by Sara Cassidy
In community elections, where even seven-year-olds vote, over 90 percent of Mayans vote against oil companies using their land. But the government of Guatemala doesn’t give two pennies about what the Maya want. Activists say the government kidnaps and even kills Mayans who speak out against oil companies.
When drilling, oil companies can ruin cropland, knock over farm buildings, pollute…The company is supposed to pay compensation for the damage. In Guatemala, they have ninety days to pay.
Fifty Guatemalan farmers have waited two years for $500,000 in compensation from Argenta. That may sound like a lot, but compared to what Argenta makes…let’s just say that last year, the head of Argenta gave himself a $2 million bonus!
We want oil companies to leave the Maya people alone. Compensation is a small issue, but this campaign will introduce the bigger ones.
Attached is more info. We’d love your help!
In solidarity,
Jamaica Chappell
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Jamaica,
Thanks for writing back so quickly and taking me seriously.
Two questions:
1. Is Argenta Oil breaking the law?
2. What’s the bonus for?
Cheers,
Liza
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Liza!
Good questions!
1: If you held Argenta Oil to Canadian standards, they are breaking the law. Argenta pays its Guatemalan workers one-tenth of what it pays its workers in Canada. In Canada, Argenta Oil helps its workers if they get injured on the job. Not in Guatemala. In Canada, Argenta pays into a pension plan. Not in Guatemala. In Canada, they provide safety equipment. Not in Guatemala. In Canada, they follow environmental protection laws. Not in Guatemala.
In Guatemala, Argenta has to obey Guatemalan laws—and for the most part they do. But those laws are weak. In Guatemala, they don’t have to take their workers or the Earth seriously. They make more money that way.
2: A bonus is usually a reward for good work. Sometimes it’s a payout when a company’s made a lot of money.
I’ve always wanted to visit Victoria. It’s so close to Seattle, which is where I live.
In peace,
Jamaica
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi Jamaica,
I definitely want to help with the campaign.
But I have no idea where to start.
TTYS,
Liza
P.S. I’ve always wanted to see Seattle.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi Liza,
If you ever do visit Seattle, come see us at OilWatch.
There’s a lot you can do to pressure Argenta. Your school project is a great start. Research and knowledge, along with compassion and justice, are the only true weapons.
You could write an article for your local newspaper. Write to the president of Argenta, and send copies of your letter to local newspapers, radio stations and politicans.
Draw up a petition: write at the top of a piece of paper something like: We demand that Argenta Oil respect the law of Guatemala and pay farmers the compensation they rightfully owe. Then gather signatures.
Or carry things further and mount a demonstration.
Just a few ideas.
In justice,
Jamaica
P.S. There’s strength—and fun—in numbers: band with friends!
P.S.S. Speaking of fun: instead of being against, what can you be for?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Jamaica,
Thanks for the exciting ideas.
My friends and I have formed GRRR!—Girls for Renewable Resources, Really! We’ve already got a Facebook page, and we are writing letters to newspapers about Argenta’s unpaid debt.
And—drumroll!—we’re planning a demonstration at Argenta Oil’s offices! We’re calling it an Insistence, because we insist Argenta pays up.
GRRR! has its first official meeting this Friday.
In a hurry,
Liza
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Liza!
Awesome about GRRR!
Let me know how the Insistence goes!! I’ll be there in spirit! And good luck with your first meeting!
In awe,
Jamaica
Chapter Eight
The meeting is more exciting than I expected it to be. Nine girls show up— and three boys.
“I’m happy to see you,” I tell the boys, “but it’s Girls for Renewable Resources, not Girls and Boys for Renewable Resources.”
“Yeah,” puts in Melissa. “It’s GRRR! Not GBRRR!”
“That’s discribidation, Liza,” Niall sniffs. He means to say discrimination, but his nose, as usual, is stuffed up.
I think Niall is the cutest boy in the school. He’s got thick, wavy black hair down to his shoulders, big dark eyes, and this perpetual cold. If I wanted to date him, there wouldn’t be much competition. He’s wiry and nimble, but also permanently stooped at the shoulders from coughing so much. He only straightens out when he runs for the high jump. That’s his only sport, but every year he makes the city finals.
The first time Niall ever talked to me, he told me about a pulley system he’d made. He’d nailed spools all over the walls of his room and strung them with string. I asked him what he used his pulley system for. “Nothing,” he casually replied. “I just love to see the string go around and hear the spools whir and grind against the walls. It’s a diagram of work.” From that moment, he had my heart.
And now I’m going to tell him he can’t join my group?
“Why just girls?” Harry asks.
Melissa, luckily, has an answer. “You guys will horse around. You’ll take over,” she says.
“Hey, that is todally unfair,” Niall argues. “Stereotypes. You just want to talk your own language. And, actually, I kind of get that.”
“You’re worried we’ll distract you,” says Jarod.
“Yeah, right!” sputters Melissa, who’s written Jarod’s name at least six hundred times on her binder, with the o in the shape of a heart.
Luckily, Harry gets a brainwave. “Hey, guys! How about BRRR!? That would be cool—or cold. Boys for Renewable Resources, Really! The Earth’s heating up, but BRRR! cools it down. Wind and solar power all the way!”
“Yeah!” I cheer. “We could be sister organizations. I mean sibling organizations.”
“I’ve already got a project we could do!” Niall cries. “A bike rodeo to raise money for solar panels for the school roof. For hot water.”
“Great idea!” Jarod high-fives Niall. As well as being extremely good-looking, Jarod is also the winner of the Golden Shoe Award every year. He bikes to and from school no matter how dark and rainy it is. “Then we’ll get Victoria to capture the energy from the storm drains. Direct the water into a turbine and have it power the city’s streetlights! Water’s heavy and powerful!”
The guys put their arms around each other and head up the hall chanting, “Water’s heavy. Water’s powerful. The sun’s strong. The sun’s superior.”
We decide to hold our Insistence, otherwise known as a protest, on the next Pro-D day.
Myra is going to collect email addresses for local tv and radio stations, and newspapers and magazines. Janine and Emma T. will write the media release that we’ll send to all of them. Melissa is going to call City Hall to find out if we need a permit. I am going to make three dozen mini air horns for the demo.
Janine has the great idea of putting a photograph of the president of Argenta Oil’s house next to a photo of a Mayan home on the press release. What a great way to show who’s getting rich. I volunteered Olive to research where he lives.<
br />
We set a date for a sign-making party. I am elected “chair” of the event, which means I’ll do the interviews with media.
We consider a silent protest. Every Friday afternoon, a group of women stand silently at a downtown corner with signs against war. “Women in Black” they call themselves. They dress in black to honor the people who’ve died in wars. In the end we decide against silence. GRRR! is going to be loud.
I bike the long way home. The winter air is delicious; even the soggy leaves in the gutter smell rich! I’m totally excited about GRRR! Heck, I’m even excited about BRRR! But my heart sinks when Slick’s suv is in front of our house.
He is over for supper, again. He has brought ten packages of sushi.
“Isn’t that a lot for five people?” I ask as I put my books on the dishwasher.
“Well, I ran ten kilometers this afternoon, so I’m pretty hungry,” Slick answers. He’s boasting, as usual.
“Robert’s in the Run for the Cure on Sunday,” Mom explains.
“Run for the what?” Silas asks as he peels the seaweed off his sushi. He won’t eat green food, not even green jujubes.
“It’s a fundraiser for research, for breast cancer,” says Mom.
“Isn’t that the run that made you so mad last year?” I ask. “Yeah, you told us it should be called Run for Prevention.”
Mom looked uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah, I think so.”
“You said money would be better spent banning pesticides or toxic cleaning products. You said Run for the Cure raises money for labs that test on animals.” I want Slick to hear how Mom really feels—and Mom knows it.
She rubs her forehead. “Yes, I did say that,” she sighs. “But, you know, I really don’t have all the information.”
“Mom! Are you taking it back?” I demand.
A flash of anger crosses Mom’s face. She looks me in the eyes. I hold her stare. Silas and Leland look from me to her, from her to me. Finally Mom’s face softens.
“You’re right, Liza Jane. No, I’m not taking back what I said,” she says.
“I’d be interested to know if they do test on animals,” Slick speaks up. “That’s something I’ve never agreed with. I had a pet mouse when I was a boy and can sincerely say he was my friend.”
Then he clears the empty sushi trays from the table and dumps them in the garbage. I give Mom a look.
Mom straightens her shoulders. “Robert?” she says. “If you don’t mind, there’s a blue box under the sink. Those containers can be recycled.”
“They can?” Slick asks, genuinely amazed.
“Yeah,” says Mom. “And, um, I’ve been meaning to say, it’s actually against the law in Victoria to throw paper in the garbage.”
Robert just stands in the middle of our kitchen looking stunned.
“And suvs should be illegal too,” I mutter. Mom gives me a warning look.
“I see,” Slick drawls, nodding. “Do you ever feel like you’ve been on holiday and missed something?” He rinses the containers and drops them into the blue box. The noise of him clattering around is a victory symphony.
Chapter Nine
Plans for the Insistence are ticking along. There’s only one problem: Olive. She joined GRRR! but refuses to protest. The day of our sign-making party, she comes over early to tell me. She says the protest is illegal.
Melissa contacted the City’s bylaw office, I tell her, and found out we’re totally legal as long as we don’t block traffic and stay off private property. We’ve decided to wave our signs in the small park in front of Argenta’s offices. “It’s legal as a beagle,” I say. “Legal as a seagull. As a bagel.”
“Okay.” Olive smiles. “But I don’t have the same days off as you.” Olive goes to private school.
“You can miss a morning,” I argue. “You take time off for swim competitions.”
But Olive isn’t listening. In fact, she looks like she’s going to cry. “What is it really, Olive?” I ask.
Olive looks out my window toward home. “I’ve got to go. My laundry’s in the dryer. I’ve got to fold it and put it away.” I know this is an excuse. What is Olive hiding from me?
“Your heart’s a pocket!” I sing. Olive laughs. Her dad taped this nerdy poem to her wall: Your heart’s a pocket. Not a locket. Reach inside, and talk it, talk it.
“Okay.” Olive gulped. “I’m scared. I don’t know why, but that’s what I feel. Deep down in my pocket!” Olive rolls her eyes. But I can tell she feels lighter.
“Well, is Argenta Oil in the wrong?” I ask.
“Yes. I know they are.”
“Do you want to ask them to pay up?”
“I do. But a protest seems so…rude. You’re making them look bad.”
“They’re being bad,” I say. “Olive, the farmers have tried the nice way for two years.”
Olive starts to cry. She often cries when we argue. She thinks it’s the end of our friendship. Olive and her family never argue. If Olive raises her voice, she’s sent to her room.
It’s a different story with my family. “Arguing unblocks the vents,” Mom says. “It cleans the whistle, shakes the sand out of your trousers.” Mom thinks if you don’t let your anger out, you get an ulcer.
I put my arms around Olive. “I know you hate arguing,” I say. She goes stiff. She doesn’t get a lot of hugging practice at home either. “But if the company gets angry, it’s because they’ve been embarrassed by their own bad behavior. But do what you’re comfortable with, Olive. Follow your gut.”
Olive eyes the stack of wood we begged from workers tearing down a house on the next block. “I’ll think about it some more,” she says, wiping her eyes. “By the way,” she says with a wink, “Mr. President, Gavin Helsop, lives at 2226 West Rochester Terrace.”
I’m amazed. “How did you get his address so quickly?”
“It’s in the phone book,” Olive replies.
“Duh!” we both say and laugh.
The doorbell rings. The girls of GRRR! are arriving.
Mom is at an auction, so we don’t have to sneak around. We push my bed against the wall to make space to work. We laugh a lot as we compose slogans.
“How about ‘Argenta Sucks’?” Melissa suggests.
“That’s too disrespectful,” says Emma. “People won’t respect us if we’re rude.” Emma walks a fine line between good judgment and goody-goody. But we agree that our slogans should be respectful.
We do our signs in black paint on green poster board. The black paint is supposed to symbolize the ugly oil ruining the Earth.
“Keep your messages short, then your letters can be big, easier to read,” I remind everyone.
Silas and Leland staple the cardboard to the sticks, then the posters over top.
We make twenty signs. Pay Up. Argenta Owes $$$. Hand Over Your Bonus. Settle Your Debts. Two Years Too Long! We also compose chants: “Oh Ho! Hey Hey! Argenta Oil has got to pay!” “Broken fences, ruined roads. Pay the Maya what you owe!” “If you drill, pay the bill!”
Finally we write to the tune of “Miss Mary Mack”:
Argenta Oil, Oil, Oil
Is much too spoiled, spoiled, spoiled
to pay the bills, bills, bills,
for where it drills, drills, drills.
Drink cappuccino, -ccino, -ccino
while the campesino, -sino, -sino
cries for her land, land, land,
can’t understand, -stand,-stand.
Put down your cup, cup, cup
you’ve had enough, enough, enough.
The Earth’s your ma, ma, ma—
obey the law, law, law!
The ten of us are singing, clapping and laughing in a mess of tape, scissors, markers and staplers when Mom appears at the door.
“What on earth? What is going on? Liza?” Our eyes meet. She’s angry.
“You said I could have some friends over—,” I sputter.
“I didn’t imagine this many, Liza Jane. Girls, I’m happy to see you, b
ut—” Mom reads Emma’s sign. “‘Argenta Owes?’ You mean Argenta Oil? Liza, could you please come into the living room?”
The girls of GRRR! send me sympathetic looks. But I’m not worried. We aren’t doing anything wrong.
“We’re holding a protest outside of Argenta’s offices,” I blurt once I’m in the living room.
Mom says nothing at first. I can tell her thoughts are racing. She squints, then scowls, then chews her bottom lip, then goes calm and smiles at me. Then she starts squinting again. I wait for the next smile, and then I start in.
“I couldn’t have told you because you would have told Slick—I mean, your boyfriend—and that would ruin it.”
“When are you doing this thing?”
“Next Friday. It’s a Pro-D day.”
“But why a protest? Why don’t you write letters, circulate a petition—”
“Mom, that’s been done. Lawyers have written letters for two years. They don’t get an answer.”
“A letter isn’t really your style, Liza, I admit that.” Mom smiles. “It’s just, well, it’s awkward, with Robert being my—”
“Fine!” I say. Why had Mom gone so wobbly? “The Maya can drink from poisoned wells!”
“Whoa, Liza. It’s just that, in families, we need to respect each other, support each other.”
“Slick isn’t part of our family, Mom,” I say.
“Well, he’s pretty close. Anyway, it isn’t fair to embarrass friends.”
“I’m not embarrassing him, Mom. This is about Argenta Oil. There’s no sign saying Robert is Scum.”
“Liza!”
“I’ve thought about this, Mom, I really have. I’m not out to get Robert. Argenta owes money, and they’ve got lots to spare. They think no one will notice because Guatemala’s far away. Well, we’re bringing Guatemala to their front door. Hey! Good idea. I wonder if it’s too late to get some dirt from Guatemala shipped up. That would be cool!”
“You wouldn’t have time,” Mom says. “Soil is live. You can’t transport live things across the border without a period in quarantine. But it is a good idea.” Mom smiles. Then she looks me gently in the eyes. “Sweetie, I can’t keep this a secret from Robert.”
