The Long Night Kathryn Savage (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Can healthy fruits and vegetables grow on polluted soil? "The Long Night," from Kathryn Savage's forthcoming Groundglass: An Essay, confronts the transgressions of US Superfund sites and brownfields against land, groundwater, neighborhoods, and people. The harm dragged on, spilled, emptied, but first day slipped into humid night and the seventy-two-car freight train moved northeast from North Dakota carrying nearly eight million liters of shale oil up into Canada, where the driver stopped for the night to rest in town, where all the rail yard attendants left the yard to sleep, where later, the unsecured tank cars moved as if waking, breached and derailed and exploded, killing forty-seven people in Lac-Mégantic. It was supposed to be just a stopover for the eight million liters of shale oil that night; the town, by then, was used to trains hauling Bakken Formation crude, the transitory constancy and dull rumblings. It was [End Page 10] Saturday, around one in the morning in the city of nearly six thousand. Music from downtown pubs lifting over those who were still out, bare-armed and smoking and dancing. The disaster destroyed more than thirty buildings. Lac-Mégantic decided to flatten the still-contaminated downtown, which had continued to soak oil after the crash: six million liters, what hadn't gone up in flames. Wrecked but not destroyed, some of the Lac-Mégantic businesses impacted by proximity to the crash opened their doors for the eight hours before they were set to be flattened. Some chose to visit sections of their downtown, see shop owners they were on friendly terms with, in a gesture of collective mourning. Other gestures like this would come later: galleries, on the anniversary, showed floor-to-ceiling framed photographs of the town and its citizens before the derailment. There were consequences of trauma. From a mental health study conducted in town after the crash: 25 percent of the children surveyed showed symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, and the rate among adults was 50 percent; 39 percent of teenagers had suicidal thoughts, a rate twice the Quebec average. Solidarity and the pain of grief rose up in the days and months and years after the town was thrust into immediate and communal violence. A plurality of death, night of terror, a cruel night. People who loved each other and loved this place absorbed all that they had so suddenly lost together. This wasn't any grief; it was oil grief; it was capital grief. In their night sky installation, Black Shoals Stock Market Planetarium, London-based artists Lise Autogena and Joshua Portway projected starlight on the inner sphere of a dome. They placed beanbags underneath, where viewers could lean back and look up. The constellations did not reflect suns or planets but instead publicly traded companies: a computer program turned the live financial activity of the world's stock exchanges into stars. The market slumped and the bright lights faded; a good day of trading, and the stars shined brightly. When I look up at night I see stars and planets, airplanes and satellites, astral bodies and industry; sometimes I cannot tell the real from the manufactured. The artists' installation imitates the co-opting of nature for corporate financial gain, critiquing the long capitalist history of colonizing and transgressing people and environments. The night sky installation hides the market that controls the sky. It performs an obfuscation. After the train derailment, three men sat trial—a train driver and engineer, a man in charge of rail circulation, and a manager of train operations—but not railway executives. It was wrong that they were the only ones to sit trial, and incomplete. How many lines of blame should be followed like track after such a violence? How wide is the reach of this disaster? My friend Gudrun says, while we walk our dogs through our neighborhood, "It's the same violence here. Just a matter of time before one of these trains derails." Around us, tankers full of liquified petroleum gas rumble past. The black cylinders are sleek as stones. There are fifty...
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