GODMOTHER OF THE DEAD ZONES
August 27, 2008 Wilma Subra is as un-stereotypical an environmental rabbler-rouser as you can imagine. A chemist by training, she is a very happy grandmother celebrating her 43rd wedding anniversary the day she takes us for a tour of LAFOURCHE BAYOU and the oil industry that lines it. That she discovered the first DEAD ZONE IN THE GULF OF MEXICO in the 1970s and has since won a "genius" award from the MacArthur Foundation among a variety of other honorariums, has brought her recognition in her home state as well as no small amount of animosity. She moved her home office to the back of the house two years ago, after a thug-for-hire shot a bullet through her window (windows which are now bullet-proof, thank you very much). She knows more about the impact of chemical living on the citizens of Louisiana than anyone in the state, helping build the statistics that give the state the highest infant mortality rate in the country and highest incidence of cancer among children. She has seen environmental messes in waterways across her home state, yet somehow manages to keep smiling.
"I take big joy in winning small battles," she says. We are standing on the beach at Grand Isle, a barrier island at the end of the road in Louisiana. We've come for a sea level view of the Dead Zone she helped discover and explain more than 30 years before (in most simple terms, Dead Zones are created by agricultural pesticide runoff delivered by big rivers to estuaries, killing all fish and plants). On the far side of a short dune is a long line of $300,000-400,000 vacation homes, rebuilt post-Katrina. Grand Isle was hit from both sides by storm and surge during Katrina and then Rita and everything we can see was knocked down. "I don't think this is where I'd be rebuilding," she laughs.
Most of her work as a chemical consultant is with small communities suffering from pollution thanks to landfills built too close, chemical spills in somebody's backyard and of course oil spills, which happen frequently in this oil-and-gas rich state, most of them never reported by the local media. An advisor to politicians and a consultant brought in to testify about the pesticide and fertilizer run-off as far away as Minnesota, Iowa and Indiana; she understands the importance of having the media on your side. Especially when your opponent is most-often the oil and gas business, which does $63 billion dollars of business a year in the state.
"We are able to get pretty good reporting in the local newspapers," she tells us, as we motor down Highway 1, through Larosa and Leeville, headed for GRAND ISLE. "But there is a fair amount of burn out when it comes to environmental reporting down here, since it could be a fulltime job for many. But we still keep calling them, telling them what we're up to." The further south we get, it's clear this stretch is all about oil and gas, and little but oil and gas. Helicopter pads for ferrying rig-workers to the rigs 100 miles out to sea have parking lots to accommodate several hundred cars. Tankers and semi-trucks whiz by carrying goods; oversized pickup trucks carry workers. Compressor facilities, boat builders and pipelines parallel the road.
"Wait until you see the bridge they're building, you're going to be amazed," she says, and sure enough, just south of Leesville we spy an enormous, snaking, half-built, highly-elevated bridge running south toward the last town on the Peninsula, PORT FOURCHON. "When Katrina hit, the oil companies were down here right away, clearing the road so they could keep getting oil out. They didn't stop to help the people along the way, who had nothing to drink or eat. Their only concern was keeping the road open. Now they're going one-step further, building an elevated bridge, to make sure that any future floods won't stop them. Who's paying? The taxpayer, of course."
Very smart and a little bit angry, Wilma and I take a long stroll along the beach once we reach road's end. It is hard to look out at the Gulf of Mexico from this vantage point and think that anything is wrong out there: The sky is blue, the horizon line dotted by rigs and fishing boats. "But things are terribly wrong out there," she reminds. "Go put your feet in the water."
Kicking off my flip-flops I walk into the sea, which nearly burns my feet. "It's probably 80, 85 degrees in the shallows here," says Wilma, "Perfect for encouraging storms. While I truly love this state, and couldn't imagine living anywhere else, there are definitely some things we have to fix ... and soon."
MORE: Commonweal interview with Wilma Subra
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