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Recharge
The news cycle is brutal right now. (Same as it ever was?) Since 2020, I’ve tried to balance keeping up with the Latest and Direst with media that makes me feel a little less terrible about the world.
Might I recommend:
- Watching Abbott Elementary, it’s obvious that showrunner Quinta Brunson, who also stars in every episode, has a deep connection to teachers and education. Brunson’s mother is a retired teacher, and my favorite character on the show, Barbara (played by Sheryl Lee Ralph), is based on her. In this Fresh Air interview from February, Brunson talks about why making the show is spiritual for her, attending an elementary school that incorporated Black history into every subject and how she got into comedy.
- Activist Marla Ruzicka advocated for civilians harmed during the Iraq and Afghanistan wars until her death in Baghdad in 2005. Last year, this two-parter from Rough Translation detailed how she documented civilian casualties and urged the military to reconsider the “balance sheet of war” despite being initially underestimated and considered naïve. She described herself as an operator—“like, the biggest operator you’ll ever meet. But like, I’m proud to be an operator if it’s an operator for other people.”
New from BigIfTrue.org
As natural disasters become more frequent because of climate change, many low-income renters are vulnerable to hazards like flooding—and they often receive less support than homeowners after a disaster.
Our latest story is about why low-income neighborhoods of color are more vulnerable to disasters and how building codes can make homes safer.
While reporting this piece, I thought a lot about who is ultimately responsible for preparing communities for the climate events we’re used to by now—major flooding, lengthy power outages, fires, tornadoes and hurricanes. Reducing the impact of a tragedy that hasn’t happened yet can be a hard sell. And it requires so many different parties, people who often disagree, to instead agree it’s the right thing to do.
That’s why I got kind of obsessed with the movement for flood control in Tulsa, Oklahoma, which started in 1974 after tornadoes and flash flooding caused $18 million in damages.
That storm, and the decades of unchecked flooding that preceded it, prompted local activists to form an organization called Tulsans for a Better Community. The group spent years pushing the city to adopt flood control measures, as detailed in this history of flood prevention in Tulsa by Ann Patton, a writer, consultant and part of the team that built Tulsa’s flood control and hazard mitigation programs.
I loved reading Patton’s account, which contrasts the nuts and bolts of civic change with the sense of urgency and despair the community felt with each devastating flood.
Carol Williams, one of the key activists behind Tulsans for a Better Community, showered officials with homemade desserts to win them over. Here’s how Patton described some of Williams’ contributions:
It would not be a long stretch to say that she garnered a $150 million Corps’ flood project on Mingo Creek with her fabled raisin pies for the congressman’s aide. Carol could size up people quickly, usually by analyzing their shoes, and adjust her technique for the audience. She left one nonproductive meeting in disgust, saying, “What could you expect from an entire room of black wingtips?” When an embattled commissioner questioned why group members, mostly young mothers, brought their children to the endless string of flood meetings, Carol retorted: “We’re training them to keep after you when we die.”
Tulsans for a Better Community wanted construction to end in areas vulnerable to floods, and the group advocated for the use of tools like channels and detention ponds that can hold water during heavy rain.
After a 1984 flood killed 14 people, the city started a stormwater management program that began buying properties in the floodplain and transforming the land into green spaces to hold water.
The city set a moratorium on floodplain building, bought hundreds of homes in areas that flooded repeatedly and created a stormwater fee to fund its flood prevention efforts.
During the 1990s, Tulsa became a national model in flood prevention, having cleared more than 1,000 buildings from its floodplain. The city transformed the land into parks, trails and other spaces that also held stormwater.
A Federal Emergency Management Agency grant led the city to create Tulsa Partners, a program that focused on reducing the impact of disasters. The organization eventually broke from the city to become an independent nonprofit now known as Disaster Resilience Network.
The story doesn’t really stop there. Flooding has remained a concern, especially during the last several years.
In 2019, flooding along the Arkansas River forced the evacuation of Tulsans living near Tulsa County’s levees, which were built in the 1940s. More than 10,000 people live behind the levees.
In January, the city and county announced Tulsa’s levee system would receive $137.4 million in federal funding for new relief wells, water pumps, detention ponds and other improvements.
The 2019 flooding also prompted a disaster recovery bill, which passed the Oklahoma House of Representatives last week. The bill would create a $5 million fund to aid local governments with hazard mitigation.
We’ll never be rid of climate disasters, but I find some comfort in thinking about the people who are fighting for a safer and more equitable future.
Now a question for you: How has your community worked together to address a shared problem? Or what local issue could use some consensus? Reply to this email with your answer, and I’ll share it with your fellow newsletterers.
Feeling hopeful,
Mollie Bryant
Founder and editor, BigIfTrue.org
