Same Sun Here (19 page)

All along the street there were state troopers standing with their hands on their hips, not looking any of us in the eye. They didn’t say anything, but they kept their faces completely square and had guns right on their belts, like we were dangerous criminals or something.

Not all of us could fit, so some people had to spill over on the lawn on the sides of the capitol steps, but when we had all finished walking up the street, Mamaw stood at the very top step and yelled into a bullhorn, “Whose mountains?” and the whole crowd hollered back, “Our mountains!” and then Mamaw said, “Whose streams?” and the crowd said, “Our streams!” and then Mamaw said, “Whose future?” and every single one of us said, as loud as we could, “Our future!” We kept saying it over and over until it sounded like a song, and I believe that everybody in the town must have heard us. I bet people heard it through their walls and wondered what had happened. I imagined them going to their windows and looking out to see what the ruckus was all about. I thought that some of them probably stepped out onto their porches to look toward our sound coming from the capitol steps, standing on the porch in their sock feet, hugging themselves against the cold.

And then, all at once, Governor Evans came out the front door of the capitol with two state policemen on either side. Mamaw said he had never come out to talk to our side before, that this was a real first. She says he is a good man but not good enough. I think this means that he wants to do the right thing but isn’t brave enough to stand up to the coal companies. Mamaw says this is the problem with a lot of politicians. “They want to do right, but they’re too scared to,” she says.

The governor stood there and answered questions in the cold. He hadn’t worn his coat, and I think this was on purpose, so he’d have an excuse to not stand there too long, since it was so cold.

He didn’t give any real answers to anything. When someone would say why didn’t he put a stop to MTR, he’d say something that sounded rehearsed, like he was reading it off little note cards. “We are looking at different options for making sure that the coal industry stays productive while also protecting our citizens.” He just kept finding a way to avoid the questions.

Then Mamaw turned to him and said, “Why is it that we, as Americans, are having to come here to ask that our children be protected? That our water be protected? Those are the two main things that we should always be looking out for.” And a big roar rose up from the crowd, everybody hollering and clapping.

The governor said that he didn’t think our water was polluted, that he’d drink out of any stream in Eastern Kentucky.

When he said that, everybody started booing, and then all at once the whole first line of people (Mamaw, and my mom, and Dr. Patel and Chandra, all the boys from my basketball team, and lots of others) were bobbing their signs up and down and chanting, “Save our water! Save our water!” over and over. Everybody’s anger spread out over all of us, and then I saw that some of the state troopers were moving in, one on each side, and the governor was moving toward the door, looking every which way while some of the policemen at his sides talked into their walkie-talkies. It felt like everything was about to blow up, like it was all about to go wrong, so I stepped toward the governor. I don’t know why, but I just felt like it was the right thing to do. A state trooper stepped toward me, his eyes right on me, and I couldn’t believe it but he put his hand on the handle of his pistol. When he did that, the governor put his hand out across the cop’s chest and I took another step forward, seeing that the governor’s eyes were on me, too.

All through the crowd I could hear people shushing one another. “Shh, shh,” the sound ran back through all the people, like a slow, strong wind through summer leaves.

I guess it wasn’t much more than a couple seconds, but it seemed like I stood there looking right at the governor a long while, and finally I held out the jar of nasty water I had been carrying the whole time, and I said, “Drink it, then.”

Everybody had gotten so quiet that even people far away could hear my voice, bouncing off all that marble of the capitol building.

The governor laughed a little bit in the back of his throat and said, “What, son?”

And I said, “This came out of our creek. Our creek was as clean as a whistle until the mine moved in next door. Now it looks like this.”

He patted me on the head like I was a dog. So I forced the jar right into his hands and I said, “You said you’d drink out of any creek we had, so drink it,” I said. Then I didn’t want to sound disrespectful, so I added, “Sir.” There were so many cameras flashing in front of me that I had to blink to see.

It felt like something was about to happen, like everybody was holding their breath. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing or not, but it felt like the only thing to do.

But he just laughed again and said, “Aw, son, I don’t believe I will.” And then once again every single person started booing and bobbing their signs up and down in the air, so that the signs made a kind of booing sound all their own. The governor went back inside the capitol building, waving with both hands and smiling, as if he thought everyone was applauding instead of booing him. He wouldn’t come back out.

Mamaw rushed over to me and held me real close to her, and then she squatted down and looked me in the eye. Her lips were trembling, and not from the cold. “That was a real brave thing, River. Now none of us will have to get arrested, which will save everybody a whole lot of money.”

“Why not?” I said. I was a little disappointed, to tell you the truth. I had been scared of getting arrested, but now it seemed like we had failed somehow by NOT getting arrested.

“Because what you did will get us more attention than the getting arrested. You did things the most peaceful way of all, by just standing up and asking a question. And every photographer here took a picture of it.”

It was a long day. We stood out in the cold and listened to lots of people speak against MTR, and then some people sang songs and led us in chants, and some people went in and talked to the legislators. People kept coming by and shaking my hand and telling me I had done a brave thing.

By the time we got back on the bus, I was freezing and so tired that I fell asleep even before we got back on the interstate. At some point I woke up and my head was in Chandra’s lap and she was singing a pretty little song. I may have just dreamed it, though. I don’t know. Then later I was aware of Mom and Mamaw walking me into the house and putting me into my bed. I had never been so tired in my whole life.

First thing this morning I got up and went right to writing you, because I felt like you were with me the whole time, and I wanted to put it all down on paper while it was fresh in my mind, hoping you could see it, too.

Yours,

River Dean Justice

March 22, 2009

Dear River,

I have a gigantic maths test tomorrow but I just had to stop by the library and type to you. Thank you so much for your beautiful letter. I felt like I had been to the rally WITH you. You’re a really good friend to Mark and a really good friend to the mountains and you’re the bravest boy EVER. I’m proud to know you.

I hope Mrs. Patel’s brother is OK.

When I picked up your letter from the post office box just now, I saw an interesting old man. I have seen him walking around the neighborhood, but this is the first time I have seen him at the post office. He is Chinese, and he walks with a cane and is so bent over that he is always looking at his shoes. Well, I watched him open up his post office box. It took him a long time to twirl the dial and he had to lean on his cane with one hand before pulling the little door open. Then he looked into the mailbox. There was nothing in there but he stuck his hand inside and moved it around just to be sure. I felt sad for him and wondered who he was waiting to hear from. It made me think how you and I are lucky to have each other. Maybe we can start writing to that old man, too, so he will have some letters in his mailbox.

I want to tell you about Kiku’s birthday present to me. I had to wait a whole month for it because the weather was too cold. But it was worth it! Kiku installed two sturdy foot pegs on the back of his bike so I can stand there and keep my hands on his shoulders and ride around the city with him. It’s kind of scary, which is I guess what makes it fun. Anyway, yesterday afternoon, Kiku rode me all the way across town to the Hudson River. He weaved in and out of traffic, and when we went past buses I had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t scream. When we got to the edge of the city, to the river, where there is a long park with no cars, we got off the bike and walked along the water. Kiku showed me all kinds of secrets, like where the Italian men go to fish with scraps of butcher meat. And where the old piers have sunk under water and left little bits of rotten pole for the seagulls stand on. And how to rent a kayak. And the willow trees where homeless people sleep. It was very warm, strangely so — 65 degrees Farenheit. Kiku said it was because of global warming. There were so many people out, enjoying the day after the long winter.

Under one tree was guess who . . . Ana Maria! Kiku’s secret girlfriend. She was standing next to a cart full of mangoes. He said, “Girl, you look good today,” and she said, “You should have seen me yesterday,” and then they kissed right in front of me! Ana Maria gave me a hug and said, “I was sorry to hear about your grandmother.” She called me Mee-Mee because that is how she hears Kiku talk about me. I really liked that. It made her feel like family.

She explained to me how after school and on weekends, in the spring and summer, she sells mangoes on sticks with her uncle. She took a knife from her belt and peeled the mango in a few seconds with big strokes. Then she stuck the mango on a stick and slashed at it, all around, then sprinkled salt, lemon, and red chili pepper over it. She had cut the mango in such a way that I could bite large pieces of it off the pit very easily. And my hands didn’t get slimy, because I was holding the stick. She said this is the Mexican way to eat mangoes. I love it. It is the best thing ever. When you come to New York, we will have to eat some together.

After we ate mangoes, I sat on Kiku’s bike, and Ana Maria put her iPod in my ears and played M.I.A., and she held one handlebar and Kiku held the other and they ran up and down the esplanade by the river and said it was my very own birthday roller coaster ride. It was so much fun. Then Ana Maria called Kiku
mi amor
and kissed him again and said she had to keep wheeling her mango cart up and down the river. I think she gets so many customers because she is so pretty. People just like to be near her. She’s also really smart. She’s the one who helped Kiku with his college essay. He never listens to anybody but he listens to her.

When I asked Kiku what “mi amor” means, he got embarrassed and said, “Nothing, stupid.” Tomorrow I am going to ask Carlos what it means. He speaks Spanish, too.

So I thought all that was my present, but it turned out there was more. I got up on the bike behind Kiku and he rode me all the way up to the George Washington Bridge. We rode a loooong, loooooong time, six whole miles, up to 237th Street. We stayed along the river where there aren’t any cars, just people biking, jogging, Rollerblading, walking their dogs. Usually Kiku is protective of me and doesn’t let me do anything that he does. I knew the fact that he was treating me like a friend, not a little sister, was part of his present. I couldn’t stop laughing, standing behind him on the bike. I probably looked like a crazy person, but I didn’t care. The river stretched out silver to our left. The wind was so strong that Kiku’s tears flew back at me. They felt sharp as needles on my cheeks. It was fun to see the bridge getting closer and closer and then to be right under it.

When we got off the bike my legs felt funny, almost like I couldn’t walk, because I’d been balancing for so long. I followed Kiku down a dirt footpath that led even farther under the bridge, and there, right in front of us, was a red lighthouse! I’d never seen a lighthouse before. It was the best surprise ever. There was a plaque in front of the lighthouse and we read all about it.

It was built in 1890, which is very old for America, and there is a children’s book about it called
The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge
, which was written in 1942. The plaque said that in 1951, the city was going to tear down the lighthouse, but a lot of people got very upset (mostly people who loved the book about the lighthouse) and they fought the city and won. So the lighthouse stayed. That all made me think of your mamaw and you and Black Banks. It’s nice to think of a bunch of people getting together to do something good for something they love.