that he and his team had gone “all in for Flint,”27 “dropp[ing]
everything” to come to the city’s aid at a time when no one from the area
with comparable expertise was offering to help.28 He described the intervention to me as a “suicide mission” that required putting his “career on
the line,” not to mention considerable expenditures of resources, time, and
energy.29 At one point, Edwards estimated that the team had spent $300,000
out of pocket to make its work in Flint possible,30 and put in the equivalent
of six years’ worth of man-hours. The team was so strapped for cash, he
claimed, that its $850,000-per-year lab operation—funded largely by grants
he said he now had precious little time to apply for—was becoming unsustainable.31 The motif of altruistic sacrifice on behalf of Flint residents by an
uncommon breed of scientist infused the story the Flint Water Study team
told about its own intervention, and it created the impression that the criticism later directed at Edwards was not only unfair but also ungrateful.
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Edwards also had a place for the activists, of course, within his sciencecentric Flint narrative: they were the “citizen scientists” who had put together
a first-rate ground operation and distinguished themselves by their intuitive
grasp of the scientific method. As far as I could tell, Flint activists did not have
any previous familiarity with the term “citizen scientist.” As LeeAnne Walters
told me, “I did not coin myself a citizen scientist. That was coined on me. …
That wasn’t something I put out there.”32 While Walters came to embrace the
designation, others were less comfortable with it. Claire McClinton balked
when I asked her if she identified with the term, screwing up her face. The
thought of deriving an identity from the Virginia Tech collaboration, which
was “just sampling,” as she put it, seemed absurd. As far as she was concerned,
the sampling effort was simply one prong of the struggle among others—it in
no way defined the struggle or the people waging it. The way she made sense
of the term “citizen science” was to think of it as a “political term about the
activism of the people,” expressing the determination of residents to take
matters into their own hands.33 The real significance of citizen science, in
other words, was not the “science” part but the democratic initiative that
made it possible. Edwards’s framing of Flint activists as citizen scientists was
one sign among others that he was attempting to write them into his own
preconceived narrative rather than figuring out how he fit into theirs. In this
dynamic were seeds of later controversies.34
Given the unfamiliarity of the term “citizen science” to Flint activists,
Edwards and his team had considerable influence over how it was defined
and applied. They employed it like a badge of honor, a compliment they
paid to their most valued collaborators, at first applying it freely to all the
activists who participated in the original sampling effort. As these activists
fell off the Virginia Tech bandwagon, however, whittling the Flint wing of
the team down to LeeAnne Walters and a few allies, Edwards increasingly
held Walters up as the citizen scientist par excellence. (The other activists, he
told me, were “heroic in their own way” but didn’t have her “poster child”
qualities.35) The more Walters’s personal journey from resident to activist
to citizen scientist came to be seen as the summation of the grassroots side
of the Flint Water Study’s intervention—even as her support of Edwards
and part-time residence in Flint began to marginalize her within the activist community—the more Edwards’s version of citizen science looked like
a success. Every award Walters received, all the way up to the prestigious
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Goldman Environmental Prize (the “Nobel” of environmental activism),
enhanced his credibility, too—at least, with outsiders.36
If Edwards and the Flint Water Study team could bestow the honorable
designation of citizen scientist, they could also take it away. The most striking case was that of Melissa Mays, an important contributor to the original
sampling effort who became one of Edwards’s most vocal critics. As relations soured, Edwards began to depict her as Walters’s foil, as the anti–citizen
scientist: whereas Walters was ethical, honest, and rigorous, willing to follow the science of the water wherever it led, Mays was an unscrupulous liar,
who exemplified the kind of fearmongering and refusal to face facts Edwards
believed was plaguing the activist community. There were signs that the
revocation of Mays’s citizen science card was even retroactive: in a presentation subtitled “Ut Prosim in Action” (after Virginia Tech’s motto of service),
Flint Water Study’s Siddhartha Roy used a cropped photo of the original
sampling team that cut her out of the picture.37
One of the most important vehicles Edwards used to promote his citizen
science frame and narrative of the water crisis as a whole was the website
established by the Virginia Tech team, Flintwaterstudy.org. Its main inspiration was WASAwatch, a website founded in 2009 that became an important
means of disseminating information to residents about the D.C. water crisis
and its aftermath as well as influencing the local water utility (WASA38) and
federal agencies like the CDC, which paid close attention to the site. There
was a qualitative difference between the two sites, however: WASAwatch was
controlled by local residents and activists, with Edwards playing a behind-thescenes support role, whereas Flintwaterstudy.org was controlled by Edwards
and his team, and what happened with it was out of the activists’ hands.39
This is not to say the activists weren’t glad of its existence, at least at first. As
Nayyirah Shariff told me, they even “built it up and legitimized it,” helping
to turn it into the place to go for breaking news about the crisis. The problem
was that after the site “flipped” (a shift she dated to January 2016), becoming
a platform for commentaries that clashed with the activists’ point of view
and eventually for public attacks on activists, their allies, and fellow scientists, there was little anyone could do about it.40
Although these structural imbalances of power over framing and communication were present from the beginning of Virginia Tech’s involvement in Flint, the wave of grassroots credibility on which Edwards and the
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team rode in made it easy to overlook them at first. Not only was Edwards,
like Bob Bowcock, an independent outsider stepping up to help and willing
to work with activists, he was much more aggressive about calling out the
officials who activists felt were stonewalling them. Of course, his intervention
was also far more involved and effective than Bowcock’s, at least with respect
to the short-term goal of getting off the river. The storybook version of that
intervention, heavily promoted by the Flint Water Study team itself, depicted
the resulting collaboration as a triumph of grassroots initiative, benign expert
support, and “stunning” accomplishment.41 It seemed at first that it had been
genuinely empowering to the activists, who took pride in having led a sampling operation impressive in its sophistication, scale, and impact, and having
done science “better” than trained scientists. The compliment fed into the
populism at the heart of the water movement’s conception of democracy: in
a city turned over to authoritarian technocrats due to the supposed deficiencies of its residents, laypeople had taken the science of the water into their
own hands and wowed the experts with their competence.
The success of the collaboration, however, also had an empowering effect
on the expert. The media showered Edwards with attention and the STEM
community showered him with accolades, awards, and opportunities, holding up his work in Flint as a “gold standard” to be emulated elsewhere.42
Although Edwards seemed to revel in the idea that he was a maverick and
an outsider, all the attention and esteem gave him considerable influence
over mainstream perceptions of the water crisis—including, critically, perceptions of whether or not the crisis was “over.” Edwards became the default
scientific authority outsiders rushed to for comment whenever there was a
new development in Flint, accumulating the kind of a priori credibility—one
might describe it as “credibility excess”43—that put competing perspectives
at an automatic disadvantage.
When Edwards had his guns trained on the state, activists saw his credibility as an asset to the movement, consciously cultivating it by talking up
his scientific expertise, his independence, and the trust he had earned from
residents. While their endorsement could not by itself vindicate Edwards’s
science—it would take Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha’s blood lead study to do
that—it went a long way toward building up his national reputation as
someone who put science in the service of the “public good.”44 The idea that
grateful Flint residents had embraced Edwards as their champion became
an invitation for outsiders to play up his “heroic” qualities.45
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By the time I began attending activist meetings in early 2016, however,
cracks were already beginning to appear in Edwards’s credibility with the
activists. Now that Edwards was the scientific face of the lead crisis, Governor Snyder decided it would be better to take him on as a partner than risk
incurring more of his wrath, appointing him in January to the state committee overseeing the crisis recovery effort in Flint. Edwards became a trusted
advisor and even—according to a rumor circulating within the activist
community—the governor’s “friend.” Right around the time when activists
started calling for Snyder’s arrest, Edwards began singing his praises, describing him as “very, very committed to getting this fixed for the city of Flint.”
Once Snyder learned of Hanna-Attisha’s blood lead data, Edwards said, he
“immediately intervened to remove the health threat,” effectively putting
an end to the public health crisis as early as October 2015. He also brought
in international experts to look at Flint’s infrastructure and “studied the
Lead and Copper Rule” so carefully that he could be classed as one of the
“top experts” in the country on the rule.46
Edwards’s attitude toward the EPA followed a similar trajectory. At first
he was fiercely critical of the agency: during his Congressional testimony in
early 2016, he passed up no opportunity to excoriate it, much to the delight
of his Republican questioners. (Snyder, during his own testimony, followed
suit.) As activists learned more about Edwards’s rocky history with the EPA,
and his right-wing political leanings, it got some of them thinking: what if
his main motivation for getting involved in Flint was actually to continue
a personal and political vendetta against the agency?
Although Edwards initially went after the EPA with guns blazing, however, he became increasingly laudatory of the agency right around the time
it gave him an $80,000 grant to retest homes for lead: whatever its initial
failings, it was now doing “good work” and “effectively assisting with the
recovery.”47 Edwards insisted that his change of heart began earlier, with the
resignation of EPA Region 5 Administrator Susan Hedman and the agency’s
embrace of Miguel del Toral, but for the activists the timing, once again,
seemed more than just coincidental.
It is possible, though, that none of this would have mattered—not the
kind words for mistrusted people and agencies, or the willingness to accept
money from them—if the activists had not felt like Edwards’s message about
the water was taking an unwelcome turn. The main value Edwards had to the
water movement—and in this sense he was no different from Bowcock—was
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that he breathed authority into its message that the water was not safe. Up
through October 2015, the political importance of that claim was that it
formed the basis of activists’ demands to leave the river. From October onward,
its political implication was that Flint was still in crisis and still needed help.
The claim was not merely political, however, but also an expression of the
deeply felt belief of activists and many, many residents of the city.
It was Edwards’s particular interpretation of why the water was not safe
that proved to be a liability. What brought the Virginia Tech team to Flint
was, of course, lead—far from the first contaminant to spark concern among
residents and one that only gradually became a priority for the water movement during the spring and summer of 2015. The main significance of lead
to the activists was that it was perking up the ears of officials who were
otherwise ready to be done talking about the river. Shifting attention to lead
made good strategic sense from this perspective, but it had a downside whose
consequences became progressively clear: lead explained little to nothing
about what residents had actually experienced or were experiencing. It was
not responsible for the “aesthetic” issues with the water (color, taste, smell),
or skin rashes, or hair falling out, or respiratory illness, or a variety of other
health symptoms residents attributed to the water. The existence of these
symptoms gave activists strong reason to believe that lead was not the only
or even the main thing harming residents. However, if the strategic value of
lead caused them to look past this difficulty—at least temporarily—Edwards
had stronger incentive for Flint to be understood, fundamentally, as a leadin-water crisis. Characterizing the crisis this way had the effect of making his
expertise preeminently relevant, especially after scientists with other kinds
of expertise began sampling in Flint. And most importantly, from a narrative
perspective, it set Flint up to be the redemptive sequel to D.C.
Despite Edwards’s focus on lead, he wanted residents to know that he
was well aware of their health symptoms and on the lookout for other contaminants of concern. When his team came to Flint for a short visit in the
middle of the activists’ sampling effort and did some sampling of its own, it
left, he said, “no stone unturned.”48 Initially, the team raised some concerns
about bacterial growth because of the abundance of iron in the water but,
after further research, reported nothing alarming in the way of pathogens.
The team also corroborated the city’s claim that TTHMs had fallen to levels
well within the acceptable range. (As for the period of time when TTHM
levels were high, the team affirmed that “in the grand scheme of things, worse
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things can happen.”49) These results led to a fateful determination, relayed
at the September 2015 town hall at which the team debuted its findings
directly to residents: the water was “safe for bathing and showering.”50
As long as the team was supplying a knockout punch in the form of high
lead results, the activists could tolerate these kinds of statements for the time
being; the lead issue by itself was enough of a bombshell to bolster greatly
the demand to leave the river as well as a robust set of demands for remediation and reparations. But for Edwards, seemingly—and for the state, which
came to consider him the main authority on the subject—the city’s ninetieth
percentile for lead became the preeminent indicator of whether or not the
water was “safe.” And within months of the switch back to Detroit water,
system-wide lead levels were dropping.51 All indications, Edwards suggested,
were that a D.C.-scale tragedy had been averted. He chalked up the positive
trend to the reestablishment of a passivation layer through the addition of
orthophosphates (on his advice) at the water treatment plant: in layman’s
terms, the pipes were “healing,” preventing the further leaching of lead. So
much so, he submitted—to much shock and derision among activists and
residents—that removing them did not have to be a top priority given all of
Flint’s other infrastructural needs.52
Statements of this kind had a whiplash effect on residents who had come
to see lead service lines as acute threats to their health. Edwards himself had
taught residents to imagine that they were drinking their water through a
“lead straw,” a straw with the capacity to leach soluble lead and, at unpredictable times, particulate lead that could send their blood lead levels soaring if
ingested. Using the water, he had said, was like playing “Russian roulette.”53
It was little consolation, then, to hear that the water was getting back to normal on average, since that was no guarantee that any particular glass of water
was lead free. For Edwards, however, the remedy for such worries was simple:
point-of-use faucet filters, which by January 2016 were available, for free—a
“generous” act, he told me54—at state-sponsored distribution sites in every
ward of the city. Until the day that all the lead pipes were replaced, he said,
Flint residents could, like D.C. residents, “learn to live with lead in water.”55
While Edwards would not flatly assert that the water was “safe,” he began
to stress that the water in Flint was as safe as, or safer than, municipal water
in most other parts of the country. At one point, he claimed that filtered Flint
tap water was “every bit as good if not better than the quality of … bottled
water.”56 In response to these kinds of statements, activists seized upon every
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Figure 7.1
Banner outside a Flint home. Christina Murphy.
high lead result from an individual home as evidence that he was wrong: the
water was not getting better (or was even getting worse), and the lead crisis was
far from over. At other times, though, the same activists would say they had
no argument with the overall lead picture Edwards was painting, or even that
they weren’t worried about lead anymore. Instead, they argued that the real
problem was with contaminants other than lead that Edwards was neglecting
to take seriously because they contradicted his sanguine narrative of Flint as
a “success story.”57 Conflating the water crisis with the lead crisis seemed like
a dismissal by implication of all the ailments unrelated to lead that residents
continued to complain of (and that had, in many cases, turned them into
activists in the first place). With national outrage over Flint running high by
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early 2016, these ailments were being treated with more respect than ever—it
was a child with rashes, after all, who was chosen to symbolize the crisis
on the cover of Time.58 Attributions of symptoms like rashes to the water,
however, still lacked a scientific foundation, and activists knew by now that
compiling anecdotal evidence of the water’s dangers would only get them so
far. Once again, they would seek to infuse their experience of harm with the
weight of science, and with trust in Edwards dwindling, they would do it not
with his help, but with the help of yet another “expert” outsider.
Water Defense and the Boundaries of Science
Scott Smith, like Bob Bowcock, was closer to the world of activism than academia. He, too, was the “expert” arm of a small advocacy group associated
with a high-profile celebrity: Water Defense, a nonprofit founded by the
actor Mark Ruffalo in 2010. Water Defense grew out of Ruffalo’s involvement in the anti-fracking movement, and much of its work revolved around
this cause. It was an oil spill, however—the March 2013 rupture of the
ExxonMobil-owned Pegasus Pipeline in Mayflower, Arkansas—that brought
Ruffalo and Smith together. Smith was in Mayflower doing volunteer water
sampling and finding oil where ExxonMobil said it wasn’t. Intrigued by
his work, Water Defense reached out through social media and struck up a
dialogue that eventually led to a position with the organization.59
What stood out about Smith was not just his revealing sampling results,
but the instruments he used to obtain them. A Harvard MBA, Smith’s background was in the plastic foam business. In 2006, the New York factory
housing his foam company was heavily damaged in a flooding event that
deluged it in sewer backup and oil-contaminated water.60 After the flood,
Smith became “obsessed with coming up with a simple solution to filter
oil from water.” Over the next several years, he invested $5 million in the
development of a foam-based product that would fit the bill.61 The result
was OPFLEX®, described by Smith as “the World’s only proven Open-Cell
Elastomeric Foam technology to filter oil from water and other contamination from the surface water including the entire water column.”62 The
material’s secret, Smith maintained, was its “biomimicry” of the human
lungs, absorbing some substances while repelling others. More specifically,
it was “oleophilic,” attracting oil like a magnet, and “hydrophobic,” repelling water after cleansing it of contaminants.
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Prior to founding Opflex Solutions in 2011, Smith began taking his prototypes to disaster sites around the country and the world to test—and, at the
same time, demonstrate—their efficacy. In the process, he had a catharsis
that expanded his sense of what the material might be used for. In 2010, the
Deepwater Horizon oil spill brought him to the Gulf of Mexico, where BP
made some experimental use of his foam during its cleanup effort (a proud
moment that Smith, years later, clearly viewed as signaling the arrival of
his invention).63 As he was “working side by side with fishermen and people
in the communities of the Gulf of Mexico,” he “realized the world was relying on instantaneous water testing—taking water samples for a split second
from the surface of the water.” The problem with this method of testing was
that it “was giving false negatives of dangerous oil-related chemicals.” It
suddenly dawned on Smith that OPFLEX® could be deployed not only for
cleanup purposes, but as an “environmental indicator” capable of detecting chemicals that would otherwise go unnoticed. From that moment on,
he recalled, his life “changed forever.” He realized that he “had a duty and
obligation to inform people” about the importance of what he described as
“cumulative” water testing. Unlike “instantaneous,” grab-sample testing,
Smith claimed that testing water with his sponge-like material mimicked
the body’s exposure to contaminated water over time, offering a video of
what was in water rather than a snapshot. It increased the likelihood, he
said, of picking up contaminants that might be randomly missed by grab
samples, at levels of accumulation analogous to what people encounter
while swimming, bathing, or showering.64
Ruffalo was attracted to the technology for its potential to provide a
fuller index of water contamination.65 His vision was to use OPFLEX® to
develop a “national open-source mapping of the nation’s headwaters” cataloguing baseline contaminant levels.66 Such a map would make it easier
to gauge the severity of contamination events, but it would also have an
empowering effect on communities, opening their eyes to “the true state of
their water based on proven, scientific data.”67 OPFLEX®’s low price point
and ease of use would also enable “civilian scientists to test the water,”
decreasing reliance on testing by industry and the EPA and “arming the
public with a technology that can’t be gamed.”68
Water Defense wore its science-and-technology-meet-real-life philosophy
on its sleeve. Smith emphasized that part of what made his foam special was
that he had developed it out in the field, not in a traditional laboratory. In
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a joint interview in June 2014, he and Ruffalo explained that Water Defense
was “unique in that our laboratory is the real world. We go into a community, listen to their concerns, and help them diagnose and then solve [their]
specific water contamination problems.”69 Just as loose as the organization’s
definition of a “laboratory” was its definition of a “scientist”: it presented
Smith, a businessman and activist with no particular scientific training, as
its “Chief Scientist,” and occasionally as its “Chief Chemist.”
In a video posted on January 9, 2016, Smith debuted a new configuration of his OPFLEX® foam: the “Water Defense WaterBug.” While Smith’s
other foam devices were designed for large-scale water cleanup and were
thus large themselves (like his “synthetic eel grass” and “megapads”), the
WaterBug was small and sleek—one could imagine using it in everyday settings.70 Demonstrating its absorbent properties, in the video Smith articulates the logic of WaterBug sampling in language Flint residents would hear
repeatedly over the next several months:
Typical water testing that is used to declare water “safe” for communities is based
on testing the water for a split second. That doesn’t make sense. We don’t encounter water for a split second. We don’t swim in the water for a split second, we don’t
bathe for a split second, we don’t shower for a split second. So why are we relying … our health and human safety on testing that tests water for a split second?
He then rattles off a number of ominous-sounding chemicals he says he has
found with his foam in bathtubs and sinks all over the country: trimethylbenzene, toluene, xylene—chemicals all the more insidious for being
“clear, colorless, [and] odorless.” “It is simply unacceptable,” he opines,
“for people to have to bathe, shower, cook, or drink water with any level of
these toxic chemicals.”
Three weeks later, after connecting with Melissa Mays through a mutual
contact, he arrived in Flint. Another video documents Smith’s four-day visit.
It opens on the night of January 29, 2016, in Smith’s room at the local Holiday Inn Express. He explains that he has been instructed by hotel staff not to
drink the water but reassured that it is safe for bathing and showering. “The
question is,” he asks the camera rhetorically, “if water is not safe to drink,
why is it safe to bathe and shower in?” He proceeds to extract a device from
a glass jar—an aquamarine sponge, shaped like a Koosh ball with thicker
tentacles, that he introduces as “the Water Defense WaterBug.” What makes
the device distinctive, he informs the viewer, placing it under the open faucet
of the hotel bathtub, is its ability to “mimic the way we all encounter water.”
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The next clip finds Smith setting out at sunrise to take another sample—
this time, of the Flint River. His “mission,” as he puts it, is to “get baseline
Flint River readings” for “the full gamut of potential chemicals of concern.”
Speaking in a car on the way to the sampling site, he explains that “once
we have … these baseline readings, we can then have an index and we can
trace that throughout homes we test, hotels we test, schools we test, and so
on.” After arriving at a convenient bridge, Smith throws a larger version of
the sponge over the side. Thirty minutes later, he hoists it back up and cuts
several tentacles off for analysis before returning the device to the river to
soak for 24 hours.
What Smith does not explain in the video is how he proposes to trace an
“index” of chemicals from the river to residents’ taps, given that the city had
stopped using Flint River water in October of the previous year. The non sequitur seemed to suggest that Smith had not been following the news coming
out of Flint closely enough to realize that the city was back on Lake Huron
water. Although Smith would later, in his own defense, cite other reasons
why it was useful to have a baseline reading,71 Marc Edwards would point to
the gaffe as one reason, among others, to question his competence.
However, that controversy was still in the future. Prima facie, there was
much about Smith that was alluring to activists looking for more evidence
of the water’s impurity. His focus on the “cumulative” effects of contaminants in bath and shower water could help to explain health problems like
rashes and hair loss, problems being treated—or so many residents felt—
condescendingly and dismissively by officials (a much-maligned poster put
out by the state and county health departments cheerily proclaimed, “Hey
Flint! It is safe to wash!” with a picture of two smiling babies in a bubble
bath).72 Furthermore, Smith had the appeal of being an outsider independent of the agencies now funding Edwards—a masterless warrior (in his
self-description, “Water Warrior One”), free to follow the evidence where it
led him. Melissa Mays became Smith’s closest ally, developing the kind of
loyal and defensive relationship with him that LeeAnne Walters had with
Edwards, but I heard numerous activists, after meeting Smith for the first
time, speak of their intuitive trust in him and sense that he was on their
side. Some activists did raise concerns that Smith was trying to make money
by scaring residents, using the crisis as a showcase for a proprietary technology from which he could, in theory, profit. But Smith was generally seen as
far less compromised by his ties to the business world than Edwards was by
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his ties to state and federal agencies; ironically, while the activists accused
the tenured professor of being motivated by money, they painted the businessman as an altruist who, like Bob Bowcock, had merely responded to
pleas from the community for help and had no ulterior motive. It was a
sign that Smith’s reputation as an activist committed to the cause of clean
water would take primacy in their minds over his business background.
Smith found another important anchor of support in a less obvious corner of the community: the plumbers of United Association Local 370. The
plumbers were already highly regarded for their contributions to the water
crisis response,73 but the specific issue that brought Smith to the union hall
during his first visit to Flint was water heaters: he wanted to sample them, but
didn’t trust himself to open them. On that simple basis, a collaboration was
born. United Association (UA) plumbers Harold Harrington and Ben Ranger
would accompany Smith to residents’ homes and assist with his sampling
and the installation of shower filters. Smith took to sporting a UA 370 jacket
and posting grave-faced pictures of himself and the plumbers to Facebook
during sampling visits, continual reminders that they were on his side.74
As with Edwards, however, what ultimately mattered more than who
Smith chose to work with was what he had to say about the water. And
what he had to say was, to put it simply, sensational. Within two weeks
of Smith’s first visit to Flint, Water Defense put out a press release that led
with a gripping hook: “There is much more than lead in the water in Flint,
Michigan.” Not only had Smith found “dangerous levels of lead in bathwater” (16 parts per billion [ppb], to be exact), but also “dangerous levels
of volatile chemicals including chloroform, methylene chloride, and other
trihalomethanes in bathroom sinks and showers.” Appended to the release
were more than two hundred pages of test results provided by the independent lab ALS Environmental, where Smith’s samples had been analyzed.75
Press coverage of these claims was spotty at first, but picked up during
Smith’s next visit, which coincided with the Flint Democratic presidential
debate and found him accompanied by a delegation that included Mark
Ruffalo, Van Jones and Vien Truong (co-founder and CEO, respectively,
of the green economy group Green for All), and billionaire philanthropist
Tom Steyer. On March 7, activists from the Flint Rising coalition (whose
story is told in the next chapter) arranged a joint press conference that took
advantage of the national spotlight and star power on hand to amplify
Smith’s message. From a podium in the basement of St. Michael’s Church
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(the coalition’s headquarters), Ruffalo warned that “you’ve got a lot more
contaminants in this water than what you’re being told about.” During his
own remarks, Smith said it was “absolutely incomprehensible … how anybody with any responsibility could make any kind of statement that this
water is safe to bathe and shower in.”76
The same day, standing on a bridge over the Flint River and ringed by
Flint Rising activists, Smith delivered what he called “breaking news”: he had
found levels of “chloroform and trihalomethanes” as high as 95 ppb at the
home of a family with a three-year-old suffering from persistent rashes, and
900 ppb of dichlorobenzyne at the home of Harold Harrington (whose wife
was plagued by rashes, hair loss, and respiratory problems, and whose dog
had mysteriously died)—more “irrefutable” scientific data to add to his earlier findings. Smith said he was seeing levels of contaminants, particularly
chloroform, that were the worst he had ever encountered across sixty-two
disasters—contaminants other samplers were missing entirely because they
were fixated on lead and copper and weren’t testing hot water. He also gave
residents reason to believe that efforts to “heal” the water system would not
be effective, due to the difficulty of coating damaged galvanized pipes with
orthophosphates.77
Over the next two months, as Water Defense further solidified its relationship with the activists,78 the stream of bad news coming from Smith
continued. I was present for his talk at a Flint Rising community meeting
in early April, at which he summarized findings from WaterBug and grab
sampling at twenty houses. He continued to find high levels of DBPs, he
told us (a full eighteen samples taken with the WaterBug had come back over
the federal limit), but there was even more to worry about. At a time when
officials, guided by Edwards, were desperately trying to increase water usage
to distribute orthophosphates and chlorine more efficiently throughout the
water system, he warned that flushing the pipes would aerosolize chemicals
(including lead) and put residents at risk of inhaling them. (As support
for this claim, he cited the work of “expert” toxicologists and “experts in
plumbing systems” and distributed an arcane scientific paper from 1993
on the volatilization of lead.) Smith also cautioned that the extra orthophosphates being dumped in the system could have the “unintended
consequence” of causing low blood pressure, saying he had heard from a
“multitude” of people suffering from the problem.79
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With all the many red flags Smith threw up between February and May—
not to mention his assertion that the contamination in Flint was the worst
he’d ever seen—it came as a surprise to me when he later claimed that he had
never said the water was unsafe. It sent me back to the video of his presentation at the church, and to the media coverage of his earlier statements (which
invariably implied or stated outright that Smith was calling the water unsafe
for bathing and showering).80 When I pored over Smith’s actual words, I
realized there had been a streak of agnosticism running through them all
along. At the church he had said (and there were other, similar, instances)
that “Water Defense would never say that Flint water is unsafe for bathing or
showering; we are just saying we do not know.” Perhaps my powers of observation simply failed me, but I found it telling that this statement had escaped
me the first time. After all, the activists were seizing upon Smith’s findings as
proof of the water’s dangers and of officials’ continuing dishonesty—this was
their version of Smith’s “breaking news” and it was broadcast far and wide
throughout the activist community, over social media, and beyond. Smith’s
position on the water was treated as one of a piece with the position taken by
Bob Bowcock, who said unequivocally on a Flint-themed episode of the Steve
Harvey Show around this time that the water in Flint was not safe for bathing
and showering. Melissa Mays would repeatedly contrast Edwards’s alleged
treachery with Bowcock’s and Smith’s loyalty to residents and willingness to
give them the straight story. As far as I could tell, Smith did little to discourage these kinds of interpretations. Consequently, his statements about “not
knowing” seemed like technicalities—it was plain to see that, in practice,
they were not nearly enough to prevent the activists from arriving at dire
conclusions about the meaning of his findings.
For all his criticisms of official pronouncements about the water’s safety,
however, Smith did not come to town looking to pick a fight. On the contrary, he hoped his sampling would command the respect of the scientists
already at work in Flint and earn himself a voice in the conversation about
the city’s water quality. He was particularly hopeful for the approval of the
EPA, which had previously recognized his foam as being of some use in
water cleanup. As the issues raised by Smith began to make headlines, the
agency promised to look into them, even as it continued to tell residents
it was safe to bathe and shower. But if Smith had reason to feel encouraged by this nibble of official interest in (or at least acknowledgement of )
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his findings, he soon encountered a formidable foe among the scientific
authorities on Flint’s water in the person of Marc Edwards.
By March, Edwards had learned enough about Smith to have formed an
exceedingly low opinion of him. Smith’s “ludicrous claims,” he told me,
could not have come at a worse time. As officials at the EPA and other agencies
puzzled over how to respond to Smith, he said, energy was being siphoned
off from the core recovery effort (i.e., lead remediation), and the temporary
goodwill of state and federal agencies was being squandered.81 Edwards did
not immediately call Smith out, however. Initially, there was talk of some sort
of conference call between the two of them and the activists. Despite efforts at
mediation by Bob Bowcock and Erin Brockovich, however, the various parties
could not agree on terms, Smith backed out, and the idea fell through. In the
meantime, activists began to invoke Smith’s results as evidence that Edwards
was not telling the whole truth about the water. LeeAnne Walters pleaded
with Edwards to make some sort of public statement about Smith and Water
Defense.82
What Edwards responded with was more than just a statement—it was a
scornful and unsparing takedown that impugned Smith’s message, motivations, and scientific pretensions. In scathing, satirical posts to Flintwaterstudy.
org, Edwards wrote that Smith (whom he called “SpongeBob Scarepants”) had
“exploited the fears of traumatized Flint residents, whose unfortunate prior
experience taught them to carefully listen to views of outsiders who question
authority.” He compared Smith’s tendency to set off alarm bells before paradoxically professing neutrality on the question of the water’s safety to yelling
“FIRE!” in a crowded theater and then, during the ensuing stampede, “I DO
NOT KNOW IF THERE IS A FIRE!”83 Aside from unnecessarily complicating
the recovery effort, Edwards said, Smith’s alarmism was frightening residents
away from proper hygiene, contributing to a surge in gastrointestinal illness
that reached epidemic levels over the summer. The claim (later contradicted
by the CDC’s conclusions about the outbreak84) was angrily denounced by
activists as victim blaming for its implication that residents’ own washing
habits were making them sick.
Edwards was similarly uncharitable in his assessment of Smith’s motives:
Smith was an ambulance-chasing huckster who was using the water crisis
as a platform for a “product launch.”85 More than one product was, apparently, on offer, actually: in addition to the WaterBug, in May, Smith began
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marketing his open-cell sponge technology as a filtration device under the
name AquaFlex™, having earlier hinted to the activists of the possibility of
bringing “green jobs” to the area by “working with the plumbers’ union and
the residents” to create “solar-powered filtration” systems.86 The two technologies would, presumably, complement each other: after one revealed
contamination missed by other sampling methods, the other could be used
to remove it. Over Smith’s protestations that he had never had any intention of trying to sell Flint residents anything, Edwards’s contact at the Huffington Post described him as an “opportunistic sponge salesman.”87
As for the scientific merits of Smith’s sampling, these Edwards savaged
mercilessly. Given that Smith’s WaterBug had not been properly vetted by
the scientific community, he said, it was impossible to compare it against
standard methods of sampling: it “could give results two, five, ten, or even
one hundred times higher than the EPA standard, and it would say nothing
at all about the regulated safety of Flint water.”88 Edwards also pointed to evidence that Smith did not understand the importance of controls to the scientific method—he had sampled airborne water particles in residents’ showers,
for example, but hadn’t thought to sample the air before turning on the
water. More broadly, Smith lacked control cities: despite his insinuations that
Flint was particularly bad off relative to other disaster-stricken parts of the
country, he didn’t have the hard data to show it was true. And the data being
collected by others, using tried and tested methods, directly contradicted the
notion that there was anything unusual going on with DBPs in Flint. To
make the point, Edwards arranged a press conference with Shawn McElmurry
of Wayne State University—an environmental engineer doing his own sampling in Flint—and David Reckhow of the University of Massachusetts—a
leading expert on DBPs—to explain that there was nothing strange about
either the type or quantity of DBPs being found in Flint’s water.89 In fact, as
Edwards put it, the levels were “typical of a very good tap water.”90
Edwards did not stop at panning the WaterBug and scoffing at the rough
edges around Smith’s sampling endeavors. He went after Smith’s credentials,
too. Again and again, Edwards came back to the fact that Smith did “not
appear to have any scientific degree,”91 suggesting that this disqualified him
from speaking with any kind of authority about the science of the water. He
had enlisted McElmurry and Reckhow to help him smother Smith’s claims
under a blanket of academic science and slam the door shut on his attempt
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to insert himself into official conversations about the water.92 Smith, by
Edwards’s reckoning, was no “citizen scientist” (a term Smith began to apply
to himself), much less a worthy mentor to budding citizen scientists in Flint,
but a “pseudoscientist,” a poseur who had come to town masquerading as an
expert and profaning the good name of science in the process.93
Of all Edwards’s criticisms of Smith, this one provoked the most indignation from the activists: hadn’t they, despite their lack of scientific training,
just been praised to the skies for doing science “better” than the professionals? How could Smith’s lack of credentials be a deal-breaker? LeeAnne Walters
insisted to me that the activists’ sampling had been qualitatively different
because it was carried out under the guidance of a leading scientific expert.
But Smith, as he never tired of pointing out, had his expert support too (notably, Judith Zelikoff of the New York University School of Medicine), and his
samples—which included traditional grab samples in addition to WaterBug
data—were analyzed at a legitimate lab. One could question his way of communicating about the safety of the water, or the merits of the WaterBug, or
point out mistakes he had made, but to dismiss everything he did and said as
bunk because he didn’t have a degree? It seemed like pure elitism, an attack
on citizen science itself, with every jab at Smith glancing off the activists,
too.94 In the midst of a heated exchange with members of the Edwards camp
on Facebook, Melissa Mays wrote sarcastically: “Since the citizens did the first
three hundred Virginia Tech tests, not Marc himself, that first round of testing must be completely invalid because none of us had PhDs. Makes sense.”
She went on to quote the Wikipedia definition of “scientist,” which implies
that any “individual who uses the scientific method” may qualify.95 (Smith
himself greatly played up the apparent snobbishness of Edwards’s appeal to
authority, depicting him, in a series of photographs posted to social media, as
a plush, star-bellied Sneetch.)
When Mays and other activists rallied around Smith, then, they were
not only defending him, but defending themselves—defending their own
competence, defending their ability to judge who was trustworthy and who
wasn’t, and defending (once again) their view of reality, their staunch belief
that there was something abnormal about the effects of bathing and showering in Flint water, and that there were contaminants being missed by other
sampling methods. They were also defending their right to know as much
as possible about their water, and condemning any paternalistic insinuation
that they could not handle the truth—that they would inevitably overreact
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to negligible threats or misuse data they thought confirmed their fears or
served their political objectives. In this connection, another means Smith
used to differentiate himself—the fact that he made detailed lab reports for
the homes he tested publically available, each consisting of around fifty
pages of raw data—became an ever more important mark of distinction.
Smith and his allies argued that this gesture of transparency was an indication of his respect for residents’ intelligence and judgment, in contrast to
Edwards’s apparent belief that residents were easily bewildered and spooked.
In October, I personally tried to convince Edwards that the approach he
was taking with Smith was counterproductive. Yes, he had landed some blows:
Smith had pushed his WaterBug into the background (saying it was “under
on-going review”96), moderated some of his claims, and changed the way he
tended to identify himself (preferring “Chief Technology Officer and Investigator” to “Chief Scientist”), and he no longer got the kind of media attention
he did when he first came to town. Edwards, however, was clearly overestimating the extent to which he had discredited Smith. He was under the impression, for example, that Bob Bowcock thought Smith was “insane” (unaware,
until I told him, of Bowcock’s even more extreme statements about bathing
and showering97), but Bowcock ultimately came down on Smith’s side, appearing in a video in which he and Brockovich extolled Smith’s efforts in Flint
to put science into the hands of everyday people. And Smith continued to
make inroads in his quest for respectability: Mark Durno, the head of the EPA’s
response in Flint, agreed to sample with him side by side and presented with
him at an EPA roundtable, and a member of Snyder’s Cabinet Office invited
him to visit MDEQ’s lab. By this time, Smith was not only full of praise for
the EPA, but had concluded that even the state was starting to come around.
The irony in Edwards’s attack on Smith was that it had the unintended
consequence of greatly prolonging the latter’s involvement in Flint. It turned
out (I had not realized it at first, for he had not broadcast the fact) that Smith
had come to Flint in the middle of shooting a documentary centered on his
disaster-hopping travels throughout the United States and the world. He did
not anticipate his stop in Flint lasting for more than a couple of weeks, but
when Edwards attacked him, Flint became the place where he had to make a
stand and defend his reputation. I got the impression in my own conversations with Smith that he was irked at having gotten bogged down in Flint,
and was looking for some way to exit the situation gracefully. This turned
out to be an important factor during the next chapter of the science wars.
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The Battle over Bacteria
The conflict between Edwards and Smith revolved mainly around DBPs, but
there was another type of contaminant lurking in the background, one that
also offered some hope of explaining unexplained illnesses and impeding
the rush to declare the crisis over: bacteria. Residents had been wary of bacteria ever since the boil water advisories of 2014, but the state’s admission
in January 2016 that cases of Legionnaires’ disease had boomed during the
two summers prior took these concerns to a new level. It was the strongest
evidence yet that the water could actually kill people, and residents looked
ahead to the summer months with trepidation. So did the state. The revelations about Legionnaires’ had gotten the attorney general talking about possible manslaughter charges for some state employees, and officials in Lansing
were terrified that they would have to deal with another slew of cases as the
weather warmed.
To get out ahead of any potential problem, the state recruited Shawn
McElmurry from Wayne State University to carry out a study of legionella
contamination, awarding him a $4.1 million grant to be overseen by the
Michigan Department of Health and Human Services (MDHHS). McElmurry
was already in the process of forming the Flint Area Community Health and
Environment Partnership (FACHEP), a multiuniversity team of researchers
working with grants from the National Institutes of Health and the National
Science Foundation to study the water system’s recovery and the point-ofuse filters being distributed to residents. For help with community engagement around these various studies, McElmurry enlisted Laura Sullivan and,
in April, me, writing us both into the legionella grant.
I accepted the assignment with some hesitation. I was hard at work at
the time trying to integrate myself into the activist scene, and signing on
to a state-funded study was hardly going to boost my credibility with people who saw the state as their number-one enemy. It would not be easy
for Sullivan and I to convince the activists that the study was shaping up
to be serious and important work worth paying attention to or even getting involved in (for it, too, had a large “citizen science” component).98
Our initial idea, to arrange small-group conversations between the activists and core members of the team, went nowhere: the activists wouldn’t
even respond to messages about it, and acted annoyed when Sullivan unexpectedly invited some members of the team to a Flint Rising community
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meeting. Activists already had their expert (or at least counterexpert) of
choice in Scott Smith, and were extremely skeptical, understandably, that
state-sponsored research would result in anything but whitewashing.
Still, FACHEP was doing work that piqued at least some interest, even
early on: like Smith, it was looking for contaminants other than lead and
sampling hot water heaters as well as hot water in showers. Pointing out that
Edwards also made a point of sampling hot water heaters around the same
time, Harold Harrington told me that it seemed like Smith’s methods were
catching on, with the scientists following the lead of the so-called “pseudoscientist.”99 This perceived overlap of FACHEP’s work with Smith’s created at
least some possibility of winning over the activists allied with him.
I did not see much hope of this happening, however, without directly,
and respectfully, engaging Smith. My preference was to have members of
FACHEP, the Virginia Tech team, and the EPA sit down with Smith in some
sort of a public setting and have a civil conversation about his data. I figured that under these conditions Smith would self-moderate his claims and
we could move on from Edwards’s unhelpful barrage of ad hominem insults
to a more substantive discussion of residents’ concerns. Sullivan and I spent
two months trying, behind the scenes, to arrange a panel of this nature,
without success: there was little appetite for wading into the waters that
Edwards and Smith had bloodied with their mutual animosity. Ironically, as
Sullivan and I worked diligently to give Smith what he wanted—a seat at the
table—he and Melissa Mays came to the conclusion that we were aligned
with Edwards, or at least hostile to Water Defense, and kept their distance
from us for the next several months.100
In the meantime, we were still faced with the conundrum of how to
convince the activists (and, more broadly, residents) of the credibility of
FACHEP’s work, particularly the legionella study. After the failure of our
initial overtures, there were two things the team needed to prove, as I saw it:
first, that it could accept money from the state while retaining its independence, and second, that it had something to say about the water that was
worth hearing. On the first front, it helped that McElmurry had negotiated
strict conditions to ensure the study’s integrity, but it didn’t stop the state
from attempting to corral the study in a politically acceptable direction. Tortuous contract negotiations delayed the start of sampling until the warmest
summer months had passed (and with them, the most suitable conditions
for studying bacterial growth). It appeared to the core members of the team
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that the state was fearful their work would show cases of Legionnaires’ disease were being underreported, or that the outbreaks of 2014 to 2015 were
caused by the switch to the river. Carrying out even the work we had contracted for proved to be a continual battle, leading to combative exchanges
with the MDHHS101 and repeatedly putting the future of the project in jeopardy. When the team refused to compromise some key parts of the study,
Rich Baird, Governor Snyder’s close advisor and his man on the ground in
Flint, told us that we were not giving our “customer” (i.e., the state) what it
wanted, and that there were “other” teams waiting in the wings (i.e., Virginia
Tech) that would. At one point, it looked virtually certain that the state
would pull the project’s funding and we would all end up in court.
As frustrating and time consuming as all the drama was, it did bolster the
team’s credibility with residents and activists by suggesting that FACHEP
was not simply taking orders from the state. I took it as a good sign when,
at a Flint Democracy Defense League meeting, Claire McClinton and Nayyirah Shariff expressed their willingness to help generate some popular
pressure to move the study forward. What really began to arouse activists’
sympathies, however, was their burgeoning realization that FACHEP’s message about the safety of the water was going to be different from that of
Edwards.
Several of FACHEP’s early findings suggested that bacterial contamination was still a potential concern in Flint. Legionella was not present in the
water system in large quantities, but the type of legionella (serogroup 6)
showing up in samples was virtually invisible to urine antigen tests, raising
the possibility (just as the state feared) that cases of Legionnaires’ disease
were being missed in clinical settings. Furthermore, chlorine residuals at the
tap were minimal to nonexistent in some homes (between 10 and 20 percent of them), creating a favorable environment for bacterial growth. And
early results from the point-of-use filter study suggested that the filters could
pose a threat to Flint’s most at-risk residents. Scientists had long known
that bacteria proliferated in such filters, but McElmurry and Nancy Love
of the University of Michigan, the leaders of the filter study, were finding
significant amplifications of opportunistic bacterial pathogens linked with
upper respiratory infections, as well as bacteria typically associated with the
mammalian gut (suggestive of some sort of fecal contamination). Among
the bacteria found were species listed by the World Health Organization as
being especially dangerous because of their resistance to antibiotics.102
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The filter issue was full of political significance. The state was determined
to get out of the business of providing free bottled water, and the most
obvious means to this end was to make filters available to all residents and
argue that the water could be safely consumed through them. To raise the
issue of bacteria in the filters at all, given popular fears about bacteria in general, was an obstacle to that agenda. Residents could see right on the boxes the
filters came in that they did not filter out bacteria, but no official attempt was
made (to my knowledge) to inform the community about the implications
of filter use for bacterial exposure. In fact, the state seemed determined for
the filters to remain “black boxes,” actively seeking to prevent FACHEP from
sampling filter cartridges for legionella.103 Consequently, when the team
informed residents that the filters actually exacerbated bacterial contamination, it came as a surprise—yet another piece of information they would like
to have known but no one saw fit to tell them.104 FACHEP even quantified
the growth by providing participants in its filter study with heterotrophic
plate count data showing the extent to which bacteria had proliferated from
the influent to the effluent side of the filters.
In the results letter it sent to participants, FACHEP stressed that even
high quantities of bacteria are not necessarily harmful, using the example of
yogurt as a reference point. The unforeseen discovery of potentially pathogenic bacteria, however, threw a wrinkle into this message. Given everything residents had experienced, it seemed like they were entitled to know
about the findings while there was still time to take extra precautions, even
though the results were preliminary and analysis ongoing. At the same
time, the team certainly did not want to oversell the risks and cause unnecessary anxiety in people who had plenty of it to deal with already.
As we debated the finer nuances of risk communication internally, Marc
Edwards contacted McElmurry in early December with a request. Based on
Virginia Tech’s latest findings, he was prepared to declare Flint water as
safe as municipal water in other cities and wanted the FACHEP team to
sign off on a statement acknowledging that water quality had improved
substantially. The request was hardly a surprise by that point. Edwards had
already given indications that he was determined to treat as nonissues the
very subjects of FACHEP’s ongoing research. In August 2016, he made his
claim about filtered water being as good as, if not better than, bottled water.
In October, he claimed to me that Flint and Genesee Counties had seen
the lowest numbers of Legionnaires’ cases that year in their history, looked
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surprised when I told him how many cases there had actually been, and
then explained the numbers away as a product of more vigilant monitoring.105 In November, he made his claim about filtered water being as good
as, if not better than, bottled water.106 The thrust of these remarks seemed
to be that the science of the water was settled (for Edwards and his team
had settled it), implying that any further research was superfluous and any
suggestion of lingering risks irresponsible.
McElmurry told Edwards that a sweeping statement about Flint’s water
quality would be premature and declined to endorse the proposed statement. Although it seems Edwards was already positioning his narrative
about the water to undercut FACHEP’s work, from that point on my impression was that he was watching us like a hawk. It was plain that all the business about bacteria, just like Smith’s warnings about DBPs, was interfering
with his attempts to bring the story of his intervention in Flint to a triumphant conclusion.107
Edwards was not the only one watching FACHEP’s next moves. Scott
Smith, too, had begun to take a keen interest in the team’s work. Although
he had not given up on proving his earlier claims about DBPs (he was now
doing control sampling in other cities and posting to social media about
the “non-detects” he was getting outside of Flint), his emphasis began to
shift to bacteria after two pathogenic species turned up in his samples. He
was hopeful that FACHEP’s far more extensive research would corroborate
this finding and thereby bring it more scientific legitimacy. He also seemed
to sense that FACHEP’s work was opening up an escape hatch for him, presenting an opportunity to pass the torch of “more-than-lead” credibility to
us and thereby moderate expectations that he would continue to conduct
regular sampling in Flint (he told me that his work in Flint was “done” and
that he saw our team as picking up where he was leaving off). Scarred by
his experience with Edwards, however, and still unconvinced of our sympathies, he first had to make sure he was not going to get burned. In the
lead up to our first community meeting in mid-December 2016, at which
we planned to roll out our preliminary findings directly to residents, Smith
called me almost daily as he tried to feel out whether he could safely get
behind FACHEP. Because the team would not (indeed could not, by the
terms of our contract) share nonpublic data with him, declaring his support
for FACHEP was a bit of a gamble, premised largely on his perception of
my trustworthiness. Nevertheless, it was a gamble he decided to take, and
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he began the delicate process of convincing his allies, particularly Melissa
Mays and the plumbers, to attend our meeting with open minds.
They did indeed attend, but when they arrived skepticism was etched
so deeply into their faces that I could tell we would have our work cut out
for us winning them over. As soon as the scientists on the team began to
speak, Mays began furiously scribbling away (I figured she was planning
some sort of retort). But gradually, as I darted around the room from her to
the plumbers to the tables full of other activists (for a good number of them
had turned out), emphasizing the takeaway points, her demeanor softened.
Our message was moderate and full of caveats, but at least we were not proclaiming the water “safe” and were expressing an ongoing commitment to
look further into the concerns we (and residents) had identified.
“It was nice to hear that things aren’t all better,” Mays told the press
afterwards, “because that’s what we’re used to hearing—that things are
better, that things are all fine.”108 From that point on, she and many of
the other activists began to cite the work of “Wayne State” (for this was
the name by which the team was popularly known) alongside the work of
Smith as having revealed inconvenient truths about the water. Smith, for
his part, decided that FACHEP’s findings resoundingly confirmed his own.
He threw his symbolic support behind the team and praised our work effusively on social media.
The changing landscape of scientific credibility in Flint was illustrated
vividly the next month during a key town hall about water. The timing
of the town hall—a day after officials and scientists met for a closed-door
summit in Chicago to hash out a “consensus” about the state of the water—
reflected an all-too-familiar pattern: the “experts” settle the technical side
of the water question without public input or oversight before imparting
the end product, scrubbed of all residue of debate and disagreement, to an
essentially passive audience. The activists, however, were determined not
to be passive. Some of them had traveled to Chicago to protest the closeddoor summit outside of EPA Region 5 headquarters. Now, for the town hall,
which was to feature the experts from the summit, they had devised a craftier means of expressing their discontent, distributing empty water bottles
that members of the audience were to crinkle whenever they disagreed with
something being said. Edwards, appearing via webcam, touted the water
system’s recovery over some of the most emphatic crinkles of the night.
Even Miguel del Toral received his fair share for making similar comments
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(not coincidentally, it was the last public appearance I saw him make in
Flint). When McElmurry and Love presented about FACHEP’s work, however, the activists sat in respectful silence.
By that time, it appeared Edwards’s next campaign would be against
FACHEP, beginning with a critique of the team’s messaging about the filters.
The essence of his critique was that it was irresponsible to provide residents
with heterotrophic plate count data—it only frightened them needlessly—
and even more irresponsible to suggest that the filters might be creating new
health risks.109 The kinds of bacteria raising eyebrows, he insisted, were commonly found in water. Worried that Edwards was “backing himself into a corner” by rushing to judgment before all the data were in, McElmurry and Love
tried to get him to reconsider his position on a conference call in the lead
up to the Chicago summit. “That just failed,” Love recalls. “He just didn’t
wanna hear it.”110 Instead, at the summit, Edwards accused FACHEP of causing “much of Flint” to lose faith in the filters, offering only anecdotal evidence. In fact, it was well known that large numbers of residents had always
mistrusted the filters.111 Not even Edwards’s couple of diehard defenders in
Flint used them, and ironically, it was one of them who first sounded the
alarm over social media about the issue of bacterial proliferation after getting a results letter from FACHEP, explaining to a member of the Virginia
Tech team who tried to talk her down that her preference was to be extra
careful about bacterial exposure.
In public presentations, Edwards began to cite a World Health Organization statement to the effect that an increase of bacteria in filters does “not indicate the existence of a health risk,” while leaving out the statement’s critical
caveat: “so long as the entry water meets acceptable water microbial quality norms”
(emphasis added).112 The idea that Flint water might still be microbiologically
compromised, a possibility FACHEP continued to take seriously, entailed the
no-longer-allowable assumption that there was still something abnormal
about the water situation in Flint. Edwards also began to stress that filter use
was common around the country, as if the elective use of filter technology by
a typical filter-using household raised the same considerations as the citywide,
emergency deployment of a device largely unfamiliar to, and unwanted by,
residents—for political as well as public health reasons.113 Filter use in Flint
was not, in other words, obviously comparable to filter use elsewhere, nor
could it be reduced to a merely technical issue of the proper functioning of the
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filters.114 Finally, Edwards teamed up with the National Sanitation Foundation
to launch a separate, state-funded filter study in Flint and control cities, in an
apparent effort to lay a firmer foundation for his criticisms. The collaboration
failed totally, and all the samples taken were destroyed due to problems with
the sampling methodology—a fact not communicated to the residents who
opened their homes for the study (I was one of them), who waited and waited
in vain for an update. Meanwhile, the Genesee County Medical Society and
Genesee County Health Department recommended that “children less than 6
years old, pregnant women, and individuals with weakened immune systems
should continue using only bottled water”—or boil filtered water before drinking it.115
As FACHEP began to prepare for its second round of legionella sampling
in the spring of 2017, Edwards grew increasingly hostile. After being confronted in person by angry activists (including Quincy Murphy, a member
of FACHEP) accusing him of downplaying concerns about bacteria, and
criticized on Facebook by Laura Sullivan, Edwards gave McElmurry an
ultimatum. FACHEP, he said, had “repeatedly made false statements and
spread rumors, that promote FACHEP at the expense of the State and VT.”
He ordered McElmurry to put out an “unambiguous” statement disavowing Murphy’s and Sullivan’s supposed falsehoods or he would “correct the
record publicly” to “the utmost of [his] abilities.”116 When McElmurry took
the position that Flint residents, speaking as residents (as both Murphy and
Sullivan were), had a right to express themselves, Edwards launched what
would become a two-year-plus-long campaign to delegitimize FACHEP and
its members.
He began by co-filing, with LeeAnne Walters, a Freedom of Information
Act (FOIA) request for a wide range of internal FACHEP emails, in an apparent fishing expedition. Edwards and Walters portrayed the FOIA as part of
an attempt to help a resident obtain sampling data on her house.117 To try to
massage tensions and address the resident’s concerns, I initiated two days’
worth of diplomacy with Walters, with whom I had up to that point been on
friendly terms. Soon thereafter, however, Edwards and Walters decided, for
the first time, to call out the team by name.118 This they did in a clumsy, lo-fi
video streamed over Facebook in collaboration—in yet another irony—with
an out-of-town activist with a reputation for purveying conspiracy theories
about the water. From that point on, Edwards became much bolder in his
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public criticisms of the team, referring to its members as “unscrupulous”
and depicting us in keynote addresses as fledgling birds incompetently bumbling our way through research that was out of our league.119
The baby-bird metaphor became more difficult to sustain after the team
published results from its legionella work in top journals in early 2018,
including a paper in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS)
that linked the Legionnaires’ disease outbreaks of 2014 to 2015 to low
chlorine residuals within households after the switch to the Flint River.120
Arguing that FACHEP had failed to give proper credit to the Virginia Tech
team’s work on legionella, Edwards and colleagues immediately, and unsuccessfully, challenged the paper. It was his team’s work, Edwards claimed,
that had first demonstrated the connection between the outbreaks and the
source change and hypothesized the chlorine connection, and FACHEP was
trying to rewrite history by giving itself credit for the discovery.
If Edwards had difficulty perceiving the difference between FACHEP’s
research (which included rigorous statistical analysis of the legionella/
chlorine correlation) and his own (which lacked such analysis), the state
did not. The MDHHS was already prepared to attack the papers upon publication121 after FACHEP refused to submit to the state’s insistence that the
team continue its work under the supervision of an “independent” water
research institute with prior ties to the Snyder administration.122 The reason
for the state’s power play soon became apparent, as the PNAS article (unlike
Virginia Tech’s work on legionella) made a major political splash in the preliminary hearings of MDHHS Director Nick Lyon and Chief Medical Executive Eden Wells, who faced involuntary manslaughter charges for failing to
alert the public about the Legionnaires’ threat.
If activists had any lingering doubt that Edwards’s interests and the
state’s were now aligned, it was dispelled when he was called to testify in
defense of Lyon and Wells in March 2018.123 Whereas FACHEP members
had testified to Lyon saying things in meetings like “everyone has to die
of something,” and to his and Wells’s efforts to prevent certain kinds of
research, Edwards spoke glowingly about his own interactions with them
and their commitment to public health in Flint.124 He also took the opportunity to criticize FACHEP’s work.125
Almost as soon as Edwards left the stand, a post in the form of an exposé,
targeted at Shawn McElmurry, appeared on Flintwaterstudy.org under the
title “FACHEP vs. The People of the State of Michigan.” It accused McElmurry
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of misleading the state about his past work in Flint and stealing a former
graduate student’s model of the city’s water system in a plot to procure grant
money made available by the water crisis, concluding that McElmurry was
potentially “guilty of perpetrating, one of the most insidious cases of scientific misconduct ever, in relation to procurement of disaster relief research
funding.”126 In conjunction with the blog post, Edwards filed a complaint
against McElmurry’s professional engineer’s license (later dismissed for lack
of evidence) and promised that similar exposés were to come on Nancy Love
and Laura Sullivan. When I declared on Facebook that we would not be bullied by him, he called me out by name, too, and accused us all of “gorg[ing]”
ourselves “at the FACHEP funding trough.”127
Edwards also said on the website that FACHEP’s legitimacy was now
“completely tied” to McElmurry’s proving his claims about his earlier work
in Flint.128 It was another sign of how thoroughly divorced Edwards’s understanding of credibility was from that of the Flint activists and residents I
knew. Whereas there was plenty of community interest now in FACHEP’s
findings, there was almost none whatsoever that I could detect—certainly
among activists—in what McElmurry did or did not do in Flint prior to the
water crisis. In fact, Edwards’s attack, in conjunction with his earlier testimony for Lyon and Wells, provoked the fiercest backlash against him yet. One
prominent activist who had never spoken out against Edwards before excoriated him up and down social media for doing the work of the state by trying to destroy McElmurry’s reputation, posting a headshot of Edwards struck
through with a red “no symbol” and bracketed by the words “Your ‘Welcome
to Flint’ Card has been REVOKED!! GET OUT AND DON’T COME BACK!!”
Accountability in a “Post-truth World”
As late as the summer of 2018, Edwards maintained that it was only ever “a
few folks” who were resistant to his message about the water and driving
the criticisms of him.129 That claim did not comport even remotely with
my observations on the ground. From 2016 onward, I observed, in public
and private settings, a steady stream of concerned, perplexed, and outraged
reactions to his statements and behavior. Significantly, I encountered these
reactions not only within Flint’s activist community (where LeeAnne Walters was Edwards’s “only friend,”130 as Claire McClinton put it) but within
other communities I had contact with as well, including the medical and
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academic communities, and even within the EPA. Beginning in 2017, I
started to hear variations on the claim that Edwards was going to “crash
and burn.”131
In May 2018, in a historic development, sixty residents signed a letter in
protest of Edwards’s attack on FACHEP and behavior toward the community
generally, sending it to a variety of professional engineering and scientific associations and calling for an independent investigation.132 Edwards, denouncing what he called the letter’s “many false claims”133 and depicting it as a plot
to smear him by Melissa Mays and two of his former activist colleagues from
D.C. (who had also become vocal critics), pledged to track down each of its
signatories individually and ask them whether they agreed with its every last
word.134 After multiple academics with knowledge of the situation expressed
a desire to help, I worked with them to put together another letter, affirming
the right of residents to be heard and condemning any attempt to intimidate
and silence them.135 Edwards’s response was to accuse the twelve academic
signatories of jealousy136 and to attribute the support letter to a “cancer”
infecting the social sciences that needed to be “exposed and dealt with.”137
Edwards and Siddhartha Roy also went on the offensive against Mays.
After she shared a picture through Facebook of a fire hydrant spewing brown
water and mistakenly said it was current, they deputized a sympathetic resident (technically, Walters was not their only friend) to “investigate” and
document the fact that the hydrant had not been opened in months. They
then built two Flintwaterstudy.org posts around the notion that Mays and
a few other individuals were stirring up fears about the water still being
unsafe (a belief that was, in fact, still the conventional wisdom throughout
a huge swath of the community).138 It did not matter, apparently, that the
claim about the photo did not originate with Mays, that thousands of other
people had also shared it, or—most tellingly—that the very resident doing
the “investigating” had also posted the picture and said it was taken a few
days before, in a similar effort to show that the crisis was not yet over.
Mays was an obvious target for a head-on attack of this nature, not only
because she was such a scathing critic but also because Edwards and Roy
knew she was a controversial figure within the community, with detractors
who would gloat over her misfortune even if they agreed with her about the
water. A FOIAed email later revealed, however, that the Flint Water Study
team was targeting a wider range of activists and groups behind the scenes.
In November 2017, Edwards and Roy enlisted a student to compile a record
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of social media posts from groups and persons of “interest” that included
“falsehoods” about the water, claims about health harms, and criticisms of
the team (Edwards specifically requested a screenshot “anytime they call
each other heroes, or complain about the money or awards [Mona, LeeAnne, VT] we are getting”). When Roy and the student floated the idea
of creating a “fake” page to collect the information surreptitiously, with a
stock image instead of an authentic headshot, Edwards seems to have done
nothing to dissuade them.139 Edwards later claimed that such a page was
never used, and defended the data collection as part of a paper on the dissemination of misinformation through social media. Fake page or no fake
page, however, from the activists’ perspective it was a shocking revelation
that those who continued to speak out most forcefully about the water were
being actively surveilled, not to mention discredited in academic publications. One activist felt harassed enough that she expressed her intent to file
a personal protective order against Edwards.
The list of targets specified in the emails suggested that Edwards and Roy
were still focused on the Scott Smith–Melissa Mays alliance as the Pandora’s
box that unleashed “science anarchy” on Flint, for all had been vocal about
being sampled by Smith. It made the next twist in the Scott Smith subplot
even more counterintuitive. In July 2018, a guest blog post appeared on
Flintwaterstudy.org featuring a mea culpa purportedly written by Smith, in
which he detailed the mistakes he had made in Flint and the lessons he had
learned from them. Edwards and Roy held it up as a model of responsibility in a “post-truth world,”140 calling Smith “intellectually honest,”141 and
citizen science guru Caren Cooper (who had just been written into a $1.9
million EPA grant awarded to Edwards and his team142) praised the two
sides for reconciling and “uniting for #CitizenScience!”143 It was a vindication for Edwards, with the added benefit of stripping Mays of one of her
chief allies in the middle of a broader campaign to isolate and discredit her.
From the ground in Flint, however, the whole thing looked awfully suspicious. Shortly after the post went live, Smith began telling people that he had
not wanted to write it, that he had been threatened by Edwards and Roy, and
that he disliked Edwards as much as anyone else.144 When draft versions of
the post leaked, it became clear that Edwards himself had written a substantial
portion of the confession. Changing Smith’s “lessons learned” (the phrasing
of the original draft) to “citizen science lessons learned,” Edwards put a number
of admissions into Smith’s mouth, including that Smith had caused “a lot of
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pain and suffering for everyone involved” by avoiding dialogue in early 2016,
and that it was “possible, and even likely” that his manner of presenting
his data had “changed” residents’ “bathing and showering habits.” Edwards
also seems to have come up with some of the “lessons” himself, including
the lesson that “confrontations” are sometimes necessary and that scientific
authority is valuable.145 In his original draft, Smith seems to have been fishing
for at least some contrition from Edwards. Writing that “launch[ing] devastating personal attacks without adequately vetted true and accurate facts can be
very painful for many people and cause permanent reputational and financial
damage if not corrected properly,” Smith asked Edwards to consider handling such situations differently in the future.146 The request did not make
the cut, however, and Edwards continued to act as though his hands had
been tied when he began publicly shaming Smith in 2016.
The situation became even more bizarre and confusing when Smith,
even as he maligned Edwards in some contexts, began working as a mole for
him. He contacted multiple signatories of the residents’ complaint letter to
ask if they knew their names were on it, sent Edwards years’ worth of email
exchanges he’d had with residents, and passed along an in-progress paper
shared with him as a courtesy by a signatory to the academic support letter.
He also exploited the trust of an activist who had participated in an FDDL
meeting where the issue of Edwards had come up, milking her for information before concocting a totally fabricated account of what Laura Sullivan and
I had said at the meeting and sending it to Edwards, who forwarded it to colleagues.147 The resurrection of Scott Smith as a duplicitous double agent, then,
only wreaked more havoc within the community, exacerbating activists’ sense
of betrayal and directly contributing to the circulation of new falsehoods.
The developments with Smith coincided with Edwards’s most aggressive
sally against activists yet: a $3 million defamation lawsuit against Melissa
Mays and the two D.C. activists he accused of having helped to compose
the residents’ complaint letter. The lawsuit sent a ripple wave of shock
through the community. Residents started to warn each other—tongues
only half in cheek—about speaking out against Edwards, for fear that more
people would be sued.
Although no one could have anticipated how bad things would get,
Nayyirah Shariff lamented that activists had not placed stricter terms on
their collaboration with Edwards from the start. She told me she considered
it a “personal failure”: more than any of the other activists who decided to
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partner with the Flint Water Study team, she knew how academic research
was supposed to proceed in marginalized communities. She was familiar with
the history of the Tuskegee Experiment, which she invoked when Edwards
began to turn on members of the community. Even the original sampling
effort, she said, should have included stronger protections: human subjects
training, approval by Flint’s community-based review board, and a consent
form for sampling. More broadly, there should have been a memorandum of
understanding between Edwards, his team, and their resident collaborators,
with “built-in accountability measures.”148 Without such measures in place,
the power Edwards exercised—whether he was making authoritative pronouncements about the water or using his sizable platform as a bully pulpit to
tear others down—was as unchecked as the power of any emergency manager.
Where power is effectively unchecked, the disposition of the individual
exercising it becomes the key factor in determining whether it is abused. In
this connection, activists regularly remarked on what they saw as Edwards’s
imperiousness: his tendency to appoint himself to crusading roles, to speak
with airs of authority about areas outside his expertise, and to disparage
the contributions of other researchers who did not align themselves strictly
with his perspective. Of Edwards’s campaign against “bad actors,” Shariff
joked that she wanted to see the notes from the meeting at which he was
delegated that role.149 Of his attacks on other scientists with differences
of opinion about the condition of Flint’s water, Claire McClinton asked,
rhetorically, “Who died and made him king of all scientific data?” The community, she said, did not need him to be the “arbiter of sound science.”150
And Edwards certainly, she said, had “no business” suing residents, or
otherwise attacking them—it was an attempt to “demoralize” people that
fed directly into the state’s efforts to minimize the crisis and shut down
lingering concerns. “This is Flint,” McClinton told me. “If you’re trying to
silence people’s voices, it’s not gonna work.”151
The Fight Is (Not) Over
When the Virginia Tech Flint Water Study team introduced itself to the
world in the summer of 2015, it said its first aim in Flint was “To support citizen scientists concerned about public health.”152 At that time, no
one could have imagined what the consequences would be for residents
and their allies who failed to live up to Marc Edwards’s definition of “citizen
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science,” or for other researchers who dissented from his views about how
science was to be conducted and communicated. I found that Edwards’s
own explanation for the breakdown of relations—that deep-seated antiexpertise and post-truth sentiment had taken root in Flint,153 supplemented
by a catastrophic breakdown in trust and intensified by the allegedly
unscrupulous behavior of activists, their allies, and other researchers—was
inadequate, limited by its erasure of the power dynamics involved in his
own intervention.
Certainly, challenging the “expertise” of those who said the water was
safe was a central part of the activists’ fight in Flint—as Quincy Murphy put
it to me, “that’s how we broke the door down.”154 And residents had lost a
great deal of trust, even in people who were probably worthy of it. However, activists bristled at the suggestion that lingering concerns about the
water were the products of an anti-expertise, antiscience, mistrustful worldview. Such concerns were not about not trusting people, Claire McClinton
said—after all, there were people residents trusted, they just happened to be
people other than Edwards—but about unanswered questions and indications of risk within the science produced about the water.
McClinton, like many of the other activists, believed the more people
looking into the water, the better.155 One tragic effect of the atmosphere
of hostility and suspicion clouding the conduct of scientific research in
Flint was that lines of inquiry of great significance to residents were greatly
hindered or stalled out entirely. A citizen science project I spent months
developing with a member of the Virginia Tech team who disagreed with
Edwards about bacteria fell apart after Edwards began to attack FACHEP.
Time that could have been spent on science was sucked up by credibility struggles, and much to my frustration the core members of FACHEP—
battered alternately by the state and by Edwards—became reticent about
making any public statements at all about the team’s work.156 While the
team developed close relationships with the city’s chief public health advisor and the Genesee County Medical Society—critical voices in the conversation about public health in Flint—it was too focused on watching its step
and triple checking its results (knowing they were likely to be attacked) to
develop a full-bodied presence in the community. Most tragic was that the
worthy project of building close, collaborative relationships between community members and scientific experts had to take a backseat, at least in
the short term, to confronting, in the behavior of Edwards, another crisis of
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unaccountable power. It was one among other reasons why the activists felt
their fight had to continue.
The idea that there might still be reason to keep fighting was, ultimately,
the source of the starkest contrast between Edwards and the activists.
Edwards told me in the fall of 2016 that the fight for Flint was “pretty
much over”—there were no more “doors” to break down (to adopt Quincy
Murphy’s metaphor), for officials were now embracing “good” science and
trying to do the right thing. In fact, the response to the crisis as a whole
was as close to a model as one could imagine, he said, with the state going
above and beyond the call of duty.157 The problem was that the city’s “warriors,” who had earlier played a constructive role, were finding it difficult to
transition into “peacetime.” They were not only on the wrong side of the
science of the water, in other words, but they were at this point fighting for
nothing—not least of all when they fought against him.158
It was news to the activists, however, that “peace” in their city had been
realized and that there was nothing left to fight for in Flint. Whatever
Edwards believed, it was their deep conviction that Flint had not yet been
made “whole,” not even close. The next chapter in the struggle for justice,
they insisted, had yet to be written, and this time they were more determined than ever to write it themselves.
8
From Poisoned People to People Power:
Fighting for Justice, Expanding Democracy
We’re protagonists in our own liberation struggle.
—Nayyirah Shariff, Flint Rising meeting, Flint, MI, May 18, 2017
When Flint’s pro-democracy activists and budding water warriors joined
forces, it was to expose the injustice of their poisoned water and force officials to take action. When they launched the second phase of their fight,
after Detroit water had begun to flow through Flint’s pipes again and talk
turned from “reconnection” to “recovery,” it was to ensure that residents
got the justice they deserved moving forward. Justice meant, firstly, accountability: punishment of those responsible for the crisis and reform of the
government agencies that failed to protect public health. Justice meant,
secondly, reparations: the replacement of damaged infrastructure and full
funding of the health care, nutrition, and education necessary to repair the
harm done to bodies and minds.
Justice also had a lot to do with how the recovery effort happened, with
who was in charge of setting priorities, making decisions, and determining
when the overall mission had been accomplished. The important questions
from this perspective were: To what extent would the response to the crisis
be shaped by the very people and agencies that had caused it in the first
place? What kind of say would residents have over how resources coming
into the city were managed? Who would get to decide when Flint had been
made “whole”?
The water activism of the next two-and-a-half years was informed by the
strong belief that justice was not being done in Flint. Officials had yet to
pay any legal price for their actions, the money coming in was inadequate
to address the full scope of the need (as defined by residents), and the state
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continued to demonstrate—at least in the activists’ view—contempt for the
people it had poisoned and a determination to shirk responsibility. It was,
activists argued, replacing the pipes at far too slow a rate, wasting money
(along with its nonprofit allies) on initiatives of little benefit to residents,
and looking for every opportunity (usually the latest favorable lead result
from the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality [MDEQ] or Virginia Tech) to draw down its presence in Flint, all while operating behind a
façade of community “partnership.” Even with all the national attention the
crisis was getting, and all the pressure being put on officials to do right by
Flint, the general feeling within the grassroots community was that the city
would have to fight for everything it got. Although many of the activists had
already been immersed in water activism for over a year when I first joined
up with them in January 2016, I felt like they were just getting started, gearing up for an even bigger fight than that which they had just won.
Just as the struggle for democracy that began in 2011 fed into the struggle for clean, affordable water, the struggle for “water justice” (a term activists sometimes used to tie together their various demands) fed back into
the broader struggle for democracy. In linking the crisis to emergency management, the activists landed their heaviest blow against the emergency
manager (EM) system since the overturning of Public Act 4 in 2012. As their
political narrative of the crisis went mainstream, Flint’s EMs, as well as the
architects of the EM law, had to answer for themselves. Asked during his
Congressional testimony whether the law had “failed”—at least in this
instance—Governor Snyder was surprisingly candid: it was, he said, “a fair
conclusion.”1 All three state bodies that subsequently investigated the crisis
determined that the law needed to be fundamentally reformed.2
The crisis also stimulated the state to start devolving back to the city the
powers it had retained after the last of Flint’s EMs stepped down in April
2015. Mayor Weaver, who had sided with the activists in calling for the full
restoration of local control,3 got the rest of her powers back in January 2016,
after Snyder stressed that building a “strong relationship” with her was critical to the recovery effort.4 Three weeks later, she used those powers to fire
Natasha Henderson, the city administrator given enhanced say over decision making by EM Ambrose upon his resignation. The City Council had a
harder time convincing the state that it ought to have its powers restored,
too, but finally, in May, they were reinstated on a provisional basis.5
From Poisoned People to People Power
225
To be sure, home rule was not yet back in effect in Flint. The veto power
of the Receivership Transition Advisory Board (RTAB) still hung over all
business conducted by city officials. When RTAB used its power to bar the
city from suing the state for the latter’s role in the crisis, or overturned a
council resolution to suspend the placement of liens on homes for nonpayment of water bills, it was a slap in the face to residents’ self-determination
and a reminder of who really exercised sovereignty in Flint.6 If the activists’ fight for representative democracy was not yet over, however, there
was no doubt that the political fallout from the crisis helped to advance it
considerably.
The recalibration of state and local power prompted by the crisis, as well
as the substantial federal involvement in Flint from January 2016 onward,
dramatically shifted the political opportunity structure in which the activists were operating.7 Traditional channels of political influence were now far
more open than before, and there was actual money on the table at the state
and federal levels. Activists began to spend a considerable amount of time
in Lansing and Washington, D.C., speaking directly with representatives and
pushing for more aid. They also lobbied for longer-term, structural changes,
including stricter regulations on water quality and water monitoring, protections around water affordability and accessibility,8 and more federal funding
for public water systems.9 With local officials now able to exert more influence over city affairs, activists also began to place more emphasis on holding
them accountable, turning some of their energies toward pressure, and at
times protest, of both Mayor Weaver and the City Council.
All things considered, the situation activists faced in early 2016 was pregnant with an unusual degree of political possibility—far more than existed in
2015, when all they had to organize around was the “impossible” demand to
abandon the river. The prospect of realizing other, more winnable, victories
became a key basis for further organizing, with activists striving to mobilize
residents and sympathetic outsiders around a series of targeted battles. The
demands activists made, however, continued to overflow the opportunity
structure that presented itself (at least as a “reasonable” person might have
outlined it). The lesson learned from the battle over the river was that the
hardheaded resolve of even a small group of people could move mountains,
and having the wind at their backs only made the activists more ambitious.
But while the new “impossible” demands they introduced helped to keep
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the spirit of activism alive within the movement, at times they also complicated efforts to organize residents in sustainable and effective ways.
In addition to opening up new political opportunities, the national attention the water crisis attracted made new resources available to Flint activists,
as the broader activist community in Michigan and beyond turned Flint into
one of its top priorities and expressions of solidarity and support began to
flow into the city. Relationships with outside activist and advocacy groups
greatly enhanced the capacity of local activists and enabled a variety of initiatives that would otherwise not have materialized or would have been difficult
to sustain. But here, too, activist culture helped to determine how activists
responded to the possibilities in front of them. The intense localism and
populism of the grassroots in Flint made accepting—much less asking—for
help from the outside an uneasy prospect, and there were times, I observed,
when activists opted for autonomy over assistance. Empowering people in
a city like Flint to save themselves, however, required that activists not only
mobilize resources already available to them, but create new capacity within
the community—a far more difficult prospect.
Activists like the members of the newly formed Flint Rising coalition,
with which I was closely involved from February 2016 forward, viewed such
community capacity-building as the next chapter in the fight for democracy in Flint. They saw in the thousands of residents who were now alert,
mobilized, and brimming with a newfound sense of agency latent “people
power” calling out to be organized, and capable of being directed at much
more than just the needs created by the water crisis. Their meetings were not
only strategy sessions about water: they were spaces in which residents were
encouraged to imagine the kind of society they wanted to live in, to practice
interacting in ways that prefigured that society, and to develop the skills they
would need to realize it. It was all in the name, said Nayyirah Shariff (who
would become Flint Rising’s director), of “expanding” democracy, rather than
simply “defending” it.10 Democracy from this perspective was not merely
synonymous with representative government and home rule, but more radical, a vision that looked beyond the water crisis to the transformation of
the city as a whole (which was, after all, “pretty messed up before, too,” as
Shariff put it).11 That vision was not to be ideologically predetermined in
every detail, however, but rather developed though an open-ended process
of grassroots deliberation and praxis—a process we might call, following
Kathleen Blee, “democracy in action.”12
From Poisoned People to People Power
227
Developing broad-based consensus around even short-term objectives
proved to be a challenge, however. Because organizational capacity in Flint
was so minimal to begin with, it was difficult to keep residents mobilized
and conversing with each other in a concerted way on a consistent basis.
Individual activists developed powerful voices and connections to networks
that stretched far beyond Flint, but while they carried the story of the crisis
far and wide and did impressive advocacy work outside of the city, collective
action on the home front was often spotty and ad hoc. Efforts by Flint Rising
to build up a more sustainable presence by professionalizing its operation
and securing stable sources of funding produced new opportunities but also
new controversies. Often, when critical moments of decision came, there
was no clear place within the grassroots to turn for guidance and leadership. While activists successfully revived the “spirit” of the water movement
every so often, especially during the nostalgia-tinged water source change
anniversary events in April of each year, it was a continual struggle to keep
the movement’s flesh on the bone.
For all these reasons, there is no storybook version of water activism in
Flint in the years after the switch back to Detroit water. While outsiders celebrated and even romanticized the water movement, treating activists more
often than not with great deference and respect, the view of the movement
from the inside was far messier and more complex. There were notable accomplishments but also quite a few missed opportunities. And the intensely
“DIY” sensibility of Flint activists—while inspiring for its chutzpah—was, it
seemed to me, also a liability at times, complicating relationships with allies,
stretching activists thin, and fostering an inflated sense of what could be
achieved through uncompromising assertions of popular will.
Although I do think that a shared sensibility colored activism in Flint
across different groups and phases of the water movement, however, I also
came to realize that it manifested itself in diverse ways. Behind the projection of confidence and unity that originally struck me about the activists, I
found that their sense of themselves as political agents, and their sense of
the identity of the movement as a whole, was in a state of ongoing flux and
construction. Activists new and old were engaged, not only in a struggle for
water, justice, and democracy, but in a struggle to figure out how to be activists within the political landscape created by the crisis, and the collective
course they charted through that territory was a subject of continual, and
sometimes contentious, negotiation.
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The Feds Will Not Save Us: The Need
for a Grassroots Crisis Response13
One of the most important matters to settle in early 2016 was who, on the
official side, would lead the crisis response, for it was against this backdrop
that the activists would have to decide on their next moves. During the
preceding year, activists had called repeatedly for the “feds” to step in and
take the reins away from the state. Now that the water crisis was beginning
to get national attention, the prospects for federal intervention seemed
brighter than ever. The collective national conscience was bristling at the
sight of American citizens—not, as was repeatedly stressed, the denizens of
a “Third World” country—hauling cases of water home through the snow
because they could not drink what came out of their taps. The will to do
something to help Flint was clearly taking shape.
The activists were determined to use Flint’s moment in the spotlight to
convince the world of the state’s criminal indifference to their plight and
make their case for more federal help. A characteristic example was the
#ArrestSnyder rally of January 8, which also happened to be my entrée into
the water movement. The rally came at a critical time, three days after the
state’s declaration of emergency, when we were waiting expectantly to see
how President Obama would respond. We gathered on the lawn of City Hall
(the closest thing to an agora in Flint), in the fading light of a dreary, rainy
day. Organized by Water You Fighting For? in conjunction with activists
from the Detroit-based People’s Water Board, Detroit Light Brigade, and We
the People of Detroit (who came bearing a U-Haul full of water), the event
had drawn a large number of people, perhaps two hundred,14 and I had to
peer under and around umbrellas to get a glimpse of the featured speakers.
Melissa Mays and Nayyirah Shariff stood at the center of it all, backlit by
floodlights and ringed by cameras, rallying the crowd, as an activist wearing prison clothes and an oversized Snyder head milled about and members
of the Detroit Light Brigade projected the words “Water is a human right”
onto the side of the Genesee County Jail across the street.
Shariff reminded everyone of what it would mean to residents if they
had to depend on the State of Michigan for help: the abused would be at
the mercy of the abusers who had “demeaned and demonized” them, disregarded the federal laws instituted to protect them, and failed to act with
From Poisoned People to People Power
229
“urgency” when it was proved their lives were in danger. The state’s efforts
since October to demonstrate good faith—like the forced resignations of
MDEQ director Dan Wyant and spokesperson Brad Wurfel—were, she said,
“PR” moves, and Governor Snyder’s apology for the state’s role in the crisis, issued a week earlier, was too little too late (he could take it and “flush
it”). The residents of Flint were still in search of “justice, accountability,
and reparations,” and they were more likely, Shariff implied, to get them
from the federal government than from the state.
A week later, President Obama declared a federal state of emergency in
Flint, and a variety of federal agencies stepped forward to offer their services.
The US Department of Health and Human Services, the official federal point
agency in Flint, provided public health support, while the Federal Emergency
Management Agency (FEMA) took over the provision of bottled water, filters,
and test kits at the water point of distribution sites (PODs). The Centers for
Disease Control and Prevention began looking into blood lead levels, Legionnaires’, and rashes, and the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), after
having resisted getting involved for months, took charge of the rehabilitation
of the water system. It was a strong showing, if a little late in coming, but it
was missing one key element: the disaster declaration the activists were looking for.15 Federal agencies would remain in a support role, leaving residents
more dependent than they wanted to be on the people they believed had poisoned them. Any federal money earmarked for Flint would be routed through
the state, to be dispensed at the state’s discretion. The arrangement was intolerable to the activists, who refused to give up their demand for disaster status,
reiterated at almost every water meeting and event I attended over the next
two-and-a-half years.
The face of the state response on the ground was Rich Baird, longtime
friend and advisor to Snyder (his official title within the administration was
“transformation manager”) and “the governor incarnate in Flint,” as Claire
McClinton put it.16 Baird, next to Snyder himself, was the person activists most loved to hate, the lightning rod for much of the ire they did not
aim directly at Snyder. No matter how many times he professed his affection for the city (as a Flint native), or his sympathy with residents’ anger
and frustration, activists saw him as a scheming, dissimulating, serpentine
character. Though his naturally ruddy face would grow even redder when
he was (as sometimes happened) publically berated by them, he seemed
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resigned to it and determined to finesse his way through the hostility rather
than attempt to shut it down, joking behind closed doors about the delicate
“dance” he had to do whenever he hosted community meetings.17
The activists saw Baird as the conduit through which the state insinuated
itself into almost everything that happened in Flint, including all aspects of
the crisis response.18 Baird was not working alone, however: filling out the
front lines of the official response were a variety of nonprofit organizations
that already had a presence in Flint. Every Thursday afternoon, the regional
director of the Red Cross emceed a “Community Partners” meeting that
brought these organizations together, along with representatives of government agencies, to discuss the status of various recovery initiatives. These
meetings were the subject of much derision among the activists. Although
technically open to anyone who cared to attend, they were not well publicized, and until activists raised a stink, they could not be recorded, giving
the impression that the entities participating in them preferred to operate
out of the public eye. A year into the recovery effort, some activists—and,
I would venture to guess, the vast majority of residents—still did not even
know of the existence of the meetings.
Most of all, though, the activists scoffed at the name “Community Partners.” The people at the meetings, they said, were thoroughly “out of touch”
with the “real” community of Flint, and were perpetually coming up with
“hare-brained schemes” that were tone-deaf to what residents actually needed
and wanted. I even heard the Community Partners coalition described as a
kind of colonial body, originating in the determination of the “oppressors” to
have “people who look like them” lead the recovery.19 The whole approach
also bore an unmistakable family resemblance to the emergency management
paradigm: the state, acting through a Snyder appointee, was working with
local members of the “nonprofit industrial complex,” rather than residents
themselves, to shape the city’s future.20 Tellingly, Claire McClinton described
her efforts to unite the grassroots water groups at their own coalitional meetings as the “anti-Community Partners.”21
Grasping for Unity
More specifically, what McClinton was hoping to do was to reunite the groups
that had been part of the water struggle from the “beginning.” The Coalition
for Clean Water (CCW) had never really consciously decided to disband, but
From Poisoned People to People Power
231
after the realization of its main objective, its constituent groups had started
to drift apart. The Concerned Pastors, so instrumental in bringing the groups
together initially, largely faded into the background, giving the Weaver administration space to stake out a leadership role (occasionally they reappeared to
defend Weaver when she came under attack). When members of the original
coalition spoke to the media (and some of them were in high demand now),
they spoke for themselves or their groups rather than the coalition as a whole.
They were also pulled in different directions by external networking opportunities and pushed apart by personal animosities that were kept in check,
for the most part, when everyone was fighting the same fight. Without the
CCW’s precision of purpose, different groups were beginning to articulate different demands and objectives, at a time when it seemed imperative to present a united front to the world. Opportunities for collaboration were being
lost simply because one group did not know what the other was doing.22
Despite the oft-heard lament that people were not working together,
efforts to restore unity did not get very far. When I first met Laura Sullivan,
in February, she was attempting to reassemble the activists from the CCW
to help establish a citizens’ advisory board that would give residents more
influence within the official recovery effort. The board, as she envisioned
it, would set priorities for the order of pipe replacements (deciding which
houses should be first in line), investigate new claims of harm from the
water (ensuring they got the proper attention from scientific authorities),
and keep tabs on the way private donations were being managed. The idea
stalled out, however, when some of the activists declined to participate.
Claire McClinton’s efforts were a variation on the same theme of reunification, but they were focused on a more modest goal: a “Two Years Too
Long” rally on the second anniversary of the switch to the Flint River. In
this instance, most of the people asked to participate did so, their solidarity
symbolized in a much-praised image on the back of the event’s official T-shirt:
a jigsaw puzzle, shaped like the city of Flint, with each group represented by
one of the pieces. The participants even managed to settle upon three consensual demands: the extension of Medicare benefits to all residents and former
residents exposed to the water, the declaration of a federal disaster in Flint,
and the abolition of the EM system. On the day of the rally, we congregated,
as usual, at City Hall, where about fifty activists made a respectable show of
strength in their matching black-and-white shirts, and representatives of
the different groups took turns speaking to the crowd through a bullhorn.
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The general feeling at the debriefing session afterward was that the event
had been a success. It had few lingering effects where coalition building
was concerned, however. Although McClinton continued to call “Two Years
Too Long Coalition” meetings through the rest of the year, attendance was
random and often sparse. And while she continued to hold up the three
demands as a triumph of consensus, it did not stop other groups from coming up with demands of their own.
The appearance of a 501c4 group calling itself, simply, the “Flint Coalition”
created further complication. The Flint Coalition did not have the same genealogical relationship to earlier water activism—instead, it was closely associated
with an interfaith community and educational center on the north side of
town, and had more of a professional bent than the other groups. It came out
with five “points” in January that included demands for a disaster declaration
and an external auditor to monitor the funds coming into Flint.23 Later, it
proposed a four-point plan for pipe replacement. This group and the others proceeded along more or less wholly different tracks despite the overlap of some
of their goals. One fleeting point of contact was established in June, however,
when the coalition invited environmental justice doyenne Lois Gibbs to lead
a strategy session, extending invitations to other groups and presenting it as
an opportunity to build broad consensus. McClinton, Nayyirah Shariff, and
Melissa Mays all attended, and Gibbs did a fine job of running the meeting, but it was awkward nonetheless. Without a strong understanding of the
dynamics in the room, Gibbs made a well-intentioned attempt to get everyone to agree on a list of objectives, implying all the while that the Flint Coalition would take the lead in rallying the various groups together. The buy-in,
however, simply wasn’t there on the activists’ part. When I tried to insert into
the conversation some of the demands they had articulated in other contexts, their unamused looks from the other side of the room made me think
I should have kept my mouth shut. After one follow-up meeting (which only
Shariff attended), the groups went their separate ways.
The Birth of Flint Rising
While these abortive attempts at coalition building were going on, another
group was making a bid to be the epicenter of grassroots activism in Flint, a
group that grew out of an intensive effort to bring word of the water crisis, and
emergency water assistance, to the local Spanish-speaking community. In late
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233
January, San Juana Olivares-Macias, chair of the Genesee County Hispanic/
Latino Collaborative, came to the realization that many Spanish-speaking
residents still had no idea the water they were drinking was unsafe—a reflection of the dearth of Spanish-language communications about the water
(when Olivares first checked the state’s water crisis website for materials to
distribute, everything was in English). Some of those who did know about the
crisis had first learned of it from relatives in Mexico who saw coverage on the
news. Furthermore, the modicum of information that had trickled down to
the community was, in many cases, hurting more than it was helping: many
of those who had heard the water was “bad” (a rumor was going around
about a body being found in the river) were boiling it, further concentrating whatever lead was present and rendering it even more dangerous. Heartwrenching stories began to appear in the press of mothers who continued to
feed their infants lead-tainted formula through the fall months of 2015, as
English-speaking residents were scrambling to attach filters to their faucets
and stocking up on bottled water.24 Even after the water PODs opened in
January, many members of the community—especially the undocumented—
were wary of using them because staff at some sites were asking for ID (a
practice eventually exposed and ended by activists). And when anyone who
looked official came knocking with offers of assistance, many refused to
answer the door, fearful of immigration raids.
As the problem was coming into focus, Olivares got in touch with Art
Reyes III, a former student of community organizing guru Marshall Ganz
and organizer with the Center for Popular Democracy. Reyes had deep roots
in Flint (his father was one of the leading figures within the local United
Automobile Workers [UAW]) and the crisis presented an opportunity to put
his training to good use in his hometown. In collaboration with Nayyirah
Shariff and local activist and artist Desiree Duell, Olivares and Reyes organized a door-to-door canvass on the east side of Flint, where most of the
city’s Hispanic population was concentrated. During their first weekend of
canvassing, they found that around 95 percent of Spanish-speaking residents they made contact with were unaware that the city had a lead problem
or that lead posed a special threat to children.25 The discovery only heightened their sense of urgency: over the next month, they enlisted the help of
hundreds of volunteers and knocked on some eight thousand doors.26
As the canvassing gathered momentum, the activists began to target a wider swath of residents, extending their reach into public housing
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complexes and North Flint (predominantly African American and the most
blighted and economically depressed side of the city). They partnered with
the group Crossing Water, a rapid-response team of social workers and volunteers who followed up with residents in need of water, filters, or support
services. They also began to talk about what else they could do with the
momentum they were gathering and the contacts they were making in the
community. The result of this conversation was a decision to brand themselves as a new group—a new “coalition,” in fact: Flint Rising.
In February, Flint Rising made its official debut. In addition to keeping up the canvassing, it began inviting residents to attend weekly community meetings on Saturday mornings in the basement of St. Michael’s
Church. Over the next several months, I attended almost every one of these
meetings, often accompanied by my wife and son. It seemed like the place
to be: the canvassing operation was truly impressive and professionally
managed (I went on some canvasses myself), evincing a level of organizational competence not always in evidence in Flint, the organizers were
experienced and knowledgeable, and the meetings were often (though not
always) well attended. Furthermore, Flint Rising explicitly presented itself
as the umbrella organization that was bringing together the city’s grassroots
groups, and “St. Mike’s” church as the only place where anything really
noteworthy water related was going on at the grassroots level.
At first I had a difficult time figuring out what the “coalition” was, however. The only local group that was unambiguously on board, from what I
could tell, was the Flint chapter of Michigan Faith in Action—an affiliate of
the national community organizing network People Improving Communities through Organizing (PICO)—which had its offices in the church.27 The
Flint Democracy Defense League (FDDL), often cited as being a member of
the coalition, had only one real point of contact with it (Shariff), and I knew
from attending FDDL meetings that there was some skepticism within the
group of Flint Rising’s sudden appearance on the scene. Shariff later told
me that some block clubs and pastors had also been involved early on, but
from what I could tell, Flint Rising’s self-identification as a coalition of local
groups was more aspirational than it was empirically accurate.
The real coalition that formed the backbone of Flint Rising, I gradually
realized, was a network of progressive political, community organizing,
and labor groups based outside Flint that looked at the small group of Flint
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235
activists involved as the coalition’s “local steering committee.” Not until
I was added to Flint Rising’s internal listserv months later did I come to
appreciate how instrumental these groups had been in supporting, or even
making possible, much of what Flint Rising had done up to that point, and I
found it curious that their involvement was generally elided (at least it seemed
that way to me) at the community meetings, the main interface between Flint
Rising and residents. There were, after all, strong reasons for partnering with
these groups, for they brought with them valuable skills, connections, and
resources: Michigan Voice took the lead in coordinating canvassing, Progress
Michigan arranged press conferences and media “clapbacks” every time a
major piece of water crisis news broke, unions like AFSCME, the SEIU, and the
UAW helped with event turnout and transportation, and Michigan United
helped set the coalition on a path toward establishing its own 501c3 and
501c4 funds. A variety of other groups—groups like Food and Water Watch,
Clean Water Action, America Votes, the Sierra Club, the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and the Michigan Nurses Association—also contributed
in ways that extended the coalition’s reach and enhanced its effectiveness.
The relationship local Flint Rising activists had to this extensive network
of organizations was no small part of why they were able to command
respect from influential and powerful people. When then-presidential candidate Hillary Clinton stopped through in early February, they managed to
arrange a face-to-face meeting between her and two core organizers. When
Surgeon General Vivek Murthy came to town a week later, they took him
along on follow-up visits to homes they had canvassed. When Mark Ruffalo
and other notables visited on the eve of the presidential debate in March,
Flint Rising activists held a joint press conference with them and helped to
tour them around town.
Flint Rising’s connections also gave it more political clout whenever the
coalition lobbied for more state or federal assistance.28 Lobbying efforts got
particularly intense in late spring 2016, when a battle emerged over a $127
million state appropriation for Flint that looked like it might not get through
the State House before the summer recess. The fear that the state would not
come through with the resources Flint needed was very real at the time: the
NAACP had threatened “civil disobedience” if the state did not come up
with a plan for pipe replacement,29 and on several occasions I heard people
seriously considering the possibility of rioting. Flint Rising’s collaboration
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with state-level lobbying organizations, however, helped create more direct,
and arguably more constructive, ways of applying pressure. Activists worked
with these groups to organize a full-court press to get the bill passed, flooding key Republican leaders with phone calls, busing residents to Lansing for
press conferences and prayer vigils in the Capitol rotunda, and hand delivering letters to legislators. When the House finally approved the bill in June,
activists had no doubt their efforts had made the difference, and they held
up the campaign as one of the movement’s major victories.
Both Reyes and Shariff insisted to me that no one had made an intentional
effort to mask or downplay the role of outside groups in Flint Rising. Given
the activist culture they were operating within, however, it was clear why
they were not eager to portray Flint Rising as a coalition comprised mainly
of outsiders. For one thing, it would have elicited the kinds of suspicions
regularly directed by residents at people and groups purporting to speak for
the community but not 100 percent “Flint.” (Even some Flint Rising activists
worried about the ratio of residents to outsiders involved in the coalition’s
internal deliberations: one asked me to start participating in conference calls
to create more balance.) More importantly, drawing attention to the role of
outside groups in the coalition would have clashed with the message that
became an increasingly central theme of Flint Rising’s community meetings:
the message that Flint residents had the power to do things for themselves.
Community Organizing and Activism
Flint Rising was not the only group talking about popular empowerment, of
course, but the language it used to do so was distinctive, drawn from a body
of thought and practice developed by professional community organizers.
According to the community organizer credo, the overriding objective of
the organizer is not to do for people but to help people do for themselves by
building “people power.” People power, as understood by the organizer, is
a product of relationships between individuals living in geographical proximity that can be parlayed into collective action. Where these relationships
do not yet exist, the organizer’s job is to help establish them. The main
tool used for this purpose is the “one-to-one,” a face-to-face “facilitated
and strategic conversation” with individual residents aimed at identifying
where their self-interest lies, convincing them that it can be furthered by
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237
banding together with their neighbors in collective action, and securing
a commitment from them to attend organizing meetings or contribute in
some way to advancing a collective struggle.30 In this way, a community is
transformed into a “constituency,” a group of people “standing together to
realize a common purpose.”31
Where social needs and injustices exist within a community, the organizer’s goal is to help people change their situation rather than merely cope
with it.32 This is what differentiated Flint Rising’s canvassing from most
other operations providing immediate water relief. The coalition looked at
canvasses as opportunities to bring people into the movement by spreading
the word about community meetings and identifying residents with leadership qualities who could be groomed into neighborhood-level organizers.
By instilling organizing skills and putting residents to work in their own
corners of the city, Flint Rising’s intention was to create “distributed leadership,” a decentralized network of mutually accountable people and groups
sharing power and responsibility and working toward common goals. Once
organized in this way, residents would have a formidable apparatus at their
disposal that they could direct at any number of short- and long-term objectives. It would fundamentally alter the balance of power in Flint, undermining the hegemony of local elites and enabling residents to act for themselves
whenever elected officials were unwilling or unable to act on their behalf.
It was essential, from Shariff’s perspective, that Flint residents lead the
organizing effort on the ground. Oftentimes, she pointed out to me, organizing work is done by college-educated, predominantly white people paid to
come into a community from the outside. In theory, by building local capacity, such organizers gradually render themselves obsolete. Shariff’s hope, however, was to obviate the need for them altogether by training up residents
mobilized by the water crisis.33 Sometimes she or Sharon Allen of Michigan
Faith in Action would incorporate mini-trainings into community meetings,
leading us through “power analysis” or “strategy development,” or familiarizing us with rules-of-thumb well known to organizers (e.g., “self-interest moves
people,” “power concedes nothing without a demand,” “follow the money,”
“real power is hidden,” “no permanent allies or enemies”). The problem with
trying to train people during the community meetings, however, was that turnout was so erratic there was little chance of producing a cumulative effect. To
offer more substantive guidance to individuals with the potential to become
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“neighborhood captains” (I was one of two people to volunteer for Ward 7),
Art Reyes led a day-long organizer training in May 2016.
When Reyes led trainings, the influence of Marshall Ganz was especially
evident, particularly Ganz’s emphasis on the utility of storytelling as an organizing tool.34 Stories, Reyes told us, are excellent mechanisms for provoking
an emotional response and stirring people to action. To begin with, an organizer has to have a prepackaged personal story about being called to action
that models the kind of agency he or she seeks to elicit in others (this story can
be used to lead off one-to-ones and other personal interactions with potential
recruits). The constituency as a whole has to have a story of “us,” establishing
a common identity rooted in shared values and experiences. It also has to
have a story of “now,” establishing why collective action is imperative, what
needs to be done, and what the future will look like if action is successful.
Reyes also taught us to be on the lookout, especially when canvassing, for
members of the community with moving personal stories of their own that
could be strategically useful to the coalition. Such stories had become hot
commodities in the national media, where they were now granted great epistemic weight, presented nonjudgmentally as capturing essential truths about
what was going on in the city. Flint Rising took advantage of this dynamic
in its first major public event: a “People’s Hearing” in March, to which it
invited Governor Snyder —not to speak, but to sit and listen to residents
talk about their experiences, in what Shariff described as an “inversion of the
emergency management paradigm.”35 (When Snyder declined to attend, she
used a stand-in, puppet version of him to “receive” the coalition’s demands.)
The lineup of speakers at the People’s Hearing—mothers, people of color,
members of the Hispanic community and the deaf community—reflected
another important development: with all the respect residents’ experiences
were now commanding, it was possible for even politically and culturally
marginalized voices to speak and be heard. In some ways, personal qualities
that had previously been epistemic liabilities—motherhood, or skin color,
for example—were now assets enabling certain kinds of people to speak
about the crisis with special gravitas. It was an opportunity to redefine what
“Flint” looked like to the wider world and, simultaneously, assuage some of
the bitterness created by the early prominence of white activists.
There is no better example than Flint Rising’s embrace of Nakiya Wakes,
an African American, single mother living below the poverty line, whose
story was one of the most dramatic to come out of the water crisis. Wakes had
From Poisoned People to People Power
239
experienced many of the same problems with the water as other residents—
rashes, hair loss, smelly and discolored water—but her account of how the
crisis had affected her children set her apart. Since the city’s original change
of water source, her son Jaylon, who had tested positive for elevated blood
lead levels, had developed serious behavioral problems and been suspended
from school an incredible fifty-six times. Wakes also attributed the deaths
of two unborn children to the water. Five weeks after learning she was pregnant in early 2015, she went to the emergency room with complications
and discovered she had miscarried. A follow-up visit, however, revealed that
another heart was beating inside her womb: she had been pregnant with
twins all along. Wakes called it her “miracle baby.” At thirteen weeks, however, more problems arose and she returned to the ER. After five days of
hemorrhaging brought her to the brink of death, the second pulse, too, fell
silent. Devastated, Wakes returned home from the hospital to find a blue
flyer about total trihalomethanes (TTHMs) in her mailbox. It was the first she
had heard of the water being dangerous, particularly to pregnant women.
Although she would later conclude that lead, rather than TTHMs, was the
most likely culprit, the upshot was the same: the water had taken her babies.
Flint Rising seized upon Wakes’s story and coalition partners worked to
amplify it by arranging speaking opportunities and encouraging media coverage. Wakes related her water crisis experience regularly at activist events
and actions and was featured in the New York Times, CNN, and a Hillary
Clinton campaign ad. But most extraordinary of all, unlike those who first
came forward with stories about the water, not once did Wakes feel like she
was disbelieved. Just the opposite: she marveled at how many people had
been touched by her story and had expressed their sympathies to her. No
one asked her for scientific proof or a medical endorsement of her claims—
the pathos and humanity of her words were enough.36
Flint Rising not only created opportunities for Wakes to speak, it trained
her how to speak. Because Wakes was new to public speaking (at first, she
told me, she felt a “frog” in her throat every time), coalition partner Progress Michigan worked on helping her script what she would say and build
confidence in her own abilities, as it did with other select individuals whose
stories fit the message the coalition wanted to project.37 Just how conscious
the speakers themselves were of their role in the organizers’ strategy is
debatable, however. I inadvertently created controversy within Flint Rising’s inner circle when I revealed to Wakes (thinking she already knew) that
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Figure 8.1
Stories of residents featured on the Flint Rising website. Flint Rising.
some of the organizers had envisioned her story as a substitute, of sorts, for
that of another poor, African American mother whose health problems had
prevented her from participating. Incidents like this led some within Flint
Rising to question the transparency of the strategizing going on within the
coalition. One activist—who was conscious that her role for the coalition’s
PR purposes was that of the poor, white mother—told me that “people who
don’t have any experience are being used.”38
One could argue that “using” people is simply part of the art of the
community organizer: at one community meeting, Shariff explained that
an “assertive” approach to organizing involved trying to “lure” people by
appealing to their self-interest and “guilt trip[ping]” them by assigning them
responsibilities—without letting on that they were being “hustled.”39 But
the idea that organizing involves distinctions between the hustlers and the
hustled, the organizers and the organized, raises questions about its compatibility with principles of democracy like transparency, equality, and participatory decision making. It also makes the question of who is doing the
organizing—and whose interests they are serving—all the more important.
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241
In conversations with some local Flint Rising activists, it became clear
that they felt the outside groups within the coalition were trying to organize
them, using the local steering committee—and the opportunity provided
by the water crisis—to advance their larger organizational agendas. These
“outside interests,” one activist worried, were controlling the “framing” and
“representation” of the work being done on the ground in Flint, under the
guise of merely facilitating that work.40 I even heard the dynamic compared
to emergency management, in that outsiders were invoking their own purportedly superior skillset to justify infringing on the self-determination of
local residents.
Officially, however, the coalition was operating with an agenda shaped by
demands that had been “distilled,” Shariff told me, from what residents were
calling for “out there in the community”:41 a 100 percent refund for water
bills dating back to April 2014 and bill forgiveness until the water was safe
(“We Don’t Pay for Poison”), replacement of Flint’s damaged infrastructure—
all the way to the tap—using Flint labor (“Fix What You Broke”), and health
and education services for all children, adults, and seniors in the community
(“Our Families Deserve to Be Healthy”). Few in Flint would have denied that
these demands were just, and some of the victories Flint Rising claimed—
especially the passage of the state supplemental bill—clearly advanced
them, giving residents tastes of victory that organizers usually consider
critical to any sustained organizing effort.42 They were not always practical
demands to organize around, however. At a Flint Rising meeting in June
2017, for example, I was in a breakout group that was supposed to come
up with strategies to push for the “We Don’t Pay for Poison” demand. It
was so farfetched by that point, however, to think that the state would pay
100 percent of residents’ water bills (given that a few months earlier it had
ended even its temporary 65 percent credit) that it was not possible to have
a meaningful conversation about how to proceed.
It was not just Flint Rising that was having trouble operationalizing its
stated goals: in the heady days after the switch back to Detroit, when the
activists felt like they “had ‘em by the balls” (as one put it43), certain demands
sunk into the DNA of the movement that were long shots to begin with
and only grew further divorced from political “reality” as time went on. The
ubiquitous disaster area demand—even though it seemed so self-evidently
just to so many people—was perhaps the best example. If there had ever
been a moment when Flint might have been granted such a declaration,
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or some sort of special federal dispensation that circumvented the Stafford
Act, it had long since passed by April 2017, when, as the spokesperson for
the now-Three Years Too Long rally, I reiterated the demand to local media.
My own position (when I removed my spokesperson’s cap) was that it was
counterproductive to persist in demands that had such little hope of being
realized—demands that had come into being at the peak of the activists’
feeling of power and possibility but had since outlived their usefulness. At
the same time, giving them up was, admittedly, an uncomfortable prospect,
for it would inevitably look like an admission of defeat. More importantly,
it would contradict the lesson activists learned during the first phase of the
water struggle: if you demand the impossible loud and long enough, you
just might get it. When I debated the matter with Claire McClinton, she told
me that her preference was to “throw caution to the wind,” not to pay any
mind to what polite society deemed to be possible or reasonable.44 It put anyone counseling pragmatism in a tricky spot: who wanted to be responsible
for deflating an “impossible” hope that might be the next one to come true?
Related to this tension between political opportunities and movement
demands was a persistent tension—most evident within Flint Rising—between
organizing and activism. While the logics of organizing and activism are not
necessarily incompatible when the capacity exists to sustain both simultaneously,45 when capacity is limited, prioritizing one often means neglecting the
other.46 An illustrative example of this tradeoff arose after the founding of
a constituent group within Flint Rising in spring 2016 that took the name
Flint Mom Power. My wife was one of a few people present at the inaugural
meeting of the group, where it was decided that its chief mission would be
to organize local moms around issues of public education. Almost as soon as
this decision was made, however, the group’s energies were completely redirected into planning a week of water-related direct actions during the month
of May. What resulted were some of the more memorable, attention-getting
actions of the water crisis—particularly, a die-in at the water treatment plant
featuring mothers and grandmothers clad in white jumpsuits smeared with
red paint over the reproductive organs to symbolize harms done to women
by lead. But from my wife’s perspective, the sudden substitution of (rather
militant) activism for organizing was like a bait and switch: the practical work
she had signed up for had to be totally suspended to make the actions possible, and she drifted away from the group, not to return. A similar dynamic
emerged later in the year, when Flint Rising was in the middle of a concerted
From Poisoned People to People Power
243
Figure 8.2
America’s Heartbreakers action at the Flint Water Treatment Plant (May 16, 2016).
MLive, Flint Journal.
effort to organize the city ward by ward, but got sidetracked by the announcement of new water shutoffs, which seemed to call for an urgent response.
(I cannot deny my own complicity in this instance, for I was one of the people
calling for direct action.) At a community meeting in December that was supposed to be part of the organizing effort, attendees were told that Flint Rising’s
next steps would be actions around shutoffs—actions which, for various reasons, were never followed through on.
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The Dilemmas of Professionalism: Flint Rising 2.0
After the week of direct action in May 2016 and the passage of more state
aid for Flint in June, Flint Rising began a process of reinvention. In August,
it received a $250,000 grant from the Kellogg Foundation for “building an
organizing infrastructure” to address the water crisis.47 The money allowed
for the hiring of a director, organizers, and canvassing staff. It touched off a
heated debate among the Flint-based activists over who was most qualified
for the positions and how the hires should be made.
When the dust settled (but only after some activists went their separate
ways), Nayyirah Shariff emerged as Flint Rising’s director. She saw it as an
opportunity to reset the group (for it was now officially a group rather than
a coalition), to make it more independent from outside groups and take it
in a more radically democratic direction. Although she was required by the
terms of the grant to adopt the title of “Director,” she challenged the other
activists to think outside the box of the “nonprofit industrial complex,”
recommending that the group eschew top-down hierarchies in favor of an
approach that built egalitarian, democratic values into the group’s organization and decision-making processes. Flint Rising’s objective, as Shariff conceived of it, was not merely to organize around the group’s official demands,
but “to pilot the type of society we want to live in.”48 As she started to bring
on staff, she strove to create an organizational culture of cooperative decision
making. She trained the team members in conflict resolution49 and assigned
them readings to facilitate deeper thinking about the group’s purpose and
mission—readings on water democracy,50 on nonviolent struggle,51 on the
difference between “serving” people and cultivating democratic citizenship,52 on the famously egalitarian Landless Workers’ Movement in Brazil.53 These were signs, as I saw it, that Flint Rising was beginning to evolve
beyond the Machiavellianism of the community organizing paradigm into
a group that was more prefigurative in nature, more humanistic, more oriented toward the ideal of the “beloved community” (a term Shariff began
to use with some frequency).54
Shariff tried to bring the same spirit to Flint Rising’s rebooted community meetings, which after a six-month hiatus resumed in December. The
meetings, she told me, were intended to help residents become the agents
of their own liberation by creating “spaces” of “self-governance” in which
From Poisoned People to People Power
245
they could collectively talk through the challenges facing them, develop
their own solutions, and experience, viscerally, what authentic democracy
feels like. Shariff had no illusions, however, that everyone who turned out—
motivated, as they usually were, by water concerns and lacking political
experience—was coming in with the kind of refined political consciousness
she was trying to develop in her staff. She viewed Flint Rising as an organization that could meet newly mobilized residents where they were at, foregrounding the issues most immediate to them, but also working to “train
people up” by helping them to see not only that things were “bad” (because
most needed no convincing), but why they were bad, and what could be
done to address them on a structural level. This entry-level approach to
bringing residents up to speed politically was, to Shariff’s mind, one of the
things that distinguished Flint Rising from the FDDL: the FDDL, she said,
was like a “senior thesis,” trading in sophisticated political analysis that
went over the heads of most residents, whereas Flint Rising was “freshman
orientation,” aiming to draw people in who were incensed about the water
but still getting their political bearings.55
As Flint Rising became more professional in its structure and operation,
however, it became in some ways even more opaque than previously. While
it held regular internal staff meetings, its community meetings were much
more sporadic, scheduled to cap off systematic canvassing efforts within individual wards. Given that canvassing was now conducted by professional staff
rather than the eclectic influx of volunteers who had sustained it through the
first half of 2016, Flint Rising’s day-to-day operations were self-contained and
less accessible to people who wanted to feel like they were part of the group.
Just as Flint Rising’s earlier reliance on outside groups chafed against its selfconception as the center of grassroots empowerment in Flint, the constraints
of functioning on a 501c3 model coexisted uneasily with its ambition to
be the avant-garde of popular democracy. Although Shariff was consciously
trying to push against the limits of that model, she was fully aware, she
told me, that the “revolution” would not be made by grant-funded organizations and that Flint Rising was no exception. Ultimately, she hoped,
more radical groups would arise that Flint Rising could help to get off the
ground by providing them with meeting space and skills training—acting,
in a sense, as an incubator for the seeds that others wished to plant.56
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The Elusive Dream of (Water) Democracy
Activists began 2016 fiercely critical (as always) of the state, but confident
they could wring resources from it, hopeful for a boost from the federal government, and decidedly more optimistic about city administration after the
replacement of Dayne Walling with Karen Weaver. By the end of the year, the
situation had changed. Activists continued to call the state out for failing to
commit itself fully to the recovery effort—at one point, Flint Rising activists
delivered over a thousand “you owe me” messages in water bottles to Governor Snyder’s office, listing all the ways residents were still waiting for justice—
but now their focus was on preventing the state from pulling out of Flint
entirely. With system-wide lead levels dropping, the general feeling was that
the state was eager to declare the water restored and put the crisis behind it.
One particular point of contention was the water PODs: after the end of the
federal declaration of emergency in August, the state had taken over responsibility for them, and in early 2017, state officials announced a two-phase
plan to shut them down. With full replacement of Flint’s lead and galvanized
service lines still at least three years away, and with residents still suspicious
of point-of-use filters, the prospect of losing free bottled water (which the
Genesee County Medical Society continued to recommend for physically vulnerable residents) caused a great deal of consternation and anger. Once again,
Flint Rising was on the scene, sponsoring “pop-up pickets” at PODs that were
slated to close. Activists also drew attention to the fact that, as Flint residents
had their bottled water taken away, Nestlé—a company with ties to the Snyder administration and the largest bottler of water in the world, with wells all
over Michigan—was at the same time sucking thousands of gallons out of the
ground every minute for a pittance, not far from Flint.57
One brake on the state’s withdrawal was a major legal victory in November 2016: a federal court order, in a case brought by Melissa Mays, the Concerned Pastors, the Natural Resources Defense Council, and the ACLU, forcing
the state to deliver bottled water to residents without functioning filters on
their taps. The state immediately began fighting the order—a spokesperson
for Snyder said complying with it would take a “herculean effort … on the
magnitude of a large-scale military operation” and would redirect resources
away from where they were most needed.58 A settlement in March 2017
ultimately excused the state from water delivery and established a timeline
for the POD closures, on the condition that the state commit $87 million
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247
Figure 8.3
You Owe Me bottles delivered by Flint Rising activists to State Capitol. MLive, Flint
Journal.
to pipe replacement and send teams to every home to check on the status
of residents’ filters. Reaction to the settlement was mixed within the activist
community: people were glad to have more resources but displeased that
the settlement gave the state an exit plan, and some accused the plaintiffs
of presuming to speak for residents without soliciting their opinions or even
informing them about the progress of the suit.59
The federal government was also showing signs of closing the books on
Flint. The city got a large windfall of federal aid in December 2016 with the
passage of a $170 million federal funding package—still less than the activists were hoping for, and, as Claire McClinton put it, laden with “strings
attached as far as the eye can see”60—but with this, Flint scraped the bottom
of the federal barrel. The same month, the House Committee on Oversight
and Government Reform ended its investigation of the water crisis. Some
federal agencies, chiefly the EPA, continued to maintain a presence in Flint,
but it grew increasingly skeletal.
With less to fight for at the state and federal levels, and with the city back
in possession of most of its power, events at City Hall began to take on more
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importance. Well into 2016, the activists rallied around Mayor Weaver as
their chief ally (along with Councilman Eric Mays) within city government.
As time went on, however, some activists began to feel like the focus on the
state as the root of all evil was distracting from what they saw as the failures
and abuses of Weaver’s administration. The city was continuing to enforce
its ordinances on water shutoffs and liens for nonpayment of water bills,
for example, despite the fact that nonpayment was still for many residents
a matter of principle. Furthermore, in April 2017, at a mayor-sponsored
town hall on water swarming with police, six activists were arrested for
disorderly conduct after minor disruptions. Following this incident, some
activists began to speak of the need to resist “fascism” in Flint—not the
“fascism” of state appointees, now, but of the Weaver administration.61
The first chinks in Weaver’s armor had appeared earlier, however, when
she became embroiled in the controversy over the most momentous decision to be made about the future of Flint’s water. With the city back on
Lake Huron water, the question was whether it would switch, as planned, to
getting that water through the Karegnondi Water Authority (KWA) pipeline
upon its completion (now slated for summer 2017), or find some way of
remaining on the Detroit system, now operated by the regional Great Lakes
Water Authority (GLWA). Anti-KWA sentiment was by now very strong
within the activist community, shaped by the beliefs that hidden fracking
interests were driving the project, that it was a privatization ploy, that it
would undermine both Flint’s and Detroit’s financial stability, that it had
already put Flint in a vulnerable position relative to the city’s creditors, and
that it was one of the main causes of the water crisis. It was when Mayor
Weaver, backed into a political corner, made good on the city’s promise
to help finance the KWA pipeline’s construction that some of the activists
began to speak out against her publicly for the first time.
In April 2017, however, Weaver made a stunning announcement: the
city’s water consultant, John Young, had negotiated a deal that would allow
Flint to stay with GLWA at a lower cost than if it opted for the KWA. It
seemed too good to be true, especially since it involved GLWA taking on
Flint’s bond debt, and no one knew quite what to make of it at first. As the
activists learned more about the terms of the deal, realizing that it would
lock Flint into a thirty-year contract with no guaranteed wholesale rate or
say in rate setting, they grew almost as opposed to it as they were to the
KWA. No one seemed to have much of an alternative, though. Some insisted
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249
that the city renegotiate a shorter-term contract, even though thirty years
was the industry standard and the chances of GLWA’s budging on the issue
were slim. Some of the same activists who were vehemently opposed to
the KWA began saying that Flint had to have its own treatment plant, destined to be mothballed if the city chose GLWA but a central part of the
KWA plan (since the plan required the city to treat raw water). More generally, activists insisted that Flint ought to have a “Flint-controlled” water
system, but without a strong sense of what that would consist of, given
the available options. While everyone could agree on the need for a better
contract, beyond that, activists’ vision of an alternative, more democratic,
water future was thin at best, and outside of a collective letter of concern,62
there was no real attempt to organize around even the contract demand.
Perhaps this state of aporia is one reason why so much excitement was
generated by the news that activists who had fought against the Dakota
Access Pipeline alongside residents of the Standing Rock Indian Reservation
were coming to Flint. Just over a week before the mayor made her water
recommendation, a group of these out-of-town activists, joined by a few
locals (some of whom had been to Standing Rock themselves), established
a settlement called Camp Promise in Kearsley Park, on the east side of Flint.
The camp grew steadily over the next several weeks as more itinerant activists flocked to the city, having heard through activist networks that the
crisis in Flint was no better and that residents were still desperately in need
of help. Convinced of this before even arriving, they brought with them a
militant mentality, fused to a sketchy understanding of the subtleties of the
crisis and local politics. They became a combative presence at City Council
meetings and town halls—without always, it seemed to me, having a strong
sense of who it was they were combatting.63
When outside “help” came in the form of activists like these—whose sensibilities, tactics, and apparent commitment to the cause resonated strongly
within the local activist scene—Flint activists were quick to accept it. They
stood up for the camp when city police threatened to evict the campers
and started spending a good deal of time hanging around the campfire,
as Camp Promise became another venue to which people were invited to
come hear residents’ “stories.” For a while, it looked as though there might
be a true fusion of the insiders and the outsiders. There was one moment
in particular that for me, and I think for others as well, signified that budding synthesis. On the day of our Three Years Too Long march and rally,
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I helped lead a group of marchers from a staging area on the north side of
Flint along a three-mile route to City Hall, laboring much of the way under
the weight of a huge banner, covered in expressions of solidarity, that had
traveled, it proclaimed, “From Baltimore to Standing Rock to Flint.” As we
approached the heart of downtown, we saw that, off to our left, another
contingent that had left for City Hall from Camp Promise was fortuitously
converging on the same spot at the same time. As the two streams fused,
and the march suddenly doubled in size at the perfect moment, there was a
feeling of exuberance and camaraderie in the air.
Alas, it did not last. The campers began feuding with each other, leading
a breakaway faction to form another community it called the “Wolves’ Den”
in a private residence.64 Campers also started feuding with local activists,
making comments to the effect that Flint residents did not seem like they
had any real desire to fight for themselves. After everything the activists
had been through, no insult could have stung more. Some of Camp Promise’s former enthusiasts began promoting an online petition calling for the
camp to be led by a Flint resident.
The appeal of Camp Promise was somewhat mystifying to me, but it
was also instructive. The way some of the activists would wax poetic about
it and proselytize for it, urging people to come see it for themselves, bore
out its self-description: it really was a beacon of “promise,” at least for a
while. Clearly there were longings for durable spaces of freedom and community that other groups weren’t managing to satisfy. The idea that such
spaces could appear all of the sudden (literally, overnight) seemed to have
a kind of enchanting appeal—more so, anyway, than the idea that such
spaces are hard-won products of diligent organizing, accreting little by little
over time, through the reshaping of existing institutions and the building
of relationships within established geographies. The “promise” of Camp
Promise lay also, it seemed, in the idea that the camp might revive the spirit
of the water movement, as symbolized by the “sacred” fire at its center that
was supposed to keep burning until the activists’ demands were met and
the crisis was finally over.
Insofar as this spirit was still alive in early 2018, as my ethnographic work
began to draw to a close, it was still searching for a suitable body. Activists
continued to do important work outside Flint—speaking, lobbying, forging
ties to new activist networks (like the revived Poor People’s Campaign led
by Reverend William Barber II)—but the grassroots in Flint remained largely
From Poisoned People to People Power
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an “alphabet soup” (as one person put it to me) of different groups working
on different things and only marginally cognizant of each other. Flint Rising, the group with the most ambitious vision of bringing residents together
and empowering them in lasting ways around a transformative agenda, kept
a low profile during the second half of 2017. After a series of internal controversies, some staff members quit and the group’s canvassing ground to
a halt. The organizers who remained—Nayyirah Shariff, Melissa Mays, and
Gina Luster—had a hard time between the three of them keeping the group
afloat, as financial backers began to check in ever more eagerly for updates
and people in the community began to wonder what had happened.
The situation was summed up well when the group reappeared in February 2018, calling a hastily arranged meeting designed to focus on a concrete, seemingly manageable objective: preparing residents to submit public
comment about proposed revisions to Michigan’s state-level Lead and Copper
Rule. Shariff opened the meeting by telling the fifteen or so people in attendance that Flint Rising was “rooted in the belief that those who are directly
impacted should be driving the work.” It soon became clear, however, that a
small group of people had already been working on the issue (“for twenty
months,” as Mays put it) without bringing other residents into the conversation, or actively informing them about it. Now, at the tail end of the revisions process, Flint Rising was offering residents a crash course in the relevant
background as well as talking points to reiterate to the MDEQ. The arrangement might have worked if people had felt ownership for what the core
members of the group were doing in other venues, but some activists in the
room came to the meeting determined to raise concerns about the group’s
patchy interface with the community. Sue Whalen, a former Flint Rising
staff member, rose to ask why the group had not stayed in touch with the
people it had made contact with over the previous two years, or people who
had worked for the organization in the past. It felt “disempowering,” she
said—like people were being “used.” Tony Palladeno, chiming in to support
her, said that Flint Rising had left people “hanging.”65
What began as one of the more focused activist meetings I had been to
in Flint quickly unraveled, as Whalen’s and Palladeno’s dissenting comments touched off a cascade of remarks having little to do with the agenda
at hand. As the meeting veered off course, Tru Saunders spoke up with a
call to action that harkened back to her audacious stand in front of City
Hall in the winter of 2015. “All this stuff you guys are coming up with,” she
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said (referring to the “paperwork” distributed to the meeting’s attendees),
was already known to officials, and reiterating it would not make any difference. What was really needed was to “shut some stuff down.” A “24/7
protest” was in the works, she informed everyone, located in the same spot
where she had once stood alone in the cold—this time, with people rotating in and out, day and night, a human version of the ever-burning flame.66
The Way Forward
These were the extremes that activists in Flint had the challenge of working
within: the need to rally around the immediate, smaller-scale opportunities
spit out by the slowly turning wheels of justice, and the need to demonstrate,
continuously, the authenticity of a movement that prided itself on breaking
down barriers through feats of personal and political will. The synthesis of
organizing and activism that Flint Rising was striving for had the potential,
I thought, to reconcile those priorities at the group level, if only it could be
sustained logistically. But such a synthesis must also be integrated into the
political identities of the people that such groups seek to mobilize, who must
come to see everything from policy work, to power building, to protest as
expressions of the same political agency. For that kind of political maturation
to take place requires spaces more stable and nurturing than those that Flint
Rising—or any other group, for that matter—was able to provide.
If Flint’s water activists were tough and stubborn, heirs to the city’s great
fighting tradition, it was evident to me by the spring of 2018 that many
of them also flirted regularly with feelings of helplessness and despair—
feelings shaped by living in a city that for some time had been a victim
of history more often than a maker of it, struggling for its very existence
against economic collapse, political dissolution, and the creep of entropy
eroding it from the inside out. Four years after the first inklings of a water
movement began to appear, activists felt both that they had won extraordinary victories, and that, somehow, “nothing” had changed and no solution
to the city’s problems was in sight. They continued to stress that Flint’s
water was undrinkable, that little was being done to fix the problem, and
that officials did not care whether residents lived or died.
The 24/7 protest never happened, but Flint was not done fighting yet.
In April, two pieces of news broke that simultaneously brought the activists’ struggle full-circle and kindled it anew. On the 4th, Governor Snyder
From Poisoned People to People Power
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announced that he was officially ending all vestiges of state receivership in
Flint: home rule was, at last, restored. Then, on the 6th, in a development
that did not seem coincidental, the state announced that it was closing the
city’s remaining water PODs, marking the end of state-provided bottled
water. Five days later, I joined two busloads of activists on an emergency trip
to the State Capitol. We rallied on the Capitol steps and disrupted the state
legislature with chants of “DO YOUR JOBS! OPEN THE PODS! WATER FOR
FLINT, NOT NESTLÉ!” On the 25th, the four-year anniversary of the switch
to the Flint River, we were back, protesting outside the offices of the MDEQ,
as state police blocked the front doors and hazy faces grinned at us through
the windows above.
And thus, the fight for water, for justice, for a democratic future beyond
emergency management, went on: in fits and starts, through concord and
disagreement, walking a fine line between the pride, and the peril, of selfdetermination.
Conclusion
Water has a way of encouraging us to think about society at its most
elemental level. The provision of clean, safe water is one of the cornerstones of civilization, a precondition of everything else that human beings
have achieved or can achieve. More than with any other essential natural
resource, accessing water depends upon intricate forms of social coordination: to transport it, to treat it, to sell it, to monitor its quality, to return it
to nature after it has passed through human bodies and infrastructures. Our
use of water depends also on whether or not, when told we can drink it by
the authorities that watch over us, we believe. How we deliver clean, safe
water, who is most likely to get it, and whether or not we feel we can trust
it when it arrives may not tell us everything we need to know about the
societies we live in, but tells us a great deal.
Within the American political tradition as it has come down to us, democracy is equally elemental. It is supposed to be the foundation of our common identity, the basis of our political decision making and of our culture.
It is supposed to embody our principles, the value we place on freedom, on
equality, on human life. And we are supposed to have faith that even when
democracy is hard, even when it doesn’t produce the outcomes we seek, it
is still the best available form of human association.
Claire McClinton liked to say that for people not to have clean water,
and not to have democracy—in the twenty-first century, in the United
States of America—was “unthinkable.”
Ironically, it is often the unthinkable that most makes us think. It is in
those moments when the taken-for-grantedness of everyday life is shattered
that the foundations of our social existence are exposed to view. When the
water that we use to make our coffee and bathe our children is poisoned by
“policy,” it is marked with the failures of our social institutions, and with
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the social injustices that force some more than others to bear the brunt of
those failures. And sometimes the failures are so big, the injustices so glaring, that things actually change.
After Flint, some things changed. Cities around the country started proactively identifying and replacing their lead lines. Utilities started offering free
water testing to residents and refining their corrosion control protocols.
The Environmental Protection Agency sped up its ongoing efforts to revise
the Lead and Copper Rule.1 State regulatory agencies heightened their vigilance. Drinking water infrastructure became—at least officially—a national
priority.
Whether Flint will help to provoke similar changes in the area of municipal democracy remains to be seen. In October 2017, the US Supreme Court
dashed one of activists’ last hopes of bringing down Michigan’s emergency
manager law through the legal system when it declined to consider whether
the law was constitutional.2 This decision left in effect the Sixth Circuit
Court’s affirmation of the principle that states have “absolute discretion”
over the powers granted to “political subdivisions.”
If the water movement in Flint proved anything, however, it was that
there are other kinds of power that matter, too. Even in an utterly disenfranchised city, where elected representatives are little more than figureheads
and where the most sacred emblem of democracy, the vote, is profaned by
futility, it is still possible for the “people” to make their power known. The
people of Flint made their power known whenever they organized a rally or a
march, whenever they delivered petitions or carried out direct actions, whenever they pushed their own “narrative” of the crisis or commandeered the
language and methods of science to show that the official narrative was false.
Some interpreters of what happened in Flint have described it as a “miracle,” a chance concatenation of capable grassroots leaders and well-placed
allies rarely seen in other environmental justice struggles and not likely
to be duplicated.3 The activists I knew resisted that notion. They saw the
water movement as a reawakening of the plucky, democratic spirit that had
always formed a part of the city’s identity—the spirit that had carried the
sit-down strikers through the winter of 1937, that had brought advocates of
fair housing to City Hall with their sleeping bags, that had steeled the opponents of the Genesee Power Station against the further pollution of their air.
The renewal of that spirit could not have come at a more critical time—not
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only because lives depended on it, but also because the city was in need of
a definitive rebuke to the idea that it could not manage on its own.
Paul Jordan, the lifelong Flint resident who stood in front of City Hall in
2011 to announce the first legal challenge to Public Act 4, described the water
crisis to me as a “quantification of the risk of the loss of democracy.” In any
“sane world,” he mused, the crisis would “increase the value of democracy.”4
Some in Flint had always been convinced of that value. Others had learned
it the hard way: in the medium of skin, and hair, and brain, and lung. What
they had also learned, however, was that “democracy” could not simply be
quashed by fiat. It was not just an absence in Flint, expunged through the
abrogation of representative institutions, but a presence—a presence that
the people of Flint themselves were actively creating, driven by pathos as
much as politics, in an example to the world of what the democratic spirit
looks like when imbued with the urgency of life itself.
Notes
Preface and Acknowledgments
1. RealtyTrac, “U.S. Residential Property Vacancy Rate Drops 9.3 Percent,” February 9,
2016, https://wpnewsroom.realtytrac.com/news/u-s-q1-2016-u-s-residential-property
-vacancy-analysis/.
2. In 2006, the Flint public school system was the eighth largest in the state. By
2015, it had fallen to fifty-fourth. Julie Mack, “Michigan’s 30 Largest School Districts Now Compared to 2006,” MLive, May 12, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news
/index.ssf/2016/05/michigans_30_largest_school_di.html.
3. Richard O. Boyer and Herbert M. Morais write of the strikers that “it was their
firmness that built the CIO, that made a hundred other unions possible, that
cracked the open shop, that filled the common people, the working people, with a
great thrill and resolve.” Labor’s Untold Story, 303. For general accounts of the strike,
see Kraus, The Many and the Few, and Fine, Sit-Down.
4. The democratic potential contained in the sit-down strike, a constant touchstone
for Flint activists, is highlighted by Jeremy Brecher: “The principles under which
[workers] could govern their own activity can be seen in the self-organization of
the sitdown strikers. … All those who worked together simply met in assembly and
made the decisions that affected their common activity, and all were responsible for
doing their share of carrying the decisions out. … They could have run not only the
sitdown but the factory itself in this way.” Strike!, 306.
5. One of the images created by activists to advertise what turned out to be a seminal
water march in February 2015 was superimposed on a photograph of the sleep-in
protestors. It read: “Lest we forget. These people would not accept the idea they were
inferior. Don’t forget the ‘67 Sleep-ins! First in the nation to ban housing discrimination.” And: “Fighting for people’s rights is a Flint tradition.”
6. See Clark and Kramer, “‘An Equal Opportunity Lie.’”
260
Notes to Preface and Acknowledgments
7. The EPA ruled against claims of environmental racism in this case, but the facility was never built. See Buford and Lombardi, “Steel Mill That Never Was,” and
Dawson, “Lessons Learned from Flint, Michigan.”
8. Hillary Clinton, in particular, sought to distinguish herself as a champion of the
city. She later suggested that her “advocacy for the heavily African American community of Flint” may have “alienated white voters in other parts of Michigan,” and cost
her the state in both the primary and general elections. Clinton, What Happened, 214.
9. See, for example, Clark, The Poisoned City, and Hanna-Attisha, What the Eyes
Don’t See.
Timeline
1. Ron Fonger, “Flint Council Votes to Do ‘All Things Necessary’ to End Use of
Flint River,” MLive, March 23, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2015/03/flint_council_votes_to_do_all.html.
2. Randy Conat, “Coalition Wants Flint to Return to Detroit Water,” ABC12, June 5, 2015,
https://www.abc12.com/home/headlines/Coalition-wants-Flint-to-return-to-Detroit
-water-306325041.html.
Introduction
1. For a detailed breakdown of Flint’s water rates, see Raftelis Financial Consultants,
Inc., Flint Water Rate Analysis Final Report.
2. In addition to Flint, the KWA is comprised of the City of Lapeer and the counties of Genesee, Lapeer, and Sanilac. Mayor Dayne Walling claimed that “Flint would
save $19 million over eight years” as well as seeing “the additional benefits of partial
ownership and economic development” by joining the KWA. Genesee County Drain
Commissioner Jeff Wright promised, similarly, that “the city would pay roughly
$6.4 million annually for water service if it joined the pipeline—a nearly $4 million
savings on what it pays Detroit for water.” See Dominic Adams, “‘Biggest Decision for
City in Decades’ Is Proposal to Join Regional Pipeline, Says Flint Mayor,” MLive, March
16, 2013, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/03/flint_mayor_dayne
_walling_says_10.html.
3. Melissa Mays, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, February 17, 2016.
4. Dominic Adams, “Flint to Spend $171,000 for Engineering to Treat Flint River
Water While KWA Pipeline Is Built,” MLive, July 8, 2013, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/07/flint_to_spend_171000_for_engi.html.
5. Dominic Adams, “Closing the Valve on History: Flint Cuts Water Flow from
Detroit after Nearly 50 Years,” MLive, April 25, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2014/04/closing_the_valve_on_history_f.html.
Notes to Introduction
261
6. Stephen Busch, Lansing and Jackson district supervisor in the Office of Drinking
Water and Municipal Assistance at the MDEQ, quoted in Adams, “Closing the Valve
on History.”
7. Ron Fonger, “State Says Flint River Water Meets All Standards but More than Twice
the Hardness of Lake Water,” MLive, May 23, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2014/05/state_says_flint_river_water_m.html.
8. Adams, “Closing the Valve on History.”
9. Dominic Adams, “Flint Mayor Takes to Twitter to See How Residents Like Flint
River Water,” MLive, April 28, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2014/04/switch_to_flint_river_for_city.html.
10. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Supervisor Warned State of Problems before Switch
to River,” MLive, February 12, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2016/02/flint_water_supervisor_warned.html.
11. Governor Rick Snyder himself called the crisis his “Katrina.” Ron Fournier,
“Snyder Concedes Flint is His ‘Katrina,’ a Failure of Leadership,” National Journal,
January 18, 2016.
12. In June 2016, Attorney General Bill Schuette filed civil charges against private
contractors Lockwood, Andrews, and Newnam, Inc., and Veolia, alleging professional negligence and, in Veolia’s case, fraud.
13. Counts, “How Government Poisoned the People of Flint.”
14. Ron Fonger, “Emergency Manager Calls City Council’s Flint River Vote ‘Incomprehensible’,” MLive, March 24, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2015/03/flint_emergency_manager_calls.html.
15. Some may question my use of the term “movement” to refer to the relatively
small and loosely integrated network of water activists in Flint. I have adopted the term,
in part, because it connotes an overarching continuity of purpose across the ebb and
flow of activism, the formation and dissolution of various alliances, and the activities of different groups. More importantly, it reflects my determination to accord
respect to the self-definition of the activists, who insisted that they were part of a
“movement” and not just a “moment.” Whether Flint’s water activism qualifies as a
“movement” in a sociological sense I leave up to the reader to decide.
16. The fact that I was a resident of Flint for a large portion of the time span
encompassed in this book gave my research some of the strengths and limitations
of “native ethnography.” On one hand, my resident status accorded me some automatic credibility and allowed me access to people and spaces I would not otherwise
have had. On the other hand, as a mostly trusted “insider,” I sometimes felt obliged
to guard insider “intimacies” and pressured to avoid airing the activists’ dirty laundry (see Rolston, Mining Coal and Undermining Gender, 29). In this book, I have had
262
Notes to Introduction
to walk a fine line between my desire to be candid about the activist movement and
my desire to preserve personal relationships, with long-term residence in the city in
mind. I would argue, however, that my own entanglement in controversies within
the activist community has given me a sense of entitlement to speak more freely
than I may have if I were observing the etiquette of a guest, an ally, or a sympathetic
outsider. It is worth noting, also, the ways in which my ethnographic work was less
than fully “native”: I was working within a newly adopted community into which
I was still very imperfectly integrated, without prior kinship relations or friendships
to use as resources. In this respect, many of the challenges I faced were similar to
those faced by a traditional ethnographer.
17. This criticism focused on a letter written by Kettering University President Robert
McMahan and sent to parents and alumni on January 18, 2016, which stressed that
the water at Kettering was safe and sought to correct “misinformation” about the
nature of the lead contamination and extent of the confirmed harms.
18. In an added twist, though not one of any real consequence for my credibility
within the community, my institution’s namesake, Charles Kettering, is generally
credited with the introduction of lead into gasoline—an innovation meant to solve
the problem of “engine knock” but having the effect of dispersing the toxic metal
into the environment through car exhaust. The blood lead level of the average
American plummeted after leaded gasoline was phased out in the 1970s and 1980s,
but the legacy of the contamination persists to this day, especially in tainted soil.
19. Goffman, On the Run, 237.
20. Desiree Duell, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, August 24, 2016.
21. See the work of the We the People of Detroit Community Research Collective,
“Mapping the Water Crisis.”
22. Fortun, Advocacy after Bhopal, 1.
23. One limitation of my research is that I did not travel with the activists on most of
their numerous trips to Lansing, Washington, D.C., or the places around the state and
country where they were invited to speak. Thus, my field site did not range over the
full scope of the territory traversed by the activists.
24. Steffen Dalsgaard argues that “if his or her interlocutors use Facebook, so should
the ethnographer.” “The Ethnographic Use of Facebook in Everyday Life,” 97. I came
to see Facebook (more so than Twitter) as an extension of the community, “holistically entangled” (as Dalsgaard puts it) with offline interactions, and therefore critical
to understanding them (98).
25. Juris, “Practicing Militant Ethnography,” 164–166.
26. I follow Myron Aronoff and Jan Kubik in regarding the essence of ethnography as
“participant observation, a disciplined immersion in the social life of a given group of
Notes to Introduction
263
people,” and in-depth interviews as supplementary to this activity. Aronoff and Kubik,
Anthropology and Political Science, 28.
27. The endnotes in this book reflect the fact that I have made extensive use of
local news sources for basic factual information about the crisis and its surrounding
context. I am fully aware of their limitations. While I have not knowingly included
any inaccurate claims from these sources, I have not done the extensive investigative work that would be required to thoroughly vet each and every one. I use these
sources not necessarily because they offer the final word on what “really happened,”
but because they are useful in establishing the context in which activists exercised
political agency in Flint. Although activists were often skeptical of local news coverage of the crisis, their understanding of what was going on at any particular time
was heavily mediated by that coverage, especially as relayed in the steady stream of
breaking news posts to Facebook.
28. Because the crisis and the people working to resolve it received substantial press
coverage from late 2015 on, almost everyone quoted or otherwise referenced in
this book is already on record expressing their thoughts about the crisis, and I have
sometimes drawn from these secondary sources rather than my own interviews for
choice quotes. The existence of this extensive public record is one of the reasons
why I have made the carefully considered decision to refer to my sources (with their
permission) by their real names rather than pseudonymizing them. There is another
important reason, however. While preserving anonymity is sometimes a necessary
means of protecting people whose safety or reputations would be compromised by
identification, it also has the unfortunate effect of depriving “ordinary” people of the
credit they deserve for their activism. Powerful public figures get named because their
prior visibility makes it impossible and unnecessary not to name them; however, too
often, the real protagonists of the stories academics tell must content themselves
with indirect recognition. Not so in this book.
29. It should be clear by now that I arrived at these themes reflexively, in dialogue
with activists, rather than adopting the positivist method of investigating preconstituted “facts.” On reflexive science, see Burawoy, “The Extended Case Method.”
30. For a similarly broad way of conceiving of water justice, see Zwarteveen and
Boelens, “Defining, Researching and Struggling for Water Justice.” The authors argue
that “definitions and understandings of justice cannot be based only on abstract
notions of ‘what should be,’ but also need to be anchored in how injustices are
experienced. They need to be related both to the diverse ‘local’ perceptions of equity
and to the discourses, constructs, and procedures of formal justice” (147).
31. Sze and London, “Environmental Justice at the Crossroads,” 1347. Jeffrey Juris
explains that one of the goals of militant ethnography is “to facilitate ongoing activist (self-)reflection regarding movement goals, tactics, strategies, and organizational
forms” (“Practicing Militant Ethnography,” 165). David Graeber suggests that the
264
Notes to Introduction
ethnographer can even engage in a kind of “utopian extrapolation,” “teasing out the
tacit logic or principles underlying certain forms of radical practice, and then, not
only offering the analysis back to those communities, but using them to formulate
new visions.” Possibilities, 310.
32. Examples include, but are not limited to, Levine, Love Canal; Brown and Mikkelsen,
No Safe Place; Checker, Polluted Promises; Lerner, Diamond; and McGurty, Transforming
Environmentalism.
33. I take inspiration from Erikson’s counsel that “there are times when the need
for generalizations must yield to the urgency of passing events, times when the event
must tell its own story.” Everything in Its Path, 12. Bent Flyvbjerg reminds us in “Five
Misunderstandings about Case-Study Research” that good case study narratives “typically approach the complexities and contradictions of real life,” and that “a particularly ‘thick’ and hard-to-summarize narrative is not a problem. Rather, it is often a
sign that the study has uncovered a particularly rich problematic” (21).
34. Harvey, “Militant Particularism and Global Ambition,” 83–84.
35. As Kim Fortun writes, one of “the most stubborn dilemmas of advocacy” is “the
need to render one’s object of concern in all its particularity so that justice is not
lost to grand schemes and glossy claims—while, at the same time, showing how ‘the
problem’ one is concerned about crosscuts time and space, demanding a systemic
response.” Advocacy after Bhopal, 14.
36. See especially Mohai, “Environmental Justice and the Flint Water Crisis.”
37. Karen Bakker, for example, argues that the notion that water is a “human right,”
often presented as antithetical to the privatization of water, is in fact compatible
with it. For discussion, see Sultana and Loftus, The Right to Water.
38. See Swyngedouw and Heynen, “Urban Political Ecology, Justice and the Politics
of Scale.”
39. Swyngedouw and Kaika, “Urban Political Ecology,” 472.
40. Swyngedouw and Kaika, 472.
41. Pellow, Garbage Wars, 3.
42. To illustrate the consequences of proceeding from the “inside out,” it is instructive to consider the application of the concept of “environmental racism” to the
water crisis. The term has been used by many commentators to describe the crisis,
with the suggestion that Flint’s majority-minority demographics help to explain
everything from the decision to use the Flint River to the official skepticism that
greeted residents’ early concerns about the water. What I encountered on the ground
among activists, however, were complex feelings about race that included, in some
cases, outright hostility to racial framings of the crisis and, in many others, the desire
Notes to Introduction
265
to emphasize other demographic factors (particularly class) in preference to race (see
chapter 5). While considerations of race of course factor centrally into many aspects of
the story I tell in this book, I have for the aforementioned reasons chosen not to make
environmental racism one of the book’s orienting concepts.
43. I was not able to conduct any kind of sustained investigation into why most
residents did not engage in water activism (à la, e.g., Bell, Fighting King Coal). It was
a common lament among the activists that more people did not turn out to meetings,
rallies, and marches. Some had visions of mobilizing thousands or even tens of thousands of residents, but aside from a core group of hardcore activists who were almost
always involved in something or other, people came and went. While some were active
as early as spring 2014, others did not show up to a meeting until 2017. Flint’s relative
lack of social capital undoubtedly played a role in limiting the scope, consistency, and
impact of local water activism. What I call “activism” in this book, however—focusing
on relatively traditional forms of collective action—was but a piece of the overall mobilization of Flint residents around the crisis. It is important to recognize, with Anna
Lora-Wainwright in Resigned Activism, that “activism” more broadly defined comes in
diverse forms, many of which are invisible—even, often, to the ethnographer. It is also
worth pointing out that some who call themselves “activists” do little, seemingly, to
earn the designation, while others who are very “active” are uncomfortable with it.
Of those who were most involved in water activism in Flint, a handful were longtime
activists who self-identified as such and felt a strong sense of connection to other
activists past and present. Most, however, were novices who wore the label “activist”
uncomfortably, as if it was a new piece of clothing still being broken in. Some came
to embrace the label fully and consistently, others more hesitantly and sporadically.
44. Swyngedouw and Heynen, “Urban Political Ecology, Justice and the Politics of
Scale,” 909.
45. Harvey, Spaces of Hope, 241.
46. What activists meant by “local control” encompassed, roughly, what is meant
by the term “home rule,” a term that I will use when referring to the right of municipalities to determine their own forms of government, pass ordinances, and run their
own affairs more generally. The term “home rule” was less familiar to the average
activist, however, and did not, from what I could tell, resonate as strongly as its
more intuitive alternative.
47. Claire McClinton, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, September 11,
2018.
48. This was the language used by Simone Lightfoot, Director of National Urban
Initiatives at the National Wildlife Federation, at the second annual environmental
justice summit in Flint, March 2018.
49. See Finewood and Holifield, “Critical Approaches to Urban Water Governance,”
and Susskind, “Water and Democracy.”
266
Notes to Introduction
50. Cameron Harrington calls for the “realignment away from viewing collaborative
governance as a depoliticized process of negotiation where shared and/or competing
visions of water management are peaceably managed.” “The Political Ontology of
Collaborative Water Governance,” 265.
51. Jaime Hoogesteger, for example, has highlighted the importance of “contentious actions” in moving from “mere participation in government programs to
becoming active in the elaboration and implementation of water policies even in
the absence of formal participatory spaces.” “Democratizing Water Governance
from the Grassroots,” 83.
52. On rendering water “technical” as a way of depoliticizing it, see Joy, Kulkarni,
Roth, and Zwarteveen, “Repoliticising Water Governance.” See also Swyngedouw,
“The Antinomies of the Postpolitical City.” On the notion of “rendering technical” more generally, see Li, “Rendering Society Technical.” Jason Corburn points
out that “deliberative forums … rarely have found a way to avoid granting science
and technical expertise a privileged position in the discourse.” Street Science, 43.
53. In a review of literature on the subject of regionalization in the mid-90s, political
scientist Janice Beecher noted that “The strong desire to maintain local control” was
a “significant barrier to regionalization.” The Regionalization of Water Utilities, 3. More
recent research suggests that this desire continues to act as a barrier: e.g., Hansen,
“Community Water System Regionalization and Stakeholder Implications.”
54. Penny Harvey and Hannah Knox, for example, describe infrastructures “as
dynamic relational forms” with “political implications” (Roads, 4–5), while Nikhil
Anand writes that “Infrastructures are neither ontologically prior to politics nor
are they merely effects of social organization. Infrastructures are flaky accretions of
sociomaterial processes that are brought into being through relations with human
bodies, discourses, and other things” (Hydraulic City, 13).
55. The point was influentially made by Susan Leigh Star in “The Ethnography of Infrastructure.” Nikhil Anand applies the idea to Flint in “The Banality of Infrastructure.”
56. Graham, Disrupted Cities, 3.
57. For a useful account of large technical systems, see Hughes, “The Evolution of
Large Technical Systems.”
58. This is one of the central insights of recent ethnographies of infrastructure. For
examples, see Björkman, Pipe Politics; Von Schnitzler, Democracy’s Infrastructure; and
Anand, Hydraulic City.
59. Furlong, “Small Technologies, Big Change.”
60. Much has been said about the democratizing implications of citizen science. In
“When Citizen Science Meets Science Policy,” Eric Kennedy, for example, writes that
citizen science “is part of a much larger call for renewed and reinvigorated forms
Notes to Introduction
267
of democracy,” and that its democratizing quality “is found in the emerging push
to include previously marginalized communities in government decision-making
and scientific processes; to increase participation in democratic processes among
youth and other communities; to make data and research more openly accessible
and freely available” (46). Citizen science, Kennedy continues, “pushes for a science that is inclusive, open, and transparent. It calls for the remaking of expert
processes in ways that invite new members to the table, and that allow avenues
for all communities to feel ownership and opportunity when it comes to scientific
processes. And it holds research—especially publicly funded research—to account
through demands for open access, open data, and open lines of communication
with researchers and users. Ultimately, it aspires to open pathways for participation
in science, and to influence decision making, to anyone who seeks them.” Citizen
science is “subversive,” he argues, because it makes “participatory methods … the
norm” (47).
61. Cooper and Lewenstein, “Two Meanings of Citizen Science,” 59.
62. Cooper and Lewenstein, 59.
63. At least some of his inspiration seems to have come from the account of narrative found in Olson, Houston, We Have a Narrative.
64. Eventbrite, event description entry, “Citizen Science and the Flint Water Crisis:
Triumph, Tragedy, and Misconduct,” American University, February 8, 2018.
65. Even the application of the term “citizen science” to the collaboration is to
some extent a reflection of these incongruities. There are a number of other terms in
existence that arguably do a better job of capturing the kind of community-driven
research typical of environmental justice activism, including “participatory action
research,” “activist-mobilized science,” and “street science.” See Baum, MacDougall,
and Smith, “Participatory Action Research”; Conde, “Activism Mobilising Science”;
and Corburn, Street Science.
66. Ottinger, “Social Movement-Based Citizen Science,” 90.
67. Ottinger, 91.
68. Conde, “Activism Mobilising Science,” 68.
69. Harding, “Rethinking Standpoint Epistemology.” Additionally, coproductionist
accounts of science challenge us to consider whether any science is truly value neutral or immune to social influences. See Jasanoff, States of Knowledge.
70. For application of the concept in an environmental justice context, see Allen,
Uneasy Alchemy.
71. Some have suggested that science conducted under these conditions is inherently
“post-normal.” See, for example, Bidwell, “Is Community-Based Participatory Research
268
Notes to Introduction
Postnormal Science?” Drawing from the influential work of Silvio Funtowicz and
Jerome Ravetz, Bidwell writes that post-normal science takes more than just traditionally defined scientific facts into consideration, including “community values, history,
personal experiences, and other types of information not traditionally considered
legitimate in research on environmental health” (748).
72. Pellow, “Popular Epidemiology and Environmental Movements,” 309.
1 Flint First
1. Hanna-Attisha, LaChance, Sadler, and Schnepp, “Elevated Blood Lead Levels,”
283–290.
2. Associated Press, “Doctors Warn Flint of High Lead Levels in Tap Water,” Detroit
News, September 24, 2015, https://www.detroitnews.com/story/news/local/michigan
/2015/09/24/flint-plans-advisory-curbing-exposure-lead/72725736/.
3. Mona Hanna-Attisha, press conference, Hurley Medical Center, Flint, MI, September 24, 2015.
4. All quotes from the testimony of Hanna-Attisha are derived from the author’s field
notes and the video record of the Meeting of the Joint Committee on the Flint Water
Public Health Emergency, University of Michigan–Flint, Flint, MI, March 29, 2016.
5. Snyder is quoted in Chad Livengood and Keith Laing, “Flint Aid Fight Escalates as
Federal Funding Stalls,” Detroit News, April 15, 2016.
6. See the House Fiscal Agency memo from March 7 for a summary of allocated and
requested funds around this time. Memorandum by Mary Ann Cleary, Michigan
House Fiscal Committee, “Flint Water Emergency Appropriations,” revised April 29,
2016, https://www.house.mi.gov/hfa/PDF/Alpha/Flint_Water_Emergency_Memo.pdf.
7. For another statement of Hanna-Attisha’s argument for prioritizing Flint, see
Hanna-Attisha, “The Future for Flint’s Children.”
8. Technically, Hanna-Attisha said that “no other state was poisoned by policy” rather
than no other city. I later confirmed with her that she misspoke, having intended to
say “city.” This is clearly what the audience took her to mean.
9. Pastor Alfred Harris, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, February 28, 2017.
The Saint Paul quote is from Romans 8:28.
10. For another nationwide comparison of blood lead levels, see Shah et al., “Blood
Lead Concentrations,” 218–223. It is also worth mentioning that while Flint’s lead
levels spiked temporarily due to an unusual confluence of circumstances, communities suffering from more typical forms of lead exposure through paint and soil see
high rates year after year. One important caveat in assessing the quantity of harm
in Flint, however, is that the impact of elevated blood lead is not linear—low doses
Notes to Chapter 1
269
have been found to have a larger proportional impact (i.e., increasing BLLs from 1 to
2 µg /dL is worse than increasing 10 to 11 µg /dL). Lanphear et al., “Low-Level Environmental Lead Exposure,” 894–899. For overviews of changing understandings of
the prevalence and significance of childhood lead poisoning, see Christian Warren,
Brush with Death, and Markowitz and Rosner, Lead Wars.
11. Marc Edwards, talk at Hurley Medical Center, Flint, MI, December 2, 2015.
12. Edwards, “Fetal Death and Reduced Birth Rates,” 739–746.
13. Some suggested that lead ingested through drinking water would simply be urinated out of the body without entering the blood. After a flawed CDC study seemed
to show no detrimental effects in D.C., Edwards did his own study that confirmed a
correlation between high lead in water and high blood lead. Edwards, Triantafyllidou, and Best, “Elevated Blood Lead,” 1618–1623.
14. Milloy, “EPA’s Lead Heads.”
15. “Political Insider Bill Ballenger Fired after Questioning If Flint Water Is a Crisis,
Saying It Didn’t Hurt Him,” CBS Detroit, January 20, 2016, https://detroit.cbslocal.
com/2016/01/20/michigan-political-analyst-fired-after-criticizing-flint-water-crisis-as
-a-hoax/. Ballenger maintained that neither he nor anyone in his neighborhood
experienced issues with the water and disputed the claim that children testing positive for elevated lead were exposed through water.
16. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Crisis Was ‘Overplayed,’ Michigan DEQ Exec Tells Investigator,” MLive, June 1, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2016/06/high
-ranking_michigan_deq_offi.html. Reynolds called Sygo’s account of the incident that
led to this accusation “a complete fabrication.” Another MDEQ employee, Bryce Feighner, said that residents had been hurt more by “hype” than they had by their water;
see Garret Ellison, “Treating River Water Would Not Have Prevented Flint Crisis, DEQ
Official Says,” MLive, April 28, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2017/04
/bryce_feighner_mdeq_flint_wate.html.
17. Ballenger, in fact, was fired from his position as a contributor to the Inside Michigan Politics newsletter.
18. Other than a “public relations crisis,” that is, which Ari Adler, a communications
staff member in Governor Snyder’s office, warned that the situation was shaping up to
be in January 2015. Jake May, “Debunking 4 Claims.”
19. Ron Fonger, “Flint Residents Call for Investigative Hearings into ‘Water Crisis,’”
MLive, January 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/01/state
_deq_high_levels_of_disin.html.
20. Snyder requested $96 million in federal aid for service lines, water, and filters.
See Chad Livengood and Jonathan Oosting, “Snyder to Appeal Obama’s Denial of
Flint Disaster Zone,” Detroit News, January 17, 2016.
270
Notes to Chapter 1
21. Activists were especially interested in the precedent set in Libby, Montana,
where the federal government extended Medicare coverage to the whole community, irrespective of age, to help compensate for harms caused by asbestos contamination from vermiculite mining. In Flint, Medicaid was temporarily expanded to
cover everyone in the city under twenty-one as well as pregnant women. See Smith,
“Why Medicare for Libby and Medicaid for Flint?” For an overview of the Libby
affair, see Schneider and McCumber, An Air That Kills. The authors describe Libby as
“the single worst event the EPA had ever encountered” due to the pervasiveness of
the contamination and its terrible human toll, including hundreds of deaths from
asbestosis (162).
22. Pastor Alfred Harris, interview, February 28, 2017.
23. Nayyirah Shariff, “Flint: As 2 Unelected Emergency Managers Are Charged over
Water Poisoning, Will Gov. Snyder Be Next?,” interview by Amy Goodman, Democracy Now!, December 21, 2016.
24. One person to use this concept explicitly was environmental justice scholar Paul
Mohai in testimony to the Michigan Civil Rights Commission. Mohai said that Flint
had experienced a “severe environmental and health burden” that was “an environmental injustice by itself.” Hearings on the Flint Water Crisis before the Michigan Civil
Rights Commission (September 8, 2016). Written Testimony of Paul Mohai, Professor of Natural Resources and the Environment, University of Michigan.
25. Schlosberg, Environmental Justice and the New Pluralism, 12.
26. The ability to quantify harm, particularly bodily harm, is especially important
under conditions of economic and political disenfranchisement, when establishing an
entitlement to state resources to rectify injuries can offer a kind of “biological citizenship,” a place within an otherwise disinterested body politic. See Petryna, Life Exposed.
27. Even in well-known and seemingly clear-cut cases of environmental catastrophe
and contamination, like the nuclear accident at Chernobyl and the leaching of buried
chemical waste at Love Canal, New York, the relationship between exposure to contaminants and subsequent health impairments is often highly ambiguous. For an excellent
account of the ambiguities of epidemiology of this kind, see Fagin, Toms River.
28. James Felton, “Family Upset over Lack of Legislation on Lead Limit,” WNEM,
September 16, 2016.
29. Emily Lawler, “43 Flint Residents Identified with Elevated Lead Levels So Far,
Urged To Take Precautions,” MLive, January 7, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/lansing
-news/index.ssf/2016/01/43_flint_residents_identified.html.
30. Gómez et al., “Blood Lead Levels.” The authors note that “whereas the GM [geometric mean] BLL increased during the Flint River water switch, the increase was no
greater than the random increase noted from 2010 to 2011, and GM BLLs in Flint
Notes to Chapter 1
271
have since returned to historical lows” (6). For an earlier challenge to Hanna-Attisha’s
work, see Campbell, Hanna-Attisha, and LaChance, “Flint Blood Lead Levels,” e6.
31. Hanna-Attisha, “Don’t Downplay Lead Problems.” Gómez and his coauthors
admit that within their sample “no child tested was young enough to be formula
dependent. Therefore, changes in BLLs in the very young from water used in formula
preparation during 2014–2015 Flint River water switch cannot be determined.” For
an analysis more compatible with that of Hanna-Attisha’s, see Zahran, McElmurry,
and Sadler, “Four Phases.” Hanna-Attisha was also involved in an effort to assess
whether lead exposure caused a decline in fertility rates in Flint. Although her own
study petered out, two other studies on the same topic touched off yet another debate.
In a working paper, two economists, Daniel Grossman and David Slusky, claimed that
the uptick in miscarriages and fetal deaths during Flint’s time on the river was “horrifyingly large” (“Effect of an Increase in Lead,” 32). The DHHS, however, challenged
the methodology of the study (Paneth, “Review”) and reported its own preliminary
finding that there was no adverse effect on birth outcomes whatsoever (Ron Fonger,
“‘Serious Concerns’ about Study Claiming Flint Water Increased Fetal Deaths,” MLive,
September 28, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/09/state_ques
tions_study_that_cla.html). For a revised version of Grossman and Slusky’s paper, see
Grossman and Slusky, “The Impact of the Flint Water Crisis on Fertility.”
32. Gómez and Dietrich, “The Children of Flint.”
33. Jan Worth-Nelson, “Citizens to Hurley Board: ‘Lead-Exposed’ Word Change
‘Preposterous,’ and Devastating to Trust,” East Village Magazine, May 31, 2018.
34. Unified Coordination Group, Flint Rash Investigation. It is important to note the
limitations of the CDC study, which failed to incorporate case controls that would
have allowed for meaningful comparisons. While the study raised the possibility
that rashes developed while Flint was on the river may have resulted from excessive
chlorination, it was unable to confirm this retrospectively.
35. Zahran et al., “Legionnaires’ Disease Outbreak.”
36. “Numerous Flaws Found in Flint Area Community Health and Environment
Partnership Journal Articles,” Michigan.gov, February 5, 2018, https://www.michi
gan.gov/som/0,4669,7-192-29942-459450--,00.html.
37. Byrne et al., “Serogroup 6 Legionella pneumophila.”
38. Reports by Bridge magazine in January 2017 and PBS Frontline in July 2018
seemed to validate popular suspicions that many cases diagnosed as generic pneumonia were in fact Legionnaires’. Bridge suggested that, given the abnormally high
number of deaths from “pneumonia” during that time span (an average of 88.5 per
year, contrasted with 53 in 2013), the actual number of deaths from Legionnaires’
was likely much higher. Dawsey, “Soaring Pneumonia Deaths.” For Frontline’s coverage, see Ruble et al., “Flint Water Crisis Deaths.”
272
Notes to Chapter 1
39. Leonard N. Fleming, “Expert in Flint Case: Man Didn’t Die from Legionnaires’,”
Detroit News, March 23, 2018.
40. For a general treatment of psychological harm and environmental contamination, see Edelstein, Contaminated Communities.
41. Residents sometimes spoke of an entire city suffering from post-traumatic stress
disorder (PTSD). And, in fact, there was data to support that characterization: a county
health survey conducted in the middle of the crisis found that negative perceptions of
water quality were indeed correlated with PTSD symptoms. Kruger, Cupal, Kodjebacheva,
and Fockler, “Perceived Water Quality.” A study done by the CDC in May 2016 found
that 38.0 percent of Flint residents surveyed reported having poor mental health compared to 12.9 percent of the total population of Michigan. Centers for Disease Control
and Prevention, Community Assessment for Public Health Emergency Response (CASPER).
42. Abby Goodnough and Scott Atkinson, “A Potent Side Effect to the Flint Water
Crisis: Mental Health Problems,” New York Times, April 30, 2016; Marion V. Day, “Flint
Water Crisis Has Physical and Psychological Impact,” MLive, February 29, 2016, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/02/flint_water_crisis_has_physica.html;
and Melikian, “Psychological Damage.”
43. Drum, “Lead.”
44. Liu, “Marc Edwards.”
45. Marc Edwards, “Research Update: Corrosivity of Flint Water to Iron Pipes in the
City—A Costly Problem,” September 29, 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2015/09
/research- update- corrosivity- of- flint- water- to- iron- pipes- in- the- city- a- costly
-problem/.
46. Pruett, “Rebuild Flint the Right Way.”
47. The estimate is from Pruett, “Rebuild Flint the Right Way.” See also Mark Guarino, “New Crisis for Flint Residents: Cost of Home Damage Caused by City Water,”
Washington Post, January 22, 2016.
48. Zahran, McElmurry, and Sadler, “Four Phases.”
49. A report in February 2017 found that “home values in Flint have risen over the
past two years, despite the water crisis the city is facing.” Mark Bullion, “Flint Housing Market Rebounds amid Water Crisis,” ABC12, February 1, 2017, https://www
.abc12.com/content/news/Flint- housing- market- rebounds- - 412476443.html.
Homeowners faced other difficulties, though, like the need to prove their water was
safe before they were eligible for new loans. Daniel Goldstein, “Lead Poisoning Crisis
Sends Flint Real-Estate Market Tumbling,” MarketWatch, February 17, 2016.
50. Tony Palladeno Jr., quoted in “Green for All, Flint Residents: Absence of Governor
Snyder in List of Flint Charges Is Criminal,” Green for All, April 20, 2016, https://www
.greenforall.org/flint_criminal_charges.
Notes to Chapter 1
273
51. Nakiya Wakes quoted in Sara Sidner, “Michigan Governor’s Aides Pushed for
‘Urgent’ Fix to Flint Water Crisis,” CNN, February 28, 2016, https://www.cnn.com
/2016/02/28/us/flint-governor-emails/index.html.
52. Nayyirah Shariff and Marc Edwards, “‘Gov. Snyder Should Be Arrested’: Flint
Residents Demand Justice over Water Poisoning,” interview by Amy Goodman,
Democracy Now!, January 8, 2016.
53. Paul Egan, “Gov. Rick Snyder Blames ‘Career Bureaucrats’ for Flint Water Crisis,”
Detroit Free Press, March 17, 2016.
54. Schuette’s motives were widely questioned by activists who suspected his gubernatorial ambitions were behind his crusading rhetoric.
55. “Charges Brought against 6 More in Flint Crisis,” MSNBC, July 31, 2016, https://
www.msnbc.com/msnbc-news/watch/charges-brought-against-6-more-in-flint-crisis
-735643203814?v=raila&.
56. Paul Egan and Elisha Anderson, “Emergency Managers, City Officials Charged
in Flint Water Crisis,” Detroit Free Press, December 20, 2016.
57. Jackman, “Bill Schuette Is Indicting Emergency Managers.”
58. For example, the 1983 General Accounting Office study of hazardous waste sites
in EPA Region IV (General Accounting Office, “Siting of Hazardous Waste Landfills
and Their Correlation with Racial and Economic Status of Surrounding Communities,” June 1, 1983); United Church of Christ Commission for Racial Justice, Toxic
Wastes and Race in the United States; Environmental Protection Agency, Environmental Equity; and the pioneering scholarship of Bunyan Bryant and Paul Mohai (Race
and the Incidence of Environmental Hazards). For discussion of some of the controversy
around early studies focusing on distributive injustice, see Taylor, Toxic Communities, ch. 2.
59. Young, Justice and the Politics of Difference, 23.
60. Principles #5 and #7. For other examples, see Schlosberg, Defining Environmental Justice, 65–67. Luke Cole and Sheila Foster write: “The Environmental Justice
Movement … has answered the participation question clearly and decisively. The
Movement’s principles and practice have focused on the idea that communities
should speak for themselves, that those who must bear the brunt of a decision
should have an equal and influential role in making the decision.” From the Ground
Up, 106.
61. For an application of a slightly different typology of justice to the water crisis,
see Perreault, Boelens, and Vos, “Introduction.”
62. For useful background, see Benz, “Toxic Cities.”
63. See Moss, “Environmental Justice”; Ward, “The Promise of Jobs”; and Cole
and Foster, From the Ground Up, 124–125. See also Robin Bravender, “Civil Rights
274
Notes to Chapter 1
Advocates Despair after Decades of Agency Inaction,” E&E News, February 19, 2015;
Stephens, “The Flint River Lead Poisoning Catastrophe”; and Carpenter, “How the
EPA Has Failed.”
64. Dorka, EPA Final Genesee Complaint Letter, 7. Only one other agency, a California
state agency, has been found in “preliminary” violation of the EPA’s antidiscrimination regulations since 1994. See “Agreement between Cal. Dep’t of Pesticide Regulation and U.S. EPA, Angelita C. v. Cal. Dep’t of Pesticide Regulation (Aug. 24, 2011),”
https://www.ejnet.org/ej/angelitac-settlement.pdf.
65. Dorka, EPA Final Genesee Complaint Letter, 3. The EPA found that the absence
of these protections had especially negative consequences for African Americans,
people with low English proficiency, and people with physical impairments.
66. Dorka, EPA Final Genesee Complaint Letter, 27–28.
67. Dorka, 1.
68. Dorka, 30.
69. The state announced the formation of an Environmental Justice Work Group
on February 15, 2017, in direct response to “recommendations from the Flint Water
Advisory Task Force and the Flint Water Interagency Coordinating Committee’s Policy
Subcommittee.” See “Environmental Justice Work Group Seeks to Improve State
Guidelines and Policy,” Michigan.gov, February 15, 2017, https://www.michigan.gov
/snyder/0,4668,7-277--405091--,00.html.
70. Gosman, Written Testimony, 10.
71. The “Environmental Justice Work Group Report: Michigan as a Global Leader
in Environmental Justice” appeared in March 2018. One of the report’s findings was
that “the present statutes, regulations, policies, and procedures of the State deprive
local governments of utilizing their authority to function for the common good.
By substituting its authority for local authority, the State preempts the initiative
and responsibilities of local government and curtails any meaningful public involvement in government decision making.” The report recommended eliminating “limitations placed on local governments” that hinder the latter’s ability “to identify or
correct environmental justice problems within their locales” (22).
2 How Did It Happen?
1. Bridge Magazine Staff, “Disaster Day by Day.” For a compilation of Bridge Magazine’s work on the crisis, see Campbell, Poison on Tap.
2. Progress Michigan, “Snyder Cherry Picks Flint Water Crisis Emails,” January 20,
2016, http://www.progressmichigan.org/2016/01/snyder-cherry-picks-flint-water-crisis
-emails/.
Notes to Chapter 2
275
3. Dan Kildee, “Statement by Congressman Dan Kildee on Gov. Snyder Declining to Testify on Flint Water Crisis,” February 8, 2016, https://dankildee.house.gov/media/press
- releases/statement- congressman- dan- kildee- gov- snyder- declining- testify- flint
-water.
4. Michigan’s notoriously lax sunshine laws (the state was ranked dead last for transparency in a 2015 Center for Public Integrity report) facilitated official obscurantism
by exempting communications involving the Governor’s office and state legislators
from Freedom of Information Act requests. Even state agencies subject to the laws
operated within a culture of disregard for such requests. In one instance, the Mackinac Center sued the MDEQ after waiting 121 days for crisis-related documents it was
told would take mere hours to process. Some argued that the general atmosphere of
inscrutability at the state level emboldened officials to act incautiously and directly
contributed to causing and prolonging the crisis. See, for example, Byrnes, “Amid the
Flint Water Crisis.”
5. Comments from Gerald R. Ford School of Public Policy, University of Michigan
panel event, October 24, 2016.
6. For discussion, see chapter 6, “Plot in Narrative,” in Scholes, Phelan, and Kellogg,
The Nature of Narrative, and chapter 9, “Story and Discourse in the Analysis of Narrative,” in Culler, The Pursuit of Signs.
7. The inevitable ambiguities of environmental contamination events have a way of
bringing out the relativity of narratives, as no one account can capture such events
in their full complexity. See Mazur, A Hazardous Inquiry.
8. See Ganz on the need for movements to construct a “story of now” in “What Is
Public Narrative?”
9. On the importance of movements struggling over the terms of public discourse, see
Woodly, The Politics of Common Sense. As Woodly writes, “Changing public discourse
changes power relations, and altered power relations change politics—the principles
and policy that are at stake in the struggle over who shall govern and how. … A
movement that effectively alters the terms of discourse can overcome considerable
opposition and structural disadvantages to achieve sustained, meaningful change” (1).
10. In the social movements literature, frames tend to be treated as conscious conceptual structures that are used by actors in pursuit of strategic ends. This chapter deals
with the activists’ efforts to construct what Snow and Benford call a “diagnostic”
frame that defines a problem and assigns blame, in the service of what they would
call “prognostic” and “motivational” frames. See “Ideology, Frame Resonance, and
Participant Mobilization.” For a general overview of the framing literature, see, by
the same authors, “Framing Processes and Social Movements.”
11. Brass fixtures made before 2014 could have up to 8 percent lead content and
still be considered “lead free.”
276
Notes to Chapter 2
12. For the connection between low chlorine residuals and bacterial growth, see
Zahran et al., “Legionnaires’ Disease Outbreak.”
13. Marc Edwards, “Why Is It Possible that Flint River Water Cannot Be Treated to
Meet Federal Standards?,” August 24, 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2015/08/why
-is-it-possible-that-flint-river-water-cannot-be-treated-to-meet-federal-standards/.
14. Marc Edwards in Wisely, “Flint River Water.”
15. Although environmental engineer Shawn McElmurry acknowledged that “common
sense tells you that the Flint River is not your first choice of drinking water” (in John
Wisely and Robin Erb, “Chemical Testing Could Have Predicted Flint’s Water Crisis,”
Detroit Free Press, October 10, 2015), he, too, concluded that there was “no reason”
the river water “could not have been treated properly and used safely.” In Jim Lynch,
“DEQ: Flint Water Fix Should Have Come by 2014,” Detroit News, January 21, 2016.
16. In Wisely and Erb, “Chemical Testing.”
17. Masten, Davies, and McElmurry, “Flint Water Crisis,” 26.
18. Wisely, “Flint River Water.”
19. Olson et al., “Forensic Estimates of Lead.”
20. Marc Edwards, “Investigation of MDEQ’s New ‘Corrosion Control’ Claim Reveals
More Deception and Incompetence: Where Is the EPA?,” October 4, 2015, http://
flintwaterstudy.org/2015/10/investigation-of-mdeqs-new-corrosion-control-claim
-reveals-more-deception-and-incompetence-where-is-the-epa/.
21. See, for example, Olson, “Science behind the Flint Water Crisis.” The MDEQ itself
used this language when it issued a mea culpa in October 2015. See Ron Fonger, “DEQ
Replaces Water Official after State Acknowledges ‘Mistake’ in Flint,” MLive, October
19, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/10/top_state_water_official_repla.html.
22. In Fonger, “DEQ Replaces Water Official.” The “mistake” was so befuddling,
however, that even some who were sympathetic to the technical narrative, like EPA
on-scene coordinator Mark Durno, were willing to believe that more sinister motives
may have been a factor. It was either “ignorance,” he told me, or “some malicious
reason” that “could have had to do with money.” Mark Durno, phone interview with
author, October 10, 2017.
23. Ron Fonger, “Documents Show Flint Filed False Reports about Testing for Lead
in Water,” MLive, November 12, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.
ssf/2015/11/documents_show_city_filed_fals.html.
24. Mark Brush, “Expert Says Michigan Officials Changed a Flint Lead Report to Avoid
Federal Action,” Michigan Radio, November 5, 2015. For a water system to be in compliance with the action level, 90 percent of homes tested must be below 15 ppb lead.
Notes to Chapter 2
277
25. On June 25, 2015, MDEQ water quality analyst Adam Rosenthal wrote to employees
at the Flint Water Treatment Plant that he was concerned that preliminary sampling had
come in over the federal action level and hoped that subsequent samples would bring
the city’s ninetieth percentile back down. His remarks looked more incriminating in light
of a 2008 email in which he suggested, in reference to lead levels in another city, tossing
out a high result to avoid having to give “public notice.” Ryan Felton, “Michigan Official
Suggested Gaming Water Tests to ‘Bump out’ Lead Results,” Guardian, April 27, 2016.
26. Susan Masten, personal interview with author, East Lansing, MI, December 5, 2017.
27. Milman and Glenza, “33 US Cities.”
28. Vock, “In Flint’s Aftermath.”
29. This pledge ran into resistance on the part of Republican legislators citing the
higher costs of compliance it would impose on municipalities. Jonathan Oosting and
Michael Gerstein, “GOP Leaders Oppose Snyder’s Lead Water Rule,” Detroit News,
March 23, 2017. At the federal level, Representative Dan Kildee sponsored a bill that
would take the EPA action level down to 5 ppb by 2026.
30. It was the first element of what he described as the “perfect storm” that caused
the crisis:
a) Chronic underinvestment in water infrastructure
b) Underappreciation of the role of corrosion control in sustaining urban potable
water systems
c) Increased corrosion due to higher chloride in Flint’s new source water
d) Failure to appropriately monitor for lead and opportunistic premise plumbing
pathogens
See the Virginia Tech team’s National Science Foundation Rapid Response Research
grant proposal: Siddhartha Roy, “Our VT Team Wins $50,000 Grant from the National
Science Foundation to Study Flint Water,” September 14, 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.
org/2015/09/our-virginia-tech-research-team-wins-a-50000-grant-from-the-national
-science-foundation-to-study-flint-water/.
31. Sarah Schuch, “Flint Residents Should Be Drinking Flint River Water by Mid-April,
Officials Say,” MLive, March 12, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014
/03/flint_residents_should_be_drin.html. In April 2017, Robert Kaplan of EPA Region 5
estimated the necessary cost to upgrade the plant adequately at around $100 million.
Ron Fonger, “Top EPA Official: ‘No Reasonable Operator’ Would Have Used Flint Water
Plant,” MLive, April 19, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/04
/epa_regional_director_says_spe.html.
32. Paul Egan, “Water Plant Official: Move to Flint River ‘Bad Decision,’” Detroit Free
Press, March 29, 2016.
33. Matthew Dolan, “Flint Water Woes Reach beyond Lead in Drinking Supply,”
Detroit Free Press, June 5, 2016.
278
Notes to Chapter 2
34. Ron Fonger, “Flint DPW Director Says Water Use Has Spiked after Hundreds
of Water Main Breaks,” MLive, April 22, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2015/04/flint_dpw_director_says_water.html. Bryce Feighner of the MDEQ
broke with consensus, and garnered the opprobrium of the scientific community,
when he argued that water main breaks and other infrastructural problems were
the main source of the water’s corrosivity (because they necessitated more chlorination), that orthophosphates would not have prevented the crisis, and that the city was
largely to blame for what happened. See Ron Fonger, “Treating River Water Would
Not Have Prevented Flint Crisis, DEQ Official Says,” MLive, April 22, 2017, https://
www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2017/04/bryce_feighner_mdeq_flint_wate.html. For
Marc Edwards’s response, see Ron Fonger, “Water Expert: ‘No Known Relationship’
between Main Breaks, Lead in Water,” MLive, April 28, 2017, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/04/water_expert_no_known_relation.html.
35. For background on the use of lead in plumbing, see Troesken, The Great Lead
Water Pipe Disaster.
36. A spring 2016 report by Rowe Engineering estimated that Flint’s water infrastructure as a whole needed upward of $214 million in repairs. See Dolan, “Flint
Water Woes.”
37. Tom Pelton, “What Flint and Baltimore Share in Common: Dangerously Neglected
Plumbing,” WYPR, January 20, 2016, http://www.wypr.org/post/what-flint-and-balti
more-share-common-dangerously-neglected-plumbing.
38. American Society of Civil Engineers, ASCE 2017 Infrastructure Report Card. See
also US Government Accountability Office, Water Infrastructure.
39. For the lead service line estimate, see Cornwell, Brown, and Via, “National
Survey.” For the estimated cost, see Matthew Dolan, “U.S. Could Face a $300B Lead
Pipe Overhaul, Agency Warns,” Detroit Free Press, March 4, 2016.
40. Olsen and Fedinick, “What’s in Your Water?” See also Food and Water Watch,
“U.S. Water Systems.”
41. See 21st Century Infrastructure Commission, “21st Century Infrastructure Commission Report.”
42. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Line Replacements Have 22 Percent Failure Rate,”
MLive, May 17, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/05/1_in_5
_flint_water_service_lin.html.
43. Frank Witsil, “Governor Rick Snyder Seeks to Map Michigan’s Infrastructure,”
Detroit Free Press, April 3, 2017. Like Snyder’s proposal to lower the lead action level,
his proposals to step up investment in state infrastructure ran into pushback from
Republican legislators.
Notes to Chapter 2
279
44. As Michigan State University professor Janice Beecher put it, “At a very personal
level for everyone, regardless of roles and responsibilities, the fundamental lesson is
‘do your job.’ Do what you were trained and hired to do because the public and the
public interest depend on it, and the consequences of neglecting your duty can be
dire.” In McGuire et al., “Roundtable—The Flint Crisis.”
45. Flint Water Advisory Task Force, Final Report, 29.
46. Paul Egan, “Gov. Rick Snyder Blames ‘Career Bureaucrats’ for Flint Water Crisis,”
Detroit Free Press, March 17, 2016.
47. Abby Goodnough, “Governor Snyder: E.P.A. Prolonged Flint Disaster,” New York
Times, March 17, 2016.
48. For example, in Josh Hakala, “Flint’s Struggles Began with GM’s Move to Suburbs in 1940s, Historian Says,” Michigan Radio, February 8, 2016.
49. Highsmith, “Flint’s Toxic Water Crisis.”
50. Highsmith.
51. Highsmith, Demolition, 131.
52. Highsmith, 133.
53. Highsmith, 16.
54. See Dandaneau, A Town Abandoned. For further insight, see Jones and Bachelor,
The Sustaining Hand.
55. Dandaneau, A Town Abandoned, 251.
56. Melissa Naan Burke, “EPA Email: Let’s Not ‘Go out on a Limb’ for Flint,” Detroit
News, March 15, 2016.
57. In his account of the development of the waste management industry, David
Pellow emphasizes “the importance of the history of environmental racism and
the processes by which it unfolds.” Garbage Wars, 7. For another model historical
approach, consider the fusion of environmental and social history in Hurley, Environmental Inequalities.
58. “Crystal Clear: The Flint Water Crisis,” panel discussion at the University of
California, Irvine, March 10, 2016. For the definitive account of the “urban crisis,”
with direct relevance to Flint, see Sugrue, Urban Crisis.
59. Quote from Flint activist Tony Palladeno. See Steve Carmody, “Civil Rights
Commission Draft Report Does Not Recommend Lawsuit in Flint Water Crisis,”
Michigan Radio, January 24, 2017.
60. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, The Flint Water Crisis, iv.
280
Notes to Chapter 2
61. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 84.
62. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 84–85.
63. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 117.
64. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 119.
65. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 124.
66. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, 128.
67. The MCRC did compensate for this somewhat, however, when it submitted
an amicus brief in support of a writ of certiorari filed with the US Supreme Court
in the case of Bellant vs. Snyder: see Sarah Cwiek, “Michigan Civil Rights Commission Urges U.S. Supreme Court to Review Emergency Manager Law,” Michigan Radio,
April 25, 2017. The MCRC released a one-year follow-up report on March 26, 2018,
in which it described its recommendations as “aspirational rather than practical” and
acknowledged that they would “require not only legislative, structural, and institutional changes, but equally important cultural, interpersonal, and even intrapersonal
changes.” Arbulu and Levy, “One-Year Update,” 1.
68. “Coalition of Clean Water’s Demands in Light of Serious Lead in Water
Issues,” Flintwaterstudy.org, September 20, 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.org/infor
mation-for-flint-residents/demands/.
69. Marc Edwards, interview on Washington Journal, C-SPAN, February 29, 2016.
70. Ron Fonger, “Former Flint EM Says He Was ‘Unjustly Persecuted’ for Flint Water
Crisis,” MLive, March 15, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2016/03
/former_flint_em_says_he_was_un.html.
71. The quote is from a tweet on March 6, 2016 (@onetoughnerd).
72. Chad Livengood and Jonathan Oosting, “Snyder to Flint: ‘I’m Sorry and I’ll Fix
It,’ ” Detroit News, January 20, 2016.
3 Poisoned by Policy
1. PA 72 was an extension of PA 101 of 1988. PA 101 allowed EFMs for municipal
governments; PA 72 of 1990 extended this to school districts.
2. Beata Mostafavi, “What Happened Last Time? A Look Back at Flint’s 2002 State
Takeover,” MLive, November 10, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2011/11/what_happened_last_time_a_look.html.
3. Other “safety nets” built into PA 4 included requirements that all local governments balance their budgets and submit deficit reduction plans when deficits arose,
as well as provisions for extra borrowing as a means of eliminating deficits. See the
Notes to Chapter 3
281
report prepared for the Mackinac Center for Public Policy by Hohman, “Proposal 1
of 2012.”
4. Office of Governor Rick Snyder, “Emergency Manager Legislation Will Give State
Early Warning of Impending Trouble, Help Local Governments,” press release, March
16, 2011, https://www.michigan.gov/snyder/0,4668,7-277-57577-252799--,00.html.
5. See, e.g., Representative Al Pscholka, quoted in Jonathan Oosting, “Michigan
Decides 2012: Public Act 4 Emergency Manager Ballot Proposal,” MLive, September 24, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/politics/index.ssf/2012/09/michigan_
decides_2012_emergenc.html.
6. Berfield, “Financial Martial Law.”
7. Candidates for EM positions have to possess at least five years’ worth of business or
government experience and complete a short training sequence. While these qualifications go beyond what an average citizen needs to run for office, whether they are
sufficient to prepare EMs to exercise such broad powers has been much disputed by the
law’s critics. See Jeff Green and Jonathan Keehner, “Threat of Municipal Bankruptcy
Makes Michigan Train Financial SWAT Teams,” Bloomberg News, April 18, 2011.
8. The other notable restrictions PA 4 placed on EMs were arguably more favorable
to residents: EMs were unable to reduce pension payments (these being protected by
the state constitution) or unilaterally raise taxes.
9. Claire McClinton quoted in the ACLU documentary Here’s to Flint. David Fasenfest writes that the first objective of the austerity measures imposed by EMs is to
“preserve the financial interests of lenders and bond holders without exploring
how those interests may have created the problem in the first instance.” Fasenfest,
“A Neoliberal Response,” 4.
10. Kristin Longley, “Flint Could Be Test Case if New Emergency Financial Manager
Bill Becomes Law,” MLive, February 24, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2011/02/flint_could_be_test_case_if_ne.html.
11. For an overview of Flint’s economic condition at this time, see Doidge et al.,
“The Flint Fiscal Playbook,” and Scorsone and Bateson, “Long-Term Crisis.” Figures
on the median sales price of Flint homes are taken from a CNN analysis of RealtyTrac
data. See Patrick Gillespie, “Flint, Michigan: A Hollow Frame of a Once Affluent City,”
CNN Money, March 7, 2016, https://money.cnn.com/2016/03/06/news/economy
/flint-economy-democratic-debate/index.html.
12. Minghine, “The Great Revenue Sharing Heist.”
13. Peter Luke, “Gov. Rick Snyder Signs Michigan Business/Income Tax Overhaul
into Law,” MLive, May 25, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/politics/index.ssf/2011/05
/gov_rick_snyder_signs_michigan.html.
282
Notes to Chapter 3
14. Lederman, “Flint’s Water Crisis Is No Accident.”
15. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint under Emergency Management,” read aloud in council chambers, Flint, MI, March 3, 2014.
16. Translating the activists’ argument into legal scholar Richard Schragger’s terms,
the withdrawal of state revenue sharing stripped Flint of its actual capacity to govern
itself, creating the conditions under which the removal of Flint’s formal authority to
govern itself could be justified. Schragger, City Power, 5.
17. Flint Financial Review Team, “Report of the Flint Financial Review Team,” 4,
accessed June 15, 2017, https://www.michigan.gov/documents/treasury/Flint-Review
TeamReport-11-7-%2011_417437_7.pdf. Site no longer available.
18. Flint Financial Review Team, “Report of the Flint Financial Review Team,” 3.
19. Flint Financial Review Team, 6.
20. Flint Financial Review Team, 8.
21. Eng, “Editorial.”
22. Josh Freeman, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, May 16, 2017.
23. Kristin Longley, “Emergency Financial Manager Recommended for Flint Same
Day Mayor Dayne Walling Re-Elected,” MLive, November 10, 2011, https://www.mlive
.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2011/11/emergency_financial_manager_re.html.
24. Longley, “Emergency Financial Manager.”
25. See Ford, “Dayne Walling.”
26. It is worth noting that the state retained the power to overrule such choices.
27. For a fuller account of emergency management in Flint, and activists’ responses
to it, see Nickels, Power, Participation, & Protest.
28. See Mona Hanna-Attisha’s statement from chapter 1.
29. “Gov. Snyder’s Staff Responds to Questions about Flint Water Crisis,” MLive, May
3, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2016/05/gov_snyders_staff_responds
_to.html.
30. Later charged by Attorney General Schuette with false pretenses, Croft was the
main official at the city who helped push the water treatment plant into operation prematurely, insisted the water was safe, and resisted switching the city back to
Detroit water.
31. Flint Water Advisory Task Force, Final Report, 2. And elsewhere: “The Flint water
crisis occurred when state-appointed emergency managers replaced local representative decision making in Flint, removing the checks and balances and public
accountability that come with public decision making” (1).
Notes to Chapter 3
283
32. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic
–Structural Racism,” 37.
33. One major question to arise in retrospect was whether state actors were acting
chiefly out of “economic” considerations or “political” ones. It could be argued that
these motivations were inextricably intertwined, particularly under a corporatefriendly administration that had come into office pledging to run government like
a business. However, in the discourse around the crisis, economic and political
motivations were often differentiated. By some accounts, the crisis was the result of
shortsighted penny pinching by officials who thought more like accountants than
public servants. Others held that the crisis had nothing to do with money, and was
instead part of an effort to further a more insidious political agenda. I treat both
positions, however, as part of the political narrative because of their shared emphasis on the core themes considered in this chapter: the denial of local democracy and
the determination of state actors to impose a preconceived agenda on Flint, even as
the water situation began to spiral out of control.
34. Attorneys for EMs Earley and Ambrose sought to exploit this ambiguity when
they argued, against a class-action suit brought by activists, that EMs were local
officials. Gus Burns, “Emergency Managers Weren’t State Employees, Lawyers
Argue in Flint Water Lawsuit,” MLive, January 9, 2018, https://www.mlive.com
/news/detroit/index.ssf/2018/01/flint_water_lawsuit_likely_to.html. According to
the theory of emergency management, the interests of the state and the interests
of cities overlap because the state has a stake in the health of its cities. Insofar as
that theoretical congruence breaks down in practice, however, there is always the
possibility that an EM officially charged with doing what’s best for the city will in
fact do what’s best for the state (and/or private interests with influence over the
state). A report issued by the House Judiciary Committee Democratic Staff noted
that even an internal Department of Treasury analysis found EMs would likely use
the broad powers granted by the EM law “for their own gain” rather than in the
interests of the local unit of government (House Judiciary Committee Democratic
Staff, “Democracy for Sale,” 9). In a sympathetic account of the logic of emergency
management, legal scholar Clayton Gillette contends that “by addressing the
political underpinnings of fiscal distress, takeover boards may be more capable of
satisfying the interests of local residents for public goods than local elected officials, and may also represent the interests of nonresidents and creditors who are
not considered by those officials.” However, he continues, “The same conditions
that invite intervention by central officials capable of countering the consequences
of flawed local decision making also permit takeovers by less benevolent officials
whose interests align poorly with those of the stakeholders in municipal fiscal
health. … It is plausible that where the interests and local residents, state residents,
and creditors diverge, a state-appointed takeover board may not identify its objective with the interests of the first group. Perhaps that result is acceptable on the
assumption that the takeover board internalizes the interests of all those affected
284
Notes to Chapter 3
by local fiscal distress. But there is a risk that takeover boards serve the interests
of the state in more nefarious ways than marginally favoring creditors over local
residents.” Gillette, “Dictatorships for Democracy,” 1, 11, 70, https://lsr.nellco.org
/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1373&context=nyu_lewp.
35. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint.”
36. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint.”
37. The claim that emergency management violates a human right to democracy
was part of the basis for a petition to the Inter-American Commission on Human
Rights submitted by Claire McClinton and a legal team from Loyola University on
behalf of myself and a number of other residents: “Petition Alleging Violations of
the Human Rights of Citizens of Flint, Michigan,” November 27, 2017. One can also
consider the question of whether there is a “right” to democracy from a domestic
perspective. As Richard Schragger writes, despite the absence of a guarantee to local
democracy in the US Constitution, constitutional scholars like nineteenth-century
Michigan Supreme Court Chief Justice Thomas Cooley “argued persuasively that
representative local government was a matter of ‘absolute right’ and could not be
overridden by state legislative fiat.” That notion lost popularity in the twentieth
century, however, as cities came to be seen as “venal and corrupt,” and as suspicions
of local politics gave rise to a technocratic ideal of city government more amenable
to top-down decision making. Schragger, “Flint Wasn’t Allowed Democracy.” State
takeovers, then, were envisioned as “a technocratic solution to a political defect.”
Schragger, City Power, 242.
38. Highlighting the role of the city in creating the crisis was a conscious strategy
on the part of Snyder’s communications staff. See Jim Lynch, “Emails: Wide Support
on Flint Switch from Detroit Water,” Detroit News, February 26, 2016.
39. Pscholka said he was getting “Christmas lists” from Flint officials and that there
would be no “blank checks” written by the state: “This was a local decision to take
themselves off the Detroit system and join this pipeline, and that’s what started this
whole series of events.” Anthony Pollreisz, “Pscholka to Flint: No Blank Checks from
State to Solve Water Crisis,” WKZO-AM, January 14, 2016.
40. For the official history of the Detroit water system, see Daisy, Detroit Water and
Sewerage Department. For another take, see Green, “Detroit’s Water System.”
41. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 5. In Hammer’s “Flint Water
Crisis, KWA and Strategic-Structural Racism: A Reply to Jeff Wright,” he points out
that the DWSD, like other public utilities, is legally prohibited from turning a profit,
and required to price its water according to the cost of delivery.
42. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 4.
43. Wright, 7.
Notes to Chapter 3
285
44. See Ron Fonger, “50 Years Later: Ghosts of Corruption Still Linger along Old
Path of Failed Flint Water Pipeline,” MLive, November 12, 2012, https://www.mlive
.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/11/ghosts_of_corruption_still_lin.html.
45. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 8.
46. Councilman Scott Kincaid said that for Flint to treat raw water at its own treatment plant would put it in “control” of its “own destiny.” Shaun Byron, “Flint Council to Take up Proposed Pipeline Deal at Monday Meeting,” MLive, March 20, 2013,
accessed June 15, 2017.
47. Kristin Longley, “Here Are 7 Things to Know about Flint’s Water Treatment Plant,”
MLive, October 12, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/10/here
_are_7_things_to_know_abou.html.
48. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 8.
49. Wright, 10. Although officials in Flint seemed to buy Wright’s argument about
rates (see May, “Debunking 4 Claims”), members of the Flint Water Advisory Task
Force determined that the KWA had never offered any significant cost savings and
that local support for the project was a product of the desire for water independence.
Counts, “Flint Water Crisis Got Its Start.”
50. In January 2013, KWA received final approval from the Army Corps of Engineers to begin construction.
51. Jeff Wright, “Response to Bill Johnson and DWSD’s Position on KWA,” Genesee
County Drain Commission press release, March 21, 2013.
52. See Kristin Longley, “Flint City Council Members Seek to Halt Emergency
Financial Manager,” MLive, September 10, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2012/09/flint_city_council_members_see.html.
53. Tucker, Young, Jackson, Tull, Inc., City of Flint Water Supply Assessment.
54. Ron Fonger, “Detroit Claims Karegnondi Water Pipeline Plan in Genesee
County ‘Rife with Financial Discrepancies,’” MLive, March 19, 2013, https://www
.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/03/detroit_claims_karegnondi_wate.html.
55. ROWE Professional Services Company, Review of December 21, 2012 Presentation.
56. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 23.
57. Some suspected Dillon of delaying his recommendation so he could make it under
the new law, an accusation the Treasury Department denied. Dominic Adams, “State
Treasury Department Expects Flint Water Source Recommendation ‘Soon’,” MLive,
March 20, 2013, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/03/state_treasury
_department_expe.html.
58. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 32.
286
Notes to Chapter 3
59. Wright, 31. “As Drain Commissioner,” he writes, “I insisted that the City Council vote because I believed that the City’s permanent water source should be decided
by Flint’s elected representatives” (32).
60. Hammer, “Reply to Jeff Wright,” 13.
61. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–
Structural Racism,” 17. Wright says that Hammer’s interpretation is wrong: “It wasn’t
close to done. At that time, Flint did not know what it wanted to do. Flint did not
agree to buy water from KWA until April 2013. Between January 3, 2012, and April
2013, Flint negotiated with both DWSD and KWA. It also continued to consider
going to the Flint River permanently. A done deal is not done until all parties to it
agree that it is done” (Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 19).
62. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–
Structural Racism,” 12.
63. As Hammer points out, “no effort was made to help Flint finance these costs.”
“Reply to Jeff Wright,” 23.
64. Dominic Adams, “Flint River Now an Option for Drinking Water Following
Detroit’s Termination of Contract,” MLive, July 23, 2013, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/07/city_readying_water_plant_to_t.html. Former councilman Sheldon Neeley, despite lodging an affirmative vote, told me that retrospectively
he did not think the council’s vote was adequately informed. Sheldon Neeley, personal
interview with author, Flint, MI, December 9, 2017. Former council president Josh
Freeman, on the other hand, told me that the council had plenty of opportunities to
study the KWA issue, that it was discussed many times, and that any claim about being
rushed into a decision was a “lie.” Freeman, interview, May 16, 2017.
65. The analysis hinges on a January 2012 email sent by KWA engineer John O’Malia
describing EM Brown’s intention to use such a strategy, calling it a “precaution.”
Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–
Structural Racism,” 19.
66. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, KWA and Strategic-Structural Racism,” 14.
67. Dominic Adams, “Flint City Council Approves Resolution to Buy Water from
Karegnondi, State Approval Still Needed,” MLive, March 25, 2013, https://www
.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/03/flint_city_council_approves_re.html.
68. Allie Gross, “Docs Reveal Flint’s EM Agreed to Buy $1M Worth of Extra Water
from the KWA—This Was Never about Saving Money,” Detroit Metro Times, February
27, 2016.
69. Dominic Adams, “Flint City Council Modifies Water Pipeline Proposal, Sends
Measure Back to Committee,” MLive, March 18, 2013, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2013/03/flint_city_council_modifies_wa.html.
Notes to Chapter 3
287
70. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, KWA and Strategic-Structural Racism,” 20.
71. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint.”
72. Guyette, “A Deep Dive.”
73. Lynch, “Emails.”
74. Paul Egan, “Records: Mich. Gov. Office in Loop on Flint Drinking-Water Decision,” Detroit Free Press, November 22, 2015.
75. Jeff Wright and Ed Kurtz, “Joint Statement by Jeff Wright and Ed Kurtz Regarding Detroit’s Final Offer on Water Service,” Genesee County Drain Commission
press release, April 16, 2013.
76. Jim Lynch and Jennifer Chambers, “Flint Crisis Charges Raise Scrutiny of EM
Law,” Detroit News, December 20, 2016.
77. Hammer, “Reply to Jeff Wright,” 19.
78. Chad Livengood, “Ex-DEQ Staffer Denies ‘Sweetheart’ Flint Deal,” Detroit News,
May 12, 2016.
79. Wright, “The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 12. One KWA attorney
mentioned ensuring that Flint had “debt capacity in the future” as a motivation.
Paul Egan, “‘Sweetheart’ Bond Deal Aided Flint Water Split from Detroit,” Detroit
Free Press, May 11, 2016.
80. Hammer, “Reply to Jeff Wright,” 18.
81. Charges available from www.michigan.gov/documents/ag/FINAL_Earley_et_al_
Complaint_and_Warrant_121916_546055_7.pdf.
82. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, KWA and Strategic-Structural Racism,” 20–21.
83. Genesee County’s backing was critical in getting the bonds a good rating, and
thus a manageable interest rate. Ron Fonger, “Rating Agencies Take Notice as Genesee
County Pledges to Cover Flint’s Pipeline Borrowing,” MLive, April 1, 2014, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014/04/genesee_countys_pledge_to_cove
.html.
84. Dayne Walling maintained that “the terms of the agreement are standard for a
long-term capital project.” Paul Egan and Matthew Dolan, “Official: Flint Will ‘Lose
Everything’ if It Leaves KWA,” Detroit Free Press, June 11, 2016.
85. Egan and Dolan, “Official.”
86. As activist Quincy Murphy put it, “Really, to tell you the truth, I really think
this emergency manager was put in place for the City of Flint to make sure the KWA
[went forward].” Jim Lynch, “Flint Residents Criticize Staying with KWA Pipeline,”
Detroit News, May 18, 2016.
288
Notes to Chapter 3
87. Allie Gross, “Emails Reveal Flint EM and State Advised Not to Join the KWA—It
Was Never about Saving Money,” Detroit Metro Times, February 13, 2016.
88. Maynard, “The Flint Water Crisis.” The Young Turks also got in on the speculation, focusing on Snyder’s corporate donors. Jordan Chariton, “Why Flint Water
CRISIS Has Troubling Ties to Rick Snyder’s Pro-Fracking Donors,” Medium, March 28,
2017, https://medium.com/@marketing_75534/why-flint-water-crisis-has-troubling
-ties-to-rick-snyders-pro-fracking-donors-a02119fa8b1f.
89. Leonard N. Fleming, “Flint’s Weaver: Stick with Detroit Water,” Detroit News, April
18, 2017. Flint activist Melissa Mays told me that DWSD “fell apart” because KWA took
away its largest customer, “And now it’s regionalized to the Great Lakes Water Authority [GLWA].” “Both [the KWA and GLWA] are regionalized systems,” she pointed out,
which “opens the door to privatization, which is the worst thing that could possibly
happen to us. But I think that was the state’s plan all along.” Melissa Mays, personal
interview with author, Flint, MI, February 17, 2016.
90. See Kornberg, “The Structural Origins of Territorial Stigma.”
91. The quote is taken from Walling’s responses to questions from the Michigan
Joint Select Committee on the Flint Water Public Health Emergency, available from
www.senate .michigan.gov/ committees/files/2016-SCT-FLINT-03-29-1-08.PDF.
92. Kristin Longley, “Water Pipeline vs. Flint River: City of Flint Studying Its Drinking
Water Options,” MLive, January 22, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2011/01/water_pipeline_vs_flint_river.html. Councilman Sheldon Neeley was blunt:
“My preference is for whatever option is going to save us the most money.”
93. Longley, “Water Pipeline vs. Flint River.”
94. ROWE Professional Services Company, Analysis of the Flint River.
95. Jeff Wright claimed that “many in Flint wanted to use the river permanently and
pay for the maximum improvements” (“The Flint Water Crisis,” 13). At the very least,
some local politicians wanted residents to appreciate the value of the water treatment
plant as one of the city’s major assets. Councilman (and later State Representative)
Sheldon Neeley, for example, took groups on tours of the water plant so they could see
its capabilities firsthand and sample treated river water. On one of these tours in October 2012, he lamented the widespread belief that “the Flint River is an awful source of
water,” insisting that “it’s not awful. It’s safe to drink.” He also pointed out that in the
recent past Flint had used river water for a short period during repairs to the DWSD
main, with no apparent ill effects or complaints from residents. Kristin Longley, “Flint
Water Plant in Spotlight as City Weighs Drinking Water Options,” MLive, October 12,
2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/10/flint_water_plant_heralded
_as.html. Neeley told me that in talking up the treatment plant to residents he was in
no way advocating that the city use the river or any other specific water source. Neeley,
interview, December 9, 2017.
Notes to Chapter 3
289
96. Dayne Walling, responses to Michigan Joint Select Committee.
97. Even after local officials rejected the possibility, EMs Brown and Kurtz both
eyed the river as a cheaper long-term water source. In his first Flint Deficit Elimination Action Plan, Brown noted the cost savings that could be realized by using the
river, which “would allow for funds to upgrade the plant, provide funds to enable a
concentrated effort on reducing water leakage, and make debt service payments on
the Financial Stabilization Bonds” (quoted in Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the
Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–Structural Racism,” 23). Kurtz considered
using the river in late 2012 as a long-term source but consulted with the MDEQ and
rejected the idea as infeasible. Guyette, “Exclusive: Gov. Rick Snyder’s Men Originally Rejected Using Flint’s Toxic River.”
98. Kristin Longley, “Flint Asks Detroit for Permission to Blend Treated Flint River
Water with Water from Detroit,” MLive, October 9, 2012, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/10/flint_asks_detroit_for_permiss.html.
99. Former council president Josh Freeman penned a forceful response to Earley’s
misrepresentation of the council vote: “At no time have the elected leaders of the city
of Flint voted to use the Flint River as our primary drinking source. The documented
facts show the decision to move to the Flint River was made solely by emergency
managers sent to run the city on behalf of the state of Michigan.” Joshua Freeman,
“City Council President: Emergency Manager Set Flint on Path to River Water,”
MLive, October 29, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/opinion/flint/index.ssf/2015/10/city
_council_president_emergen.html.
100. City of Detroit, Water and Sewerage Department, “Water War Undermines FlintDWSD Relations,” news release, April 1, 2013, http://voiceofdetroit.net/wp-content
/uploads/water_war_undermines_flint-dwsd_relations-2013-14.pdf.
101. Ron Fonger, “Detroit Was ‘Mad, Angry, Vindictive’ in Flint Water Talks,
Former EM Claims,” MLive, May 2, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2017/05/former_flint_em_told_congress.html.
102. Freeman, interview, May 16, 2017.
103. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority, and
Strategic–Structural Racism,” 22. Wright’s retort: “Leaving aside whether the termination notice caused officials in Flint to believe DWSD would really try to cut off drinking water (some did believe DWSD might), it certainly caused them a great deal of
anxiety. They seriously thought that DWSD might actually force them to turn to the
Courts to enjoin a shutoff. Also, the termination notice caused them to think about
their alternatives, what they could do in response to the notice. Many Flint officials
were truly offended by the letter” (“The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 22).
“They also feared the notice might be a ruse to allow DWSD to raise their rates for
years after April 17, 2014, which it was” (23).
290
Notes to Chapter 3
104. Darnell Earley, Emergency Manager, email to Sue McCormick, Detroit Water
and Sewerage Department, March 7, 2014.
105. Ron Fonger, “20 Percent Increase: Detroit Hikes Price of Water for Genesee
County Suburbs,” MLive, July 7, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2014/07/20_percent_price_hike_detroit.html.
106. The Flint Water Advisory Task Force was clear in its final report: “Emergency
managers, not locally elected officials, made the decision to switch to the Flint River
as Flint’s primary water supply source” (Final Report, 7). See also Bridge Magazine’s
vetting of this claim: Michigan Truth Squad, “Who Approved Switch to Flint River?
State’s Answers Draw Fouls,” Bridge Magazine, January 21, 2016.
107. In Wright’s words, “It was in this resolution on June 26, 2013, that the City
of Flint decided to go to the River. GCDC, KWA, and I had nothing to do with that
decision” (“The Flint Water Crisis, DWSD, and GLWA,” 24).
108. In its final report, the Flint Water Advisory Task Force wrote that “Flint EM Ed
Kurtz authorized use of the Flint River as a water source for Flint, as clearly indicated
by his approval of a sole-source contract for the engineering firm Lockwood, Andrews,
and Newnam (LAN) to prepare the Flint [water treatment plant] for full-time treatment of Flint River water,” Final Report, 40.
109. Ron Fonger, “Former Flint EM: ‘My Job Did Not Include Ensuring Safe Drinking
Water,’” MLive, May 2, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/05/
former_flint_em_my_job_did_not.html.
110. Hammer maintains that while the KWA decision was “political,” “the decision to
use the Flint River and the question of how to finance necessary improvements to the
[water treatment plant] were driven by financial concerns” (“The Flint Water Crisis,
the Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–Structural Racism,” 23). The City of
Flint’s own 2014 Annual Water Quality Report stated that “the use of the Flint River
as a source water for the City of Flint Water Treatment Plant” was “driven largely by
economics and the financial state of the City.” In January 2016, the media confusingly
conflated the debate over the cost savings of switching to the KWA with the cost savings of switching to the river temporarily. Articles began to appear claiming that the
switch to the river was not, in fact, about saving money, but what was meant was that
the switch to the KWA was not—at least according to DWSD’s critique of the project—
about saving money. For example, Allie Gross, “New Emails Reveal the Switch to the
Flint River Was Not about Saving Money,” Detroit Metro Times, January 25, 2016.
111. Ron Fonger, “Company Says Flint EM Told Employees: Keep Water Work to
Minimum Required,” MLive, June 29, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/index
.ssf/2016/06/flint_consultant_says_former_e.html.
112. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Problems: Switch Aimed to Save $5 Million—But at
What Cost?,” MLive, January 23, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/01/flints_dilemma_how_much_to_spe.html.
Notes to Chapter 3
291
113. March 2015 memo to Deputy Treasurer Wayne Workman, quoted in May,
“Debunking 4 Claims.” Jerry Ambrose summed up the logic of the switch in his Congressional testimony: “You know, the long and short of it is, they came back and said,
yes, we can make this work for a short period of time. … We realized that that would
generate some financial savings for us over the next couple years. … And so we said, I
mean, why would we not try it?” Ron Fonger, “Flint Emergency Manager Told Congress He Never Met or Talked to Gov. Snyder,” MLive, January 23, 2017, https://www.
mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/01/flint_emergency_manager_told_c.html.
114. See ROWE Professional Services Company, City of Flint Water Reliability Study.
115. For a polemical (and not entirely accurate) account of the water crisis as a product
of austerity and the “politics of disposability” associated with it, see Giroux, America at
War with Itself. For the connection between austerity and public health, see Stuckler
and Basu, The Body Economic.
116. Fonger, “Former Flint EM.” Note that Darnell Earley seems to have taken a
different position: “The EM obviously is the person responsible for making sure
that those things get done, and I’ve always accepted that.” US House Committee
on Oversight and Govt. Reform March 15, 2016 Transcript, p. 32, https://www.flint
watercommittee.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/FLINT-HEARING-OF-MARCH
-15-FINAL-with-cover-sheet.pdf.
117. Fonger, “Flint EM Told Employees.”
118. Flint Water Advisory Task Force, Final Report, 27.
119. As Dayne Walling told East Village magazine: “I can’t see any scenario where
myself and Flint City Council would have supported going back to the Flint River;
and that’s probably not based on any science. … The perceptions of the Flint River in
this community—it’s getting better for fishing and canoeing—but beyond that the
idea of drinking the Flint River water is something that most people in this community start off not liking. … I don’t think elected officials could’ve made that decision.” Quoted in Ford, “Dayne Walling.”
120. As Mays put it, “You can push the button any time and get water—good water.”
Ron Fonger, “Flint Residents Say They’ll Meet to Fight High Prices, ‘Plummeting
Water Quality’,” MLive, January 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/01/flint_residents_say_theyll_mee.html.
121. Ron Fonger, “Detroit Water Chief Says She’s Willing to Sell Emergency Water
to Flint—No Strings Attached,” MLive, January 26, 2015, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/01/detroit_water_chief.html.
122. As Jerry Ambrose said, “It’s not possible to just push a button and go back.”
Ron Fonger, “Flint Emergency Manager Says There Are Two Big Reasons Not to
Reconnect Detroit Water,” MLive, January 29, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2015/01/flint_extends.html.
292
Notes to Chapter 3
123. Bishop Bernadel Jefferson, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, May 17,
2017. When Earley sold the asset, he did so against the protestations of the City Council, which voted against the sale 7 to 2 (but was unable, under the terms of PA 436, to
come up with an alternative that was equally financially advantageous). The activists’
opposition to the sale stemmed, in part, from the feeling that the county was taking
advantage of Flint and that at most the pipe should be leased. Ron Fonger, “Flint City
Council Turns down $3.9 Million Offer for Water Pipeline,” MLive, May 20, 2014,
https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014/05/flint_city_council.html.
124. As Curt Guyette (“A Deep Dive”) put it, “That stipulation sealed the city’s fate,
locking it into using the river water.”
125. The council voted to support the loan but was not informed of the critical
condition imposed by Ambrose. Emily Lawler, “State Loan Prohibited Flint from
Rejoining Detroit Water System,” MLive, March 2, 2016, https://www.mlive.com
/news/index.ssf/2016/03/state_loan_prohibited_flint_fr.html.
126. Including hiring for top executive positions, the resolution of litigation and
labor disputes, and the budget process. Ron Fonger, “Exiting Flint Emergency Manager Issues Final Orders on Transition,” MLive, May 6, 2015, https://www.mlive
.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/05/departing_flint_emergency_mana.html.
127. Laura Sullivan, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, November 14, 2016.
128. May, “Debunking 4 Claims.” Similarly, the Treasury Department predicted
that if Flint were to switch back to DWSD for eighteen months, it would end up
costing the city $18 million.
129. Bridge Magazine Staff, “The Latest on What Key Snyder Aides Knew about Flint
and When,” Bridge Magazine, March 1, 2016.
130. Email from Dennis Muchmore to Brad Wurfel, Dennis Muchmore, David
Murray, and Sara Wurfel, February 5, 2015.
131. Email from Terry Stanton (of the Treasury Department) to Brad Wurfel, Dennis
Muchmore, David Murray, and Sara Wurfel, February 5, 2015.
132. Bebow, John. “How Snyder’s Chief of Staff Wrestled with Flint Water, with Few
Victories,” Bridge Magazine, March 2, 2016.
133. In Congressional testimony, Ambrose said, paraphrasing, that “it has less to
do with the vote that they took than with the manner in which they took it.” Ron
Fonger, “Congressman Wants Federal Criminal Investigation of Three Former Flint
EMs,” MLive, January 18, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017
/01/congressman_wants_federal_pros.html.
134. Peter Hammer concludes that “Flint residents had knowledge of the water crisis
almost immediately upon the switch to the Flint River, but they lacked the power
Notes to Chapter 4
293
to influence the decision making of the Emergency Managers, Treasury, [MDEQ],
or the Governor” (“The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and
Strategic–Structural Racism,” 35).
135. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the Karegnondi Water Authority and
Strategic–Structural Racism,” 39.
136. See, for example, Schmitt, The Concept of the Political; Agamben, State of Exception; and the considerable commentary these works have inspired.
137. Anderson, “Democratic Dissolution.”
138. Anderson, 610.
139. Honig, Emergency Politics, xv.
4 The Pro-Democracy Struggle in Michigan and the Prehistory
of the Water Movement in Flint
1. Nayyirah Shariff, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, April 20, 2016.
2. The transcript of Snyder’s speech is available from www.legislature.mi.gov/ (S(dpua
wbkxbzdov3qy5ixuwdqu))/documents/2011–2012/Journal/House/htm/2011-HJ-01
-19-004.htm.
3. “Hundreds Protest Emergency Manager Bills,” Lansing State Journal, March 9, 2011.
There was much discontent around the proposed budget as well. Claire McClinton
told the Flint Journal that “it boils down to the same thing—our government is taking
care of corporations and they’re not taking care of working class people who make the
community what it is.” Kayla Habermehl, “Local UAQ Joining State Budget Protest,”
Flint Journal, March 15, 2011.
4. Available from www.michigan.gov/documents/snyder/EMF_Fact_Sheet2_347889_7
.pdf.
5. Berfield, “Financial Martial Law in Michigan.”
6. Activists sometimes framed the struggle against the law as part of a new civil
rights movement, implying that in Michigan, African Americans had to struggle for
their right to vote (or at least their right to vote for people who would exercise actual
power) all over again.
7. Quoted in Steve Neavling, “Michigan Civil Rights Leaders Plan an Occupy Protest at Gov. Rick Snyder’s Home on Martin Luther King Jr. Day,” Detroit Free Press,
December 13, 2011.
8. Savage, “Michigan GOP.”
9. See Savage, “Michigan Rising.”
294
Notes to Chapter 4
10. Krista Gjestland, “Protesters Gather for March outside Gov. Snyder’s House,”
News-Herald, January 17, 2012, http://www.thenewsherald.com/news/protesters-gather
-for-march-outside-gov-snyder-s-house-with/article_172ede4a-1b7e-55e1-8c06-2b72
e6237ab7.html.
11. Klein, The Shock Doctrine. Commenting on Michigan’s PA 4 on Democracy Now!
in March 2011, Klein described it as “a frontal assault on democracy. It’s a kind of a
corporate coup d’état at the municipal level.” For further reflections on the relationship between neoliberalism and democracy, see Brown, Undoing the Demos.
12. Patrick Sullivan, “Dictatorship or Democracy? Push to Repeal the Emergency
Manager Law Goes Local,” Northern Express, June 26, 2011.
13. Greg Bowens, phone interview with author, January 30, 2017.
14. Brandon Jessup, phone interview with author, January 27, 2017.
15. American Civil Liberties Union of Michigan, “ACLU Seeks Records about Emergency Financial Manager Law,” April 7, 2011, http://www.aclumich.org/article/aclu
-seeks-records-about-emergency-financial-manager-law.
16. See coverage on Eclectablog by Chris Savage: “Imposition of an Emergency Manager”; “Think Emergency Managers Are Only for ‘Black’ Schools and Cities?”; and
“Another Michigan City.”
17. Erik Kain, “Teachers and Tea Partiers Unite to Repeal Michigan Emergency Manager Bill,” Forbes, April 6, 2011.
18. Bishop Bernadel Jefferson, interview with author, Flint, MI, May 17, 2017.
19. Kristin Longley, “Report: Font Expert Says Emergency Manager Law Petitions
Had Correct Size,” MLive, June 8, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2012/06/font_expert_says_emergency_man.html.
20. Bob Mabbitt, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, June 15, 2017.
21. Nayyirah Shariff, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, July 6, 2017.
22. Alec Gibbs, phone interview with author, February 10, 2017.
23. Jonathan Oosting, “Snyder Signs Replacement Emergency Manager Law: We
‘Heard, Recognized and Respected’ Will of Voters,” MLive, December 27, 2012, https://
www.mlive.com/politics/index.ssf/2012/12/snyder_signs_replacement_emerg.html.
24. Oosting.
25. The appropriation, amounting to $5,780,000, was ostensibly to cover EM salaries and other costs of administering the law.
26. The first challenge to the constitutionality of the law, to my knowledge, was
that levied in April 21 by two pension boards representing Detroit public employees:
Notes to Chapter 4
295
the Detroit General Retirement System (for general employees) and the Police and
Fire Retirement System. See Savage, “Benton Harbor/Emergency Financial Manager.”
27. Joining in the suit were the Goodman & Hurwitz PC (on behalf of the National
Lawyers’ Guild), the Center for Constitutional Rights, and lawyers associated with
AFSCME: Herb Sanders and Miller Cohen. As in the case of the repeal, AFSCME’s
involvement represented a critical endorsement by organized labor. But AFSCME
Council 25 Legal Director Herb Sanders insisted that the legal challenge was about
fundamental matters of right and wrong rather than traditional union politics.
28. Brown et al. vs. Snyder et al.
29. Kristin Longley, “Flint Resident Joins Effort against Michigan’s Emergency
Financial Manager Law,” MLive, June 22, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2011/06/flint_resident_joins_effort_to.html.
30. Center for Constitutional Rights, “MI Citizens Take Emergency Manager Law
to Court, Citing Unconstitutional Power Grab,” June 22, 2011, https://ccrjustice.org
/home/press-center/press-releases/mi-citizens -take-emergency-manager-law-court
-citing.
31. John Philo, phone interview with author, February 3, 2017.
32. Phillips et al. vs. Snyder et al.
33. “Order Granting in Part and Denying in Part Defendants’ Motion to Dismiss
(document no. 41) and Denying Defendants’ Motion to Stay Proceedings (document
no. 47),” available from www.voiceofdetroit.net/wp-content/uploads/Steeh-rulgin
-EM-lawsuit-11–19.pdf.
34. Bolstering the case for discrimination was evidence that fiscally troubled black
cities were more likely to get EMs than fiscally troubled white cities. The predominantly white cities, like Allen Park and Hamtramck, that had received EMs had asked
the state for them. See Kirkpatrick and Breznau, “The (Non)Politics of Emergency Political Intervention,” and Lee et al., “Racial Inequality,” 1–7. The Detroit Branch of the
NAACP also filed a lawsuit alleging infringement on African Americans’ voting rights.
See Khalil AlHajal, “NAACP Lawsuit Claims Emergency Manager Law Violates Voting
Rights of Half Michigan’s African Americans,” MLive, May 13, 2013, https://www.mlive
.com/news/detroit/index.ssf/2013/05/naacp_lawsuit_claims_emergency.html.
35. Philo, interview, February 3, 2017.
36. The decision outlined a variety of ways in which citizens could express their will
under emergency management: “Citizens can still advocate for the removal of stateappointed managers and can vote out local officials who allowed the emergency,
legislators who approved the law or the governor who made the appointment.”
Jonathan Oosting, “Appeals Court Upholds Mich. Emergency Manager Law,” Detroit
News, September 12, 2016.
296
Notes to Chapter 4
37. This argument did not go far with residents trapped in the gerrymandered blue
districts around Michigan’s major urban centers, who were at an inherent disadvantage within state electoral politics. See Ted Roelofs, “Gerrymandering in Michigan Is
among the Nation’s Worst, New Test Claims,” Bridge Magazine, April 13, 2017.
38. Oostin, “Appeals Court.” For another perspective, see Nick Krieger, “What’s Next
for Opponents of Michigan’s Emergency Manager Law?,” Fix the Mitten, September
13, 2016, https://www.fixthemitten.com/blog/whats-next-for-opponents-of-michig
ans-emergency-manager-law.
39. In March 2017, they filed a writ with the Supreme Court. Ron Fonger, “Supreme
Court Could Decide if Michigan EM Law Violates Voting Rights Act,” MLive, March
31, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/03/supreme_court_asked
_to_hear_mi.html. In October, the court declined to hear the case. Todd Spangler, “U.S.
Supreme Court Rejects Challenge to Michigan’s Emergency Manager Law,” Detroit
Free Press, October 2, 2017. Attorneys then moved forward with the racial discrimination claim. Brian McVicar, “Michigan’s Emergency Manager Law Is Racist, Lawsuit
Argues,” MLive, December 6, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/index.ssf/2017/12
/michigans_emergency_manager_la.html.
40. Philo, interview, February 3, 2017. “From the time we filed that first case … to
today,” he said, “there’s been a complete flip in the public perception of that law.
It’s hard to find people who defend it anymore.”
41. When Kevyn Orr took office in Detroit in March 2013, for example, he was
“cautious,” John Philo told me, compared to EMs in other cities who had come in
like “bulls in the china closet.” Philo, interview, February 3, 2017.
42. Video of Sanders’s comments is available from https://www.youtube.com/watch
?v=Gu3fHnSmnmM.
43. Speaking of the relationship between an EM and elected officials at a training
session for prospective EMs, Harris said, “You don’t have to do anything with these
guys. … The fact of the matter is, the city manager is now gone—I am the city manager. I replaced the finance director. So I’m the finance director and the city manager.
I am the mayor and I am the commission and I don’t need them. All I need is the
expertise.” Savage, “Benton Harbor.”
44. Savage, “Protest Rick Snyder.”
45. Savage, “Some Thoughts.”
46. Claire McClinton, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, June 7, 2017.
47. For a general history of the city that highlights its relations with its predominantly white neighbor St. Joseph, see Kotlowitz, The Other Side of the River.
48. Mahler, “Now That the Factories Are Closed.”
Notes to Chapter 4
297
49. For example, his stacking of the local planning commission and redevelopment
authority with individuals friendly to his agenda. See Savage, “MI Gov. Rick Snyder’s
Takeover.” With the help of some misleading national coverage by Rachel Maddow,
the issue of PA 4 came to be conflated with the issues surrounding the park (which
was leased out years before PA 4 went into effect). The park served a useful lightning
rod for activists, however, as they sought tangible ways of illustrating the dangers
of PA 4. In Flint, activists would make use of controversies around public assets in
much the same way.
50. Brendan Savage, “Occupy the PGA Marches in Downtown Benton Harbor to Protest Senior PGA’s Use of Park Land,” MLive, May 26, 2012, https://www.mlive.com
/news/index.ssf/2012/05/occupy_pga_marches_in_downtown.html.
51. Reverend Pinkney’s association with the League of Revolutionaries for a New
America was one of the things that tied him to McClinton. The league’s national
monthly, People’s Tribune, served as one of the chief organs for Flint activists and
McClinton (a longtime contributor) in particular during the water crisis. For a highly
sympathetic account of Pinkney, see Bassett, Soldier of Truth.
52. McClinton, interview, June 7, 2017.
53. An interesting question is why the state’s first takeover of Flint in 2002 did not
provoke similar resistance. Paul Jordan remembers the actions of EFM Ed Kurtz as
being more “surgical,” limited to “budget control.” Elected officials were “shackled”
but not “totally disabled” and “there wasn’t a sense of being totally disenfranchised.”
Paul Jordan, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, December 21, 2016. Claire
McClinton told me that there was “some resentment but not resistance.” McClinton,
interview, June 7, 2017.
54. Reverend Dr. Reginald Flynn, “A Letter from the Flint City Jail,” People’s Tribune,
August 7, 2012.
55. See Kristin Longley, “Judge Overrules Flint Emergency Manager’s Order on
Retiree Prescription Drugs; City Appealing Decision,” MLive, January 7, 2013, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/01/judge_overrules_flint_emergenc
.html.
56. Shariff, interview, April 20, 2016.
57. Shariff, interview, April 20, 2016.
58. See Kristin Longley, “Flint Emergency Manager Michael Brown Talks Public
Safety, Taxes, Water Pipeline at First Public Meeting,” MLive, February 2, 2012,
https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/02/flint_emergency_man
ager_michae_12.html. Activist Melodee Mabbitt remembers that Brown would get
“laughed out” of some places by hostile members of the audience. Melodee Mabbitt,
personal interview with author, Flint, MI, June 15, 2017. Shariff described public
298
Notes to Chapter 4
meetings under emergency management as a kind of charade. She recounted one
instance in particular when she and other activists had to “mic-check” Brown at a
public hearing to expose the fact that he had already adopted the budget on which
he was inviting public comment. Shariff, interview, April 20, 2016.
59. Shariff, interview, April 20, 2016.
60. Kristin Longley, “Group Protests Flint Emergency Manager on Flint City Hall
Lawn,” MLive, April 30, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/04
/group_protests_flint_emergency.html. Morten’s 2013 play State of Emergency chronicles the pro-democracy movement from a Flint perspective, featuring some of the
Flint activists as characters.
61. The performance also riffed on the “no taxation without representation” theme
prominent within the pro-democracy movement. As Shariff pointed out, “Our Flint
income taxes are due April 30. As things stand now, because we have an emergency
manager, we will have no say in how those taxes are spent.” “FLINT PROTEST: Michigan Emergency Manager Law (P.A. 4) Amounts to ‘Taxation without Representation,’”
announcement available from http://publicdevelopment.blogspot.com/2012/04/flint
-protest-michigan-emergency.html.
62. As part of the deal, which preceded Uptown’s much-anticipated relocation of the
Flint Farmer’s Market (the management of which was taken over by Uptown in 2002
when the city could no longer afford it), the city agreed not to support the establishment of any other farmer’s market in the city. Melodee Mabbitt led a petition drive
to try to stop the relocation of the market, and the development of a market in north
Flint in defiance of the agreement became a focus of residents on that side of town.
See Morckel, “Patronage and Access to a Legacy City Farmers’ Market.”
63. “They’re stealing small today so they can steal big tomorrow,” said Councilman
Sheldon Neeley after the food bank deal. Kristen Longley, “Flint Emergency Manager Allows Food Bank to Pave Part of Brennan Park for Parking Lot in Exchange for
Upgrades,” MLive, August 23, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012
/08/flint_emergency_manager_grants.html.
64. Khalil AlHajal, “Food Bank Faces Some Opposition in Leasing Part of Brennan
Park for Hunger Center Parking Lot,” MLive, June 14, 2012, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/06/food_bank_faces_some_oppositio.html. Residents did not
prevent the lease but they did get the food bank to build another playground in the park.
65. Scott Atkinson, “Flint’s Santa Has a New Job as a Temp after Years of Secluded
Retirement,” MLive, February 27, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/02/the_true_story_of_one_santa_cl.html.
66. As Alec Gibbs put it to me, the activists were looking for “key entry points for
public acts that would draw attention to [emergency management]” (Gibbs, interview, February 10, 2017). Activists were also trying to bring attention to the ways
in which emergency management in Flint, as in Benton Harbor, was being used to
Notes to Chapter 4
299
advance a local agenda of what Kettering University anthropologist Laura Jordan
calls “neoliberalism writ small.” See Jordan, “Neoliberalism Writ Large and Small.”
The activists of the FDDL claimed that “most of the time the emergency manager
answers to Uptown Reinvestment and all of its shell corporations.” Flint Democracy
Defense League, “The State of Flint under Emergency Management,” transcript of
speech delivered at Flint City Hall, March 3, 2014.
67. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint under Emergency
Management.”
68. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint under Emergency
Management.”
69. The human right FDDL singled out as a priority in its visioning statement was
the right to “safe, clean, accessible, and affordable drinking water and sanitation.”
That right was rendered moot, the group maintained, when people did not have a
say in government or in the price they paid for their water.
70. Longley, “Flint Emergency Manager Michael Brown.”
71. Nayyirah Shariff, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, July 6, 2017.
72. Dominic Adams, “Flint Group Wants Public Vote on Using Tax Money to Pay
for Water Pipeline,” MLive, October 11, 2013, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2013/10/residents_want_to_vote_on_pote.html.
73. I was unable to ask Wright to comment on this claim, as he did not respond to
my request for an interview.
74. Ron Fonger, “Attempt Fails to Force Public Vote in Flint on Using Tax Money to
Pay for Water Pipeline,” MLive, November 26, 2013, accessed July 1, 2017.
75. McClinton, interview, June 7, 2017.
76. Kristin Longley, “Flint Water, Sewer Rates Increasing 35 Percent,” MLive, August
16, 2011, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2011/08/flint_water_sewer
_rates_increa.html.
77. Kristin Longley, “Flint Water Rate Hikes Lead to Influx of Well Drilling Inquiries,” MLive, May 6, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2012/05
/drill_baby_drill_flint_water_r.html. EM Brown tried to justify the city’s retail rate hikes
by pointing to wholesale rate hikes by Detroit, as well as infrastructural issues like water
loss (the city was losing about 30 percent of water to leaks at the time). But the activists
framed the issue of water rates differently: rates were being raised not “to cover the
cost of water,” but to “plug the deficit” created by Snyder’s pro-business tax cuts and
withdrawal of revenue sharing. Flint Democracy Defense League, “The State of Flint
under Emergency Management.”
78. As of December 2012, the city consistently averaged about 120 shutoffs for
nonpayment each week. See Kristin Longley, “Agencies Fielding Pleas for Help with
300
Notes to Chapter 4
Higher Flint Water Bills,” MLive, December 26, 2012, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2012/12/higher_flint_water_rate_leads.html.
79. Molly Young, “Flint Officials Confirm ‘Massive’ Water Theft Investigation,
Crackdown,” MLive, September 17, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2014/09/flint_officials_confirm_massiv.html. The city continued to pay for these
investigations even after the water was deemed unsafe to drink in October 2015.
Gary Ridley, “Flint EM Spent More than $52K on Theft Probes after Water Was
Deemed Unsafe,” MLive, February 10, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2016/02/flint_em_spent_more_than_52k_o.html.
80. Kristin Longley, “Flint Raising Rental Home Water Deposits to $350,” MLive, February 25, 2013, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2013/02/flint_raising
_rental_home_wate.html.
81. Dominic Adams, “Flint Monthly Water and Sewer Bills Highest in Genesee
County by $35,” MLive, June 1, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2014/06/post_386.html.
82. The city’s water revenue was still, somewhat mysteriously, considerably lower
than projected, and the utility was still not managing to cover its costs. Dominic
Adams, “Flint Still Looking for Leaks in Revenue Stream for Water and Sewer Service,” MLive, April 15, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014/04
/water_rate_increases_loom_for.html. See also Dominic Adams, “Flint Water Rate
Questions Abound on Eve of Switch away from Detroit and to River,” MLive, April
17, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014/04/questions_abound
_on_water_rate.html.
83. For an overview of the relationship between Detroit and Flint activists, see
Howell, Doan, and Harbin, “Detroit to Flint and Back Again.”
84. Interviewed by Laura Bonham and Egberto Willieson, Move to Amend Reports,
September 1, 2014, http://www.blogtalkradio.com/movetoamend/2014/08/01/move
-to-amend-reports-wlaura-bonham-egberto-willies.
85. “Claire McClinton Speaking after the Water March 08 08 2014,” August 10,
2014, video, 3:47, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lL3l0CNWoSI&index=3&list
=PLw0o_su0zH0EnK4hruzAqtNNcFp-Leo6p.
86. “Nayyirah Shariff Speaking after the Water March 08 08 2014,” August 10, 2014,
video, 1:30, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vtjKI7AbUg.
87. “Eric Mays Speaking after the Water March 08 08 2014,” August 10, 2014,
video, 7:56, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bpb_4pVsdY&list=PLw0o_su0zH0
EnK4hruzAqtNNcFp-Leo6p&index=6.
88. Under the terms of PA 436, elected officials in Flint had the option of voting
out an EM after eighteen months with the support of six council members and the
Notes to Chapter 5
301
mayor. Mays was able to rally five of his colleagues around the idea, but encountered
resistance from Mayor Walling. Gary Ridley, “Flint City Council Members Rally for
Removal of State-Appointed Emergency Manager,” MLive, October 6, 2014, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2014/10/flint_city_council_members_cal
.html.
5 The Rise of the Water Warriors
1. Mays, “Flint Mom Shares the Heartbreak.”
2. Mark Bashore, “Despite Health Issues, Flint Activist Plays Pivotal Role,” WKAR, April
27, 2016, http://www.wkar.org/post/despite-health-issues-flint-activist-plays-pivotal
-role#stream/0.
3. I have taken the actual quotes from the above-cited interview with The Stir.
Other details of Mays’s story are from Melissa Mays, personal interview with author,
Flint, MI, February 17, 2016.
4. Melissa Mays, interview with Jack Olmstead, GMO Free News, November 17, 2015.
5. LeeAnne Walters, testimony to the Michigan Joint Select Committee on the Flint
Water Public Health Emergency, Flint, MI, March 29, 2016.
6. Numerous details in this section are taken from LeeAnne Walters, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, October 11, 2016.
7. See Smith, “This Mom Helped Uncover.”
8. Lurie, “Meet the Mom.”
9. Otiko, “Residents Say.”
10. Environmental contamination that disrupts the rhythm of everyday life and
invades the private realm of home and family often leads to the political mobilization of individuals with little to no experience with politics. See Cole and Foster,
From the Ground Up, 152.
11. I cannot here mount a full methodological defense of this manner of proceeding. Suffice to say that I believe a phenomenological approach to theorizing
the development of political agency is especially relevant to environmental contamination events and consistent with the ethnographic approach described in the
introduction. For examples of the application of phenomenological analysis to the
experience of environmental contamination, see Dorya et al., “Lived Experiences”;
Dorya et al., “A Phenomenological Understanding”; and Seamon, “Lived Bodies.”
For phenomenology and the ethnographic study of the meanings of illness, see
Kleinman, The Illness Narratives. I have also taken some inspiration from the discussion of phenomenology and political theory in Krupp, “Phenomenology.”
302
Notes to Chapter 5
12. On the concept of “political etiology,” see Hamdy, “When the State and Your
Kidneys Fail.” On analyzing suffering as the embodiment of structural violence, see
Farmer, Pathologies of Power.
13. These terms, and other descriptive details in this section, are derived primarily
from an analysis of posts to the Flint Water Class Action Facebook page from fall
2014 to winter 2015.
14. Ron Fonger, “City Adding More Lime to Flint River Water as Resident Complaints Pour in,” MLive, June 12, 2014, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf
/2014/06/treated_flint_river_water_meet.html.
15. See Zahran, McElmurry, and Sadler, “Four Phases of the Flint Water Crisis,” and
Christensen, Keiser, and Lade, “The Effects of Information Provision.”
16. Christina Zdanowicz, “Flint Family Uses 151 Bottles of Water per Day,” CNN,
March 7, 2016, https://www.cnn.com/2016/03/05/us/flint-family-number-daily
-bottles-of-water/index.html.
17. For a useful analysis of the significance of water within the gendered space of
the household, see Kaika, City of Flows, ch. 4. In her congressional testimony before
the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee on February 3, 2016, LeeAnne Walters dramatized the psychological effect of her family’s loss of confidence
in the security of their own home: “My home used to be a place of comfort and
safety for my family. It used to be what a home should be: a place of peace and
protection from the outside world. That was taken from us—and not just from my
family but from every home and every citizen in Flint. Now my home is known as
‘ground zero.’”
The idealized imagery of a happy, healthy family life disturbed by the intrusion
of new and unanticipated threats played an important role in residents’ efforts to
convey the significance of the water crisis to those who had not personally experienced it. Just as traditional environmentalism has often relied upon a romanticized
vision of unspoiled nature in order to present environmental destruction as desecration, residents like Walters made use of a similar narrative of harmony shattered,
with the home figured as a sacred space defiled by destructive external forces.
18. Mays, “Flint Mom Shares the Heartbreak.”
19. Some scholars have estimated that as many as 70 percent of the members of
local and statewide environmental justice groups are women. See, for example,
Brown and Ferguson, “Making a Big Stink,” 149.
20. See Belenky, Clinchy, Goldberger, and Tarule, Women’s Ways of Knowing. For
mothers, specifically, see Ruddick, Maternal Thinking. For a useful discussion, see
Code, What Can She Know?, ch. 1. For an example of the application of the “ways of
knowing” framework to environmental justice, see Brown and Ferguson, “Making
a Big Stink.” I do not wish to enter into the contentious debate about whether this
Notes to Chapter 5
303
epistemological characterization is accurate, only to put it forward as a hypothesis that would help to explain women’s prominent role in environmental justice
struggles.
21. See Gibbs, Love Canal, and Harr, A Civil Action. There is debate within the social
movements literature over whether mothers, particularly those with young children, are more likely than women generally to be concerned about local environmental contamination. See Hamilton, “Concern about Toxic Wastes,” and responses
to Hamilton’s work—for example, Blocker and Eckberg, “Environmental Issues as
Women’s Issues.”
22. Bishop Bernadel Jefferson, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, May 17, 2017.
23. Jefferson, interview, May 17, 2017.
24. Maegan Wilson, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, September 15, 2016.
25. Laura Gillespie MacIntyre, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, August 29,
2016.
26. For useful accounts of perceptions of risk, see Douglas and Wildavsky, Risk
and Culture; Beck, Risk Society; and Adams, Risk. For an illuminating case study, see
Auyero and Swistun, Flammable.
27. Although the near-ubiquitous dichotomy between victimhood and agency
has sometimes been challenged by political theorists (e.g., Nussbaum, Upheavals of
Thought), it is less common to argue that a sense of victimhood might actually enhance
agency. For exceptions, see Stringer, Knowing Victims; Jacoby, “A Theory of Victimhood”; and Jeffery and Candea, “The Politics of Victimhood.” For an account of the
water crisis that preserves the traditional distinction between victimhood and agency,
see Jackson, “Environmental Justice?”
28. Similarly, in Life Exposed, Petryna writes of the importance of Chernobyl victims being seen as “recognized suffers of the state” as a basis for making political
demands (xx).
29. Brown, Morello-Frosch, Zavestoski, and the Contested Illnesses Research Group,
Contested Illnesses, 22.
30. Brown et al., Contested Illnesses, 22.
31. For examples, see King, “Michigan Gov. Rick Snyder”; Eligon, “A Question of Environmental Racism in Flint”; Craven and Tynes, “The Racist Roots of Flint’s Water
Crisis”; Ross and Solomon, “Flint Isn’t the Only Place With Racism in the Water”;
New York Times Editorial Board, “The Racism at the Heart of Flint’s Crisis”; Wernick,
“This Professor Says”; Pulido, “Flint, Environmental Racism, and Racial Capitalism”;
Mascarenhas, “The Flint Water Crisis”; Zimring, Clean and White; and Benz, “Toxic
Cities.” Flint’s congressional representative Dan Kildee went so far as to claim that
304
Notes to Chapter 5
race was “the single greatest determinant of what happened in Flint.” Quoted in
Eligon, “A Question of Environmental Racism in Flint.” Robert Bullard has influentially
defined environmental racism as “any policy, practice, or directive that differentially
affects or disadvantages (whether intended or unintended) individuals, groups, or
communities based on race or color.” Bullard, Dumping in Dixie, 98. On environmental
racism in general, see Cole and Foster, From the Ground Up; Taylor, Toxic Communities;
and Bullard, Confronting Environmental Racism.
32. For example, Hill, Nobody.
33. Susan J. Douglas, “Without Black Lives Matter, Would Flint’s Water Crisis Have
Made Headlines?,” In These Times, February 10, 2016. The Black Lives Matter “Solidarity Statement with Flint, Michigan,” released in January 2016, made the point that
“Black people in America—especially those living in rural and poor areas—have long
been denied the same access to clean drinking and water for bathing and sanitation as
everyone else. The crisis in Flint is not an isolated incident. State violence in the form
of contaminated water or no access to water at all is pervasive in Black communities.”
34. Nakiya Wakes, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, September 7, 2016.
35. For an intriguing parallel, consider the 1974 blaxploitation film Three the Hard
Way, in which white supremacists plot to eliminate the black residents of three
major American cities (including Detroit) by poisoning their municipal water supplies with a chemical mixture that only affects the black population.
36. Michigan Civil Rights Commission, The Flint Water Crisis, 2. For commentary, see
Kaffer, “It’s Time to Speak Up.” Part of the problem with making a civil rights charge
stick, MCRC Chair Agustin Arbulu explained to me, is the American legal system’s
insistence upon proof of malicious intent (i.e., in this case, racial animus). In my own
comments to the commission after the release of its report, I argued that it was a mistake to jump to the conclusion that present-day discrimination is merely “implicit”
and unintentional in the absence of legally incriminating instances of racism, for it
means overlooking the phenomenon of covert bias—i.e., biases of which an individual
is conscious and acts upon but are not openly admitted. My comments are referenced
in Worth-Nelson, “Longstanding Systemic Racism.” Peter Hammer took the analysis of structural racism a step further by proposing the idea of “strategic-structural
racism”: while structural racism explains present-day patterns of injustice through
a historical lens, “strategic racism” refers to the actions of contemporary actors who
take advantage of those patterns. Although calling racism “strategic” would seem to
imply conscious wrongdoing, Hammer maintains that anyone who profits economically or politically off of racial disadvantage or prejudice is acting as a “strategic” racist,
“regardless of whether the actor has express racist intent,” and argues that some of
the key decisions leading up to the Flint water crisis—notably, the financial finagling
involved in the construction of the Karegnondi Water Authority pipeline—evidence
precisely this kind of strategically racist action. Hammer, “The Flint Water Crisis, the
Karegnondi Water Authority and Strategic–Structural Racism,” 2.
Notes to Chapter 5
305
37. Carly Hammond, “EXCLUSIVE: Flint Official Says Water Crisis Caused by ‘Ni**ers
Not Paying Their Bills,’” Flint Talk, June 4, 2017, http://www.flinttalk.com/viewtopic
.php?p=80342.
38. Melissa Naan Burke, “EPA Email: Let’s Not ‘Go out on a Limb’ for Flint,” Detroit
News, March 15, 2016.
39. Matthew Dolan, “Residents Raise Race as Factor in Flint Water Crisis,” Detroit
Free Press, April 28, 2016.
40. On one occasion, in the lead-up to an action at the Michigan State Capitol, we
had to drop one of our planned chants (“Water is a human right, not just for the
rich and white!”) because of the vociferous objections of an activist—a white woman,
but backed up by multiple black activists—who complained that it was “so racist”
because it implied (she felt) that people like her were not victims of the water.
41. Walters, interview, October 11, 2016.
42. Salmon, “American Genocide.”
43. Gina Luster, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, September 7, 2016.
44. Undated conversation with Claire McClinton. For a class-oriented socialist critique of the MCRC’s conclusions, see Brewer, “Michigan Blames Flint Water Crisis.”
45. Mays, interview, February 17, 2016.
46. Abel Delgado, interview with author, Flint, MI, December 7, 2016.
47. Desiree Duell, interview with author, Flint, MI, August 24, 2016.
48. Luster, interview, September 7, 2016.
49. Ron Fonger, “Flint Councilman Equates Water Troubles to ‘Genocide’ by Governor,” MLive, April 6, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/04/flint
_councilman_claims_govern.html.
50. Steve Carmody, “Flint Councilman Stands by ‘Genocide’ Charge,” Michigan
Radio, April 10, 2015.
51. Wantwaz Davis, interview with author, Flint, MI, November 11, 2017.
52. Author’s field notes, Flint Democracy Defense League meeting, August 27, 2016.
53. This is from a social media post by someone I wish to keep anonymous. Facebook, February 17, 2017.
54. Sam Gringlas, “Will the Water Crisis Finally Secure More than Band-Aids for
Flint?,” Belt Magazine, June 27, 2016.
55. Author’s field notes, Water Is Life: Strengthening the Great Lakes Commons
(conference), Woodside Church, Flint, MI, September 29, 2017.
306
Notes to Chapter 5
56. Duell, interview, August 24, 2016, and Laura Gillespie McIntyre, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, August 29, 2016.
57. Fricker, Epistemic Injustice, 1.
58. Figures taken from census data.
59. Fricker, Epistemic Injustice, 36.
60. For influential accounts of the concept, see Taylor, “The Politics of Recognition”; Young, Justice; Honneth, The Struggle for Recognition; and Fraser, “Rethinking
Recognition.”
61. Lawrence Reynolds, interview with author, Flint, MI, July 12, 2017.
62. Mays, interview, February 17, 2016.
63. Walters, interview, October 11, 2016.
64. I take the distinction from the classic discussion by Mills in The Sociological
Imagination.
65. Rauch, “When Your Water Poisons Your Children.”
66. As Brown and Mikkelsen define it, popular epidemiology is “the process by which
laypersons gather scientific data and other information and direct and marshal the
knowledge and resources of experts to understand the epidemiology of disease.” No
Safe Place, 125–126. The authors describe the phenomenon as “an extremely significant advance for both public health and popular democratic participation” (127).
67. One might describe this as converting a collective experience of illness into a
politicized illness experience that links disease to the “social determinants of health.”
Brown, Toxic Exposures, 30.
68. Mays, interview, February 17, 2016.
6 Demanding the Impossible
1. Gertrude Saunders, “Flint City Council 012615,” January 26, 2015, video, 1:36:51,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-7MmKfjanI.
2. Claire McClinton, interview with author, Flint, MI, June 7, 2017.
3. In John Dryzek’s terminology, emergency management has very little inbuilt
“deliberative capacity.” Dryzek, “Democratization as Deliberative Capacity Building.”
4. Dryzek, “Democratization as Deliberative Capacity Building.”
5. Brown, “Popular Epidemiology and Toxic Waste Contamination.”
6. Even when activist interventions were discursively oriented—seeking to reframe
the water situation as a “crisis,” for example—they had a coercive rather than a
Notes to Chapter 6
307
deliberative character, aiming to counteract the discursive power of others. For discussion of this tactic, see Dodge, “Environmental Justice and Deliberative Democracy.” Contemporary theorists of deliberation have begun to evaluate activism from
the perspective of deliberative democratic “systems,” in recognition of the fact that
activities relevant to the deliberative health of a body politic take place at many
sites, and may themselves lack traditionally deliberative virtues. See especially Mansbridge et al., “A Systemic Approach to Deliberative Democracy.” Given the “insideout” orientation of this book, I instead adopt the anti-systemic perspective of the
activists, evaluating their activities as efforts to contest not only particular policies
but also the underlying logic of the emergency manager system. The activists certainly did not see the EM system as a “deliberative system” they had any interest in
trying to improve.
7. One could argue that, in some ways, residents were “impossible subjects” under
emergency management to begin with. For a parallel to another kind of “impossible activism” carried out from a marginalized position, see Nyers, “Abject
Cosmopolitanism.”
8. These details are culled from 1,600 pages of emails released to The Detroit News.
See Chad Livengood, “Emails: Flint Water Warnings Reached Gov’s Inner Circle,”
Detroit News, February 26, 2016.
9. Dayne Walling, interview with author, Flint, MI, March 9, 2016.
10. All quotations in this and the following paragraphs are from video records of
the water quality meeting, Flint City Hall, Flint, MI, January 21, 2015.
11. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Advisory Committee Formed by Mayor, Emergency Manager,” MLive, February 17, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015
/02/40-member_citizen_water_commit.html.
12. “I was trying to create a forum for community dialogue that was more like the
participatory process we had around the master plan,” Walling told me. “I was the
one who pushed for the community advisory meetings, the creation of a technical
task force. I was the one who demanded that these groups meet in public … that
the public be able to attend and participate, just like we had done with the master
plan.” Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
13. Nayyirah Shariff, who served on two master plan advisory groups, told me that
their apparent participatory qualities masked hidden interests operating behind the
scenes, particularly those associated with the Uptown developers. She came away
from the experience “very dissatisfied,” concluding that the master planning process
was another attempt to apply a false democratic veneer to life under emergency
management in Flint. Nayyirah Shariff, interview with author, Flint, MI, April 20,
2016. I heard similar comments on the master plan from Desiree Duell, another
participant in the process, who told me that the end result was “not completely
authentic.” Desiree Duell, interview with author, Flint, MI, August 24, 2016.
308
Notes to Chapter 6
14. McClinton, “No Safe Affordable Water.”
15. Ron Fonger, “Water Consultant Recommends Flint Make Changes in Treatment, Distribution,” MLive, March 4, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/03/flint_water_consultant_tells_c.html.
16. Laura Sullivan, interview with author, Flint, MI, March 25, 2016.
17. When this was pointed out in the press, Florlisa Fowler and Nayyirah Shariff
reacted in different ways. Fowler: “I wrote [the mayor] an email, requesting an
invitation—politely. … I asked if he could pick me or another group member. …
We should have at least one.” Shariff: “My concern with this whole process is what
will be the purpose of the committee? … When I looked at most of those groups
[that were invited] they’ve been silent [on the water issues].” Others made the allimportant point that many of the people on the committee didn’t live in Flint. Ron
Fonger, “Some Flint Water Activists Didn’t Get Invitation, but Mayor Says Advisory
Committee Could Expand,” MLive, February 17, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2015/02/flint_water_activists_dont_get.html.
18. Jiquanda Johnson, “Flint Water Advisory Committee’s First Meeting Erupts in
Shouting Match,” MLive, March 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.
ssf/2015/03/flint_residents_say_committee.html.
19. A clip featuring this remark is included in the ACLU documentary Here’s to
Flint (Curt Guyette and Kate Levy, Here’s to Flint, ACLU of Michigan, March 8, 2016,
44:54).
20. Ron Fonger, “Flint Water Committee Meets, but Some Residents Don’t See Progress,” MLive, March 19, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/03
/flint_water_committee_meets_bu.html.
21. Ron Fonger, “Flint Mayor Ready to Talk about Changing Water Advisory Committee Format,” MLive, March 24, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/03/flint_mayor_ready_to_talk_abou.html.
22. Ron Fonger, “Lead Revives Flint’s Dormant Expert Committee on Water,”
MLive, October 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/10/flints
_expert_committee_on_wat.html.
23. Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
24. Laura Sullivan’s feeling, informed by her interactions with Walling and observations of him in closed-door meetings, was that he was not actually committed to
having a conversation about the water, treating it as a nonissue. Generally speaking,
activists attributed his dispassionate demeanor not to his stated belief in a civil and
cooperative politics, but to either a weakness of will or to his being a collaborator with
the state. Sullivan also recalls numerous instances of other officials putting on an amiable face in public settings but treating residents’ concerns with condescension and
Notes to Chapter 6
309
contempt in private ones, apparently convinced that residents’ health symptoms were
either psychosomatic or being exaggerated for cynical reasons. She remembers feeling
embarrassed when she encountered these attitudes, having at first reassured the activists that those in charge were paying attention and trying to do the right thing. In one
instance, when Howard Croft was rolling his eyes about residents’ rash complaints, she
told him that “you are in charge of more than the water, you are in charge of people’s
trust in the water, and if you have such disregard for their concerns, there’s no way in
the world you’ll ever have their trust.” Laura Sullivan, interview with author, Flint, MI,
November 14, 2016.
25. Young, “Activist Challenges to Deliberative Democracy,” 684.
26. As Jason Corburn points out, a coproduction model of expertise, in contrast to this
unidirectional flow of expert knowledge, requires a “deliberative politics” in which
local knowledge is valued and participation solicited. Corburn, Street Science, 41.
Resident knowledge of water quality at the tap was critical to an understanding of the
situation, Laura Sullivan told me, because no one “at the plant level had any clue that
there were actually things showing up in the water downstream because of the interaction of that water with our pipes.” Laura Sullivan, interview with author, Flint, MI,
November 14, 2016.
27. Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
28. Ron Fonger, “Flint Residents Call for Investigative Hearings into ‘Water Crisis’,”
MLive, January 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/01
/state_deq_high_levels_of_disin.html; Ron Fonger, “Flint Democracy Defense League
Plans Four Meetings on City’s Water Problems,” MLive, January 29, 2015, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/01/flint_democracy_defense_league_1
.html.
29. Nayyirah Shariff, Facebook post, January 5, 2015. In another post from February
23, 2015, Shariff wrote that “we don’t do hierarchies; we are all members.” On the
importance of “free spaces” to democratic movements, see Evans and Boyte, Free Spaces.
30. Eric Dresden, “Flint Residents Protest Drinking Water Problems outside City
Hall,” MLive, January 12, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/01
/clean_water_is_a_right_and_a_p.html.
31. At least this is the way the story of the group’s origins was told originally. After
the contentious breakup between Mays and Walters (explained in the next chapter),
and after the third member of the group drifted away from water activism and began
to excoriate both of them, Mays began to say that the group had been formed by
herself and her husband, Adam.
32. William E. Ketchum, “People Take to Streets to Protest Flint Water Quality,” MLive,
February 14, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/02/flint_residents
_protest_citys.html.
310
Notes to Chapter 6
33. Ron Fonger, “Flint Pastors Tell State Officials: Get Us off Flint River Water Now,”
MLive, February 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/02/flint
_pastors_tell_state_offic.html.
34. Later, it was revealed that the conference had cost Reverend Alfred Harris a spot
on the Receivership Transition Advisory Board. “I take that as a great compliment,”
Harris said. “If it cost me, it cost me. They understood my interest was strictly for
the people … not what the state wanted me to do.” Ron Fonger, “Pastors Paid
Price from Governor’s Staff for Activism in Flint Water Crisis,” MLive, February 29,
2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/02/pastors_paid_price_from
_govern.html.
35. Coalition for Clean Water, “Coalition for Clean Water.”
36. The coalition did not come to a perfect consensus, however. For Tru Saunders,
the “hook” stretched credulity—it implied that the city was continuing to distribute
water that its own data showed was harmful, even though the city did not see it that
way. Although Saunders believed as much as anyone that the water was bad, she
accused the coalition of dishonestly misrepresenting the city’s position, and, after
an argument, left the group and did not come back. Gertrude Saunders, interview
with author, Flint, MI, June 6, 2017.
37. Randy Conat, “Coalition Wants Flint to Return to Detroit Water,” ABC12, June
5, 2015, https://www.abc12.com/home/headlines/Coalition-wants-Flint-to-return-to
-Detroit-water-306325041.html. Surrounded by activists on the steps of the Genesee
County Circuit Court, attorney Trachelle Young argued that the range of problems
with the water evident over the preceding months was suggestive of a “structural
problem.” It was better to return to Detroit, which had indicated its willingness to
accept a short-term arrangement “with no obligations and no strings attached,” than
it was to continue to entrust the health of residents to the inexperienced operators of
Flint’s water system. Gary Ridley, “Lawsuit Seeks End to Flint River Drinking Water,
Return to Detroit,” MLive, June 5, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2015/06/lawsuit_seeks_end_to_flint_riv.html. See also Coalition for Clean Water,
“Coalition for Clean Water.”
38. The suit ran into difficulties when US District Judge Stephen J. Murphy III
determined that the coalition’s legal argument was “completely undeveloped.” Ron
Fonger, “Judge Won’t Force Flint to Return to Buying Detroit Water,” MLive, June 23,
2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/06/judge_says_flint_doesnt
_have_t_1.html. For follow-up coverage, see Ron Fonger, “Water Coalition Drops Federal Claim, Flint Calls Lawsuit ‘Baseless,’” MLive, July 16, 2015, https://www.mlive
.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/07/water_coalition_drops_federal.html; and Ron
Fonger, “Lawsuit Aimed at Forcing Flint to End Use of Flint River Dismissed,” MLive,
September 15, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/09/lawsuit
_aimed_at_forcing_flint.html.
Notes to Chapter 6
311
39. Ron Fonger, “Flint Mayor Accepts Petitions but Not Call to End Use of Flint River,”
MLive, August 31, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/08/flint_mayor
_accepts_petitions.html.
40. Guyette, “Corrosive Impact.”
41. Miguel del Toral, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, May 6, 2016.
42. See Curt Guyette and Kate Levy’s short film for the ACLU of Michigan, “Hard to
Swallow: Toxic Water in a Toxic System in Flint,” 2015.
43. Lindsey Smith, “Leaked Internal Memo Shows Federal Regulator’s Concerns
about Lead in Flint’s Water,” Michigan Radio, July 13, 2015.
44. A Freedom of Information Act request for the city’s sampling data filed by Curt
Guyette proved these fears to be well founded when it revealed that the city’s ninetieth percentile had been falsified through the conscious exclusion of two critical
data points.
45. Laura Sullivan, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, November 14, 2016.
46. Sullivan, interview, November 14, 2016.
47. Laura Sullivan, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, March 25, 2016.
48. Email from Dennis Muchmore to Harvey Hollins, August 5, 2015.
49. Email from Harvey Hollins to Dennis Muchmore, August 5, 2015. As part of
bringing the water issue to “closure,” Muchmore and Hollins offered to donate
1,500 filters to residents through the Concerned Pastors (rather than the Coalition
for Clean Water, per se). The condition was that the pastors tell people the filters had
come from an “anonymous donor.” Ron Fonger, “Concerned Pastors planning
water filter giveaway in Flint,” MLive, August 26, 2015, https://www.mlive.com
/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/08/concerned_pastors_say_theyll_a.html. There was some
controversy over the way in which the filters were distributed. For some activists,
particularly those who had prior suspicions of the Concerned Pastors, the “hushhush filters” episode became evidence of the pastors’ inclination toward backroom
deals and excessively cozy relationships with political elites.
50. LeeAnne Walters, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, October 11, 2016.
51. A National Science Foundation Rapid Response Grant awarded to the Virginia
Tech team in September 2015 would ultimately cover the cost.
52. Curt Guyette, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, December 8, 2016.
53. Walters, interview, October 11, 2016.
54. Siddartha Roy, interviewed by Philip Silva, “The Flint Water Crisis Illuminated
by Citizen Science,” The Nature of Cities podcast, February 29, 2016, https://www
.thenatureofcities.com/2016/02/29/the-flint-water-crisis/.
312
Notes to Chapter 6
55. Marc Edwards, Siddhartha Roy, and William Rhoads, “Lead Testing Results for
Water Sampled by Residents,” September 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.org/information
-for-flint-residents/results-for-citizen-testing-for-lead-300-kits/.
56. Coalition for Clean Water joint press conference, Flint City Hall, September 15,
2015, available from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwg5L3mYUEI.
57. Ron Fonger, “Feds Sending in Experts to Help Flint Keep Lead out of Water,”
MLive, September 10, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/09
/university_researchers_dont_dr.html.
58. Ron Fonger, “Watch: Flint News Conference on Lead in Water Issues,” MLive, September 25, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/09/watch_live
_flint_lead_in_water.html.
59. Molly Young, “Clean Water Activists Demand Detroit Reconnection in Flint
after Lead Study,” MLive, September 28, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2015/09/coalition_for_clean_water_dema.html.
60. The petition was cosponsored by the ACLU and the Natural Resources Defense
Council. See “Petition for Emergency Action under the Safe Drinking Water Act,
42 U.S.C. § 300i, to Abate the Imminent and Substantial Endangerment to Flint, Michigan Residents from Lead Contamination in Drinking Water,” October 1, 2015, https://
www.nrdc.org/sites /default/files/petition- for- emergency- action- under- the- safe
-drinking-water-act-20170302.pdf.
61. Ron Fonger, “State Offers City Cash for Filters, but No Break from Flint River,”
MLive, October 2, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/10/state
_rolls_out_flint_water_pl.html.
62. Ron Fonger, “Pastors Threaten Lawsuit over Flint River Water, Demand Reconnection to Detroit System,” MLive, April 8, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news
/flint/index.ssf/2015/04/pastors_threaten_lawsuit_over.html.
63. The cost was $12 million, $6 million of which would be provided by the state,
$4 million by the Charles Stewart Mott Foundation, and $2 million by the City of Flint.
64. Damon Maloney, “Concerned Pastors, Residents Claim Victory over Return to
Detroit Water,” ABC12, October 8, 2015, https://www.abc12.com/home/headlines
/Concerned-pastors-residents-claim-victory-over-return-to-Detroit-Water-331475132
.html.
65. Dayne Walling, interview with author, Flint, MI, March 9, 2016.
66. Susan Hedman of EPA Region 5 had told Walling that the city and county were
already doing (with help from the state and the nonprofit sector) everything the
EPA might have ordered them to do. Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
Notes to Chapter 7
313
67. Ron Fonger, “Karen Weaver Makes History, Elected Flint’s First Woman Mayor,”
MLive, November 4, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/11
/karen_weaver_makes_history_ele_1.html. Walling told me that, in his view, “the activism certainly had an effect on the election.” Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
68. Guyette, “Flint’s State of Emergency Is a Sign.”
69. Walling, interview, March 9, 2016.
70. Melissa Mays and Nayyirah Shariff acted as advisors to the screenwriters of the
movie (Flint). Despite being major characters in the film, LeeAnne Walters refused to
participate officially and Claire McClinton told me she was never contacted by the
producers (or the other activists involved).
71. For an especially egregious example—though one among many, many others—
see Campbell, Poison on Tap.
7 The Water Is (Not) Safe
1. Coalition for Clean Water joint press conference, Flint City Hall, September 15,
2015, available from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwg5L3mYUEI.
2. For example, in Ashley O’Brien, “Transformed by Water and Politics, Walters
Fights On,” East Village Magazine, November 16, 2015.
3. Relevant here are Steven Epstein’s insights about debates over science as “credibility struggles.” Epstein defines credibility as “the believability of claims and claimsmakers … the capacity of claims-makers to enroll supporters behind their arguments,
legitimate those arguments as authoritative knowledge, and present themselves as
the sort of people who can voice the truth” (Impure Science, 3). The credibility of a
speaker, he writes, “can rest on academic degrees, ‘anointment’ by the media, or the
speaker’s access to esoteric forms of communication; the credibility of any knowledge claim can depend on who advances it, how plausible it seems, or what sort of
experimental evidence is invoked to support it” (3). The central role of credibility
in the reception of scientific knowledge reflects the extent to which the communication and transmission of that knowledge is dependent upon trust. See Hardwig,
“The Role of Trust in Knowledge.”
4. On scientific standards as potential barriers to lay participation in science, see
Ottinger, “Buckets of Resistance.”
5. LeeAnne Walters estimates that they succeeded about 85 percent of the time.
Interview with author, Flint, MI, October 11, 2016.
6. Claire McClinton, interview with author, Flint, MI, September 6, 2018.
7. McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
314
Notes to Chapter 7
8. Governor Snyder pledged that “no arbitrary decision would be made” about when
the water was safe and that the state “would let the science take us to that conclusion.” Office of Governor Rick Snyder, “City of Flint’s Water Quality Restored, Testing
Well below Federal Action Level for Nearly Two Years,” press release, April 6, 2018,
https://www.michigan.gov/snyder/0,4668,7-277-57577_57657-465766--,00.html.
9. Quoted in Wang, “The Engineered Crisis in Flint.”
10. Marc Edwards, “Lead in Drinking Water and Public Health: A Scientist’s Descent
into the Activist Netherworld,” talk delivered at Goddard Space Flight Center,
Greenbelt, MD, February 2, 2009.
11. See the exchange between Edwards, David Sedlak, and a number of other
interlocutors, beginning with Sedlak’s editorial “Crossing the Imaginary Line” and
including Marc A. Edwards, Amy Pruden, Siddhartha Roy, and William J. Rhoads,
“Engineers Shall Hold Paramount the Safety, Health and Welfare of the Public—but
Not If It Threatens Our Research Funding?,” October 10, 2016, http://flintwaterstudy.
org/2016/10/engineers-shall-hold-paramount-the-safety-health-and-welfare-of-thepublic-but-not-if-it-threatens-our-research-funding/. Edwards claimed at one point that
the Virginia Tech team “ended up leading a lot of the activism that occurred in Flint”
(“The Crowd and the Cloud Live Aftershow,” April 13, 2017, Facebook video, 1:02:52,
https://www.facebook.com/crowdandcloudTV/videos/1953213671579827/).
12. Marc Edwards, interview on The Tom Sumner Show, July 27, 2018.
13. Ron Fonger, “Erin Brockovich Investigator Says Tweaks Can Fix Flint River Water,”
MLive, February 11, 2015, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2015/02/erin
_brockovich_investigator_s.html.
14. Bowcock’s talk is available from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3nh1
P12huQ.
15. See Veolia, Flint, Michigan Water Quality Report.
16. Bob Bowcock, phone interview with author, December 1, 2016.
17. Bowcock explained to me that he and Brockovich, as a two-person team, have
to be “selective” about which of the many contamination cases around the country
they get involved in (about five hundred requests for help come in each day, he
said). Among their criteria for intervention is that an affected community has to be
“forming an organization,” with community members “starting to meet in people’s
homes and … starting to want to take action.” In cases where residents are trying to
get an organizing effort off the ground but “don’t understand the science,” Bowcock
comes in as a consultant “to help the community take some immediate action to at
a minimum remediate some of the problems occurring,” preferring to work with the
water utility but resorting to coercive measures like legal injunctions when necessary. Bowcock, phone interview, December 1, 2016.
Notes to Chapter 7
315
18. May, “Marc Edwards: Corrosion Man.”
19. August, “The Plumbing Professor.”
20. Home-Douglas, “The Water Guy.”
21. Colby Itkowitz, “The Heroic Professor Who Helped Uncover the Flint Lead
Water Crisis Has Been Asked to Fix It,” Washington Post, January 27, 2016.
22. Marc Edwards, interview with author, Ann Arbor, MI, October 26, 2016.
23. Edwards, “Institutional Scientific Misconduct.”
24. Burke, “Flint Water Crisis Yields Hard Lessons.”
25. Marc Edwards, interview with RT America, February 26, 2016.
26. See Home-Douglas, “The Water Guy.”
27. Russell, “Clean Water Warrior Wins.”
28. As Edwards put it to C-SPAN, “we dropped everything and … tried to even the
odds on behalf of Flint residents so they could find out the truth about their drinking water.” Washington Journal, February 29, 2016.
29. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016.
30. Marc Edwards and Siddhartha Roy, “Is Unfiltered Flint Water Safe to Drink?—
New FAQ for Flint Residents,” May 4, 2017, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2017/05/faq
-may-2017/.
31. Robby Korth, “Virginia Tech Water Study Team Faces Financial Struggles,” Roanoke Times, April 13, 2016.
32. Walters, interview, October 11, 2016.
33. McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
34. In conceptualizing his intervention in Flint, Edwards took inspiration from a
former collaborator, medical anthropologist Yanna Lambrinidou, and the course
they once taught together at Virginia Tech, “Engineering Ethics and the Public:
Learning to Listen.” In my view, the Flint Water Study team’s aggressive promotion of the “citizen science” frame, which contributed to the underlying narrative
disconnect between its account of the water crisis and that of the activists, was one
among other impediments to the kind of deep, ethnographic listening espoused by
Lambrinidou. As the relationship with Edwards went downhill, I repeatedly heard
activists say that Edwards was not listening to people within the community. Worried that Edwards was usurping resident voices in Flint, Lambrinidou became an
outspoken critic of his intervention. See her “On Listening, Science, and Justice”
and “When Technical Experts Set Out to ‘Do Good,’” as well as Kolowich, “The
Accidental Ethicist,” and Hohn, “Flint’s Water Crisis.”
316
Notes to Chapter 7
35. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016.
36. On the tendency to treat Walters as the face of the grassroots struggle in Flint,
see Jackson, “The Goldman Prize Missed the Black Heroes of Flint.”
37. Siddhartha Roy, presentation at 2017 McComas Staff Leadership Seminar, Virginia
Tech, Blacksburg, VA, April 26, 2017, https://vtechworks.lib.vt.edu/handle/10919
/80929.
38. “WASA” is the District of Columbia Water and Sewer Authority.
39. Steven Epstein points out that a social movement’s “possession of its own media
institutions” is critical to its ability to construct its own credibility. Impure Science, 22.
The closest the activists came to this was the Water You Fighting For? website, but
posts to Flintwaterstudy.org had much greater reach, even within local social media
networks.
40. Nayyirah Shariff, interview with author, Flint, MI, September 15, 2018.
41. Edwards and Pruden, “We Helped Flint Residents,” 12057.
42. Cooper and Lewenstein, “Two Meanings of Citizen Science,” 59. The awarding
institutions that chose to honor Edwards and his team rarely, if ever (from what I
could tell), took the time to talk to members of the community or look more deeply
into the details.
43. On the ways in which credibility excess “undermin[es] and creat[es] obstacles
for dissenting voices” and exacerbates epistemic injustice, see Medina, “The Relevance of Credibility Excess,” 18.
44. See Edwards and Roy, “Academic Research in the 21st Century.” Edwards’s frequent invocations of the “public good” made for a head-scratching complement to
his ideological inclinations, which included affection for the egoist hero-worship
of Ayn Rand (he was known to recommend Atlas Shrugged to his colleagues and
even give copies as gifts). As is well known, Rand did not believe the concept of the
“public” was coherent to begin with, much less the concept of a public “good.” See
Rand, The Virtue of Selfishness.
45. Itkowitz, “The Heroic Professor.”
46. Washington Journal on C-SPAN interview, February 29, 2016. For a somewhat
more guarded Edwards, see Gary Ridley, “‘Beginning of the End for Flint Water
Crisis Health Disaster, Edwards Says,” MLive, August 11, 2016, https://www.mlive
.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/08/flint_in_beginning_of_the_end.html.
47. Edwards and Roy, “Is Unfiltered Flint Water Safe to Drink?”
48. Pam Radtke Russell, “Clean Water Warrior Wins 2017 ENR Award of Excellence,” Engineering News-Record, April 13, 2017.
Notes to Chapter 7
317
49. Marc Edwards, “Flint’s New GAC Treatment Filter Is Helping Meet EPA’s THM
Standards,” August 31, 2015, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2015/08/flints-new-gac-treatm
ent-filter-is-helping-meet-epas-thm-standards/.
50. The presentation is available at http://flintwaterstudy.org/2015/09/distribution
-of-lead-results-across-flint-by-ward-and-zip-codes/.
51. By the end of 2016, the official consensus was that the city’s ninetieth percentile for lead was solidly below the federal action level. Ron Fonger, “Virginia Tech:
Testing Shows ‘Amazing’ Flint Water Improvements,” MLive, December 2, 2016,
https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/12/virginia_tech_testing_shows
_fl.html.
52. One person told me that Edwards made such a remark publicly as early as January 2016, although I did not hear it myself. The main controversy came toward the
end of the year, when a news article appeared that highlighted this position. For his
response to the fallout, see Marc Edwards, “Understanding Flint’s Water Infrastructure Crisis: Water Infrastructure Inequality in America,” December 9, 2016, http://
flintwaterstudy.org/2016/12/understanding-flints-water-infrastructure-crisis-water
-infrastructure-inequality-in-america/; and Marc Edwards, “The Flint Infrastructure
Crisis: Two Dinners with Flint Residents,” December 19, 2016, http://flintwaterstudy
.org/2016/12/the-flint-infrastructure-crisis-two-dinners-with-flint-residents/.
53. Matthew Dolan, “Researcher: Flint Water ‘Like Russian Roulette’,” Detroit Free
Press, April 12, 2016.
54. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016.
55. Marc Edwards, interview on Washington Journal, C-SPAN, February 29, 2016.
56. Marc Edwards, Flint Water Study team press conference, August 11, 2016.
https://youtu.be/77CW8rBq2oo?t=2558
57. Holly Fournier, “Edwards’ Team Shows Dramatic Drop in Flint Lead Levels,”
Detroit News, December 2, 2016.
58. Regina H. Boone, “Free Press Photo Helps Define Flint Tragedy for Nation,”
Detroit Free Press, January 21, 2016.
59. Darcey Rakestraw, “Exclusive: Water Defense Video Shows Tar Balls, Oil Slicks
near Kern County Irrigation Site,” Food and Water Watch, May 26, 2015, https://
www.foodandwaterwatch.org/news/exclusive-water-defense-video-shows-tar-balls
-oil-slicks-near-kern-county-irrigation-site.
60. Dana C. Silano, “SBA Recognizes Local Business Owner for Flood Recover
Efforts,” Times Telegram, April 29, 2008. See also Smith’s Opflex Solutions bio, available from www.cctechcouncil.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/PDF-Scott-SmithBio.pdf. Opflex eventually became embroiled in a dispute over rent and, ironically,
environmental cleanup at its former New York headquarters, eventually relocating
318
Notes to Chapter 7
to Indianapolis: Jeff Swiatek, “Rent Dispute in N.Y., Tax Abatement in Indy for Foam
Maker,” Indystar, April 30, 2015.
61. “Cellect Plastics LLC Signs 5-Year $30 Million Contract for Global Supply of
OpflexTM The Green Stuff™ with ClearWater Environmental Technologies Inc.,”
Business Wire, July 30, 2010, https://www.businesswire.com/news/home/2010073000
6059/en/Cellect-Plastics-LLC-Signs-5-Year-30-Million.
62. From Smith’s LinkedIn profile, accessed June 2017, www.linkedin.com/in/scott
-smith-1b100776/.
63. See the nod to Smith’s work in USA Today: Julie Schmidt, “After BP Oil Spill,
Thousands of Ideas Poured in for Cleanup,” November 15, 2010.
64. Valerie Mohler, “Meet the Man Mark Ruffalo Hand-Picked to Fight for Clean
Water: Q&A with Water Defense Chief Scientist Scott Smith,” DiscountFilterStore.
com, March 12, 2014, http://blog.discountfilterstore.com/blog/mark-ruffalo-hand
-picked-scott-smith-clean-water-fight/.
65. See “Mark Ruffalo, Back Again on Reddit. Let’s Talk Water Defense with Scott
Smith,” Reddit, May 6, 2015, https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/351yxe/mark
_ruffalo_back_again_on_reddit_lets_talk_water/.
66. Rakestraw, “Exclusive.”
67. “Mark Ruffalo, Back Again on Reddit.”
68. Rebecca Ford, “Mark Ruffalo on the Hulk’s Future, the Dangers of Fracking and
‘Smear Campaigns’ against Actor Activists,” The Hollywood Reporter, October 30,
2014. The second quote is from a video subsequently removed. See also Cliff Weathers, “Mark Ruffalo and Scott Smith Boldly Fight for Clean Water,” Alternet, June 13,
2014, https://www.alternet.org/environment/mark-ruffalo-and-scott-smith-why-dir
ect-action-critical-keeping-our-water-safe. During an April 2016 community meeting in Flint, Smith stoked residents’ sense of empowerment by saying, “Everyone
should be proud—this is about the community leading it, and just maybe, maybe,
all these other experts, and the EPA and your own agencies are gonna learn from
you.” Author’s field notes, Scott Smith presentation, St. Michael’s Church, Flint, MI,
April 9, 2016.
69. Weathers, “Mark Ruffalo and Scott Smith.”
70. In a 2015 year-end recap of Water Defense’s work, Ruffalo wrote that the
WaterBug would “empower individuals and groups to address their own local water
concerns” and help “create the most comprehensive independent source of water
quality data available to the public.” Ruffalo, “Our Work in 2015.”
71. “Our Work,” Flint Water Defense Info, available from https://flintwaterdefense
info.wordpress.com/information/our-work/.
Notes to Chapter 7
319
72. Joe Guillen, “State Removes Criticized Flint Water Poster,” Detroit Free Press,
January 9, 2016.
73. In January 2016, the union purchased and distributed $20,000 worth of bottled
water. Later, they mobilized plumbers from all over the area to install filters and new
faucets free of charge.
74. The partnership with the plumbers also became a way for Smith to illustrate
the value of putting water sampling technology and know-how into the hands of
nonexperts. As the plumbers shadowed Smith, they were struck by the simplicity
of his sampling procedures. As Harold Harrington put it to me, “If I’da known back
then what I know now I’da been out testing the water, cause I’d seen the brown
water coming out of my house. But I listened to officials that were supposed to know
better. That’s why I think you should have the knowledge. … You should be able to
go test your own water. I mean, it’s not rocket science … but nobody knows how
to do it.” The impulse to make sampling more widespread led to an idea: plumbers
spent every day working on water infrastructure—why not enable them to assess the
quality of the water running through it? In April, Water Defense and the UA entered
into a national agreement whereby Smith would train UA plumbers in water sampling so that they could offer it as a service to their customers. Harold Harrington,
interview with author, Flint, MI, October 27, 2016.
75. “Nonprofit: Concerning Levels of Chemicals Found in Water,” WNEM, February
18, 2016.
76. Stephanie Parkinson, “Actor Mark Ruffalo Calls on Obama to Declare National
Disaster in Flint Water Crisis,” NBC25News, March 7, 2016, https://nbc25news.com/
news/local/actor-mark-ruffalo-calls-on-obama-to-declare-national-disaster-in-flint-watercrisis. Later, Flint Rising partnered with Ruffalo and Green for All on a petition calling
for Governor Snyder to comply with their demands. Roberto Acosta, “Mark Ruffalo, Van
Jones Petition in Flint Water Crisis to Fix Service Lines,” MLive, March 28, 2016, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/03/mark_ruffalo_van_jones_start_p.html.
77. Kristin Aguirre, “Actor Mark Ruffalo Reveals New Findings in Contaminated
Flint Water,” NBC25News, March 9, 2016, https://nbc25news.com/news/nbc25
-today/actor-mark-ruffalo-reveals-new-findings-in-flint-water. Smith later claimed
vindication when Edwards admitted that orthophosphates were not working well
on galvanized pipes. Once again, from the activists’ perspective, their independent
“expert” was out in front of the academicians. See Ilse Hayes, “More Troubles for
Flint Residents: Interior Galvanized Pipes Also Need Replacement,” NBC25News, February 6, 2017, https://nbc25news.com/news/nbc25-today/more-troubles-for-flint-resid
more-troents-interior-galvanized-pipes-also-need-replacement.
78. Josh Sidorowicz, “Flint Families Pleading to Speak with Gov. Snyder while in
D.C.,” Fox17, March 16, 2016, https://fox17online.com/2016/03/16/flint-families-pl
eading-to-speak-with-gov-snyder-while-in-d-c/.
320
Notes to Chapter 7
79. Author’s field notes, Scott Smith presentation, St. Michael’s Church, Flint, MI,
April 9, 2016.
80. For example, “Smith warned residents that it is not safe to bathe in the water
because it had not been tested for the full spectrum of chemicals.” Amanda Emery,
“Water Defense Investigator Talks Bathing during Flint Water Crisis,” MLive, April
9, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/04/water_defense_inves
tigator_tal.html.
81. Marc Edwards, interview with author, Ann Arbor, MI, October 26, 2016.
82. LeeAnne Walters, interview with author, Flint, MI, October 11, 2016.
83. Marc Edwards, “A-List Actor but F-List Scientist: Mark Ruffalo Brings Fear and
Misinformation to Flint,” May 16, 2016, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2016/05/a-list
-actor-but-f-list-scientist-mark-ruffalo-brings-fear-and-misinformation-to-flint/.
84. As CDC medical epidemiologist Jevon McFadden put it, “The epidemiological
evidence from the shigellosis outbreak investigation does not support the hypothesis that it was caused by altered hygienic practices such as changes in bathing or
hand washing.” Email correspondence with Yanna Lambrinidou, April 18, 2017.
85. Marc Edwards, “In Flint Water Disaster Response, Ruffalo is a Bad Actor,” May
23, 2016, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2016/05/in-flint-water-disaster-response-ruffalo
-is-a-bad-actor/.
86. “Aquaflex Update: Water Expert Scott Smith Launches Aquaflex™, Brings Clarity
to Water Crisis,” Business Wire, May 13, 2016, https://www.businesswire.com/news
/home/20160513005406/en/Aquaflex-Update-Water-Expert-Scott-Smith-Launches.
87. Delaney, “Mark Ruffalo’s Water Nonprofit.”
88. Edwards, “A-List Actor but F-List Scientist.” Note the qualification: regulated safety.
Part of Smith’s appeal to the activists was precisely that he was testing in unregulated
parts of the home—showers, bathtubs, hot water heaters—for which EPA standards
did not exist. His credibility did not stand or fall with them, then, based on how his
numbers compared to existing regulations.
89. Rebecca Williams, “Water Experts Say Non-Profit Group’s Flint Water Test Lacks
Credibility,” Michigan Radio, June 7, 2016.
90. Edwards, “A-List Actor but F-List Scientist.”
91. Edwards, “A-List Actor but F-List Scientist.”
92. See also Allen et al., “Showering in Flint, MI.”
93. Marc Edwards and Siddhartha Roy, “Citizen Science in Flint: Triumph, Tragedy
and Now Misconduct?,” September 26, 2017, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2017/09
/citizen-science-in-flint-triumph-tragedy-and-now-misconduct/. Firm distinctions
Notes to Chapter 7
321
between science and pseudo-science have famously eluded generations of philosophers of science. For discussion, see Gordin, The Pseudoscience Wars. It is useful in
this context, perhaps, to think of efforts to make such distinctions as “boundarywork” aimed at the construction of scientific authority. See Gieryn, “Boundary-Work
and the Demarcation of Science.”
94. See, in this connection, Edwards’s pillorying of The Young Turks’s Jordan Chariton
for the latter’s Smith-inspired attempt at water sampling. Marc Edwards, “EXCLUSIVE!
Mark Ruffalo’s WATER DEFENSE Sampling Methods Revealed,” May 9, 2017, http://flint
waterstudy.org/2017/05/exclusive-mark-ruffalos-water-defense-sampling-methods-reve
aled/.
95. “Scientist,” Wikipedia entry, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientist.
96. “Our Work,” Flint Water Defense Info.
97. Edwards told me to provide him with the evidence of Bowcock’s statements
about bathing and showering and he would “call [him] out.” I decided that helping
Edwards open up a new front in his campaign against so-called bad actors was not
in the best interests of the community, and I never followed up with the relevant
information. Author’s email correspondence with Marc Edwards, October 26, 2016.
98. Numerous residents worked on the project as water samplers, community navigators, and community health resource specialists. Although the study did not originate in the community, it also had a “citizen science” component in the sense that
the team trained lay residents (including me) to assemble sampling kits and collect
samples. All participating residents received IRB training and were considered “key
personnel” (i.e., integral to the success of the research).
99. Harrington, interview, October 27, 2016.
100. That conclusion was based on Sullivan’s tangible distaste for Smith (she initially thanked Edwards for calling him out) in addition to circumstantial evidence,
like Edwards CCing us on an email prior to a Flint Water Study press conference (an
email that ended up in Mays’s hands).
101. Jiquanda Johnson, “Flint Leaders Upset after State Asks City Official to Leave
Water Meeting,” MLive, March 3, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index
.ssf/2017/03/state_asks_flint_official_to_l.html.
102. See “Global Priority List of Antibiotic-Resistant Bacteria to Guide Research,
Discovery, and Development of New Antibiotics,” www.who.int/medicines/publica
tions/ WHO-PPL-Short_Summary_25Feb-ET_NM_WHO.pdf.
103. Eden Wells, chief medical executive at MDHHS, told the team that sampling the
filters was a “red line” it could not cross. Ron Fonger, “Witness Says State Fought
Testing Flint Faucet Filters for Legionella,” MLive, November 15, 2017, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/11/prof_says_state_officials_obje.
322
Notes to Chapter 7
html. McElmurry later testified that MDHHS Director Nick Lyon objected to filter
sampling because he “did not want to find more legionella” in Flint. Ron Fonger,
“Witness Says MDHHS Director Didn’t ‘Want to Find More Legionella’ in Flint,”
November 17, 2017, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2017/11/prof
_felt_mdhhs_director_didnt.html. For a useful discussion of the concept of “black
boxes,” see Latour, Science in Action. See also the notion of “undone science” in Hess,
Undone Science.
104. For background on the microbial colonization of filters, drawing from Ann
Arbor data, see Wu et al., “The Microbial Colonization of Activated Carbon.” See
also Nriagu et al., “Influence of Household Water Filters.”
105. For he and the team’s final take on the number of cases that year (sixteen), see
Rhoads et al., “Distribution System Operational Deficiencies,” 11986.
106. Edwards, Flint Water Study team press conference, August 11, 2016.
107. In published papers, Edwards began to date the crisis as 2014–2016. For an
example, see Parks et al., “Potential Challenges.”
108. Oona Goodin-Smith, “Water Filters Could Increase Bacteria in Flint Water,
Researchers Say,” MLive, December 14, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint
/index.ssf/2016/12/state-provided_water_filters_i.html.
109. When FACHEP released its recommendations for best practices with the filters,
it did not tell residents not to use the filters, but rather to flush them for fifteen
seconds before use to clear out the highest concentrations of bacteria. On Flintwaterstudy.org, Edwards endorsed the recommendation but referred to it condescendingly as a “reminder,” pointing out that filter manufacturers already advised
flushing. Flint residents, however, had never been officially instructed to flush the
filters previously. “Supporting Wayne State University and University of Michigan’s
Flushing Reminder,” May 12, 2017, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2017/05/supporting
-wayne-state-university-and-university-of-michigans-flushing-reminder/.
110. Nancy Love, interview with author, Ann Arbor, MI, July 26, 2017.
111. Skepticism around the filters cropped up almost immediately: Carrie Laine,
“Brita Spokesperson Disputes Concerns over Water Filters,” WNEM, October 7,
2015.” One major concern was that the levels of lead being detected in some homes
were higher than 150 ppb, the highest level for which the filters were certified:
Matthew Dolan, “EPA: High Lead Levels in Flint Exceed Filters’ Rating,” Detroit Free
Press, January 29, 2016. Although EPA testing determined that the filters were able
to handle even very high lead levels, residents still mistrusted them—according to
a phone poll taken five months into the filter distribution, some 70 percent of residents: Paul Egan, “Poll: Flint Residents Don’t Trust Water Filters,” Detroit Free Press,
June 2, 2016. See also Sarah Hulett, “In Flint, Trust in Filters—and Government—
Elusive,” Michigan Radio, June 30, 2016.
Notes to Chapter 7
323
112. World Health Organization, “Heterotrophic plate count measurement in
drinking water safety management,” WHO Public Health Expert Report (April 2002), 4,
http://www.who.int/water_sanitation_health/dwq/WSH02.10.pdf.
113. The unfamiliarity of filters factored into another problem: their improper use. As
emphasized by Michael Hood of the humanitarian group Crossing Water: “ ‘Anywhere
from 50 to 70 percent of folks that we’re seeing have filters that are not working,’
Hood says, adding that it’s irresponsible to tell people it’s safe to drink filtered water
when so many people aren’t using filters correctly. ‘They are broken. They are not
installed properly. Don’t have faucets that accommodate them. Or they (Flint residents) can’t read the instructions because there’s a very high illiteracy rate in the city
of Flint.’ ” Hulett, “In Flint.”
114. For coverage of some of the issues with the filters—technical and otherwise—
see Brian Barrett, “The Flint Water Crisis Is Bigger than Elon Musk,” WIRED, July 12,
2018; and Auditi Gupta, “State Water Filters Prove Lacking in Flint, a City ‘Full of
Forgotten People,’” Rewire News, August 16, 2018.
115. Genesee County Health Department, “Reminder Regarding Flint Water Emergency Declaration and Recommendations,” press release, May 16, 2018, https://
gchd .us/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/GCHD-FLINT-WATER-ER-DECLARATION
-RECOMMENDATIONS_5.16.18.pdf.
116. Email correspondence between Marc Edwards and Shawn McElmurry, May 27,
2017.
117. The implication that FACHEP was withholding information from residents was,
said Nancy Love, “100 percent untrue.” Love, interview, July 26, 2017. At least some
of the frustration the resident felt with the team was understandable, however. It was
taking far longer than expected to analyze definitively (or as definitively as possible)
some of the bacterial samples—a product of limited funds, limited manpower, and
technical challenges in the lab. The delay was a gift to Edwards and Walters, who
could use it to argue that the team either did not know what it was doing or was not
being forthcoming about the results it had in its possession. This issue aside, only
one of the eleven items in the FOIA had anything to do with the resident’s sampling
results—the others being designed, seemingly, to dig up dirt on the team, particularly
on Laura Sullivan (an increasingly outspoken critic of Edwards). When Wayne State
was slow to comply with the request, Edwards teamed up with the right-wing think
tank Mackinac Center to sue the university. It was another scandal within the activist
community—while Edwards was “hollerin’ about ethics,” Claire McClinton said, he
himself made the “unethical” decision to work with the “architects of the emergency
manager [law] that created the Flint water crisis.” McClinton, interview, September
6, 2018.
118. Walters also proposed to do a GoFundMe to raise $10,000 in support of the FOIA
for the nonexistent documents the resident was demanding (a proposal Edwards
324
Notes to Chapter 7
distanced himself from as soon as she mentioned it). After I stressed to Walters at
length that I thought the GoFundMe would be unethical, she backed off the idea.
119. Marc Edwards, keynote address at Microbiology of the Built Environment Conference, Washington, DC, October 24, 2017.
120. Byrne et al., “Prevalence of Infection-Competent Serogroup 6 Legionella pneumophila,” and Zahran et al., “Assessment of the Legionnaires’ Disease Outbreak.”
121. MDHHS Response to Flint Area Community Health and Environment Partnership, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences Article, February 5, 2018, www
.michigan.gov/documents/mdhhs/MDHHS_Response_to_FACHEP_Proceedings_of
_the_National_Academy_of_Sciences_Article_FINAL_613088_7.pdf; MDHHS Response
to Flint Area Community Health and Environment Partnership, American Society for Microbiology mBio Article, February 5, 2018, https://www.michigan.gov
/documents/mdhhs/MDHHS_Response_to_FACHEP_American_Society_for_Micro
biology_mBio_Article_rev_21318_613639_7.pdf; KWR Watercycle Research Institute,
“Assessment of the Study on Enhanced Disease Surveillance and Environmental Monitoring in Flint, Michigan,” October 2017, https://www.michigan.gov/documents
/mdhhs/171108_KWR_2017.081_final_report_scoping_mission_DEF_613090_7.PDF.
122. FACHEP broke things off with the state entirely in December 2017, turning
down $900,000 in grant money.
123. When Judge David Goggins decided to bind Lyon over for trial in August,
despite Edwards’s sympathetic testimony, activists were overjoyed. I was there in the
packed courtroom when Goggins delivered his decision, prompting tears and exclamations of “Thank you!” from the activists in attendance. Disgusted that Edwards
was on the other side during this critical moment in activists’ fight for accountability, Claire McClinton called it the clearest indication yet that he had “join[ed] the
enemy.” McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
124. Ann Pierret, “Virginia Tech Researcher Praises Michigan Department of Health
and Human Services,” ABC12, March 26, 2018, https://www.abc12.com/content/news
/Virginia-Tech-researcher-sings-praises-of-Nick-Lyon-during-testimony-477978693.
html; Ron Fonger, “Researcher Says Wells Tried to Find the Truth in Flint Water
Crisis,” MLive, March 27, 2018, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2018/03
/edwards_files_complaint.html.
125. The People of the State of Michigan vs. Nicolas Leonard Lyon, 2018; statement of
Edwards, The People of the State of Michigan vs. Eden Victoria Wells, 2018; statement
of Edwards.
126. Marc Edwards and Siddartha Roy, “Considering the Unimaginable: Did
McElmurry Completely Fabricate His Story of Work ‘IN FLINT’ from 2010–2014?,”
March 31, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/03/considering-the-unimaginable
-did-mcelmurry-completely-fabricate-his-story-of-work-in-flint-from-2010-2014/.
Notes to Chapter 7
325
127. Edwards and Roy, “Considering the Unimaginable.”
128. Marc Edwards, comment on “Wayne State University Response to Questions,”
April 4, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/04/wayne-state-university-response
-to-questions/.
129. Edwards, interview on The Tom Sumner Show, July 27, 2018.
130. McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
131. Gina Luster, interview with author, Flint, MI, November 1, 2017.
132. The letter is available from flintcomplaints.com.
133. Marc Edwards, “Citizen Engineering Comes to Flint—Disrupting Communities by
Undermining Engineering Expertise,” June 2, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/06
/citizen- engineering- comes- to- flint- disrupting- communities- by- undermining
-engineering-expertise/. The two main examples Edwards singled out as constituting
deliberate defamation are instructive. He said it was defamatory to claim that “Mr.
Edwards has repeatedly spoken and written about how there are no bacteria or
dangerous pathogens in Flint residents’ water.” When seen from residents’ perspective, however, the claim was entirely understandable. Residents were repeatedly
told, beginning in 2015, that the Flint Water Study team was finding “no” legionella pneumophila in Flint’s water: see Emily Garner, “Results from Field Sampling
in Flint (Aug 17–19 2015): Opportunistic Pathogens,” August 29, 2015, http://
flintwaterstudy.org/2015/08/results-from-field-sampling-in-flint-aug-17-19-2015
-opportunistic-pathogens/; Fournier, “Edwards’ Team Shows Dramatic Drop” (“In
November [2016], we were not able to detect any culturable Legionella inside the
house at all”); Ann Pierret, “Latest Virginia Tech Flint Water Tests Show Safe Lead
Levels, No Legionella Bacteria,” ABC12, September 15, 2017, https://www.abc12.
com/content/news/Virginia- Tech- expert- declares- qualified- end- to- water- crisis
-in-Flint-444683013.html. Edwards and his team were of course entitled—and
indeed, obligated—to report their results to the community, whatever they were.
The point is that the message residents heard from him was that there was “no”
legionella pneumophila in the water, whereas the message they heard from others,
namely FACHEP, was that there was at least some. Edwards, during his testimony on
behalf of MDHHS director Nick Lyon, wondered from the stand why FACHEP was
“sampling so extensively where the legionella were not [present],” but the bacteria
were present in homes—in 12 percent of the homes the team sampled in 2016, for
example. Edwards also scoffed at the idea that there might be harmful bacteria in
the filters, saying there was “no evidence” that the filters were “dangerous” (The
People of the State of Michigan vs. Nicolas Leonard Lyon, 2017; statement of Edwards),
despite the risks the Genesee County Medical Society said the bacteria posed to vulnerable populations.
The other claim that particularly rankled Edwards was that he had portrayed
residents as being “dumb” and “dirty” for supposedly making themselves sick by
326
Notes to Chapter 7
changing their bathing and showering habits. (He told me in October 2016 that he
was “very angry” about the accusation and had never said anything that could
be construed that way. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016.) The claim was not,
of course, meant to be an exact quote, but rather an interpretation of the upshot of
Edwards’s own claim about the implications of residents’ changing personal hygiene
practices—a claim for which activists (and the CDC) felt there was insufficient evidence and which they thought was insulting.
While I felt the phrasing of the letter could have been improved in places, I also
felt that its claims represented authentic, evidence-based perceptions and interpretations of Edwards’s words and actions, rendered in the rhetorical style typical of
activist culture in Flint. I did not see the letter, therefore, as dishonest or as a deliberate attempt to defame (the signatories had, in fact, risked defamation themselves
by stepping into Edwards’s line of fire). The letter was also a potentially powerful
vehicle for publicizing concerns that activists (and other residents) had been raising for years but that had received little to no attention from the outside world.
For these reasons, I signed it after it was posted online. Edwards’s objections to the
letter, incidentally, were posted to the same website for anyone to see.
134. Worth-Nelson, “Activists’ Letter Aims Grievances.” I knew by then from over
two years of ethnographic work that the list of signatories only scratched the surface
of the discontent residents felt toward Edwards. I knew numerous people who chose
not to sign the letter simply because of its tone, or, alternately, because of their
personal distaste for Melissa Mays, whose participation Edwards successfully foregrounded in his efforts to discredit the letter.
135. The letter is available from flintaccountability.org.
136. Nidhi Subbaraman, “A Scientist Is Suing Flint Activists for Defamation. They
Say His Ego Is out of Control,” Buzzfeed News, July 26, 2018, https://www.buzzfeed
news.com/article/nidhisubbaraman/marc-edwards-flint-lawsuit.
137. Robby Korth, “Virginia Tech’s Flint Research Professor Accuses Ex-colleagues of
Defamation,” Roanoke Times, July 26, 2018.
138. See Marc Edwards and Siddhartha Roy, “Is This Flint Photo from 2015?,”
June 29, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/06/is-this-flint-photo-from-2015/;
and Marc Edwards and Siddhartha Roy, “Highlights of a Typical Week of ‘Citizen
Engineering’ in Flint,” July 5, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/07/highlights
-of-a-typical-week-of-citizen-engineering-in-flint/.
139. Bill Moran (@BillMoranWins), “Day 65 Cont.: Virginia Tech’s Marc Edwards,
who is suing a Flint Mom for $3 million, has his students create fake Facebook pages
to monitor Flint activists,” Twitter, September 5, 2018, 10:57 a.m., https://twitter
.com/billmoranwins/status/1037399379102113795?lang=en.
140. Flint Water Study (@flintwaterstudy), “Mr. Smith @WaterWarriorOne’s example
is something we should all applaud and emulate. It is so refreshing, in this post-truth
Notes to Chapter 7
327
world, to see someone admit mistakes and take responsibility,” Twitter, July 13, 2018,
12:16 p.m., https://twitter.com/flintwaterstudy/status/1017850284213702656.
141. Introduction to Scott C. Smith, “Lessons I Learned in Flint and Clarifying the
Facts,” July 11, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/07/scott-smith-flint-guest-post/.
142. Prior to the grant collaboration, Cooper nominated Edwards for the American
Association for the Advancement of Science’s “Freedom and Responsibility” award,
which he won in February 2018.
143. Caren Cooper (@CoopSciScoop), “Bravo! for a courageous step & cheers to
uniting for #CitizenScience!,” Twitter, July 12, 2018, 6:25 a.m., https://twitter.com
/CoopSciScoop/status/1017399599689097216.
144. According to an attorney retained briefly by Smith, the latter had explored
the possibility of suing Edwards for defamation just a few days earlier. See Bill
Moran, “The Tale of Honest Iago: Marc Edwards’ New Pet ‘Unethical Opportunist’ Scott Smith,” Medium, July 27, 2018, https://medium.com/@BillMoranWrites
/the-tale-of-honest-iago-marc-edwards-new-pet-unethical-opportunist-scott-smith
-c04f7bbac76e.
145. Scott Smith, “Draft Lessons I Learned in Flint ME edits 06-18-18” (unpublished
manuscript, June 18, 2018), Word file. Smith originally wrote, “In no way did I ever
claim to have a PhD or be trained as [a] PhD or other officially trained scientist.”
Edwards changed it to, “In retrospect, I should not have approved and used a title
implying that I was a trained scientist.” Scott Smith, “Draft Lessons I Learned in Flint
and Clarifying the Facts 06-24-18 ME scs redlines 06-26-18,” (unpublished manuscript,
June 26, 2018), Word file.
146. Scott Smith, “Draft Lessons I Learned in Flint and Clarifying the Facts 06-24-18
ME scs redlines 06-26-18.”
147. Scott Smith, “Forgot to Tell You that You and I Are Tied Together with Devos
Family and Mott Family Foundation,” email to Marc Edwards, July 16, 2018, forwarded to Susan Masten, Amy Pruden, Siddhartha Roy, and Kasey Faust.
148. Shariff, interview with author, September 15, 2018. How the Virginia Tech
team’s intervention in Flint came to be described as a “gold standard” despite its lack
of these protections is a curious aspect of the STEM community’s eager embrace of
Edwards.
149. Shariff, interview, September 15, 2018.
150. McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
151. McClinton, interview, September 6, 2018.
152. “The Virginia Tech Research Team,” n.d., http://flintwaterstudy.org/about-page
/about-us/. Emphasis in original.
328
Notes to Chapter 7
153. Edwards, “Citizen Engineering Comes to Flint.” Much of this analysis hinged
on the supposed influence of Donna Riley, dean of engineering education at Purdue
University, who happened to be a friend of Yanna Lambrinidou. See Marc Edwards
et al., “Bizarre Attack on FlintWaterStudy, Rigor, and Purdue Slide Rules: An Epic Failure to Measure Up,” January 16, 2018, http://flintwaterstudy.org/2018/01/bizarre-attack
-on-flintwaterstudy-rigor-and-purdue-slide-rules-an-epic-failure-to-measure-up/. To my
knowledge, Riley had no personal involvement in Flint whatsoever, and her only comment on the record explicitly about Edwards or Virginia Tech was the rather sympathetic
one she gave to the Chronicle of Higher Education in Kolowich, “The Accidental Ethicist.”
154. Quincy Murphy, interview with author, Flint, MI, May 27, 2018.
155. The idea that it was in the interest of the community to have multiple
voices speaking to the science of the water reflected the sense that “controversies
enrich democracy”; as Callon, Lascoumes, and Barthe write, controversies generate
a fuller inventory of actors, problems, and solutions, promote learning as laypeople
and experts learn from each other, break down simple oppositions, and make new
compromises and alliances possible. Acting in an Uncertain World, 28. When health
symptoms are imperfectly explained by scientific understanding, efforts to shut
down scientific controversy can, in Steven Epstein’s words, seem like the “stifling of
democratic openness of opinion and the authoritarian imposition of closure.” This is
why empowering communities through science necessitates that community members have a say about “how scientific controversies end.” Impure Science, 29. See also
Irwin’s distinction between “Enlightenment” and “critical” science in Citizen Science.
156. It should be said, however, that FACHEP’s attempt to cultivate a low profile
was also part of a concerted effort to avoid attracting too much credit or attention
for its work—a reaction against the Flint Water Study team’s heavy self-promotion.
When FACHEP’s legionella papers were published, for example, several members
of the team battled the media people at their respective universities to tone down
the standard celebratory press blast touting the contributions of university faculty,
maintaining that the focus should be on Flint.
157. “If you wanted to say, like, what would a fair sort of solution look like it’d be
something like Flint,” he told me. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016. In all my
interviews and ethnographic interactions, I did not encounter a resident of Flint who
agreed with this view.
158. Edwards, interview, October 26, 2016.
8 From Poisoned People to People Power
1. Rick Snyder, testimony to House Oversight and Government Reform Committee,
March 17, 2016, https://www.flintwatercommittee.com/wp-content/uploads/2016
/05/FLINT-HEARING-OF-MARCH-17-FINAL-with-cover-sheet.pdf. Snyder continued
Notes to Chapter 8
329
to tout what he considered the successes of the EM law in other Michigan cities,
but did not seem eager to apply it in the wake of the crisis. Some of the people
I talked to believed the water crisis had rendered Flint, especially, immune from
future state takeovers: “I don’t think we’re ever going to be under an emergency
ever again,” Paul Jordan told me. Jordan, interview with author, Flint, MI, December 21, 2016.
2. None of these state bodies recommended abolishing the EM law, however. Suggestions included replacing lone EMs with three-person financial management
teams including a local ombudsman, opening EMs up to civil liability, instituting
an appeals process whereby a majority of local elected representatives could appeal
a decision directly to the governor, creating a website for public comment on
proposed EM actions, requiring EMs to consult with subject matter experts before
making decisions, and forbidding EMs from changing drinking water sources without the approval of experts and a majority of electors in a locality. Proposals for
reform failed to gain traction in either state legislative body, despite polling data
showing bipartisan support for them. See Ivacko and Horner, “Local Leaders More
Likely to Support than Oppose,” and Jonathan Oosting, “Reforms Languish in Wake
of Flint Water Crisis,” Detroit Free Press, April 21, 2017.
3. Weaver came into office saying she did “not embrace the current governance
model on a moral or political basis.” Steve Carmody, “Flint’s New Mayor Wants Total
Local Control Restored,” Michigan Radio, November 9, 2015, http://www.michi
ganradio.org/post/flints-new-mayor-wants-total-local-control-restored.
4. Gary Ridley, “Power Not Restored to Flint Mayor Despite Calls from Gov. Rick
Snyder,” MLive, January 13, 2016, https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016
/01/no_powers_restored_to_flint_ma.html.
5. In May, Snyder came out in favor of restoring the council’s powers. Gary Ridley,
“Snyder Supports Return of Flint City Council Powers,” MLive, May 12, 2016, https://
www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/05/snyder_supports_return_of_flin.html.
Shortly thereafter, RTAB did so, reluctantly. Jiquanda Johnson, “State Oversight
Board Restores Power to Flint City Council despite concerns,” MLive, May 26, 2016,
https://www.mlive.com/news/flint/index.ssf/2016/05/flint_city_council_powers
_rest.html. RTAB denied that criticism of the EM system because of the water crisis put
added pressure on the board to restore local control, but each move in this direction
was signaled by Snyder, who was clearly under pressure to end the state takeover as a
gesture of good will. Josh Hakala, “The Next Steps in Flint’s Transition Back to Local
Control,” Michigan Radio, February 1, 2016.
6. For my critique of the latter decision, see Pauli, “Gov. Snyder’s Flint Oversight.”
7. On the concept of political opportunity structures and their relation to activism,
see Meyer and Minkoff, “Conceptualizing Political Opportunity,” and Meyer, “Protest and Political Opportunities.” For connections between this concept—as well as
social movement theory more generally—and environmental justice activism, see
330
Notes to Chapter 8
Taylor, “The Rise of the Environmental Justice Paradigm”; Pellow, Resisting Global
Toxics; and Sicotte and Brulle, “Social Movements for Environmental Justice.”
8. See the “Water Is a Human Right” bill package introduced, in its second incarnation, as Michigan Senate Bill 466.
9. See the Water Affordability, Transparency, Equity, and Reliability (WATER) Act
introduced by US Representatives Keith Ellison and Ro Khanna as H.R. 5609.
10. Nayyirah Shariff, interview with author, Flint, MI, July 6, 2017.
11. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising meeting, Flint, MI, n.d.
12. Blee, Democracy in the Making. Blee writes that democracy in a social movement
context “is a verb, not an adjective. It is the action of people as they deliberate and work
together to affect society rather than a form of governance. Activism-as-democracy is
not institutional or structural. It is a process, ever being made” (4). Later, she writes,
“Activist groups don’t just support democratic institutions; when they are open to a
full array of new possibilities, grassroots groups make democracy anew” (138).
13. I wish to make clear that in focusing on those I describe as “activists,” I do not
mean to shortchange the many other people and institutions from the grassroots
who contributed to the crisis response: the churches that turned themselves into
distribution sites, the people who went door to door to check on their neighbors
and deliver bottled water, the groups that organized recreational events for children
so the latter could take their minds off the crisis. There was ample evidence in Flint
that crisis gives rise to new forms of community. See Solnit, A Paradise Built in Hell.
For more on the importance of community in weathering disaster, see Klinenberg,
Heat Wave.
14. I am ashamed to say I did not try to count, so I have taken the estimate from
Paul Egan, “Flint Water Protestors: Snyder Should Resign, Face Charges,” Detroit Free
Press, January 8, 2016.
15. The two main outcomes activists believed would result from a disaster declaration were faster pipe replacements, courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers, and the
provision of “water buffalos,” portable tanks of clean water residents could tap into
in preference to bottled water.
16. Claire McClinton, personal interview with author, Flint, MI, June 7, 2017.
17. For more on Baird, see Bomey, Detroit Resurrected.
18. As Laura Sullivan put it, “Soon after the mayor named a state of emergency, the
governor proposed to come into town with his team to assess the situation from
their own angle and make recommendations on their own, and kind of take over
rather than empower Flint.” Bendix, “How Flint Citizens Are Working Together.”
19. Author’s field notes, Two Years Too Long Coalition meeting, Woodside Church,
Flint, MI, September 11, 2016.
Notes to Chapter 8
331
20. One of the inspirations for the activists’ use of this term was INCITE! Women of
Color Against Violence, The Revolution Will Not Be Funded.
21. On different occasions, activists considered disrupting the Community Partners
meetings to make a point. They actually planned a protest for mid-May but called
it off after the plans were inadvertently leaked. My tangential involvement in this
incident (I was CCed on the offending email) set me back somewhat in building
credibility within the activist community, creating the unfortunate impression for
a while that I could not be trusted with sensitive information. Activists claimed at
least a partial victory when the meetings were subsequently relocated to a more
accessible location (the Dome at City Hall).
22. It is worth pointing out that many of the “groups” in Flint were primarily individual projects, without any real membership, or regular meetings, or formal incorporation. For this reason, I have benefitted from Blee’s analysis, in Democracy in the Making,
of “tiny and incipient” groups (6). When groups are this small and depend so heavily
on single individuals, unpredictable interpersonal dynamics become more important
to coalition building than the more predictable intergroup dynamics pinpointed by
social movement scholars (see Van Dyke and McCammon, Strategic Alliances).
23. The full list is as follows:
1. The Flint water catastrophe should be declared a major disaster area and not
simply an emergency.
2. The pipes throughout the city of Flint must be changed.
3. The State of Michigan has not put in any serious resources currently to adequately address citizen needs in Flint.
4. An independent external auditor is needed to monitor the influx of government capital to ensure it reaches the citizens.
5. A maximum amount of funds should be kept in the City of Flint and the
greater Flint area so that labor and contracts keep the money in Flint.
24. Niraj Warikoo, “Flint Immigrants Struggle to Get Help, Info on Water,” Detroit
Free Press, February 4, 2016.
25. Wheeler, “What Government Owes.”
26. At an environmental justice summit in Flint, a representative from the EPA said the
agency had decided to schedule its own canvassing around Flint Rising’s, taking the weekdays rather than the weekends, because the coalition was doing such an efficient job.
27. Michigan Faith in Action began in 2007 as Flint Area Congregations Together,
a group started by deputy director of PICO Gordon Whitman. For background on
PICO, see Wood, Faith in Action. In May 2018, the PICO National Network changed
its name to Faith in Action.
28. Richard Wood notes that statewide and national interlinkages allow activists to
“project democratic power into higher-level arenas” (Faith in Action, 51), and that
organizing federations can act as “bridging institutions” (143) linking civil society to
political society to the state.
332
Notes to Chapter 8
29. Robert Allen, “NAACP Threatens Civil Disobedience over Flint Pipes,” Detroit
Free Press, February 15, 2016.
30. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising meeting, St. Michael’s Church, Flint, MI, May
28, 2016.
31. See the organizer’s handbook, adapted from the work of Ganz, Organizing: People,
Power, Change, 25. For other accounts of community organizing as a distinctive
method of creating social change, see Boyte, The Backyard Revolution; Smock, Democracy in Action; and Swarts, Organizing Urban America. Despite its focus on “broad-based”
organizing rather than “community” organizing per se, useful reflections can also be
found in Stout, Blessed Are the Organized.
32. Emerging scholarship has sought to understand the importance of community
organizing in post-disaster situations. As Pyles writes (“Community Organizing”),
“There are clearly differences between managing a disaster and organizing communities to advocate for policy and program changes related to community revitalization needs after a disaster. In addition, organizing after disasters must go beyond just
including vulnerable members and focus activities on transforming the hegemonic
structures and policies that perpetuate such injustice, if it is to address development
problems and other inequities” (325).
33. PICO did send in a number of organizers in early 2016, however. Sharon Allen
remembers that they “helped us organize our thoughts, because at that point we
were pulling our hair out.” Allen, interview with author, Flint, MI, December 2, 2016.
34. For more on Ganz, see Why David Sometimes Wins. For another perspective on
stories and narrative in social movements, see Polletta, It Was Like a Fever.
35. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising community meeting, St. Michael’s Church,
Flint, MI, February 27, 2016.
36. Nakiya Wakes, interview with author, Flint, MI, September 7, 2016.
37. Wakes, interview, September 7, 2016.
38. Another, Abel Delgado, questioned whether the focus on stories was appropriate
at all: “I think a lot of the thing with the water crisis is just based upon story and I
really don’t like that. … I mean, yeah, those stories do need to be told but just because
we hear a story doesn’t make them a leader, doesn’t make them a revolutionary.”
Interview with author, Flint, MI, December 7, 2016. Several people involved in Flint
Rising complained to me that their skills, experience, and political savvy were being
treated as if they had less value than compelling personal stories.
39. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising meeting, St. Michael’s Church, May 28, 2016.
40. Laura Gillespie MacIntyre, interview with author, Flint, MI, August 29, 2016.
41. Shariff, interview, July 6, 2017.
Notes to Chapter 8
333
42. Saul Alinsky makes a classic argument for the need to fight winnable battles in
his Rules for Radicals.
43. Delgado, interview, December 7, 2016.
44. McClinton, interview, June 7, 2017.
45. See Han, How Organizations Develop Activists.
46. For more on organizing vs. activist logics, see Chambers, Roots for Radicals, ch. 5.
47. Dillon Davis, “Kellogg Foundation Gives $7 Million for Flint Recovery,” Detroit Free
Press, August 9, 2016. Kellogg channeled the money through the Tides Foundation and
the c4 nonprofit infrastructure organization the Advocacy Fund (Flint Rising began
to describe itself as a “project of the Advocacy Fund”). On general funding dilemmas
faced by environmental justice movements, including the tradeoff between capacitybuilding and cooptation, see Faber and McCarthy, “Breaking the Funding Barriers.”
48. Shariff, interview, July 6, 2017.
49. See the work of the psychologist Marshall Rosenberg.
50. Shiva, Water Wars.
51. Sharp, The Role of Power in Nonviolent Struggle.
52. McKnight, “Services Are Bad for People.”
53. Stedile, “Landless Battalions.”
54. For the classic account of prefiguration in a social movement context, see
Breines, Community and Organization in the New Left, 1962–1968.
55. Shariff, interview, July 6, 2017.
56. Shariff, interview, July 6, 2017.
57. Jessica Glenza, “Nestlé Pays $200 a Year to Bottle Water Near Flint—Where
Water Is Undrinkable,” Guardian, September 29, 2017.
58. Matthew Dolan, “Michigan Battles Order to Deliver Bottled Water to Flint Residents,” Detroit Free Press, November 17, 2016.
59. Detroit Free Press staff, “Here’s What Flint’s $87M Water Settlement Means,”
Detroit Free Press, March 28, 2017.
60. McClinton, interview, June 7, 2017.
61. Susan Whalen and Aaron Kottke, interview with author, Flint, MI, November
12, 2017.
62. The letter explicitly compared the lack of popular participation in the water
source decision to the experience of emergency management, maintaining that
334
Notes to Chapter 8
“residents of Flint have been shut out of communication surrounding the contract
with GLWA” and lamenting that “since the time we were under emergency management and now under RTAB … we have had no say in our own future.” Letter to the
Honorable David M. Lawson from Residents of Flint, represented by the Democracy
Defense League, Water You Fighting For, Flint Water Class Action Group, Michigan United, Citizens Advocating United To Inform and Organize for New Direction (CAUTION), and others. November 16, 2017. p. 2. The letter was mailed as a
physical letter. The text here is taken from a Facebook post by Claire McClinton on
November 19, 2017.
63. Eric Mays, long an ally of the activists but also a loyal ally of the mayor, became
a particular target after he said the people at the town hall meeting deserved to be
arrested.
64. David Schwenk, “Promise in the Land of Despair: The Crisis is Not over in Flint,
Michigan,” Common Dreams, June 9, 2017.
65. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising meeting, Mott Community College, Flint, MI,
February 22, 2018.
66. Author’s field notes, Flint Rising meeting, February 22, 2018.
Conclusion
1. Flint helped to inspire the EPA’s Lead and Copper Rule Revisions White Paper.
2. Todd Spangler, “U.S. Supreme Court Rejects Challenge to Michigan’s Emergency
Manager Law,” Detroit Free Press, October 2, 2017.
3. Marc Edwards, for example, repeatedly used the term “miracle” to describe the
“critical mass of moral courage” reached in 2015, uniting the activists with allies like
Miguel del Toral, Curt Guyette, Virginia Tech, and Mona Hanna-Attisha to break the
news about systemic lead contamination. See his talk “Truth-Seeking in an Age of
Tribalism: Lessons from the Flint Water Crisis,” Swarthmore College, Swarthmore, PA,
February 20, 2018, https://www.swarthmore.edu/news-events/listen-engineer-marc-ed
wards-truth-seeking-age-tribalism.
4. Paul Jordan, interview with author, Flint, MI, December 21, 2016.
Selected Bibliography
In selecting the references listed below, I have tried to compile a near-comprehensive bibliography of the water crisis. That said, I have not included everything cited
in the book’s endnotes. I have left out day-to-day news coverage as well as other
articles and documents I deemed to be of less than general interest. Any source not
cited in full here is cited in full in the endnotes.
Abernethy, Jacob, Cyrus Anderson, Chengyu Dai, Arya Farahi, Linh Nguyen, Adam
Rauh, Eric Schwartz, Wenbo Shen, Guangsha Shi, Jonathan Stroud, Xinyu Tan,
Jared Webb, and Sheng Yang. “Flint Water Crisis: Data-Driven Risk Assessment via
Residential Water Testing.” Paper presented at Bloomberg Data for Good Exchange
Conference, New York, September 25, 2016.
Abernethy, Jacob, Alex Chojnaki, Chengyu Dai, Arya Farahi, Eric Schwartz, Jared
Webb, Guangsha Shi, and Daniel T. Zhang. “A Data Science Approach to Understanding Residential Water Contamination.” Paper presented at KDD, Halifax, Nova
Scotia, August 13–17, 2017.
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Index
Note: Page references in italic type refer to illustrative matter.
ACLU of Michigan
on EM system, 108, 168
Flint Rising and, 235
FOIA request by, 311n44
on leaked EPA memo, xxv, 168–169
litigation by, xxviii, xxxi
in support of PA 4 repeal, 108
Activism. See Environmental justice movement; Protests; Water
movement
Administrative consent order (ACO),
88–89, 96
Advancement Project, 108
Allen, Sharon, 237, 332n33
Ambrose, Jerry
charges against, xxviii, 44, 89
as EM, xxiv, 76
on Flint River switchover, 96, 97, 158,
291n113
posture during water crisis, 144, 145,
160
resignation of, 224
on return to Detroit water, 5, 96
American Civil Liberties Union. See
ACLU of Michigan
American Federation of State, County,
and Municipal Employees (AFSCME),
107, 108, 235
American Institute of Architects, 135
American Red Cross, 230
American Society of Civil Engineers, 58
American Votes, 235
America’s Heartbreakers action, 242,
243
Anderson, Michelle Wilde, 98
Anonymous (hacktivist group), 163
AquaFlex™, 203
Arbulu, Agustin, 304n36
#ArrestSnyder rally, 228
Atwood Stadium, 119
Autoworld, 64
Bacteria contamination. See also Water
contamination
coliform, xxiii, 4, 133, 153
Legionella pneumophila, xxviii, 39, 185,
206–213, 214, 321n103, 325n133
studies on, xxviii, 206–215, 328n157
Baird, Rich, 208, 229–230
Ballenger, Bill, 34–35, 269n15, 269n17
Bankruptcy, municipal, xxiii, xxiv,
71–72, 76. See also Emergency
financial management; Emergency
management system
Barber, William, II, 250
Barlow Maude, 142
Beecher, Janice, 266n53, 279n44
Belt Magazine, 142
380
Benton Harbor (Michigan), xxii, 71,
115–116, 119, 297n49
Betanzo, Elin, 173
Black Lives Matter, 138, 142, 304n33
Blanchard, James, 71
Blee, Kathleen, 226, 330n12
Blood lead levels. See also Health and
behavioral problems from contamination; Lead contamination
Canfield on, 31
cases of children with elevated, 129,
239
Edwards on response to, 191, 193,
269n13
EPA’s response to, xxxi, 5, 229,
312n66
exposure vs. poisoning debate, xxxi,
34, 38–39
in Genesee Township, 45–46
Hanna-Attisha’s study on, xi, xxv,
29–30, 38, 174, 190
misleading reports by MDHHS on, 5
national comparison of, 33–34, 187,
262n18, 268n10
Boil water advisories, 133, 206
Bottled water. See also Filtration technologies; Water contamination
activist protest using, 246, 247
demand for, as political resistance, 23
for Flint state employees, 97
free distribution sites for, xxx, 125,
134–135, 229, 246, 253, 319n73
from Nestlé, xxxi, 246, 253
stockpiling of, 135
Bowcock, Bob, 184–186, 201, 202,
314n17
Bowens, Greg, 107, 111
BP, 196
Brader, Valerie, 96–97
Brass fixtures, 275n11
Brazil, 244
Brecher, Jeremy, 259n4
Bridge Magazine, 49
Index
Brockovich, Erin, 147–148, 184, 186,
202, 314n17
Brown, Michael
as EM, xxii, xxiii, 76, 85, 119
public hearings by, 118
in support of KWA pipeline, 5, 87,
121
Bullock, David, 103
Busch, Stephen, xxvii
Camp Promise, 249–250
Canfield, Ed, 31–32, 38
Canvassing, 11, 233–234, 235, 237, 238,
245, 331n26
Carcinogenic chlorine byproducts. See
Total trihalomethanes (TTHMs)
contamination
Center for Health, Environment, and
Justice (CHEJ), 163
Center for Popular Democracy, 233
Centers for Disease Control and
Prevention (CDC)
on effects of Flint’s water contamination, 39, 229, 271n34
on national average of lead-poisoned
children, 33
on Washington, D.C. lead contamination, 34, 187, 269n13
Chiaverini, Joanne, 46
Children
Hanna-Attisha’s study on, xi, xxv,
29–30, 38, 174, 190
health effects of contaminants to, 30,
37–38, 41, 127–129, 195, 200, 239,
270n27
lead contamination of, xi–xii, xxv,
xxv, 29–30
lead screening of, xxxi, 30
Chloride, 54, 133, 166, 199, 277n30
Chlorine treatment. See also Total
trihalomethanes (TTHMs)
contamination; Treatment process
correlation to legionella, 214
Index
for pathogen elimination, 4, 34, 184,
200
residuals from, 39–40, 53, 132, 152,
208–209
Chloroform contamination, 199, 200
Citizens’ advisory committee (CAC) on
water, xxiv, 155–159, 307n12
Citizen science. See also Science wars
democratic implications of, 24, 266n60
Edwards on Flint Water Study project,
188
extreme citizen science principle, 25
in FACHEP study, 206–207, 321n98
Flint Water Study as model of, 10, 24,
190, 327n148
as term, 188, 204, 267n65
Citizen Science Association, 24
Citizens for Fiscal Responsibility, 109
City of Flint. See also Flint City Council;
State of Michigan; specific officials
2017 settlement for, xxix, 246–247
boil water advisories by, 133, 206
Department of Planning and Development, xxiii
Department of Public Works, xxiii, 77,
80, 153, 184
federal funding for crisis remediation,
xxx, 35, 225, 235, 247
initial misconduct by, 56
lien threats by, xxix, 225, 248
master development plan by, 138–139,
140–141, 156, 307nn12–13
organizational charts of, 78
state funding for crisis remediation,
xxvii, xxviii, 31–32, 35, 235
water contract with DWSD, xxi, xxiii,
xxiv, 81–83
water shutoffs by, xxv, xxviii, xxvi, 9,
92, 123, 243, 248, 299n78
City power. See Local control, as
concept
Clean Water Action, 235
Clinton, Hillary, xxviii, 235, 239, 260n8
381
CNN, 135, 239
Coalition for Clean Water (CCW), xxv,
67–68, 163–172, 167, 230. See also
Water movement
Coburn, Jason, 309n26
Coffia, Betsy, 107
Coliform bacteria contamination,
xxiii, 4, 133, 153. See also Water
contamination
Collective bargaining rights, 102–103
Collective illness identity, 137–142,
146, 305n40, 306n67. See also Water
movement
Community meetings on water quality,
official city-sponsored, xxiv, 11, 145,
149, 150–160, 230
Community organizing. See Water
movement
Community Partners coalition, 230,
331n21
Concerned Pastors for Social Action,
xxix, xxviii, 108, 142, 163–165, 176,
231, 311n49
Conde, Marta, 26
Contaminated water. See Water
contamination
Cooley, Thomas, 284n37
Cooper, Caren, 24
Corrosion control, xxv, 4, 55, 59–60, 68,
94, 168. See also Treatment process
Creagh, Keith, 50
Credibility, as concept, 313n3
Croft, Howard, 77, 153, 155, 282n30
Crossing Water, 234
Cummings, Elijah, 50
Curtis, Jamie, 89
Dakota Access Pipeline protesters, 249
Davies, Simon, 54
Davis, Wantwaz, 124, 125, 141, 155
Deepwater Horizon oil spill, 196
Deindustrialization, ix, 61–64
Delgado, Abel, 140
382
Deliberative democracy, 155–160,
306n6, 307n12, 309n26
Del Toral, Miguel, xi, xxv, 168, 191, 211
Democracy debates. See also Environmental justice movement;
Pro-democracy movement; Water
movement
in 2011, 101–102
deliberation theory in, 155–160,
306n6, 307n12, 309n26
on emergency management system,
43–45, 97–98, 151–152, 284n37
by FDDL, 120
local control, as concept, 62–63, 80–
81, 265n46, 266n53
representative democracy, 14–15, 106,
109, 120, 149–150, 298n61
Demolition Means Progress (Highsmith),
61, 63
Detroit (Michigan)
bankruptcy of, xxiii, xxiv
emergency management in, xxiii, 123
pro-democracy movement in, 9,
123–124
school system of, xxii, 71, 118
water shutoffs in, xxiii, 123, 124, 125
Detroit Department of Water Supply. See
Detroit Water and Sewerage Department (DWSD)
Detroit Light Brigade, 228
Detroit River, xxi, 83
Detroit-to-Flint Water Justice Journey,
xxv, 166
Detroit Water and Sewerage Department
(DWSD)
criticisms of, 82–83
Earley’s pipe sale to, 96, 292n123
Flint’s contract with, xxi, xxiii, xxiv,
81–83, 84, 92
legal regulations on, 284n41
offer of emergency services by, 95–96,
292n128
water rates of, 1, 82
Index
Detroit Water Brigade, 124–125
Dichlorobenzyne contamination, 200
Dillon, Andy, 71, 85, 88, 285n57
Disaster capitalism, 106
Disaster declaration. See Emergency vs.
disaster declarations
Discrimination. See Racial injustice
Diseases. See Legionnaires’ disease
Disinfection byproducts (DBPs), 185,
200, 203, 206, 210
Distributive justice, 33–34, 36–43,
44–47, 270n24. See also Procedural
justice; Retributive justice
“Dome” town hall meeting, 153–155
Drum, Kevin, 41
Duell, Desiree, 140, 233
Durant-Dort Carriage Company, 61. See
also General Motors
Durno, Mark, 205, 276n22
DWSD. See Detroit Water and Sewerage
Department
Earley, Darnell
charges against, xxix, xxviii, 44, 89
DWSD pipeline sale by, 96, 292n123
as EM, xxiii, 76
on EM’s control, 291n116
on Flint River switchover, 5, 92–93,
94–97
posture during water crisis, 120, 160
East Village magazine, 291n119
E. coli. See Coliform bacteria
contamination
Economic Vitality Incentive Programs, 74
Education Law Center, xxxi
Edwards, Marc. See also Flint Water
Study (Virginia Tech)
on aging infrastructure, 41, 57, 58
author’s communication with, 215,
328n159
awards for, 327n142
on contaminants, 168, 171, 192–196,
325n133
Index
criticisms of FACHEP by, 212–215,
323n117
criticisms of Smith by, 202–206,
217–218
on drinkability of Flint’s water, 209
on filtration technologies, 193, 210,
322n109
investigation of, xxxi, 216
on “public good,” 316n44
relationship with activists, xxxi,
24–25, 181–183, 186–191, 215–221
relationship with Mays, 189, 201, 204,
205, 216–218, 326n134
relationship with officials, 34, 183,
191–192, 215–216
on treatment process, 54, 55, 60
on victim narrative, 41
on Washington, D.C. lead contamination, 34, 186–187, 269n13
Egypt, 101, 102
Emergency financial management, xxi,
xxii, 71–72
Emergency management system.
See also Public Act (PA) 4; Public
Act (PA) 72; Public Act (PA) 101;
Public Act (PA) 436; Receivership
Transition Advisory Board (RTAB)
and bankruptcy, 71–72, 76
constitutional challenges to, 112–114,
295n34, 295n36
criticisms of, 67–68, 79–81, 160,
281n9, 282n31, 283n33
defense of, 68, 283n34
and democracy, 43–45, 97–98, 151–
152, 284n37
laws and reform of, xxi, xxii, 67,
71–77, 102–111, 280n1, 280n3,
329n2
legislative repeal efforts against,
106–111
local resistance to, 115–125, 150,
293n3
personnel requirements of, 281n7
383
restrictive power of, 5, 44, 73, 280n1,
281n8, 282n26, 296n43
Snyder on, 224, 328n1
Emergency Manager Work Group,
117–118
Emergency vs. disaster declarations,
xxvi, xxviii, 35–36, 229. See also Federal declaration of emergency; State
of emergency declarations
Environmental justice movement. See
also Protests; Racial injustice; Water
movement
criticisms of, 17–20
distributive justice, 33–34, 36–43,
44–45, 270n24
environmental racism, as concept,
138, 264n42
Genesee Power Station case, x–xi, 45–47
justice, as concept, 14–15, 263n30
principles of, 273n60
women in, 130, 135–136, 146,
302nn19–21
works on, 17
Environmental Justice Work Group,
47–48, 274n69, 274n71
Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)
citizen petitions to, 172–173, 174
criticisms of, xi
Genesee Power Station case, x–xi,
45–47, 259n7
lack of response to D.C. lead contamination, 34
Lead and Copper Rule, 55–56, 59, 173,
256
leaked memo on lead contamination,
xi, xxv, 64, 139, 168–169
on procedural discrimination, 274n64,
274n65
relationship with Edwards, 34, 183,
191
response to lead exposure, xxxi, 5,
229, 312n66
on Smith’s foam technology, 201, 205
384
Environmental racism, as concept, 138,
139, 264n42. See also Racial injustice
Epistemic injustice, 143–146
Erikson, Kai, 17, 264n33
Ethnographic methodology, 7–14,
261n16, 262n26, 263n31
Everything in Its Path (Erikson), 17,
264n33
Extreme citizen science principle, 25.
See also Citizen science
ExxonMobil, 195
Fast Start program, xxvii
Federal declaration of emergency,
xxvi, xxviii, 35–36, 176, 228–230,
330n15
Federal Emergency Management
Agency (FEMA), xxvi
Feighner, Bryce, 278n34
FEMA (Federal Emergency Management
Agency), 229
Filtration technologies
bacterial risks of, 208–209, 212–213,
321n103
Bowcock on, 185
distribution of, 60, 229, 311n49,
319n73
Edwards on, 193, 210, 322n109
improper use of, 322n109, 323n113
vs. infrastructure investment, 23
resident distrust of, 212, 322n111
First National People of Color Environmental Leadership Conference, 45
Flint (film), 177, 313n70
Flint (Michigan), 2. See also City of
Flint; Flint City Council; Flint River;
Water movement
collective identity of, 15–16, 18,
137–142, 146, 305n40, 306n67
Democratic presidential debate in,
xxvii, 235
Floral Park, 63, 64
historical overview, ix–xi, 61–63
Index
master development plan for,
138–139, 140–141, 156, 307nn12–13
National Guard assistance in, xxvi, 35
schools of, xxii, 174, 259n2
Flint Area Community Health and
Environment Partnership (FACHEP)
author’s involvement with, 12–13, 206
bacteria studies by, xxviii, 206–213,
321n98, 328n157
at Chicago summit, 211–212
Edwards on, 212–215, 220
establishment of, 206
filter recommendations by, 322n109
funding sources of, 206–207, 215,
324n122
Smith on, 210–211
Flint Charter Review Advisory Committee, 9
Flint Charter Review Commission, xxiv
Flint City Council. See also City of Flint
on connecting to Detroit water, xxiv, 97
on emergency management, 75
on Flint River use, 92, 93, 288n95,
289n99, 290n110
on KWA deal, xxiii, 86, 92, 121,
286n64
provisional powers of, xxvii, 224,
297n53
on water liens, xxix
Flint Coalition (501c4 group), 232,
331n23
FlintComplaints letter, xxxi, 216,
325n133
Flint Deficit Elimination Action Plan,
289n97
Flint Democracy Defense League
(FDDL). See also Pro-democracy
movement; Water movement
actions by, 11, 121, 124–125, 160–162
aid in founding water movement by,
131
on democracy, 106, 150
establishment of, 120
Index
on FACHEP study, 208
in Flint Rising, 234
on KWA deal, 88
water aid by, xxiii
Flint Financial Review Team, xxii, 74–76
Flint H2O Justice Coalition, 11,
231–232
Flint Journal, 75
“Flint Lives Matter” slogan, 142
Flint Mom Power, 242
Flint Rising. See also Water movement
actions of, 11, 234–235, 246, 247,
319n76
criticisms of, 251, 252
establishment of, 226, 232–234
and FACHEP, 207
organizing methods of, 226–227,
237–243
partnerships of, 234–236, 319n76
reinvention of, 244–245
and Smith, 199–200
Flint River, 1–3. See also Flint Water
Treatment Plant; Karegnondi Water
Authority (KWA); Water
councilmen on use of, 92, 93, 288n95,
289n99, 290n110
Earley on, 5, 92–93, 94–97
feasibility arguments for use of, 91–95,
288n97
GM’s use of, ix, xxiv, 61, 96, 133
initial switchover and contamination
awareness, 129–137
McElmurry on, 276n15
Walling on, 3, 175, 291n119xxv
Flint River Water Support Group, 147
Flint Water Advisory Task Force, xxvii,
35, 59, 77–79, 93, 95
Flint Water Class Action (FWCA) group,
147, 162
Flint Water Interagency Coordinating
Committee, 35, 274n69
Flint Water Study (Virginia Tech). See
also Edwards, Marc
385
EPA grant for, xxxi
Flintwaterstudy.org website, 172, 189,
202, 214, 216, 217, 316n39
as model of citizen science efforts, 10,
24, 190, 327n148
report on findings from, xxv, 158,
172–173, 325n133
water sampling efforts by, xi, xxv,
166–167, 171–172
Flintwaterstudy.org, 172, 189, 202, 214,
216, 217, 316n39
Flint Water Treatment Plant. See
also Flint River; Infrastructure
investment
litigation against, xxvii
operations of, xxiii, 1–4, 54–56
tours of, 288n95
Flint Water Works, xxi
Floral Park, 63, 64
Fluoride, 185
Flushing campaign, 97
Flynn, Reginald, 117
Food and Water Watch, 58, 166, 235
Food Bank of Eastern Michigan, 119
Fortun, Kim, 264n35
Four Years Too Long Coalition. See Flint
H2O Justice Coalition
Fowler, Florlisa, 147, 308n17
Fracking, 90, 195, 248
Freedom of Information Act requests,
49, 213–214, 275n4, 311n44,
323n118
Freeman, Josh, 75, 286n64
Fricker, Miranda, 143–145
Ganz, Marshall, 233, 238
Gaslighting, 143
General Motors
Flint River and, ix, xxiv, 61, 96, 133
job eliminations by, 63
rising population due to, 61–62
sit-down strike at, x, 16, 256,
259nn2–3
386
Genesee County (Michigan), xxii, 83,
260n2
Genesee County Board of Commissioners, xxvi
Genesee County Drain Commission,
xxi, 82, 153, 260n2
Genesee County Health Department,
xxv, 174, 213
Genesee County Hispanic/Latino Collaborative, 233
Genesee County Medical Society, 213,
220
Genesee Power Station, x–xi, 45–47,
260n7
Genesee Towers, 119
Genocide rhetoric, 141
Gibbs, Alec, 117, 298n66
Gibbs, Greg, 117
Gibbs, Lois, 163, 232
Glasgow, Michael, xxvii, 4, 167
Goffman, Alice, 8
Goggins, David, 324n123
Goldman Environmental Prize, xxxi,
189
Gosman, Sara, 47
Great Lakes Water Authority (GLWA),
21
Flint contract with, xxix, xxx, 21,
248–249
founding of, xxiv
Green for All, 199
Guyette, Curt, 168–169, 171, 311n44
Hair loss and other problems, 127–129,
133
Hammer, Peter, 79, 86–87, 89, 290n110
Hamtramck (Michigan), xxi
Hanna-Attisha, Mona
awards of, 217
blood lead level study by, xi, xxv, 29–
30, 38, 174, 190, 271n31
legislative testimony of, 29–32, 268n8
Harding, Sandra, 26
Index
Harrington, Harold, 199, 200, 319n74
Harris, Alfred, 33, 142, 174, 310n34
Harris, Joe, 115
Harvey, David, 17, 20
Hayman, Archie, 172
Health and behavioral problems from
contamination, xxvii, 30, 37–39, 41,
127–129, 133, 195, 239, 270n27. See
also Blood lead levels; Legionnaires’
disease
Hedman, Susan, 169, 191, 312n66
Henderson, Natasha, xxiv, xxvii, 96,
150, 224
Here’s to Flint (film), 281n9
Heynen, Nikolas, 18
Highland Park School District, xxxi
Highsmith, Andrew, 61, 63, 67
Hispanic community in Flint, 232–233
Historical narrative of water crisis, 52,
61–67. See also Political narrative;
Technical narrative
Hollins, Harvey, 90, 169–171
Home, loss of harmony in, 133–134,
135, 136–137, 302n17
Home rule, as term, 62–63, 81, 265n46.
See also Local control, as concept
Home values, 42, 63, 74, 272n49
Homrich 9, 124
Honig, Bonnie, 99
Hoogester, Jaime, 266n51
House Oversight and Government
Reform Committee, xxvii, 247,
302n17
Housing discrimination, x, xxiv, 63,
259n5
Huffington Post, 203
Hygiene scare and gastrointestinal illness outbreak, 202, 320n84
Identity prejudice, 145
Imagine Flint (master development
plan), 138–139, 140–141, 156,
307nn12–13
Index
Industrialization and deindustrialization, ix, 61–64
Infrastructure, 10, 14, 17, 22–23
Infrastructure investment
appropriated monies for, xxviii
Edwards on, 41, 57
estimated costs of, 41–42, 58, 278n36
vs. filtration technologies, 23
Hanna-Attisha’s call for, 31
implementation of, xxvii, 84
national debate on lead in aging infrastructure, 10, 33–34, 41, 57–59, 256
state of Flint’s aging water system,
57–59
Inter-American Commission on Human
Rights investigation, xxx, 284n37
Jean Klock Park, Benton Harbor, 116,
119, 296n49
Jefferson, Bernadel, 108, 113, 136, 165
Jones, Van, 199
Jordan, Laura, 298n66
Jordan, Paul, 112, 113, 257, 297n53
Journal of Pediatrics, 38, 271n31
Juris, Jeffrey S., 11–12, 263n31
Justice, as concept, 14–15, 223–224,
263n30
Kaika, Maria, 18
Karegnondi Water Authority (KWA), 84
argument for Flint’s water independence, 21, 121, 285n49
Flint City Council on deal with, 86,
92, 121, 286n61, 286n64
local resistance to deal with, 121–125,
248–249
planned pipeline, xxii, xxiii, xxix, 1,
81–91, 285n50
Walling on, 260n2
Kaufman, Marty, 59
Kellogg Foundation, 244, 333n47
Kettering, Charles, 262n18
Kettering University, 8, 119, 262n17
387
Kildee, Dan, 44, 50, 277n29, 303n31
Kilpatrick, Kwame, 83
Kincaid, Scott, 75, 113, 285n46
Klein, Naomi, 106, 294n11
Knowledge production, 23–27, 152,
159–160
Kurtz, Edward
as EFM, xxi, xxii, 72, 76, 77, 85
on KWA, 86, 92
in support of Flint River water, 5, 93–94
water rates set by, 122
KWA. See Karegnondi Water Authority
(KWA)
Lake Huron, as Flint’s water source,
xxi, xxii, 3, 53, 83–84, 165. See also
Detroit Water and Sewerage Department (DWSD); Karegnondi Water
Authority (KWA)
Lambrinidou, Yanna, 315n34, 328n154
Lansing State Journal, 103
Lapeer (Michigan), xxii, 260n2
Lapeer County (Michigan), xxii, 83
Lead and Copper Rule (LCR), federal,
55–56, 59, 173, 256
Lead contamination. See also Blood lead
levels; Water contamination
from brass fixtures, 275n11
coverup of, 4–5, 311n44
Edwards on, 168, 171, 192–196
Flint Water Study on, xxv, 158,
169–173, 325n133
internal EPA memo on, xi, xxv, 64,
139, 168–169
from leaded gasoline, 262n18
regulatory action levels of, 276n24,
277n29
in Walters’s sample, 167–169
in Washington, D.C., 34, 173,
186–187, 269n13
Lead in aging infrastructure, 10,
33–34, 41, 57–59, 256. See also
Infrastructure investment
388
Lederman, Jacob, 74
Legionella pneumophila bacteria
contamination
as cause of Legionnaires’ disease, 39
studies and testing on, xxviii, 185,
206–213, 214, 321n103, 325n133
Legionnaires’ disease. See also Health
and behavioral problems from
contamination
cases of, xxvi, 152, 153, 322n105
chlorine correlation to, 39–40, 214
official negligence and, xxix, xxvi, 40,
206, 207–208, 321n103
Levy, Kate, 168
Lewenstein, Bruce, 24
Lewis, E. Yvonne, 140
Libby, Montana, 270n21
Libya, 101, 103
Lime sludge remediation, 89
Local control, as concept, 62–63, 80–81,
265n46, 266n53. See also Home rule,
as term
Local Government and School District
Fiscal Accountability
Act (See Public Act (PA) 4)
Lockwood, Andrews, and Newnam, Inc.
(LAN), xxviii, 91, 153
London, Jonathan, 16
Loren, Tammy, 38
Lorenz, Jason, 3
Los Angeles Times, 61
Love, Nancy, 208, 212, 214, 323n117
Love Canal, New York, 163, 270n27
Lung conditions, 39, 133. See also
Health and behavioral problems
from contamination; Legionnaires’
disease
Luster, Gail, 135, 140, 141
Lyon, Nick, xxix, xxxi, 214, 324n123
Mabbitt, Bob, 110
Mabbitt, Melodee, 119, 174, 297n58,
298n62
Index
MacIntyre, Laura Gillespie, 136
Mackinac Center for Public Policy, 119,
275n4, 323n117
Many and the Few, The (Kraus), 17
Masten, Susan, 54, 56
Master development plan for Flint,
138–139, 140–141, 156, 307nn12–13
Mays, Adam, 189, 309n31
Mays, Eric, 95, 125, 155, 156, 165, 248,
300n88
Mays, Melissa
on collective issue, 147
on DWSD, 288n89
on FACHEP studies, 211–212
family story of, 127–128
on mothers in water movement,
129–130, 135
on official responsibility, xxviii, 44,
172–173
at protests, 173, 228
on racial emphasis in crisis, 146
relationship with Edwards, 189, 201,
204, 205, 216–218, 326n134
Smith and, 198, 207
on switchover, 175
WYFF work and, 163, 169, 309n31
McClinton, Claire, 108
on activist agenda, 181, 220, 242
on citizen science, 188
on denied justice, 156
on Edwards, 219, 324n123
on EM system, 73, 115, 125, 293n3
on KWA deal, 122
on racial emphasis in crisis, 140, 141
reunification efforts by, 230, 231–232
on shutoffs, 124
on water independence, 20
McCormick, Sue, xxiv, xxvi, 92, 95–96
McCree, Floyd, x
McElmurry, Shawn
on contaminants, 54
on drinkability of Flint’s water, 209,
276n15
Index
Edwards’s attack on, 214
legionella study and, 40, 206, 213
on Smith’s sampling, 203
McFadden, Jevon, 320n84
MDHHS. See Michigan Department
of Health and Human Services
(MDHHS)
Medicaid, 30, 270n21
Medical community on contamination,
134. See also Hanna-Attisha, Mona
Medicare benefits, 231, 270n21
Mental health, 272n41
Michigan ACLU. See ACLU of Michigan
Michigan Civil Rights Commission
(MCRC), xxix, 66–67, 139, 140,
270n24, 280n67
Michigan Department of Environmental
Quality (MDEQ). See also Michigan
Department of Natural Resources
(MDNR); State of Michigan
coverup and mistreatment of lead by,
4–5, 56, 169–171, 174
EPA pressure for nondiscriminatory
procedures, 47
on Flint River switchover, 3, 4, 93–94
on KWA pipeline, 88
lack of corrosion control mandates by,
xxv, 4, 55–56, 59–60, 68, 94
as responsible for crisis, 59–60, 68
at town hall meeting, 153
Michigan Department of Health and
Human Services (MDHHS). See also
State of Michigan
on blood lead levels, 5, 174
legionella study funding by, xxvi, 206,
214
Michigan Department of Natural
Resources (MDNR), 45–47. See also
Michigan Department of Environmental Quality (MDEQ)
Michigan Education Association, 107
Michigan Faith in Action, 234, 331n27
Michigan Foreword, 107
389
Michigan Nurses Association, 235
Michigan State University, 12, 109, 153,
154
Michigan United, 235
Michigan Voice, 235
Michigan Welfare Rights Organization,
108, 124
Militant ethnography, 11–12, 263n31
Miscarriages, 34, 39, 239, 271n31
Mission of Hope, xxiii
Mohai, Paul, 270n24
Mooney, Al, 158
Moore, Michael, 41, 64, 140
Morton, Andrew, 119
Mother Jones, 41
Mothers and environmental activism,
130, 135–136, 146, 303n21. See also
Women and environmental activism
Movement, as term, 261n15
MSNBC, 44
Muchmore, Dennis, 97, 111, 169–171
Murphy, Quincy, 213, 220, 221, 287n86
Murthy, Vivek, 235
NAACP, 108, 176, 235
National Guard, xxvi, 35
National Institutes of Health, 12, 206
National Nurses United, 123
National Sanitation Foundation, 213
National Science Foundation, 12, 206,
277n30, 311n51
Natural Resources Defense Council,
xxviii, 58
Neeley, Sheldon, 286n64, 288n92,
288n95
Nestlé, xxxi, 246, 253
Netroots Nation, 123, 124
New York Times, 38, 239
Nolden, Bryant, 87
Obama, Barack, xxvi, xxvii, 176, 229
Occupy Flint, xxii, 105, 117, 120
Occupy Wall Street, 101, 105
390
Olivares-Macias, San Juana, 233
OPFLEX®, 195, 196, 197
Opflex Solutions, 195–197, 203, 317n60
Orr, Kevyn, xxiii, xxiv, 123
Orthophosphate treatment, 55, 60, 97,
193, 200, 278n34, 319n77. See also
Treatment process
Ottinger, Gwen, 26
Overton, Allen, 165, 172
PA 4. See Public Act (PA) 4
PA 72. See Public Act (PA) 72
PA 101. See Public Act (PA) 101
PA 436. See Public Act (PA) 436
Palladeno, Tony, 154, 157–158, 182, 251
Participatory deliberation, 155–160,
306n6, 307n12, 309n26. See also
Democracy debates; Procedural justice
Pellow, David, 18–19, 26, 279n57
Pension system, 72, 74, 75, 116, 281n8,
294n25
People Improving Communities
through Organizing (PICO), 234,
331n27, 332n33
A “People’s Hearing” event, 238
People’s Tribune, 156
People’s Water Board, 228
Philo, John, 112–114, 296n40
Pinkney, Edward, 117, 297n51
Pneumonia cases, 40, 271n38. See
also Legionnaires’ disease; Lung
conditions
“Poisoning by policy,” 32–33, 43,
77–81. See also Political narrative
Political narrative, 15–16, 21, 44, 49–52,
67–69. See also Historical narrative of
water crisis; “Poisoning by policy”;
Technical narrative
Pontiac (Michigan), xxii, 71, 118
Poor People’s Campaign, 250
Poplar, Jackie, 76
Popular epidemiology, 147, 306n66
Poverty in Flint, ix, 64
Index
Power outages, xxi, 82–83
Preflushing method, 56
Privatization of water, 21–22, 90, 106,
264n37, 288n89
Procedural justice, 45–47, 274n64,
274n65. See also Distributive justice;
Retributive justice
Proceedings of the National Academy of
Sciences, 214
Pro-democracy movement. See
also Democracy debates; Water
movement
in Benton Harbor, 115–117
constitutional challenge against PA 4,
112–114
efforts to repeal PA 4, 106–111
in Flint, 117–125, 293n3, 293n6
influence on water movement, 107,
121–125
Occupy Wall Street and Occupy Flint,
xxii, 101, 105, 117, 120
and Snyder recall attempt, 104–105
and Wisconsin, 101–102, 104–105
Progress Michigan, 49–50, 235, 239
Protests. See also Pro-democracy movement; Water movement
(1936–1937), x, 16, 256, 259nn3–4
(1998), xi
(2011), 101–105
(2013), 120, 121
(2015), xxiv–xxv, 162–163, 164, 166,
174, 259n5
(2016), 228, 242, 243
against Genesee Power Station, x–xi,
45–47, 260n7
Prysby, Michael, xxvii
Pscholka, Al, 73, 81, 115
PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder),
272n41
Public Act (PA) 4. See also Emergency
management system
anti-EM protests in Benton Harbor,
115–117
Index
anti-EM protests in Flint, 117–120
constitutional challenge against,
112–114, 256
democracy debates on, 43–45, 97–98,
284n37
enactment of, xxii, 71–74, 102–104
repeal efforts on, 76–77, 106–111,
224
Public Act (PA) 72, xxi, 71–72, 85, 110,
280n1. See also Emergency management system
Public Act (PA) 101, xxi, 280n1
Public Act (PA) 436. See also Emergency
management system
constitutional challenge to, xxx,
113–114, 256, 294n25
enactment of, xxii, xxiii, 76–77, 111,
294n24
on voting out the EM, 300n88
Racial injustice
accusations of water contamination as, 138–142, 304n33, 304n36,
305n40
Black Lives Matter on, 138, 142,
304n33
of EM system, 103, 297n53
environmental racism, as concept,
138, 139, 264n42
in Genesee Power Station case, x–xi,
45–47
housing discrimination, x, xxiv, 63,
259n5
MCRC on, 66–67
PA 436 case on, xxx, 113–114, 256,
294n25
procedural discrimination, 45–47,
274n64, 274n65
state violence, 132, 138, 304n33
structural vs. strategic-structural,
304n36
Tuskegee Experiment, 41, 139, 219
Rainbow Push Coalition, 108
391
Rand, Ayn, 316n44
Ranger, Ben, 199
Rashes, 39, 127–129, 195, 200, 271n34.
See also Health and behavioral
problems from contamination
Receivership Transition Advisory Board
(RTAB), xxiv, xxix, xxx, 150, 225,
310n34, 329n5. See also Emergency
management system
Reckhow, David, 203
Recognition, as concept, 145–146
Reject Emergency Managers, 107
Representative democracy, as
principle, 14–15, 106, 109, 120,
149–150, 298n61. See also Democracy debates
Research methodology, 7–14, 261n16,
262n23
Retributive justice, 43–44. See also Distributive justice; Procedural justice
Reuters, 34
Revenue sharing, 74, 88, 108–109, 111,
282n16, 299n77
Reyes, Art, III, 233, 236, 238
Reynolds, Lawrence, 35
Riley, Donna, 328n154
Roger & Me (film), 64
Rose, Joan, 154
Rosenthal, Adam, 277n25
Rowe Engineering, 86, 278n36
Roy, Siddartha, 172, 189, 216
Ruffalo, Mark, 123, 195, 197, 199, 200,
235, 318n70
Safe Drinking Water Act, xxiv, 4, 134
Sanders, Herb, 114, 115
Sanilac County (Michigan), xxii, 83,
260n2
Saunders, Gertrude “Tru,” 149–150, 152,
165, 251–252, 310n34
Savage, Chris, 115
Schmitter, Phil, 46
Schragger, Richard, 80, 284n37
392
Schuette, Bill
activist skepticism of, 273n54
investigation by, xxvii, xxvi, 43–44
on PA 4 and PA 72, 110
Science wars. See also Bowcock, Bob;
Citizen science; Edwards, Marc;
Flint Area Community Health and
Environment Partnership (FACHEP);
Flint Water Study (Virginia Tech);
Smith, Scott
Bowcock in, 184–186, 201, 202,
314n17
controversies, as necessary in, 328n15
democratic implications of participatory methods, 24, 266n60
Edwards in, 24–26, 186–195
FACHEP in, 206–213, 212–215,
323n117
scientific vs. political legitimacy, 23–
27, 179–184, 204–205, 218n68,
267n71
Smith in, 195–206, 217–218
Scott, Paul, 104
Segregation, 63
SEIU, 235
Select Steel plant, xi
Shariff, Nayyirah, 108
on advisory committees, 307n13,
308n17
on crisis narrative, 50–51
on democratic process, 226, 244,
309n29
on Edwards, 218
on EM overreach, 118, 125, 297n58
Flint Rising and, 236, 237, 240,
244–245
on Flintwaterstudy.org, 189
MDEQ demands by, 172
at protests, 102, 174, 228
on repeal PA 4 efforts, 110
Shelley v. Kraemer, 63
Shigellosis outbreak, 202, 320n84
Shock Doctrine, The (Klein), 106
Index
Shutoffs. See Water shutoffs
Sierra Club, 235
Skin conditions, 39, 127–129, 133, 195.
See also Health and behavioral problems from contamination
Smith, Scott
apology letter from, 217–218,
327n145
Edwards and, 202–206, 210–211
Mays and, 197, 198, 207
Opflex Solutions, 195, 196, 197, 203,
317n60
on orthophosphates, 200, 319n77
Water Defense project and report by,
xxvii, 195–202, 320n88
on water quality, 320n80
Snyder, Rick
on crisis responsibility, 43, 60, 68, 229
on Detroit water switchover, xxv
on drinkability of Flint’s water, 314n8
email FOIA, 49–50
on emergency declaration, xxii, xxvi,
36, 269n20
on EM system, 224, 328n1
on Flint’s state receivership, xxx, 252–
253, 329n5
infrastructure commission by, 59
on KWA pipeline, 81
PA 4 enactment by, 71, 102–103
PA 436 enactment by, 111
recall efforts of, 104–105
Social shrinkage research methods,
8–10, 261n16
Spanish-language coalition and materials, 232–233
Stand Up For Democracy (SUD), xxii,
106, 107–111
State of emergency declarations, xxvi,
174–176, 229. See also Emergency vs.
disaster declarations
State of Michigan
lack of transparency of, 49, 213,
275n4, 311n44
Index
and legal settlements, xxix, xxxi,
246–247
legislative bills on Flint, xxvii, xxviii,
31–32
and official responsibility of crisis,
43–44
revenue sharing program of, 74, 88,
108–109, 111, 282n16, 299n77
State receivership. See Emergency
financial management; Emergency
management system; Receivership
Transition Advisory Board (RTAB)
Steve Harvey Show, 201
Steyer, Tom, 199
Storytelling, as activist tool, 238, 240,
332n38
Strikes. See Protests
Structural violence, 132, 138, 304n33
Suburbanization, 61–63
Sugar Law Center, 108, 112–114
Sullivan, Laura
on activist unity, 231
on contamination effects, 169–170
FACHEP work by, 206
on infrastructure improvements, 172
on state control, 330n18
TAC work by, 11, 157
on Walling’s lack of sincerity, 308n24
Sunshine laws, 275n4
Swyngedouw, Eric, 18
Sygo, Jim, 35, 269n16
Sze, Julie, 16
Taxation without representation theme,
109, 298n61
Taylor, Maureen, 124
Technical advisory committee (TAC) on
water, xxiv, 154–157, 307n12
Technical narrative, 15–16, 21, 52–60,
266n52. See also Historical narrative;
Political narrative
Testimonial injustice, 143–144
Three the Hard Way (film), 304n35
393
Three Years Too Long rally, 242,
249–250
Time magazine, 186, 195
Total trihalomethanes (TTHMs) contamination. See also Chlorine treatment
FDDL response to, 160–162
official notices on, 39, 133, 134, 153,
160, 165, 239
panel experts on, 154
remediation of, 97, 165–166
Smith’s comments on, 200
violation of Safe Drinking Water Act
due to, xxiv, 4, 134
Treatment process. See also Corrosion
control
Bowcock on, 184
chemical residuals from, 39–40, 53,
132, 152, 208–209, 214
with chlorine (See Chlorine treatment)
failure of, 53–56, 60, 152–153, 165
with orthophosphates, 55, 60, 97, 193,
200, 278n34, 319n77
Trump, Donald, xxviii
Truong, Vien, 199
Trust
epistemic injustice and, 143–146
FOIA requests due to lack of, 49, 213–
214, 275n4, 311n44
Legionnaires disease outbreak and,
40–41
McClinton on, 220, 323n117
in officials by citizens during switchover, 127, 132–133, 137
TTHM outbreak and, 134–135
Walling on loss of, 153, 158, 160,
307n12
TTHM. See Total trihalomethanes
(TTHMs) contamination
Tucker, Young, Jackson, Tull, Inc.,
85–86
Tunisia, 101
Tuskegee Experiment, 41, 139, 219
Two Years Too Long rally, 231–232
394
Undocumented immigrants, 233
Unemployment rates in Flint, 63, 74
United Association plumbers, 199, 203,
319nn73–74
United Automobile Workers, x, 16, 107,
233, 235, 259nn3–4
United Nations, 124
University of Michigan, 12, 29, 59, 61,
208
Uptown Reinvestment Corporation,
119, 298n62, 307n13
US Department of Health and Human
Services, 229
Veolia, xxviii, 90, 155, 156–157, 185
Violence and crime rate, ix, 44, 64,
118
Virginia Tech. See Flint Water Study
(Virginia Tech)
Vulture capitalism, 120
Wade Trim, 91
Walker, Scott, 101–102, 104
Walling, Dayne
on citizens’ discourse and distrust,
153, 158, 160, 307n12
control of city departments by, xxiii,
76, 77
elections of, xxii, xxv, 71
on Flint River, xxv, 3, 175, 291n119
on KWA, 83, 260n2, 287n84
on leaked EPA memo, 169
on Tucker Young study, 85–86
Walters, LeeAnne
as citizen scientist, 188, 204
encounter with Ambrose, 144, 145
on FACHEP, 213–214, 323n118
family story of, 128–130, 302n17
Goldman Prize of, xxxi, 189
as initiator of corrosion control
investigation, 167–168
on MDEQ accountability, 173
on racial emphasis in crisis, 140, 146
Index
sampling data of home of, xxv, 167, 213
on scientific claims, 180, 202
WYFF and, 163, 309n31
WASAwatch, 189
Washington, D.C., 34, 173, 186–187,
269n13
Washington Times, 34
Water bills
credits for, xxix, xxvii, xxviii
lien threats for delinquent, xxix, 225,
248
rate increases of, 1, 82, 122–123,
299n77
Water bottles. See Bottled water
WaterBug device, 197–198, 200, 202,
318n70
Water contamination. See also Corrosion control; Treatment process
blaxploitation film about, 304n35
boil water advisories on, 133, 206
by coliform bacteria, xxiii, 4, 133, 153
by DBPs, 185, 200, 203, 206, 210
by dichlorobenzyne, 200
FACHEP’s study of, xxviii, 206–213,
321n98, 328n157
by fluoride, 185
health and behavioral problems from,
xxvii, 30, 37–39, 41, 127–129, 133,
195, 239, 270n27
history of, in black communities,
304n33
indisputable facts about, 53
by lead (See Lead contamination)
by legionella bacteria, xxviii, 39, 185,
206–213, 214, 321n103, 325n133
official notices on, 39, 133, 134, 153,
160, 165, 239
personal stories of, 127–130, 238–239,
332n38
public’s initial awareness of, 125,
129–131, 292n134
Smith’s study of, xxvii, 195–202,
320n88
Index
by TTHMs (See Total trihalomethanes
(TTHMs) contamination)
Virginia Tech’s study of (See Flint
Water Study (Virginia Tech))
in Washington, D.C., 34, 173,
186–187, 269n13
Water crisis
actions taken by local officials to
remedy, 150–153, 165, 174–175
causal chain of, 61–64, 65, 277n30
disaster vs. emergency declarations,
xxvi, xxviii, 35–36, 229
historical narrative on, 52, 61–67
initial public response to, xi–xii, 5–6,
34–35, 129–131
official community meetings on, xxiv,
11, 145, 149, 150–160, 230
phenomenology of, 131–137,
301n11
as “poisoning by policy,” 32–33, 43,
77–81
political narrative on, 15–16, 21, 44,
49–52, 52–60, 67–69, 266n52
principal responsible parties of, 4–5
technical narrative of, 15–16, 21,
52–60, 266n52
as term, 160–162, 306n6
timeline of, xi–xii, xxi–xxxi
whistleblower moment of, 168
Water Defense (organization), xxvii,
123, 195–206, 318n70
Water distribution sites, xxx, 125,
134–135, 229, 246, 253, 330n15
Water governance and infrastructure,
overview, 20–23
Water justice, as concept and term,
223–224. See also Justice, as concept
Water movement. See also Citizen
science; Environmental justice
movement; Pro-democracy
movement; Protests; specific groups
and persons
and arrests of activists, xxix, 248
395
collective identity in, 137–142, 146,
238, 305n40, 306n67
and distributive justice, 33–34, 36–43,
47–48
Edwards relationship with activists,
xxxi, 24–25, 182–183, 186–191,
215–221
federal emergency declaration and,
xxvi, xxviii, 35–36, 176, 225,
228–230
founding of, 131–137
and global struggle for water, 142
goals for justice of, 223–227
on KWA project, 90–91, 122
and non-activist responses to water
crisis, 330n13
at official public meetings, xxiv, 11,
145, 149, 150–160, 230
on “poisoning by policy,” 32–33, 43,
77–81
and political narrative, 15–16, 21, 44,
49–52, 67–69
pro-democracy movement as root of,
6–7, 14–15, 107, 121–125
profile of, 8, 14–16, 256, 265n43,
334n4
research methodology on, 7–14
reunification of, 230–232
rise of collective action in, xiii, 129–
131, 147–148, 236–237
as term, 261n15
on water privatization, 21–22, 90,
106–107, 264n37, 288n89
Water Pipeline Question Committee,
122
Water shutoffs
(2012), 299n78
(2014), xxiii, 9, 92, 123–124, 125,
289n103
(2015), xxv, xxvi
(2016), 243
(2017), xxviii, 248
“Water theft,” 122, 162
396
Water You Fighting For? (WYFF) group,
162–163, 165, 169, 170, 185, 228. See
also Water movement
Wayne State University, 12, 79, 203,
206, 323n117
Weaver, Karen
and Concerned Pastors, 231
control of departments by, xxvii, 224
criticisms of, 248
elections of, xxv, xxvi, xxx, 176
on EM system, 44, 329n3
recall of, xxix
state of emergency declaration by,
xxvi, 35, 176
support of Hillary Clinton by, xxviii
Weighill, Dale, 75
Wells, Eden, xxix, 214, 321n103
We the People of Detroit, 228
Whalen, Sue, 251
Whirlpool Corporation, 116
White flight, ix, 63
Williamson, Gladyes, 154
Wilson, Maegan, 136
Wisconsin, 101–102, 104–105
Women and environmental activism,
130, 135–136, 146, 302nn19–21
World Health Organization, 208, 212
Wright, Brent, 84–85
Wright, Jeffrey, 82–83, 85–88, 260n2,
288n95. See also Karegnondi Water
Authority (KWA)
Wurfel, Brad, 169, 173, 229
Wyant, Dan, 229
Young, Iris Marion, 45, 159
Young, John, 248
Young, Trachelle, 310n37
Zahran, Sammy, 40
Zelikoff, Judith, 202
Index
Urban and Industrial Environments
Series editor: Robert Gottlieb, Henry R. Luce Professor of Urban and Environmental
Policy, Occidental College
Maureen Smith, The U.S. Paper Industry and Sustainable Production: An Argument for
Restructuring
Keith Pezzoli, Human Settlements and Planning for Ecological Sustainability: The Case of
Mexico City
Sarah Hammond Creighton, Greening the Ivory Tower: Improving the Environmental
Track Record of Universities, Colleges, and Other Institutions
Jan Mazurek, Making Microchips: Policy, Globalization, and Economic Restructuring in the
Semiconductor Industry
William A. Shutkin, The Land That Could Be: Environmentalism and Democracy in the
Twenty-First Century
Richard Hofrichter, ed., Reclaiming the Environmental Debate: The Politics of Health in
a Toxic Culture
Robert Gottlieb, Environmentalism Unbound: Exploring New Pathways for Change
Kenneth Geiser, Materials Matter: Toward a Sustainable Materials Policy
Thomas D. Beamish, Silent Spill: The Organization of an Industrial Crisis
Matthew Gandy, Concrete and Clay: Reworking Nature in New York City
David Naguib Pellow, Garbage Wars: The Struggle for Environmental Justice in Chicago
Julian Agyeman, Robert D. Bullard, and Bob Evans, eds., Just Sustainabilities: Development in an Unequal World
Barbara L. Allen, Uneasy Alchemy: Citizens and Experts in Louisiana’s Chemical Corridor
Disputes
Dara O’Rourke, Community-Driven Regulation: Balancing Development and the Environment in Vietnam
Brian K. Obach, Labor and the Environmental Movement: The Quest for Common Ground
Peggy F. Barlett and Geoffrey W. Chase, eds., Sustainability on Campus: Stories and
Strategies for Change
Steve Lerner, Diamond: A Struggle for Environmental Justice in Louisiana’s Chemical Corridor
Jason Corburn, Street Science: Community Knowledge and Environmental Health Justice
Peggy F. Barlett, ed., Urban Place: Reconnecting with the Natural World
David Naguib Pellow and Robert J. Brulle, eds., Power, Justice, and the Environment:
A Critical Appraisal of the Environmental Justice Movement
Eran Ben-Joseph, The Code of the City: Standards and the Hidden Language of Place Making
Nancy J. Myers and Carolyn Raffensperger, eds., Precautionary Tools for Reshaping
Environmental Policy
Kelly Sims Gallagher, China Shifts Gears: Automakers, Oil, Pollution, and Development
Kerry H. Whiteside, Precautionary Politics: Principle and Practice in Confronting Environmental Risk
Ronald Sandler and Phaedra C. Pezzullo, eds., Environmental Justice and Environmentalism: The Social Justice Challenge to the Environmental Movement
Julie Sze, Noxious New York: The Racial Politics of Urban Health and Environmental Justice
Robert D. Bullard, ed., Growing Smarter: Achieving Livable Communities, Environmental
Justice, and Regional Equity
Ann Rappaport and Sarah Hammond Creighton, Degrees That Matter: Climate Change
and the University
Michael Egan, Barry Commoner and the Science of Survival: The Remaking of American
Environmentalism
David J. Hess, Alternative Pathways in Science and Industry: Activism, Innovation, and the
Environment in an Era of Globalization
Peter F. Cannavò, The Working Landscape: Founding, Preservation, and the Politics of Place
Paul Stanton Kibel, ed., Rivertown: Rethinking Urban Rivers
Kevin P. Gallagher and Lyuba Zarsky, The Enclave Economy: Foreign Investment and
Sustainable Development in Mexico’s Silicon Valley
David N. Pellow, Resisting Global Toxics: Transnational Movements for Environmental Justice
Robert Gottlieb, Reinventing Los Angeles: Nature and Community in the Global City
David V. Carruthers, ed., Environmental Justice in Latin America: Problems, Promise,
and Practice
Tom Angotti, New York for Sale: Community Planning Confronts Global Real Estate
Paloma Pavel, ed., Breakthrough Communities: Sustainability and Justice in the Next
American Metropolis
Anastasia Loukaitou-Sideris and Renia Ehrenfeucht, Sidewalks: Conflict and Negotiation over Public Space
David J. Hess, Localist Movements in a Global Economy: Sustainability, Justice, and Urban
Development in the United States
Julian Agyeman and Yelena Ogneva-Himmelberger, eds., Environmental Justice and
Sustainability in the Former Soviet Union
Jason Corburn, Toward the Healthy City: People, Places, and the Politics of Urban Planning
JoAnn Carmin and Julian Agyeman, eds., Environmental Inequalities Beyond Borders:
Local Perspectives on Global Injustices
Louise Mozingo, Pastoral Capitalism: A History of Suburban Corporate Landscapes
Gwen Ottinger and Benjamin Cohen, eds., Technoscience and Environmental Justice:
Expert Cultures in a Grassroots Movement
Samantha MacBride, Recycling Reconsidered: The Present Failure and Future Promise of
Environmental Action in the United States
Andrew Karvonen, Politics of Urban Runoff: Nature, Technology, and the Sustainable City
Daniel Schneider, Hybrid Nature: Sewage Treatment and the Contradictions of the Industrial Ecosystem
Catherine Tumber, Small, Gritty, and Green: The Promise of America’s Smaller Industrial
Cities in a Low-Carbon World
Sam Bass Warner and Andrew H. Whittemore, American Urban Form: A Representative
History
John Pucher and Ralph Buehler, eds., City Cycling
Stephanie Foote and Elizabeth Mazzolini, eds., Histories of the Dustheap: Waste, Material Cultures, Social Justice
David J. Hess, Good Green Jobs in a Global Economy: Making and Keeping New Industries
in the United States
Joseph F. C. DiMento and Clifford Ellis, Changing Lanes: Visions and Histories of Urban
Freeways
Joanna Robinson, Contested Water: The Struggle Against Water Privatization in the
United States and Canada
William B. Meyer, The Environmental Advantages of Cities: Countering Commonsense
Antiurbanism
Rebecca L. Henn and Andrew J. Hoffman, eds., Constructing Green: The Social Structures of Sustainability
Peggy F. Barlett and Geoffrey W. Chase, eds., Sustainability in Higher Education: Stories
and Strategies for Transformation
Isabelle Anguelovski, Neighborhood as Refuge: Community Reconstruction, Place Remaking, and Environmental Justice in the City
Kelly Sims Gallagher, The Globalization of Clean Energy Technology: Lessons from China
Vinit Mukhija and Anastasia Loukaitou-Sideris, eds., The Informal American City:
Beyond Taco Trucks and Day Labor
Roxanne Warren, Rail and the City: Shrinking Our Carbon Footprint While Reimagining
Urban Space
Marianne E. Krasny and Keith G. Tidball, Civic Ecology: Adaptation and Transformation
from the Ground Up
Erik Swyngedouw, Liquid Power: Contested Hydro-Modernities in Twentieth-Century Spain
Ken Geiser, Chemicals without Harm: Policies for a Sustainable World
Duncan McLaren and Julian Agyeman, Sharing Cities: A Case for Truly Smart and Sustainable Cities
Jessica Smartt Gullion, Fracking the Neighborhood: Reluctant Activists and Natural Gas
Drilling
Nicholas A. Phelps, Sequel to Suburbia: Glimpses of America’s Post-Suburban Future
Shannon Elizabeth Bell, Fighting King Coal: The Challenges to Micromobilization in Central Appalachia
Theresa Enright, The Making of Grand Paris: Metropolitan Urbanism in the Twenty-First
Century
Robert Gottlieb and Simon Ng, Global Cities: Urban Environments in Los Angeles, Hong
Kong, and China
Anna Lora-Wainwright, Resigned Activism: Living with Pollution in Rural China
Scott L. Cummings, Blue and Green: The Drive for Justice at America’s Port
David Bissell, Transit Life: Cities, Commuting, and the Politics of Everyday Mobilities
Javiera Barandiarán, From Empire to Umpire: Science and Environmental Conflict in Neoliberal Chile
Benjamin Pauli, Flint Fights Back: Environmental Justice and Democracy in the Flint Water
Crisis
Karen Chapple and Anastasia Loukaitou-Sideris, Transit-Oriented Displacement or
Community Dividends? Understanding the Effects of Smarter Growth on Communities
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