Under New York’s Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx, through a set of doors wedged between a parking garage and a pizza shop, a gray and gold throne emblazoned with the letters “S” and “R” sits behind a pair of velvet ropes. The letters stand for “Slick Rick,” one of hip hop’s pioneering rappers, whose hits have been sampled more than 1,000 times by acts ranging from Snoop Dogg to Miley Cyrus.

Slick Rick himself donated the ornate chair to the Universal Hip Hop Museum, the genre’s long-awaited answer to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, set to open in early 2025 as part of a brand-new development on the other side of the Deegan. The museum will be a slightly belated anniversary tribute to hip hop, which turned 50 earlier this month. For now, Rick’s throne resides at the museum’s pop-up location in the Bronx Terminal Market.

“That basically is one of our most important artifacts,” the museum’s president, Rocky Bucano, told me on a recent visit. Bucano, 63, stands six foot eight, with matching stature in the hip hop world: The trailblazing DJ now works to preserve the larger-than-life legacies of artists like Rick. “When he put out his debut album on Def Jam, he took that throne with him on tour every day,” he added.

It’s no secret that hip hop’s most famous artists often glorify conspicuous consumption. Many of the genre’s lyrics and music videos create an aspirational energy around gas-guzzling luxury cars and private jets. Yet hip hop’s roots lie in activism, and it has long served as a voice on everything from systemic police brutality to discriminatory housing policies. The genre has also been sounding the alarm on what we now call environmental justice. 

In recent years, many of hip hop’s New York havens have felt the impact of extreme weather events — from the lethal floods in Run D.M.C.’s Queens to the danger of rising waters in Cardi B’s South Bronx. The creative community has rallied in response to these climate-driven disasters, with stars donating their time and money to relief efforts. And it’s been reflected in the music as well — beyond the occasional nod from the likes of Pitbull, whose 2012 dance-oriented album Global Warming had more in common with Nelly’s hit single “Hot in Herre” than with David Wallace-Wells’ The Uninhabitable Earth, and beyond the nom-de-plume of Migos cofounder Offset (a merely coincidental reference to carbon credits).

Hip hop’s relationship to the environment, both in terms of lyrics and political activism, goes back to its very beginning, when smoke from apartment fires blackened the skies of the 1970s South Bronx. And yet its role in advocating for climate solutions has largely gone unnoticed. 

“People have spent time bobbing their heads to our stories of this despair and not seeing it as a call to action,” said Michael Ford, the self-proclaimed “Hip Hop Architect” who designed the museum (and who was featured on the 2019 Grist 50 list). “Now, I think, is this generation’s opportunity to go back and look at 50 years of these unsolicited, sometimes unfiltered and raw stories of environmental injustices and climate change.”

Hip hop dates back to August 11, 1973, when Clive “DJ Kool Herc” Campbell hosted a back-to-school party in a rec room at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue in the Bronx. His revolutionary innovation: physically manipulating two copies of the same record in real time to extend the “breaks,” or the danceable interludes, of popular songs.

Back then, the genre’s activism centered around the built environment, calling attention to egregious living conditions in places like the South Bronx. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s 1982 classic “The Message” served as perhaps the most potent example: “I can’t take the smell, can’t take the noise / Got no money to move out, guess I got no choice.”

“What is today called the climate crisis was in full effect in the underserved communities when this song was released,” said the Universal Hip Hop Museum’s Kate Harvie. “Whatever has been happening to the climate was first to affect unprotected and unrepresented lands.”

But as hip hop heated up through the 1990s, environmental advocacy took a back seat, at least until Hurricane Katrina hit in 2005. The storm uprooted scores of New Orleans residents, including the founders of Cash Money Records — whose roster, at the time, included Lil Wayne, Nicki Minaj, and Drake. (The company has since decamped to Miami.) Chief executive Bryan “Birdman” Williams told me he lost “20 houses, 50 cars, and memories” in the disastrous flood surge. 

Artists like Jay-Z and Diddy donated seven-figure sums to Katrina relief efforts. Others, including Lil Jon and Ludacris, performed on charity telethons to aid disaster recovery. During one, Kanye West, incensed over the federal government’s feeble response in communities of color in New Orleans, famously declared “George Bush doesn’t care about Black people.”

It wasn’t just musicians who were incensed. Reverend Lennox Yearwood Jr., a Louisiana native and president and CEO of the nonprofit group Hip Hop Caucus, also noted the disproportionate damage to New Orleans’ poorest neighborhoods. “Climate justice is racial justice, and racial justice is climate justice,” said Yearwood. “It was the Ninth Ward that was devastated and not the French Quarter.”

Yearwood got his start as a minister in 1994 and served as director of student activities at the University of the District of Columbia before signing on to run Diddy’s Vote or Die! initiative ahead of the 2004 presidential election. He saw unique potential in the hip hop community to mobilize for political, social, and environmental causes — including climate change.

Black neighborhoods often sit in flood-prone areas, a consequence of historic segregation. Environmental racism — which also includes dumping of toxic materials and building highways that cut through communities of color — has led to higher rates of diseases from asthma to cancer. And climate change will continue to have a disproportionate impact, even beyond flooding: If the planet warms by just 2 degrees Celsius (3.6 degrees F), Black people are 40 percent more likely to live in areas with deadly heat waves. 

Through the Hip Hop Caucus, Yearwood and others have raised awareness of these realities while also advocating for solutions. Early initiatives included the Green the Block campaign in the mid-aughts, when the Caucus worked with Drake during his tour to “educate his fans about the benefits of going green.” Post-Katrina, Yearwood established the Gulf Coast Renewal Campaign to support survivors. In 2013, the Caucus teamed up with the Sierra Club to protest the Keystone XL pipeline, bringing some 35,000 people to the National Mall — then the largest documented climate protest. 

The Hip Hop Caucus’s push for climate justice circled back to the music. In 2014, the group helped organize HOME (Heal Our Mother Earth), an album dedicated to saving the planet. On the track “Trouble in the Water,” the rapper Common delivered the line: “We think our opponent is overseas / But we messin’ with Mother Nature’s ovaries.”

The overlap between hip hop and climate activism is not unique to the United States. Some of hip hop’s most urgent activism is taking place in the Global South, particularly in sub-Saharan Africa. In Kenya, there’s rapper King Kaka, the driving force behind a brand called Majik Water, which harvests clean drinking water from the air and aims to hydrate drought-prone communities. Dave Ojay, an artist manager, runs a global environmental justice campaign called My Lake My Future to help save places like Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest.

Some rappers from the continent are even trying to bring the message to U.S. audiences, like Henry “Octopizzo” Ohanga, who traveled to New York for the United Nations’ 2023 Water Conference. Though he grew up in Nairobi, he spent many years of his youth in his familial hometown of Saiya, in Kenya’s rural west. His relatives there have reported rapid declines in crop yields in recent years.

In his song “Hakuna Matata,” a Swahili expression that equates to “no problem,” Octopizzo juxtaposed the familiar slogan with the reality that “drought is killing livestock and humans” while “politicians still in denial are just abusing each other in public.” At the water conference, Octopizzo grew frustrated with the quantity of talk and paucity of action — especially given the confab’s outsized carbon footprint.

“We are converging in New York; we have 7,000 people, probably 80 percent flew in, so already we are f–king up,” he told me. “The hotels, all this money we are spending, we could put it in a bucket, and it could build, like, almost a thousand water spaces in, like, 20 countries in Africa.”

And yet, in many circles, the hip hop community’s cultural and financial contributions to climate advocacy still go unnoticed. Yearwood pointed out that Rihanna doesn’t get much recognition for the $15 million she donated to environmental justice groups through her foundation. (Though Rihanna isn’t a hip hop act by the strictest definition, her example is emblematic of the genre.) Indeed, she’s nowhere to be found on most climate warrior lists, which are typically dominated by white celebrities. 

Stars like Diddy and Cardi B supported Joe Biden during his 2020 presidential run; one that resulted in the passage of the Inflation Reduction Act, the most consequential climate legislation in decades. Eco-friendly startups have garnered venture investment from rappers like Jay-Z (Oatly and Partake) and Lupe Fiasco (Zero Mass Water). 

According to Yearwood, just because these artists don’t “look like” climate advocates, many observers dismiss or minimize hip hop’s role in the climate movement.

“I like Ben & Jerry’s, I have a Patagonia jacket,” he said, referencing brands favored by environmentalists. But he added that the hip hop community has “for many years struggled to find ourselves trying to be part of, or appreciated within, the climate movement.”

With our tour of the Universal Hip Hop Museum’s pop-up exhibit complete, Bucano led me across the street toward the construction site, the first two floors of a 22-story tower, the centerpiece of a $350 million mixed-use development at Bronx Point. The building will eventually include 542 affordable housing units, most of them overlooking the Harlem River. Below the outline of the museum taking shape, backhoes and bulldozers rumbled across the dirt, sloshing through puddles left by recent rain.

As we entered the ground floor, I noticed something on the bare concrete: more puddles. This isn’t necessarily unusual at a construction site, but it’s emblematic of the challenges Bucano and his crew have had to confront. The building is in Flood Zone 1, the designation for New York’s most vulnerable neighborhoods.

It’s the reason the building can’t have a functional basement. Ford, the architect, initially wanted visitors to enter by descending a series of steps, as though walking into a subway station, before coming face-to-face with a real graffiti-covered train. Instead, a subway car will be suspended in the air over the main staircase.

Ford sees his mission as creating the sort of spaces that the Bronx rarely got to have: a place designed for both tourists and those who actually live nearby.

“It’s the Universal Hip Hop Museum,” Ford said. “A large portion of it’s going to be about people who spent most of their formative years living in affordable housing and critiquing affordable housing through their lyrics. But also showing opportunities for young people. You can’t become what you can’t see.”

Bucano would love to see the museum team up with the United Nations for a climate-oriented summit. It’s a topic close to his heart, as he’s already noticed seasons in the Bronx shift compared to his childhood memories.

“Here we are in 2023, and we had our first snowfall at the end of February,” said Bucano. “My sons, those are gonna be the ones that are going to have to deal with climate change.”

After my tour with Bucano, I walked down to the river by myself to get a wider view of Bronx Point. I stood on a little patch of sand and stared up at the museum’s rising outline, trying to imagine where Slick Rick’s throne would eventually reside.

Even on a calm day, the waters lapped against the mossy rocks just a few feet below street level, the most recent high tide already blanketing the outcropping halfway up. It reminded me of something Ford said earlier.

“How do we deal with future tides?” the architect had asked, rhetorically, before offering his answer. “You create a space that’s flexible, that allows you to tell the history — while also leaving room for what’s going to happen tomorrow.” 

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Hip hop has been a climate voice for 50 years. Why haven’t more people noticed? on Aug 30, 2023.

In April 2016, a wildfire burned 2,000 acres of Minnewaska State Park, a nature preserve in New York’s Hudson Valley. The blaze, the largest and most destructive to hit the park in more than half a century, turned a verdant forest into a blackened wasteland. But by summer, the scorched land was regenerating. Green shoots poked out of the charred earth, and dwarf pitch pines — conifers native to the region — bristled with new growth. 

The conflagration was an example of what forest ecologists like to call “good fire” — one that consumes underbrush and dead vegetation, opens the canopy to let light and water in, unlocks seeds tightly shut in pinecones, and clears out invasive species that crowd native plants. Many of the wildfires that have burned millions of acres across the United States and Canada in recent years have had this effect; they’re beneficial in the long term because these forests have evolved to coexist with fire. They’re built to burn. 

Some forests are not built to burn. Earlier this month, wildfires tore through Maui, engulfing the port city of Lahaina, burning 3,200 acres of land and killing at least 115 people, more than any other wildfire in modern U.S. history. Maui was at a unique disadvantage: Two centuries of colonial occupation and large-scale transformations of the natural landscape have transformed large swaths of the island’s moist, native forests into dry prairie littered with highly flammable invasive grasses. A recent flash drought, a rapid-onset dry period connected to climate change, dried out these grasses and fueled the blazes.

Naturally occurring wildfires are not a regular part of Maui’s native ecosystem, which evolved slowly over the course of millions of years. But it is part of the ecosystem in the places where some of the invasive grasses originally came from, like tropical Africa. In the coming weeks, months, and years, those invasive grasses, not Maui’s endemic species, stand to benefit from the wreckage of this year’s wildfires. 

“In general, those nonnative invasive species are going to be much more adapted to reoccupying that environment after a fire than native species,” said Creighton M. Litton, a professor and forest ecology researcher at the University of Hawaiʻi at Manoa.  

As residents rebuild in the weeks and months ahead, wildfire ecologists and botanists say they must consider restoring the native vegetation and forests that existed before Europeans arrived. Maui’s wet season, which spurs new plant growth, is two months away. Without human intervention, the same invasive plants that helped create the wildfires will move in, creating another dangerous cycle of invasive growth and wildfire risk.

“You can’t wait forever,” Mike Opgenorth, a plant ecologist and director of the National Tropical Botanical Garden’s Kahanu Garden and Preserve on Maui, told Grist. “It’s going to get harder as invasive plants reestablish in these areas that were burned.” 

For millennia, before humans came into the picture, every species of plant that took root on Maui got to the island by wind, wing, or wave — carried in by a gale, dropped by a bird, or washed ashore by the sea. The National Park Service estimates that just one species managed to gain a foothold on the Hawaiian islands every 35,000 years. Whatever wildfire defenses these plants arrived with in their genetic codes were mostly lost over time in the absence of a sustained threat.

Then, between 1,200 and 1,600 years ago, Polynesians arrived in canoes, carrying a plethora of new species with them — taro, sugarcane, pigs, and chickens. Some of these alien species were harmless to the existing ecosystem; others meet today’s definition of “invasive” — prone to overpopulation and damaging to the environment. Still, Polynesians understood the importance of the wet and mesic, or moderately wet, forests they found in Hawaiʻi. The Polynesian name for one of these trees, the ‘Ōhi’a lehua, translates loosely to “water collector.” 

The trend accelerated when European colonizers descended on Hawaiʻi some 1,000 years later. Hardier and more aggressive invasive species, introduced both intentionally and by accident, steadily took over. These species included mosquitoes and cats, as well as flammable grasses such as guinea, buffel, and cane grass, planted by Westerners to feed cattle, seed lawns, and prevent erosion. They were able to spread widely and crowd out native species in the absence of predators. Now, Hawai‘i is the endangered species capital of the world — 100 plant species, subspecies, and varieties have gone extinct and more than 400 are at risk.

European colonizers also introduced sugar plantations, clearing away forest, ponds, and bogs to grow the crop, which quickly became Hawaiʻi’s main export. Toward the end of the 19th century, Hawaiʻi was exporting more than 24 million pounds of sugar, up from just 300,000 pounds in 1846. For the better part of a century, the industry boomed. Then it went bust as rising labor costs made Hawaiian sugar less competitive in the world market. In 2016, Hawaiʻi’s last sugar mill, on Maui, shut down. 

Invasive species, stronger and more aggressive than the islands’ native plants, encroached on the vacated land. Nonnative grasses now make up a quarter of Hawaiʻi’s land cover. “These grass-dominated landscapes allow wildfires to propagate rapidly,” according to a 2015 study conducted by several of the state’s foremost wildfire ecologists. That same study showed that, between 1904 and 2011, most of the terrain burned by wildfire on the islands was dry, nonnative grassland. That vegetation encouraged fire to spread into native forests, beating back the endemic species and allowing invasives to expand farther. 

The Maui fires have briefly paused the spread of invasives in parts of Maui by wiping all species — native and foreign — from the landscape. But the fires won’t keep the invasives at bay for long. Research shows that in the aftermath of extreme weather events, invasives tend to regrow faster than native plants. “It’s essentially a blank canvas, where invasive species will thrive much more than our native ones,” Opgenorth said, referring to the Maui fires. 

To see what the canvas should look like, Opgenorth pointed to the upper West Maui mountains, where the forests are dynamic, multilayered, and dominated by native plants. In the lowlands that burned, invasive species create a dry, monolithic environment characterized by one or two types of plants. Higher up in the mountains, the native forests are home to a variety of species — mosses such as Thuidium hawaiiense, many types of tree fern, medium-size bushes and shrubs including silversword, and larger trees like koa. Together, these species create a mosaic that traps rainwater and creates a damp, fire-resistant environment. 

Replicating that kind of wild forest in Lahaina, a small town of 13,000 people, isn’t feasible. But mimicking some fire-resistant aspects of the upper slopes is possible. In fact, it used to be the status quo there. 

In the 18th and early 19th centuries, Hawaiians planted a 10½-square-mile breadfruit forest in Lahaina, from Māla to Launiupoko and up into the lower slopes of the West Maui mountains. The diverse forest produced many types of fruits and vegetables in addition to breadfruit, including coconuts, bananas, taro, wild sugarcane, and sweet potato — plants that vary in size and create a multilayered canopy. As Lahaina developed, this food forest and others like it disappeared. 

But in recent years, Native Hawaiian farmers have begun replanting those forests. The devastation wrought by the recent wildfires, and the invasive species that exacerbated them, illuminates the importance of such initiatives to ensuring Maui’s resiliency. If Hawaiian officials and lawmakers supported agroforestry systems like the ones being piloted by Indigenous farmers on the island, Maui could accomplish the interconnected goals of better protecting the island against future wildfires, supporting Native Hawaiians, and reconnecting Mauians to their cultural history.

“The goal is to knock the empire down and replace those corporate ag guys with something more environmentally sustainable that reflects our values,” Kaipo Kekona, an Indigenous farmer who planted a food forest on depleted farmland on a mountain ridge on Maui, told the Guardian last year. Kekona is a member of the island’s burgeoning Indigenous sovereignty movement. 

Replanting food forests on Maui is a daunting undertaking. Real estate investors are already trying to snap up charred land. As Mauians fend off speculators hoping to cash in on the island’s tragedy, Opgenorth thinks the time to act is now. Up to 90 percent of Maui’s food is imported, and the island directs less than 1 percent of its budget to agriculture. Real post-fire resiliency would see many different stakeholders, including private landowners, coming together to change that.

“Where is the priority in the grand scheme of things?” Opgenorth asked. “The underlying thing that should be thought about is revitalization — not just ecosystem-friendly outplantings as we recover, but also things that connect us to our past.” 

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Invasive species have created a cycle of wildfire in Hawaiʻi. Can Maui break it? on Aug 30, 2023.

Quick Key Facts

• Oil spills occur when crude oil is released into the surrounding environment — particularly oceans — and can threaten marine flora and fauna. 
• Spills are typically associated with offshore drilling operations, which drill below the surface of the ocean to access pockets of oil and gas. 
• Roughly 706 million gallons of oil enter the ocean every year.
• The Deepwater Horizon BP Oil Spill of 2010 remains the largest marine oil spill in U.S. history, releasing 210 million gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. More than a decade after the disaster, many marine species in the area are still recovering. 
• Animals active near the ocean’s surface are most impacted by oil spills — like seabirds and otters — as well as seals, whales, sea turtles, and many species of fish.
• Along with their environmental impact, oil spills also affect human health and the economies of surrounding communities. 
• Booms, skimmers, dispersion, biological agents, and burning are among the more common methods of cleaning up an oil spill.

What Is Oil?

Crude oil or petroleum is a liquid fossil fuel. We use it to generate electricity, heat our homes, and fuel our cars. Petroleum products supply about 35% of energy in the U.S., with transportation accounting for the largest portion. Burning fossil fuels like oil releases greenhouse gases into the atmosphere that drive climate change.

While oil is also found under land, much is stored under the ocean floor. This oil was formed from deposits of plankton that decayed over time, and under intense heat and pressure, turned into compounds of hydrogen and carbon. This raw material for oil travels upward over time to where there is less pressure, until it is stopped by impermeable rock and then settles in reservoirs under the sea bed. 

Oil is acquired by drilling into the ocean floor to extract it from the rock in which it’s stored. It’s pumped out, then transported by pipes, ships, trains, or trucks to refineries that process the oil so it can be used to create a variety of products like plastics, gasoline, and other fuels. In this whole process of drilling and transporting, oil can be spilled into the surrounding environment. An estimated 706 million gallons of oil enter the ocean every year, which has massive human and environmental impacts. 

Offshore Drilling: The Basics 

Oil spills are typically associated with offshore drilling operations, which access these underground pockets of oil and gas by drilling through the ocean floor. In 2021, 15% of crude oil was procured from offshore drilling operations, as was 2% of gas. 

Offshore drilling is anything but simple. It’s a lengthy process that takes years of construction and hundreds of million dollars to carry out. Because coastal waters are public land, fossil fuel companies must first lease parcels from the government in order to drill, which requires navigating the complicated regulation of these natural areas. The operator does an exploration of the area (often through seismic testing) to find oil and gas reserves, then builds mobile offshore drilling units — otherwise known as MODUs, oil rigs, or oil platforms — to dig a well. MODUs are some of the largest human-made structures on Earth and are also used to house workers and store equipment. Oil is pulled from the wells, stored, processed, and then transported to the coast via pipelines. In the U.S., offshore drilling happens mostly in Alaska, the Pacific Coast, and the Gulf of Mexico.

How Do Oil Spills Happen?

It’s not hard to imagine that in the midst of all of these complicated, massive drilling processes, oil can spill into the surrounding environment. These spills can happen anywhere where oil is being drilled, used, refined, or transported, whether it be in oceans, lakes, or rivers. Oil spills can happen naturally in what’s called a petroleum seep, during which hydrocarbons escape and reach the surface of the water due to activity deep inside the Earth (often the erosion of sedimentary rock). However, most large spills are from anthropogenic sources.

We all hear about the most disastrous oil spills in the news, but they actually happen pretty frequently: thousands each year, in fact. Many are small and can happen, for example, when a ship is being refueled. Drilling fluid is also used for lubrication in wells — also known as “mud” — and is supposed to be captured, but often leaks in the process. Large spills are much more disastrous, and come from different places within offshore drilling operations: transport containers, drilling platforms, and oil wells, primarily. They are caused by human error, breaking or malfunctioning equipment, natural disasters like hurricanes or high winds, or deliberate acts of terror or illegal action. A series of oil spills followed Hurricane Katrina in 2005, with 450 pipelines and 100 drilling platforms impacted by the disastrous weather. Oil can leak from a poorly maintained container, or a huge amount can be released when tanker ships rupture or a pipeline breaks, for example. 

Abandoned oil wells are another large source of oil spills. Oil wells are shut down by operators when they are no longer profitable, and while the companies are required to remove their equipment and restore the area they worked in, this often doesn’t happen. Wells therefore often remained uncapped and leak oil into the oceans and atmosphere. It’s estimated that 28,232 permanently abandoned wells currently exist in federal waters. 

After oil spills, it spreads across the surface of the water and forms what’s called an “oil slick,” the major source of concern in the aftermath of a spill. 

Historic Oil Spills 

Santa Barbara Oil Spill 

This 1969 spill near the city of Santa Barbara in Southern California was the worst oil spill in history at the time. A huge explosion occurred at the drilling site, which is largely attributed to inadequate safety precautions at the site and waivers given by the U.S. Geological Survey that allowed for weak protection of the drilling hole. About 4 million gallons of oil flowed into the Santa Barbara Channel, leaving an oil slick along 35 miles of California coast. The disaster spurred a huge amount of environmental action — the creation of Earth Day is attributed in part to the spill — and new federal policies arose regarding offshore drilling, including requirements for operators to pay for oil spill cleanups. 

Amoco Cadiz Oil Spill 

In 1978, a crude carrier owned by American petroleum company Amoco containing 69 million gallons of oil hit shallow rocks on the French coast near Brittany due to a mechanical failure of the steering system, coupled with stormy weather. Over the course of two weeks, all of the oil was released in the ocean and 200 miles of the coast was polluted. Millions of invertebrates and 20,000 birds died, and oyster beds in the area were contaminated. Weeks after the incident, millions of dead benthic species — including molluscs and sea urchins — washed ashore. 

Atlantic Empress Oil Spill 

To this day, the Atlantic Empress spill is considered the worst tanker oil spill (specifically from an oil tanker, as opposed to an oil rig or other source) in history, and fifth-largest spill overall. In 1979 off the coast of Trinidad and Tobago, the Greek oil tanker collided with another tanker due to heavy rain and foggy conditions. An estimated 287,000 tons of crude oil was spilled (there are about 305 gallons of oil in one metric ton), 27 people died, and the Empress was still burning a week after the collision. 

Exxon Valdez Oil Spill

On March 24, 1989 in Alaska’s Prince William Sound, the Exxon Valdez set another record as the worst oil spill in history at that time. The tanker transporting crude oil ran aground at Bligh Reed and ruptured, spilling eight of its eleven cargo tanks into the ocean. Along the shoreline, 1,300 miles of pristine wilderness were contaminated by 11 million gallons of oil. The spill is remembered for its huge impacts on local wildlife: hundreds of thousands of seabirds, thousands of mammals, and hundreds of bald eagles were killed. Thirty years later, killer whales and some seabird populations still haven’t fully recovered. Various cleanup methods were employed after the spill, including burning the oil, mechanically removing it, and hot-water hosing the shore. However, some of these treatments (especially the hot water) were found to actually be harmful to the environment. After the cleanup effort, only 14% of oil had been removed and 13% had sunk into the ocean — the rest evaporated and degraded over time. To this day, pockets of oil are still present on the scene underground. 

Deepwater Horizon BP Oil Spill 

The largest marine oil spill in U.S. history, the Deepwater Horizon — often just called the “BP oil spill” — is widely remembered for its devastating impact. On April 20, 2010 in the Gulf of Mexico, an explosion on a drilling platform killed 11 people and caused 210 million gallons of oil to spill into the ocean. Within five days the oil had covered 580 square miles, and within 10 days, 3850 square miles. The oil flowed for 87 days from the Macondo Prospect before it was capped. The spill occurred in one of the most biodiverse marine areas in the world and had a massive impact on the environment. While some species have rebounded, many are still struggling today, including deep-sea coral and spotted sea trout. Preliminary research shows that many dolphins in the area have remained sick, and have a much lower rate of successful pregnancies. Restoration — funded by a $8.8 billion settlement with BP — is still active today. 

Environmental Impact of Oil Spills

Oil clings to everything: rocks, sand, plants, and animals. When it eventually stops floating, it sinks below the surface of the ocean and continues to impact species underneath. The seriousness of a spill can be a function of location, habitat, and the concentration and type of chemicals in the oil. Because they aren’t able to disperse as much, spills that happen closest to shore are often the most dangerous — although those that occur far out at sea cover a huge range and thus impact a larger area. Wherever they occur, oil spills have a devastating impact on the natural world. 

Disruption to Ecosystems

Clearly, such a huge influx of oil destroys natural habitats in its wake. It coats plants, soaks into the soil and sand, and poisons or suffocates species. When oil floats on top of the water, light can’t penetrate and photosynthesis is prevented, meaning plants that provide food for many underwater species can’t grow. Oil also erodes shorelines and harms vulnerable ecosystems like wetlands. The Deepwater Horizon explosion especially impacted Louisiana’s Mississippi River Delta ecosystem, which provides vital ecosystem services like flood control, and important nesting areas for animals and host birds during migration seasons.

Harm to Animals

Oil floats, so animals close to the surface, like birds and otters, are often impacted. The Exxon Valdez spill, for example, resulted in the death of 250,000 seabirds, 3,000 sea otters, 300 harbor seals, 250 eagles, and 22 killer whales. Similarly, the BP oil spill was fatal to 1 million seabirds, 5,000 marine mammals, and 1,000 sea turtles.

Ocean wildlife is primarily impacted by oiling (or “fouling”) on their external bodies. We’ve all seen an image of a duckling covered in oil, and it’s as deadly as it looks. When oil coats the wings of birds, they are unable to fly and become victim to predators, or can’t flee the scene of the spill. It also impacts the insulating properties of fur for sea otters and other mammals, who then can’t regulate their body temperature and become at risk for developing hypothermia. Other mammals are impacted, too, like whales, dolphins, and seals, whose blow holes get clogged by oil, leaving them unable to breathe.

Oil toxicity impacts the internal body of animals, too. The toxic compounds in oil are poisonous to animals. Many swallow or inhale the oil while cleaning themselves, or when they eat prey that have been coated in it. The oil can damage the immune system and the heart, impact the function of lungs and liver, blind animals, and cause reproductive changes. 

Oil spills can affect the population numbers and long-term survival of species as well — especially when, like the BP oil spill, they occur during mating and nesting season. Sea turtles, for example, spend most of their life at sea, but come to land to nest and breed. If damaged by oil, their eggs might not develop properly. Fish eggs and larvae are especially threatened by oil spills. Shrimp and oyster fisheries along the coast of Louisiana were seriously harmed during the BP oil spill, and it took nearly 30 years for fisheries impacted by the Exxon Valdez spill to recover. Even if a species itself isn’t directly impacted by the spill, these population declines impact food chains — if a species depends on prey that have been killed in a spill, they will suffer, too. 

Atmospheric Impacts 

While it might not be as immediately obvious, atmospheric pollution is another harmful impact of oil spills. During the cleanup efforts after the BP oil spill, for example, the oil was burned off the surface of the ocean, releasing 1 million pounds of black carbon into the atmosphere. Methane — a climate-warming greenhouse gas — is also released in oil spills It often forms alongside fossil fuels in underground reservoirs, so when oil is released, so is methane.

The Issue of Arctic Drilling 

Offshore drilling in the Arctic is of particular concern. The Arctic warms at twice the rate of the rest of the world and could be ice-free in the summer by the 2030s, opening the path for more oil and gas exploration. It is among the most remote areas on the planet and would be nearly impossible to clean up in the event of a major oil spill. Emergency responders are not nearly as widespread, environmental conditions make it difficult to transport major equipment out there, and because less than 1% of the U.S. Arctic has been surveyed with modern technology, we do not have very accurate navigational charts of the area. There have been arguments to ban the use and carriage of oil on ships in the Arctic, or to create safe shipping corridors that don’t go through vulnerable habitats. However, in March the Biden administration announced plans to block oil and gas drilling in swaths of the Arctic Ocean and Alaska, while simultaneously approving the highly controversial Willow oil project on the North Slope of Alaska, about 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle, drawing major criticism from environmental groups.

Social Impact of Oil Spills

Along with these serious environment impacts, oil spills also cause harm to humans — particularly those in communities surrounding the spills. 

Human Health 

Among other harmful substances, crude oil contains volatile organic compounds (VOCs), which can impact both the respiratory system and the nervous system. Workers and volunteers cleaning up the spill have direct exposure to the oil, and community members can still inhale these chemicals as they are dispersed by the wind, or ingest contaminated seafood and water. The BP oil spill was one harrowing example of the impact that oil spills can have on human health. In the months after the disaster, many citizens — especially those that helped in the cleanup — reported symptoms. Research has linked exposure of those who helped with the cleanup in the aftermath of the BP oil spill with increased risk of cancer, long-term respiratory conditions, and heart disease, as well as blurred vision, headaches, and memory loss. Local residents have coined their chronic symptoms after the cleanup — which include diarrhea, rashes, and respiratory problems — “BP syndrome” or “Gulf Coast syndrome,” according to The Guardian. Besides these physical impacts, elevated rates of depression, anxiety, and PTSD have been documented in cleanup workers and volunteers. 

Loss of Revenue and Resources 

Commercial fishing and tourism — two industries that prop up many economies — can be devastated by oil spills. In the aftermath, beaches and parks along the shoreline close for lengthy periods — and in general, tourists are less likely to want to visit these places and may believe a wider area to be impacted than actually is. In areas that depend on tourism, this can be devastating to their economies. After the BP oil spill, the region’s commercial fishing industry reported $62 million in losses, and the tourism industry $1.5 billion. For tribes and First Nations that depend upon natural resources, an oil spill could be disastrous to the entire fabric of their community and survival. 

Oil Spill Cleanups

The response to oil spills is generally fourfold: 

1. Stopping the flow of oil and protecting areas that might be harmed by it.
2. Removing the oil from the environment.
3. Recovering and rehabilitating wildlife.
4. Restoring the impacted area.

Sensitive locations in particular, like wetlands, nesting areas, and beaches, need to be protected from oil slicks. Some sensitive habitats need very specific cleanup processes so they are not further damaged. It can be difficult to enact cleanups when the spill happens over a wide area, and when it impacts larger animals like whales, which are hard to recover and rehabilitate. 

Data collection is an important element of oil spill cleanups. NASA takes satellite and airborne data to locate oil and determine its trajectory. ERMA (Environmental Response Management Application) — which NOAA made available during the Deepwater Horizon spill — is an important mapping tool that uses Environmental Sensitivity Index maps, locations of ships, currents, weather, etc. to aid in cleanup efforts. The U.S. Coast Guard is primarily responsible for oil spill cleanups, as well as the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). The Oil Pollution Act of 1990 also established that the party responsible for an oil spill can be held responsible for costs incurred in cleaning up and restoring the area. 

Cleanup Methods 

Oil spills can take many years to completely clean up. Often, several methods of cleanup are employed at once. The type used depends on how much and what type of oil is spilled, where the oil has spilled and its distance from the shore, what species and habitats are being impacted, and whether people live in the area. The following are among the most common methods and technologies, although ultimately, none removes 100% of oil on its own. 

• Booms are floating barriers made of plastic or metal. These are strategically placed in the ocean to help contain the oil and slow its spread, especially to keep it away from certain sensitive areas. Booms can be placed around a leaking tanker, or along coastal areas as protection. 
• Skimmers are deployed by boats to “skim” the oil off the surface of the ocean, although their viability depends on the thickness of the oil slick. 
• Burning — or “situ burning” — is less common, and entails setting the oil slick ablaze.
• Dispersion uses chemical dispersants to break up the oil slick by dispersing it into the water column so that less remains on the surface of the ocean.
• Biological agents like microbes or fertilizers are used to break down oil.

Cleanup efforts are made on the shorelines surrounding a spill as well, using biodegradation agents, burning, and manual and mechanical removal, as well as other methods. Vacuum trucks suck up the oil-polluted water, sorbents absorb the oil like a sponge, and water hoses rinse the oil into the water where it can be collected more easily. 

Restoration 

Restoration is another important part of oil spill responses. These projects are different from the cleanup itself — beyond merely removing the oil, they entail actively restoring habitats that have been destroyed. Restoration might mean rebuilding a marshland, reintroducing lost species, controlling erosion, or otherwise supporting the ecosystem services and functions that help the ecosystem heal itself. In the aftermath of a spill, a Natural Resource Damage Assessment (NRDA) is completed by NOAA to determine the impacts of the spill and then settle how the cleanup will be paid for. Usually this process is done between the party that caused the spill and government agencies at the state and federal level, as well as tribal agencies. 

Takeaway

Oil spills are major environmental disasters that will likely continue as long as our dependence on oil does. A global transition to clean energy would be a necessary large-scale change in order to eliminate oil spills as a threat, although reducing our personal use of fossil fuels is a useful beginning, including driving less, powering our homes with clean energy, and using less plastic.

While offshore drilling is still a reality, responsible choices by operators can prevent deadly oil spills from occurring, such as performing routine inspections of operations, investing in training of workers, and adhering to requirements made by legislative bodies. 

Legislative action regarding boat safety and offshore drilling is a proven useful avenue in preventing spills. The 1990 Oil Pollution Act stipulated that all tankers must be double-hulled by 2015. In 2021, the Polar Endeavour collided with a tugboat, suffering a four-foot indentation that penetrated the outer hull of the ship but not the inner, so no oil was spilled. This event shows that safety legislation can be effective at preventing spills, and electing representatives who champion environmental protection is an important tool at our disposal.

The post Oil Spills 101: Everything You Need to Know appeared first on EcoWatch.

In May, a homecoming took place 3,000 feet below the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Since the U.S. federal government forcibly removed the Havasupai people from this sacred place in 1919, the stop along the park’s Bright Angel Trail has been known as ‘Indian Garden.’ That changed recently, when a federal board approved a name change request after years of tribal advocacy. Now officially called Havasupai Gardens, the name reflects the people who continue to care for the land, despite a century of harm.

Across the United States, there are thousands of mountains, rivers, and other geologic features that bear derogatory, racist, or pejorative place names. About 660 of those referred to a slur against Indigenous women. But that’s now changing. The single largest name change effort in history is giving way to a movement that advocates hope will shed light on why place names are so significant. 

Department of the Interior (DOI) Secretary Deb Haaland has launched a task force to review a list of federal places, and propose alternatives. The Board on Geographic Names, which is housed within the DOI, will provide final approval of these recommendations. 

Changing place names is a significant step to address the centuries of violence, harm, and neglect caused by federal policies. The slur in question was used by colonizers to demean and objectify Indigenous women and girls. For many, it continues to highlight anti-Indigenous violence, and the legacies that Indigenous communities still grapple with today, like the epidemic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous People. 

“It’s really absurd to tell people to go connect with something that’s offensive or derogatory to that individual, or the communities that they belong to,” says Kimberly Smith, the Southern Appalachian community conservation specialist with The Wilderness Society, and a citizen of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. 

The federal task force is the culmination of years of work by Tribal Historic Preservation Officers (THPOs) and leaders, says Valerie Grussing, the executive director of the National Association of Tribal Historic Preservation Officers (NATHPO). In collaboration with The Wilderness Society, the Association published a guide to changing offensive place names in 2022. 

“Place names have the capacity to tell important stories,” the guide says. “Left intact, these names can perpetuate racism, endorse hateful views and encourage a discredited or skewed telling of history.”

This is the first time the DOI has enacted a broad-strokes effort to rid federal lands of their anti-Indigenous names. “I think it’s been a really important part of the larger national conversation that happened in the past couple of years,” Grussing says. 

The DOI effort only applies to federal geographic fixtures, but advocates hope that the move will propel a broader conversation of respect for Indigenous resiliency. Across the country, tribes and Indigenous-led coalitions continue to advocate for renaming at local and state levels, as the slur is also used by schools, ski resorts, and other public places. A rule approved in April 2023 by the New York State Board of Regents prohibits the use of Indigenous cultures for school and district names, logos and mascots.

The goal is not to erase history, but rather to learn from it. A critical lesson, advocates say, is that Indigenous peoples still exist. Derogatory names don’t just render Indigenous peoples invisible, but slurs perpetuate further harm by suggesting that Indigenous women and girls are disposable. 

For example, Fred Mosqueda, a member of the DOI’s Reconciliation of Place Names Committee, says that what’s currently listed as Mt. Evans, a 14,000-foot peak that looks out over Denver, is named for Colorado’s second governor, who facilitated a massacre of the Arapaho and Cheyenne people in 1864. 

A decade prior to the Sand Creek Massacre, the Colorado government and the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes agreed in a treaty to allow settlers to pass through Colorado on their way westward. Many were seeking gold, the mineral that California’s governor used to justify the removal and genocide of California tribes. Rather than abide by the treaty, settlers built homes on land stewarded by the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes, killing large game and logging trees. When the tribes attempted to defend themselves, Mosqueda says, the army retaliated. 

Renaming place names is an opportunity for a frank conversation about reckoning with the traumas of history. The key is not to become angry with each other or lose patience, Mosqueda says. “In the end,” he says, “you have to talk to them and tell them the history … just sit down with each other and come out with the truth.” 

The Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribe propose renaming the peak Mount Blue Sky, which references a yearly Cheyenne ceremony celebrating the renewal of life. The Arapaho Tribe are also known as the Blue Sky people.

The celebration of Indigenous culture and ways of life is the priority for name changes elsewhere in Colorado, where the federal push to change place names provided political momentum for another local effort to rename a mountain in the foothills outside of Denver as Mestaa’ėhehe Mountain, in honor of Owl Woman, a Cheyenne citizen who helped facilitate peaceful trade at today’s Bent’s Old Fort National Historic Site. 

Input from community members is important, an effort The Wilderness Society has aided by providing a template for changing offensive names at the local level. Smith is now using this template to guide conversations across Appalachia. Like Mosqueda, Smith has found that engaging community members is a key part of the process, and she says that the template has helped to bridge cultural gaps between groups that might not have otherwise shared a conversation.

For the tribal elders who have only lived in a world where official place names are offensive or derogatory, just having the conversation about alternative names is “medicine,” Smith says. “As an Indigenous woman, having spent 35 years promoting an erased or correcting an inaccurate identity, this initiative is very healing for me.” 

A Wilderness Society partnership with Duke University has recently helped uncover more than 200 local place names that are offensive in some way. The partnership has also brought to light an imbalance in gender representation. In examining over 300 commemorative place names, only 18 honor women, and only three recognize women of color. 

Names are powerful. Smith says if this next stage of the renaming process is successful, the youngest generation of Native peoples could grow up knowing the Indigenous Ancestral name of a place first, and its American name second.

The Wilderness Society unites people to protect America’s wild places. Since 1935, we have led the charge to protect more than 111 million acres of wilderness and had a significant role in the passage of almost every major conservation law, while fighting hard against attempts to undermine them.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The race to replace derogatory place names on Aug 29, 2023.