SuzanneElstonAnActivistsStory

8/7/2019 SuzanneElstonAnActivistsStory

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another, safer facility. The farms that we had visited in Tyrone were only a few of the sites thathad been selected as a potential location.

As we arrived at the dump, each one of us donned a black armband made of crepe paper. Whenthe speeches ended, we were asked to tie our soggy bands of protest to the chain-link fence thatsurrounded the facility. As the rain turned the paper into mush, the color ran down the fence intiny rivers of dark, blood red.

Something stirred deep inside me. Our second child had only begun to grow inside my body weeksbefore, and yet now it seemed he would share my very being with another life force. I had alwayshad a strong sense of social justice, but this was beyond my reasoning. A voice that had remainedsilent for far too long spoke to my spirit, demanding action.

I carried home with me a leaflet that had been distributed by a fledging anti-nuclear group.Despite my inner urgings, it took several days to work up the courage to call. When I finally did, Idiscovered that the group, known as Durham Nuclear Awareness (DNA), had only just begun toget organized. One of its founding members, Jeff Brackett, came to our home and talkedpassionately about the need for community involvement. His concern, like mine, had grown out of his concern for his family. What was so remarkable about Jeff was his incredibly shy, quietmanner. If this man could become an activist and put his personal privacy on the line, then Icould, too.

From the very start, it felt like we were doing something dangerous. Here we were, a group of housewives and pacifists, taking on an issue that no one was even talking about - let alonechallenging. It was exciting. The truth was that I was getting a little bored with the stay-at- homeroutine, and longed for a little excitement. Taking on Ontario Hydro and the nuclear establishmentwas just the kind of David and Goliath battle I was looking for, and I could do it from the safety of my own living room.

I made phone calls, read all the information I could get my hands on and attended local meetings.Our first task was to draw attention to Ontario Hydro's plan to transport tritiated heavy waterfrom the Pickering and Bruce nuclear stations along Highway 401 to a new Tritium RemovalFacility that was being built at Darlington. We lobbied local governments to ban the transportthrough their communities. Although our efforts were unsuccessful, we gained a great of knowledge about how to organize, write media releases and get press coverage.

As a kid my mother always said that I never had a shy bone in my body. Later on, as a youngwoman, I had spent several years as the lead singer in a bar band. Although the experienceseemed rather meaningless at the time, as I assumed my new role as activist/mother, I realizedthat my ability to deal with bright lights and rowdy crowds would come in very handy.

When the first opportunity came to do an on-camera interview, I was ready. I was about sixmonths pregnant, but the camera angle made it look like I was about to give birth at any second.Unaware of exactly how much of me would be included in the picture, I had tucked my hands up

under my heavy belly for support. The result was quite compelling. Here was this sweet lookingyoung mother, obviously heavy with child and concern, pleading for the safety of her community.

The day before our second son was born, I attended a meeting about emergency planning. I wasexperiencing one of those burst of energy that women get shortly before giving birth. I'd beenhouse bound for about three weeks, and desperately needed to get out. My belly was so big thatwhen I tried to parallel park the car, I got stuck. I can still remember one woman who washeading into the meeting standing on the sidewalk yelling at me. She asked me if I was pregnantor just plain stupid. When I finally waddled out of the car, her angry scowl quickly turned into abelly laugh.


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When I finally got into the meeting I met Irene Kock, another of the founding members of DNA.She had been busy working in Toronto at the office of Nuclear Awareness Project (DNA), theparent group that had spawned DNA. It became apparent that Durham was where the action was,so together with her partner in life and concern, Dave Martin, the NAP office was combined withDNA and moved to a small office in Oshawa .

I think Irene is one of the reasons I have continued my commitment to DNA over the years. She

is everything that I have ever aspired to be: bright, focused, hard working, incredibly wellorganized and independent. Her friendship has often fired my own commitment when I felt I hadlittle left to give.

Little would I know back then that my involvement with DNA would not only change my life andhow I view the world, but it would also have a profound affect on my family. From nuclear wastedumps, my concern grew to include all aspects of environmental protection including wastemanagement, recycling, incineration and public health. Along the way I was threatened, ridiculedand ignored. But thousands of hours of unpaid work have resulted in small, gratifying changesthat have convinced me that one individual can make a difference.

Two years after my second son was born I had become overwhelmed with the demands on mytime. Our phone rang constantly with questions about everything from how we could expand theblue box program in our community to evacuation plans in the event of a nuclear accident. Latenight meetings, letter writing and organizing had pushed me to the end of my physical limits. Iended up with pneumonia and a little time on my hands to re-assess exactly what I was trying toaccomplish.

It was my husband who first reasoned that if so many people were desperate for informationabout the environment, there had to be a more effective way to make it available. It was his ideafor me to approach our local newspapers about writing an environmental 'Dear Abby' columnwhere people could send in their questions.

I had always wanted to become a writer, so with a lot more nerve than talent, I painstakinglydrafted two sample columns and submitted them to my local newspaper. When the editor called totell me I had a job, I was ecstatic until reality set in. The first shock came when I discovered thatI would be paid the grand sum of $ 25 per column. The second was when I realized that I didn'thave a clue what I was going to write about each week.

Self-doubt can be an amazing motivator. I wrote great volumes each week that were lovingly andsurgically edited by my husband. There were times when my writing was so bad he'd have no ideawhat I was trying to say. I'd get angry and start yelling that he was stupid if he didn't get it. Istart explaining to him what exactly it was I had written and he'd quietly say, "Great, now writethat down!"

The idea snowballed. Within a few short months I was writing a weekly environment column,appropriately titled 'Your Earth', for a half dozen southern Ontario papers. In addition, I was

frequently being used by my editors as an environmental consultant and helped to expand mycolumn to a full page of environmental coverage each week. Papers have come and gone over theyears, thanks mostly to the volatile nature of the business, but I continue to write for severalnewspapers. The bad news is that columnists rarely get paid well for their work. Financially, mynew found profession did little more than cover my direct costs like long distance, printing andpostage.

It was shortly after my column had become established that I was approached by the OntarioAdvisory Council on Women's Issues to write a book for their 'Action on Issues' series. Once againI felt like I had bitten off more than I could chew. A weekly column was one thing, but writing an


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entire book was beyond my capabilities. I sweated; I swore and fought with my husband when mywriting was unclear or unfocused.

When I finally submitted the final draft, I became a victim of my own success. I originally hadbeen asked to submit a 100-page document. Unfortunately, a book of this size would have to bebound, which would push printing costs up. If I could cut it down to a 60-page booklet, they coulddouble their print run. After pouring my soul into carefully crafting each sentence, I was faced

with the job of slashing 40% of my work. Although I dreaded it, the editing job was perhaps oneof the best learning experiences that I have ever had. I learned that no words are sacred, and nomatter how good you think something is, it can always be improved.

The booklet, when it was finally published in the Fall of 1990, was entitled 'Women & theEnvironment, and was quickly sold out. (Unfortunately, thanks to government cutbacks, moneywas never made available for a reprint.)

Years passed. DNA emerged in the community as a driving force for community health andnuclear responsibility. When we first began it was virtually impossible to get a story in the localnewspapers. Shortly before The Oshawa Times was shutdown, we jokingly suggested that it bere-named the Nuclear Free Press because of the number of stories that ran about nuclear issues.

Today the group is a well-respected voice in the community. Hardly a week goes by when IreneKock or Dave Martin are not being interviewed by national and local media about one issue oranother. Remarkably, the hard working core of DNA has remained constant at about sixindividuals. In light of recent successes, our motto has become, "Just think what we could do witha dozen people."

The price was high. Volunteerism takes it toll in many ways, particularly when you are dealingwith such a depressing issue. What is rarely taken into consideration is the uneven playing fieldthat volunteers play on. The polluters we fight have money for salaries, traveling, printing andcommunications. For a stay-at- home mom, the cost of baby-sitting, long distances charges andgas expenses were often prohibitive.

On a personal level, my health suffered. Over the years I have struggled frequently with bouts of pneumonia and depression, sometimes simultaneously. My husband and I have argued over thecost the rest of our family has paid for my involvement. Friends and family have often encouragedme to quit, explaining that it was time for someone else to pick up the slack, but there have neverbeen any offers.

I think that part of me is relieved. I sometimes feel like some battled scarred veteran who hasearned the right to march in the Remembrance Day parade. When I started over a dozen yearsago, I was young, inexperienced and naive. Along the way I had learned skills that I didn't thinkthat I could ever master. More importantly, I can now list among my friends some of the greatspirits of this age - people that time will remember long after I am gone. In some ways it feelslike I've tied myself to the immortality of their deeds.

It hasn't all been struggle. There have been wonderful experiences along the way. In 1992 Iattended the Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro and had my entire paradigm shattered. For the mostpart, the official part of the conference was dull and predictable. What was revolutionary was the30,000 souls that attended The Global Forum, a parallel conference that was held for non-governmental organizations. Once again, I was invited to play with giants. Great souls who lookedupon me as a like-minded individual. That experience fed my tired soul like some magical elixir.

The spirit at that conference was palpable. The air practically sparkled with the energy andcommitment of the participants. Networks were forged, ideas were exchanged, and everyone


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present got a very real sense of what 'Think globally, Act locally' could actually mean.

Given my background as an anti-nuclear activist, it was a bit of a shock when I realized thatCanada is considered one of the world's 'bad guys' when it comes to nuclear proliferation. In thiscountry, and indeed in most of the free world, we are granted certain rights and freedoms thatallow us to express our concern about nuclear power and to actively lobby against it. Sadly, this isnot so in most of the third world where nuclear stations are considered part of the military.

Protesting against nuclear power and/or weapons can be considered an act of treason, which ispunishable by loss of employment, harassment, imprisonment or even death.

I returned from Rio with a renewed sense of purpose and a much broader mandate. My activismhad begun years ago when I realized that in order to ensure my children's safety I had to ensurethat the big backyard of my community must also be made safe. I now realized that in order forone child to be safe and secure, all children must be granted the right to a safe environment. Theworld had become too small, and the problems too complex to ignore the needs of a single child.

I continued my work with revitalized passion for another year until I discovered, to my surpriseand delight, that I was pregnant. Carrying a child in my fortieth year was the hardest work that Ihave ever done. My unborn daughter seemed to sense this, and to my body's relief, decided toarrive a little earlier than anticipated. Although five weeks premature, Sarah weighed almostseven pounds and appeared to be in good health. Immature lung development can be a majorproblem for preemies, but after two days in an incubator, Sarah seemed fine.

The trouble began when she developed a cold a few months later. The virus left Sarah with apersistent cough that would not go away. After weeks of shuttling her back and forth to our familydoctor, she finally saw a specialist who immediately admitted her into the intensive care ward atour local hospital.

The diagnosis was asthma and for the next two months our world became a nightmare struggle tosave Sarah's life. Continuing to breast feed her seemed like the one thing that I could do to helpmy baby. I slept in hospital corridors and wrote my column on the back of the nurses' clipboards.In the face of her illness, continuing to write each week was the one thing that helped keep mylife sane and predictable. It forced me to think rationally and in doing so, gave order to the worldthat seemed to be falling apart around me.

Her illness was so bad that for the first week she was only allowed to leave the oxygen tent thathad become her home to be nursed. As we watched her struggle to breathe, we became parentalexperts on the disease that was threatening her life. Childhood asthma is on a dramatic increasein this country, particularly in the Montreal to Windsor corridor. It is not surprising that this areaalso hosts the most badly polluted air in Canada. I was angry. After all the sacrifices, after all thehard work, it was my baby that was stricken with an illness that could be directly related to airpollution. It just didn't seem fair.

I stayed by Sarah's side night and day while my husband cared for our sons and labored to create

a safe haven for her for when she was able to return home . The first things to go were our oldfurnace and wood stove, followed sadly by our two beloved cats.

By the time her asthma was under control a month later, Sarah was on a hefty dose of prednisone. When we tried to take her off the drug, her body rebounded, and her tiny brainalmost exploded. One moment she was lying peacefully in my arms, and the next we were rushingto emergency to save her life. A series of spinal taps and two weeks at the Hospital for SickChildren in Toronto, and we were finally able to bring our daughter home .

Two months had passed and we were physical, emotionally and financially exhausted. My husband


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I were already at the end of our ropes when the contractors we had hired to replace our oilfurnace neglected to empty the oil tank before they tried to remove it. As they moved it off itsbase, the weight of the five hundred litres of fuel oil it still contained spilt the tank. Despite theirbest efforts to clean the mess up, the residual smell was so overpowering that our home wasdeemed unfit to live in. While Sarah and I resided at Sick Kids, my husband and sons moved intothe local Holiday Inn while clean-up crews had to renovate our home to make it livable again.

When I look back, it's hard to believe that we survived it all in one piece. There were times thatmy husband and I could barely talk to each other and our two sons understandably becameunsettled and unhappy. But in the end, we came through it all.

The circle was complete. I had stepped outside my own garden to ensure the safety of mychildren. Now my daughter's biggest enemy was our own home environment. After two years of living with a compressor four times a day, Sarah was transferred to inhalers shortly before hersecond birthday. Today, with careful monitoring and constant vigilance, she is a healthy, thrivinglittle girl.

It was Margaret Mead who once said, "Never doubt that a small group of concerned citizens canchange the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." The greatest gift of my involvementhas been having the opportunity to count among my friends some of this era's great spirits.Unknown to most, history will record their valiant efforts and remember them as the ones whomade the difference. What is so remarkable about these individuals is they are, as one activistsaid, "Simply ordinary people, doing extraordinary things."

I never had a chance to ask the owners of the farm in Tyrone why they selected my husband andI to visit their farm that day. We were simply a hard working couple, wanting to raise our youngfamily in peace. But perhaps this is the greatest example of how one tiny action can changethings. Their simple invitation was the catalyst that led to over a decade of involvement for me.

It wasn't always easy. When I began, my life was like a babbling brook, skipping along theriverbed of life, sparkling and bubbling with joy. In a dozen years, that brook has deepened andwidened into a river - slow and purposeful. The spontaneous joy is gone, but it has been replacedby something much stronger.

When I've had an opportunity over the years to talk to groups about the work I've done, I alwaysconclude by saying, "If you see something that needs to be done, and find yourself saying,'somebody should do something about that', then chances are, that someone is you." It has beenexciting, frustrating and inspirational work that is never ending. No matter what happens, there isalways a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

It is truly within every one of us to make a difference - to protect this world for futuregenerations. The motive, ultimately, is selfish. For we don't secure the world for our children andour children's children. Indeed it is they who secure ours. For without children there can be nofuture. And without a future it is all simply dust in the wind.

Article contributed by Suzanne Elston

SuzanneElstonAnActivistsStory

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